WITH THE FEEBLE AND FAINT-HEARTED.

Is there any condition wherein we feel greater need of human help and true loving sympathy than in the slow, feeble creeping from sickness to complete convalescence, when the pulse of life beats low, and the failing foot yet lacks power to step across that dim barrier between health and sickness—not far from the valley of the shadow of death?

In the bright, glowing summer-tide, when the sun warms bloodless creatures into renewed life, our English sea-coast abounds with visitors, among whom near and dear friends, parents, children, slowly and painfully winning their way back to health and strength are the objects of peculiar care. In all our large towns people who have money to spend are, at least, beginning to make up their minds where they shall take their autumn holiday;—in many quiet health-resorts wealthy invalids, and some who are not wealthy, have already passed the early spring and summer;—at a score of pleasant watering-places, where the cool sparkling waves break upon the "ribbed sea-sand," troops of children are already browning in the sun, scores of hearts feel a throb of grateful joy as the glow of health begins to touch cheeks lately pale, and dull eyes brighten under the clear blue sky.

Thousands upon thousands are then on their way to that great restorer, the sea, if it be only for a few hours by excursion train. England might seem to have gathered all its children at its borders, and very soon we hear how empty London is, while a new excuse for a holiday will be that there is "nothing doing" and "nobody is in town." And yet throughout the busy streets a throng continues to hurry onward in restless activity. Only well-accustomed observers could see any considerable difference in the great thoroughfares of London. Shops and factories look busy enough, and if nothing is doing, there is a mighty pretence of work, while the nobodies are a formidable portion of the population when regarded in the aggregate.

Early in August the census of our large towns still further diminishes. Prosperous tradesmen, noting the decrease of customers, begin to prepare to take part in the general exodus. "Gentlefolks" have concluded bargains for furnished houses on the coast and put their dining and drawing-rooms into brown holland. In West-End streets and squares the front blinds are drawn, and all inquiries are answered from the areas, where charwomen supplement the duties of servants on board wages. "London is empty," the newspapers say, and in every large town in the kingdom the great outgoing leaves whole districts comparatively untenanted. Yet what a vast population remains; what a great army of toiling men and women who go about their daily work, and keep up the unceasing buzz of the industrial hive. What troops of children, who, except for Sunday-school treats, would scarcely spend a day amidst green fields, or learn how to make a daisy-chain, or hear the soft summer wind rustling the leaves of overhanging trees.

It would perhaps astonish us if we could have set down for us in plain figures how many men and women in England have never seen the sea; how many people have never spent a week away from home, or had a real long holiday in all their lives. It may be happy for them if they are not compelled by sudden sickness or accident, to fall out of the ranks, and to leave the plough sticking in the furrow. It is not all for pleasure and careless enjoyment that the thousands of our wealthy brethren and sisters go to the terraced houses, or handsomely appointed mansions, which await them all round the English shore. Into how many eyes tears must need spring, when the prayers for all who are in sorrow, need, or adversity are read in seaside churches on a summer's Sunday. By what sick-beds, and couches set at windows whence wistful eyes may look out upon the changeful glory of wood and sea and sky, anxious hearts are throbbing. What silent tears and low murmuring cries on behalf of dear ones on whose pale cheeks the July roses never more may bloom, mark the watches of the silent night, when the waves sob wakefully upon the beach. What thrills of hope and joy contend with obtrusive fears as, the golden spears of dawn break through the impenetrable slate-blue sky, and a touch of strength and healing is seen to have left its mark upon a brow on which the morning kiss is pressed with a keen throb that is itself almost a pang.

The first faltering footsteps back to life after a long illness or a severe shock, how they need careful guidance. Let the stronger arm, the helping hand, the encouraging eye be ready, or they may fail before the goal of safety be reached.

"All that is now wanted is strength, careful nursing, plenty of nourishment, pure air—the seaside if possible, and perhaps the south coast would be best." Welcome tidings, even though they herald slow recovery, inch by inch and day by day, while watchful patience measures out the time by meat and drink, and the money that will buy the means of comfort or of pleasure, becomes but golden sand running through the hour-glass, which marks each happy change.

Yes; but what of the poor and feeble, the faint-hearted who, having neither oil nor wine, nor the twopence wherewith to pay for lodging at the inn, must need lie there by the way-side, if no hand is stretched out to help them?

While at those famous health-resorts, the names of which are to be read at every railway station, and in the advertisement sheets of every newspaper, hundreds and thousands are coming back from weakness to strength, there are hundreds and thousands still who are discharged from our great metropolitan hospitals, to creep to rooms in dim, close courts and alleys, where all the tending care that can be given them must be snatched from the hours of labour necessary to buy medicine and food. How many a poor sorrowing soul has said with a sigh, "Oh! if I could only send you to the sea-side. The doctors all say fresh air's the great thing; but what's the use? they say the same of pure milk and meat and wine."

It may be the father who has met with an accident, and cannot get over the shock of a surgical operation—or rheumatic fever may have left mother, son, or daughter in that terrible condition of utter prostration, when it seems as though we were in momentary danger of floating away into a fainting unconsciousness, which not being oblivion, engages us in a struggle beyond our waking powers.

Alas! in the great summer excursion to the coast these poor fainting brethren and sisters are too seldom remembered. Here and there a building is pointed out as an infirmary, a sea-side hospital, or even as a retreat for convalescents, but the latter institutions are so few, and the best of them are so inadequately supported, that they have never yet been able to prove by startling figures the great benefits which they confer upon those who are received within their walls.

One of the oldest of these truly beneficent Institutions, "The Sea-side Convalescent Hospital at Seaford," has just completed a new, plain, but commodious building, not far from the still plainer House which has for many years been the Home of its grateful patients. So let us pay a visit to the old place just before its inmates are transferred to more ample quarters, to provide for which new subscriptions are needed, and fresh efforts are being made. The visit will show us how, in an unpretentious way, and without costly appliances, such a charitable effort may be worthily maintained.

Curiously enough, Seaford itself is an illustration of declension from strength to weakness, and of the early stages of recovery; for though it is one of the famous Cinque Ports, it has for nearly 200 years been an unnoted retreat.

But it is still a place of old, odd customs, such as the election of the chief of the municipality at an assembly of freemen at a certain gate-post in the town, to which they are marshalled by an officer bearing a mace surmounted with the arms of Queen Elizabeth. It is famous, too, for Roman and other antiquities, and its queer little church dedicated to St. Leonard, has some rare specimens of quaint carving and a peal of bells which are peculiarly musical, while the sounding of the complines on a still summer's night is good to hear. In fact, for a mere cluster of houses forming an unpretentious and secluded town, almost without shops to attract attention, with scarcely the suspicion of a high street, and destitute of a grand hotel, Seaford is remarkably interesting for its legendary lore, as a good many people know, who have discovered its greatest attraction, and take lodgings at the dull little place, where even the martello tower is deserted. The chief recommendation of the place, however, is its healthfulness, and the grand air which blows off the sea to the broad stretch of shingly beach, and the range of cliff and down-land which stretches as far as Beachy Head, and rises just outside the town into one or two bluffs, about which the sea-gulls whirl and scream, as the evening sun dips into the sparkling blue of the water. It is just at the foot of the boldest of these ascents that we see an old-fashioned mansion, once known as Corsica Hall, but now more distinctly associated with the name of the Convalescent Hospital, of which it has long been the temporary home, the London offices of the charity being at No. 8, Charing Cross, London.

The institution, which was founded in 1860, has for its president the Archbishop of Canterbury, and for its patronesses the Duchess of Cambridge and the Duchess of Teck, and it has done its quiet work efficiently and well, under difficulties which must have required staunch interest on the part of its committee.

It is difficult at first to understand that the big many-roomed house just by the spur of the cliff, and peeping out to see over the shingle ridge, is in any sense a hospital; but here is a convalescent who will give us a very fair idea of the work that is being done; a tall fellow who is but just recovering from acute rheumatism, and is now able to go about slowly but with a cheery, hopeful look in his face. Presently, as one comes near the front door, a lad, who having come from a hospital where he has been attended for fractured ancle, has been sent here to recover strength, is hobbling across a poultry-yard, where a grand company of black Spanish, Polish, Cochin China, and other fowls are assembled to be fed, and beneath a pent-house roof in this same yard, on a bench, which would be well replaced by a more comfortable garden-seat if the funds would allow, there is a sheltered and comfortable corner for the afternoon indulgence of a whiff of tobacco. Twenty-five men and twenty-four women are all the inmates, besides attendants, for whom space can be found; and an inspection of the airy and scrupulously clean dormitories, or rather bedrooms, on each side of the building, will show that all the accommodation has been made available. It must be remembered, however, that as the period of each inmate's stay is but a month of twenty-eight days, fresh cases are constantly admitted during all the summer months; so that though as late as at the end of March only fourteen men and six women were distributed in the wards, the average number admitted during the last official year has been 511 (an increase of twenty-four over the year before), while the total number of cases received since the opening of the institution amounts to nearly 5,000.

There are evidences that in this old house, with its long passages, and little supplementary stairs leading to the bedrooms, economy has been studied, and yet all that can be done to adapt the place to its purpose has been effected. The sense of fresh air and cleanliness is the first noticeable characteristic. There are no slovenly corners; in sitting-rooms, corridors, or dormitories, whether the latter be little rooms with only two or three beds, or either of the large apartments, with their wide bay-windows looking forth upon the sea. Plainly and even sparely furnished, they have an appearance of homelike comfort, and it is pleasant to note that in the larger bright cheerful room devoted to women patients there are evidences of feminine taste and womanly belongings, even to the egg-cups holding little posies of wild flowers and common garden blooms that deck the broad mantelshelf in front of the toilet glasses. The same home-like influences are to be observed in other departments, and though this old country house—of which the institution holds only a short term as tenants—is not altogether suited for the purpose to which it has been applied, the arrangements are not without a certain pleasant departure from the too formal and mechanical routine which is observed in some establishments to have a peculiarly depressing influence on the sick.

The kitchen is like that of some good-sized farm-house, with brick floor, an ample "dresser," and a big range, flanked with its pair of ovens, and just now redolent of the steam of juicy South-down mutton and fresh vegetables about to be served for the patients' dinners.

It is a property of the Seaford air to make even persons with delicate appetites ready for three plain meals a day, with a meat supper to follow, and the convalescents are no exception to the rule. Tea and bread-and-butter for breakfast, bread-and-cheese and ale for the men, and cake and ale for the women as a snack in the way of lunch, good roast meat and vegetables for dinner, with occasional pies or puddings, with another half-pint of ale; tea as usual; and a supper consisting of a slice of meat, bread, and another draught of beer—this is the most ordinary diet; but in many cases milk is substituted for ale, and there is also a morning draught of milk, or rum-and-milk, a lunch or supper of farinaceous food, and wine or special diet, according to the orders of the house surgeon, who visits the patients daily, or as often as may be required. Following the odour of the roast mutton, we see the male patients preparing to sit down to dinner in a good-sized room, where, to judge from the pleased and grateful faces of men and lads, they are quite ready to do justice to the repast. Barely furnished, and with table appointments of the plainest kind, the dining-room is not indicative of luxury; but the sauce of hunger is not wanting, and as we bow our leave-taking, there are signs that the money spent at this Seaford Hospital is well represented by the wholesome but expensive medicine of pure food and drink in ample quantities, prescribed under conditions which build up the strength, and restore life to the enfeebled frames of those to whom a month of such living must be an era in their history.

The women's dining-room is, I am glad to see, more ornamental than that of the men. The walls are bright with gay paper, containing large and brilliantly coloured scenery, while the wide windows look seaward, and fill the large room with cheerful light.

This is all the more essential as there is no other sitting-room for the female patients, and the more convenient furniture, especially a low wooden couch covered with a mattress, is adapted to the needs of those who require indoor recreation as well as frequent rest. The men have a separate sitting-room in the basement, not a very cheerful apartment, but one which in the warm summer-time is cool, and adapted for the after-dinner doze, or for reading a book when the weather is not quite favourable for sitting out of doors.

There is, by the bye, a very decided need of entertaining and pleasant books for the patients' library at Seaford, the few which are on the two or three shelves being mostly old, and of a particularly dreary pattern. It is obvious that, in an institution where, in order to meet the constant needs of those who seek its aid, every shilling must be carefully expended, only a small sum can be devoted to literature; but it may only have to be made known that the convalescents really need a few cheerful volumes to help them along the road from sickness to health, and out of the abundance of some teeming library the goodwill offering may be made.

It is time that we—that is to say, the kindly and judicious secretary, Mr. Horace Green, the examining physician, Dr. Lomas, and the present writer—should yield to the influences of the grand appetising climate of this airy nook of the English coast, and after a short turn into the poultry-yard, a glance at the deliberate cow, and a passing greeting to the great black cat with collar and bell and a mew that is almost a deep bass roar, and to the most exacting, ugly, and voracious pet dog it was ever my lot to encounter—we accept the invitation to test the quality of the Southdown mutton and other Seaford fare, with a following of that delicately boiled rice and jam to which the healthy palate returns with childlike appreciation.

On hospitable thoughts intent, the bright and active lady who is superintendent matron of the hospital, has for the time adopted us into her hungry family, and with the knowledge of the effects of the breeze blowing over that high bluff, and curling the waves along the shingle ridge, has set out a repast in her own pleasant parlour, where she does the honours of the institution with a simple cheerful grace that speaks favourably for the administration which she represents. But I should now be writing in the past tense, for the larger building is completed. The inmates will have a better appointed home.

In order to maintain the objects of the charity, and to ensure the comfort of those for whom its provisions are intended, some well-considered regulations have to be adopted and enforced; and the most discouraging circumstances with which the committee and their officers have to contend, are those which arise from the negligence of subscribers nominating patients, or from the demands made on the charity by those who constantly expect more benefits from the institution than their contributions would represent even if they were paid three times over.

It is, perhaps, not to be wondered at that people, anxious to secure for their protégés the advantages of such means of recovery as are represented by a temporary hospital where there has only been one death in five years, should readily contribute their guinea for the sake of gaining the privilege, even though they may add to that small subscription the five shillings a week which is the sum required with each patient. What has to be complained of, however, is that constant attempts are made to introduce cases which are so far from being convalescent, that they are still suffering from disease, and require constant medical or surgical treatment. In order to do this, nominations are frequently obtained from country subscribers, and it has required the constant vigilance of the examining physician and the committee to avoid the distressing necessity of obtaining for such patients admission to other hospitals, or sending them back to their own homes, not only without having received benefit from the institution, but perhaps injured by the journey to and fro when they were in a weak and suffering condition.

It should be remembered that the Seaford Hospital is not for the sick, but for persons recovering from sickness,—those for whom the best medicines are regular and ample meals, grand bracing air, sea-baths, long hours of quiet and restorative sleep, and that general direction of their daily progress towards complete recovery, which will often make them strong and set them up completely, even in the twenty-eight days of their sea-side sojourn.

To send patients who require the medical care and attendance which can only be provided in a hospital for the special disorders from which they suffer, or who are afflicted with incurable diseases, is unjust, both to the poor creatures themselves and to the charity which cannot receive them.

For consumptive patients, except in the early or threatening stage of phthisis, Seaford is unsuitable, but a month at the hospital for patients of consumptive tendency has been known to produce remarkably beneficial results. It is in cases of recovery after rheumatism and rheumatic fever, or when strength is required after painful or exhausting surgical operations, in nervous depression, debility, pleurisy, and recovery from accidents, that the fine air is found to be wonderfully invigorating; for Seaford is high and dry, the subsoil being sand resting on chalk, so that there is little surface evaporation, while the shelter afforded by Beachy Head screens this little bay of the coast from the east wind.

It is not to be wondered at that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and the late Bishop of Winchester should have joined many of the London clergy, and more than eighty of the most eminent physicians and surgeons connected with metropolitan hospitals, to recommend this charity as one especially deserving of public support. Those who are ever so superficially acquainted with the homes and difficulties of the poorer classes in London know that the period of debility after sickness, when the general hospital has discharged the patient, or when the parish doctor has taken his leave, is a terrible time. Too weak to work, without means to buy even common nourishment at the crisis when plentiful food is requisite, and stimulated to try to labour when the heart has only just strength to beat, men and women are ready to faint and to perish unless helping hands be held out to them. Try to imagine some poor cabman or omnibus-driver, lying weak and helpless after coming from a hospital; think of the domestic servant, whose small savings have all been spent in the endeavour to get well enough to take another place; of the poor little wistful, eager-eyed errand-boy, scantily fed, and with shaking limbs, that will not carry him fast enough about the streets. Try to realise what a boon it must be to a letter-carrier, slowly recovering from the illness by which he has been smitten down, or to the London waiter, worn and debilitated by long hours of wearying attendance to his duties, to have a month of rest and, re-invigoration at a place like this. In the table of inmates during the last few years are to be found a host of domestic servants, mechanics and apprentices, warehousemen and labourers, 36 housewives (there is much significance in that word, if we think of the poor wife or mother to be restored to her husband and children), 46 needlewomen, 19 clerks, 15 teachers (mark that) 41 school-children, 9 nurses, 1 policeman, 3 seamen and watermen, 1 letter-carrier, 4 errand-boys, 7 Scripture-readers, and others of various occupations.

It is no wonder, I say, that the general hospitals should regard this Convalescent Home at Seaford as a boon; but, unfortunately for the charity, the appreciation which it receives from some of those wealthy and magnificently-endowed institutions operates as a very serious drain on its own limited resources, which are only supplied by voluntary subscriptions, contributions, and legacies. Every subscriber of a guinea annually, and every donor of ten guineas in one sum, has the privilege of recommending one patient yearly, with an additional recommendation for every additional subscription of one guinea, or donation of ten guineas. The payment of five shillings a week by each patient admitted is also required by the guarantee of a householder written on the nomination paper, and the travelling expenses of the patient must also be paid, the Brighton Railway Company most benevolently conveying patients to the hospital by their quick morning train, in second-class carriages at third-class fare.

Now it is quite obvious that the five shillings a week, though it removes the institution from the position of an absolute charity, goes but a very short distance in providing for the needs of the inmates, and when the guinea contribution is added to it, there is still a very wide margin to fill before much good can be effected. Let us see, then, what is the effect of every subscription of a guinea representing a claim, as in the case of the patients sent from the general hospitals.

The cost of those admirable medicines, food and drink, wine, milk, and sea-baths, together with the expenses of administration, and the rental will represent at least £4 8s. per head for each patient, and as Guy's, Bartholomew's, St. Thomas's, and the London Hospitals, each subscribing their ten guineas annually, demand their ten nominations in exchange, the account stands thus:—

For each case, five shillings per week for four weeks, and one guinea subscription = £2 1s., which, deducted from the actual cost (£4 8s.), leaves £2 7s. to be paid out of the funds of the Seaford Institution, which, on ten patients a year, represents £23 10s. as the annual contribution of this poor little charity to each of the four great charitable foundations of the metropolis.

But there is now an opportunity for acknowledging this obligation, and for recognizing the useful career of this really admirable institution. The lease of the present house has already expired, and the committee have been obliged to give up possession. It is therefore necessary to support the new hospital for those who need the aid that such a charity alone can give, and the building has already been erected, only a few yards further in the shelter of the bluff, where it has provided another home. With a commendable anxiety to keep strictly within their probable means, the committee have decided not to imitate a too frequent mode of proceeding, by which a large and splendid edifice would saddle their undertaking with a heavy debt, and perhaps cripple resources needed for carrying on their actual work; but they have obtained from Mr. Grüning, the architect, a plain building which will provide for their needs for some time to come, and may be hereafter increased in accommodation by additions that will improve, rather than detract from, its completeness. A great establishment, with a hundred beds, laundries, drying-houses, and hot and cold sea-baths on the premises, would cost £13,000; and as the actually available funds in hand for building purposes were not more than £5,000, with another probable £1,000 added by special donations expected during the year, the committee, however reluctantly, folded up the original plan, and estimated the cost of a plain unpretentious building, calculated at first to receive thirty-three male and thirty-three female patients, but capable of additions which will raise its usefulness and completeness to the higher demand, whenever there are funds sufficient to pay for them. The expenditure for the new hospital was about £7000, and, should the anticipated donations be increased fourfold, there will be no difficulty in crowning the work, by such provisions as will include the full number of a hundred faint and failing men and women within the retreat where they find rest and healing.