THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.

Many places there surely are in London that it would do one good to visit—many places to which you have never been, and many more to which we have never been together. I don’t mean peepshows, or waxworks, or places of amusement at all; but places that are set apart for some wise, and good, and holy objects, places where something, at all events, is done to lessen the misery and wretchedness that everywhere surround us. One such place is the Hospital for Sick Children, in Great Ormond Street, and if you have never been there—I trust you never have been as an inmate—you will be interested in tracing my steps.

My visit was a very recent one, and I may say I had you, my young readers, in my mind as I went.

Waiting a short time in a large reception-room, I had time to observe that the house formerly was a mansion, and I found out that a hundred years ago men of literature and science assembled here. Here Addison and Pope and Swift met and talked, sometimes gravely and sometimes gaily; but now the present little inhabitants forbid one’s gaiety, at all events. Then children’s feet ran up and down those broad oak stairs; but now the children that pass up are borne, helpless and afflicted. Then the rich paintings on the walls, the gilding on the ceiling, the cornices and figures, were objects of no wonder to those who saw them so frequently; but now they are looked upon with childish admiration, and even delight.

Ah! but the children are not left to be pleased with things they cannot handle; for, look! did you ever see so many toys in one room, that was not a shop? This used to be the drawing-room; but it is now hung round with pictures of child life, and is filled with little beds, in each of which is a poor suffering little girl.

Here they lie so patiently, so uncomplainingly—not because a stranger is visiting them, but this is the character the nurses give them. Who shall say how much is owing to the gratitude they bear for the comforts they have, which they never had at home, and for the kindness with which they are supplied? I did not hear one cry, or moan, or complaint, except from a little fellow suffering from fits, which seemed to have confused his mind as to the ownership of a two-horse omnibus with which another boy was playing. The fact was, his own had been placed on one side by the nurse as a little act of discipline.

Over each bed there is a little platform, on which are placed the child’s toys. Some were sitting up playing with theirs. One little girl had fallen asleep, placing the greatest confidence in a number of wild animals that lay upon the pillow beside her; another, a tiny little thing of three years of age, who was suffering from skin disease, sat up in her bed looking very sad, which even the presence of three rag dolls at her feet could not remove. Ah! perhaps had it been some of you, there would have been something worse than a sad look—even cries or tears.

Others were sleeping sweetly, forgetful of their pain and suffering, dreaming, perhaps, of the time when they ran and frisked about, which some of them would never do again. For instance, here is a child, only six years old, that has lost her leg—cut off up to the thigh, for hip disease. Poor child, she does not even know that it is gone; but sad as this may appear, it really shows how skillfully the doctor did his part, and how tenderly the nurse did hers, and also how mercifully her heavenly Father provided the chloroform that prevented her feeling any pain.

I said they all had their toys—that is, each child its own. There are some large toys, such as a beautiful doll in a glass case and a musical-box which shows a number of funny old figures playing various instruments, that belong to the room. The Queen sent this last one; but the smaller toys, that she herself bought when in Germany, and sent here, were given to the children to play with, and to take away when they left. Most of those who had them had gone away; still I saw two of Her Majesty’s toys, and was glad to find they were just ordinary ones, that would amuse any child. There was a man on a stand driving three sheep to market, with a dog behind him. The white leather invited me to press the bottom, but the squeak was gone; but had it been there I could not have told you whether it was intended to be the man, or the dog, or the sheep, making the noise. I was more successful with a bird in a cage, for here the cage decidedly squeaked, and saved the bird the trouble.

At Christmas time there was a large Christmas tree provided, when several former patients were invited, and the presents from the Queen and from others were distributed.

I noticed also that Prince Alfred had sent a large lion with a woolly mane—not so ample as it might have been, but perhaps it had been deprived of its wool by little people who wanted a memento of this royal present.

I hear that lately the youngest prince was much pleased at having to select a number of toys for the children; whilst two of the Princesses have on more than one occasion sent little garments for the children made by themselves.

But we must go upstairs to the boys’ ward, where the same order and cleanliness and comfort are seen. The first thing that strikes me is a rocking horse, in a worse state than any inmate, for he has lost his head. Ah! I am glad to see that, for it tells me that the dear boys have had many a ride on him.

But here are many poor little fellows who will not be able to ride for a long while—some never again. Here is one that has had his leg cut off above the knee, only a fortnight ago, and yet he is cheerful and happy, and, I am glad to say, is getting on favourably. I asked him if he was in pain, and he said, “Not now; but I often feel great pain in my toes at night.” Strange as it may seem, this is borne out by others, for I have heard of many cases of persons complaining of pains in their feet, or of suffering from corns years after their feet, and corns too, have been removed.

Another boy cannot move his chin from his chest, through contraction of the muscles, caused by being burnt. Poor boy, he looks very sad and wretched, but he, too, has his toys, and he, too, murmurs not.

I hope all these—both boys and girls—will soon get into the convalescent ward, where there is plenty to interest them.

There are plenty of toys and plenty of books; and then two doves in a cage, and gold fish swimming in an aquarium, and last of all a shaggy dog—all alive. This last inmate was asleep, and so I asked the nurse if he was convalescent too, and she told me that he liked being in that ward. I dare say he does; he prefers the company of children who can move about and play with him rather than of those who are in bed.

I have been over the house. I am nearly at the end of my paper. But you would like to hear a word about the institution, and how it is supported. About twenty years ago the first little girl was admitted, and since then they have been able to increase their number of beds as their means have allowed them. Now there are many more; but how few when there are so many poor children who should be here. If my young readers would reflect that more than 21,000 children under ten years of age die in London every year, they would wish to do something for the hospital. Can you do anything? Why, yes. I saw a beautiful scrap-book that had been made and sent by a lady; some of you boys and girls could make some plainer ones. In India, when some Hindoo girls heard about the Hospital, they sent over several dolls dressed in Hindoo costume.

Your contributions might not be large, but you would help to cheer the afflicted and the suffering, and you would draw down a blessing into your own hearts while you thus ministered unto your Saviour, by ministering to his little ones.