Part 5

Jane Paddon and Edward Parsons were buried.

My friend, the Rev. Joseph Rosdew, who was on a visit to his brother at Beechwood, kindly preached for me in the morning and afternoon; and the Rev. E. B. St. John read the prayers. This friendly assistance enabled me to visit the sick during the greater part of the day. The congregations were very small; owing to the absence of some of the principal families, the sickness of many, or the fear of assembling which prevailed among others.

August 13. {56} Visited Mrs. Toope, at Underwood, and her son Stephen, both very weak. Mary Brown, aged fifty-six, an assistant at the Hospital, died. Jane Moon, of Colebrook, aged twenty-eight, recovered. She was taken ill on the 8th. William Gully, better.

August 14. Several people applied for medicines. After they had been attended to, I rode to the villages at the eastern end of the parish. Some poor people, who were invalids, particularly requested to see me. They were fearful that their sickness was a prelude to the cholera; but they had no symptoms of that disease. Debility was the chief subject of their complaint. Where this was the case, strengthening things were supplied to the poor, out of the subscription fund.

Susan Taylor’s little girl, aged one year, died of cholera. She was taken ill on the 11th. Her mother, also, very unwell, with symptoms of the same disease. Richard Parsons, aged one year and a half, died at the Hospital. Mary Brown, buried.

August 15. Richard Parsons, buried. Elizabeth Hill, aged ten, died at Underwood. Mr. H. attended her in the morning as soon as he was sent for. The progress of this case was fearfully rapid. The poor child did not suffer much from pain; she appeared to sink entirely from exhaustion. No remedy for restoring warmth and circulation had the least effect.

After visiting sick people at Underwood and at the Hospital, I went in the evening to see Susan Taylor. She was in the collapsed stage of cholera. The Messrs. Langworthy were present. It was proposed that the saline injection should be resorted to, as her pulse had ceased to beat, and she appeared to be rapidly sinking. I assisted in preparing the warm fluid. Eight quarts were ready, and seven were injected into the vein. She revived—the pulse returned—and she seemed to be relieved. We were occupied a great part of the night with this case.

August 16. Between nine and ten, a.m., more poor people than usual applied for medicines, and strengthening things; such as arrow-root, tapioca, carageen moss, &c.

The Board of Health met at my house. One principal object of the meeting was to consider the state of the poor as to diet, both of those who were slightly indisposed, as well as of those recovering from cholera. It was resolved to call the especial attention of the parish officers to this important subject, and to remind them of the fact, that, from the commencement of the disease in the parish to the present time, all extra expenses caused by its ravages had been met by the subscription fund, which was now nearly exhausted. The necessity of increasing the relief of the poor, especially by some allowance for extra diet under the present distressing emergency, was strongly urged upon them, in a written address; under the conviction that, even where the disease did not exist, an addition to their ordinary support was highly essential.

As soon as the Board of Health adjourned, I set off for the Hospital, and on my way there I called to enquire for Susan Taylor. Just as I arrived, Mary Taylor, the sister, met me at the door, and was sobbing so bitterly, she could scarcely tell me the cause of her distress. At last she said, Susan was worse than ever—she could not live ten minutes. Oh! sir, where is Mr. Langworthy? Well knowing that it was a case in which every moment was of the utmost importance, I hastened to the Hospital, where we had appointed to meet. He had not arrived. Having heard that he was at Underwood, I rode there; and, fortunately, I came up to him as he was in the act of mounting his horse at Gully’s cottage. In as few words as possible, I told him my errand. Poor Susan’s life was an object of peculiar anxiety to us. She had lost her husband and her only child within a few days; and she had been particularly active and serviceable as a nurse, in some of the most appalling cases. A very few minutes elapsed before we were at the house at Plympton. Our horses were sent to Mr. L.’s, as we knew that, if the patient did not die, we might be detained some time. Mary Taylor was so unwell, with strong symptoms of the same disease, Mr. L. gave her medicine, and advised her to remain below. We ascended the stairs, and at the first moment of entering the room, we thought it was all over. We found Susan quite cold—as cold as death—insensible—discoloured,—having no indication of pulse. We had no person to help us—we had no time to procure assistance. I knew my office in preparing for a repetition of the expedient of injection. This Mr. L. at once decided to be the only chance. Whilst he adjusted his instruments, the syringe, &c., I went below to prepare the fluid. I had about six quarts ready, and rejoined Mr. L. He was sitting on the bed, and prepared to open the vein of the patient’s right arm. I held the wrist, to keep it steady; and having endeavoured to ascertain whether there was any pulse, the cold blue hand dropped when I let it go. Mr. L. shook his head, and thought any attempt to restore animation would be useless. Notwithstanding this, as we could not tell what might be the effect under the hand of God, even in this most desperate case, I was ready with the warm mixture. The syringe was applied to the flaccid vein, which resembled a slight sinew. No blood flowed. To all appearance it contained nothing but a dark, glutinous, substance, about the colour and consistency of treacle; not more than a drop of which could be extracted, after pressing the vein in the usual manner to produce a flow of blood. Every heave of her labouring chest, seemed to be the last—weaker—weaker—at less frequent intervals. Never surely was life nearer extinct. The eyes were set upwards with a fixed and inanimate expression. We were now ready. I had a thermometer in the basin, and two jugs, one with the fluid hot, and the other cooler, so as to keep up the temperature as exactly as possible 110 degrees. The greatest nicety is also indispensible in using the syringe, which should be an instrument of the best make, lest a single globule of air should be injected with the fluid. I have been informed that, if, owing to unforeseen circumstances this occurs, the consequences would be instantly fatal. Mr. L. commenced the operation, and the fluid did not return, but went upward through the vein. Mr. L. whispered, “that is well.” A breathless silence ensued—one quart was injected—a slight indication of movement followed;—another quart—and another—a trembling movement of the eyelid was visible—gradually the ashy hue of death began to recede from the forehead—then from the cheek—the dawn of returning life appeared; soon afterwards, the eye changed from its fixed character of unconsciousness to that of recognition. I ventured to ask, whether, if blood could be procured, there might not be a better chance of saving the patient’s life. Mr. L. replied that no one could be found who would enter the room, much more to spare a pint of blood. Without further loss of time, I went to a neighbour next door, who had been very attentive to Susan, and who did not shew indications of fear. She was in the prime of life, in strong health, and had no family. I told her in as few words as possible the precarious state of Susan, and that the only apparent chance of saving her life, was to obtain a pint of blood, to be transferred into her vein. “Will you consent to spare that quantity? If you have the least fear about it, do not hesitate to say so.” She instantly replied, “You may take a quart if it is required.” She went with me into Susan’s room. Two basins were instantly in readiness, one floating in the other, in hot water, to prevent the blood from congealing. Mary Chapman’s vein was opened. The purple stream gushed, and well performed its benevolent design. This had scarcely been transfused to the amount of half-a-pint, when the throbbing index of life returned; and what a thrill did it give us when I was able to pronounce that “the pulse beats distinctly.” But, at this instant, it was evident by the appearance of the eye, that the utmost caution was necessary,—to avoid another extreme—apoplexy—to watch the eye as well as the pulse,—scarcely a pint could be borne—the process was instantly stayed—and the noble spirited woman was advised to return as quickly as possible to her own apartment. Her conduct throughout was heroic and cool to admiration. {65} Now on each side of the bed, Mr. L. and I took our station. The poor sufferer seemed as one awaking from a deep sleep. She knew us both, and spoke.

Mary Taylor, in the room below, very sick and faint, and with other symptoms of incipient cholera, which appeared to be increased by her fear about her sister. Every thing was said and done which could be thought of, to calm her spirits, and to dispel the peculiarly restless anxiety under which she had laboured some hours. She said she knew she should have the disease, and it would be the death of her.

Susan had become very drowsy. Soon afterwards, a violent trembling came on, this was followed by a profuse perspiration. In about an hour, she became more tranquil; still requiring the greatest attention—life hanging by a mere thread. This lasted three hours. Mr. L. then considered it safe, at her request, to allow her to sleep. Her sleep was as tranquil as that of an infant, with the exception of a start at intervals. A nurse having been obtained, she was left under her care, with strict orders from Mr. L. how to proceed.

We went to the Hospital, and found the poor people much the same as yesterday, excepting Sarah Parsons, aged three years, whose case was hopeless. At seven, p.m., Elizabeth Hill and James Parsons were buried. Sarah Parsons died during my absence. This was the child already referred to, as having been “put aside” for dead; but after active treatment, she had revived, and appeared to be progressing towards perfect recovery. At the end of a fortnight, a fever attacked her, which harassed her to such a degree, that she required the constant attendance of one person. Her mother, slowly mending, exhibited a state of apathy, almost amounting to stupor, and no wonder; in addition to the effects of her own severe attack, her mind had received a paralyzing shock, from the death of her husband and, now, four children!

After prayers in the sick-ward, I again visited Susan Taylor. She was going on favourably, but too weak to bear any thing to be said to her.

August 17. A young person at Merafield, one mile from Underwood, labouring under a rather severe attack of cholera, somewhat better than yesterday. She spoke of her illness with great calmness; and the blessed effects of full trust in God’s mercy, through the merits and intercession of the Saviour, were beautifully displayed in her whole deportment. Into the hands of God she implicitly and prayerfully cast herself. She appears so free from that restless anxiety which frequently attends cases that prove fatal, great hopes are entertained of her recovery.

August 18. Mrs. Jenny Cocker, of Underwood, was seized this morning, at five o’clock. Dr. Cookworthy, of Plymouth, and Mr. Hook, the family surgeon, were present. The former had been sent for after the most alarming symptoms had come on; and when he arrived, she was cold, discoloured, and sinking under extreme prostration of strength. Her husband was absent, upon the farm, during the early part of the day, and was struck with horror and alarm when, on his return, he found her in such a state of danger. She was quite sensible, and prayed continually that she might be supported “in that hour when flesh and heart faileth.” Whilst the medical gentlemen were consulting together in the adjoining room, we all addressed ourselves to the Throne of Grace; and most devoutly and heartily did the poor sufferer bear her part in that solemn duty, as well as her relations who were assembled in the room. Fear and dismay were strongly depicted upon their countenances. Mrs. Cocker, sen. was in a state of extreme agitation, shewed symptoms of being ill, and fainted. After the medical gentlemen returned into the room, active stimulants and friction were resorted to, with the hope of restoring warmth in their patient. She became weaker, the pulse had ceased, and so had her power of speaking; and at two, p.m., her mortal career was closed. During the last three or four hours, she indicated no appearance of suffering; and perfect consciousness was maintained to the last. After this scene of affliction, I remained with the family some time, all of us having retired to an adjoining room. The relations gradually became more tranquil, and when we separated, one sorrowing individual, raising her eyes to heaven, though streaming with tears, exclaimed, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good.”

Attended the funeral of Mr. Josias Cork, and went to the Hospital. Blake’s child, aged one year, died there to-day.

August 19. {70a} My kind friend, the Rev. Joseph Rosdew, preached for me twice, as I was too unwell to undertake two full services. In the evening, Mrs. Jenny Cocker and Elizabeth Blake were buried. Several fresh cases of cholera reported. Received a letter from the secretary of the Central Board. The Plympton St. Mary Board of Health regularly appointed. {70b}

August 20. Amongst others, I visited Betty Heard, at Underwood, a poor industrious woman, aged seventy-two. She was quite alone—no one had been near her—creeping about the cottage in great pain: she could hardly stand, but refused to go to bed. She had taken some precautions to check the premonitory attack. She stood near her spinning-wheel, and when she perceived I was looking at it, she shook her head, and said, “Ah! sir, that is of no use to me now. When I can use it, I get but a very small matter to live upon! and now”—She could not finish the sentence; but sat down and cried like a child. How gladly did I avail myself of the subscription fund to relieve this helpless creature. In a short time, a proper nurse was with her. Page’s children better; the cramp had subsided.

A messenger came to me, requesting my immediate attendance at old Mrs. Cocker’s. She was in a room below, harassed with incessant sickness, &c., and in great pain. Her agitation of mind at the time of her daughter’s death on Saturday, caused a shock from which she had by no means recovered. Mr. Richard Langworthy {72} had seen her, and administered a dose of calomel; but the progress of the disorder was astonishingly rapid. She fainted: her son Elias was with her, and we supported her as well as we could. When she revived, her countenance assumed the common character of the collapsed stage of the disease. With much difficulty, we carried the poor sufferer up stairs; two women were sent for, and they assisted in putting her in bed. Having become a little easier, she requested me to pray with her. From that moment, when not in extreme pain, she was incessantly occupied in that sacred duty. On the first indication of sickness, she said she had the cholera, and she knew “she should not get over it.”

Being confident that this was a desperate case, from its exhibiting those fatal symptoms which often terminate in death within twelve hours, I went for Mr. L., who had, unfortunately, been detained at Shaugh, five miles off, and did not return for two hours. On his arrival, he said he quite approved of all the measures which had been adopted; and he considered it an extreme case. The rooms were fumigated, and chloride of lime was sprinkled all about the house. The poor creature suffered much from cramp and spasms. It was, indeed, distressing to see her. Every limb seemed to be contracted—her teeth grinding, and her blue shrivelled fingers clenched so tight, it was very difficult to open her hand; and her long grey locks, matted with perspiration, adhered to her cold damp cheek. Mr. L. proposed, as a last resource to allay such misery, that a vein should be injected. I prepared about six quarts of the fluid. The vein was opened, one or two dark drops trickled out, like treacle; after this, the vein appeared to be empty. The process of injection was immediately commenced, and the suffering almost instantly subsided. We knew her age was against her; but feeling that though life might not be saved by it, yet that this experiment would be valuable, inasmuch as we had remarked that all suffering from cramp ceased when recourse was had to it; it was, therefore, adopted. The pulse returned; but it fluttered and intermitted. She said she knew her time was very short. Her younger son was hanging over her, the tears flowing down his cheeks. Throughout this sad scene, his anxious and tender care for a dying mother was incessant. She said, “Let us pray—it is my only comfort.” We all knelt round the bed. Clasping her hands, she prayed aloud. Nothing could be more devout; and there was something so indescribably affecting in the plaintive tone of her voice and the aspirations she uttered at intervals, that a common feeling of sympathy vibrated through the hearts of those who witnessed the touching scene. She expressed herself cheered and refreshed by such an employment; then with her cold hand she grasped mine, and begged me not to leave her. She became rapidly weaker, the pulse again intermitted and sunk, sickness returned, but not the cramp. Although she had for a long time refused to take any nourishment, in twenty minutes after the injection of the fluid, she vomited a great quantity of what appeared to be water, with a dark sediment, like decomposed blood, which sunk immediately. From this time, nothing would stop the incessant sickness. Every animal function seemed to be exhausted; yet her senses were perfectly unimpaired to the last. I did not quit her—it was her dying request. “Thank you—thank you for remaining,” she, faltering, said to me. I observed to her that although we must part, there was one above, who has promised to his faithful disciples, “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” “Oh! yes—yes,” she said, in a low whisper,—“it is true: I feel the comfort of it. ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.’ I am so—so weary,—when will this be over.” She then sunk into silence: for some time it was difficult to say whether life was extinct or not; at last she sighed, and her spirit departed in peace.

This affecting scene lasted six hours after the violent symptoms of the disease commenced. Returned home and endeavoured to answer some kind notes from enquiring friends. I could not write, owing to the excited state of my feelings; but, thankful to a merciful Providence for preservation, I retired early, hoping to be refreshed by rest.

I was awakened from a sound sleep by a loud knocking at my door. It was half past twelve at night, when my servant informed me that a person had arrived from Plympton, entreating me to go instantly to Mary Taylor, a parishioner of Plympton St. Mary, who was in the last stage of cholera, and was particularly anxious to see me before she died. I was a little refreshed by sleep; but still so unwell, my servant intimated that it might be in time, if I went in the morning. The morning might be too late! The idea of her having expressed an earnest desire to see me—in her dying moments too—something, perhaps, required or to communicate, which might tend to relieve her mind, and soothe the pillow of death. I could not have rested, if I had delayed to go. Before one o’clock, I was at the house. Mary Taylor had given up her own comfortable room to Susan, from the kindest and most considerate feeling; and, that she might be kept as quiet as possible, had removed to the dwelling of her parents, which was, indeed, a miserable place for a sick person. Below sat her father, by a small remnant of a fire, his face between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, not caring to speak. He told me Elizabeth Job was with Mary, and that Mr. L. had been there in the evening, but not since—that he was very unwell when he went away. I heard the poor creature moaning—went up to her. The chamber where she lay was on the landing-place, without a door or partition—no ceiling—open to the roof. A common bedstead, without hangings or curtains, an old-fashioned oak chest, and a broken chair, composed the whole of the furniture. In a corner of the same room, covered with various old clothes, lay her husband, who was also ill. A rushlight, flickering in a current of air from the roof, only added to the wretchedness of the scene. The moment I approached the bedside, poor Mary held out her hand to me, and burst into an agony of tears. “I am going, sir,—I know I shall die. I wished so much to see you once more. I feared it would be too much for you to come; but I do not expect to see the morning. I do not wish to live; but my poor dear little helpless infant—what will become of her when she has lost her mother!” After some conversation, she became more tranquil, and appeared greatly comforted by the presence of a Christian minister. Spoke much of the awfulness of being on the brink of eternity—prayed frequently that God would forgive her sins, and receive her to himself, through the merits of a crucified Saviour. “Yes,” she said, “he died for me.” Stayed by this anchor, she became resigned and calm.

Before I went upstairs, I ordered the fire to be made up, and plenty of hot water to be in readiness. The poor old people very slow, and nothing in the house which such a case of emergency required. The cramp was gaining ground, and spasms had returned. Mr. L.’s residence not being far off, I hastened there, thinking it possible that he might be up; but could make no one hear, therefore I went away without disturbing him. I knocked up the people at a shop, and got some mustard and vinegar. When I returned, the medicines which were left, with directions, by Mr. L. were given. I had brought the cholera lotion, or stimulating liniment, with me, which was tried; but the poor sufferer was icy cold. Hot water in a stone bottle was applied to the feet. The pain at the pit of the stomach was very acute. I tried to get hot salt or sand; but nothing of the sort could be obtained, it being past two, a.m. Having noticed that, in the fire-place below, there were some loose bricks, I heated one of them, and wrapped it in a piece of old drugget. This simple remedy afforded her much relief, as soon as it was applied. She had been extremely patient, and said she felt better; but from the cold perspiration, and her discoloured appearance, I feared she would not recover. At three, a.m., I became so unwell, I desired that Mr. L. should be called, at all events. As he had been up the whole of the two preceding nights, and was very unwell, I had hitherto deferred calling him as long as I could; but I was obliged to return home.

August 21. Being anxious to know the fate of Mary Taylor, I went at eight o’clock to enquire for her. I learnt that Mr. L. came to her almost immediately after I left her, and injected saline fluid into a vein. She rallied for a time; but now, at nine, the alarming symptoms had returned. I went to Mr. L. and reported the apparently hopeless state of the patient. He returned to the house with me, and proposed a repetition of the experiment. She said it was all in vain. Her pulse had entirely ceased to beat. She enquired for Susan,—then spoke of her child with the tenderest feeling. She “hoped God would forgive her anxiety about the dear little soul. She would rather it had been taken before her, or with her, that both might be buried together; but God’s will be done. May we meet in a happier world.”

We had all joined with her in prayer, at her own request; she then consented to the operation. After a small quantity of the saline fluid had been injected, her husband’s sister offered to be blooded, as soon as the transfusion of blood was proposed. The transfusion was commenced, but no more than a teacupful could be borne, as a most startling effect was produced; the eyes having in an instant become red and staring to a frightful extent. Mr. L. saw this, and stopped the process instantaneously. Her breathing was quick and laborious. The pulse merely fluttered, and then stopped. It evidently was the will of God that human means should not avail. She was dying! I left the room with a sorrowing heart, sincerely lamenting her death. Before the attack of cholera, she had been in a delicate state of health; therefore Mr. L. feared that her constitution was not sufficiently strong to bear the shock. Every thing tended to depress our spirits. Such touching scenes, in such rapid succession—so great an accumulation of misery, nearly overwhelmed us. The appalling reality is almost incredible! But we have worked together, heart and hand; and we must trust that the same merciful Providence which has hitherto protected us, will, through the aid of the Spirit, grant us renewed strength for the conflict.

I called to see Susan Taylor; she was better, but requiring the greatest care. Attended the funeral of Mrs. Cocker. Richard Hurl, aged one year and half, died at Underwood. Elizabeth Hicks, of Underwood, seriously ill—collapse had rapidly come on,—Mr. Osmond in attendance. Very active treatment had been pursued. Towards the evening, she was much relieved, but extremely weak. Richard Smaldridge taken ill. Mr. Hook attending him.

August 22. {83} A vestry meeting was held, also a meeting of the Board of Health. On this day, the first order was made for assistance from the parish, to be paid to the chairman of the Board of Health. Hurl’s child buried. Elizabeth Hicks recovering.