The Question of Alcohol

 does not, I think, need any special treatment here, as I doubt if its bearings are in any way altered by a change of latitude. Equally in the tropics and on polar expeditions, the majority of persons are, to say the least of it, none the worse for total abstinence; but excess is neither more nor less fatal in the one than in the other locality, and you will everywhere find a few to whom alcohol in strict moderation is useful. One would hesitate to say that this minority would be actually harmed by abstinence, but I am, on the other hand, equally sceptical as to the harmfulness of strict moderation; for, despite the very strong evidence of insurance statistics as to the superior longevity of total abstainers, it must be remembered that the so-called moderate drinkers must necessarily include a considerable number of those who would define moderation as the avoidance of getting drunk, and that the teetotaller is, ipso facto, usually one who is inclined to take more than usual care of his health.

Cooking and kitchen management.

—In the first place, the rule may be generally laid down that it is a false economy to be niggardly in the matter of the cook’s wages. The desirability of good cooking is far from being a mere matter of the gratification of the tastes, but is undoubtedly also a matter of the first hygienic importance. Added to this, a skilful operator can turn a wholesome and appetising dish out of comparatively inferior materials, while a bad one will turn the best into indigestible nastiness; and it will be generally found that those who economise on this detail of expenditure, pay for it over and over again by an excessive expenditure on ready cooked, and tinned foods.

A second point of at least equal importance is the insistence of cleanliness in the kitchen, and in all the operations of cookery, but to secure this adequate appliances must be supplied; for it is useless to expect either good cookery or decent cleanliness without an adequate outfit of “pots and pans,” and proper appliances for cleaning them. At the same time it is a mistake to suppose that the utensils in use among English people will serve equally well in other hands, so that it is generally better to purchase locally what is needed. The heavy English iron saucepan is, e.g., quite unsuited for use on charcoal fires, and an Indian generally lacks the strength of wrist to manipulate it with its clumsy and ill-contrived handle. Speaking generally, aluminium cooking vessels will be found most suitable for charcoal or wood fires, but they should be, if possible, fashioned in the forms to which the local cook is accustomed. Their great advantages are that they lend themselves well to cleansing with sand or ashes, which comes natural to races to whom soap is an unaccustomed luxury; while, unlike copper utensils, they do not require periodical tinning, and so are free from the risk of causing metallic poisoning. Most English housekeepers will probably admit that, even with a home establishment, a certain amount of superintendence of affairs below-stairs can hardly be dispensed with; and if this be so, how very much more must such scrutiny be necessary in places where the workers belong to races to whom cleanliness in such matters is an exotic curiosity. Too often, however, people are apt to let these matters drift, and try to comfort themselves with the reflection that the heart need not imagine what the eye has not seen, but those who do so expose themselves to the certainty of consuming unspeakable nastiness.

I remember well how our mess committee decided that each week a couple of officers in turn should inspect the officers’ kitchen. Being the first on the roster, the senior major and myself proceeded to make our first inspection.

As we were expected, a very salutary, and probably much needed, clean up had been effected, and we found little to criticise till we turned to go away; when making for the door, the kindly major, who could never resist the sight of a child, espied sitting behind the door the brown but cherubic form of the butler’s little boy, dressed in the national costume for children of his age of a piece of string. So he strolled towards the child with the intention of gratifying his little friend with some coppers to purchase sweets, when the urchin respectfully sprang to his feet and revealed the fact that the stool on which he was sitting was a huge round of spiced beef, which had figured on the sideboard at breakfast, and was meant to reappear at lunch. Now we all know that our food must necessarily be more or less handled, but, on the whole, most of us would prefer it not to be sat upon; and our visit resulted in the provision of a proper safe for cold provisions, which, as a matter of fact, was wanting.

This is hardly the place for any detailed consideration of culinary matters, but I would commend to the careful consideration of every tropical housekeeper “Wyvern’s” excellent article on “Our Kitchens in India,” in his book already quoted. There is only one point on which the writer would be disposed to disagree with his authority, and that is as to his recommendation of coal and English kitchen ranges; for whatever may be the case in Madras, this would, for many reasons, be in most places impracticable. Charcoal is a fuel which, no doubt, requires a great deal of attention, but native cooks are quite accustomed to this, and, trouble apart, its cleanliness and freedom from smoke makes it an ideal fuel for cooking, and the antiseptic properties of the charcoal dust in the kitchen are not to be despised.

CHAPTER IV.
The Tropical Day.

There is a southern proverb that, between the hours of two and four in the afternoon, only Englishmen and dogs are to be found abroad; and there is doubtless a good deal of truth in this as regards our countrymen, though the dictum is perhaps rather hard on the dog.

Whether this impeachment be libellous or not, it is undoubtedly the universal custom of all races inhabiting sunny lands to devote these hours to rest, and it is hardly likely that the visitor from northern Europe is wise in refusing to accommodate himself to new conditions. From “ten to four” may suit the business conditions of the City of London excellently, but it does not follow this is equally adapted to Calcutta, and the attempt to do so doubles the strain on nerve and constitution. Apart from this, work done under such trying conditions can never be of the same quality as that which would be accomplished at more suitable hours. Even in busy modern Rome, which is a good deal to the northward of any portion of India, it is quite common for commercial establishments to close during these hours; and it is absurd to reply that this is a mere evidence of sloth and want of business energy, as in spite of this interval of rest, the shops open so much earlier and close so much later that the total of working hours is greater than it is in London. I believe, then, that English folks settled in the Tropics would be wise to adopt an arrangement of the working hours which is the outcome of centuries of experience of life under a vertical sun; and rest when not only our fellow-men, but all animated nature seeks repose; for in those hours, beside a few vagabond crows and those objectionable insects, the flies, a sign of life is hardly to be found abroad to disturb the stillness of the tropical noon.

Unless rest be taken in the afternoon the tropical resident is apt to suffer from want of sleep, for even if he goes to bed at ten o’clock he must needs be astir at five a.m., as exercise can only be comfortably taken in the very early morning and in the dusk of the evening, and seven hours’ sleep, even assuming it to be sound and restful, is quite an inadequate allowance under such trying conditions. Too often however, the night’s sleep is neither sound nor refreshing, and much of the time is passed in rolling from side to side in the vain effort to find some portion of one’s anatomy which the pins and needles of “prickly heat” will cease to trouble. For certain kinds of work, such as travelling, it is indeed necessary to “turn the night into day,” and get through the business during the hours of darkness; for neither men nor horses can perform any work involving muscular exertion, once the sun is well above the horizon, without rapid exhaustion.

It is usually the custom to commence the day with a very light meal, consisting of a cup of tea or coffee and a scrap of toast, which is usually brought to the bedside; but, if one’s work is of a character to keep one away from home for the greater part of the morning, it is better to supplement this with something more substantial, such as an egg, and to eat this after dressing, instead of before. Those whose work takes them into the open had best go straight to it, and trust for morning exercise to the riding and walking that are involved in the superintendence of the work under their charge; but those whose occupations are of a sedentary character, will come to them all the fresher for half an hour’s canter, or a spin on the ever useful “bike.” Exercise at this time of the day should never, however, be carried to the extent of producing fatigue, or the quality of the work done after it will be sure to suffer.

At one time it was a very common custom, on coming in from the morning ride, to have a plunge in the swimming bath, and the writer has pleasant memories of the al fresco meal of fruit and hot tea beside the big station bath, in company with most of the assembled male members of the post. A very pleasant custom it undoubtedly was, but I suspect we did ourselves more harm than good, for the first feeling of freshness was very apt to be succeeded by one of increased fatigue; and I believe this is generally recognised in India; for the fine old swimming baths are everywhere going to ruin from disuse, and this would hardly be the case if they were found as beneficial as they undoubtedly are pleasant. If a plunge bath be taken at all, the best time of the day is probably after the evening game of racquets or tennis—not immediately, of course, but after having given oneself time to cool down somewhat.

If practicable, the backbone of the day’s work should be broken by noon, and this is the time adopted by probably the majority for a meal, which is generally, but rather inappropriately, called breakfast; after which it is a very comforting and, the writer believes, healthy custom to make up for the short, and perhaps disturbed night, by what sailors call a “dog’s snooze”[4] of a couple of hours, after which and a bath, a couple of hours more work can be got in before the sun is low enough to admit of sallying forth, on exercise and recreation bent. After this perhaps another bath, dinner, and bed.

This programme, it will be observed, admits of an eight hours’ working day, and if anyone is asked to work more than this in a hot climate, the most appropriate advice that can be given them, of course strictly from the point of view of hygiene, is—to strike. This arrangement of meal times is of course very much that obtaining on the Continent, and on this account many find it difficult to accustom themselves to it, and retain the nine o’clock English breakfast and early afternoon luncheon, but this breaks up the morning’s work awkwardly, and makes the number of substantial meals too large to suit most people under the altered conditions of life. Comparatively few people find it advisable to persevere in the use of the cold bath in hot climates, for, strange as it may appear, but few people find it “agree” with them as well as is commonly the case in Europe. This is especially so in the case of those who have suffered much from malarial fever, as most residents of any standing have; for in such persons any sudden shock is apt to give an opportunity to the germs of the disease lying latent in the system, and so to bring about a relapse of fever. Personal experience can of course alone serve as a guide in such a matter, but those who have recently suffered from a malarious attack will do well to be cautious.

With regard to the question of light and ventilation of the house; in places on the coast, where really excessive heat is rarely experienced, all that is necessary is to get as much air as possible without admitting the direct rays of the sun. Inland, however, where the thermometer may stand in or above the nineties for months together, a certain amount of management is required to keep the heat inside the house down as much as possible. To effect this, it is above all essential that every door and opening should be thrown open at night so that the cooler air may get the best possible chance to reduce the temperature of the heated walls. Unfortunately, owing to the uniform peccability of human nature, it is not always practicable to do this, if one wishes to retain one’s ownership of movable property; as in most parts of the world, it is scarcely possible to keep all doors and windows open unless they are protected with bars, a precaution which lends a very forbidding and prison-like aspect to a house. Fortunately, as a rule the native burglar is not a very desperate character; and prefers to work by stealth to attempting to get through any obstacle that might make a noise in the opening. But for this, and the fact that a certain awe usually attaches to the person of an European, robberies could hardly fail to be much more common than they are, for as a rule the bolts and bars of a tropical villa are contrived with a child-like simplicity, which would raise a smile on the face of Mr. William Sykes and his pals.

Here again is another direction in which the adoption of the system of metallic gauze protection against mosquitoes will tend to make tropical life more tolerable; for the stuff is much stronger than it looks, and would form a quite adequate protection against ordinary thieves; besides which, the gauze, for those troubled with nerves, might be easily strengthened by supplementing it with a layer of the strong wire netting used for fowl runs, &c., without making the place look like a jail, or appreciably diminishing the freedom of ventilation. It would be easy, too, by attaching to some part of the frames, inaccessible from the outside, bells hung on springs such as used to be used in houses before the adoption of the electric mechanism, to render the frames a very difficult obstacle to open without rousing the inmates, even for light-fingered gentry much more skilful than those with whom one has usually to deal. An obstruction that will keep out a mosquito may easily be modified to exclude men, and only those who have passed a hot weather in towns where it is dangerous to sleep with open doors, can appreciate what a benefit it would be to be able to dispense with the use of solid doors and sashes. Strengthened with wire netting, the gauze would form a far more formidable obstacle than any ordinary window, for a little reflection will convince anyone that even the gauze alone would be far more difficult to dispose of than the simple panes of thin glass on which we have been accustomed to rely. Usually the house may be kept open with advantage until eight or nine in the morning; but after this the thermometer begins to rise rapidly, and it becomes necessary to close up everything, while in very extreme climates it may be desirable to supplement the doors by the addition of thick, wadded curtains, but this should never be carried to the extent of making the rooms difficult to see in, for a fair amount of light is absolutely essential to health. Besides this various other expedients may be adopted, a very useful one being the sprinkling of the verandahs with a watering can as soon as the heat of the day is over, a process which may be very advantageously extended to the roof, where this is of the terraced form, always assuming that cheap labour is available. The coolness produced by the evaporation of water is also utilised by means of “tatties,” as well as in a machine known as the thermantidote.

Tatties are thick, loosely-woven mats, made by binding a thatch formed of short lengths of a scented grass (known as khaskhas) to a frame-work of bamboo, which are constructed to fit the frames of the windward doors and windows, and are kept constantly wet by a man, who goes from one to the other throwing water on them. Their efficiency depends entirely on the amount of wind, and to maintain a good current it is of course necessary that one or more of the leeward doors should be also kept open, a fact of which it is often difficult to convince the ladies, who, in their intense eagerness to shut out the heat at all costs, not unfrequently succeed in shutting it in instead. Given a fairly good breeze, and a waterman who does his work well, it is possible to produce a very marked amelioration of the temperature; and the free passage of air through the room goes far to neutralise the dangers of dampness. Of course neither these appliances, nor the thermantidote, can act except in dry heat, so that their usefulness is quite confined to the dry months of inland climates.

The thermantidote, in its usual form, is a large wooden drum, within which revolves a system of fans, one of the upper quadrants of its circumference being removed and replaced by a horizontal tube, which projects through an opening in a temporary screen into the room to be cooled. The sides of the drum, through which the axle projects, are replaced, in the middle, by small tatties, and the effect of driving the fans (which work like those of a paddle boat, and not on the principle of the screw) is to draw air through these small wet mats and drive it into the room. Some of the more elaborate sort are provided with a miniature pump, which delivers water on to the mats from a trough below, the pump being driven from the same multiplying wheel as the fan. In thoroughly dry weather, it is quite possible to reduce the temperature of a room by fully ten degrees by means of these machines, but they are treacherous arrangements, especially for those who allow themselves to be tempted to sit in the full force of the current, and are responsible for a great number of chills and rheumatic twinges of all sorts, so that I believe it is better to endure the heat without them. The labour of driving them, too, is rather severe, so that relays of strong young coolies must be entertained if they are to be worked efficiently; whereas in the case of the punkah a certain knack is required, rather than mere brute strength and stupidity, so that the work is very suitable for men who are past their prime. The best punkah wallah I ever had was an old blind man, and the work seems particularly suitable for the blind, as sight is in no way required, but, in the East, these unfortunates generally prefer to resort to their traditional employment of mendicancy. The little art of pulling a punkah lies in never checking it as it swings away from you; and in making the pull just as it begins to lose way on its return; but simple as this may appear, the men often require a good deal of training before they do it well. The original punkah is said to have been invented by a bored clerk in a Calcutta office, over whose head, it happened, the spare leaf of a table had been hung to keep it out of the way of the white ants. In an idle moment he began to make the suspended plank swing to and fro, and finding the resulting breeze very comforting, proceeded to make fast a cord, and set a coolie to pull it. The contrivance, at any rate, dates only from the English occupation of India, and the original flat plank has never been improved on, as the less unsightly pole punkah and frill is in every way inferior to it. The broad, flat punkah of course is usually also fitted with a frill, but a light, single cloth, about the substance of a bath towel, really acts far better than the usual heavy frill, as it gives a peculiar flick at the top of its stroke which is extremely effectual.

It is a not uncommon misapprehension to imagine that a punkah cools the air within a room, though this, of course, is an obvious impossibility, but the current of air produced by it promotes the rapid evaporation of the moisture of the skin, and the body is thereby cooled, which for practical purposes is much the same thing.

Ladies who make up their minds to face the hot weather do well to strive to compass a certain amount of exercise in the open air, for their occupations tend to keep them in the house more than their worse halves. It is a great mistake to picture the Anglo-Indian lady as passing her time in sloth and idleness. Civilisation has not reached the same pitch in the Tropics that it has in temperate climates, and those who migrate there must be prepared to live two centuries behind Europe; with the result that a multitude of the details of household economy have to be done in the house which, at home, would be managed by the tradesman. On this account, the memsahib finds herself back in the days of domestic dairies and still rooms, and must busy herself with the superintending of a score of details undreamt of in a modern English housewife’s philosophy. To realise how much she has to do and how well she does it, one has only to put up for a few days in a bachelor’s ménage, and reflect how much better the “singly blessed” fare west of Suez.

Whether ladies really suffer more from the strain of hot climates than persons of the male persuasion, is very difficult to say, as it is probably mainly the more robust who elect to share the burden and heat of the day in the plains with the mere man; but it is probably more a question of will power than of physical strength that determines the question; for as often as not it is the big Du Maurier type of girl that leads the rout to the hills, while some fragile-looking piece of bottled energy remains to be the life of the parching station below. Those who do stay, as a rule, do not appear to suffer any more than their husbands; but no one is any the better for a hot weather in the plains, and whether the strain of such surroundings is well or ill borne, is probably more a question of individual temperament than of either sex or physical strength.

The writer has met with ladies who had passed many consecutive years in the plains of India with apparently no very noticeable bad effects, but these have been mainly such as, owing either to inclination or the nature of their occupation, were a good deal out and about, in spite of the heat, and so got a fair amount of exercise, and did not shut themselves up for all the daylight hours in stifling and depressing semi-darkness.

CHAPTER V.
Hints on the Management of Children in Hot Climates.

Owing to the circumstance that it is more convenient to deal with the subject of the feeding of infants in connection with that of the prevention of infantile diarrhœa, but little of a nature special to hot climates remains to be noticed in connection with the management of young infants, for being concerned with little else than the assimilation of nourishment, their well-being or otherwise is governed almost entirely by the state of their digestion.

Putting aside the special danger of infantile diarrhœa, young infants generally do well in hot climates, which are in many ways suitable to their low powers of resistance to cold. Some writers, very competent to speak on the subject, are indeed of opinion that very young infants do better in India than in cold or temperate climates; and perhaps this may be the case as regards breast-fed children, for, the air temperature being but little below that of the body, they are almost entirely protected from the coughs and colds of all sorts that do so much damage at home, and lead to the poor children being confined to a stuffy atmosphere instead of enjoying the enormous advantage of unlimited fresh air, of which an infant requires proportionately even more than an adult. On this account never allow a nurse, however experienced she may be in her own conceit, to cover a child’s face with a handkerchief even out of doors, as the re-breathing of air already polluted by passing through the lungs is one of the most frequent causes of illness in human beings of all ages, and if the air outside be really so cold as to be harmful, the child will be better indoors, in a well-warmed and ventilated room, than outside, if half stifled in this silly fashion.

If she has any lingering doubts on the matter, let the mother borrow an ambulance, and try how much fresh air can be got, lying flat on the back, with a handkerchief spread over the face, and a fussy old woman in attendance to replace it should it chance to get disarranged.

The dangers of that abomination, the “baby’s comforter,” are elsewhere adverted to, but to show that the writer is by no means singular in his opinion, the following extract from Science Siftings may be read with advantage:—

“Most expert observers of the infectious nature of consumption have stated that the bacilli almost invariably enter the system through the nose or mouth, the respiratory system, in fact. Yet there are others who state that the milk drunk by infants is a chief cause of infection. But a new and deeply interesting theory is put forward by Drs. J. O. Symes and T. Fisher in the British Medical Journal. All day long, they write, babies are sucking an indiarubber comforter, and it no sooner drops on to the dirty floor than it is hastily picked up and thrust again into the mouth of the infant. Older children also, as they crawl, take up every article they can lay hold of and put it into their mouths, to the danger of which their dirt-begrimed cheeks bear witness. The moral is obvious.”

Native attendants are especially fond of the contrivance, and hence it is desirable to emphasise its dangers in a work on the present subject.

It should be needless in these days to warn mothers that all “soothing syrups” are extremely harmful and even dangerous preparations; but there is another preparation in almost universal use, which, in a smaller way, does a great deal of harm. I allude to the abuse of dill water and similar pungent stomachics. The usual pretext for its administration is that the baby has got what is popularly termed “wind in the stomach,” which may mean merely indigestion, due, in all probability, to the use of some patented abomination in the way of “infants’ foods,” containing farinaceous material; or that, as evidenced by belching, there really is gas in stomach produced by fermentation, or by sucking in air from the use of a “comforter.” Now the dill water will no doubt temporarily relieve the pain, but it will rather aggravate the malady than cure the condition that causes it; as the remedy is of exactly the same character as the nip of gin which Mrs. Gamp found so useful in soothing her “spasms,” and is probably even less suited for babies than the gin was to the good lady so inimitably portrayed by Dickens.

It is astonishing how mothers, who would exclaim with horror at a few wholesome grains of pepper to season the breakfast egg of a child of five or six, will go on giving a new-born baby dose after dose of what is much the same thing as a very pungent liqueur. Should the pain be really due to “wind,” as shown by belching, some unirritating antiseptic such as a grain or two of resorcin will rapidly check the fermentation that is producing the gas, and so cure the disease. Though comparatively little used for this purpose, the writer has found this drug most useful in these little troubles, and has found that even infants of but a few days old tolerate it perfectly. If, on the other hand, the pain be due to indigestion, the trouble is probably caused by the character of the food, and an effort should be made to find something that agrees better. Probably the commonest cause of these disorders is the use of the numerous much-advertised “infants’ foods,” most of which contain farinaceous material of some sort. Now young infants cannot digest starchy matter of any kind, and the only proper food for them is milk. When the milk of the lower animals is used it is of course desirable to modify it, so that its composition may be made to more closely resemble that of human milk; and this in the case of cow’s milk is effected by diluting the milk and adding a little sugar, preferably milk sugar. Again the tendency of cow’s milk to clot in large mass has to be neutralised by the addition of some material that will prevent this, and the general ban against farinaceous materials need not extend to the use of the deservedly popular barley water for this purpose, as the amount of starchy matter it contains is too small to be harmful.

When goats’ milk is used, the goat should be kept tied up and its food gathered for it, as although a clean feeder, it is apt, if left at freedom, to eat acrid leaves which may affect the milk. Goats’ milk requires somewhat less dilution than that of the cow, and may agree in cases where cows’ milk fails.

In proportion as the heat is greater, so should the milk be more freely diluted, as otherwise thirst may lead to the child taking more food than is good for it; and if at such times the child craves too frequently for food, a few teaspoonfuls of plain water should be given; as the craving is merely an indication that the child, like larger people, is thirsty. The water can do no harm, but irregular feeding is always injurious. As the child grows older, the milk can be given less diluted, and after eight or nine months the yolk of a raw egg beaten up with the milk may be occasionally given, if the child appears to require more nourishment; but this should not be overdone, as such food is apt to cause “biliousness.” In the second year milk puddings and bread and gravy may be given occasionally, and after the third the child should be encouraged to eat plenty of well-cooked vegetables, but stewed fruits should be given with caution.

In the case of older children brought up in hot climates, it must be remembered that their appetite, like that of their elders, is apt to suffer at trying times of the year, and hence it is important to introduce as much variety as possible into the menu. A dish nearly always much appreciated, and I believe perfectly wholesome, is a curry;—not too highly spiced of course, but still a curry. The writer had at one time, as a sole charge, the care of some five hundred children, varying from four to seventeen years of age, in a large school. For many years, on two days in the week, a curry had formed the dinner for the children of all ages in this institution. That of the “infants” had even less pepper in it than what was supplied to the elder boys and girls, but was still distinctly appetising. Now no item of the dietary was as thoroughly relished and finished with as hearty an appetite as this; and there never appeared the least reason for suspecting it was anything but useful and wholesome. Children are often much to be pitied on account of the fads of their parents in the matter of diet, for the poor little souls are continuously placed in the position of Sancho Panza, when they made him governor of Barataria, and the court physician would allow him nothing decent to eat. When children have passed the stage of early infancy, and nature has furnished them with teeth, one may be pretty sure that what is bad for them is equally deleterious to oneself, and it is well, instead of denying them all sorts of things on mere suspicion, to give a small quantity and notice if it causes any discomfort. Otherwise, as likely as not you are denying them things that may suit them excellently, and forcing them to eat insipid traditional children’s dishes, which very possibly, do not really suit them. Milk should of course be always given freely to all growing children, but apart from this too great monotony is sure to be harmful. There are some children, of course, to whom even small quantities of usually wholesome articles of food seem to act as absolute poisons. This is especially the case with sugar, extremely small quantities of which will, in such peculiarly constituted children, bring out an attack of nettle-rash. The skin is always abnormally irritable under great heat; and hence such cases show themselves more commonly in European children brought up in the Tropics than in those living in temperate climates.

When, therefore, a child is greatly troubled with nettle-rash it is well to suspend sugar, and should this fail, experiment with the stopping of other articles of its dietary.

A very common mistake on the part of anxious mothers is to cut up a child’s food too small. As soon as a child’s digestive organs have so far developed as to be capable of digesting solid food at all, as shown by its having come into the possession of a full set of first teeth, it is very important that nothing should be swallowed without thorough mastication; and the mincing of the food not only renders it possible for the food to be swallowed without chewing, but actually makes it difficult for the child to do otherwise, as anyone may convince himself by trying to masticate any minced dish.

Now mincing is in no sense a substitute for chewing, and as it is disagreeable to swallow a large piece of food without proper mastication, it is better to err on the side of cutting too large than too small. Moreover, the cutting up of the food too finely actually trains the child to bolt its meals, and this causes it to acquire a most harmful habit, of which it will be very difficult for him to break himself in after life.

On the other hand, many children take up the almost equally injurious habit of churning their food about in the mouth for an unreasonable time. This habit is a very common one with Anglo-Indian children and should always be checked, as the prolonged mumbling of each mouthful stimulates an undue flow of saliva, and produces dyspepsia by flooding the stomach with it. It is really, I believe, due to want of appetite, and is generally caused by the monotonous and insipid diet to which children are often confined, while they watch their parents consuming appetising dishes which they are not allowed to touch. Surely it is hard to expect the child to swallow a stodgy mass of boiled flour and milk, with the savour of crisply fried bacon under its nose; and why should a child whom Nature has already provided with a full set of teeth be less able to digest a simple wholesome article of food, such as this, than an adult? No one would suggest the giving of large quantities of such delicacies, of which, indeed, adults very commonly consume a good deal more than is good for them; but some bread and butter with a few scraps of bacon and some bread crisply fried in the fat, eaten with a relish that stimulates the proper flow of the digestive secretions, is surely more likely to be properly assimilated than some insipid mess, eaten under compulsion, with difficulty and loathing.

It is often impossible to find any good reason for popular maternal notions as to what children should eat, drink and avoid, but the broad principle underlying it appears to be that anything nice is necessarily harmful. “Children should be given only simple food.” Doubtless!—but what is “simple food”? Food, I take it, which it is a simple job to digest. But it is quite a mistake to imagine that every insipid mess is easy, and every tasty relish difficult, of digestion. Some insipid foods are easily digestible and some not, and some tasty foods are indigestible and some digestible. The taste and savour are in fact no guide whatever. To pursue our particular example:—bacon fat is an exceptionally easily assimilated form of fatty matter, rivalling cod liver oil in that respect; and every whit as useful in the treatment of malnutrition.

Again, the method of preparation makes all the difference as to digestibility. Cheese, for instance, of the cheaper varieties, is proverbially hard to digest, for the obvious reason that it is difficult for the digestive organs to dissolve its rather leathery substance, but a crumbling Stilton taken in reasonable quantities is far from being so; and even less expensive cheeses, if grated and cooked, are quite harmless, so that a dish of macaroni just flavoured with a little grated cheese is a far more suitable food for a child than the pasty gruel that passes under the style of oatmeal porridge southward of the Tweed.

The hardy Italian peasant children are as regularly brought up on the dish I have just described as the young Scot on oatmeal porridge; and as, unless given all day and every day, both are perfectly suited to young digestions, there is no good reason why both should not take their turn in the nursery cuisine.

A great deal that has been said is no doubt equally applicable to temperate climates, but in these healthy children rarely suffer from want of appetite, whereas in the trying time of the year in the Tropics there is often a strong temptation to eat too little to keep up the needs of the system, and hence this exhortation to the adoption for children of a varied and tempting diet is especially applicable to those brought up in hot countries.

A separate work would be required to deal adequately with the subject of the present chapter, so that it is impossible to do more than offer a few general hints on the subject, and it accordingly remains only to consider the question of the necessity, or otherwise, of children being sent off to a hill station during the worst part of the tropical year. To do so is often a terrible tax on the financial resources of the parents, and there can be no doubt that the advantages of the hill climates over those of the plains, though no doubt very real, are much over-rated; for the hills have special dangers of their own. Some years ago I had occasion to compare the sick rates of a number of the largest Indian boarding schools, and was much astonished to find that the justly celebrated “La Martiniere,” at Lucknow, had a somewhat smaller sick rate than the great Laurence Military Asylum for soldiers’ children, which was then under my care. Now if the difference in favour of the hill climate were as great as is popularly supposed, this could hardly be the case; as Lucknow is by no means an exceptionally healthy plains station, and the site of the La Martiniere leaves much to be desired. Yet the hill school would have been counted a healthy one anywhere, for in two years we had but two deaths among the whole half-thousand boys and girls. Apart from the mere question of personal comfort, the main advantage of the hill climates are their freedom from malaria, but this ought to be guarded against in the plains by proper metallic gauze protection of the nursery; while, on the other hand, hill climates are extremely treacherous for children during the rains. Assuming the adoption of rational precautions against malaria, I believe that whatever may be the case during the dry, hot season, the majority of children would be better in the plains than on the hills during rains. Part of this is perhaps due to the increased sanitary difficulties; for typhoid fever is endemic in almost all hill stations; but the bulk of it is due to the raw, clammy chills of a sodden atmosphere, and given an equal number of children, it is a matter of common experience with medical officers that the doctor’s visiting book will often show an enormously larger number of calls in these sanitaria (?) than in the much maligned stations below.

Hence, while in no way counselling the retention of children in the plains during the hot, dry season, by those who can well afford to send them away, I trust that the facts adduced may tend to the comfort of those whose finances do not admit of such a luxury, and the question whether great sacrifices should be made to do so should be determined by the comparative healthiness, or otherwise, of the locality in the plains where they may be stationed.

The amount of sickness, both of a serious and trifling character, on most hill stations is perfectly alarming, and there cannot be the least doubt that there are a great many stations in the plains that are far less unhealthy for Europeans the whole year round, so what is gained by resorting to the hills is, in most cases, not health, but personal comfort.

Another caution:—do not always jump to the conclusion that a child is necessarily suffering from malaria when it becomes feverish. The temperature-regulating mechanism of a child is much more delicate than that of an adult, so that very little suffices to put it out of gear; and an indiscretion in diet which would show its effects in an adult merely in the form of a bad head and a worse temper, will perhaps send a child’s temperature up to 104° F. or over. Such cases are almost as common in Europe, but unlike the Anglo-tropical matron, the English mother does not usually go about with a clinical thermometer in her pocket, and they usually pass undetected, as far as the element of temperature is concerned, and are ascribed to their true cause of some upset of the digestive organs, which yields easily to some mild laxative. More than half the cases of so-called fever are of this nature, and as the diagnosis of malaria can only be made, even by a doctor, by a careful examination of the patient’s blood under a powerful microscope, it is wise in his absence to try the effect of such simple measures as a dose of “Gregory” or grey powder before needlessly drugging the child with quinine.

Lastly, and most important of all, do not always go rushing off to your medicine cupboard because the dear child “looks so pale,” or is protesting more vociferously than usual at the crumpling of some of the rose leaves of its couch. Anyway, it is no good emptying drugs down the interior of the poor child’s neck till you feel pretty sure of your reason for doing so. It is very natural and excusable that a mother should be so anxious to “do something”; but unless sure of your reasons for acting, the something done is too apt to be something wrong. The amount of needless drugging of children that goes on is cruel, even when it is not harmful; and I cannot help thinking the little ones would be a good deal better on the whole if mothers would make a rule of swallowing a duplicate spoonful of nastiness for every one they are so anxious to administer to their progeny.

CHAPTER VI.
Hints on the Construction of Tents and on Camp Sanitation.

In many hot countries Europeans of all classes pass a considerable portion of their time under canvas, and though it is not proposed to refer in any way to military operations, some reference to the management of small private camps is desirable.

In pioneering life in the colonies, permanent encampments necessarily have to serve in place of houses, often for long periods, and in such colonies as South Africa whole families are often “on the trek” for months together; whilst in India most officials must pass much of the cold season under canvas as a part of their routine duty, and it is quite common for an official to be accompanied on these long tours by his family and entire establishment.

Now in spite of its apparent inconveniences, tent-life is, if fairly well managed, extremely healthy, and there can be no doubt that in India these cold weather tours under canvas form the saving clause in the description of an official’s life; so that it is extremely desirable that, wherever practicable, the ladies and children of a family should share in its advantages. In a well-ordered Indian cold weather tour in tents, the hardships are indeed so purely nominal that there is no difficulty whatever in taking even the youngest children, not only without any increase in the risks of life, but with enormous advantage to health.

Tents should, as a rule, be obtained on the spot, as those manufactured in any given country will generally be better planned to meet special local exigencies than those obtainable elsewhere, and in any case it is a mistake to obtain an outfit of this description in Europe, as tent-life is so foreign to the habits of settled countries, that our manufacturers are utterly ignorant of the proper plan of construction, or of the most suitable materials to choose. The English service bell-tent, for example, seems contrived to combine all possible disadvantages that a tent can possess, every other consideration being sacrificed to the idea of supporting it by means of a single pole; though the advantages of this are more than neutralised by the employment of a spar, better suited to serve as the mizen-mast of a small cruiser than for the purpose for which it is intended. In India, on the other hand, the manufacture of tents has been an extensive industry for centuries, and the intending explorer or colonist who is likely to have to pass prolonged periods under canvas cannot do better than obtain what he requires from some of the large manufacturers in Cawnpore or Lahore.

In the first place, it may be laid down as an absolute rule, that tents with single “flies” or roofs, are quite unsuitable to any climate, and should never be used except under the absolute compulsion of restricted transport. Such tents are insufferably hot in warm climates, bitterly cold in chilly ones, and damp and unwholesome in rainy weather in either. On the other hand, the use of waterproofed material is, as a rule, a mistake, and should at any rate never be adopted for the inner fly, as to do so would make any tent of moderate dimensions intolerably “stuffy.” In very rainy climates, there might be no harm in selecting light milrained canvas as the material for the outer fly; but there is no real necessity for this, as a tent should be so planned as to throw off the water by virtue of the slope of the roof, and not by the character of its materials.

A second point to be remembered, is that two or more layers of comparatively light material will afford far greater protection against either heat or cold than the same weight of material woven as a single heavy cloth, and on this account the canvas universally used in Europe for work of this sort is absolutely unsuited for the purpose.

Each fly of an Indian tent is usually formed of two or three layers of cloth, the outer layer being formed of what is generally known as “American” cotton drill, though it is usually of local manufacture; and it would be hard to find a material better suited for the purpose. Where only two layers of cloth are used, the inner layer should be a deep red, as this colour cuts off the largest proportion of the chemical rays of the sun, which exercise such a powerful effect on the human economy. With three layers the middle one should be red, and the undermost deep indigo. In the case of the inner fly, for the middle layer of cloth, where there is one, a deep red should also be selected, but the inner lining should be a pale yellow chintz, as a sombre cloth makes a tent uncomfortably dark. The poles should be so constructed that a space of free air, of not less than a foot, should intervene between the two flies, even in the smallest tents, and if the outer fly be properly planned, it should be impossible for rain to reach the inner fly, even under the worst conditions of weather; though this proviso need not extend to verandahs and bath-rooms, which are not intended for prolonged occupation, and so may be formed by the outer fly only. When weight is a serious consideration, as in the case of exploring parties, it would be difficult to find a better form than that known as the “Kabul tent,” which, with poles, mallet and pegs, weighs but 80 lbs., while the somewhat larger “Field Officer’s Kabul,” weighing, with verandah and bath-room complete, 120 lbs., forms about as comfortable a little residence as can be desired for such purposes. For Indian family use, and for permanent encampments, where a tent has to serve in place of a house, the best form is probably that known as the “Swiss Cottage Tent,” which, however, weighs, according to size, from 4 to 6 cwt., and is therefore only useful for a moving camp, where ample wheeled transport is available.

People unaccustomed to living in tents are apt to think that they are necessarily draughty and uncomfortable, but this is so far from being the case that it is quite as necessary to attend to their ventilation as that of a house; and this is especially true of large tents, the gable part of which is rarely sufficiently ventilated to allow of the escape of foul and heated air. All that is provided for this purpose by manufacturers are a few brass eyelet boles, the total area of which is far too small to have any appreciable effect whatever. Those who possess large tents will do well, therefore, to have made in the uppermost part of the gable of the inner fly of a Swiss Cottage, or near the apex of the pyramidal single pole tent, a small window measuring some 8 in. or 10 in. square. It is easy to arrange a curtain for this, capable of being closed with strings from below, but in practice it will be found that it is never necessary to close the opening, which may merely, therefore, be filled in with strong twine netting, so as to maintain the strength of the tent. The gain in coolness effected by this little modification will be astonishing to those who have not tried it, and it is equally necessary where a stove is used for heating a tent.

Having mentioned this point of the warming of tents, it may be well to point out that on no account should the common native plan of using an open charcoal brazier be adopted, as it is quite a mistake to imagine that a tent is not quite capable of sufficiently retaining the poisonous charcoal fumes to cause harmful, and even serious, effects.

The writer has met with attempts to copy the Indian patterns in tents manufactured in England; but the inveterate attachment of our tent-makers to flies formed of a single heavy waterproof cloth has rendered the best of them next door to useless, and though very pretty, none were fit to be put up anywhere outside a colonial outfitter’s show-room; so that unless the necessary delay of a couple of months be an absolute bar to doing so, novices fitting themselves out for camp life will do well to get what they require from India, or some other country where camp life is a practical everyday contingency.

When used for a living room during the day a tent can not well be too lofty, but for sleeping purposes, tents with the ridge of the inner fly not more than 8 ft. or 10 ft. high present many advantages over larger ones, as not only are they warmer and snugger, but it is far easier to keep them free from flies, which if once they gain admission, render rest during the day impossible.

It is wonderful how free a small tent of this sort can be kept from these pests, provided the chicks or blinds formed of split bamboo be kept always closed. Every night when the flies have become sluggish and sleepy as many as possible should be killed by striking at them with a towel or duster; and then the lamp should be put outside the tent door and the chicks and flies raised, while the flies are kept from settling by flecking and shaking the interior. Attracted by the light, in a very short time, all insects will be coaxed out of the tent, and the chicks and curtains being then replaced, one starts the next day with the tent free from these intruders. The same plan may be also used with large tents, but cannot so effectually be carried out, as it is difficult to reach insects that have settled in the uppermost part of the tent, but vigorous shaking will usually suffice to dislodge most of them.

Mosquito-nets for camp use should be shaped like a miniature tent, with a ridge and gable-shaped ends, so that they can be easily and quickly suspended from the tent poles by means of strings fitted to each end of the ridge, which should be strengthened with a stout piece of tape.

In selecting a site for camp, it is well to keep as far as possible from native villages, but as a rule one is obliged to pitch tolerably near them, on account of the difficulty of bringing supplies to a greater distance. In any case, however, the site chosen should be to the windward of the village, and sufficiently removed to be clear of the results of its primitive notions on the subject of conservancy. Conservancy, indeed, is always a difficulty in camp, and renders the prolonged occupation of any one camp extremely undesirable. In private marching camps and even in the tolerably large caravans of exploring parties, it may be taken for granted that any attempt at the establishment of regular latrines is doomed to failure; so that the utmost that can be done is to fix a limit of distance, within which cleanliness is enforced by punishing any detected infraction of the rule as sharply as may be practicable. Where, however, tents are pitched in standing camp, as a temporary substitute for a permanent habitation, trenches should always be established, and their use insisted upon, as otherwise it will be absolutely necessary to periodically shift the camp to a clean site.

In the matter of water supply, it should be needless to point out that its sources are always necessarily of doubtful purity, and that more than common care is therefore essential to secure that it is properly sterilised by boiling. As already remarked, it is a good plan, where possible, to send on and get the wells in advance disinfected by treatment with permanganate of potash, and this precaution is, of course, especially important in the presence of cholera.

In the sort of camp life under consideration, regular camp beds are assumed to be carried, so that there is no need to burden oneself with heavy ground sheets, ordinary cotton carpets being, for our purposes, far more comfortable and sightly; but it is nevertheless well, wherever the material is available, to lay down, beneath the floorcloth, a good layer of hay or straw, as this not only serves as a sop to the white ants, but serves the further sanitary purpose of taking up the damp that is always arising from the soil even in apparently very dry localities. As the litter is in no way damaged by its use for this purpose it is rarely necessary to buy it outright, the owners being usually satisfied with a trifle for the loan of it, sufficient to remunerate them for the trouble of bringing the straw and fetching it back. In standing camps however, litter used for this purpose should always be cleared out and dried in the sun at frequent intervals, as without this precaution it is sure to get mildewed and offensive.

There is, of course, no real difference between the rules of personal hygiene suitable to camp life, and those of dwellers in more settled habitations, and with due attention to a few special points such as those that have been touched upon in the present article, camp life, on account of the constant enjoyment of fresh air which it affords, will always be found far healthier than that passed within houses.

CHAPTER VII.
On the Prevention of Malaria.

“Fever,” i.e., malaria, is responsible for so large a share of the sickness peculiar to tropical countries that the subject of its prevention requires especial and separate consideration. Up to a few years ago the causation of malaria was a complete mystery. We had known for some score of years or more that the disease was due to the presence of certain minute animalcules in the blood, but as to how they got there, or the manner in which they passed from man to man, we had not the remotest idea. There was a general opinion that the seeds of the disease were carried by the air in the form of what was pretentiously spoken of as a miasma—a formidable word which served well enough to hide from the profane vulgar the fact that no one could define, or in fact had the vaguest notion as to what a miasma might be. It was also popularly known in many parts of the world that miasmata found great difficulty in getting through a mosquito net; but by the majority of the profession these traditions were looked upon as laic fables, unworthy of scientific attention, though there were not wanting observant practitioners of tropical medicine who were willing to admit the efficacy of the protection afforded by a mosquito net, and who even attempted to account for the fact by all sorts of lame physical explanations, barring only the simple one that a mosquito net serves very fairly the purpose for which it is designed, viz., of keeping out mosquitoes. The condensed moisture of the dew on the fluff of the meshes in some way attracting the germs or dissolving some assumedly gaseous emanation, was a favourite so-called explanation, and was, I believe, that adopted by the late Prof. Maclean, of Netley, who in his lectures was always careful to impress upon us the protection afforded by mosquito nets, as a well-established, though ill-understood, fact.

This was before the date at which the French military surgeon, Laveran, discovered the fact that malaria was due to the presence in the blood of certain animal parasites (Protozoa), and although this discovery was made in 1880, it was many years before its truth was accepted by the general body of the medical profession, who have somehow always exhibited a curious reluctance to admit the harmfulness of animal parasites.

Some years later Sir Patrick Manson, F.R.S., then a hard-working doctor in practice in China, made the remarkable discovery that the blood-worm disease, which is very common in those parts, was conveyed from man to man by the agency of mosquitoes; and as the parasitic origin of malarial fever became more and more firmly established, the idea suggested itself to him that this disease, too, might very well be transmitted by the intervention of the same insects.

At this time Sir Patrick had left China, to work harder than ever in London, so that he was unable to personally test the truth of his surmise, which he, however, communicated to Major Ronald Ross, I.M.S., who after prolonged work, was able to establish the truth of Manson’s suggestion, which was a remarkable instance of the value of imagination in science. Almost immediately after Rossi’s work was confirmed and amplified by Prof. Grassi, of Rome, and by several other naturalists, and the fact that malarial diseases are communicated by the agency of mosquitoes, and can be carried from man to man in no other manner, is now absolutely established. Medical science has commonly to accept, as a working theory, whatever hypothesis of the causation of disease may appear most tenable, but in the present case there is no room for doubt, and, like the protective power of vaccination, the carriage of malaria by mosquitoes only, may be taken as one of the few absolutely proven facts of medicine.

In saying as much, it is not implied that the reader may not on his travels meet with medical men sceptical or hostile to this theory, but this is because the training required to appreciate the cogency of the facts adduced in proof is that, not of a medical man, but of a naturalist, and though the profession of medicine numbers in its ranks many distinguished naturalists, it is quite possible to gain the highest qualifications without acquiring any knowledge of zoology sufficient to render the student capable of really forming an opinion on such a point; for, as a matter of fact, the five years of medical training are so overburdened with absolutely necessary medical subjects, that any critical knowledge of the associated subjects of chemistry, physics, and biology must needs be left to the after years of those to whom good fortune affords sufficient leisure to admit of their attacking the fringe of these great subjects when they are no longer in statu pupilaris. Hence, especially among the older hands, there are numbers of medical men who would regard the above statements as premature, but the reader will find it difficult to find any naturalist who entertains any doubts on the subject. Many details undoubtedly remain to be worked out, but the broad data may be taken as absolute facts, of a character that future investigations can only amplify.

These facts may be shortly stated as follows:—

(1) Malarial fevers are caused by the presence in the blood of minute animal parasites. There are several species of these, corresponding to the various types of fever; but the life-history of all is broadly the same.

(2) These animalcules multiply in the blood, and when they have become sufficiently numerous, determine an attack of fever, but while in this stage cannot pass from the blood of one human being to another, except by the somewhat difficult vivisectional experiment of injecting the living blood of an infected person into the vessels of a healthy subject, a process which cannot occur in Nature.

(3) Large numbers of the malaria animalcules are destroyed by what may be called the vital powers of the patient’s blood, and the question whether an untreated case of malaria dies or recovers, depends on the outcome of the struggle between the parasites and the vital forces of their host.

(4) The process of multiplication of the parasites within the human body is by simple division, or non-sexual breeding of the single cell of which each parasite consists; but by a well-known law of the life-history of this class of animalcules this method of multiplication cannot continue indefinitely without the intervention of a period of sexual multiplication; and this can not occur within the human subject under any circumstances, but only in the bodies of certain species of mosquitoes; so that the disease always tends to wear itself out, provided the strength of the patient holds out sufficiently long; and the parasites are unable to find their way into the blood of other human beings by natural processes, unless mosquitoes of certain special species be present.

(5) If, however, a human being infected with malaria be bitten by a mosquito of the appropriate sort, the parasites, sucked into the stomach of the mosquito along with its meal of blood, undergo further development into distinct male and female animalcules, whose union gives birth to myriads of germs which, although incapable of further multiplication within the organism of the insect, find their way into its salivary glands, which are the organs in which the irritating poison of the mosquito is elaborated, and so are necessarily inoculated into the tissues of any human being whom the mosquito may bite, with the result that a new victim becomes infected, and the chain of events commences anew.

(6) The malarial parasites can exist in the mosquito only within certain limits of temperature, and hence the disease is not found in countries where the maximum summer temperature is less than 76° F., or in places so hot that the temperature rises above 86° F. for any length of time, and the comparative healthiness of many hot continental climates is due to the fortunate circumstance that a period of excessive dry heat follows immediately on the cold season.

In considering the measures of prevention detailed below, it must be remembered that their importance is enhanced by the fact that not only malaria, but also the blood-worm disease already alluded to, or filariasis, and yellow fever, have also been shown to require the intervention of mosquitoes for their transmission from man to man, and that although not carried by mosquitoes, the germs of sleeping sickness are also probably conveyed by a winged insect, so that many of the measures detailed below will have a certain value also in the prevention of the last-mentioned disease.

Thus for the maintenance of malarial fever the co-existence of three animal organisms are essential, viz., of man, the mosquito, and the malarial protozoon; and it is obvious that even the temporary banishment of either of the three from any given locality will necessarily put an end to all possibility of the occurrence of fever; for man can be infected only by the mosquito, and the mosquito by man, and the presence of both of the others is necessary for the maintenance of the species for the parasite.

For the proper contrivance, then, of measures of prevention it is essential that we should be well acquainted with the life-history of our two partners in this curious cycle of development, and as that of the parasite has already been sufficiently described for our purposes, it remains only to describe the leading parts of the life-history of the mosquito. Mosquitoes, or, as they are called in England, gnats, are small two-winged insects whose appearance is quite familiar to most people, though midges so closely resembles them, in general appearance, that they are commonly confused with them, but mosquitoes may be easily distinguished by their possessing a long, trunk-like proboscis which is wanting in the midge, as well as by the fact that, if examined with a strong magnifier, it will be seen that their wings and the greater part of their surface are covered with minute, downy scales exactly like those of butterflies, while midges are quite devoid of any such covering. The males carry a pair of beautiful plume-like feelers, while those of the females, though quite as long, show only a few inconspicuous hairs.

Over five hundred species of mosquito have been described; and, as might be expected, their habits vary to some extent; but, speaking generally, they are mainly twilight and nocturnal insects which remain hidden in sheltered places during the day, and come forth to feed and disport themselves in the open at dusk. Owing to the peculiar structure of their mouth-parts, which consist of a long, delicate tube, supported in the midst of a group of lancets, they are incapable of taking solid food, and subsist almost entirely on the juices of living plants and animals, which are sucked up by means of the tube which is introduced into a puncture made by the lancets. With one or two doubtful exceptions, the males of all species live entirely upon the juices of plants, but the females of perhaps the majority of species are not content with so simple a diet, and attack animals of all sorts, puncturing the skin and filling themselves with blood till they are scarce able to fly. No animal is safe from their attacks, and improbable though it may appear, it is recorded, on the authority of a skilled naturalist, that young fish are killed in large numbers by the crowds of mosquitoes which pounce on them as they show their heads and backs at the surface of the water.