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Hands-On MQTT Programming with Python

Work with the lightweight IoT protocol in Python

Gaston C. Hillar
BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Hands-On MQTT
Programming with Python
Copyright © 2018 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the information
presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express
or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt Publishing or its dealers and distributors, will be held liable
for any damages caused or alleged to have been caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the companies and
products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals. However, Packt Publishing
cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

Commissioning Editor: Kunal Choudhari

Acquisition Editor: Reshma Raman
Content Development Editor: Aditi Gour
Technical Editor: Sushmeeta Jena
Copy Editor: Safis Editing
Project Coordinator: Hardik Bhinde
Proofreader: Safis Editing
Indexer: Tejal Daruwale Soni
Graphics: Jason Monteiro
Production Coordinator: Shraddha Falebhai

First published: May 2018

Production reference: 1180518

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham
B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78913-854-2
www.packtpub.com
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About the Author
Gaston C. Hillar is Italian and has been working with
computers since he was 8 years old. Gaston has a bachelor's
degree in computer science (graduated with honors) and an
MBA. He is the CTO of Mapgenix, a freelance author, and a
speaker.

He has been a senior contributing editor at Dr. Dobb's and has

written more than a hundred articles on software development
topics. He has received the prestigious Intel® Black Belt
Software Developer award eight times.

He lives with his wife, Vanesa, and his two sons, Kevin and
Brandon.

Acknowledgements:

While writing this book, I was fortunate to work with an excellent team at Packt, whose
contributions vastly improved the presentation of this book. Reshma Raman allowed me to provide
her ideas to write a book dedicated to MQTT programming with Python, and I jumped into this
exciting project. Aditi Gour helped me realize my vision for this book and provided many sensible
suggestions regarding the text, the format, and the flow. The reader will notice her great work. It′s
been great working with Reshma on another project and I can't wait to work with Reshma and
Aditi again. I would like to thank my technical reviewers and proofreaders for their thorough
reviews and insightful comments. I was able to incorporate some of the knowledge and wisdom
they have gained in their many years in the software development industry. This book was possible
because they gave valuable feedback.

The entire process of writing a book requires a huge number of lonely hours. I wouldn't be able to
write an entire book without dedicating some time to play soccer against my sons, Kevin and
Brandon, and my nephew, Nicolas. Of course, I never won a match. However, I did score a few
goals! Of course, I'm talking about real-life soccer, but I must also include virtual soccer when the
weather didn't allow us to kick a real-life ball.
About the reviewer
Ben Howes is the founder and lead consultant at Zoetrope
Ltd, a specialist IoT consultancy
and product development firm in the UK. Ben has been
creating connected hardware for
over 10 years and has worked across projects spanning from
start-ups to multinational
deployments.

I'd like to thank Richard Webb, my cofounder, for starting Zoetrope with me.
Packt is searching for
authors like you
If you're interested in becoming an author for Packt, please
visit authors.packtpub.com and apply today. We have worked with
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help them share their insight with the global tech community.
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idea.
Preface
MQTT is the preferred IoT publish-subscribe lightweight
messaging protocol. Python is definitely one of the most
popular programming languages. It is open source,
multiplatform, and you can use it to develop any kind of
application. If you develop IoT, web applications, mobile apps,
or a combination of these solutions, you must learn how MQTT
and its lightweight messaging system works. The combination
of Python and MQTT makes it possible to develop powerful
applications that communicate with sensors, different devices,
and other applications. Of course, it is extremely important to
take security into account when working with this protocol.

Most of the time, when you work with complex IoT solutions
coded in modern Python 3.6, you will use different IoT boards
that might use diverse operating systems. MQTT has its own
specific vocabulary and different working modes. Learning
MQTT is challenging, because it includes too many abstract
concepts that require real-life examples to be easy to
understand.

This book will allow you to dive deep in to the latest version of
the MQTT protocol: 3.1.1. You will learn to work with the most
recent Mosquitto MQTT server, command-line tools, and GUI
tools to allow you to understand how everything works with
MQTT and the possibilities that this protocol provides for your
projects. You will learn security best practices and use them for
a Mosquitto MQTT server.
Then, you will work with many real-life examples in Python
3.6. You will control a vehicle, process commands, interact with
actuators, and monitor a surf competition by exchanging
MQTT messages with the Eclipse Paho MQTT client library.
You will also work with a cloud-based, real-time MQTT
provider.

You will be able to run the examples on a wide range of modern

IoT boards, such as Raspberry Pi 3 Model B+, Qualcomm
DragonBoard 410c, BeagleBone Black, MinnowBoard Turbot
Quad-Core, LattePanda 2G, and UP Core 4GB. However, any
other board that supports Python 3.6 will be able to run the
samples.
Who this book is for
This book is aimed at Python developers who want to develop
applications that can interact with other applications and
devices, such as IoT boards, sensors, and actuators.
What this book covers
Chapter 1 , Installing an MQTT 3.1.1 Mosquitto Server, starts our
journey toward the usage of the preferred IoT publish-
subscribe lightweight messaging protocol in diverse IoT
solutions, combined with mobile apps and web applications.
We will learn how MQTT and its lightweight messaging system
work. We will understand the MQTT puzzle: clients, servers
(formerly known as brokers), and connections. We will learn
the procedures to install an MQTT 3.1.1 Mosquitto server in
Linux, macOS, and Windows. We will learn special
considerations for running a Mosquitto server on the Cloud
(Azure, AWS, and other cloud providers).

Chapter 2 , Using Command-Line and GUI Tools to Learn How

MQTT Works, teaches us to work with command-line and GUI
tools to learn how MQTT works in detail. We will learn MQTT
basics, the specific vocabulary for MQTT, and its working
modes. We will use different utilities and diagrams to
understand the most important concepts related to MQTT. We
will understand everything we need to know before writing
Python code to work with the MQTT protocol. We will work
with the different Quality of Service levels, and we will analyze
and compare their overheads.
Chapter 3 , Securing an MQTT 3.1.1 Mosquitto Server, focuses on
how to secure an MQTT 3.1.1 Mosquitto server. We will make
all the necessary configurations to work with digital certificates
to encrypt all the data sent between the MQTT clients and the
server. We will use TLS, and we will learn to work with client
certificates for each MQTT client. We will also learn to force the
desired TLS protocol version.

Chapter 4 , Writing Code to Control a Vehicle with Python and

MQTT Messages, focuses on writing Python 3.x code to control
a vehicle with MQTT messages delivered through encrypted
connections (TLS 1.2). We will write code that will be able to
run on different popular IoT platforms, such as a Raspberry Pi
3 board. We will understand how we can leverage our
knowledge of the MQTT protocol to build a solution based on
requirements. We will learn to work with the latest version of
the Eclipse Paho MQTT Python client library.

Chapter 5 , Testing and Improving Our Vehicle Control Solution

in Python, outlines using our vehicle control solution with
MQTT messages and Python code. We will learn how to process
commands received in MQTT messages with Python code. We
will write Python code to compose and send MQTT messages
with commands. We will work with the blocking and threaded
network loops, and we will understand the difference between
them. Finally, we will take advantage of the last will and
testament feature.
Chapter 6 , Monitoring a Surfing Competition with Cloud-Based
Real-Time MQTT Providers and Python, gets you started with
writing Python code to use the PubNub cloud-based, real-time
MQTT provider in combination with a Mosquitto MQTT server
to monitor a surfing competition. We will build a solution from
scratch by analyzing the requirements, and we will write
Python code that will run on waterproof IoT boards connected
to multiple sensors in surfboards. We will define the topics and
commands, and we will work with a cloud-based MQTT server,
in combination with the Mosquitto MQTT server used in the
previous chapters.

, Solutions, the right answers for the Test Your

Appendix

Knowledge sections of each chapter are included in the

appendix.
To get the most out of this
book
You need a basic knowledge of Python 3.6.x and IoT boards.
Download the example
code files
You can download the example code files for this book from
your account at www.packtpub.com. If you purchased this book
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Once the file is downloaded, please make sure that you unzip or
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The code bundle for the book is also hosted on GitHub at http
s://github.com/PacktPublishing/Hands-On-MQTT-Programming-with-Python . In
case there's an update to the code, it will be updated on the
existing GitHub repository.

We also have other code bundles from our rich catalog of books
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them out!
Download the color images
We also provide a PDF file that has color images of the
screenshots/diagrams used in this book. You can download it
here: http://www.packtpub.com/sites/default/files/downloads/HandsOnMQTTProgr
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ammingwithPython_ColorImages.pdf
Conventions used
There are a number of text conventions used throughout this
book.

CodeInText : Indicates code words in text, database table names,

folder names, filenames, file extensions, pathnames, dummy
URLs, user input, and Twitter handles. Here is an example:
"Mount the downloaded WebStorm-10*.dmg disk image file as
another disk in your system."

A block of code is set as follows:

@staticmethod
def on_subscribe(client, userdata, mid, granted_qos):
print("I've subscribed with QoS: {}".format(
granted_qos[0]))

When we wish to draw your attention to a particular part of a

code block, the relevant lines or items are set in bold:

time.sleep(0.5)
client.disconnect()
client.loop_stop()

Any command-line input or output is written as follows:

 sudo apt-add-repository ppa:mosquitto-dev/mosquitto-ppa

Bold: Indicates a new term, an important word, or words that

you see onscreen. For example, words in menus or dialog boxes
appear in the text like this. Here is an example: "Select System
info from the Administration panel."

Warnings or important notes appear like this.

Tips and tricks appear like this.

Get in touch
Feedback from our readers is always welcome.

General feedback: Email [email protected] and mention the

book title in the subject of your message. If you have questions
about any aspect of this book, please email us at
[email protected].

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accuracy of our content, mistakes do happen. If you have found
a mistake in this book, we would be grateful if you would report
this to us. Please visit www.packtpub.com/submit-errata, selecting your
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For more information about Packt, please visit packtpub.com.

Installing an MQTT 3.1.1
Mosquitto Server
In this chapter, we will start our journey toward using the
preferred IoT publish-subscribe lightweight messaging
protocol in diverse IoT solutions, combined with mobile apps
and web applications. We will learn how MQTT and its
lightweight messaging system work.

We will understand the MQTT puzzle: clients, servers (formerly

known as brokers), and connections. We will learn the
procedures to install an MQTT 3.1.1 Mosquitto server in Linux,
macOS, and Windows. We will learn special considerations for
running a Mosquitto server in the cloud (Azure, AWS, and
other cloud providers). We will gain an understanding of the
following:

Understanding convenient scenarios for the MQTT

protocol

Working with the publish-subscribe pattern

Working with message filtering

Understanding the MQTT puzzle: clients, servers, and

connections
Installing a Mosquitto server on Linux

Installing a Mosquitto server on macOS

Installing a Mosquitto server on Windows

Considerations for running a Mosquitto server in the

cloud
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's
Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1004, March 25, 1899
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1004, March 25, 1899

Author: Various

Release date: August 7, 2018 [eBook #57653]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and the

Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN

PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 1004, MARCH 25, 1899 ***
Vol. XX.—No. 1004.] MARCH 25, 1899. [Price One Penny.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the

original.]
A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.
OUR MEDICINE CHEST.
“OUR HERO.”
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
VARIETIES.
A NEW GAME.
HIS GREAT REWARD.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OUR PUZZLE POEMS.
OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.
 A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.

“THE DAINTY PORTFOLIO.”

All rights reserved.]
Miss Colbourne was expecting a visitor to tea. Not to the ordinary
lodging-house meal which was prepared for herself every evening,
but to a special four o’clock tea, every detail of which was arranged
by her own hands. The little copper kettle was purring on the old-
fashioned hob, the unsteady round table was covered with a dainty
white cloth, and weighted with the silver salver and porcelain cups
without handles that had belonged to her grandmother. Hot cakes
were keeping warm in front of the fire, and there was a special little
jug of cream.
The room itself was of a very common type. Carpets and curtains
were in clashing shades of crimson, while a green table-cloth
disagreed with both. There was the usual profusion of china
ornaments with various photographs of the landlady’s friends. Miss
Colbourne had inhabited the room for years past. She objected to
the ornaments, but respect for her landlady’s feelings enabled her to
keep silence and to endure them. Nothing else troubled her. Her own
possessions were disposed inartistically enough; books encumbered
the sideboard, more lay in piles on the floor. She had few pretty
things, and had not the knack of so arranging her surroundings as to
make a nest for herself. Her room reminded the onlooker of a
temporary halting place—never of a home.
She had only just finished her preparations, and was in the act of
rolling up an easy-chair close to the fire, when a slight tap at the
door was followed by the entrance of the expected visitor.
Jessie Blaher was a slim rosy-cheeked girl of sixteen, who had been
one of Miss Colbourne’s favourite pupils from the time she was a tiny
trot of seven. Lessons had only been given up when Mr. Blaher
removed his family into the country.
Jessie had not seen her old teacher for more than twelve months.
Over tea and cake they talked of the past and present, of books and
men. Then Jessie helped to wash up and put away the cherished
relics. Miss Colbourne was bringing out some photographs, when she
exclaimed—
“Oh, I want so much to see the views of Florence that Lena sent
you!”
“Do you mean the illustrations of Romola?”
“Yes, please!”
Miss Colbourne walked across to the corner of the room that held
her especial treasures. There stood a bookshelf brought from
Bellagio by a friend, carved out of the olive wood with inlaid work.
On the bottom shelf were arranged her Italian books, one or two
rare editions among them. Above was a fine likeness of Dante and a
plaster medallion of Savonarola, with some trifling objects picked up
by friends on their wanderings. One of the most precious of these
treasures was the dainty portfolio which she now brought forward
and laid on the table.
Jessie took it up eagerly.
“Lena amused herself last winter,” said Miss Colbourne, “with
collecting all the views she could find to illustrate Romola. She
knows it is my favourite story.”
“And did she make the case too?”
“Yes, out of a piece of Italian silk. These are the Florentine lilies she
has embroidered on the front.”
Miss Colbourne untied the ribbons—green, white, and blue—
carefully, and showed the contents—the Via de Bardi, Santa Croce,
the Convent of San Marco, and many another.
“Lena could not get pictures of all the places,” she said, “so she took
several sketches herself. These in the side-pocket don’t belong
exactly to Romola—they are photographs of some of the great
pictures in the Galleries.”
“How well you explain it!” said Jessie admiringly as she put the case
carefully back. “Just as if you had been there! But you haven’t been
to Italy, have you?”
“No,” said Miss Colbourne, “but I hope to go soon,” and her face
glowed with suppressed fervour. “It has been the dream of my life to
see Italy ever since I was a little girl. It seemed impossible then, but
now I think it may be managed next year.”
After Jessie had gone, Miss Colbourne settled down to her books. It
was after eight when Mrs. Coombes, the churchwarden’s wife,
bustled in. She was a stout, pleasant little woman who knew
everyone’s business.
“Good evening, Miss Colbourne. Why, bless me, you have let your
fire out! Aren’t you cold?”
“I have been busy and forgot it,” said Miss Colbourne apologetically,
rising to meet her, “and it is rather early for fires, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know! It looks pretty dismal without one on a wet
evening. I have just run in to pay for Gertie’s lessons. Mr. Coombes
wrote you out a cheque two or three days ago, but I’ve been too
busy to get round with it.”
While Miss Colbourne was receipting the account, Mrs. Coombes
went on—
“I suppose you have heard about Mrs. Bateson? I can’t say that I
was surprised.”
“No,” said Miss Colbourne, turning round, her pen suspended in her
hand. “What is it? Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“It seems when she went home in August her mother wasn’t
satisfied with her looks and made her see a physician. He said she is
consumptive—one lung affected—and that she ought to winter
abroad.”
“Dear, dear, I am sorry!”
“Yes, it’s a bad business. I don’t know what they can do! A curate
with four children can’t be expected to have means to send his wife
abroad at a moment’s notice.”
“But can nothing be done?”
“Well, Mr. Coombes has been talking to the Vicar, and they are
making a collection. Fifty pounds will be wanted, and so far they
have fifteen towards it. I’m afraid they will never raise it. It’s a pity,
because the doctor said she was a hopeful case—probably the
winter away would save her life. But I must be going, Miss
Colbourne; my husband will be wondering where I am. You do look
cold. Why don’t you have your fire lit again?”
Her visitor gone, Miss Colbourne did not settle to her work again.
Usually she did not find time for all she wanted to accomplish, but
to-night she tried one thing after another without success. At last,
flinging her books on one side, she fell to pacing up and down the
room.
After a while she opened the secret drawer in her desk, and taking
out an old-fashioned long silk purse, she turned out its contents—
five ten-pound notes and a little loose gold. She weighed them in
her hands—the savings of ten years. Often had she sat without a fire
and gone without a hot meal to add to that hoard. It explained why
she wore a threadbare jacket and shabby bonnet. With it she
thought to turn the dream of her youth into reality. Once and again
she had been on the point of visiting Italy, but illness and
bereavement had barred the way. Now she was so near attainment
that she had planned to go after Christmas. She did not lock the
money up again, but laid it in a heap on the open desk and resumed
her pacing.
She knew the Batesons well. She respected and admired the curate
and sincerely loved his wife. She knew enough of their
circumstances to be sure that, unless help from outside were
forthcoming, the doctor’s advice could not be followed. She felt
equally sure that Mrs. Coombes was right, and that the necessary
sum would not be raised by so poor a congregation.
Must the invalid then face the rigours of an English winter? There
seemed no other solution to the problem. And yet as she turned in
her deliberate walk, there was the little pile of money glittering in
the lamplight that offered quite another solution.
Miss Colbourne was not given to sentiment; she was a woman who
had faced the world and earned her own living for thirty years, and
was not quickly moved by any sudden impulse of compassion.
Neither was she one to grasp at her own advantage. Had it been
merely her own pleasure she was asked to sacrifice, she would have
done it willingly. It was characteristic that this aspect of the question
did not trouble her. In her heart she knew well that this was her last
opportunity of realising her dreams: never again would she possess
the necessary funds; youth had gone, health and strength were both
on the wane. To give up now meant to give up for life. She realised
this, but it did not move her; it hurt her, but it did not shake her
purpose. It was not her own pleasure that she hesitated to
relinquish; it was rather a question of her duty to herself. Miss
Colbourne took life very seriously, and lived up to a delicately poised
standard of right and wrong. She had a few months before refused
an invitation to a performance of the Agamemnon, because she did
not consider her knowledge of Greek equal to its perfect
comprehension, and she would not pose as a Greek scholar. The
pleasure the spectacle would have given her was not allowed to
influence her decision. In the same way now she hesitated whether
she ought to give up this opportunity of widening and enriching her
mind, cramped by narrow horizons at home. The months she
dreamed of spending abroad would not only increase her mental
stores, but send her back with enlarged and quickening powers to
her pupils. “Where,” she debated, “does one’s duty to one’s higher
nature leave off and that to one’s neighbour begin? Shall I not be a
more useful member of society if I go abroad, and ought I not to
consider my work first?”
In her pacings she picked up one of the views that had dropped
from the portfolio and carried it back to its place. It was a quaint
representation of the bonfire of vanities. She handled her treasures
tenderly, and with her handkerchief wiped an imaginary speck of
dust from Savonarola’s medallion. As she did so she wondered
whether the great ascetic would have thought this dream of hers a
“vanity” too. Very lightly did culture weigh in his mind.
This was a new thought; she was called to another kind of self-
denial than that of food and clothing. Might not the culture of the
mind be dearly bought at the expense of another’s life? Myra
Bateson’s life, too, involved the happiness of the little ones gathered
about her knees. The problem grew complex; contrasted with the
well-being of this family group Miss Colbourne felt the insignificance
of her own needs.
“I don’t want to believe it,” she said at last, with a half-smile, “but
after all the Mother is more important than the Teacher.”
While Miss Colbourne was thus debating a nice point of morals, Mrs.
Bateson was wearily pacing up and down her nursery, trying to hush
the baby to sleep. But he was cutting his first tooth, and quite
fractious enough to prefer his mother’s arms to the cot. When he
condescended to be laid down, another child awoke, and it was nine
o’clock before their mother descended the stairs. Her husband’s
coat, saturated with rain, caught her eye in the hall, and she carried
it off to the kitchen to dry. He was not in the sitting-room where the
supper table, spread with cold meat and bread and cheese, awaited
him. She did not like to disturb him, but sat down to an overflowing
basket of socks till he should be ready. Perhaps of all those who
knew of her illness she was the least concerned; she was thinking
then, not of her journey, but whether Tommy ought not to give up
skirts this autumn. She wished her husband would not work so late,
she was anxious to consult him about so many things—he ought to
have a new overcoat, and she wanted to make him promise to order
it at once.
But the curate was not at work; the rain that had drenched him in
his long walk back from church to his home in the suburbs seemed
to have affected him mentally. He sat, a limp, huddled-up figure, in
his study armchair; he heard his wife come downstairs, but he was
not ready to meet her gentle eyes and join in easy talk.
Over six feet in height, his face had not lost its boyish look, with
wavy light hair and bright blue eyes. But the lids were downcast
now, and the lips under the scanty moustache were set in a curve of
pain. The Vicar had not been to church, but Coombes had told him
of the scanty response to their appeal. His pride revolted at their
dependence on charity, while his heart was wrung with pity for his
suffering wife.
He had entered the ministry with a single desire for God’s service,
and for a time all had gone well with him. But now the iron had
entered into his soul, and he was tempted to curse God and die.
His schoolfellows were prospering in the world; he, with gifts no whit
behind them, was forced to see his wife fade by his side for lack of
the sordid pence that had fallen so plentifully to their share. In his
agony he dared God to a trial of strength; he challenged Him by the
promises of old to show Himself a God of might, and to deliver His
servants in their hour of need.
A gentle tapping on the wall roused him at last; he strove for
composure and in a few moments joined his wife in the sitting-room.
“How late you are, Arthur,” she said anxiously, “and you look so
tired. I do wish you would not study so late. A letter came for you an
hour ago, but I did not like to disturb you,” and she held out a
sealed envelope.
He weighed it in his hand for a moment before opening it. Within
were five ten-pound notes, and a scrap of paper bearing the lines—

“Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,

Ringing with echoes of Italian song;
Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,
And all the pleasant place is like a home.”

“Not very appropriate, are they?” commented the curate smiling.

“Darning is more in your line than Italian poetry.”
He could not know that Miss Colbourne had with the money
transferred all her own hopes and aspirations to the invalid.
Cecil Vincent.
 OUR MEDICINE CHEST.
By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART I.

THE SURGICAL DRAWER.

FAIR critic asked us the other day why all our
articles were written for Londoners—why we had
never addressed our remarks to girls living in out-
of-the-way districts at home or in the colonies?
Truly we do not know what difference it makes if
these papers are written in London or for
Londoners. Health and sickness are much the
same all over the world, and the chief difference
between England and the Gold Coast as regards
disease is the prevalence in the latter of maladies
which are peculiar to the land. And the discussion of these would not
afford interest to any save such as are living there.
But we will address this article chiefly to persons living in remote
parts where medical aid is not always easy to obtain.
We were buying some drugs yesterday, and when we had finished
our purchases, the chemist showed us a wonderful “new toy” which
had just been sent to him. It was called “The Patients’ Vade Mecum.”
Vade Mecum—go with me—evidently something to be carried about
with one—a pocket-case, in fact. Oh, but this was not a pocket-case!
It was a great chest—like a family deed-box. It was bound and
studded with brass nails, and was a very tolerable load for a strong
man to carry. Not at all what we should call a Vade Mecum.
Let us describe this chest. Follow it carefully, for we are describing
the exact reverse to what any sensible person would have in her
house!
There was a grand brass lock and two keys. Unfortunately, neither of
the keys fitted the lock, so that it was at least half a minute before
we could open the thing. When at length the lock yielded, the
interior of the box presented a sight which we shall never forget.
There was quite a forest of clean little corks. There were in the
upper compartment one hundred and forty-four clean, sweet, little
one-ounce bottles, all neatly labelled and fitted with the pretty little
corks which were the first things that attracted our attention. These
bottles were arranged in rows of twelve abreast, and there was not
a stain on any one of them.
We took hold of one and tried to pull it out from amongst its fellows,
but it wouldn’t come. However, a good hard tug displaced it, and
with it two or three others which rolled to the ground, and we held
in our hand a one-ounce bottle of—of—well, the name of the stuff
slips us altogether—anyhow, it was quite new to us. Underneath the
name of the preparation was written “Cure for Gout.”
This looked interesting, so we examined the other bottles and
discovered that the hundred and forty-four bottles contained a
hundred and forty-four preparations—all guaranteed different—which
“cured” a hundred and forty-four diseases!
But the odd thing about it was, we had never before heard of any of
the drugs, nor did we know half the diseases which these wonderful
drugs cured. There was one bottle to cure “humours” of the face.
What on earth are they?
We cannot rise to this. But there is a drawer underneath. Let us
open it and see what it contains. More bottles! Bigger ones this time.
One, we see, contains tincture of arnica—guaranteed to remove all
effects of “injuries, bruises, and inflammations.” This is coming it too
strong! We know tincture of arnica, and we know that some people
have an idea that it does something or other to relieve bruises—an
idea which we do not share. But to say it removes all effects of
injuries, bruises (we should have thought that these might have
been included under the former term), and inflammations—well, we
live and learn.
There were five other bottles in this drawer. And then there was a
pair of scissors. What can they be for? But then we found a roll of
sticking plaster, and the mystery was cleared up at once. This is
intended for the surgical part of the box. Fancy a surgery containing
six bottles, a pair of scissors, and a roll of plaster!
And quite enough too, if one of the bottles contains a balm which
will remove all effects of injuries and inflammations. But then what is
the good of the other five bottles, the pair of scissors and the
plaster?
“What do you think of my box?” asked the chemist when we had
finished our exploration. “How much do you think that cost?”
“Dear me, man, you don’t mean to say you bought that?”
“No,” he replied, “I didn’t. It was sent to me as an advertisement.
They are selling them at £5 5s. a-piece, and they asked me to take a
dozen and try to dispose of them. What would you do if you were in
my place?”
“Well,” we replied, “we would empty the bottles, clean them, and
use them for better purposes, as they may be required, and the box
you might give to your daughter as a workbox.”
But another person standing near was not disposed to think so
lightly of the matter, and told the chemist that he ought to telegraph
at once to the people who had had the impertinence to send a
respectable chemist such a concern, saying, “If you do not remove
your rubbish within twenty-four hours, I’ll sue you for warehouse
room.”
These homœopathic cases are very popular, and many persons buy
them thinking that they can do what they pretend to do. We cannot
warn you too strongly against purchasing these things. Avoid them
as you would poison. No, we do not mean to be taken literally. There
are no poisons in these chests. We have a law which prevents the
indiscriminate sale of poison.
Now let us describe our medicine chest. Oh, let us see what we want
it for before we fit it up.
You do not want a medicine chest to contain everything you may
require. You want it to contain everything that is absolutely
necessary for emergencies. There are practically three classes of
emergencies—injuries, acute poisoning, and acute disease.
The surgical part of the box is far more important than the medical
part. Let us talk about injuries first. Bleeding requires instantaneous
treatment. If a person wounds a big vessel, she may bleed to death
in half a minute or less. So you must act at once if you wish to be of
any value.
You can stop bleeding of any kind instantly by pressure. Never forget
this. Never go running about to look for a tourniquet or what not
when a great vessel has been cut. Press on the bleeding place. Press
at once. You do not want very much force to compress an artery;
but the force must be continuous. When you have stopped the flow
of blood, then think of sending for assistance. When a person is
bleeding from a deep wound, press the lips of the wound together.
Not the edges only—this is no good. Press the complete thickness of
the lips of the wound together. If you cannot do this, stuff your
handkerchief into the wound and press on that.
A not uncommon cause of bleeding to death is rupture of a varicose
vein. Hundreds of thousands of women have varicose veins, but in
very few do the veins rupture. Still, if a vein does get torn and the
patient does not know what to do, her life will be lost while seeking
assistance.
If you have a varicose vein, it will almost for certain be in the leg,
and if it bursts, you will feel the hot stream of blood and rapidly
become faint. When this occurs, lie down on the floor and elevate
the leg as high as you can. This alone may stop the bleeding. If it
does not, press your finger on the spot, and then send or call out for
assistance. The slightest pressure will stop bleeding from a vein.
In these cases of serious bleeding, send for a surgeon as soon as
you have applied pressure. In all probability the vessel will have to
be tied. But if the nearest surgeon is two or three hundred miles
away, keep up the pressure and get someone else to put on a
bandage pressing very tightly upon a pad, which in its turn presses
upon the bleeding vessel.
In the case of a varicose vein or a small artery, this treatment will
probably prove successful.
Whenever you cut yourself, the raw surface bleeds more or less. You
can stop this kind of bleeding either by pressure, or by hot water.
There is never anything to be alarmed at when blood oozes out from
a wound, even though a considerable quantity of blood be lost. As
long as there are not jets of blood, there is little danger in bleeding.
Pressure will soon stop this form of bleeding.
That will do for the first and most important of all emergencies.
What have we to put in our box for this purpose? Nothing at all. All
we require is a hand and presence of mind.
Now about the treatment of wounds. First stop the bleeding, if this
is severe. Then wash your own hands. Wash them well. Plenty of
soap and hot water. Good hard work with the nail brush. Your hands
should be absolutely clean before you meddle with a wound.
Now you will want some antiseptic. The best of all is carbolic acid.
Mind you, this is poison. But if you are careful, and label the bottle
and lock it up in your box, there is little danger in your possessing it.
Your bottle of carbolic acid should be a good big one holding ten
ounces at least. It should contain a solution of carbolic acid in
distilled water of the strength of one part of pure crystallised phenol
to twenty parts of water. It must be kept in a glass-stoppered bottle,
which must be labelled—
“Carbolic Acid.
1 in 20.
 POISON.”
When used for washing wounds dilute this fluid with four times its
volume of warm boiled water. Having washed your own hands,
thoroughly wash first with soap and warm water, and then with the
carbolic solution, the skin round the wound of your patient. Do not
be content with washing merely the immediate neighbourhood of
the wound, but wash well round it in every direction.
Now to treat the wound itself. Take a perfectly clean basin and rinse
it out with boiling water. Into this put your carbolic solution diluted
with warm water to the strength of 1 in 80. Have plenty of the
solution ready. Now wash the wound in the antiseptic. For this
purpose you will require a small glass syringe and some pellets of
perfectly clean absorbent cotton wool.
The wound must be absolutely clean—not a minute speck of dirt
may be left in it. When you have washed the wound absolutely
clean, take a small square of clean lint, wring it out in the solution of
carbolic acid, and cover the wound with it while you take out the
materials with which you are going to dress the wound.
You must not touch the table or the chair, and you must not touch
your handkerchief or anything else, while you are dressing a wound.
Microbes lurk everywhere except in the carbolic acid, and in the
dressings, if they are clean. And if you are careful, you can prevent
any germs from getting into the wound; and this is the most
important thing in surgery. Do not let the dressings touch the table.
Deposit them carefully on a clean towel, which you have previously
wrung out with the carbolic solution, and laid upon the table.
Of course the dressing you use must vary a little with the nature of
the wound you are treating. If the wound is sharp cut or is perfectly
clean and not ragged, dust it over thickly with powdered boracic
acid. Then cover it with a small piece of absorbent gauze—the blue
“sal alembroth” gauze is the best. Swathe thickly in cotton wool and
put on a clean bandage.
There is no need to again dress the wound, unless it becomes hot
and painful. If you have got the wound absolutely clean, when the
dressings have been on for a few days, it will have completely
healed without discharging more than a few drops of fluid. If,
however, the wound smarts, it must be dressed again, and possibly
every other day. It should be dressed in the same way as it was in
the first instance.
When the wound is very jagged, or impossible to get thoroughly
clean, it is best to put on fomentations for the first day or two.
Fomentations have taken the place of poultices in modern surgery.
Never put a poultice of any kind near an open wound. All your care
and cleanliness will go for nothing if you do.
To make fomentations take a square of lint and fold it twice. Then
wring it out in boiling carbolic solution (1 in 80) and apply it as hot
as it can be borne. Cover it with a square of oiled silk, put on a thick
layer of wool, and bandage. Fomentations should be renewed three
or four times a day.
When treating a wound, never use sticking-plaster except to keep on
a dressing. Sticking-plaster must never be placed on a wound, and
above all it must not cover the wound. If it does so, it will keep the
discharge locked up under it. The discharge will decompose, and a
very serious state of affairs may intervene. Free drainage is essential
in all wounds, and if this is interfered with, the wounds will go
wrong.
What have we to put in our box for the treatment of wounds? The
following—
Carbolic acid solution, powdered boracic acid, sal alembroth gauze,
surgeon’s lint, absorbent cotton wool, oiled silk, bandages, pair of
scissors, syringe (glass).
Burns are common accidents, and though they do not call for such
rapid treatment as do wounds, nevertheless, it is always advisable to
see to them at once.
The pain of burns and scalds is often very severe, especially when
the flesh is not deeply burnt. You can relieve the pain by the
application of sweet oil, or by an emulsion of sweet oil and lime
water, sometimes called carron oil. The latter is better, but the
former can be obtained in any household, so it is not worth while
filling up your box with the emulsion.
After a burn, if the skin has not been destroyed, a blister will form.
This blister can be left alone, pricked, or removed entirely. If you are
not certain of cleanliness or you do not possess antiseptics, never
open a blister. If you leave it, the liquid will become absorbed and
the cuticle will flake away.
You are usually told to prick blisters as soon as they are fully formed.
This treatment we cannot countenance. If you are sure of
cleanliness, and the needle you use is absolutely sterile (i.e., free
from germs), and if, moreover, your after-treatment is properly
carried out, then there is no danger in pricking a blister. But no
amateur ever is certain of perfect cleanliness. And we fail to see the
advantage of pricking the blister after all.
Suppose the needle you use is dirty, just see what a state of things
may occur. Your needle is dirty—it is swarming with germs. You prick
the blister with it—that is, you introduce into a cavity filled with
warm solution of albumen the organisms of putrefaction. This is just
what the microbes like, and they will rapidly render the contents of
the blister putrid. And now neither the microbes nor the matter can
escape, for the prick has long ago become obliterated. Nor can you
apply anything to kill these germs or promote healing.
The third way to treat a blister is to cut away the whole of the
cuticle confining it. This is dead skin, and so removing it causes no
harm. You can now apply an antiseptic ointment to the raw surface.
The best is an ointment of boracic acid, oil of eucalyptus and
vaseline.
Oh, but when you cut open the blister, do you not let the germs in?
Yes, you do, unless you have been scrupulously careful that
everything you used was perfectly clean. But even if you have
introduced germs, it is not so very serious here, for you apply the
ointment directly to the raw surface. So now the microbes get the
worst of it. There is nothing for them to eat; there is nothing
preventing them from getting away; and there is a (to them)
poisonous ointment applied directly to them.
We said everything you use must be clean. We must therefore tell
you how to sterilise needles, scissors, etc. You are usually told to
sterilise instruments by passing them through a flame. Now this has
many disadvantages. In the first place, merely passing a knife
through a flame does not even warm it. Then, if you leave it in the
flame long enough, you spoil its temper and make it dirty with soot.
By far the best way to sterilise instruments is to boil them. Sterilise
your needles, etc., by boiling them in solution of carbolic acid in a
test-tube.
To treat burns, what must we add to our chest? Boracic acid
ointment, that is all.
Now for fractures. If you are taking a drive with a friend, and the
horse bolts, and you are both thrown out, but you escape uninjured,
while your friend breaks her arm or leg, what are you going to do?
You are going to “set” the fracture, are you? Oh, no, you are not!
Not if your friend has her wits about her. Have you ever set a
fracture before? Have you ever seen a fracture set? Do you know
anything about setting a fracture? Of course you do not. You would
find that setting a fracture was not the simple thing you think it is.
But wait a minute, we are not yet satisfied that the leg is broken.
How do you know that her leg is fractured? If you see the bone
protruding, or an angle or lump anywhere between the joints, or if
your friend cannot move her leg, or if she can move the upper half
but not the lower half, or if she thinks that her leg is broken because
she heard a snap, or for other reasons, you may be pretty certain
that the leg is broken. You cannot tell for certain, and you must not
try to make certain. If you attempt to prove that her bone is broken,
you may convert a simple into a compound fracture—a trivial into an
extremely serious condition.
But you must do something. Here you are, out on a road, five miles
from anywhere, with a friend lying in the road with a broken leg.
What are you to do? Splint the leg. For a splint you may use an
umbrella, a walking-stick, a branch of a tree, a newspaper
strengthened with twigs, or anything that is handy. Place the splint
against the limb, and with your own and your friend’s handkerchiefs
tie the splint to the leg. Tie it with the handkerchiefs a long way
above and below the broken place. Then place your friend on the
floor of the conveyance and drive slowly home or to the nearest
surgeon.
Upon this emergency-splinting a very great surgeon—let us call him
Sir William Sawyer—tells an amusing story. He was walking along a
country road, and came across a cart overturned, with one wheel
broken, in the middle of the road. A man was lying near the cart. On
approaching him the surgeon saw that his thigh was broken. He
immediately turned out his pockets and found two old newspapers.
Between these two papers he “sandwiched” a good number of twigs,
and then wrapped the whole concern about the thigh of the injured
man.
When he had done this, he became aware of the presence of a
second man, apparently uninjured, staring at him. He therefore bade
him go to the nearest village and fetch a surgeon.
When he got to the village, he went to the nearest medical man and
asked him to come quickly, for “an old idiot was stuffing his mate
with newspapers.” What was the medical man’s surprise to see that
the “old idiot” was Sir William Sawyer!
(To be continued.)
 “OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR
NINETY YEARS AGO.
By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and
Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY.

HE month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly
again in London—not this time for the enjoyment
of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after many
months of gradual failure, had passed away in an
acute attack of bronchitis, and Mrs. Bryce
immediately offered a home to the two girls until,
at least, it might be possible to know the wishes of
Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Though Mr. Bryce, as
usual, only had to assent to his wife’s proposition,
he did so with a heartiness not always shown
towards every wish of hers.
So the Bath house with its quaint furniture was let, and in the end of
March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two
girls found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce’s
hospitable roof, in their luxurious town mansion.
A double bedroom, opening into a dainty small sitting-room or
boudoir, was assigned to them, and here they loved to pass much of
their time. Mrs. Bryce was now, of course, in a full swing of
engagements; and she would greatly have liked to drag Polly with
her wherever she went, despite the recent death of Polly’s
grandmother, but for Polly’s resolute resistance.
“Well, well, well, my dear—all in good time,” Mrs. Bryce had said,
after some discussion. “To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close
related, and there’s no doubt your feelings does you credit; but I can
assure you, ’tis time you was settled in life with a husband of your
own, and a mènage, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And
as for Captain Ivor, I protest I’ve no sort of patience with the man.
Why, ’tis eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us
of Captain Ivor and his doings; and by this time there’s no sort of
question that he’s forgot all about you, and found himself a wife,
and belike he’s been married this year and more past. So ’tis good
time you too should forget all about him.”
Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the
drawing-room fire, dressed in white muslin, with black sash and
ribbons. In the first decade of the nineteenth century white muslin
was counted to be the correct attire for a girl, morning, noon and
evening, summer and winter, no matter what the weather might be.
Polly looked rather blue and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders,
the latter covered but lightly with a thin black scarf.
She was as pretty as ever, but her colouring was less brilliant than of
old, while the sweet eyes contained a touch of sadness. Molly,
dressed to match, though with a good deal more of white and less
of black, was busily reading to herself on the other side of the
fireplace.
It was a cold April afternoon, five o’clock dinner being over. Mr. and
Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr.
Bryce—poor man!—would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at
home with the girls to the most brilliant assemblage of rank and
fashion; but his relentless wife dragged him in her wake—an
unwilling and helpless victim—to dinner-parties, balls, crushes, routs,
innumerable.
“Molly, the Admiral is at home again. ’Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs.
Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day, and she is vexed, for it makes him
roar like a wild beast. And though ’tis doubtless true, as the faculty
say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no
means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled
about Will, for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago,
never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!”
Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of
Polly’s speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she
stepped across, kissed Polly’s brow tenderly, and went back to her
seat.
“What is it that you are reading, Molly?”
“The Edinburgh Review for this month—an article on ‘Marmion.’ And,
Polly—would you think it?—the editor has no appreciation for our
great poet’s genius! No, none whatever. He writes—he writes as if
Mr. Scott were but a common man like any other scribbler, and not
the mighty world-wide genius that he is.”
“Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The
two are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And
what may he see to find fault with?”
“What, indeed?” echoed eager Molly. “Do but hear what rubbish the
worthy man sees fit to write! ‘A good deal longer’ than the last
poem. ‘More ambitious,’ ‘greater faults’ and ‘greater beauties,’ ‘less
sweetness,’ ‘more vehemence,’ and ‘redundancy.’ ‘Unequal and
energetic,’ ‘a general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked by
timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of
taste or elegance of fancy.’
“Oh!” gasped Molly. “And now listen again—
“‘But though we think this last romance of Mr. Scott’s about as good
as the former, and allow that it affords great indications of poetical
talent, we must remind our readers that we never entertained much
partiality for this sort of composition, and ventured on a former
occasion to regret that an author endowed with such talents should
consume them in imitations of obsolete extravagance.... His genius,
seconded by the omnipotence of fashion, has brought chivalry again
into temporary favour. Fine ladies and gentlemen now talk indeed of
donjons, keeps, tabards, scutcheons, tressures, caps of
maintenance, portcullises, wimples, and we know not what besides;
just as they did in the days of Dr. Darwin’s popularity of gnomes,
sylphs, oxygen, gossamer, polygynia, and polyandria. That fashion,
however, passed rapidly away; and Mr. Scott should take care that a
different sort of pedantry does not produce the same effects.’”
“Oh!” once more cried indignant Molly, never imagining that the
reviewer might perchance see with keener insight than the populace
of the day, or that his judgment might be in certain respects
endorsed by a later generation. “And then all fault-finding—scarce
any sort of praise. Does Mr. Scott deserve such treatment? To think
that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice—can so traduce the
most eminent poet that ever has lived! There have been other poets,
’tis true, but none, sure, to compare with the author of ‘Marmion.’
Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays of Mr.
Shakespeare’s which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with the
writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to look at the Edinburgh
Review again!” Molly flung the number to the ground.
“Dr. Darwin—who died in 1802, and whose ‘Life’ was writ by Miss
Anna Seward,” murmured Polly, less stirred than Molly, though she,
too, ranked among the great admirers of Scott’s poetry.
“A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron.”
The butler’s solemn voice came as a surprise. They had not heard
the door open.
Polly and Molly exchanged glances.
“His name, Drake?” the former asked.
“The young man declines to give his name, Miss.”
“But what does he want to see me for?”
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