Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1000, February 25, 1899
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1000, February 25, 1899" ***


PRESENTED WITH THE 1000th NUMBER OF THE “GIRL’S OWN PAPER.”

[Illustration: A SACRIFICE OF VANITIES.

_From the Painting in the Royal Academy by Margaret Dicksee._

“The next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their
own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats
for Dick and Bill.”

ORFORD SMITH, LTD., ST. ALBANS.]



    PORTRAIT
        GALLERY
          OF
    CONTRIBUTORS
          TO
      THE
    GIRL’S OWN
      PAPER.

    [Illustration]

       PRESENTED
          TO
      OUR READERS
    _WITH THE ISSUE_
         OF THE
    =1000=^{TH}
        =NUMBER.=

    [Illustration]

    GIRL’S OWN PAPER, LONDON.


[Illustration: H.R.H. THE PRINCESS BEATRICE.

_Photo by Hughes & Mullins, Isle of Wight._]

[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF ABERDEEN.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: SIR ROBERT BALL, F.R.S.

_Photo by Mayall & Co., Piccadilly._]

[Illustration: THE REV. C. P. BANKS, M.A.]

[Illustration: MARGARET BATESON.]

[Illustration: ANNE BEALE.]

[Illustration: ADELINE, DUCHESS OF BEDFORD.]

[Illustration: FRANK BRAMLEY.

_Photo by G. Allen Robinson, Hawick, N.B._]

[Illustration: EMMA BREWER.]

[Illustration: H. W. BREWER.]

[Illustration: ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.]

[Illustration: GORDON BROWNE.]

[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.]

[Illustration: HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: THE HON MRS. ROBERT BUTLER.]

[Illustration: ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.]

[Illustration: S. F. A. CAULFEILD.]

[Illustration: MARY CLIFFORD.]

[Illustration: LINA ORMAN COOPER.]

[Illustration: MAY CROMMELIN.]

[Illustration: W. H. CUMMINGS.

_Photo by Russell & Sons, Baker Street._]

[Illustration: FRANK DADD.]

[Illustration: MARY DAVIES.

_Photo by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: ELIZABETH A. S. DAWES, M.A., D.LIT.]

[Illustration: DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.]

[Illustration: ELEONORA D’ESTERRE-KEELING.

_Photo by Russell & Sons._]

[Illustration: ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING.

_Photo by Russell & Co._]

[Illustration: FRANK DICKSEE.

_Photo by H. S. Mendelssohn._]

[Illustration: MARGARET DICKSEE.]

[Illustration: SARAH DOUDNEY.]

[Illustration: THE LADY DUNBOYNE.]

[Illustration: M. ELLEN EDWARDS.]

[Illustration: MELTON FISHER.]

[Illustration: THE REV. CANON FLEMING, B.D.]

[Illustration: BIRKET FOSTER.

_Photo by C. E. Fry & Sons._]

[Illustration: MYLES BIRKET FOSTER.]

[Illustration: AGNES GIBERNE.

_Photo by Russell & Co._]

[Illustration: ARNOLD GREEN.]

[Illustration: KATE GREENAWAY.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: EDVARD GRIEG.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: SYDNEY C. GRIER.]

[Illustration: REV. E. J. HARDY, M.A., Author of “How to be Happy
though Married.”

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: BEATRICE HARRADEN.

_Photo by Midgley Asquith, Harrogate._]

[Illustration: ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK.]

[Illustration: NATALIE JANOTHA.

_Photo by Stereoscopic Co._]

[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY.]

[Illustration: THE REV. AUGUSTUS JESSOPP, D.D.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: MRS. JOPLING.

_Photo by W. Dane, Harrogate._]

[Illustration: DAVIDSON KNOWLES.]

[Illustration: RUTH LAMB.]

[Illustration: THE REV. FRED. LANGBRIDGE, M.A.]

[Illustration: “LA PETITE.”]

[Illustration: LIZA LEHMANN.

_Photo by Alice Hughes._]

[Illustration: IDA LEMON.]

[Illustration: THE LADY WILLIAM LENNOX.]

[Illustration: LAWRENCE LISTON, M.D.]

[Illustration: NORMA LORIMER.

_Photo by Bassano._]

[Illustration: THE MARQUESS OF LORNE.

_Photo by H. S. Mendelssohn._]

[Illustration: JAMES MACAULAY, M.D.]

[Illustration: HAMISH MACCUNN.]

[Illustration: MARGUERITE MACINTYRE.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: CLARA ANGELA MACIRONE.]

[Illustration: SIR ALEXANDER MACKENZIE, MUS. D.]

[Illustration: MRS. HENRY MANSERGH.]

[Illustration: CLOTILDA MARSON.]

[Illustration: SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS. DOC.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: JAMES MASON.]

[Illustration: ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.]

[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF MEATH.]

[Illustration: W. A. MENZIES.]

[Illustration: FRED MILLER.]

[Illustration: MRS. MOLESWORTH.]

[Illustration: E. NESBIT.]

[Illustration: JEAN A. OWEN.]

[Illustration: EDWARD OXENFORD.

_Photo by Hailey, St. John’s Wood._]

[Illustration: GERTRUDE PAGE.]

[Illustration: ESTHER PALLISER.

_Photo by Walery._]

[Illustration: SIR C. HUBERT H. PARRY.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry, Baker St., W._]

[Illustration: ANNIE PATTERSON, B.A., MUS. DOC.]

[Illustration: ALFRED PEARSE.

_Photo by Porter Brothers, Hampstead._]

[Illustration: CHARLES PETERS.

_Editor._]

[Illustration: THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.]

[Illustration: HENRY RYLAND.]

[Illustration: MARY AUGUSTA SALMOND.]

[Illustration: FLORENCE A. SALTMER.]

[Illustration: JAMES SANT, R.A.

_Photo by Window & Grove._]

[Illustration: THE REV. W. T. SAWARD, B.A.]

[Illustration: A. T. SCHOFIELD, M.D.]

[Illustration: GORDON STABLES, M.D.]

[Illustration: SIR JOHN STAINER, MUS. D.

_Photo by Hill & Saunder, Oxford._]

[Illustration: PROFESSOR VILLIERS STANFORD, MUS. DOC.

_Photo by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: ANTOINETTE STIRLING.

_Photo by Walery, Baker Street._]

[Illustration: JOHN THOMAS, HARPIST TO THE QUEEN.

_Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: EGLANTON THORNE.]

[Illustration: SARAH TYTLER.]

[Illustration: THE LADY GEORGINA VERNON.]

[Illustration: MRS. L. B. WALFORD.]

[Illustration: MARCELLA WALKER.]

[Illustration: LILY WATSON.]

[Illustration: F. E. WEATHERLY.]

[Illustration: MAUD VALÉRIE WHITE.

_Photo by Alice Hughes._]

[Illustration: EDWARD WHYMPER.]

[Illustration: MISS ANNA WILLIAMS.

_Photo by G. Hadley & Son, Lincoln._]

[Illustration: W. L. WYLLIE, A.R.A.]

[Illustration: MARK ZANGWILL.]



[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1000.]      FEBRUARY 25, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]



ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.

[Illustration: “‘BUT OH, HAVE YOU GOT ANY BOOT POLISH?’”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER XXI.

Dinner was served unusually early that evening, and was an embarrassing
ordeal from which Peggy was thankful to escape. On her way upstairs,
however, Rosalind called her back with an eager petition.

“Oh, Peggy! would you mind awwanging some flowers? A big hamper has
just awwived from town, and the servants are all so dweadfully busy.
I must get dwessed in time to help mother to weceive, but it wouldn’t
matter if you were a few minutes late. Thanks so much! Awfully obliged.”

She gave her thanks before an assent had been spoken, and tripped
smilingly away, while Peggy went back to the big room to find a
great tray full of hothouse treasures waiting to be arranged, and no
availing vases in which to place them. The flowers, however, were so
beautiful, and the fronds of maidenhair so green and graceful, that
the work was a pleasure; she enjoyed discovering unlikely places in
which to group them, and lingered so long over her arrangements that
the sudden striking of the clock sent her flying upstairs in a panic of
consternation. Another quarter of an hour and the Vicarage party would
arrive, for they had been bidden a little in advance of the rest, so
that Robert might help his mother and sister in receiving their guests.
Peggy tore off dress and apron, and made all the speed she could, but
she was still standing in dressing-jacket and frilled white petticoat,
brushing out her long waves of hair when the door opened and Esther and
Mellicent entered. They had begged to be shown to Miss Saville’s room
and came rustling in, smiling and beaming, with woollen caps over their
heads, snow shoes on their feet, and big fleecy shawls swathed round
and round their figures, fastened with a hairpin on the left shoulder,
in secure and elegant fashion. Peggy stood brush in hand, staring at
them and shaking with laughter.

“Ho! ho! ho! I hope you are warm enough! Esther looks like a sausage,
and Mellicent looks like a dumpling. Come here, and I’ll unwind you.
You look as if you could not move an inch, hand or foot.”

“It was mother,” Mellicent explained. “She was so afraid we would catch
cold. Oh, Peggy, you are not half dressed. You will be late! Whatever
have you been doing? Have you had a nice day? Did you enjoy it? What
did you have for dinner?”

Peggy waved her brush towards the door in dramatic warning.

“Rosalind’s room!” she whispered. “Don’t yell, my love, unless you wish
every word to be overheard. This is her dressing-room which she lent to
me for the occasion, so there’s only a door between us.—There, now, you
are free. Oh, dear me, how you have squashed your sash! You really must
remember to lift it up when you sit down. You had better stand with
your back to the fire to take out the creases.”

Mellicent’s face clouded for a moment but brightened again as she
caught sight of her reflection in the swing glass. Crumples or no
crumples, there was no denying that blue was a becoming colour. The
plump, rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction, and the flaxen head was
twisted to and fro to survey herself in every possible position.

“Is my hair right at the back? How does the bow look? I haven’t burst,
have I? I thought I heard something crack in the cab. Do you think I
will do?”

“Put on your slippers and I’ll tell you. Anyone would look a fright in
evening dress and snow shoes.”

Peggy’s answer was given with a severity which sent Mellicent waddling
across the room to turn out the contents of the bag which lay on the
couch, but the next moment came a squeal of consternation, and there
she stood in the attitude of a tragedy queen, with staring eyes, parted
lips, and two shabby black slippers grasped in either hand.

“M—m—m—my old ones!” she gasped in horror-stricken accents.
“B—b—b—brought them by mistake!” It was some moments before her
companions fully grasped the situation, for the new slippers had been
black too, and of much the same make as those now exhibited. Mrs.
Asplin had had many yearnings over white shoes and stockings, all
silk and satin, and tinkling diamond buckles like those which had been
displayed in Peggy’s dress-box. Why should not her darlings have dainty
possessions like other girls? It went to her heart to think what an
improvement these two articles would make in the simple costumes, then
she remembered her husband’s delicate health, his exhaustion at the
end of the day, and the painful effort with which he nerved himself to
fresh exertions, and felt a bigger pang at the thought of wasting money
so hardly earned. As her custom was on such occasions she put the whole
matter before the girls, talking to them as friends, and asking their
help in her decision.

“You see, darlings,” she said, “I want to do my very best for you, and
if it would be a real disappointment not to have these things, I’ll
manage it somehow, for once in a way. But it’s a question whether you
would have another chance of wearing them, and it seems a great deal of
money to spend for just one evening, when poor dear father——”

“Oh, mother, no, don’t think of it! Black ones will do perfectly well.
What can it matter what sort of shoes and stockings we wear? It won’t
make the least difference in our enjoyment,” said Esther the sensible,
but Mellicent was by no means of this opinion.

“I don’t know about that! I love white legs!” she sighed dolefully.
“All my life long it has been my ambition to have white legs. Silk
ones with little bits of lace let in down the front, like Peggy’s.
They’re so beautiful! It doesn’t seem a bit like a party to wear black
stockings, only of course I know I must, for I’d hate to waste father’s
money. When I grow up I shall marry a rich man and have everything I
want. It’s disgusting to be poor. Will they be nice black slippers,
mother, with buckles on them?”

“Yes, dearie. Beauties! Great big buckles!” said Mrs. Asplin lovingly,
and a few days later a box had come down from London, and the slippers
had been chosen out of a selection of “leading novelties”; worn with
care and reverence the previous evening “to take off the stiffness,”
and then after all—oh, the awfulness of it!—had been replaced by an old
pair in the bustle of departure.

The three girls stared at one another in consternation. Here was a
catastrophe to happen just at the last moment, when everyone was so
happy and well satisfied! The dismay on the chubby face was so pitiful
that neither of Mellicent’s companions could find it in her heart to
speak a word of reproof. They rather set to work to propose different
ways out of the difficulty.

“Get hold of Max, and coax him to go back for them!”

“He wouldn’t, it’s no use. It’s raining like anything, and it would
take him an hour to go there and come back.”

“Ask Lady Darcy to send one of the servants——”

“No use, my dear. They are scampering up and down like mice, and
haven’t a moment to spare from their own work.”

“See if Rosalind would lend me a pair!”

“Silly goose! Look at your foot. It is three times the size of hers.
You will just have to wear them, I’m afraid. Give them to me and let me
see what can be done.” Peggy took the slippers in her hands and studied
them critically. They were certainly not new, but then they were by no
means old; just respectable, middle-aged creatures, slightly rubbed on
the heel and white at the toes, but with many a day of good hard wear
still before them.

“Oh, come,” she said reassuringly, “they are not so bad, Mellicent!
With a little polish they would look quite presentable. I’ll tap at the
door and ask Rosalind if she has some that she can lend us. She is sure
to have it. There are about fifty thousand bottles on her table.”

Peggy crossed the room as she spoke, tapped on the panel and received
an immediate answer in a high complacent treble.

“Coming! Coming! I’m weady.” Then the door flew open; a tiny pink silk
shoe stepped daintily over the mat, and Rosalind stood before them
in all the glory of a new Parisian dress. Three separate gasps of
admiration greeted her appearance, and she stood smiling and dimpling
while the girls took in the fascinating details—the satin frock of
palest imaginable pink, the white chiffon over dress which fell from
shoulder to hem in graceful freedom, sprinkled over with exquisite
rose-leaves—it was all wonderful—fantastic—as far removed from Peggy’s
muslin as from the homely crepon of the Vicar’s daughters.

“Rosalind! what a perfect _angel_ you look!” gasped Mellicent, her
own dilemma forgotten in her whole-hearted admiration, but the next
moment memory came back and her expression changed to one of pitiful
appeal. “But oh, have you got any boot polish? The most awful thing has
happened. I’ve brought my old shoes by mistake! Look! I don’t know what
on earth I shall do if you can’t give me something to black the toes.”
She held out the shoes as she spoke, and Rosalind gave a shrill scream
of laughter.

“Oh! oh! Those things! How fwightfully funny; what a fwightful joke!
You will look like Cinderwella, when she wan away and the glass
slippers changed back to her dweadful old clogs. It is too scweamingly
funny, I do declare!”

“Oh, never mind what you declare! Can you lend us some boot polish,
that’s the question!” cried Peggy sharply. She knew Mellicent’s horror
of ridicule, and felt indignant with the girl who could stand by secure
in her own beauty and elegance, and have no sympathy for the misfortune
of a friend. “If you have a bottle of Peerless Gloss or any of those
shiny things with a sponge fastened on the cork, I can make them look
quite respectable, and no one will have any cause to laugh.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” trilled Rosalind once more, “Peggy is cwoss! I never
knew such a girl for flying into tantwums at a moment’s notice! Yes,
of course, I’ll lend you the polish. There is some in this little
cupboard—there! I won’t touch it in case it soils my gloves. Shall I
call Marie to put it on for you?”

“Thank you; there’s no need—I can do it! I would rather do it myself!”

“Oh—oh, isn’t she cwoss! You will bweak the cork if you scwew it about
like that, and then you’ll never be able to get it out. Why don’t you
pull it pwoperly?”

“I know how to pull out a cork, thank you; I’ve done it before!”

Peggy shot an angry glance at her hostess, and set to work again with
doubled energy. Now that Rosalind had laughed at her inability, it
would be misery to fail; but the bottle had evidently lain aside for
some time, and a stiff black crust had formed round the cork which
made it difficult to move. Peggy pulled and tugged, while Rosalind
stood watching, laughing her aggravating, patronising little laugh,
and dropping a word of instruction from time to time. And then,
quite suddenly, a dreadful thing happened. In the flash of an eye—so
quickly and unexpectedly, that, looking back upon it, it seemed like a
nightmare which could not possibly have taken place in real life—the
cork jerked out in Peggy’s hand, in response to a savage tug, and with
it out flew an inky jet, which rose straight up in the air, separated
into a multitude of tiny drops and descended in a flood—oh, the horror
of that moment!—over Rosalind’s face, neck and dress.

One moment a fairy princess, a goddess of summer, the next a figure
of fun with black spots scattered thickly over cheeks and nose, a big
splash on the white shoulder, and inky daubs dotted here and there
between the rose leaves. What a transformation! What a spectacle of
horror! Peggy stood transfixed; Mellicent screamed in terror, and
Esther ran forward, handkerchief in hand, only to be waved aside with
angry vehemence. Rosalind’s face was convulsed with anger; she stamped
her foot and spoke at the pitch of her voice, as if she had no control
over her feelings.

“Oh, oh, oh! You wicked girl; you hateful, detestable girl! You did it
on purpose because you were in a temper! You have been in a temper all
the afternoon! You have spoiled my dress! I was ready to go downstairs.
It is eight o’clock. In a few minutes everyone will all be here, and
oh, what shall I do—what shall I do! Whatever will mother say when she
sees me?”

As if to give a practical answer to this inquiry, there came a sound
of hasty footsteps in the corridor, the door flew open, and Lady Darcy
rushed in, followed by the French maid.

“My darling, what is it? I heard your voice. Has something happened?
Oh-h!” She stopped short, paralysed with consternation, while the
maid wrung her hands in despair. “Rosalind, what _have_ you done to
yourself?”

“Nothing, nothing! It was Peggy Saville; she splashed me with her
horrid boot-polish—I gave it to her for her shoes. It is on my face,
my neck, in my mouth——”

“I was pulling the cork. It came out with a jerk. I didn’t know; I
didn’t see!”

Lady Darcy’s face stiffened with an expression of icy displeasure.

“It is too annoying! Your dress spoiled at the last moment! Inexcusable
carelessness! What is to be done, Marie? I am in despair!”

The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with an indignant glance in
Peggy’s direction.

“There is nothing to do. Put on another dress, that is all.
Mademoiselle must change as quick as she can. If I sponge the spots, I
spoil the whole thing at once.”

“But you could cut them out, couldn’t you?” cried Peggy, the picture of
woe, yet miserably eager to make what amends she could. “You could cut
out the spots with sharp scissors, and the holes would not show, for
the chiffon is so full and loose. I—I think I could do it, if you would
let me try!”

Mistress and maid exchanged a sharp, mutual glance, and the Frenchwoman
nodded slowly.

“Yes, it is true; I could rearrange the folds. It will take some time,
but still, it can be done. It is the best plan.”

“Go then, Rosalind, go with Marie; there is not a moment to spare, and
for pity’s sake, don’t cry! Your eyes will be red, and at any moment
now the people may begin to arrive. I wanted you to be with me to
receive your guests. It will be most awkward being without you, but
there is no help for it, I suppose. The whole thing is too annoying for
words!”

Lady Darcy swept out of the room, and the three girls were once more
left alone, but how changed were their feelings in those few short
moments! There was not the shadow of a smile between them; they
looked more as if they were about to attend a funeral than a scene
of festivity, and for several moments no one had the heart to speak.
Peggy still held the fatal cork in her hand, and went through the
work of polishing Mellicent’s slippers with an air of the profoundest
dejection. When they were finished she handed them over in dreary
silence, and was recommencing the brushing of her hair, when something
in the expression of the chubby face arrested her attention. Her eyes
flashed; she faced round with a frown and a quick “Well, what is it?
What are you thinking now?”

“I—I wondered,” whispered Mellicent breathlessly, “if you did it on
purpose! Did you _mean_ to spoil her dress and make her change it?”

Peggy’s hands dropped to her side, her back straightened until she
stood stiff and straight as a poker. Every atom of expression seemed to
die out of her face. Her voice had a deadly quiet in its intonation.

“What do you think about it yourself?”

“I—I thought perhaps you did! She teased you, and you were so cross.
You seemed to be standing so very near her, and you are jealous of
her—and she looked so lovely! I thought perhaps you did....”

“Mellicent Asplin,” said Peggy quietly, and her voice was like the keen
east wind that blows from the icy-covered mountains, “Mellicent Asplin,
my name is Saville, and in my family we don’t condescend to mean and
dishonourable tricks. I may not like Rosalind, but I would have given
all I have in the world sooner than this should have happened. I was
trying to do you a service, but you forget that. You forget many
things! I have been jealous of Rosalind, because when she arrived, you
and your sister forgot that I was alone and far away from everyone
belonging to me, and were so much engrossed with her that you left
me alone to amuse myself as best I might. You were pleased enough to
have me when no one else was there, but you left me the moment someone
appeared who was richer and grander than I. I wouldn’t have treated
_you_ like that if our positions had been reversed. If I dislike
Rosalind, it is your fault as much as hers; more than hers, for it was
you who made me dread her coming!”

Peggy stopped, trembling and breathless. There was a moment’s silence
in the room, and then Esther spoke in a slow, meditative fashion.

“It is quite true!” she said. “We _have_ left you alone, Peggy; but it
is not quite so bad as you think. Really and truly we like you far the
best, but—but Rosalind is such a change to us. Everything about her is
so beautiful and so different, that she has always seemed the great
excitement of our lives. I don’t know that I’m exactly fond of her,
but I want to see her, and talk to her, and hear her speak; and she is
only here for a short time in the year. It was because we looked upon
you as really one of ourselves that we seemed to neglect you, but it
was wrong all the same. As for your spoiling her dress on purpose, it’s
ridiculous to think of it. How could you say such a thing, Mellicent,
when Peggy was trying to help you, too? How _could_ you be so mean and
horrid?”

“Oh, well, I’m sure I wish I were dead,” wailed Mellicent promptly.
“Nothing but fusses and bothers, and just when I thought I was going to
be so happy! If I’d had white shoes, this would never have happened.
Always the same thing! When you look forward to a treat, everything is
as piggy and nasty as it can be! Wish I’d never come! Wish I’d stayed
at home, and let the horrid old party go to Jericho! Rosalind’s crying,
Peggy’s cross, you are preaching! This is a nice way to enjoy yourself,
I must say!”

Nothing is more hopeless than to reason with a placid person who has
lapsed into a fit of ill-temper. The two elder girls realised this,
and remained perfectly silent while Mellicent continued to wish for
death, to lament the general misery of life, and the bad fortune which
attended the wearers of black slippers. So incessant was the stream of
her repinings, that it seemed as if it might have gone on for ever, had
not a servant entered at last with the information that the guests
were beginning to arrive, and that Lady Darcy would be glad to see the
young ladies without delay. Esther was anxious to wait and help Peggy
with her toilette, but that young lady was still on her dignity and
by no means anxious to descend to a scene of gaiety for which she had
little heart. She refused the offer, therefore, in Mariquita fashion,
and the sisters walked dejectedly along the brightly-lit corridors,
Mellicent still continuing her melancholy wail, and Esther reflecting
sadly that all was vanity, and devoutly wishing herself back in the
peaceful atmosphere of the vicarage.

(_To be continued._)



LOOKING BACK:

A RETROSPECT, WITH SOME SURPRISING FIGURES AND A PRESENTATION TO THE
EDITOR.

BY JAMES MASON.


Excuse me if I indulge in a personal reminiscence. It is in every way a
pleasant incident to recall:—

Between nineteen and twenty years ago, in the Dark Ages, when as yet
there was no GIRL’S OWN PAPER, I remember a quite accidental meeting at
luncheon in a London restaurant with the present Editor. We had become
well acquainted before that, in connection with a magazine of which he
was sub-editor and to which I then played the part of contributor.

[Illustration: THE AUTOGRAPH TEA-TABLE CLOTH.]

I found him full of a scheme he had in view, a paper which he
anticipated would be a lasting success, for it was going to appeal to
and cater for those sensible girls who are always in fashion and who
hitherto had possessed no magazine which they could call their very own.

From the restaurant we adjourned to the Editor’s chambers, and there he
read to me the proof of the prospectus about to be issued, announcing
the publication of the first number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. At this
distance of time I cannot recollect the terms of that document, but, as
it is not every day that editors write prospectuses, we may take it for
granted that it was a very moving discourse which no girl could read
without wishing at the very least to see Number One.

The confidence of the Editor in his project was infectious. Confident
he was, and confident he deserved to be, for he had had considerable
experience and, it was clear, knew well what he was about. From that
day I believed in the fortunes of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. It is true
that we might have paused to consider how it is impossible to tell
beforehand what will hit the public taste, but to the enthusiasm of so
long ago that fact was only a sort of bogey to frighten enterprising
spirits from starting anything new.

Beginning with that interview it is pleasant to follow the career of
THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, leading up to its present flourishing fortunes.
As the day is judged by its dawn, so girls apparently made up their
minds about the aims, quality, and character of their special organ
from the very first number. When it came out, “You are a treasure!” was
uttered in every tone of voice, and with every inflection of enthusiasm.

The sunshine of that time has lasted up till now. From being a new
serial THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER has become a well-established favourite,
with an influence for good in the community to which an outsider to the
editorial office like myself may with propriety call attention. It is a
paper which has been always in the front in advocating what is best for
girlhood; always up-to-date; always interesting; always, one can see,
trying to be sensible, and—without forcing its recognition—never losing
sight of the highest subject of all.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few figures relating to the publication will no doubt be found of
interest, showing, as they do, what a considerable enterprise the
Editor entered upon when he launched his first number on the sea of
public favour.

The thousand numbers now completed have endeavoured to bring their
influence to bear by means of about ten thousand articles on subjects
of all kinds interesting to girls. This is not counting fiction. When
we come to fiction, we find that THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER has aided in the
innocent amusement of its readers by the publication up to the present
time of close on a hundred serial stories, and five times as many short
stories and stories completed within the limits of a monthly part.

Suppose a girl, a model of perseverance, wanted to read through the
whole thousand numbers aloud without skipping a word, she could not do
it in much less than a year, reading for eight hours a day. She would
have her reward at the end of that time, for she would have stored away
in her head a collection of valuable matter which would make her a
“none-such” for the rest of her life.

The illustrations have been about as many in number as the
articles—excluding fiction. If a girl wanted to go through them all,
giving to each one only half a minute of her time, she would have a
picture-show that would last over ten days, giving to it eight hours a
day.

If all the columns of matter were cut out and pasted in one long strip,
the thousand numbers would stretch out as a narrow pathway over seven
miles.

The figures are more startling when we come from columns to lines. Take
all the lines of printed matter in the thousand numbers and extend
them in one long line. Then whoever wants to run and read at the same
time will have to run over a hundred and forty-five miles before she
gets from the first words of Number One which were “Zara, or, My
Granddaughter’s Money”—that being the title of the first story—down
to the last syllable of the present number. Such is the distance the
editorial eye has had to travel over. It is about thirty miles further
than from London to Bristol, nearly twice as far as from London to
Southampton, about three times as far as from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and
a little less than three times the distance from London to Brighton.

Taking the whole circulation of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER from the issue of
the first number, we arrive at an imposing result. Suppose that instead
of distributing the copies to subscribers, they had been hoarded up
and made to form a tall pillar, one copy being laid flat on the top of
another. And supposing a girl wished to read the topmost number—the
present number, that is to say—without using a ladder, she would have
to wait till she grew to be a hundred and seventy miles high.

It would be a pillar towering into the air to an inconvenient height,
so it might be cut into sections, each of about the height, say, of
Mont Blanc, and there would be about fifty-six of these.

If all the numbers which have been circulated since Number One were
laid end to end, they would make a pathway long enough to go round the
world at the Equator with a bit over. If one could only contrive to
carry it over the sea, girls might in this way ramble round and round
the globe treading on their own paper all the way.

       *       *       *       *       *

The publication of the thousandth number of a magazine which can
refer to such statistics as these is certainly an event worth taking
note of. Making, as it does, a red-letter day in the history of the
paper, it was resolved, on the kind and thoughtful suggestion of Mrs.
Emma Brewer—whom all our readers know—to signalise it by presenting
the Editor with the autograph cloth shown in the illustration. This
wonderful tea-cloth was presented to him at Christmas, together with a
letter containing the following cheering words:

“We hoped to have made this little gift quite complete; there are
however still some names wanting, not for lack of inclination to write
them, but of time to collect them.

“Imperfect as it is, it is eloquent in its expression of affection and
good-will. As such will you accept it and be cheered by it? It is not
only a tribute to you as a born editor, but as a good sterling friend.
We do not think any other Editor in England will have a like gift
to-day.”

It is a recognition on the part of a hundred contributors—literary,
musical, and artistic—who have served under his flag, of the ability,
friendliness, and discretion which have been all along displayed in
his dealings with his staff. No one can go back, as I do, to the very
beginning of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER without seeing how much it owes of
its best features to his presiding care. Under his capable management
and under that of a long line of successors, to whom he will be able to
transmit the best maxims of editorial success, there seems no reason
why THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER should not go on flourishing till the printers
have to add a fifth figure to the number on the front page—and that
will be a hundred and seventy-three years and four weeks from the
present date!



VARIETIES.


THE PIANO HAS BEEN SOLD.

A Dutch paper, the other day, published the following significant
advertisement from a disconsolate wife—

“Adolphus. Return to your Matilda. The piano has been sold.”


BEAUTY IN UGLINESS.—“Ugliness of the right sort,” says the late Jean
Ingelow, “is a kind of beauty. It has some of the best qualities of
beauty—it attracts observation and fixes the memory.”


TO MAKE AN EGG STAND ON END.—It is not generally known that an egg can
be made to stand on end on any smooth, level surface. The process is
very simple. Take the egg in the right hand and briskly shake it up and
down for a minute or two, when the yolk will separate and sink to the
broad end. If the egg be now properly poised on its broad end, it will
stand perfectly upright even on a piece of glass.


DOGS MADE USEFUL.

The dog in Belgium is universally employed in drawing barrows and
small carts about the streets. In Brussels alone over 5000 dogs are so
engaged, and the total number of draught-dogs in the whole country is
probably not less than 50,000.

Generations of servitude have made the Belgian dog a race apart. For
his size he is said to possess the greatest pulling power of any
animal, four times his own weight being considered a load well within
his power. Taking his average weight as half an hundredweight, this
means that something like 5000 tons are daily dragged about by canine
labour in Belgium.


WELL BALANCED.

“Aunt Emilina, what is it to be well balanced?”

“Well balanced? Why, it is having sense enough to make more friends
than enemies.”


“PLENTY MORE DAYS.”

In Spain, the people take no note of time, not even from its loss.
Everything is to be done _manana_, to-morrow.

A wealthy Englishman, who had long lived in Spain, had a lawsuit. He
pleaded his cause in person, and, knowing the customs of the country,
won his case. The victory cost him three days of trouble and expense,
so that when the judge congratulated him on his success, he replied—

“Yes, that’s all right; but it has cost me three days, and time is
money. I am a busy man, and these three days are lost for ever.”

“Oh, you English!” answered the judge. “You are always saying that time
is money! How are you to get your three days back? I will tell you.
Take them out of next week. Surely there are plenty more days!”


CHARITY.—The highest exercise of charity is charity towards the
uncharitable.



“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 XXII.

A BITTER EXPERIENCE.

That march from Verdun to Bitche! If Roy Baron should live to be a
hundred years old, the bitter memory of it would stand out still,
pre-eminent among memories.

He had at first only three English companions, middle-aged men, masters
of merchantmen, accused of trying to escape from close confinement in
the dungeon of the “Tour d’Angoulême” of the Verdun citadel. There,
for no apparent reason beyond caprice, they had been flung by the
commandant’s orders, and thence they were now no less arbitrarily
remanded to the worse dungeons of Bitche.

They were honest sailor-like men, rough in manner, but kindly; and they
looked with pity at the fresh-faced boy, whom many a time they had seen
in the streets of Verdun. One of them spoke to him, but Roy was in no
mood for talk. He held his head well up, and strode resolutely along,
with a spirited imitation of the bearing which was characteristic of
Ivor; yet at his heart lay a weight like lead. It was such cruel work,
being thus torn away from all whom he loved, and sent he hardly knew
whither, merely for one little boyish fit of recklessness.

At the first halting-place they were joined by a second and larger
company, a party of English sailors, manacled two and two, like
criminals. Sailors of the Royal Navy Roy knew at a glance, and he
caught a glimpse also of three or four middies behind them. Then his
attention was called off, as, to his unutterable wrath, he found
himself also on the point of being put into fetters.

Roy Baron—son of a Colonel in His Majesty’s Guards—to be handcuffed!

The blood rushed to his face, then receded, leaving him as white as his
own shirt-front. He clenched his hands fiercely; and the merchantman
Captain, who had addressed him at the first, came a step nearer.

“Sir, it’ll be worse for you if you resist! I wouldn’t, sir—I wouldn’t
really!”

As if in echo Roy seemed to hear Denham’s voice speaking too. “Think of
your mother!” he had said. If he endured patiently, Roy might be the
sooner sent back to her.

The frank weather-beaten face of the sailor had an anxious look upon
it. Roy said gravely, “Thank you, Captain!” and submitted, though
not without a sting of hot tears smarting under his eyelids at the
indignity.

Then he flung himself flat on the ground, passionately hiding his face
in those manacled hands, and refusing the coarse food that was offered
to him. He had money in his possession, but Denham had advised him to
be in no haste to betray the fact.

“Never you mind,” a voice said at his side, clear and chirpy as the
note of a robin. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. It isn’t
our fault. The shame is for them—not us. Cheer up, comrade.”

The combined childishness and manliness of the tones made an odd
impression upon Roy, the more so as they also brought a sense of
something familiar. He pulled himself up slowly. One of the middies had
drawn close; a pretty boy, perhaps two years Roy’s junior, with a rosy
face, and any amount of pluck in it.

Roy gazed hard at him, in growing bewilderment.

“You’d better eat while you can. None too good fare, eh?”—with the same
droll assumption of manliness. “As for these”—and he lifted his little
brown manacled hands—“why, it only shows we’re Englishmen. Ain’t you
proud of that? I am!” Then a pause, and a stare. “O I say! My eyes!”

“I say!” echoed Roy.

“If you ain’t as like as two peas——”

“And you’ve a look——”

“It’s Roy Baron, as I’m alive!”

“And I declare it’s Will Peirce!”

The two tongues went fast for three minutes. As little boys they had
played together, romped together, worked mischief together, teased
Molly together, and together had usually made up to her afterwards by
spending their joint pennies on splendid bull’s-eyes, wherewith to
comfort her wounded feelings. For nearly five years the two had not met.

“We weren’t beaten in fair fight, don’t you think it,” Will asserted
with his chirrupy cheerfulness. “Got caught in a trap. Damaged in a
gale off Cape Finisterre, and then when ’twas as much as we could do
to keep afloat, two seventy-gun French frigates bore down upon us. If
she’d have answered her helm, we’d have got the best of it, in spite of
all; but though we had a hard fight, ’twas no go for us. They raked us
fore and aft, and we got riddled through and through, so we were bound
to give in at last. I say, you set to work and eat something. We’ve a
long way to go.”

Roy followed the wise counsel of experienced boyhood, and did eat,
feeling better for it. Also, Will’s familiar and plucky face brought a
sense of something like comfort.

“We’ll keep together as long as we can,” Will said.

Then on again they marched, the middies and Roy simply handcuffed; the
Royal Navy sailors and the merchantmen sailors chained together, two
and two. The boys kept up a brave heart, at least in outward seeming,
however weary and footsore they became; and Roy held out as resolutely
as anyone. He seemed to himself indefinitely older than Will; though in
some respects Will was more a man of the two, having fought in two or
three engagements, and had one wound, besides coming in for a nice sum
of prize-money some months earlier.

Now and again Roy would recur in thought to Ivor’s long march from
Valenciennes to Verdun, all the way on foot, though weakened by
illness, and then Denham’s pale face at the moment of their parting
would come up; was it only that same morning? Already it began to look
like months ago. Roy felt years older than when he had stood on the
ramparts, watching a crowd at the gate. Was that indeed only two days
earlier?

Later in the day, when another halt was made, a third company seemed to
be waiting to join them. A company of—were they prisoners? Impossible.
Roy gazed in perplexity. For these were French faces, sullen and
downcast, with French manners, and French style of dress. Yet they
too were coupled together, like the English sailors, two and two, by
connecting chains. They too were under an escort of gendarmes.

“Are they convicts?” Roy exclaimed, and the merchantman-master, Captain
Boyce, replied—

“Bless you, sir, no. Those are conscripts for the Emperor’s grand army,
dragged from their homes, belike, without a will-he nor a nill-he, and
driven to war like sheep to the shambles.”

“Poor wretches,” Will remarked, with his experienced air. “I’ve seen a
lot of them before, on our way across France.”

“Sure enough, sir, and so have I—times and again. Looking as sheepish
too and as down in the mouth as ever a man need look. It don’t make
much wonder neither, seeing they’re dragged away from their homes and
their sweethearts, and never a chance of getting off. O they’ll make
smart soldiers enough, I’ll be bound, and good food for shot too, with
a few months of drilling, and be as ready to rave as any Frenchman
of them all for ‘le petit Caporal,’ as they’re pleased to call the
Emperor. And the mothers and sweethearts may bear the sorrow as they
can, and the land may go uncultivated, and what does Boney care, so
long as he has his way?”

“But—conscripts for Napoleon! French soldiers—chained!”[1] uttered Roy.

“Well, you see, sir, it’s this way. They’ve got to be taken from their
homes to the dépôt; and scarce a man among ’em wouldn’t desert on the
road, if he’d a chance of doing so. When they’ve been in the army a few
weeks or months, disciplined and turned into proper soldiers, they’ll
learn a pride in their new position, and things’ll be different; but at
the first ’tis hard upon the poor chaps. Why, look you, I’ve heard of a
young fellow being taken straight off, just as he was on the point of
being married, and the marriage put off, nobody knew how long. As like
as not, in six months he’d be in a soldier’s grave.”

Roy thought of Lucille.

“’Tis not our English way with our soldiers,” he said, in reference to
the sight before them.

“No, sir. But”—and a queer smile gleamed on the weatherbeaten face—“but
I’m not one for to go for to say that even old England is never in
the wrong. You’ve maybe heard o’ such matters as the work of the
press-gangs, that force men to go to sea against their will; carry ’em
off captive, in fact. Many a brave tar, in His Majesty’s Service at
this moment, who’d give his life for his country, and never a moment’s
hesitation, was kidnapped at the first and dragged away, unwilling
enough, I can tell you.”[2]

“More shame for them, if they didn’t want to fight for the liberties of
England!” retorted little Will, with the dignity of a man three times
his size.

The chained and dejected conscripts followed in rear of the prisoners,
as the march was resumed.

Day after day it went on. A hundred leagues were not to be accomplished
on foot quickly, by a large number of men and boys, of varying powers,
many of them used to shipboard life, and entirely unused to long
tramps. There were tender feet and weary limbs among them before long,
and things grew worse each day. Food was poor, and at night when they
halted they were put to sleep in the common prison of the place, no
matter what manner of prison it might be. Roy would have found it hard
to rest, in such accommodation as was provided, but that he was usually
far too weary to keep awake.

He was carefully guarding the money with which he had been abundantly
supplied by his father; not allowing it to be known that he possessed
more than a few loose coins, sufficient for immediate needs. Impulsive
Roy would hardly have been so reticent, but for injunctions at the last
from Ivor. Like Ivor, he was naturally open-handed and generous, and he
could not but share freely what he had in hand with the middies, since
they proved to be ill supplied with cash.

At length the long march came to an end. Bitche was reached—a grim and
solemn fortress, sheltering already hundreds of English prisoners,
waiting to engulf these new arrivals in addition.

Roy and the middies together were first taken to the “Petite Tête,”
so-called, where each one underwent a severe searching, lest he should
have concealed about him either weapons of defence, or instruments
which might be used for purposes of escape. Roy’s bag of money and
notes was detected in this search, and he knew that thenceforward the
gendarmes would look upon him as lawful prey.

No immediate attempt was, however, made upon him. He and the middies
were led through gloomy passages to one of the great subterranean
dungeons, descending some sixty steps, into a place which has been
described as not unlike a huge wine-vault. Originally it had been dug
out of the solid saltpetre rock, and was some thirty feet below the
surface of the ground.

In this vault, dimly-lighted, heavy and dank in atmosphere, with water
here and there dripping from the roof or running down the walls, was
gathered a motley crowd of some three hundred prisoners. English
soldiers, English sailors, English middies, détenus from Verdun and
elsewhere, were mingled with swindlers, pickpockets, and highwaymen;
and even English gentlemen and officers of higher rank sometimes found
themselves consigned here, though, unless they gave particular offence,
they were more commonly installed in smaller rooms above ground.

With the measured descent down and down those stone steps, Roy’s heart
sank lower and lower. Was this what he had come to? And for how long?

An outburst of uproarious cheering hailed the new arrivals, as the
heavy doors were unlocked and they were ushered in. Three shouts were
given; then each was hoisted on the shoulders of three or four men, and
was paraded round the dungeon. After this rough welcome, came a severe
blanket-tossing, which both Roy and the middies were wise enough to
take in good part. Any who wished to fight were then cordially invited
to do so; and lastly those who possessed money were called upon to
treat others to drink, provided by the gendarmes.

Such initiatory ceremonies being ended, comparative quiet descended on
the scene. It was past eight o’clock when they first arrived, and night
was near.

Roy Baron’s first night in a French dungeon!

Each prisoner was provided with a worn blanket, cast off by a French
soldier; and wrapped in these the crowd of over three hundred men and
boys laid themselves down to rest. Some slumbered silently; some tossed
to and fro; some snored loudly; some talked or shouted in their sleep.
Roy lay amid the throng, a ragged blanket round him also. At first he
had rejected it with scorn; but these subterranean regions were cold
and damp, and, shivering, he had at length drawn it round him, as he
lay with arms crossed, and face pressed into them. The handcuffs had
been removed.

He was not thinking of the bruises which he had received, when the
rough blanket-tossers had allowed him to drop upon the stone floor.
Bruises to a hardy boy are a small matter. But the desolation of the
lad that awful night went beyond bounds, and desperate blank despair
took possession of him.

For hours he hardly stirred. He could not sleep. He could only lie in
a trance of misery. He saw no gleam of hope, no chance of escape from
this terrible place. Yet, to stay on here, week after week, month after
month, perhaps even as some had done year after year! Could he bear it?
Through all previous troubles Roy had borne up bravely; but at last his
spirit gave way beneath the strain.

Molly’s face came up before his mind—not Molly the sedate and ladylike
maiden of sixteen, but Molly the little eager girl whom he remembered.
O to see her again! Roy pressed his face closer into the folded arms,
writhing silently.

Then his mother’s face—he hardly dared to think of that. What would not
she suffer? unknowing, indeed, what her boy had to endure; but fearing
and conjecturing the worst, so far as she had knowledge to picture that
worst. Would any picturings of hers approach the reality?

A wild craving for Denham had him next in its grasp. If Denham had but
been arrested too—had but come with him! But that unworthy wish lasted
not ten seconds. Upon it came a nobler rush of gladness that Denham
was _not_ here. The worn face came up before Roy, as he had seen it
but a few days sooner; and below his breath he sobbed in an ecstasy of
thankfulness, that at least Denham would be in comparative comfort,
that at least he had not to be in this dungeon.

“Think how your mother will be praying for you.”

Was that Denham speaking? Roy seemed to hear the words, not only with
his mind, but with his bodily ears.

He sat up and looked round upon the slumbering throng—looked with
smarting eyes into the gloom. He gazed into the blackness overhead,
where a stone roof shut him pitilessly in.

Was his mother praying for him then?—and his father?—and Denham? Would
God hear their prayers?

Denham’s voice again, deep and quiet, seemed to breathe around him,
“Remember! God is overall!” How long ago was it that he had said those
words? Not lately. Was it—when he was ordered off to Valenciennes?

God over all? Ay, even here, even in this dungeon!

Roy dropped down again, face foremost; and through heaving sobs, not
one of which was allowed to make itself heard, he joined his prayers to
those of his mother.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Fact.

[2] In those days the press-gang was still in force.



[Illustration: SUCCESS AND LONG LIFE TO THE “G. O. P.”


    Success and long life to the “G. O. P.”
      As she starts on her voyage again;
    Let us speed her forth with a three times three
      O’er a sunny and tranquil main.
    A thousand times has our gallant ship
      Her course sped over the seas;
    Through wintry gales sped the silver sails,
      Or haply the summer breeze.
          Then success and long life to the “G. O. P.”
          ’Tis with hands all round, and across the sea,
          That we speed her forth with our three times three!

    A thousand times have her sails been set
      O’er a cargo of golden grain;
    A thousand times may she bear it yet,
      And a thousand to that again!
    For her freight has ever more precious grown,
      Each time we have watched her start,
    With the varied cheer that has grown so dear
      To many a home and heart.
          Then success and long life to the “G. O. P.”
          ’Tis with hands all round, and across the sea,
          That we speed her forth with our three times three!

    Success and long life to the Captain staunch,
      May his hand, so kindly and strong,
    Yet for many a year the good ship launch
      He has guided so well and long.
    Success and long life to her faithful crew,
      Long, long may they rally round,
    And one and all, at their Captain’s call,
      Be “ready and willing” found!
          Then success and long life to the “G. O. P.”
          ’Tis with hands all round, and across the sea,
          That we speed her forth with our three times three!

        HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.]



OUR 1000TH NUMBER.


The printer has put a fourth figure to the number on the front page of
this issue, and the Editor makes his bow to his faithful readers—of
whom there must now be many millions—and congratulates them on having
done their part, the most important of all, in bringing this magazine
to so enviable a point in its history.

To all girls who now read its pages, and to all who have read it in the
past, he sends hearty greetings and offers his sincere thanks for their
loyal support. Everyone works best when his labours are appreciated,
and the Editor feels that he ought, at least, to have done well, for he
has pursued his task accompanied by a constant chorus of friendliness
and encouragement.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first idea of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER came as a happy thought to the
present Editor about twenty years ago, at a time when he was closely
connected with the management of two other magazines long well known to
the public.

It appeared to him that there was a real want of a paper which girls
could truly call _their own_: a paper which would be to the whole
sisterhood a sensible, interesting and good-humoured companion,
counsellor and friend, advocating their best interests, taking part
in everything affecting them, giving them the best advice, conveying
to them the best information, supplying them with the most readable
fiction, and trying to exercise over them a refining and elevating
influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

To meet this want he proposed the starting of THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER to the present proprietors. By them the suggestion was well
received—indeed, they themselves had about the same time conceived the
notion of a magazine for girls—but many doubts and difficulties were
expressed as to the carrying of it out, which was natural, seeing the
venture meant the sinking of a considerable amount of capital. At last,
however, the decision to start the paper was arrived at and careful
preparations were made for launching the first number on Saturday the
3rd of January, 1880.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the nearly twenty years which have elapsed since then the Editor
has been aided in every possible way by the society who own the paper.
They have enabled him to conduct it on the most liberal principles of
expenditure, and the business management has been such as to make easy
what at times might have proved burdensome. Also to the Editor-in-Chief
of the Society’s magazines, Dr. Macaulay, the hearty thanks of the
Editor are due for liberty of action and a great deal of kindly
encouragement.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first number appeared on the Saturday we have just named. Success
shone upon us from the very first, and THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER at once and
by general consent took a foremost place amongst the magazines of the
day.

Professional critics in the Press were generous, and said many a
friendly word in our praise. The late George Augustus Sala elevated
THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER to the position of “first favourite,” and in an
encouraging notice expressed a hope that “all the girls” of Great
Britain would subscribe, for he thought it would be greatly to their
advantage.

Much-valued approval and friendly letters of advice and help also came
to us in these early days from Mr. John Ruskin, who, writing to a girl
friend, said that he had ordered the paper to be sent to him regularly,
and added, “Surely you young ladies—girls, I ought to say—will think
you have a fair sixpenny worth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

But better and more important than even the praise of the critics was
the appreciation of the girls themselves. Everywhere throughout the
country, far away in the colonies, and up and down all over the world,
we found we were being read, valued, and talked about by those for
whose benefit the paper had been produced. Girls were unanimous in
recognising the merits of this new friend and in letting it be seen
that THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER was to be henceforth a welcome and, indeed,
indispensable visitor in all their homes. It was a great and gratifying
success.

       *       *       *       *       *

The favour with which the paper was received has been continued up to
the present time, and the Editor is in hopes that, by pursuing the
course that has done so well hitherto, he will be enabled to retain it
for many a day to come.

       *       *       *       *       *

No matter what a girl’s tastes or needs may be, on looking into THE
GIRL’S OWN PAPER, she will sooner or later find what she is in want
of. We are not going here to compile a list of the thousand and one
subjects that have been treated of in our pages. It is enough to say
that there is not a single topic of interest to girlhood to which
our paper has not given, or is not going to give, attention. Whether
a girl merely wants to read what will make the hours fly fast, or,
what is more important, wants to know what will add to her value and
usefulness, let her turn to THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. There never has been
in this country, or indeed in any other, a storehouse of material by
means of which girls can make the most of their lives, at all to be
compared with it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A valuable feature of our paper has been the Answers to Correspondents,
which have appeared with such regularity, and been read with such
pleasure, ever since its commencement. The magnitude of this
department, and its ceaseless flow of incoming letters, would surprise
anyone admitted behind the scenes for the first time. In these answers,
innumerable items of information have been given, countless criticisms
have been ventured on, and an attempt has been made to solve a great
many of the problems and difficulties that enter into the thoughts and
lives of our readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Letters have also been received daily, during these nineteen years
and more, by the Editor, which have not been answered publicly in
our correspondence columns, and these communications he has now much
satisfaction in mentioning. They have come from girls in all parts of
the world, and without exception have borne testimony to the usefulness
of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. Not a few have told how it has had a good
and wholesome influence on the minds of the writers, acknowledging in
no measured terms that it has enabled them to lead wiser and better
lives. And many a solitary girl has written how she has found it the
best possible company, coming to her—and punctually too—with all the
inspiring influence of a cheerful friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another feature not to be forgotten in the progress of THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER is to be found in the many competitions, by means of which we
have from time to time tested the ingenuity, taste, accomplishments,
skill, and perseverance of our readers. These have occasionally roused
a remarkable degree of enthusiasm. In one of the most successful, we
well remember, the papers came in such numbers, that the Post Office
had to send a special van with them, and one sackful took four men to
carry it upstairs.

A large amount of money has, from first to last, been distributed
amongst the winning competitors, and a great many certificates of
merit have been granted to those who, whilst failing to get a prize,
obtained a certain percentage of marks. These certificates have been
much valued and not a few have been found serviceable as testimonials
to painstaking and ability, when girls have had to make their way in
the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

And not only have our readers received benefit themselves. Influenced,
as the Editor knows them to have been, in the direction of true charity
by the writings of some of our contributors, they have tried in their
turn to be of service to others, and through the medium of THE GIRL’S
OWN PAPER have done much useful work for the community.

They have, for example—at the suggestion of the Countess of
Aberdeen,[3] who has ever taken great interest in the magazine,
notwithstanding her high public and official positions—established
a working girl’s home in London; also, they have re-established the
Princess Louise Home for Girls, subscribing with touching readiness
and liberality to each of these schemes in actual cash over a thousand
pounds. They have besides made periodical grants of warm clothing
for the poor, sent dolls in great numbers to brighten the dull hours
of sick children in hospitals and in many other ways shown a good
sisterly interest in those less happily circumstanced than themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Editor has been assisted in his labours by a band of very willing
workers—authors, musical composers, and artists—whose names are
familiar to all our readers. Many of these have been associated with
him from the commencement of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER up to the present
time—faithful, industrious, enthusiastic helpers, eager to give of
their best and thoroughly in sympathy with the young.

Some of our authors had already made their mark before they appeared
in our pages; but others were unknown, and it is a great pleasure to
the Editor to think that he has been the means of bringing into public
notice not a few who are now universally acknowledged as writers of
ability.

       *       *       *       *       *

But whilst surrounded by a tried staff, the Editor has made it a rule
to welcome contributions—indeed, to invite them—from every quarter.
If the topic be suitable, the writer well informed, and the manner
interesting, no manuscript ever goes away rejected from the door of
the Editorial Office. Amongst our occasional contributors may be seen
the names of a queen, several princesses, and leading members of the
nobility, and a great many more who have distinguished themselves in
various lines of activity connected with the life and work of women and
girls.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Editor is well aware that his readers would like to see the
portraits of some of the tried and true friends who have given such
devoted service. He therefore adds them here, and they form, he thinks,
a fitting accompaniment to this notice of what has led up—in quite a
marvellous manner, and by God’s blessing—to the publication of the
present THOUSANDTH NUMBER OF THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] At the end of a letter recently received from the Countess occur
these words: “Let me congratulate you on the continued success of THE
GIRL’S OWN PAPER, and the position you have made for it. I still hope
to be able to rank among its contributors some day again, and I shall
not either forget those early days when all was uncertainty as to how
it would succeed.

    “Believe me,
        “Yours sincerely,
            “ISHBEL ABERDEEN.”



IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

BY RUTH LAMB.


PART V.

ANOTHER OPEN EVENING.

    “But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in
    glory by Christ Jesus.”—Philippians iv. 19.


For some months past, my dear girl friends, I have been equally
gratified and troubled by the sight of a large pile of your letters
on my table—gratified, because they are full of sweet confidences,
requests for advice and help, grateful allusions to benefits which have
resulted from our talks in the twilight, and affectionate expressions
towards myself. As a whole, your letters have been a source of great
joy to me; but, on the other hand, it has grieved me to think that some
of you have hoped and waited in vain for replies which never came.

Believe me, I would have written to each and all of you had it been
possible. Conscience does not reproach me for having wilfully neglected
you; but I have had a good many heartaches on your account.

Who does not know the trial of looking and waiting in vain for a
friend’s letter?

I cannot now address you singly; but an open evening will again bring
us more into touch with each other, as a former one did a few months
ago.

It is alike delightful and wonderful to note the results of that
night’s talk, during which we had glimpses of each other’s thoughts,
needs, and longings. Subsequent letters have shown me how the words
of one girl-writer have stirred the hearts of many to prayer on her
behalf, and in some cases they have asked, “How can I be of real use
to another member of our gathering?”

Some have been brought into closer relationship with each other as
correspondents, and I trust the result will be beneficial to all of
them.

Several of my correspondents have asked that evenings should be devoted
to subjects of special interest to themselves and many others, but
which do not come within the scope of our object in meeting. Let me
remind you, dear friends, who, from the most worthy motives, have
suggested the consideration of such subjects, how varied are the
classes, ages, nationalities, and even the religious views of those
who meet with me in the twilight. It will be obvious to you that the
usefulness of our meetings would be imperilled, were we to introduce
any subject likely to arouse an antagonistic feeling even in the minds
of a few.

Several of our recent talks have been devoted to smoothing away the
difficulties which many dear girls meet with in their first efforts at
self-dedication. They are answers to inquiries and requests for help
which have come from many quarters. I do earnestly hope and pray that,
by God’s blessing, they will be found useful and helpful to many others
besides my dear correspondents.

I think that many amongst you who ask questions would do well to refer
back to some of our earlier talks, which all who now meet with me may
not have read. They began in September, 1896, and have been continued
monthly ever since.

It is delightful to find how many of my girls do refer back to the old
talks for help and comfort; and, to you all, it must be very cheering
to know that God has blessed the words of some to the good of others.
Here is an instance. One dear correspondent had been telling me a great
deal about the many worries and anxieties of daily life, and of the
relief it was to open her heart to someone who was, she felt sure,
“interested in us girls.”

With a mother ill in bed, and who must not be told anything about
the worries incidental to the large family, the servants, and home
which needed constant oversight, my young correspondent was feeling
overweighted, and wrote—

“Oh, how mistaken people are who think one has nothing to do but take
it easy and enjoy oneself! If they only knew! Still, I am wicked to
grumble so! These little ‘thorns in the flesh’ are nothing compared
with what so many have to bear. This morning I was ready to break down
and have a real hearty cry, a thing I do not often indulge in. I had
no opportunity just then. I took up at random a back number of the ‘G.
O. P.’ and opened it at the ‘Twilight Talk.’ It seemed just meant for
me. There was an extract from the letter of a girl who seemed to have
my feelings exactly, and her words did help me so. I hope you will
never give up writing to us whilst you are able to do so. I pray for
you and for all our ‘Twilight Circle,’ and that we may all, both you
and me, gain more and more blessing from our monthly meetings.”... “I
do so want to make a fresh start and try to overcome my temptations.
It is so nice to know that you are praying for us—for me. May the dear
Lord bless you exceeding abundantly with the blessing that maketh rich
and addeth no sorrow to it, is the prayer of ‘One of your most loving
girls.’”

You will all, I am sure, understand, that in giving abstracts from
such letters, I am anxious for every member of our “Twilight Circle”
to share a great pleasure with me. That our talks should have been so
largely blessed, and that the interest taken in them is continually
deepening and extending, is a matter which concerns each of us. We
_must_ all benefit by being permitted to read each other’s hearts and
knowing that we are not alone in our experiences, whether of joy or
sorrow.

It is wonderful how two or three words often stir us to sympathy and
incline us to confidence. Here is an instance from the letter of one
who had lately known a great sorrow.

“Last month I was feeling so miserable when my paper arrived; and
somehow I felt better after reading that kind remark you made about
someone who told you she was a ‘motherless bairn.’ I have lost my
mother too, and have not yet got used to being without her. You will
understand how dreary everything seems sometimes; but when I read the
‘Twilight Talks,’ it makes me feel that there is still something left
to live for. My life seems very poor and mean when judged by your
standard, and it is very hard to reach, and sometimes seems a hopeless
task.”

I pause here to say that the standard I strive to place before you,
beloved ones, and myself, being God’s standard, as shown to us in
the life of our Lord Jesus Christ, makes all our lives seem poor and
mean—none more so than my own. Thanks be to God! He has taught me
by His Spirit to look from my own weakness to His strength, from my
sinfulness to Him, in whom I believe, and “Who bare my sins in His
own body on the tree”; from my poor efforts after holiness, which are
too often only a record of failures, to the perfect righteousness
of Christ, which is the precious heritage of all who trust in His
sacrifice alone for salvation.

We must not give up striving, or lose courage by looking too much at
ourselves. We must look up to Christ, and, though we have sorely lagged
behind in our attempts to follow Him, and met with many disappointments
by the way, we must still keep on. We must endeavour to imitate the
Christ-life, but trusting the while in the sweet assurance that
“He became sin (or a sin-offering) for us that we might become the
righteousness of God in Him.”

Looking at self, we despair. Turning from self to Christ, we find that
He has fulfilled the whole law, and that, believing in His finished
work, we are “justified by faith and have peace with God.” Yet, even
when we do realise what Christ has done, how dissatisfied we are with
our own poor efforts to show that we love and want to be like Him!
Everything in Him is so grandly perfect, and so many littlenesses creep
into our best efforts that we are ashamed to look at them.

A dear correspondent gives us a picture which many of us will own to be
a reflection of our own feelings.

“I am one of His weak ones, yet longing to live the life that shall
glorify Him most. The thing that grieves me so is that I have so little
love in my heart towards Him. It is not strong as it ought to be; but
Jesus is so precious to me that I want above all things to lead others
to Him, that they may know what a Saviour He is!”

Happy girl! To be able to see so much in Christ, so little in self! It
is the dissatisfied disciples who cannot be contented to follow their
Master “afar off.” They _must_ be ever praying and striving after a
closer union with and greater likeness to their Lord. If one of you
should write and say, “I am quite satisfied with myself, I am doing the
best I can, and I am sure nobody can find fault with me,” I should be
very, very sorry for her.

The student who has mastered the rudiments of a science does not sit
down contented with the little he knows. He looks to the highest level
of knowledge which has been attained by those who have gone before him,
and says to himself, “If hard work, earnest, painstaking study and
perseverance will do it, I will go a step beyond.”

Many years ago I stood by the death-bed of one who had long passed the
fourscore years whose strength is described in God’s word as “labour
and sorrow.” She did not talk of what she had done for Christ; but in a
few words expressed her sense of what He had done for her.

“All in Christ—nothing in me.”

A volume could not have expressed more than did these half-dozen words;
but the light in those aged eyes, and the expression on the face were
pledges of the sincerity of the dying speaker.

May you go on and on until, losing sight of self and its poverty of
service and of love, you can say, “I have fought the good fight,
looking to the Captain of my salvation for courage, and strength, and
grace; and now the battle is drawing to a close I can only say, Thanks
be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!”
“All in Christ—nothing in me.”

A correspondent who signs herself “One of your grateful, loving girls,”
sends a most interesting letter, of which I give an extract.

“I ought to write and tell you how much I have been helped by your
talks with us in the ‘G. O. P.’ It is nice to read about other girls’
lives, and I hope we shall be able to help each other. I was at a
meeting one afternoon, and, before singing a certain hymn, we were
told not to join if we did not really understand it. It was one only a
Christian should sing. I felt able to say the words. I am very thankful
to God for many blessings and for strength to overcome temptation;
above all, for the love that He has put into my heart. Will you please
join with me in the prayer that I may grow rich in grace?”

Yes, dear girl; and I trust that every member of our “Twilight Circle”
will join in the petition that, not you only, but all of us may “grow
in grace and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”
With such growth ever widening and spreading throughout the great human
family, what a happy world would this become!

So many correspondents allude to their beloved mothers whom “God has
called home.” It is a joy that our talks have been especially helpful
to several of them. It is sweet to be claimed as “deputy mother,” and
to read such words as these—“I always turn to the ‘Twilight Talk’
first, and read it out so that another as well as myself can enjoy
it. We girls all make a confidant of you, our real, true friend.” “I
address you not merely as a friend, but as a dear, kind mother.”

“I love you just as if I had known you all my life,” writes another;
and then she gives me a sketch of the school life she had enjoyed so
much, and of the trial it had been for her to turn her back upon it.
The leaving school was unavoidable, and I honoured the writer for her
brave efforts “to pretend not to feel it too much” for the sake of the
parents who were as sorry as herself. “But that is all over now, and I
long to do my very best in whatever place God may put me. I have made
many mistakes, failures, and slips, but I do feel Christ more precious
than ever before. Our ‘talks’ do help me. I hope you will _never_ give
them up before you are positively unable to write. Tired of them! No,
indeed! I have a Christian home, for which I cannot thank God enough,
and I have a Sunday School class of children between seven and nine.
Oh, I do want to teach them to love my Lord, and I tremble lest my life
should contradict my words! It is so nice to think you pray for us all.
I like to think the ‘all’ includes me.”

“Thank you so much for bringing all us girls together. The dear old
‘G. O. P.’ deserves our gratitude for many things, but never so much
as for this.” During our former “open evening,” I quoted from a letter
signed “_Une de vos filles_,” and now it makes me happy and will do you
good to share part of a second from the same writer. She is quite a
stranger to me, in one sense, for I do not know her personally—I wish
I did—and am equally ignorant as to her home and surroundings. She has
had a serious illness since she wrote to—shall I not say “us”?—before,
and now her second letter will do us good again, though it is too long
to be quoted in its entirety. Alluding to my quotation from her former
letter, she writes, “I wonder if you can imagine my mingled feelings
when your words caught my eye. There was gratitude to God, love to you,
astonishment, gladness, and yet shame. It is quite true that I am happy
and thankful for all God’s discipline, but I am often impatient, cross,
and rebellious. Though the impatience may not reach the length of
words, it ought not to be in the heart. It grieves me to find how much
evil there is yet to be subdued. Still, I could not help feeling glad
when I read what you said, for it made me happy to know that my letter
had given you pleasure; and when you called it ‘a little bit of work
done for Christ,’ that gave me more joy—it was so unexpected to find it
used as a message to others.”

Here I must miss words I would fain give for all to read did space
allow, and take another passage. “I liked very much what you said about
not being in a hurry to speak about Christ to others, but to live as
a Christian and wait an opportunity to speak for Him. When in doubt
as to the wisdom of speaking, I’ve asked Him to give me three things,
the words, the opportunity, and the courage, and He always does, or
makes me content to wait longer. It needs all three from Him, and if
the first two are given, (and don’t you believe we can feel when they
are?) the third is sure to come too. Sometimes the words are ready
weeks and months, and then, if I’m watching, the opportunity comes. It
is grand to know that Nehemiah’s God is as ready to hear and help now.
There is time for the needed courage and wisdom to be sent even between
the question and the answer. You don’t mind my writing again, do you?
When the heart is full it must overflow, and mine was so full of love
and thanks, yet of that feeling of unworthiness, that I had to tell
you. You seemed a dear and well-known friend before, now you are more
so than ever. By-and-by, when we remember all the way which the Lord
our God has led us, it will be nice to look back to our words, one to
another, as to something that helped us heavenward and made the ‘way’
a little easier, and to know that it was part of His leading all the
time.”

Are not you, the dear friends with whom I am sharing my precious
letters, glad of the privilege of looking over my shoulder or of
listening whilst I read them? Do we not owe much gratitude to those
of our circle who allow us the privilege of learning from their
experience, especially when it gives us new and sweet proofs of God’s
faithfulness and love in leading His children?

As I finished this letter from “_Une de mes filles_,” I felt such
a longing to bring her into communication with some of my other
correspondents who seem to be groping blindly and helplessly after
God. They want to know Him, serve Him, love Him, yet are wandering in
all directions save the right one, and are cherishing doubts, brooding
over isolated passages in God’s Word, and entertaining hard thoughts of
Him Who “is love,” because of occasional texts which they cannot fully
understand.

I want very much to write to some of these correspondents, who seem
to me all the dearer because of their troubled minds and the eager
questionings which prove that they are in earnest in their search
after truth. But I cannot answer them here and now. I have so many
pressing duties which cannot be put aside, and which make additional
correspondence most difficult. Dear troubled ones, you are not
forgotten. I ask always that a better help than mine may be given you,
and I want you to look round amongst your friends and think whether
there may not be quite near at hand, some kindly earnest Christian who
will delight in being a comfort and help to you. In one of our old
talks on “confidences,” I gave you some examples of those who went far
afield to find what was really close at hand. In any case, I hope
to write to several of you whose real names and addresses I have, or
through the Correspondence page, with the Editor’s permission.

I must give one or two brief extracts which prove how greatly many of
the members of our “Twilight circle” value such religious communion.
“A periodical is so vastly improved when the spiritual side of one’s
nature is looked after and fed.” “It is most encouraging and cheering
to know that God’s name is upheld in the magazine read by so many girls
as well as those more advanced in life. I get such blessing out of our
little ‘Talks in the Twilight.’ So many would not buy what they call a
‘religious book,’ and these talks give them the opportunity of seeing a
few words from the ‘Book of books’ when they otherwise would not.”

This sweet message came on Christmas morning. “Another year has passed
and we have still been meeting in spirit; and, in the enjoyment of
our ‘Twilight Talks,’ I am sure we must all feel very thankful that we
have been permitted to see another year. I am certain most of us, if
not all, have derived still further good from the loving, spiritual
instruction. E—— is, I am pleased to say, quite a different girl, and,
with God’s help, is continuing to overcome her besetting sins. She
still enjoys the talks, and the first thing each month is to look what
subject has been chosen, so interested is she.” You will all rejoice
with me in knowing that this dear girl’s life has been marvellously
influenced for good by our meetings, and her mother adds, “I, as one
amongst many, thank you for the benefit that has been wrought in our
home. I too have learned many useful things on the duty of a mother to
her children. The work is influencing the older as well as the younger
classes, so there is no limit to the good effected, under God’s
blessing.” I have only touched my pile of letters, and there are such
delightful ones unquoted from—piles of them. What can I do but just add
how truly they are appreciated, and thank all the writers for them, and
God for having stirred them to open their hearts so fully so me?

Who, after reading what I have quoted here and there, will say that
religious teaching is deemed superfluous by, or is other than welcome
to, the dear girls and friends of all ages who meet with me in the
twilight?

I hope to take “Sunday” and “Rest” at one of our meetings, in
compliance with many requests.

To all dear correspondents I send loving thanks, sympathy, and the
assurance that I long to be of use to them. Also the prayer, “May God
bless and help each and all according to their needs.”

(_To be continued._)



GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

BY ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of “Old Maids and Young.”


PART V.

THE GIRL WHO GOES IN FOR ART.

    “To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
    One native charm than all the gloss of art.”—_Goldsmith._

[Illustration]

The last girl of the girl-who-goes-in-for-art type that I have known is
one Norma.

She is owner of a studio having few pictures in it, and those few
indicating that she holds what was Balzac’s view of _le beau_ (_c’est
le laid_). It used to be a point of courtesy to term ugly persons
clever; it has become a point of courtesy to term ugly pictures so.
They offend this girl direfully who do not so term her ugly pictures.

Quite as typical as she is the girl who shares her studio.

Picture to yourself a curiously invertebrate-looking person of some
prettiness of that distinctive type to which the name pre-Raphaelite
is a little vaguely applied, a girl with lips habitually parted and
her tongue much shown, this giving her a foolish look, as the same
thing gave Coleridge a foolish look. Just as Coleridge had, however,
a fine brain, so has this girl. Among a thousand and one affectations
under which she hides her very real cleverness, a leading one is that
which distinguishes her speech. She favours adjectives with the suffix
_some_. “Lovesome” is in high vogue with her. This word found favour
with Chaucer, so it may pass. “Dovesome” is less pleasing, though
it is handy as a rhyme. Other two adjectives in “some” favoured by
the girl who shares Norma’s studio are “oilsome” and “weepsome.” She
apologises for extending an “oilsome” hand; she describes a kindly act
as “weepsome.”

Altogether this girl’s use of descriptive words is very remarkable. She
more rarely has recourse to the French language than her ancestresses
had. The words _recherché_ and _distingué_ are never heard from her;
but, so far from its being true that she taboos French altogether, she
prefers _banal_ to “trite,” and _bourgeois_ to “vulgar.” This thing
is the more regrettable that she pronounces French less well than her
predecessors did.

The vein of censure of the girl who goes in for art is, it is only fair
to say, on the whole mild. Her abomination is the cheap and the shoddy,
but she rarely uses these words because, she says, they pain her
mouth. For _old-fashioned_ she uses preferably “suburban” (pronounced
_s’burban_), or “early-Victorian,” or “rococo.” These words are not
synonymous, but she uses them as synonyms. Finally, her use of the word
“elementary” is interesting. A symmetrical arrangement of wall-pictures
is objected to by her as “elementary.” Symmetry is a thing very
abominable to her.

This girl’s name is Margaret, and she is called in her circle “the
Meg.” The girl who goes in for art is rarely called by her name. This
thing was so ten years ago, when some of us knew a girl whose initials
were W. P., and whose nickname was Willow Pattern.

This girl was lovely and was loved. Her lover was woefully poor, but
that troubled Willow Pattern not at all. He had, she said, “a rich
chin.” They married, and they are to this day as happy as happy can
be. _Nota bene:_ They are still poor, the world says; for the world is
so blind that it has never noticed that Willow Pattern’s husband has a
rich chin.

They manage to eke out a living by picture-painting. If they would
paint portraits they would be somewhat less poor, but they will not do
that. A British matron tells how she once in this matter fared with
Willow Pattern.

“I want you,” said the British matron, “to paint my portrait.”

Said Willow Pattern, “Sorry I can’t do that; but I will make a picture
of you if you like; I shall put a swan in it, and call it ‘Woman and
Swan.’ Do you mind?”

“Well, yes, rather,” admitted the British matron. “I wanted to be done
as just me; but never mind, you shall have the job all the same.”

Said Willow Pattern (gasping), “I beg your pardon.”

[Illustration]

Said the British matron, “Now get out your paints, child, and _do_ me.”

So far there has been nothing said of Lilla. Lilla, by the irony
which often rules in names, is a sallow, shady-lipped girl. Her hair
is dressed in one thin plait worn round the head, and I always see
her as I last saw her—sitting before a cup of cold tea, with the milk
like a mackerel sky on it. She was talking to another girl. I did not
hear their talk, being myself in conversation with the fourth person
present, but I noticed the singular beauty of Lilla’s voice, and here
and there such fragments of quaint inversion as, “Hither came,” “I like
it much,” “Think you?”

Next of kin, mentally, to the girl who goes in for art is the girl who
goes in for art-criticism. This girl sits much with her hands folded
and reads reviews not only of books, but of pictures and concerts.
There is such a girl in London of to-day who never knows how much
or how little she has enjoyed a concert until after perusal of the
subsequent morning’s paper. This girl is aged sixteen.

[Illustration: Going in for Art criticism]

There is such another girl in London upon whom a perfect raid is made
by persons humorous when the Academy exhibition of pictures opens. Most
people, not professional artists, according to this girl, go about
picture-exhibitions idiotically admiring everything. Nothing will
induce her to believe that this spirit of admiration is perhaps not so
much the result of idiotcy as it is the result of a clear consciousness
on the parts of those feeling it that they lack all painting ability
and so may fairly regard, with mingled wonder and delight, the work of
persons who, to state the case for them at the lowest, do not lack all
painting ability.

Sentimental nonsense that, according to the girl who goes in for
art-criticism, and who points out that here the projection of a shadow
is obviously wrong, there the execution is flabby; here the design
is feeble; there the treatment of the lights, while striking, is
technically questionable. If all that came from a girl at first hand,
one would lose all hope of her, but every word of it has been read
where most of us can read it, and a certain _naïveté_ attaches to the
pompous retailing of it, which _naïveté_ is as a saving grace; howbeit
there are persons who will not recognise this fact. It is said of a
great painter living that he “foams at the mouth” when a certain young
girl is named, because she once told him for his encouragement that a
picture of his was in her deeming “beautifully felt;” and there is a
pianist of note who vows that he will remember till his death that a
young English girl informed him that he had “a beautiful finger.” The
jargon of art on the lips of young girls apparently fails to please.

[Illustration: Felt badly]

There is another vein of language which the girl with artistic
tendencies sometimes works, and which equally misses, in some cases,
the desired effect.

“What is your sister like?” asked a boy of another boy recently.

“Oh, she’s one of those girls who jabber about sunsets,” was the
answer. “Want to speak to her?”

“Not me!”

[Illustration: The despiser of sunset]

Wit is not a shining quality of this type of girl, but once in a while
she contrives to be quits with the other person.

“In my days,” said a severe old person some little time ago, “a girl
could only be one of three things: a teacher, a shop-girl, or a
servant-maid. To-day you can be doctor, gardener, whatnot. You have
only to make your choice. My opinion being that you have not the
slightest talent for art, Gladys, let me know what you would like to
be.”

Gladys (piqued): “Of the three things you have named, ‘whatnot’
displeases me least.”

The severe old person smiled.

[Illustration: Two innocents abroad, one being likewise artless]

This sketch shall be brought to a close with a story of two innocents
abroad, one of them having been the girl who goes in for art.

They were evidently trippers—wedding-trippers. This is precisely
what happened. They were standing before a world-famed picture in a
world-famed gallery. I, standing albeit at some distance from them,
seemed to myself to be in fullest evidence; but perhaps I was not.
There were no other persons in the room. The girl said—

“You should not say of a portrait, dear, that it looks as if you could
walk round it. It sounds all right, but it’s the wrong thing to say.”

To which he, smiling—

“Who told you so?”

“Reynolds.”

To which he, no longer smiling—

“Who’s Reynolds?”

“Never heard of Sir Josh——”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t know you meant him. Of course, I’ve heard of him.
What made him say that?”

“I’m not sure; but it may have been that he thought if you saw a real
man you wouldn’t say, ‘He looks as if you could walk round him,’ and of
course you wouldn’t.”

He, smiling anew—

“No, perhaps not.”

“Well, then”—she was now in fine pedagogical vein—“looking at a man or
woman in a picture, you should feel just what you would feel looking at
a real man or woman. That’s what I understand by it, dear.”

“You’re awfully clever, darling, and so was Sir Joshua, no doubt; but
it’s not human nature to feel towards a man or woman in a picture just
what you would feel towards a real man or woman.”

As he said this, the exponent of human nature walked round the girl
by his side, then caught her in his arms and kissed her. When this
demonstration was over, she said—

“It would have been horrid, wouldn’t it, dear, if anything had come
between us and our marriage? You needn’t say ‘yes,’ because I know you
mean it. Besides there’s somebody over there, and perhaps she’s taking
notes.”

Perhaps she was; she was in a public building.

It is one characteristic by which you shall know the girl who goes in
for art, that she and those with whom she by preference associates
behave in public very much as they behave in private. This makes some
frown, and makes some—smile.

(_To be continued._)



THE RULES OF SOCIETY.

BY LADY WILLIAM LENNOX.


PART III.

I left off last time in rather an abrupt fashion: but possibly
the unfinished condition of my article may—on the principle of
serial stories, which always exhibit a certain unexpectedness and
incompleteness in their instalments—have given my readers an appetite,
so that, like Oliver Twist, they are “ready for more.” I will therefore
now proceed to explain what was meant by the “other thing” spoken of at
the end of my paper.

It had reference to what is often felt to be a difficulty with regard
to country house visiting, and consists in not knowing how long to
stay. When, as sometimes happens, the duration of the visit is settled
and plainly mentioned beforehand, it is a real comfort; for if you are
invited for a week, or from such a day to such a day, the dates being
given, there is no room for doubt: you know exactly what is expected
of you and can make plans to suit. But when the invitation is vague
as to its ending, though explicit as to its beginning, and you are
asked to “come on the 8th and stay with us; we shall have a few cheery
people,” it is hard to say for certain whether the traditional three
days, “press day, dress day, and rest day,” as the line runs—though
for my part I fail to see where the “rest” day comes in—are intended
to cover the time of your visit or whether a week is meant. At all
events it is always better to be too short than too long as regards
time when others are concerned besides yourself. A prolix, long-winded
individual is invariably fled from when he begins to speak, and anybody
who gets a reputation for outstaying his or her welcome is not likely
to be asked much anywhere. It would be terrible to be known as “that
woman who can never be got rid of when she once comes.” Far better is
it to arrange for a short visit, and then, should your hostess really
wish you to pay a longer one, she can say so and try to persuade you
to alter your plans on her behalf. But, unless it is quite clear that
your company is still desired, it is wise to keep to your original
intention, because sometimes politeness, carried perhaps rather beyond
what is necessary, may be misunderstood, as really occurred on one
occasion when some people who had paid an unreasonably long visit were
leaving the house at last, to the relief of their entertainers. An
unlucky impulse prompted the hostess to say, “Good-bye, must you really
go?” Whereupon, to her dismay, the departing guests turned with a smile
and said, “Oh no, we are not really obliged to go just yet,” and they
actually stayed. Here again we may take counsel of the wisest of Books
which says, “Remove thy foot from thy neighbour’s house lest he grow
weary and hate thee.”

While on this subject it may be well to remark that the same rule
applies to all visits, even what are called “morning” visits—calls made
because they must be made more than with the idea of any pleasure to
be evolved therefrom. The temptation to remain too long in such cases
is, of course, not great, but it does not follow necessarily that the
visitor goes just when she ought. Shyness, a sort of difficulty in
finding the right moment in which to get up and say good-bye, perhaps
sometimes a feeling that you have seemed stupid and dull, and that you
must try and sparkle somewhat before you go, to take away the bad
impression given of your abilities; all sorts of little under-currents
common to human nature seem at times to hamper people and make them do
_gauche_ things, among them being that of sitting on when they ought to
leave.

Even if you are with a friend, not an ordinary acquaintance, and have
lunched with her, it is better to make a move to depart soon after; for
although you may have nothing particular to do that day, she may have,
and in London especially there is such a pressure of things which must
be got through somehow that few of us can afford to let our afternoon
slip away, and with it the chance of seeing such a person, going to
such a shop, writing important letters, etc., etc.

Now I will return to the country house, to make a few observations,
this time not to the visitors, but to the visited; and, as I have all
through my articles tried to make it clear that I do not address myself
to people who live in luxury, I wish to repeat that fact, and to say
that I have not “in my mind’s eye” a magnificent castle with everything
to match, but a house on a modest scale and establishment ditto.

You, inhabiting a nice, comfortable abode of the kind, have bidden some
guests to come and stay; perhaps for an “At Home” in the neighbourhood,
perhaps with no special object in view; but the country is pretty,
they can walk or “bike,” and there is the pony-carriage and possibly a
dog-cart, useful for men in the shooting-season.

Well, first I hope you have not asked too many, for, except in the case
of very young girls who have scarcely been out anywhere, and to whom
a gathering means Elysium, never mind what inconveniences in the shape
of an over full house—sofas to sleep upon and hardly room to dress
in—are attached to it, nobody likes discomfort, and cramming ten people
in where there is only space for eight, or less, does not conduce
to comfort. Besides, too many guests means too few servants for the
unwonted crowd, and consequently work has to be hurried through and, in
artistic parlance, “scamped.”

Then you have dust not only lurking in corners but coming boldly
forth to view on carpets and furniture, glass and china dull and
knives ditto, flowers drooping, half-dead for want of water; in fact
a complete absence of those details which spell first cleanliness and
then charm in a house, and, taking them as a whole, make the difference
between enjoyment of daily life and the mere endurance of it for the
sake of some brilliant hours in prospect.

It is the business of a hostess to see that her staff of servants is
equal to the demands made upon it, and then to exact thoroughness in
the work done; outside which there remain many small matters for her
personal attention, such as putting writing materials in the bedrooms,
cards on which are printed the hours for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
and the arrival and departure of the post; and if in addition to this a
time-table of trains to and from London is annexed, it will be found of
great value in sparing somebody the headache which so often accompanies
a prolonged study of Bradshaw. A few books also, suited to the tastes
of whoever is to occupy the room, should always be left on a shelf or
table. They look comfortable and are generally appreciated.

The mistress of a house must of course show a pleasant countenance of
welcome to her visitors, and should be quick to notice little signs
of fatigue in the elders, contriving to spare them too much talking
when they ought to be resting, without at all suggesting that repose
was needful because they are not quite as young as they were, a thing
which nobody likes to believe patent to an ordinary observer. With the
younger members of the party she must be as bright and “full of life”
as her physical and mental constitution will allow; ready to make plans
for amusement, and as far as circumstances admit, arrange them to suit
the different dispositions of her guests; not forcing the naturally
inactive ones to join in outdoor games, scramble through woods, or
take part in picnics when a chilly wind is blowing, and black clouds
render precautionary umbrellas and waterproofs necessary items in the
outfit; nor, on the other hand, obliging the athletic, to whom movement
is indispensable and good bracing air a regular “pick-me-up,” to sit
in the house because the weather is bad, when they are really longing
to don thick boots and defy the elements with the weapons of youth and
health.

But while trying your best to provide some sort of amusement for your
guests, never forget to “leave well alone,” and your visitors also.
If there is one thing more objectionable than another to many people,
it is being “hiked about,” and told to go here and there, or do this
and that, when they do not want either to go to or do the place or
thing suggested. Talleyrand once said to a man who asked counsel of
him respecting a project he had very much at heart, “_Surtout pas trop
de zèle_,” and that advice it is well to bear in mind. We all know the
proverb, “One may have too much of a good thing,” and “zeal,” excellent
in itself, is apt if over-much indulged to become a nuisance to the
object if not the subject thereof.

The hostess who, with the best intentions, insists on driving her
friends even to things they like doing, who says, “Now I know what
will suit you—the old ruins. We will go there to-day, and to-morrow is
the Gymkana. We must all go there. Headache, did you say? Oh, I thought
you never had headaches, but anyhow a nice little drive just to the
ruins can’t hurt. In fact the air will do you good. Now, you, I know
you would rather stay in, so take that comfortable chair, and there’s
your book, I put it ready for you, and there’s the _Morning Post_, or
would you like the _Times_ better?” and so on _ad infinitum_, is a
person to be dreaded. “Kind woman,” say her friends behind her back,
“but, oh, if she would only leave us alone!”

The essence of good manners, indeed, is to make things as pleasant
as possible by letting people follow their own bent and inclination;
giving them the chance of joining in something which may be agreeable,
but dropping the subject at once if it does not seem to be attractive.
Closely connected with this is manner itself, about which it may be
said perhaps, “People cannot help their manner.”

That is true to a certain extent but not entirely, for a good manner
may be cultivated and a bad one discouraged just as flowers may be
watered and attended to and weeds rooted out. When I speak of a good
manner, I do not mean that specially soft demeanour which reminds one
somewhat of a cat and is often accompanied by a little delicately
hinted flattery of the person spoken to, although such manner is seldom
thrown away, human nature being very prone to approve of flattery under
the guise of appreciation. But I do mean gentleness as contrasted
with anything like roughness or _brusquerie_. The Latin expression
“_Suaviter in modo_” conveys the idea better than any words I know,
and, in women particularly, short sharp ways of speaking, over-strong,
almost violent, expressions of opinion, and what may be called unoiled
words of contradiction, are disagreeable in themselves and dead against
every rule and custom of society. If we possess a hand of steel, let
us hide it in a velvet glove. The strength will be in no wise impaired
thereby, while our neighbours will be less sensible of the hardness.

I must now say a word with regard to a curious mistake made sometimes
even by people who certainly ought to know better. The mistake is in
leaving out part of a person’s name whether in speaking or writing.
If, for example, a man is called “Lord Frederick Smith,” or a woman
“Lady Mary or Lady Edward Jones,” the Christian name must always be
heard: not omitted in favour of the surname only. Indeed very often
the former need only be mentioned, but the latter alone must never be.
“Lord Smith” or “Lady Jones,” in the cases adduced above would be quite
incorrect, but, strange to say, the error is not seldom committed.

Finally I will turn to the subject of most women’s pleasure and
difficulty, dress. That is to say, dress when staying in country
houses, for with respect to London there is no occasion to offer any
observations, every woman being a law unto herself, limited only by her
own taste and purse. But I know that sometimes, if a visit is imminent,
the question “What clothes shall I take?” presents itself to the mind
in the light rather of a puzzle far from easy to unravel, especially
if ways and means are not remarkable for abundance. Naturally every
girl and woman likes to look her best when staying away with the chance
of meeting strangers and making a good or bad impression, and in the
case of women who have reached the summer or autumn of life, there is
one comparatively simple mode of lessening the toilette problem, which
is to wear black. Black in good condition, be it understood, because
shabby black has about it suggestions of poverty and supreme effort,
which are neither becoming nor exhilarating. But silk, satin, velvet,
any material really handsome, and lightened by lace and jet, can go
anywhere unashamed, while for morning gowns cashmere, foulard, and that
haven of refuge, the ubiquitous serge, always look well and do not date
themselves too obviously. As for hats and bonnets, everybody can please
themselves, remembering, however, that one hat should be fit to stand
rain, as nothing has a worse effect than bedraggled ostrich feathers,
or artificial flowers and gauze or chiffon crushed flat by a downpour.
A short skirt is also an essential, and perhaps, if the purse is as
short as the gown, an economy may be arrived at by having two skirts of
different length to wear with the same coat. Neat boots of course “go
without saying,” and plenty of gloves, a strong pair or two for every
day and a store of pretty ones for occasions when they will be wanted.
Tweeds and serges, cottons and foulards to suit the season—and the age
of the wearer—are the best materials for morning frocks whether in
black or colour. Silks and satins are quite out of it in the country
except for evening. Tea-gowns _versus_ regular dinner dresses is a
question to which an answer vague as those of the Delphic Oracle can
only be given, for the excellent reason that the custom in one house
is no guide to it in another in the matter. At some places when the
party is small and quiet, tea-gowns are quite in order even at dinner,
but in others those comfortable garments are relegated to their proper
sphere, appearing only at five o’clock tea, the wearers blossoming
forth at a later hour in the smartest and most up-to-date of toilettes.
Tea-jackets answer the purpose of tea-gowns, but one or other should be
packed, although it may chance after all to stay in the wardrobe, never
being required either at tea or dinner.

Some pretty frocks which would do alike for party or dinner must be
taken, and a few odds and ends of ribbon, bits of lace and sprays
of artificial flowers, in case real ones are not to be had from the
gardener, come in useful especially if an impromptu fancy dress dinner
is arranged, and “the shop” in the village, with its stock-in-trade
varying from candles and ironmongery to very thin cottony ribbons of
abnormal hues, bunches of scarlet geranium, and poppies with woolly
buds, is the only place where anything can be got.

In deciding what to take and what to leave behind, space necessarily
must be considered, and it is astonishing the quantity of things
one person will bring out of a box, almost like a conjuror and his
inexhaustible hat, while another woman can hardly make the same sized
receptacle hold half that number of articles. The difference comes
partly from natural genius and partly from habit. In any case it is
better to take two or three trunks of moderate dimensions than one
mountain, which taxes the strength of even railway-porters, and makes
servants look askance when they see a sort of elephant in the hall,
waiting to be transported somehow upstairs. More than all, have your
luggage tidy, locks secure, straps ditto. Bags and portmanteaus have
a way of getting out of order, as regards the spring. I have seen
specimens of both, strapped certainly, but not really locked, so that
an aperture was visible all along the top, which should have been
closed, and I have felt sorry for the owners.

These details, although they seem hardly in touch with my subject,
are yet not entirely unconnected with it, inasmuch as one rule is to
encourage things pleasant, and avoid, or ignore, things disagreeable.
The wheels of daily life run over rough as well as smooth ground, and
the inevitable jars and concussions would be even more apparent than
they are, were it not for the oil provided by the Rules of Society.



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

SEPTEMDECIM.—Probably you will go on growing for five years longer.
Besides which 5 feet 4 inches is not so very short for a woman. It is a
very good medium height. It is extremely probable that you will put on
another couple of inches, and that in a few years you will be writing
to ask us how to get shorter.

MISERABLE.—You are quite right in ascribing a purely mental cause
for your trouble. Blushing is almost always due to mental and not to
physical causes. The form that your complaint takes is one of the
commonest we have to deal with. As the cause is purely mental, so the
treatment must be solely a matter of mental education. A short time ago
we published an article on blushing, dealing especially with the kind
of blushing from which you suffer. In that article we gave suggestions
for the suppression of self-consciousness—the factor _par excellence_
of the commoner varieties of blushing and nervousness.

ENIGMA.—There is no such disease as “gastric fever.” This name used to
be given to various forms of slight fever accompanied with symptoms
referable to the stomach or bowels. Most cases of “gastric fever” were,
in reality, mild attacks of typhoid fever. Acute indigestion was also
not infrequently labelled gastric fever—an inappropriate term, for in
acute indigestion there is practically no fever. The term “gastric
fever” is not now used by medical men.

LAL.—The symptoms that you detail to us are capable of many
explanations. The two most definite and important signs are occasional
blood-spitting and shortness of breath when going up a hill. Are you
sure that you do cough up blood? Most probably your troubles are simply
due to chronic catarrh of the throat, but they may be dependent upon
some mischief in the chest. Anyhow, you should have your chest examined
before doing anything else.

DYSPEPTIC.—The bismuth lozenge of the British Pharmacopœia contains
two grains of subnitrate of bismuth, precipitated chalk, and carbonate
of magnesia, together with mucilage, etc. It is very useful for
indigestion, especially when there is a tendency to vomiting. The great
use of these lozenges lies in the ease with which they can be carried
about. When there is no tendency to sickness, lozenges of bicarbonate
of soda or soda-mint are preferable to bismuth lozenges.

SEEKING ADVICE.—The “small pimples” on your face are manifestations
of acne. We have so frequently discussed this trouble that we cannot
again enter into a full description of its cause and cure. Wash your
face with warm water and sulphur soap, and every evening apply sulphur
ointment to the place where the pimples are most numerous. Wash away
the ointment in the morning and squeeze out a few of the most prominent
spots. You are at the age for acne, but with a little care you are not
likely to be troubled for long with it. For your hands, wash in warm
water and use sulphur soap. Always wear thick gloves when you go out.
We published a small article on the care of the hands some few weeks
ago.

SCOTCH LASSIE.—Your trouble is due either to indigestion or to anæmia,
or to nervousness, or possibly to disease of the heart. Without
examining your chest it is beyond the power of any mortal to say which
of these various affections is troubling you. Our advice is, therefore,
go to your doctor and have your chest examined. You may be disappointed
with this curt reply, but it is far more valuable advice than you
imagine.

TEETHING.—There are four wisdom teeth. One on each side of both upper
and lower jaws. They are called wisdom teeth because they do not
develop until mature years. The first to appear is usually the one in
the right side of the lower jaw. This usually appears between the ages
of twenty and twenty-two. The wisdom teeth develop in nearly everybody,
not only in those who are wise. Nor does the early appearance of the
teeth indicate superior mental powers. Indeed, savages and idiots
usually have the best teeth. Sometimes they do decay very soon, but
very often they remain as sound serviceable teeth until the end.

A LOVER OF DANCING.—A large vein in the leg is not necessarily a
varicose vein, but most probably it is so or will become so in time. A
varicose vein is a diseased vein. It is very common, indeed, to have
varicose veins in one leg only. If so the left leg is the more commonly
affected. Is it your left leg which is affected? Exercise in the form
of dancing for a few minutes every morning would be distinctly good
for varicose veins. It is standing and sitting which are bad. The best
thing for you to do is to get an elastic stocking for the leg. Let
the stocking be one or two inches higher than the highest point where
the vein extends. If you wear an elastic stocking, varicose veins are
not dangerous, but if they are left untreated they cause very serious
troubles.

MONA.—Have the tooth removed. Teeth growing out of place are quite
useless, and are ugly and uncomfortable. No. The condition is not at
all uncommon.

ANXIOUS MOTHER.—The question of the causation of tuberculosis by milk
is the most important question in modern preventive medicine; for not
only is tuberculosis the most common and most fatal disease of man,
but milk is the staple food of infancy and sickness—the two states
in which we are most prone to harbour germs of this terrible malady.
To the public mind tuberculosis is synonymous with consumption of
the lungs, but this is only one of its manifestations. Brain fever
(tuberculosis of the brain) is a common and invariably fatal disease.
The joint troubles known as “white swelling,” “hip disease,” and
very many others are due to tuberculosis. The so-called “scrofulous”
glands, which disfigure and undermine the health of so many of our
children, are due to tuberculosis. The worst and most fatal form of
diarrhœa is due to tuberculosis of the bowels. No organ in the body
is exempt from the ravages of this disease. We look with righteous
horror at the plague, or the various fevers which occasionally decimate
our towns and villages, but these are as nothing when compared with
the ravages of tuberculosis. Unlike the fevers which destroy life in
a few days, tuberculosis usually takes months, often years, to kill
its victims. Slowly, but surely, this terrible malady eats away the
human organs till the unfortunate sufferers die of exhaustion, or from
an intercurrent malady. To say that medical science can always cure
tuberculosis would be very far from the truth, but it can and does
rescue millions of sufferers from the disease. And it can, and in the
future it will, do much to prevent the disease from gaining an entrance
to the body. The disease is caused by a microbe, an infinitesimal atom
of jelly, which cannot even move; but it can, and does, multiply by
splitting in two, at an incredible rate. As regards the prevention
of this scourge, the first question we must consider is, where does
this dreadful organism come from? Suffice it for your question that
the organism is frequently found in milk. True, it is only in the
milk of tubercular animals that these organisms are found, but it is
not always possible to tell whether a cow has tuberculosis. And so,
notwithstanding every precaution, tubercular milk does get into your
milk-jug and that can scarcely be prevented; but you can prevent the
organisms from finding their way into you or your child’s body by
the simple expedient of boiling the milk. If you boil milk it cannot
give you tuberculosis. Now, we dare say you think that we might have
said this at once, and not wasted half a column of valuable space in
detailing the horrors of tuberculosis. Had we done this you would
probably not have paid any attention to our warning. It is only by
forcible illustration that we can impress the mind with the immense
value of attention to trifling details. And the importance of this
detail may be gauged when we aver that a law to enforce persons boiling
their milk would probably save more lives than the invention of ships
which could not possibly be injured by wind or weather, or of railway
trains which could not collide.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

D. E. N. S.—1. We cannot tell you of any French lady who would exchange
correspondence lessons with you. But why not insert your name in our
“International Correspondence” column?—2. Mudie’s Library, or Smith’s,
extend their operations to country districts. For light reading, you
might try one of these.

LAUREL.—We have read your letter with great sympathy. We cannot give
a direct “yes” or “no” to your question, as so much depends on the
individual habit of mind. Would you not like to read a good translation
(_e.g._, Longfellow’s) of Dante’s “Divine Comedy” on Sunday? We
certainly think you should employ your scanty leisure to the best
advantage; but there are many great poets who are so spiritual in tone,
that there could be no doubt as to the fitness of studying them on this
day.

SEMPER IDEM.—1. You do not give us your address, but there are plenty
of classes in London for type-writing; address The Secretary, Board of
Technical Instruction, St. Martin’s Lane, W.C. The art appears to be
very quickly learned as a rule.—2. Your quotation,

    “Boys, flying kites, haul in their white-winged birds,
    You can’t do that way when you’re flying words,”

is from “The First Settler’s Story” in Will Carleton’s _Farm Ballads_.

EDWIN C. R. LANGLEY.—Many thanks for your kind suggestion. We
remembered Longfellow’s mention of St. Augustine; but Tennyson, though
his thought is similar, does not mean St. Augustine, or even Longfellow
by

                  “Him who sings
    To one clear harp in divers tones.”

Our information, that the poet referred to was Goethe, comes from one
who had asked Tennyson himself.

COLLEEN BAWN.—1. Your story is graphically written and shows you to
have a certain power of description. The criticism—not, as you suggest,
a severe one—which we should be disposed to offer is this:—That you
are inclined towards an excess of sentimentality. Why should the
curate have felt “everything was changed for him” after the scene in
the church? “Miss Amy” had given him no cause whatever, so far as the
reader can observe, for any such despair. And his dying in the snow
is unnecessarily tragic. A sensible man, accustomed to traverse the
parish in all weathers, would have guarded against losing his way on
such a night as you describe, probably by remaining under shelter at
the cottage till daylight, if no guide could be found. One feels that
the man’s life is quite needlessly sacrificed for the sake of forcing
the pathos. We should not have said all this, had not your story shown
some signs of talent, and if you are neglecting no duty by writing, we
should advise you to persevere.—2. Your handwriting is good, and you
appear to understand the art of punctuation, which is by no means a
matter of course.

FROG.—1. We should advise you to write to George Philip & Son,
publishers, London, for a full catalogue of geographical works of
every sort at a low price. Doubtless any bookseller would procure this
catalogue for you.—2. We should consider that no soap can be of any
possible use in reducing weight. Plenty of exercise and proper diet are
the best remedies.

WHITE ASTER.—1. We do not consider your handwriting good. The backward
slope is not to be admired, and in addition to this defect, it is very
irregular and untidy.—2. We have heard that a coating of varnish is
sufficient for the purpose you name, but have never tried it.

MISS E. K. SIBBALD (Canada).—Many thanks for sending the extract
stating that “Puss” is a modern form of the Egyptian “Pasht”—a name
given by the ancient Egyptians to the moon, and also to the cat, of
which they made an idol. The cat’s face was supposed to resemble the
moon “because she was more bright at night, and because her eyes change
just as the moon changes, which is sometimes full and sometimes a
bright crescent or half moon.”

CLISSOLD.—All we can suggest is that you should apply to the director
or organizing secretary for technical education in your district,
asking him where you can obtain instruction in “black and white.” We
believe that the address for Halifax would be W. Vibart Dixon, Esq.,
West Riding Offices, Wakefield. He would perhaps help you. Did you
read Mrs. Watson’s articles on “What are the County Councils doing for
Girls”? (THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, 1897.) We advise you to refer to them.

E. G. M.—Your poem on the “Dying Child” is incorrect in metre. From
verse to verse the lines vary; for instance, your ear can tell you that
these lines are not alike—

    “Oh, weary watcher! thy care is all in vain.”

    “Relentless watcher, thy name is Death.”

Yet both lines occupy the same place in the verse. “The Phantom Bell”
is much better, so far as form goes; but not quite accurate, and we
fear you would scarcely be able to find a publisher for it. You should
study the laws of versification.

MISS NICHOLLS.—1. We cannot insert your requirements in full; but are
willing to say that any reader, not under twenty-four, acquainted with
German, French, and either painting or music (the latter preferred),
who feels she would like to work with another lady in teaching and
share her house, may write to you for further details.—2. Your poems
are very fairly good, especially the translations. The first two
verses of the Italian specimen do you credit. We also proceed to
notice, at your request, A Romance Languages Club, Secretary, Miss
Nicholls, Laburnum Villa, Leamington. “The club is designed to promote
the intelligent study of the Romance Languages—French, Italian,
Spanish and Portuguese. Every member must study French and one other
language—Italian, Spanish or Portuguese; but if a member wishes to
work at three or all four languages, she will be at liberty to do so.
On receipt of a stamped addressed envelope a trial lesson will be sent
free to anyone.” Further particulars may be obtained on application.

SELECTA and FIRST CLASS of FRÄULEIN GREEN’S SCHOOL, HAMBURG.—We are
very glad, dear girls, to hear that our paper finds its way to you and
gives you pleasure. You must have made excellent progress in English
when you can read it as a recreation, not merely as a lesson. We
should like to encourage you to persevere. Germans have understood and
commented upon our greatest author, Shakespeare, better even than we
English have done, and we owe your country a great literary debt. We
hope that in days to come you may each be able to appreciate, not only
the great books of your own country, but the great books of ours—and
then you will never regret any toil or trouble spent in learning the
English language.


MISCELLANEOUS.

AN OLD SUBSCRIBER.—Visiting-cards, as such, should not be sent by
post under any circumstances. The enclosure of cards with a piece of
wedding-cake only serves to indicate whence the latter comes. They are
not sent as visiting-cards.

SCIENTIST.—The writer of the articles on “House-Mottoes” has been
questioned on the subject of the old house in Lancashire, known as
“Bradley Hall.” That it may be identified as being reduced to the
position of a farm-house is all she can suggest. She was not aware
that any other ancient country seats existed in Lancashire, all of
them known by the same name; and is surprised to hear that there are
“several.” “The Herald’s Visitations” of the county might afford the
information required.

ETHELINDA writes a good legible free hand.

OUR DICK.—The game called “kiss-in-the-ring” is not one played by the
higher classes of society. Amongst others less reserve is unfortunately
permitted. In any case such familiarity between young men and women is
inexpedient. Blues, greens, and violet are the colours which best suit
red or chestnut hair.

E. E. MORGAN.—We thank you for your list of places where used
postage-stamps may be sent for the benefit of the Asylum for Girls
at Le Locle, Neuchâtel, Switzerland. We are well acquainted with the
“Asile des Billodes,” and have often both written about it in the
“G. O. P.,” but contribute largely to it annually, direct to a native
friend. However, we will give our readers two addresses, with which you
have favoured us, viz., the Swiss Home, Mechlenburg Square, W.C., and
Messrs. Loizeaux Bros., 63, Fourth Avenue, New York. We inquired of a
Swiss friend how such stamps were made available for the benefit of the
charity, and she said she believed, though she was not sure, that they
were sent to Nuremberg for the purpose of making _papier maché_. We
give her conjecture for what it may be worth.

HAHA.—If the dust coming out of the wood you name be consequent on
“dry-rot”—a decay of the wood—it is connected with the growth of a
minute plant belonging to the tribe of _fungi_, which spreads with
wonderful rapidity, and feeds on the juice of the wood. Of course,
if the wood be infested with vermin, you can ascertain that fact for
yourself by examining it with a microscope, and observing any movement,
if there be such.

EXCELSIOR.—The character begins to be formed in early childhood, but
the judgment takes a good many years to come to maturity, and in some
not till five-and-twenty or later, and remains defective the whole life
through with others. From the character of your letter, we should say
that your state of health has a great influence on your excitable and
unhappy frame of mind. You are also striving by fits and starts to “be
good” in your own strength, instead of telling your Heavenly Father
your temptations, doubts, and frequent falls, and asking for the help
of the Holy Spirit. He has said, “My grace is sufficient for thee; for
My strength shall be made perfect in weakness.” Pray for grace to look
away from self and its insufficiency to Christ, Who hath “borne our
sins,” and “by Whose stripes we are healed.” Live from day to day; do
not forestall temptations and imaginary failures. “Sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof.”

W. A. B. E.—The “best man” leads out the bride’s eldest sister (or
first bridesmaid), and the others may follow escorted by the other
gentlemen near relatives (single men). The bride cuts the cake in the
first instance, and she deputes any of the young men—brother or “best
man”—to cut up what is required.



“MY FAVOURITE CONTRIBUTORS” COMPETITION.


EACH reader of this paper is asked to select Ten Contributors from the
Portrait Gallery, which we present with our Thousandth Number, and to
write us an interesting letter telling us, as though from friend to
friend, which writings of her favourite contributors please her most.

Begin the letter, which may be short or long, and which may be written
on any kind and size of paper preferred by the writer, with the words—

    MY DEAR MR. EDITOR,

    My favourite contributors are—

    1st.________________

    And what I have enjoyed most are—— (with any remarks of the
    competitor’s own which she may wish to make).

    2nd.________________

    And so on.

        _Full signature_ ____________
            _Address_ _______________

The ten letters which satisfy the Editor most will be awarded a prize
of ONE GUINEA each, so there will be ten of these prizes. There will
also be ten prizes of HALF-A-GUINEA each (making twenty prizes in all),
and a list of Honourable Mention.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last day for receiving the letters will be May Day, 1899, and no
letters can be returned to the writers.



OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.

“WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME.”

A STORY IN MINIATURE.


FIRST PRIZE (£2 2s.).

Letitia E. May, Tremayne, Alton, Hants.


SECOND PRIZE (£1 1s.).

Miss A. G. Pike, 21, Beatrice Avenue, Plymouth.


THIRD PRIZE (10s. 6d.).

Bessie Hine, 508, West Green Road, South Tottenham.


HONOURABLE MENTION.

“Dalkeith,” Southsea; Helen A. Rickards, Monmouth; Lucy Richardson,
York; Relda Hofman, Paris; Ada A. Gage, Norwich; “Felicity,” Harwich,
Essex; E. Jackson, Bow, E.; Lottie Hardy, Redcliffe Road, South
Kensington; Margaret Rudd, Anerley; Edith Matthew, Beckenham; Elizabeth
Rogers, Tramore, Co. Waterford; Florence L. Berry, Worcester; Florence
Bensted, Deal; Alice E. Graves, Roscrea, Co. Tipperary; Lucy Bourne,
Winchester; “Edythe,” Boscombe, Hants.

       *       *       *       *       *


FIRST PRIZE ESSAY.

“WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME.”

From childhood Harry Millbrooke resolved to marry Chatty Reeve when his
ship came home. Now, Chatty declines to face the drudgery and monotony
of domestic life. Harry regrets that she is influenced by her sister’s
family worries, but he will not say good-bye to the old dream. Chatty
determines to be a strong-minded spinster seeking her fortune in
London where employment on the staff of a journal is promised by Joan
Atherstone. Leaving Harry amidst the ruins of his fairy palace, she
bids farewell to Audrey Woodville whose ship has come home with a lover
who, after seven years’ absence, seeks his freedom. Audrey soars above
her own trial, warns Chatty that she will not find the wilderness a
paradise, and cheers Harry by assuring him that his ship will come home.

Chatty is disillusioned in London. The boarding-house is crowded. Some
of its inmates are noisy and selfish. Poverty and care are stamped
on all faces. Existence is a sad, despairing struggle. Joan forsakes
the office in the Strand for a bicycle tour, and leaves Chatty to
endure the burden of extra work in a stifling atmosphere. The country
girl pines for the fresh breezes and sparkling waves of Northsea.
She perceives the blessings she has cast away and the home she has
despised. Chatty is lonely when Phœbe goes to keep house for an uncle,
and after Esther’s wedding she feels an out-of-date regret that while
her friend is happy on the old lines, she is unhappy on the new.

The climax comes. Faint and bewildered in crossing the street, Chatty
regains consciousness in a hospital. When welcomed to her sister’s home
she has changed from a self-reliant girl to a reserved woman. Barbara
and Edward Purcell are very kind to her, and she resumes her post of
governess, but all the old ties cannot be renewed so easily. Harry
Millbrooke is in Copenhagen, and his mother has adopted pretty Etta
Churton. Chatty reflects with a sigh that when her ship came home she
sent it again to sea.

One balmy autumn day Harry returns and finds Chatty on the sea-shore.
“Has my ship come home?” he asks. The answer is, “Yes, with torn sail
and almost a wreck! But I know where my true haven is. I never want to
go back to the waves of this troublesome world. I am safe in port at
last.”

So this story, which our beloved authoress has woven round an
attractive title, depicts the spirit of the age—the cry for emancipated
womanhood, and ends to the happy music of wedding bells.



OUR NEXT STORY COMPETITION.

STORIES IN MINIATURE.

_Subject:_—“THE G. O. P. SUPPLEMENT FOR MARCH.”


THE DEAF GIRL NEXT DOOR.

BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE (A DEAF WRITER), Author of “Her Highland
Laddie,” etc.

We offer three prizes of TWO GUINEAS, ONE GUINEA, and HALF-A-GUINEA
for the three best papers on our “Story Supplement” for this month.
The essays are to give a brief account of the plot and action of the
story in the Competitor’s own words; in fact, each paper should be a
carefully-constructed _Story in Miniature_, telling the reader in a few
bright words what THE GIRL’S OWN STORY SUPPLEMENT for the month is all
about.

One page of foolscap only is to be written upon, and is to be signed
by the writer, followed by her full address, and posted to The Editor,
GIRL’S OWN PAPER, in an unsealed envelope, with the words “Stories in
Miniature” written on the left-hand top corner.

The last day for receiving the papers is March 20th; and no papers can
in any case be returned.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Examiners:_—The Author of the Story (Helen Marion Burnside), and the
Editor of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 350: artifical to artifical—“artificial flowers”.]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1000, February 25, 1899" ***

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