Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 366, January 1, 1887
Author: Various
Language: English
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NO. 366, JANUARY 1, 1887 ***



[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 366.      JANUARY 1, 1887.      PRICE ONE PENNY.]



NEW YEAR’S GIFTS.

BY MARY ROWLES.


    “Oh, bonny New Year, pray tell me true,
      While your birthday bells are ringing,
    What beautiful work have you come to do?
    How much of joy shall we find in you?
    In your wallet of blessings, all fresh and new,
      What fairy gifts are you bringing?”

    “For field and garden, asleep in the cold,
      A wonderful store I carry,
    Fresh robes for the snowdrops, first to unfold,
    Pink ruffs for the daisies, fair to behold,
    New cups for the crocuses, yellow as gold,
      Wherein shall the sunbeams tarry.

    “The woods I will clothe in vestures bright,
      Whose work shall be mine own doing,
    Anemones there shall be found in white,
    And bluebells ring by day and by night,
    And girlies warble with new delight,
      Old songs of loving and wooing!”

    “But what do you bring, oh blithe New Year,
      To human sorrow and sadness?”
    “For shrouded lives, an horizon clear,
    For hearts that are desolate, friendship dear,
    For midnight sufferers, starlight cheer,
      And morrows of peace and gladness.

    “To those who have climbed when barely shod,
      New guerdons for brave endeavour,
    New flowers to bloom on the graveyard sod,
    New visions of heavenly heights untrod,
    Yea, the gifts I bring are the gifts of God,
      And of love that shall last for ever!”

[Illustration: “OLD SONGS.”]

_All rights reserved._]



MERLE’S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.


CHAPTER XII.

GAY CHERITON.

I was afraid Mrs. Markham did not understand children. Nothing would
induce Reggie to let her kiss him; he beat her off in his usual
fashion, with a sulky “go, go,” and hid his face on my shoulder. I
could see this vexed her immensely, for she had praised his beauty in
most extravagant terms.

Joyce listened with a perplexed expression on her face.

“Have you ever seed an angel, Aunt Adda?” this being her childish
abbreviation of Adelaide.

“Dear me, nurse! how badly the child speaks. She is more than six
years old, you say. Why my Rolf is only seven, and speaks beautifully!
What did you say, Joyce?”—very sharply—“seen an angel? What unhealthy
nonsense to put into a child’s head! This comes of new-fangled ideas
on your mother’s part”—with a glance in my direction. “No, child! of
course not. No one has seen an angel.”

Joyce looked so shocked at this that I hastened to interpret Mrs.
Markham’s speech.

“No one sees angels now, Joyce; not as the good people in the Bible
used to see them; perhaps we are not good enough. But what put angels
into your head, my dear?”

“Only Aunt Adda said Reggie was like an angel, and I thought she had
seed one. What is a cherub, nurse, dear? Something good to eat?”

I saw a smile hovering on Mrs. Markham’s thin lips. Evidently she
found Joyce amusing, but just then a loud peevish voice was distinctly
audible in the passage.

“Mother, mother, I say! Go away, Juddy, I tell you. You are a nasty
disagreeable old cat—and I will go to mother”—this accompanied by
ominous kicks.

I signed to Hannah to take the children into the adjoining room. It was
Reggie’s bedtime, and Joyce was tired with her journey. The door was
scarcely closed upon them before the same violent kicking was heard
against the nursery door.

“It is only Rolf. I am afraid he is very cross,” observed Mrs. Markham,
placidly, shivering a little after the fashion of people who have lived
in India, as she moved away from the open window, and drew a lace scarf
round her. “Judson is such a bad manager. She never does contrive to
amuse him, or keep him quiet.”

“He will frighten Reggie,” I remonstrated, for she did not offer to
stop the noise, and I went quickly to the door.

There was a regular scuffle going on in the passage. A little boy in
Highland dress was endeavouring to escape from a young woman, who was
holding him back from the door with some difficulty.

“Master Rolf—Master Rolf, what will your mamma say? You will make her
head ache, and then you will be sorry.”

“I shan’t be a bit sorry, Juddy, I tell you! I will go in, and——” Here
he stopped and stared up in my face. He was a pale, sickly-looking
child, rather plain, as Miss Cheriton had said, but he had beautiful
grey eyes, only they were sparkling with anger. The young woman who
held him by the arm had a thin, careworn face—probably her post was a
harassing one, with an exacting mistress and that spoilt boy.

“Who are you?” demanded the boy, rudely.

“I am Miss Fenton, the nurse,” I returned. “Your little cousins are
just going to bed, and I cannot have that noise to disturb them.”

“I shall kick again, unless you let me come in and see them.”

“For shame, Master Rolf. Whatever makes you so naughty to-night?”

“I mean to be naughty. Hold your stupid old tongue, Juddy. You are a
silly woman. That is what mother calls you. I am a gentleman, and shall
be naughty if I like. Now then, Mrs. Nurse, may I come in?”

“Not to-night, Master Rolf. To-morrow, if you are good.”

“Nurse,” interrupted Mrs. Markham’s voice, behind me, “I do not
know what right you have to exclude my boy. Let him come in and bid
good-night to his cousins. You will behave prettily, Rolf, will you
not?”

One look at the surly face before me made me incredulous of any pretty
behaviour on Rolf’s part. I knew Joyce was a nervous child, and easily
frightened, and already the loud voices were upsetting Reggie. I could
hear him crying, in spite of Hannah’s coaxing. I felt I must be firm.
The nursery was my private domain. I was determined Rolf should not
cross the threshold to-night.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I returned quickly, “I cannot have the
children disturbed at bedtime; it is against Mrs. Morton’s rules.
Master Rolf may pay us a visit to-morrow, if he be good”—laying a
stress on _good_—“but I cannot admit him to-night.”

She looked at me with haughty incredulity.

“I consider this very impertinent,” she muttered, half to herself. But
Judson must have heard her.

“Come with me, Rolf darling. Never mind about your cousins. I daresay
we shall find something nice downstairs,” and she held out her hand to
him, but he pushed it away.

“Bring him to the drawing-room, Judson,” she said, coolly, not at all
discomposed by his rudeness; but I could see my firmness had offended
her. She would not soon forgive my excluding Rolf.

Rolf waited till she was out of sight, and then he recommenced his
kicks. I exchanged a glance with Judson; her harassed face seemed to
appeal to me for help.

“Master Rolf,” I said, indignantly, “you call yourself a gentleman, but
you are acting like an ill-tempered baby, and I shall treat you like
one,” and to his intense astonishment I lifted him off the ground, and,
being pretty strong, managed to carry him, in spite of his kicks and
pinches, down to the hall, followed by Judson. Probably he had never
been so summarily dealt with, for his kicks diminished as we descended
the stairs; and I left him on the hall mat, looking rather subdued and
ashamed of himself.

I had gained my point, but I felt out of heart as I went back to the
nursery. I had entered the house prejudiced against Mrs. Markham, and
our first interview had ended badly. My conscience justified me in my
refusal to admit Rolf; but all the same, I felt I had made Mrs. Markham
my enemy. Her cold eyes had measured me superciliously from the first
moment. Very probably she disapproved of my appearance. With women of
this calibre—cold, critical, and domineering—poor gentlewomen would
have a chance of being sent to the wall.

When the children were asleep I seated myself rather disconsolately by
the low nursery window. Hannah had been summoned to the housekeeper’s
room to see her sister Molly, and had left me alone.

I felt too tired and dispirited to settle to my work or book; besides,
it was a shame to shut out the moonlight. The garden seemed transformed
into a fairy scene. A broad silvery pathway stretched across the park;
curious shadows lurked under the elms; an indescribable stillness and
peace seemed to pervade everything; the flowers and birds were asleep;
nothing stirred but a night moth, stretching its dusky wings in the
scented air, and in the distance the soft wash of waves against the
shore.

I laid my head against the window frame, and let the summer breeze
blow over my face, and soon forgot my worries in a long, delicious
day-dream. Were my thoughts foolish, I wonder!—mere cobwebs of girls’
fancies woven together with moonbeams and rose scents!

“A girl’s imagination,” as Aunt Agatha once said, “resembles an
unbroken colt, that must be disciplined and trained, or it will run
away with her.” I have a notion that my Pegasus soared pretty high and
far that night. I imagined myself an old woman with wrinkles and grey
hair, and cap border that seemed to touch my face, and I was sitting
alone by a fire reviewing my past life. “It has not been so long, after
all,” I thought; “with the day’s work came the day’s strength. The
manna pot was never empty, and never overflowed. Who is it said, ‘Life
is just a patchwork?’ I have read it somewhere. I like that idea. ‘How
badly the children sew in their little bits—a square here and a star
there. We work better as we go on.’ Yes, that queer comparison is true.
The beauty and intricacy of the pattern seem to engross our interest as
the years go on. When rest-time comes we fold up our work. Well done or
badly done, there will be no time for unpicking false stitches then.
Shall I be satisfied with my life’s work, I wonder? Will death be to me
only the merciful nurse that call us to rest?”

“Why, Miss Fenton, are you asleep? I have knocked and knocked until I
was tired.”

I started up in some confusion. Had I fallen asleep, I wonder? for
there was Miss Cheriton standing near me, with an oddly-shaped Roman
lamp in her hand, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes, as though
she were pleased to catch me napping.

“You must have been tired,” she said, smiling. “The room looked quite
eerie as I entered it, with streaks of moonlight everywhere. Dinner
is just over, and I slipped away to see if you are comfortable. I am
afraid you are rather dull.”

But I would not allow that, for what business has a nurse to be subject
to moods like idle people? but I could not deny that it was very
pleasant to see Miss Cheriton. She was certainly very pretty—a good
type of a fresh, healthy, happy English girl, and there is nothing
in the world to equal that. The creamy Indian muslin gown suited her
perfectly, and so did the knot of crimson roses and maidenhair, against
the full white throat; and the small head, with its coil of dark shiny
hair, was almost classical in its simplicity. A curious idea came to me
as I looked at her. She reminded me of a picture I had seen of one of
the ten virgins—ready or unready, I wonder which! The bright-speaking
face, the festive garb, the quaint lamp, recalled to me the figure in
the foreground, but in a moment the vague image faded away.

“How I wonder what you do with yourself in the evening, when the
children are asleep!” observed Gay, glancing at me curiously. Then, as
I looked surprised at that, she continued, sitting down beside me in
the window-seat, in the most friendly way imaginable:

“Oh, Violet has told me all about you. I am quite interested, I assure
you. I know you are not just an ordinary nurse, but have taken up the
work from terribly good motives. Now I like that; it interests me
dreadfully to see people in earnest, and yet I am never in earnest
myself.”

“I shall find it difficult to believe that, Miss Cheriton.”

“Oh, please don’t call me Miss Cheriton; I am Miss Gay to everyone.
People never think me quite grown-up, in spite of my nineteen years.
Adelaide treats me like a child, and father makes a pet of me. By the
bye, you have contrived to offend Adelaide. Now, don’t look shocked—I
think you were quite right. Rolf is insufferable; but you see no one
has mastered him before.”

“I was very sorry to contradict Mrs. Markham, but I am obliged to be
so careful of Joyce—she is so nervous and excitable; I should not have
liked her to see Rolf in that passion.”

“Of course you were quite right; I am glad you acted as you did; but
you see Rolf is his mother’s idol—her ‘golden image,’ and she expects
us all to bow down to him. Rolf can be a nice little fellow when he is
not in his tantrums; but he is fearfully mismanaged, and so he is more
of a plague than a pleasure to us.”

“What a pity!” I observed; but Gay broke into a laugh at my grave face.

“Yes, but it cannot be helped, and his mother will have to answer for
it. He will be a horribly disagreeable man when he grows up, as I tell
Adelaide when I want to make her cross. Don’t trouble yourself about
Rolf, Miss Fenton; we shall all forgive you if you do box his ears.”

“But I should not forgive myself,” I returned, smiling; “the blow
would do Rolf more harm than good.” But she shrugged her shoulders and
changed the subject, chattering to me a little while about the house
and the garden, and her several pets, treating me just as though she
felt I was a girl of her own age.

“It is nice to have someone in the house to whom one can talk,” she
said at last, very frankly; “Adelaide is so much older, and our
tastes do not agree. Now, though you are so dreadfully sensible and
matter-of-fact, I like what I have heard of you from Violet, and I mean
to come and talk to you very often. I told Adelaide that it was an
awfully plucky thing of you to do; for of course we can see in a moment
you have not been used to this sort of thing.”

“All dependent positions have their peculiar trials,” I replied.
“I am beginning to think that in some ways my lot is superior to
many governesses. Perhaps I am more isolated, but I gain largely in
independence. I live alone, perhaps, but then no one interferes with
me.”

“Don’t be too sure of that when Adelaide is in the house.”

“The work is full of interest,” I continued, warming to my subject, as
Gay’s face wore an expression of intelligent curiosity and sympathy.
“The children grow, and one’s love grows also. It is beautiful to watch
the baby natures developing, like seedlings, in the early summer; it
is not only ministering to their physical wants, a nurse has higher
work than that. Forgive me if I am wearying you,” breaking off from my
subject with manifest effort, “one must not ride a hobby to death, and
this is my hobby.”

“You are a strange girl,” she said, slowly, looking at me with large
puzzled eyes. “I did not know before that girls could be so dreadfully
in earnest, but I like to listen to you. I am afraid my life will shock
you, Miss Fenton; not that I do any harm—oh, no harm at all—only I am
always amusing myself. Life is such a delicious thing, you see, and we
cannot be young for ever.”

“Surely it is not wrong to amuse yourself.”

“Not wrong, perhaps,” with a little laugh; “but I lead a butterfly
existence, and yet I am always busy, too. How is one to find time for
reading and improving oneself or working for the poor, when there are
all my pets to feed, and the flower vases to fill, and the bees and
the garden; and in the afternoon I ride with father; and there is
tennis, or archery or boating; and in the evening if I did not sing to
him—well, he would be so dull, for Adelaide always reads to herself;
and if I do not sing I talk to him, or play at chess; and then there is
no time for anything; and so the days go on.”

“Miss Gay, I do not consider you are leading a perfectly useless life,”
I observed, when she had finished.

“Not useless; but look at Violet’s life beside mine.”

“In my opinion your sister works too much; she is using up health and
energy most recklessly. Perhaps you might do more with your time, but
it cannot be a useless life if you are your father’s companion. By your
own account you ride with him, sing to him, and talk to him. This may
be your work as much as being a nurse is mine.”

“You are very merciful in your judgment,” she said, with a crisp laugh,
as she rose from the window-seat. “What a strange conversation we have
had! What would Adelaide have thought of it! She is always scolding me
for being irresponsible and wasting time, and even father calls me his
‘humming bird.’ You have comforted me a little, though I must confess
my conscience endorses their opinion. Good night, Miss Fenton. Violet
calls you Merle, does she not? and it is such a pretty name. The other
sounds dreadfully stiff.” And she took up her lamp and left the room,
humming a Scotch ballad as she went, leaving me to take up my neglected
work, and ponder over our conversation.

“Were they right in condemning her as a frivolous idler?” I wondered;
but I knew too little of Gay Cheriton to answer that question. Only in
creation one sees beautiful butterflies and humming birds as well as
working bees. All are not called upon to labour. A happy few live in
the sunshine, like gauzy-winged insects in the ambient air. Surely to
cultivate cheerfulness; to be happy with innocent happiness; to love
and minister to those we love, may be work of another grade. We must be
careful not to point out our own narrow groove as the general footway.
The All-Father has diversity of work for us to do, and all is not of
the same pattern.

(_To be continued._)



HERALDRY, HISTORICALLY AND PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED.


The world-wide existence and remote antiquity of heraldic
insignia—before heraldry emerged from its infancy, and developed into
a science—is an established fact. To enter exhaustively into this
branch of my subject, its historic and artistic interest, and valuable
practical uses; its institution by Divine ordinance; together with its
various accessories—comprising war-cries, badges, mottoes, seals, and
devices—would demand far more space than could be allocated in a weekly
magazine.

Some of my readers, it may be, will inquire, “What is Heraldry?” and
lest this should be the case, I must commence by stating that it is the
practice, art, or science of recording genealogies, the blazoning of
arms or ensigns armorial, and all that relates to the marshalling of
state ceremonies, processions, and cavalcades; the devising, also, of
suitable arms and badges for families, guilds, cities, and regiments.
This brief explanation supplied to the uninitiated, we may enter at
once on the historical department.

The antiquity of distinctive badges and ensigns dates back, as I
have premised, to long-ago ages of the world. No exact period can be
assigned to their first adoption by Eastern nations; from whence the
custom spread to the West. It would appear that in the first instance
only nations, or tribes of one and the same people, distinguished
themselves by special emblems displayed on their banners; although
certain princes and warriors adopted personal devices. In later times,
such distinctions were granted to families likewise, as hereditary
honours, in reward for chivalrous service rendered to their country.
Such rewards were more esteemed by many than gifts of money or lands,
as they sacrificed life or limb as patriots, and needed no pecuniary
compensation.

And here I must draw attention to the fact that the granting of such
rewards for distinguished service as should commemorate that service
for all generations, and confer hereditary honour on the hero’s
descendants, was, in its character, in accordance with the just and
liberal dispensations of the All-wise Himself. He is “a rewarder of
them that do well;” and while visiting the sins of the fathers upon the
children, unto the third and fourth generation, He “shows mercy unto
thousands in them that love Him.” To such He says: “The promises are to
you, and to your children” (Acts ii. 39), because “they are the seed
of the blessed of the Lord; and their offspring with them” (Isa. lxv.
23)—a clear case of hereditary blessing; for, “as touching election,”
we are told “they are beloved for the fathers’ sakes.” Duly considering
the Divine example, it seems to me that ample precedent exists for the
reward of well-doing in a man’s descendants; more especially as, in
most cases, those commemorative rewards exist in a title only, or an
escutcheon on his seal.

[Illustration: A TOURNAMENT.]

We return now to our historical data, in reference to the infancy of
the art in question. Those who are acquainted with the classics will
find many references to the use of heraldic emblems before that use was
reduced to a complete and perfect science. According to Herodotus, the
Carians were the first who put crests upon their helmets and sculptured
devices on their shields. These Carians inhabited a country in the
south-west angle of Asia Minor, of which Halicarnassus was the capital
and Miletus its rival—both famous cities of antiquity. The princes of
Caria reigned under Persian protection, but the kingdom was annexed to
Rome about 129 years before Christ. Herodotus further observes that
Sophanes “bare on his shield, as a device, an anchor,” and Tacitus
speaks of the standard, eagles, and other ensigns in use of the Romans.
Xenophon, also, says that the Median kings bore on their shields the
representation of a golden eagle. The Greeks adopted crests from the
Carians, and had flags adorned with images of animals, or other devices
bearing a peculiar and distinctive relation to the cities to which
they belonged. For instance, the Athenians chose an owl, that bird
being sacred to the goddess Minerva, the patron and protector of their
city, while the Thebans were represented by a sphinx, in memory of the
monster overcome by Œdipus. The emblem of Persia was the sun, of the
Romans an eagle; the Teutonic invaders of England bore a horse on their
standards, and the Norsemen a raven.

The figure-heads on the prows of our own ships owe their origin to
the times of the Phœnicians and Bœtians, who distinguished theirs by
a figure of one of their gods, being thenceforth the tutelar god and
protector of the vessel. Thebes was the principal city of Bœtia; and
their tutelar divinity, Cadmus, having been the founder of that city,
was represented on their flags, having a dragon in his hand. They also
used flags to distinguish one ship from another, which were placed in
the prow or stern; and these were sometimes painted to represent a
flower, tree, or mountain; and the names of the vessels were taken from
the devices respectively portrayed upon them.

Before our system of heraldry was organised, even in a yet imperfect
degree, we read that the ancient British kings, Brute, Lud, Bladud,
and others, all assumed their respective insignia. Brute bore on a
golden shield a “Lion rampant gules, charged on the neck and shoulder
with three crowns in pale.” Camber, another British monarch, bore on a
silver shield two lions passant gardant, gules.

Even to this day, the descendants of the British Prince Cadogan-ap-Elystan
bear the arms of their warrior ancestors—“gules, a lion rampant
regardant or,” and combined with them the badge of the three Saxon
chiefs (brothers), _i.e._ “three boars’ heads couped sable, on a silver
field”—which chiefs he slew in battle with his own hand.

In the same way, the Saxons, who succeeded, and partially exterminated
our ancient British ancestors, are still memorialised by the badges of
their thanes; and later on, the Normans—so reputed in the annals of
chivalry—were all individually distinguished by their armorial bearings.

As time went on, ripening all arts and sciences—or is supposed to do
so—heraldry began to develop, and to be regulated by certain rules
under State control, and the spirit of chivalry, that grew with the
institution of the crusades, jousts, and tournaments, may be credited
with that development. The English knights under Cœur de Lion, and
the French under Philip Augustus, wore emblazoned shields; and such
of my readers who may visit the Museum at Versailles may see a fine
collection of those worn by the crusaders, arranged in proper order.
There are (or were some thirty years ago) no less than 74 of these
“_écussons_,” which belonged to “_seigneurs les plus illustrés et les
plus puissants_,” including those of our lion-hearted king, and Philip
Augustus, before named. These all date from the first Crusade, in
1095, down to the time of Philip “le Hardi,” 1270. But, over and above
these emblazoned shields, once used by the grandest examples of Middle
Age chivalry, the visitor to this museum will find some 240 others,
bearing heraldic insignia worn by crusaders of less exalted rank than
the illustrious personages better known to fame comprised in the
seventy-four first-named. The better to appreciate such an exhibition,
the student should previously acquaint herself with the curious and
charming “Chronicles of Froissart,” than which no romance could ever
prove half as interesting, and certainly not as desirable for study,
being a faithful and graphic history of those warlike times.

To obtain an appreciable idea of a field prepared for a tournament, we
refer the reader to the eighth chapter of Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe.”
The picture he gives of the scene is worth notice. Imagine the gay
pavilions ranged side by side, and the arms of the several knights,
emblazoned on their shields, suspended before the entrance of each and
guarded by their squires, the latter being curiously attired, according
to his lord’s particular fancy. Then picture to yourselves the knights,
armed _cap-à-pie_, mounted on splendidly caparisoned chargers, and
riding up and down the lines, and the whole field glittering with arms
and bright with gorgeous banners.

But perhaps some reader may say, “_Cui bono?_ What a vain exhibition
and useless expenditure of money!” Nay, such condemnation is scarcely
just. In those half-civilised, warlike times danger threatened the
country on every side, at home and abroad, and at any unexpected
moment; and such practice in the science of arms and reviews of the
efficiency of the knights and leaders of our armies were absolutely
essential. Even in our own day it is a thoroughly well recognised fact
that such a terrible service as that of arms needs all the external
attraction with which it can possibly be invested to induce volunteers
to enter its ranks. Were there no band, no uniform, no decorations nor
rewards for gallantry in prospect, thousands who, when face to face
with the enemy, would give their lives for their country without a
moment’s hesitation, would be revolted if, in the first instance and
in cold blood, they were invited to dress in a butcher’s apron, and
were presented with a mallet or cleaver. But these few reflections may
suffice in reply to objectors, and we will return to the history under
review.

It was not until the latter end of the twelfth century, about the time
of Philip le Hardi, that the science of mediæval armory developed into
a system. In the thirteenth century it had gained in growth and in
favour, the uses of the art being more fully recognised. Thus, under
the reign of Henry III. a regular system, classification, and technical
language of its own were devised and organised.

The earliest heraldic roll of arms actually still existing is dated at
the time of Henry III. It is a copy, of which the original was compiled
(according to Sir Harris Nicholas) between the years 1240 and 1249, and
the regular armorial bearings of the king, princes of the blood, chief
barons, and knights of England were correctly blazoned. Moreover, most
of the principal terms in use in the present perfected state of the
art are to be found on this roll. A second of the same period still
exists, comprising nearly seven hundred coats of arms, besides other
and similar heraldic records, which are likewise preserved to this
day, belonging to the several reigns of the first, second, and third
Edwards and of Richard II. It appears that the right to bear arms was
inaugurated at some time in or about the reign of Henry II.

In the reign of Henry V. a registry of armorial bearings was
inaugurated, rendered essential for the avoidance of confusion and the
just settlement of disputations; but the incorporation of the officers
of this College of Arms by royal charter was granted in 1483 by Richard
III. The several titles and duties of these officers shall be duly
recorded in another part of this series; for to the apparent origin and
antiquity of heraldic insignia, and the gradual development of their
use into a science, I must for the present confine my attention.

Cold Harbour was the name of the mansion allocated to the heralds
as soon as incorporated into a college. It was erected between
Blackfriars and St. Paul’s Wharf by Sir John Poulteney, who was four
times elected Lord Mayor of London. This mansion was successively known
as York Inn, Poulteney’s Inn, and thirdly as Cold Harbour. In the reign
of Mary I. she removed the college to Derby House, previously the
palace of the Stanleys, and bestowed it on them by charter, Dethick
being Garter King-of-Arms at that time. This ancient building stood
on St. Benet’s Hill, and was destroyed in the Great Fire of London,
A.D. 1666; but the valuable records were all saved and conveyed to
Whitehall, Charles II. sending his private carriages for the purpose.
Thither also the heralds removed and continued to reside until upon
the original site the present college was erected. Of this building
Sir Christopher Wren was the architect, the north-western portion
having been built at his own expense by Dugdale. It was constructed
in the form of a quadrangle, but the formation of a new street caused
the removal of the southern side, and the form was changed. To obtain
further particulars respecting this interesting institution and all
its treasures we recommend a visit to the college, if the means of
admission can be procured through acquaintance with some one of the
officers connected with it.

So far I have given a brief account of the remote origin and growth of
heraldry. I now proceed to name a few of the leading uses claimed for
armorial insignia, and still further for the institution of a regularly
organised system in connection with them under the authority of the
State.

In the first place, when a knight was encased in armour and wore (as
the hand-to-hand warfare of the times necessitated) a visor to protect
the face, it became equally essential that some external sign should
identify him as a friend or foe and distinguish him as a leader and the
lord of his special retainers and squires. Thus the rewards granted
in the form of heraldic escutcheons emblazoned on his shield, and the
crest that surmounted his helmet identified him, and even in the thick
of a close encounter, when the shield might be hidden from view, the
crest could be seen and his identity recognised.

Thus, likewise, the standards used by the conflicting hosts served to
distinguish at a distant point of view the friendly or hostile forces
one from the other, whence the shields and crests would have been
indistinguishable. To those individually engaged in mortal combat,
and to the countries whose woe or weal hung on the issue of a battle,
the usefulness of employing emblazoned standards and shields and the
wearing of crests was sufficiently self-evident.

Again, amongst the uses of heraldry, as at present existing and
developed into a science, I may name the service rendered to private
families by the records preserved, the investigation of claims to
property, the identification of relationships, and finding of next of
kin; the distinguishing between one branch of a family from another,
proved by some trifling differences in the arms they respectively
bear, or in the crests or mottoes; usurpation of arms and titles, and
unjust pretensions to the privileges due only to legitimacy, to the
injury of real heirs—all these are rights or evils which the College of
Heralds alone is in a position to investigate, prove and maintain, or
expose and frustrate, respectively. Such public services as these, not
confined to the titled or untitled aristocracy, nor even to the upper
commoners of the country, but available to all classes when seeking
relationships, and through relationships property, or when searching
for registries of births, deaths, or marriages—such public services as
these, I say, ought surely to be duly recognised by all.

Lastly, so long as public pageants and processions continue to
exist—no less interesting and attractive to the poorer spectator than
to the great personages that are fêted—so long as there are royal
presentations, investitures with orders of knighthood, coronations, and
grand State ceremonies to be conducted, and processions marshalled in
suitable order—just so long the offices of the College of Heralds will
be essential to the requirements of the State and country.

And now I have reached the last part of my subject with which this, my
first chapter, has to deal, _i.e._, that in its broad features heraldry
is supported by the highest possible authority. The formation of
pedigrees, the use of emblematic signs and figures, and of emblazoned
standards, as distinctive badges, was not merely permitted, but was
Divinely ordained. To many customs of the world around them the “elect
people of God” were forbidden to conform. In the case in question it
was otherwise.

In proof of this assertion, let me refer the reader to the Book of
Numbers, chap. i., 2, 18, 52. There we read as follows: “Take ye the
sum of all the congregations of the children of Israel, after their
families, by the house of their father, with the number of their
names.” “And they declared their pedigrees, after their families, by
the house of their fathers, according to the number of the names.”
“And the children of Israel shall pitch their tents, every man by his
own camp, and every man by his own standard, throughout their hosts.”
Again, in the same book, chap. ii., 2, 34, we read thus: “Every man of
the children of Israel shall pitch by his own standard, with the ensign
of their father’s house.” “And the children of Israel did according to
all that the Lord commanded Moses; so they pitched by their standards,
and so they set forward; everyone after their families, according to
the house of their fathers.”

What some of these several standards represented, so as to distinguish
one tribe from another, we have not far to seek, although we have no
data whereby to determine the devices of the several families they
each comprised. Jacob, the patriarch and father of these elect tribes,
allocates to each its fitting symbol. To ascertain what these were
I refer the reader to the blessing he gave them when his pilgrimage
was rapidly drawing to its close. (See Gen. xlix. 10, 13, 14, 17,
19, 20, 21, 22, 27.) Some of the tribes had two emblems, as in the
case of Judah—a lion and a sceptre (or kingly crown)—and Joseph—a
bunch of grapes and a bow—these two sons of the patriarch inheriting
respectively the birthright and the blessing. Other emblems of a
representative character were attributed to these Hebrew tribes by
Moses also, for which I refer the reader to Deut. xxxiii.

In my next chapter I propose to enter on what is designated the
“grammar of heraldry,” and without further taxing the reader’s
patience, I now take my leave.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]



THE BRIDE’S FIRST DINNER PARTY.

BY PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of “The Girl’s Own Cookery Book.”


A certain young lady, a member of The Girl’s Own Cookery Class (in
other words, an individual who has educated herself in cookery, with
the assistance of articles published in this journal), was married a
few weeks ago. Her husband is an exceedingly good fellow, and holds
a salaried position in a mercantile establishment. He has plenty of
common sense and energy, and, if all goes well, he will make his way;
but at the present moment he is not very well off. He has, however,
managed to save enough to furnish the small home very prettily and very
well, while his wife has received from her father a handsome trousseau,
a good supply of house linen of every sort and kind, and a good many
odds and ends of things. Besides this, the young couple, having a large
circle of friends, have been presented with a considerable number of
wedding presents.

Young beginners in these days are really very fortunate; for they get
so much friendly help in starting life. It very much simplifies matters
if, just as one has arrived at the conclusion that a dinner service is
imperatively required, but that the money for purchasing the same is
not immediately forthcoming, a knock is heard at the door, and a box is
brought in containing a handsome dinner service of the newest pattern
and latest fashion, as a small proof of the affection of a friend. The
young people now referred to have been most lucky in this way. They
must have received scores of presents, all useful, all judiciously
chosen, and with only two duplicates, which were speedily exchanged
for something else. That delightful Parcel Post has been a messenger
of good fortune to them. Pretty things for the table have arrived in
profusion; ornaments, pictures, silver, glass, china, cutlery have
appeared upon the scene as if by magic; and the result of it all is
that the home of this newly-wedded pair is as thoroughly well appointed
all the way through as anyone need wish a home to be.

The routine of married life in these days is first the wedding day,
then the honeymoon, and then any amount of visiting—dinner parties and
supper parties without limit. Old-fashioned individuals may disapprove
of this, and say that it would be better for the newly-wedded to
settle down quietly, look at life from a serious standpoint, read
improving books aloud to each other in the evenings, and save up
every available halfpenny for a future rainy day. Without doubt, the
old-fashioned individuals are right; but, unfortunately, few young
married people see as they do. Experience is the great teacher, and
its lessons can never be learnt by proxy. These young people have not
yet been to that school. They have their charming home, their many
friends, their limited income, and their pretty table appliances; and
the question has now arisen—How shall they entertain their friends?
They plume themselves on being prudent; they have no wish to run into
extravagance, and they have no thought of entertaining everyone whom
they know; but they are hospitably inclined, and they have deliberately
arrived at the conclusion that there are one or two special friends
whom they must invite, and whom they must make a little fuss over. The
result of it all has been the bride’s first dinner party.

When first the subject of an entertainment was mooted, the young bride,
whom we will call Mabel, was much exercised as to whether it would be
wiser to have high tea or dinner. There was much to be said in favour
of both. With high tea it was possible to have everything cold, and
put on the table all at once, and this would enable the mistress to see
the table laid, and be sure that everything was right before the guests
arrived, a consideration not to be disregarded where there was only one
little maid, and that one only eighteen, though clever for her age.
The bride thought of the anxiety which she would have to go through
if there were to be an awful pause between the courses, and then Emma
were to come to her side and say, “Please, mum, the pudding won’t turn
out!” What should she do? Then too, high tea was quieter, and less
pretentious, and the young housekeeper had no desire to make a display
beyond her means. On the other hand, dinner would be pleasanter; and,
best of all, it would furnish an occasion for bringing out all the
pretty presents, the bright silver, the exquisite glass, the artistic
table ornaments, the elegant dinner and dessert services. Where was
the good of being possessed of all these treasures if they were always
to be kept locked up in a cupboard? With these presents a dinner-table
could be laid out so effectively that the food would be quite a minor
detail. Besides, “the master” preferred dinner. In his bachelor days
he had been accustomed to dine on leaving business, and had learnt to
regard high tea as a nondescript sort of meal, only to be accepted as
a painful discipline when it could not well be avoided. Of course, the
master’s likes and dislikes counted for a good deal with the mistress,
and dinner was almost decided upon. But then came the question, “Which
meal would be the more expensive of the two?” Expense was the chief
consideration after all. Everything had to be paid for with ready
money, and a committee of two of ways and means had decided that a
sovereign must cover all expenses apart from beverages. There were to
be six guests, eight in all with master and mistress; could the thing
be done for £1 sterling? The young lady was doubtful.

At this stage of the cogitation, a double knock was heard, and in a
minute or two the maid, young but clever for her age, came up and
announced that Mrs. Jones had called to see Mrs. Smith. Amy Jones!
exactly the person to consult. Amy was an old school-mate of the
bride’s, had been married a couple of years ago, enjoyed almost the
same yearly income, and deserved the reputation of having arrived at
Dora Greenwell’s idea of perfection; that is, she had, up to this
point, not merely made both ends meet, but made them tie over in a
handsome bow. Yet she had been hospitable, too. A person of such
abundant experience would be sure to know what was best.

“Amy, if you were in my place, which should you decide upon, a high tea
or a small dinner?”

“You have begun to consider the claims of hospitality, have you, Mabel!
What is your maid like?”

“She is a very good little girl, and she does her best, but she is very
slow. If all goes on quietly, she manages excellently, but if she were
to be flurried, I do not know what would happen.”

“That’s bad,” remarked experienced Amy Jones.

“Yet she means well, and really does her best,” continued the young
mistress, anxiously eager to defend her first domestic. “She can cook
plain dishes fairly, and is interested in her work. If I tell her a
thing, she never forgets.”

“That’s good; almost good enough to make up for the slowness. Can she
wait?”

“Not properly. She can bring dishes and plates into the room and take
them out again quickly, but that is almost the extent of her power; she
could not hand round dishes or remain in the room during a dinner to be
a credit or help. If we were to decide on dinner, don’t you think you
would hire a waitress if you were me?”

“If you want my advice, dear, I should say, decidedly, do nothing of
the kind. It would be an exhibition of effort which would involve
pretence, and the slightest pretence would be a mistake. Whatever you
do, don’t go beyond the resources of your own modest establishment. At
present, all your friends know exactly what your position is; they will
respect you if you make the best of it, but if you seem to wish to go
beyond it they will begin to criticise, while the people you care for
most will blame you.”

“Then you would give up all thought of dinner?”

“I don’t say so. Why should you not have a small dinner? Prepare
everything yourself, altogether dispense with regular waiting, show
Emma exactly what she has to do, and let her do her best. Supposing
there should be a little _contretemps_, never mind; laugh at it, and
your friends will laugh with you. They will only say that you are
inexperienced. If all should go well, how pleased your husband will be!
You are sure you don’t mind the trouble?”

“Mind the trouble! I like it. I think it is fun. I am only uneasy about
the expense.”

“Well, dear, I should say that high tea, though less troublesome,
is quite as expensive as dinner. We can easily ascertain the truth,
however. Let us take paper and pencil, and draw up a statement of the
cost of both. We will begin with the high tea. I suppose we are to take
it for granted that you must have something extra? It would not do to
have a thoroughly simple meal.”

“Oh, no. If we ask six people on such an occasion, we must make a sort
of feast. Let me think. You put the items down as I decide on them. We
might have a lobster salad, a couple of boiled fowls with egg sauce,
a beefsteak and oyster pie, a strawberry cream, a jelly of some sort,
a few tarts and cheesecakes, some fruit and fancy biscuits. Then, of
course, tea and coffee and thin bread and butter, brown and white. That
would do well enough. We could not well have less.”

“A very excellent menu, indeed,” said Amy, while a rather amused look
passed over her face. “What do you suppose it will cost?”

“I don’t know,” said Mabel. “You cast it out and see. You understand
prices better than I do.”

For a while there was silence, and nothing was heard but the scratching
of a pencil. Then Amy read aloud:—“Lobster salad, 3s. 3d.; boiled fowls
and egg sauce, 7s. 11d.”

“Oh, dear!” said Mabel.

“Well, you see, it is spring, and fowls are dear in the spring. I do
not suppose you could get a fine pair for less than 3s. 6d. each.
Beefsteak and oyster pie, 5s.; strawberry cream (made with your own
jam), 1s. 8d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.; tarts and cheesecakes we will
calculate roughly at 1s. 4d.; a little fruit, 2s.; tea and coffee (say
2d. per person), 1s. 4d.; bread and butter, 2s. Altogether say £1 5s.
10d.”

“That will never do,” said Mabel. “We must take something away.”

“For one thing, you might take the tarts and cheesecakes. Surely they
are not necessary.”

“One wants a little trifle of the sort to conclude the meal,” said
Mabel.

“Then make jam sandwich. I can give you a simple recipe, by following
which you can produce a dishful for less than sixpence.”

“Thanks. But that will not make matters right. We must reduce much more
than that.”

“Suppose that before doing so we draw up a dinner, and see what we can
make of that. I will furnish the menu this time.”

“Very good. Only remember to take into consideration Emma’s limited
capacity,” said Mabel.

Again there was silence. After a few minutes Amy read aloud once more:—


MENU.

                   Potato Soup.
                 Tomatoes Farcies.
       Rolled Loin of Mutton and Sour Plums.
    Mashed Potatoes, with Brown Potatoes round.
                  Stewed Celery.
         Ready-made Pudding. Orange Jelly.
                 Macaroni Cheese.
                     Dessert.
                      Coffee.


ESTIMATE.

Potato soup, 11d.; tomatoes farcies, 1s.; mutton, forcemeat, gravy,
&c., 6s. 9d.; potatoes and celery, 6d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.;
ready-made pudding, 1s. 3d.; macaroni cheese, 9d.; dessert, 3s.;
coffee, 10d. Altogether, 16s. 4d.

Mabel was silent for a moment from amazement. Then she said—

“That is very extraordinary. I would not have believed it.”

“Yes, dear. But you must take into account that you drew up rather a
luxurious tea; and my dinner is a very simple and homely one. Therefore
you were scarcely fair to yourself.”

“I only described the sort of high tea we should have had at home
before I was married.”

“And you forgot that your mother did not need to make a sovereign cover
all expenses.”

“And yet your dinner sounds more satisfactory than my tea, and I am
sure it would look more. I wonder if Emma could manage a dinner like
that; she is not entirely ignorant. She can roast a joint, and boil
potatoes very well, and she can bake a pudding——”

“Then I am sure she could manage, for everything else you could
yourself prepare beforehand. Of course, if she were more of a cook, you
might have a little fish, or perhaps a trifle of game after the mutton,
and still keep within the sovereign.”

“I feel that I should be wiser to experiment first in a small way,”
said Mabel.

“Very well. The potato soup you know well. It is good, and cheap; you
can get it ready beforehand, so that Emma will only have to make it
hot. The mutton you can get the butcher to bone, and then stuff it with
veal forcemeat, and roll it early in the day, leaving Emma to roast
it. The gravy, also, you can make ready, and put, nicely seasoned and
free from fat, in a cup, so that Emma will need only to put it in a
saucepan to get hot when she begins to dish the meat. The tomatoes you
can prepare. The celery and potatoes you may leave with her, I should
think.”

“Decidedly; she boils vegetables very well, and she can mash potatoes,
and put browned potatoes round quite easily. I had better make the
sauce for the celery, though.”

“You might make it, and put it in a gallipot in a saucepan with boiling
water round, to keep hot. Then surely if you make the soup, if you
prepare the meat, and make the gravy, make the sauce, get the tomatoes
ready, make the jelly, mix the pudding, three parts cook the macaroni,
dish the dessert, and altogether make the coffee, there can be no
danger.”

“I shall be rather tired by the time our friends arrive,” said Amy,
looking a little grave as she realised the responsibilities which she
was proposing to take upon herself.

“Oh, yes; you will have to be very quick, and to do all the head-work.
But you said you did not mind the trouble. And besides, remember this,
if once you can succeed in your attempt you will find that you are not
at all more tired with providing dinner than you are with providing
high tea. But there are just two things you would do well to try for,
in my opinion.”

“What are they?”

“One is to make Emma well acquainted with every dish beforehand. Let
her understand how things ought to be and to look when properly cooked;
on no account let the final touches be the product of her imagination
as exercised in carrying out your descriptive order.”

“No, that would scarcely do,” said Mabel, laughing.

“Well, the only way to prevent it is to make the most of the time
between now and the important day. Have potato soup one day, rolled
mutton another, tomatoes farcies, and ready-made pudding a third, and
macaroni cheese a fourth, and so make her familiar with what is coming.”

“And the second point?”

“I was going to suggest that if you have anything served in a style
superior to your ordinary mode, you should try to keep Emma up to the
better way as a regular thing. This will really be a great kindness to
her. It will make her more skilful, and fit her for taking a better
situation afterwards, and, strange to say, she will be all the happier
for it. Right-minded girls (and I should quite think Emma is one)
are glad to be shown refined ways, and they respect a mistress who
understands and insists upon the best modes of doing things far more
than they respect a mistress who lets things go, and puts up with
slipshod fashions just for the sake of peace and quiet. And really you
will find that when Emma knows what ought to be, all you will need to
impress upon her is the time required for the various dishes.”

“That is it precisely,” said Mabel, who had been listening very quietly
to her friend’s remarks, but who was evidently giving all her thoughts
to the subject in hand. “I can see now exactly what I shall have to do.
I shall make out a list of every ingredient, and have everything where
it will be close to my hand, the day but one before the dinner. The
day before I shall make the jelly and, with Emma’s help, brighten all
the glass and silver, and look out any pretty ornaments and services.
Then quite early on the eventful morning I shall make the soup, and put
it ready for making hot; yes, I shall even fry and dish the sippets
and chop the parsley, which will have to be sprinkled in at the last
moment. I shall stuff and roll the mutton, dish the sour plums (those
delightful sour plums! they were there without needing to be in the
estimate; how good it was of Frau Bergmann to give them to me). I shall
stuff the tomatoes, turn out the jelly, dish the dessert, arrange the
coffee cups and saucers—but, oh, the coffee, what shall I do for that?
Emma never makes it properly.”

“Few servants do; and if I were you I should look after it yourself
in this case. The coffee is so very important. Really good coffee,
served at the close even of an unsuccessful dinner, almost atones for
disaster, while inferior coffee spoils the most _recherché_ repast. Why
should you not steal away for a minute or two when your friends leave
the dining-room, make the coffee, and send Emma in with it. Then all
is sure to be right.”

“Yes, that will be best. Well, as I was saying, I must be as busy as
possible before luncheon. Then, after luncheon——”

“After luncheon I should lie down for an hour,” said Amy.

“Oh!” said Mabel, dubiously.

“Yes. It would be unfortunate if the dinner were a success, and the
hostess laid up next day through fatigue.”

“May be. Yes, I will certainly rest awhile after luncheon. Then, while
Emma prepares her vegetables, tidies the kitchen, and attends to the
roast, I will lay the table; and I know I can make it beautiful.”

“What shall you do for flowers? We did not allow for them in our
estimate.”

“I planted some corn a week ago in a large fancy bowl, and it will be
lovely. Have you never done that? You get a few ears of corn, pack
them in a bowl full of water, so that the ears are close together and
are partially covered with the water. Put the bowl in a warm room,
and in about a fortnight the delicate blades will peep out and grow
to be very pretty. There could not be anything more effective for the
middle of the table, and the grass lasts five or six weeks, and it is a
most convenient decoration when flowers are scarce. We always used to
provide ourselves with corn in harvest time for this purpose.”

“I will remember to do the same,” said Amy. “I never heard of growing
corn in a bowl.”

“I can give you a little meanwhile to experiment with. Then, when the
table is laid, I will dress, and when I come down will present Emma
first with a written menu, giving a list of what is to go in with each
course, and a few notes of reminder—something of this sort:—


“REMEMBER—

“To put the pudding and tomatoes in the oven, also to pour the sauce
over the macaroni and set it to brown, as soon as the last guest
arrives.

“To put the plates for soup, meat, tomatoes, ready-made pudding, and
cheese to heat half an hour before the dinner hour.

“To make the milk boil before stirring it into the boiling soup, and to
sprinkle in the chopped parsley at the last moment.

“To shut the dining-room door after taking in or removing dishes, &c.,
and to move about as quietly as possible.

“To begin to dish the meat and vegetables and make the gravy hot the
moment soup is in, so that everything may be quite ready when the bell
rings.

“To put the coffee (left ready ground on the dresser) into the oven, to
get hot, as soon as dessert is in, and at the same time to set a jug of
milk in a saucepan of boiling water.”

“What is that for?” said Amy.

“It is to scald the milk. Coffee tastes so much more delicious when
the milk is scalded, not boiled. There, I think that is all. I will
write the notes early, and then, if anything else occurs to me, I can
put it down. But, Amy, for safety’s sake would you mind giving me the
recipes for the dishes in your menu. I have one or two, but they may be
mislaid, and I should not like there to be a mistake.”

“There is not much fear of a mistake, if you take all that trouble. But
I will give you the recipes with pleasure. In return, will you give me
the recipe for the sour plums? I should like to have it, for I intend
to make some when plums are in season.”

The arrangements thus laid down were implicitly carried out, and the
“Bride’s First Dinner Party” was a great success—so much so that every
guest remarked, when the evening was over, “What a clever little
woman Mrs. Smith is! How fortunate her husband is to have a wife thus
domesticated.” Then, in a moment, “What lovely wedding presents!”

For the benefit of those who may care to have them, I subjoin a copy of
the recipes which were exchanged between Amy and Mabel.

_Potato Soup._—Melt a piece of butter the size of an egg in a stewpan.
Throw in two pounds of potatoes, weighed after they have been peeled,
the white parts of two leeks, and a stick of celery, all cut up.
Sweat for a few minutes without browning. Pour on a quart of cold
stock or water; boil gently till the vegetables are tender, and pass
through a sieve. When wanted, make hot in a clean stewpan, and add
salt and pepper. Boil separately half a pint of milk; stir this into
the boiling soup. At the last moment sprinkle on the top of the soup a
dessertspoonful of chopped parsley. If cream is allowed, the soup will
be greatly improved.

_Tomatoes Farcies._—Take eight smooth red tomatoes; cut the stalks off
evenly, and slice off the part that adheres to them; scoop out the
seeds from the centre without breaking the sides. Melt an ounce of
butter in a stewpan. Put in two tablespoonfuls of cooked ham chopped,
two tablespoonfuls of chopped mushrooms, two shalots, two teaspoonfuls
of chopped parsley, pepper and salt, and two ounces of grated Parmesan.
Mix thoroughly over the fire, fill the tomatoes with the mixture, and
bake on a greased baking tin in a moderate oven for ten or fifteen
minutes. The tomatoes should be tender, but not broken. If the
ingredients for this forcemeat are not at hand, a little ordinary veal
forcemeat may be used, but the taste will be inferior.

_Rolled Loin of Mutton._—Get the butcher from whom the meat is bought
to bone the loin; spread veal stuffing inside, roll it up, bind it
with tape, and bake in the usual way. Thick, smooth gravy should be
served with it. This may be made of the bones.

_Mashed and Browned Potatoes._—Mash potatoes in the usual way. Prepare
beforehand six or eight good sized potatoes of uniform size. Parboil
them, then put them into the dripping-tin round the meat for about
three-quarters of an hour—less, if small—and baste them every now and
then till brown. Pile the mashed potatoes in the middle of the tureen,
put browned potatoes round, and sprinkle chopped parsley on the white
centre.

_Stewed Celery._—Wash the celery carefully, and boil it till tender in
milk and water, to which salt and a little butter have been added. The
time required will depend on the quality. Young, tender portions will
be ready in half an hour or less; the coarse outer stalks will need to
boil a long time. Drain thoroughly, dish on toast, and pour white sauce
over.

_Sour Plums_ (a substitute for red currant jelly served with meat; to
be made in the autumn).—Take three pounds of the long, blue autumn
plums, almost the last to come into the market, called in Germany
zwetschen. Rub off the bloom and prick each one with a needle. Boil
a pint of vinegar for a quarter of an hour with a pound and a-half
of sugar, a teaspoonful of cloves, three blades of mace, and half an
ounce of cinnamon. Pour the vinegar through a strainer over the plums,
and let them stand for twenty-four hours. Next day boil the vinegar,
and again pour it over the fruit. Put all over the fire together to
simmer for a few minutes until the plums are tender and cracked without
falling to pieces. Tie down while hot.

_Ready-Made Pudding._—Mix two tablespoonfuls of flour, an ounce of
sugar, and a very little grated nutmeg, with a spoonful of cold milk
to make a smooth paste, then add boiling milk to make a pint. When
cold, beat two eggs with a glass of sherry, mix and bake in a buttered
dish for half an hour.

_Orange Jelly._—Soak an ounce of gelatine in water to cover it for an
hour, and put with the gelatine the very thin rind of three oranges.
Squeeze the juice from some sweet oranges to make half a pint, then add
the juice of two lemons, and strain to get out all pips, etc. Take as
much water as there is fruit juice, put this into a stewpan with the
gelatine, and a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar, and simmer for a few
minutes till the gelatine is entirely dissolved. Remove any scum that
may rise, then add the juice; boil up once, and strain into a damp
mould. This jelly has a delicious taste, and is not supposed to be
clear.

_Macaroni Cheese._—Wash half a pound of Naples macaroni, break it up
and throw it into boiling water with a lump of butter in it, and boil
it for about half an hour, till the macaroni is tender. Drain it well.
Melt an ounce of butter in a stewpan, stir in one ounce of flour, and,
when smooth, half a pint of cold milk. Stir the sauce till it boils,
add salt and pepper, an ounce of grated Parmesan, and the macaroni
drained dry. Pour all upon a dish, sprinkle an ounce of macaroni over,
and brown in the oven or before the fire.

_Simple Jam Sandwich._—Beat three eggs, and add a breakfastcupful of
flour, to which has been added a teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Beat
the mixture till it bubbles. Add a scant breakfastcupful of sifted
sugar. Beat again, and add half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda.
Turn into a shallow baking tin, greased, and bake for a few minutes in
a quick oven. With the oven ready, this cake can be made and baked in
half an hour.



GIRTON GIRL.

BY CATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.


    “Why, sir, should you seem so startled
      When you chance to come on me
    Talking silly baby-language
      To the child upon my knee—
    To this happy, crowing urchin,
      While his peasant mother stands
    Watching us, while she is wiping
      Thick-flaked soapsuds from her hands?

    “When you met me first, at dinner,
      At the Hall the other night,
    You were seated on my left hand,
      The professor on my right;
    And you saw I cared to listen—
      Saw it with a scornful mirth—
    To the facts that he was telling
      Of the strata of the earth.

    “And again, when of the Iliad
      My companion chanced to speak,
    You were less pleased than astounded
      That I quoted Homer’s Greek.
    And beneath my half-closed eyelids
      I observed your covert smile,
    When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,
      And I answered with Carlyle.

    “Then you thought you read me fully—
      ‘Woman in her latest phase,
    Following with feebler footsteps
      In far-reaching manhood’s ways.
    A half-taught, conceited creature,
      Something neither wise nor good;
    Losing for a vain chimera
      All the grace of womanhood.

    “‘Failing in her mad endeavour,
      Though in every languid vein
    Love-warmed heart-blood she replaces
      With cold ichor from the brain.
    Woman striving to be manlike,
      Making him her enemy,
    Fighting where she best had yielded’—
      This was what you saw in me.

    “Sir, I claim to be a woman:
      Nothing less and nothing more;
    Laughing when my heart is joyful,
      Weeping when my heart is sore;
    Loving all things good and tender,
      Nor so coldly over-wise
    As to scorn a lover’s kisses,
      Or the light of children’s eyes.

    “Over-wise! Nay, it were folly
      If I cherished in my mind
    One poor fancy, one ambition
      That could part me from my kind—
    From the maiden’s hopes and longings,
      From the mother’s joy and care,
    From the gladness, labour, sorrow,
      That is every woman’s share.

    “Not for all life’s garb of duty
      In the self-same tint is dyed;
    I must walk alone, another
      Shelters at a husband’s side.
    Yet I claim her for my sister,
      While—though I must stand apart—
    All her hopes, her fears, her wishes
      Find an echo in my heart.

[Illustration: A GIRTON GIRL.]

    “True it is I love to study
      Every page of nature’s lore.
    Must that make my soul less gentle?
      Nay, it softens me the more.
    True it is I love the story
      Of the old heroic age,
    True I love the aspirations
      Of the poet and the sage;

    “But if poet, artist, thinker,
      Lend me some inspiring thought,
    Must it follow that the duty
      Of the woman is forgot?
    No; ’tis you who err, believe me,
      Thinking, as perchance you do,
    That because her brain is empty,
      Woman’s heart must beat more true.

    “’Tis not learning that unsexes,
      ’Tis not thought will make us cold,
    Nor at sight of heavy volumes
      Love on us relax his hold.
    Woman is for ever woman;
      O’er her life love rules supreme,
    Though his kingdom be but fancy,
      And the bliss he gives a dream.

    “Nought besides, however worthy,
      In her heart can take his place—
    But enough! The child is frightened
      At the graveness of my face.
    I must bring him back to laughter.
      Pray you, leave us for a time,
    Or you’ll hear a Girton student
      Teaching him a nursery rhyme.”



THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.


CHAPTER XIII.

HOPE AND FEAR.

As soon as the shearing company was gone, John Shelley went into the
house to watch by Charlie’s couch, and to take counsel with his wife as
to what must be done about Jack, as to whose safety he was as anxious
as about Charlie’s, for if the latter died Jack would inevitably be
tried for manslaughter, though the shepherd felt sure the fall on the
stone gate-post was a far more serious matter than the blow Jack had
dealt, and which had accidentally, and quite unintentionally, caused
the fall.

All Jack had meant to do, as the shepherd and his wife knew well
enough, was to give Charlie a good bang across the shoulders, but if
the boy died it might be a difficult matter to persuade a coroner’s
jury that no more was intended, especially as Jack, by keeping himself
aloof, as he did, from his own class, was by no means popular in the
neighbourhood.

Mrs. Shelley was even more keenly alive to the danger which threatened
Jack than her husband, and was for sending him away at once to her
brother, who lived at Liverpool, but John Shelley never acted hastily
or on impulse, and he suggested taking counsel with the doctor and Mr.
Leslie, both of whom were good friends of Jack’s, before they decided
on any course of action.

“We’ll send Jack round to the rectory as soon as he comes back; he will
be glad of something to do, tired and hungry as he must be, for I see
he has not had his supper yet,” said the shepherd.

“No, he won’t touch anything till there is some hope of Charlie, I
daresay. He has been unconscious nearly an hour now, John. Do you
think there is any hope?”

“Yes, I do; while there is life there is hope. I expect it is
concussion of the brain, and if so, people are often unconscious for
hours. He is breathing, you see. But where is Fairy? Why does not the
child come in? Is she frightened?”

“I don’t know, I am sure; I had forgotten all about her. Just see,
John, will you? She has had no supper either,” replied Mrs. Shelley.

John went to the door to look for Fairy just as Jack and Dr. Bates came
up together. The shepherd brought the doctor in, and sent Jack to the
rectory, and then went to talk to Fairy, who was still sitting on the
bench outside.

“Why have you sent for Mr. Leslie? Is Charlie worse?” asked Fairy,
anxiously, as she beckoned to the shepherd to sit by her side.

“No, he is just the same, but I want to ask Mr. Leslie’s advice about
Jack; I am afraid we shall have to send poor Jack away. Shall you be
sorry, Fairy?”

“Sorry! Of course I shall; but, John, why must Jack go as well as I?
Mother says it is all my fault, and I am to go away, and I don’t know
where to go, so I was waiting till you came, to ask you; but if Mr.
Leslie is coming, I daresay he’ll take me in for a little while,” said
Fairy, with a little sob at the end of each sentence.

“Mr. Leslie take my Fairy in. Why, child, you would not leave us now in
our hour of trouble, when we most want you to comfort us, would you?”

“I don’t want ever to leave you, unless, of course, I find my own
parents; but mother says I am to go, and she is sorry she ever took me
in, because it is all my fault. So you see, John, of course I must go
away after that,” said Fairy, gently.

“I can’t spare my little Fairy now. Mother did not mean what she
said; she was so upset at seeing poor Charlie insensible, I expect
she hardly knew what she was doing, so you must forgive her—will you,
little one?—and stay and cheer us in our sorrow,” said John.

“Of course I will, if you are quite sure mother didn’t mean it, but
she should not have said it was my fault, should she? For she knows as
well as you do, John, how fond I am of both the boys, and how I never
let them quarrel; only this was done in such a minute I could not stop
it; it really was more an accident than anything else. Poor Jack didn’t
mean to knock Charlie down, or to hurt him really, only he was so angry
about that lamb that he lost his temper. How grave you look, John; you
don’t think it was my fault, do you?”

Now the shepherd understood perfectly what his wife had meant by saying
it was Fairy’s fault; but it was evident the child had not the remotest
suspicion of Mrs. Shelley’s meaning; she was too childlike and innocent
(children of that day were less precocious and more like children than
they are now), too free from vanity and self-consciousness to be aware
that Jack had any other feeling for her than a brotherly affection, and
it was equally evident that at present, at any rate, Fairy’s affection
for Jack was of precisely the same character as her sisterly love for
her foster-brother. Seeing this, the shepherd felt his wife was right
in saying it would be far better for many reasons that Jack should go
away; but he was so lost in thought that he forgot to reply to Fairy’s
question, which, after waiting a minute or two, for she was accustomed
to John’s slowness of speech, she repeated.

“No, my child, no, I am sure it was no fault of yours; don’t think
any more about it. Here comes Jack with Mr. Leslie; I will go in and
hear what the doctor says. Ask Mr. Leslie to wait in the kitchen for a
minute, if he does not mind,” and the shepherd went indoors to hear the
doctor’s report just as Jack and Mr. Leslie appeared.

[Illustration: “‘COME, CHILD, YOU HAVE HAD NO SUPPER YET.’”

    _See “The Shepherd’s Fairy,” p. 219._]

They both looked very grave, for Jack was a great pet of the rector’s,
and he had already told him exactly how the accident had occurred; and
Mr. Leslie was almost as anxious as Jack to hear the doctor’s report,
for Jack seemed so absorbed in his anxiety about Charlie as to be
unconscious of his own danger.

“How is he?” they exclaimed in a breath.

“I don’t know; Dr. Bates is still with him,” said Fairy; but a minute
or two later John Shelley came out with the doctor’s report.

“Well, what news?” asked Mr. Leslie.

“He is still unconscious, and the doctor can’t say how it will go with
him,” replied the shepherd.

“Is there no hope, father?” asked Jack, turning very white and speaking
very low.

“Yes, lad, yes, there is hope, thank God; he may rally; it is the fall
on the gate-post that has done the mischief. He struck the back of his
head against the stone; the place on the temple is a mere trifle. But
will you walk in, Mr. Leslie? Dr. Bates wants to speak to you, and you
too, Jack.”

Accordingly these four went into the kitchen and shut themselves up to
discuss the matter, leaving Fairy feeling very miserable and in the
way, for she did not know where to go, on the bench outside. But a few
minutes later Mrs. Shelley came to the door to look for her, wondering
what had become of her, having forgotten her hasty speech on seeing
Charlie lying prostrate on the ground.

“Why, Fairy, where have you been all this time? Come, child, you
have had no supper yet. How pale you look; and your hands are quite
cold. You are not frightened, are you?” said Mrs. Shelley, as Fairy
reluctantly followed her into the house.

“No, I am not frightened, but it is all so miserable,” said Fairy,
sobbing, as she looked at the unconscious Charlie, who was breathing
almost imperceptibly on the sofa.

“Come, this won’t do; I shall have you ill next; why, the child has
cried more to-night than she ever cried all the sixteen years she has
been here,” said Mrs. Shelley, taking Fairy in her arms.

“You were never unkind to me before,” sobbed Fairy.

Suddenly Mrs. Shelley remembered how she had turned on Fairy in her
anxiety and pity for Jack.

“There, child, don’t cry any more; I don’t know what I said; but at any
rate I can’t let you quarrel with me when I may lose one, if not both,
of my sons; for I am sure they will decide to send Jack away—indeed, I
hope they will,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“You hope so, mother?” asked Fairy, in astonishment.

“Yes; if anything happened to poor Charlie, Jack might get into
terrible trouble, so, for his sake, I hope Mr. Leslie will let him go;
besides, he is not fit for a shepherd; he never has liked the work, and
he may get on far better at something else.”

Just as Mrs. Shelley said this, the kitchen door opened, and John
Shelley asked his wife to come in to the discussion which was being
held in the kitchen, and Fairy was left to watch by Charlie. It seemed
an interminable time to Fairy, though it was not really half an hour
before the door opened and they all came out. Mr. Leslie went home; the
doctor came in to look at Charlie again; Mrs. Shelley went upstairs
with Jack; and the shepherd called Fairy into the kitchen to tell her
what had been decided.

“Jack is going away to-night; he is going to America.”

“To America!” exclaimed Fairy, for in those days going to America was
indeed going to another world.

“Yes, for two years; perhaps for longer if he likes it. Mr. Leslie has
friends out there, and he knows of something he thinks will do for
Jack. There is a ship sails on Monday from Liverpool, so he is to go
to Brighton to-night with Mr. Leslie, and be off by the London coach
at five to-morrow morning. Mr. Leslie will go to Liverpool with him
and see him off if he can get anyone to take his duty here on Sunday;
anyhow, he will go to London and put him into the Liverpool coach.”

John had not time to enter into further details as to what had passed
at the meeting in the kitchen; but, in truth, both Dr. Bates and Mr.
Leslie had strongly urged getting Jack out of the way as quickly as
possible. Dr. Bates because he was very anxious and by no means hopeful
about Charlie; Mr. Leslie partly on the same account, but also because
he knew the state of Jack’s feelings with regard to Fairy, and had
long wished to see the boy in a position where he would have some
opportunity of using the talents he possessed, and, by dint of his own
abilities and exertions, rising in the world. It so happened that he
had friends in New York, and a relation of his; a banker there had,
in answer to his inquiries whether he had an opening for a clever,
self-educated young man, lately written to say he had a vacancy for a
clerk which he would keep for Mr. Leslie’s young _protégé_. Mr. Leslie
had only been waiting till the shearing season was over to offer this
post to Jack, knowing that he could not very well be spared till it
was finished. Jack was delighted at the idea; a salary of fifty pounds
a year seemed to him untold wealth, and to have all the rest of the
day from five in the afternoon till ten the next morning to himself, a
perpetual holiday; and then to go to America, to him who had never been
much farther than Brighton, would, under any other circumstances, have
been all that he could have wished for, except Fairy to accompany him.
The post was offered him for two years, and the option of remaining,
if he liked the work, at the end of the two years. The only difficulty
was the money for his passage, but, to the surprise of Jack, his father
said he had plenty in the savings bank for that and to get him a few
necessaries as well.

But leaving as he was leaving, took all pleasure out of Jack’s
good fortune; if he felt any pleasure at all it was only from the
excitement of the journey, and the occupation of both mind and body,
which prevented him from dwelling on the sorrow he had brought on them
all, and diverted his mind from the terrible anxiety Charlie’s state
caused him.

If it had not been for Dr. Bates, Jack would have remained at home for
the night, and walked over to Brighton at daybreak to catch the coach,
but the doctor was rather a nervous man, and knowing that it was quite
possible Charlie might not live till the morning, he urged Mr. Leslie
to take Jack to Brighton that evening, adding in an undertone that if
anything happened Jack had better learn it in America. Perhaps it was
as well for all parties that the doctor’s advice was acted upon, for
it prevented any prolonged leave-takings, and gave no one time to fret
over Jack’s departure; indeed, an hour after the council held in the
kitchen, Jack was standing already to start, folding his mother in his
arms as he bade her good-bye. Then he went to the sitting-room, in
which Charlie was lying, and took a long, long look at him as he lay
with closed eyes, just breathing, all the colour gone from his usually
rosy cheeks. What would not Jack have given to see those merry blue
eyes open once more before he went away, perhaps never to see them
again? But no, the eyelids remained firmly closed, and Jack waited in
vain for any hopeful sign. He was alone in the room, and before he
left he knelt down by the side of the sofa and prayed until a footstep
outside startled him, and he rose hastily, for, proud and reserved as
he was, he would have hated even his mother to have seen him on his
knees, for, like many young men of his age, he had a great deal more
religion than the world gave him credit for. The footstep was Mrs.
Shelley’s; she was come to warn her darling son that it was time he
started or he would keep Mr. Leslie waiting.

“Mother, may I have a lock of his hair?” asked Jack. And Mrs. Shelley
cut one of Charlie’s fair curls for him; and then Jack stooped, and,
for the first time for many years, kissed the boy’s pale cheeks, and
then, once more embracing his mother, he left the room. But there was
another person to say good-bye to—Fairy—who was waiting in the passage,
and now came forward, putting both her hands in Jack’s and lifting up
her sweet, delicate little face to be kissed as naturally as though
Jack was her own brother; and though poor Jack blushed crimson as he
stooped and kissed her, Fairy, if she changed colour at all, grew
paler, for she felt very sad and lonely at the loss of her favourite
companion.

“You will think of me sometimes, Fairy, won’t you?” whispered Jack,
holding her hands.

“Yes, often, Jack; and mind you write to us directly you get to
America; we shall be longing to know how you are getting on.”

“Jack, my boy, it is time to start,” cried John Shelley, who was
waiting outside to walk to the rectory with his son, and the next
moment they were off.

(_To be continued._)



THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

BY EMMA BREWER.


CHAPTER IV.

After having tided over my difficulties, which had been brought about
partly by the ill-feeling and envy of the Land Bank, and partly by
another matter to be explained later, I went on successfully in my old
home, gradually increasing my powers and responsibilities, and, if I
may be allowed to add, daily growing more attractive.

Everybody courted my smiles, and were wretched if they failed to
find favour. Among those who paid me attention were members of the
royal family, bishops, clergy, ministers of state, merchants, and
philosophers; and, strange to say, I was as great a favourite with
the women as with the men, and I think I influenced their lives not
a little, for if a girl were known to be on my visiting list, even
though she were very plain, she found no difficulty in marrying well.
Did a mother hold in her arms her first-born, she was more restful and
content concerning its future if it had an opportunity of being placed
in my good books; and, certainly if a person died who had during his
life stood well with me, he was buried with more pomp and ceremony for
the fact.

It seems wonderful, does it not, that I should have kept my head amid
so much flattery and attention, and I very much doubt if I should have
done so but for the healthy tone of my home and the constant care of my
people.

Every now and then I got a fright, which prevented my becoming
frivolous, and which, but for my good constitution, would have gone far
to shake the life out of me. One I remember well.

It occurred in 1707, when I was but thirteen years old. It came in the
form of a “run,” and certainly, but for timely help, I should have been
torn to pieces.

The word _run_ may be suggestive to you merely of a race between me
and another bank; but in bank language it has a most terrifying and
disagreeable meaning.

It is a sudden demand from everybody to whom you owe money to pay up on
the spot, and without hesitation.

Your office is filled and refilled with people angrily and defiantly
demanding their money. Such was the case with me, and in my one room in
the Grocers’ Hall, at the date I mentioned.

I tried to console myself with the thought that if the people would but
give me time I would pay everyone to the full, but, alas! I was old
enough to know that this was not sufficient—my existence depended upon
the whole world believing me to be safe and worthy of confidence, and
their test of my trustworthiness was that I should pay everyone in full
at a moment’s notice.

I was nearly wild, and, for the moment, utterly powerless. To me
confidence was money, and by money I lived and breathed.

It was no use disguising the fact—I had not sufficient in my chests to
pay the reckless demands.

Not that I had misused the money entrusted to me, but that I had lent
it out again, that it might work and earn for me the means to pay
interest to the depositors and afford me something for my trouble;
all this was quite honourable and above board, and yet how frightened
I was! Had I wished it I could not have run away, for you know I had
but one room, without private doors and staircases; I was, therefore,
compelled to stand and face the excited and unreasonable crowd.

In the case of a _run_, it is absolutely necessary to find the money
somewhere, in order to meet the demand made by the public; for if once
payment is suspended credit is gone, career blasted, and business at an
end.

When a person asks me in confidence my definition of a _run_, I
always answer, “A reckless, senseless attack on a bank—one in which
self-interest is so overpowering as utterly to cover and blot out
reason for the time being.”

Of course the news spread like wildfire that I was surrounded by a
clamorous people whom more than likely I should not be able to satisfy,
and who, in that case, would not hesitate to take my life.

This roused my friends, who without loss of time came to my assistance
with the only commodity that could save me.

Godolphin (the Lord Treasurer in the reign of Queen Anne) declared that
the credit of the country was bound up together with mine, and that
help must be at once offered, for which phrase, when I had time to
think of it, I was thankful; but, better than words, my friends, the
Dukes of Marlborough and Newcastle, and others of the nobility, at once
came to my rescue with large sums of money, and gentlemen of all ranks
came with their offering of such cash as they had in hand.

One incident deeply touched me. A poor man, hearing of my trouble, came
to me with £500 which he had saved, and placed them absolutely at my
disposal. On my mentioning this to the Queen when next I saw her, she
was so pleased that she sent him a present of £100 and an order on the
Treasury to pay at once the £500 which had been lent to me. You may be
very sure that I did not forget such a friend.

You see, therefore, how the ill effects of the _run_ were averted by
the kindness of private and powerful friends.

The next fright I had was of another character, and occurred on the
28th of February, 1709, just two years after the _run_.

You who have studied the history of this country know that in the reign
of Queen Anne a certain Dr. Sacheverell caused a great deal of trouble
to those in authority, and roused the people to acts of riot and
rebellion.

On this particular day the people were mad with triumph. They had set
fire to chapels and meeting-houses; they had made bonfires of Bibles
and other books and materials in Lincoln’s Inn Fields without let or
hindrance, and while these were blazing the mob, which had been joined
by persons of the very lowest class, began to entertain the thought of
attacking me in Grocers’ Hall and relieving me of my wealth.

So on they came, as you know mobs will when they think themselves
masters, and there stood I and my whole household, determined to guard
our home and its treasures with our lives.

Thanks to the Earl of Sunderland, who rushed into the Queen’s presence
with an account of the mob’s proceedings, help was sent before harm
could reach us. The Queen, on hearing of the danger which threatened
me, turned pale from fear, but quickly regaining her courage, bade her
secretary “send her foot and horse guards forthwith and disperse the
rioters.” Thus peril was once again warded off from me and my home.

I know that you will think I had enough to do without dabbling in
politics, but in all your criticisms of me and my doings you must take
into consideration my education, my position, and my responsibilities.
Of course, I had daily dealings with every class of politicians, and
became acquainted with every shade of politics.

There is no knowing on which side I should have ranged myself—whether
among the Whigs or among the Tories—had I been allowed a choice; but
circumstances decided for me, and made me, and kept me for several
generations, a determined Whig.

My friend Joseph Addison[1] fully realised my position, and in a pretty
allegory set forth the calamity which would fall upon me should I by
chance favour the Tories.

It is very elegantly written, and, as it is not long, I will relate it
to you.

You will see that he speaks of me as a queen—by name “Public Credit.”

“I saw Public Credit on her throne in Grocers’ Hall, the Great Charter
overhead, the Act of Settlement full in her view. Her touch turned
everything to gold.

“Behind her seat bags filled with coin were piled up to the ceiling. On
her right and on her left the floor was hidden by pyramids of guineas.

“On a sudden the door flies open, the Pretender rushes in, a sponge
in one hand, in the other a sword, which he shakes at the Act of
Settlement.

“The beautiful queen sinks down fainting; the spell by which she has
turned all things around her into treasure is broken; the money-bags
shrink like pricked bladders; the piles of gold pieces are turned into
bundles of rags, or faggots of wooden tallies.”[2]

The truth which this picture was meant to convey was never absent from
my mind or from my governors’.

We were perfectly aware of how very closely our interest was bound up
with that of the Government, and the greater the public danger the more
ready were we—that is, I and my people—to go to their rescue.

I mentioned in an earlier portion of my story that I gained part of my
income by discounting bills of exchange.

It has been suggested to me that I should make clear to you the meaning
of bills of exchange, their origin and purpose, and how I could have
gained money by my dealings with them. I will do so as well as I can,
and in as few words as possible.

Originally, a bill of exchange was nothing more than a letter from a
person in one country to his debtor in another, begging him to pay the
debt to the person who would deliver the letter to him.

This way of proceeding was a saving of trouble to everybody. To the
creditor certainly; to the debtor, who could pay the money owing
without the danger and expense of sending it abroad; and to the third
person, or bearer of the letter, who, travelling in a foreign land,
found himself in funds of the country without the great inconvenience
of carrying much money from home.

For example, Madame Rotina, dwelling in Constantinople, has sent goods
to Mrs. James, of Cheapside, London, to the amount of £300, to be paid
on a certain date some twelve months hence. Well, a friend of Madame
Rotina’s intends spending a few weeks in London, and asks if she can do
anything for her friend while there. “Oh, yes,” says madame; “I shall
be glad if you will take a letter to Mrs. James, who owes me money, and
receive it for me.”

It might so happen that the friend would wish to leave London before
the time has arrived for Mrs. James to pay. She would, therefore, take
the letter, which would be open, to a fourth person—to me, perhaps—and
say, “This bill is not due for a month. The debtor is reliable. Will
you be good enough to discount it for me?” Under the circumstances,
this is what I should do: take the bill for £300, and give the bearer
£298 19s. 6d. Four per cent. interest for one month would be £1,
which would be mine for the trouble and risk of discounting, as well
as payment for the loss of my money for that time. The odd sixpence
would be for the stamp. At the end of the month I should get the full
£300. Now do you see how I increased my income by discounting bills of
exchange, especially if some hundreds passed through my hands in one
day?

These letters or bills, which were representatives of debts, became by
degrees articles of traffic. They were simple instruments, transferring
value from place to place, at home or abroad, and by their means
accounts were balanced without the transmission of money. At this
present time the net produce of stamps alone in Great Britain is
enormous.

I hope I have made it clear to you; because I want you to become
thoroughly acquainted with all my daily work.

And now to proceed with my story.

There is no knowing how long I should have gone on content in my one
room at the Grocers’ Hall, had not some unpleasantness occurred about
the renewal of the lease.

My governors and directors met me in council on the 20th of January,
1732, and we decided that, if we could find a suitable site, we would
build a house of our own.

We were fortunate enough to find a house and garden for sale, the
property of a former director of mine, Sir John Houblon. It was situate
in Threadneedle-street, in the parish of St. Christopher-le-Stocks.

We employed a first-rate firm of builders, Dunn and Townshend, very
well known at that time, and the first stone of the Bank of England was
laid on August 3rd, 1732.

It was a great day for me and a very imposing ceremony, in which my
governors and directors took a prominent part. I gave away twenty
guineas to be distributed among the workmen, that they too might have
cause for rejoicing on such a memorable day.

In less than two years the building was complete, and on June 5th,
1734, I took up my abode there, and have lived in Threadneedle-street
from that day to this; so that I am, of course, the oldest inhabitant.
One after another I have seen my neighbours pass away, and their houses
pulled down to make room for other and more stately buildings. The
friends of my youth, too, are all gone, and there remain none who can
sympathise with me in my high position, because there are none old
enough to remember my early struggles, which led up to it.

A very lonely old woman I feel sometimes when I have leisure to sit in
my grand but comfortless parlour and think, with only the shadows of
past friends for companions.

There is no one with whom I care to speak of them; for, alas! the
present generation remember only their faults, and none of their
greatness.

It was but the other day, when some one was abusing one of my former
governors, Thomas Guy,[3] I reminded him that my friend had built
and endowed Guy’s Hospital at a cost of £18,793 for the first, and
£219,499 for the last, and that he should be spoken of with respect
and gratitude. “Oh, yes, I know,” was the careless answer, “Charity
covereth a multitude of sins.”

I think this is the first time I have been able personally to express
my feelings about people and things in my life, and for the opportunity
I am indebted to you, the girls of the world, who have expressed the
desire to make my acquaintance.

The house in Threadneedle-street, into which I moved all my effects,
and in which I took up my abode in 1734, was small and insignificant
compared with its present size and appearance. It consisted only of the
present centre, courtyard, hall, and bullion-court, and was scarcely
visible to passers-by.

It was almost enclosed by the Church of St. Christopher-le-Stocks,
three taverns, and about twenty houses.

This house was at first sufficiently large for me to carry on my
business comfortably; but as the work became more complicated we found
it necessary to add to it, and in 1770 built the eastern wing. Thirty
years later the western wing, together with the Lothbury front, was
built. From time to time there have been additions and alterations,
which account for the variety in the style of architecture.

I ought to have mentioned that part of my residence stands on marshy
soil, in the course of the ancient stream of Walbrook, and, that I
might suffer no ill effect from this, the foundation was strengthened
by means of piles and counter-arches. And here, being settled in my new
home, I will pause to put all things in order before going on with my
story.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: THE OLD BANK.]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Joseph Addison, an elegant writer and a Secretary of State in Queen
Anne’s reign. He was born in Wiltshire, 1672, and died in 1719 at the
age of forty-seven.

[2] Try and keep the meaning of tallies in your mind.

[3] Thomas Guy was the son of a lighterman in Horselydown, Southwark.
He was born in 1643, and died in 1724. He was apprenticed to a
bookseller, and afterwards began the world with £200, which, by good
business habits and extreme parsimony, became an immense fortune.



GIRLS’ FRIENDSHIPS.

By the Author of “Flowering Thorns.”


CHAPTER III.

HOW THEY ARE BROKEN.

In all friendships which ultimately cease to exist there comes the
point of departure as in the capital letter Y; the point where the two
before united friends separate and continue their lives in different
directions.

At first the division between them is a very narrow one, but it widens
and stretches out till the two wholly lose sight of each other. Of this
I have already spoken as the drifting apart of friends; the gradual
cooling of once warm friendship.

But it has another kind of conclusion as abrupt and final as the
termination of the capital letter I, of which no continuance is
possible.

It was difficult in the first instance to say just where the separation
between the friends began, but here there can be no mistake, and
very often not only the girls themselves but their relations and
acquaintances know that there has been a quarrel.

The letters and meetings do not become shorter and fewer, they cease;
or if circumstances do not allow of this—for their respective families
do not necessarily quarrel too—they become noticeably forced and
frigid, and, if possible, avoided. There is a sore feeling on both
sides which those who tranquilly drifted apart never experienced. The
friendship has broken off short, as it were, there has been no period
of preparation for this sudden issue, and both girls are wounded;
though whether it be in their affection, dignity, or self-love, the
cause of estrangement and character of each must determine.

It is impossible to sever all at once the many links which bind friend
and friend; and the consciousness that it is so, and that for many a
day after their quarrel they must stand connected, often adds to the
pain and bitterness they feel.

Now, what are the causes of these complete separations, or, to put it
more correctly, complete alienations?

Death is, of course, a final interruption to friendship, but does
not mean alienation. Our dear dead friend is ours still, in a sense.
We know that the dead in Christ have a conscious existence, and feel
convinced they do not forget, but continue to love us; and looking
forward to a reunion some day, we cannot feel that our friendship
is broken. A friendship interrupted by death seems to me to be only
purified and elevated, and when the thought arises, as it often will:
“What would she say to this? how would she advise on that?” the
certainty that her opinions must now be always ranged on the side of
what conscience tells us is right must tend to draw us upward and
onward.

Yes, the severance of death is not complete, but what are we to say of
the severance of pride or jealousy?

It is, unfortunately, true that many a girl, as well as her elders,
cannot bear to feel herself second, and because her friend is
prettier, cleverer, or it may be more fortunate, then she manages to
quarrel with her.

She does not acknowledge that such is the reason, of course; even if
she be conscious that it is so, she does not give it the true name,
but, “I am not always going to dance attendance on Louisa”—“Louisa
comes to me when she can get no one else, and I won’t put up with
it”—“I don’t see why Louisa should expect me always to go to her, and
never come to me,” and so on, until an irritated feeling against Louisa
is produced; and the two come to an open rupture.

If Louisa is indeed the superior of the two she has probably taken the
first place unconsciously, and a slight to her friend is the last thing
she dreams of. She feels the reproaches are unmerited, replies hotly,
or contemptuously, and the breach is made.

The friendship was, of course, a very imperfect one, or it could not
have been so easily broken. I don’t think the girl who felt herself
slighted and aggrieved could have given her friend much help or
sympathy for some time before the quarrel began.

“Ah, but,” someone exclaims, “perhaps she could not help and sympathise
with such a superior creature as Louisa.”

“Then,” I reply, “the friendship was too unequal to last long.” Not
that I mean for a moment to insist that two friends ought to be on a
level in every particular, but each should be superior in turn. It
won’t do for one always to be able to look down. If the other is meek
and submissive it creates a one-sided friendship; if she happens to
be high-spirited or mean-spirited, a quarrel. So that if your friend
either is, or considers herself, your superior in everything, or if you
will not allow that she is superior to you in anything, look out for
the breach that is sure to come.

And these breaches are not such as can be healed. The one most in fault
is sure to be the one who thinks herself injured, so that the necessary
first step is never taken. The friendship may indeed be patched up for
awhile, but it is never reliable again, for the simple reason that
girls who can quarrel once for such causes are quite certain to do so
again.

Friends are alienated, too, by a misunderstanding, and the beginnings
of these are often so far in the past that it is almost impossible
to find them. What very slight things occasion a misunderstanding
which in course of time may kill a friendship! A trifling neglect, an
explanation given too late, a carelessly worded speech or letter, and,
above all, perhaps, conversation incorrectly repeated.

Probably the remarks made are not of sufficient importance to deserve
that we ask an explanation of them, and in nine cases out of ten
we don’t stop to inquire whether it is not likely they have been
inaccurately reported—often by mistake—or, even if the words be right,
what a difference do look and tone make!

“You wretch,” is quite a term of endearment from some people, for
example; and “how mean of her to tell you,” does not sound very severe
from laughing lips.

“Clara said it was very mean of you to say anything to Maria about
the way she spoilt that dress of hers,” says the tale-bearer (and
tale-bearers do not generally understand a joke, but take all they
hear _au grand sérieux_). Harriet is vexed, for she thought Clara
considered the spoilt dress quite a laughing matter, and would not
betray her friend’s confidence for the world; still, it is not worth
while to make a fuss about it, but she can’t forget it, and the next
time she and Clara have a “difference” it comes out.

“You told Maria that I was mean and didn’t keep your secrets,” says
Harriet.

“I did not do any such thing,” cries Clara, who has forgotten all about
her careless speech, and to whom the spoilt dress had never seemed a
secret.

“Well, somebody heard you.”

“Nobody could have heard what I did not say.”

“You must have said it, or it would not have been heard,” etc., etc.

And even if the two make it up now there remains a feeling of distrust
of each other which is almost sure to ripen into alienation.

Misunderstandings may also be occasioned by a letter so heedlessly
worded that it makes a misrepresentation.

If such a statement as that the body of the late Prince Leopold was to
be “burned” at Frogmore can pass the proof-readers and appear, as it
did, in a public paper, it is not much wonder if girls, in their hasty,
thoughtless letters to one another, often say things quite as untrue
without the smallest intention of misleading. Girls do not always write
their meaning very clearly (nor other people either, for that matter),
and even the omission of a comma, to say nothing of a “not” or a
“sometimes,” may make all the difference in the world to a sentence.

Separations caused by misunderstandings are hard to bridge, because it
is so impossible to trace them to their beginnings. We have forgotten
ourselves what it was that first aroused the feeling of distrust, and
because we cannot give a reason for the feeling it is probably the
stronger. “I feel because I feel” is, after all, a position of great
strength. But we have lost each other as in a maze whose complications
are too numerous to permit of return or even exit, and here there is no
man in the middle to point out the way backwards or forwards.

Interference from without, tale-bearing, and meddling generally are
such obvious modes of dividing friends that I need hardly allude to
them except to say that outsiders rather overlook the fact that the
“third body” is nearly as much in the way between friends as between
lovers. Both resent having their quarrels made up from without; the
would-be healing hand is in most cases changed into that thumb about
which we so often hear, and which makes a small breach a large one.

I will only now speak of one more way in which friends part utterly,
and that is the parting of determined purpose for some clearly-defined
reason. This is not to be done lightly, and will only—can only—be done
by girls of decided character.

The reasons for such partings must lie deep, and in light, unthinking
characters there is no depth to contain them. Earnest differences will
often spring up on religious questions, and if their convictions or
fanaticism lead them to believe such differences vital, girls will
sometimes mutually agree, either tacitly or in words, to bring their
friendship to a close and be in future mere acquaintances.

When two friends disagree in matters of religion, the subject is
generally altogether dropped between them; and can there be a true
friendship, do you think, when what is of vital interest and importance
to both is entirely left out of conversation?

Minor religious differences are of no consequence; but let there be
agreement in what an old woman aptly called “the fundamentals,” and
this Christians of different sects can certainly manage to do.

Again, if one of the two friends pursues a line of conduct of which
the other strongly disapproves, either on religious or moral grounds
(not upon some strained question of ceremonial or class etiquette,
remember), a total estrangement is likely to take place. I have a
case of this sort in my mind at the present moment, the cause of
disagreement being certain books, the reading of which one considered
would injure her moral purity. A hot dispute ensued, and the girls
parted. It was best they should part; they could never have been
lasting friends.

Let me add but one word to this chapter of broken friendships.

Girls must remember that even a dead friendship is a sacred thing, and
that its death does not loose them from the responsibility laid on them
by that friendship while still alive. The secrets your friend confided
in you while your friend are secrets still. You have no right to make
them common property because she is no longer your friend. All she
told you must be as if it were under the seal of confession. There
is nothing I think more contemptible than a girl who makes use of the
knowledge she acquired of another while they were friends to show her
up to ridicule or scorn. It somehow reminds me of a decoy-duck. It is
some satisfaction, however, to feel that such a creature gets more than
all the contempt and disgust she intended for her sometime friend.

I am afraid girls lose sight of these responsibilities of friendship,
and think when the last handclasp is loosened they are freed from the
burden of the other’s confidence. But this is emphatically not the
case. A dead friendship is a sacred thing.

(_To be concluded._)



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

NURSE and HOUSEMAID should apply to the secretary, St. Mary’s Hospital,
Paddington, W., stating full particulars.

L. MARTIN will obtain information on schools, etc., by getting “The
Englishwoman’s Year Book” from Messrs. Hatchards and Co., Piccadilly,
W. Her question is too vague.

ONE OF THE GIRLS (Belfast).—The openings in India at present are
generally in connection with medical missions, and good governess
situations are not easy to get. You are far too young to think of it
yet.

A CORNISH LASSIE.—We recommend you to study Dr. Angus’s “Handbook of
the English Tongue” (Mr. Tarn, 56, Paternoster-row, E.C.). You must not
end any sentence with a preposition such as _with_, _for_, _by_, _to_,
_in_, or _of_. Transpose the phrase so as to avoid it or alter it.
“What did he do it for?” is incorrect. You should say, “Why did he do
it?” or “For what reason did he do it?”

SCHOOLGIRL (Toronto).—Backboards and stocks were both used. The former
are to be seen now in many schoolrooms in England, and when one sees
the rounded shoulders and poor carriage of so many of the present
generation of girls, one wishes that the backboard _régime_ could be
restored.

E. M. H.—The name Abram meant “a high father.” This was afterwards
changed to Abraham, which means the “father of a great multitude.” See
the promises of God to him in the Book of Genesis.

H. Y. M.—We must request you to read all that we have recently said
to other correspondents desiring to become governesses, and reckoning
on salaries in accordance with the amount of their certificated
acquirements, but overlooking the circumstances of youth and
inexperience. In your own case, your hand is not formed, and you are
incapable of teaching that essential branch of education—writing;
nor do you express yourself properly—_i.e._, you should not say
“for teaching same as above.” This is a very commercial style of
abbreviating a sentence. Also, you should not say “over seventeen,” but
“upwards of.” We point out such little inelegancies only in kindness,
because your style of letter-writing might obtain or lose you a good
situation, and we wish you well. A visiting governess is generally
better paid than a resident one.

A CONSTANT READER.—We recommend you to procure a small “Directory
of Girls’ Clubs,” published by Griffith and Farran, corner of St.
Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.

MISS A. S.—We are glad to bring the Parkinson Society of Lovers of
Hardy Flowers into the notice of our readers, and regret that, although
not specially designed for our girls, it was not until too late for
publication brought before the compiler of the shilling manual of
girls’ clubs above-named. It was founded by the late Juliana H. Ewing,
and had its origin in her story of “Mary’s Meadow,” in reference to
the cultivation, study, and preservation of hardy wild flowers. The
name was given in commemoration of the old herbalist, John Parkinson.
Members of this society receive a parcel of MSS. and books on
gardening every month, from April 1st to November 30th. For rules and
other particulars, apply to the hon. secretary, Miss A. Sargant, 7,
Belsize-grove, London, N.W.


ART.

MIMICA.—The remains of Turner, the painter, are buried in the crypt of
St. Paul’s Cathedral, close to those of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

COTAGHALEURIN.—We do not usually give addresses. You may procure cheap
unmounted photos in all London bazaars and at many art shops, and the
prices range from four pence to half-a-crown. Your handwriting is good.
We are obliged for your kind offer of a fern, which we are unable to
accept.

CELANDINE.—1. We consider milk and water a good preparation for setting
pencil drawings. 2. Probably you have forgotten to dip your mould in
cold water, and so wet it before pouring in your lemon sponge.

K. A.—For setting a smoked picture, see answer on page 399, vol. iii.,
to “Charing Cross.”

TWO SCHOOLBERRIES.—To preserve holly berries, dip them in a solution
of sealing-wax and spirits of wine, such as you employ for colouring
soiled baskets.

AN INTERESTED READER.—An annual exhibition of china paintings is held
by Messrs. Howell and James, and they will take any articles for it if
fairly well executed. The price is attached to each piece, for which if
sold a small commission is charged.

ELISE.—To remove the gloss on the surface of a photo, apply the tongue
to the paper, for no preparation is as safe as this natural one.

VIOLENT.—We cannot make promises as to competitions. Read our
replies on this subject to other inquirers. They can only be of rare
occurrence, and are so planned as to suit the majority of our girls.

DAPHNE.—It is difficult to paint without a few lessons at the
commencement. Bad habits are formed, which have to be abandoned.
Green’s three shilling volumes on painting from nature, sold by Messrs.
Rowney, might assist you. Study them carefully, and copy the examples
given after having enlarged them.

SAG.—A “cold shadow” in painting is one that runs from a blue-grey
to black, and a “warm shadow” is a grey tint inclining to crimson or
purple. The shadows are effected by the amount of sunlight at the
time the picture is taken. Megilp is mixed with oil colours and other
mediums, but not to any great extent. Make your capital letters more
distinct. We cannot tell whether you call yourself Sag, Say, Tag, Lag,
or Lay.

HOWELL and EMMELINE (Barbadoes).—For an article on waxwork, see vol.
i., page 355. It is sufficient for a beginner. We are surprised that
you should select such a field of art in so warm a climate. Surely it
would be very unsuitable? To model in clay or carve in wood or ivory
would, we should fancy, be much more practicable.


WORK.

JUDY.—The cashmere skirt with the beaded bodice would be quite suitable
for a quiet evening at home.

GERTRUDE.—The only way is to procure orders for the things you make by
going round with a collection of them to the shops, and showing what
you can do; but it would be a very precarious way of living.

GRANNIE must send the cloth to a good French cleaner. We fear the
crimson spot is a dye, not a stain.

DAISY RANDOLPH.—Alas! so many of our correspondents write to us about
“a little work they could do at home to add to their incomes.” Such
work is the most difficult to get; but dressmakers are always in
request. Why cannot “Daisy” try dressmaking or millinery, and make a
small home business?

E. GEMMELL writes in behalf of the Decorative Needlework Society,
45, Baker-street, W., to say that scientific or other dressmaking is
not taught at their institution. The art of decorative needlework,
including church embroidery, is taught, and all desiring such
instruction should address the hon. secretary, Miss Mary Haworth. The
promoters of this society were formerly engaged in that of the Royal
School of Art Needlework.

SEVENTEEN, MINUS THE SWEETNESS.—Nun’s-cloth, cashmere, or fine alpaca,
are all suitable for inexpensive evening gowns for young girls. We
should think that a crimson or ruby-coloured material would suit
you, though as a rule youth looks best in white. Black lace over a
red foundation is also used by young girls at present, and is not
expensive.

THERMOMETER.—Steam the plush on the wrong side and shake it well. Curl
the feather with a blunt penknife, drawing each filament separately and
gently between your thumb and the blade.

MISS RENDELL.—Inquiries being perpetually made by our correspondents
as to any method of disposing of their needlework, we are glad to have
found one at last in a society for the aid of girls and young women. To
those who live by their work, the yearly subscription is 2s. 6d., and
Miss Rendell’s depôt is at 12, Shawfield-street, King’s-road, Chelsea,
S.W. The names of all lady workers are kept quite private. The depôt is
open from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., Saturdays excepted. A commission of 2d. in
the shilling is charged on all work sold, the rent of the house, etc.,
having to be met.

MISS E. RADCLIFFE.—The Pinafore Society is one conducted by this
lady, to which each member subscribes one shilling annually, and must
contribute, as we understand, two pinafores a year likewise. For
further particulars write to the hon. secretary, Balmore, Caversham,
Oxon.

AMY W.—To make a handsome sermon-case, embroider an ecclesiastical
design upon strong linen with floss silk and gold threads. Transfer
this to good dark velvet, and hide the linen edges by couching a gold
cord round them, lining the velvet with rep silk of same shade of
colour.

F. L. C. W. (Leicester).—A verse of four lines suitable to embroider on
a needlebook is not easy to find, especially as you give no particulars
as to the receiver of your gift.


MISCELLANEOUS.

EDITH C. JARVIS.—Your little poem gives promise of better to come.
There is considerable freedom, but no original ideas. Had the writer
been younger, we might have tried to find space for it.

DAISY should read our series of articles on good breeding and etiquette
under every circumstance of life. Possibly these may be published in
separate form, and if so, it may be shortly; but, in any case, we
advise you to read them in their present form.

DORIS.—See our articles on the meaning of “Girls’ Christian Names,” in
vol. iv., pages 39, 134, 235, and 381.

ROTHSAY BAY.—Of course, you should say grace before breakfast and
dinner. A very usual form is, “For these, and all Thy mercies, we give
Thee thanks, O Lord!” or, “O Lord! relieve the wants of others, and
make us truly thankful.” It is certainly to be regretted that people
who recognise the duty of returning thanks to God for the “daily bread”
for which they pray, should mutter them hurriedly over, as if ashamed
of them!

BESSIE.—1. Cousins of any degree of nearness may be legally married. 2.
May 27th, 1868, was a Wednesday.

HORSESHOE inquires “why some people have different coloured eyes.” We
will tell her if she can inform us why some people’s noses turn up and
some turn down. Such peculiarities may be hereditary, but what the
ancient origin of the distinctive features of various races may be we
do not propose to investigate for our correspondents.

HELIOTROPE and MARY’S LAMB.—The word “marmalade” is of Greek origin,
composed of two words, “apple” and “honey.” From the same source the
French derive their kindred word _marmelade_, the Spaniards their
_mermelada_, and the Portuguese their _marmelo_. The term is not merely
applied to an orange confection, but likewise to one of apples and of
quinces.

AN OLD FRIEND AT AACHEN.—We read your letter with much interest. We are
not certain whether you intend to say you are earning £30 in English
money and have also £30 income. If so, and you are now in a situation,
you should dress on £20 and save the rest.

VANITY.—We have pleasure in directing attention to the opening of a
home for destitute children of the upper classes at Tunbridge Wells. So
much is done for the lower orders, and so very little for poor gentry,
that we sincerely wish this little institution will meet with abundant
support. Address Mrs. Ladds, hon. secretary, 11, South-grove, Tunbridge
Wells. The objects are twofold—to provide a home for the children till
able to earn a livelihood, and to offer temporary change of air to
those whose parents (military, naval, or professional) can only make a
small payment for it.

JO.—1. We recommend you to go or write to the New Zealand Emigration
Office in Victoria-street, Westminster, S.W., where you will obtain
all the information you need. 2. The 14th of September, 1864, was a
Wednesday.

FAUVETTE.—To fasten small shells on boxes, strong glue is used, or
cement such as you buy at a chemist’s for mending china. We are much
pleased that you value our paper. Of course, you are one of “our girls.”

VENTURE.—The poem is prose badly rhymed. How can you make a
“thankoffering of a friend”? Your thoughts are confused, and your
metaphors nonsense.

ALICE CANN.—Your duty is to serve the Lord faithfully, relying on His
grace and aid in whatever situation His Providence has placed you; but
if one of special temptation, you may seek a less trying one when able.
On no account, however, neglect your obedience to His command, and give
up your attendance on His divine ordinances, especially that of Holy
Communion. It would be the first step in a downward direction. We have
a battle to fight, the “fight of faith,” and must “overcome evil with
good.” You write a very pretty hand. Accept our best wishes.

MABELLE.—There is no sequel to either book, nor has the “Mystery of
Edwin Drood” been finished by anyone bearing authority from the Dickens
family.

JUST EIGHTEEN.—The mutual opening of each other’s letters should
be made from the beginning a matter of distinct agreement between
a husband and wife. However great the mutual confidence may be,
expediency may often render the indiscriminate opening of letters
undesirable as a regular rule. In fact, it would be better, in our
opinion, that each should open their own and respect those of the
other, thereby showing the greater confidence in that respect.
Voluntarily to read aloud the ordinary letters to each other is
certainly desirable.

TROUBLESOME FLO.—We do not think the lines original enough to get into
print, but they show a very sweet and tender-hearted disposition, and
no doubt it gave you pleasure to write them, and relieved your heart at
the time; so be satisfied with that, and cherish the good and loving
thoughts, and seek ever what is best.

TULLIALLAN.—Christmas Day, 1860, was a Tuesday.

BOBTAIL.—January 4th, 1874, was a Sunday.

JEANETTE.—You would be both rash and imprudent in marrying so
unreliable a man. His saying that he “could do so much with you” is
mere talk, when every act has contradicted the assertion. Besides, he
has no right to reckon upon leaning on you. You have a right to expect
to lean upon him. He is a broken reed to depend upon, and would drag
you down to poverty, and then, when failures and want have tried his
weak nature, who knows the result? Drink might follow. It is unmanly
and dishonourable in a man who has no home nor money to ask any woman
to marry him, and you are fully justified in withdrawing from the
engagement without asking his permission, having already excused his
failures so often. Ask your parents to dismiss him if troublesome.

MARGARET.—What is called house-leek, or, vulgarly, “hen and chickens,”
is a very good plant for bordering a garden bed.

A YOUNG MOTHER (New Zealand).—Your very gratifying letter has been
long unanswered, but we greatly appreciate the opinion you express
respecting this paper, and thank you for it sincerely, the more so as
your sole object in writing is to encourage us in our work by a few
gracious words. Accept our best wishes for you and yours.

ROGATOR.—We read in _Notes and Queries_ that whenever the German
knights headed an infamous Jew hunt in the Middle Ages they shouted
“Hip-hip!” equivalent to saying “Jerusalem is destroyed!” “Hip” is
said to be a _notarica_ of the letters _Hierosolima est perdita_. The
authority given is Henri van Laun. The word “hurrah!” is taken from the
word _Huraj_, “to Paradise,” and the two words thus connected would
seem to mean “Jerusalem is lost to the Infidel” (or unbelieving Jew or
Saracen), “and we are on the way to Paradise.”

MUMBLES.—“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” is taken from
Shakespeare’s _Julius Cæsar_, act iv., scene 3.

[Illustration:

    “FREEZE, FREEZE, THOU BITTER SKY,
    THOU DOST NOT BITE SO NIGH
      AS BENEFITS FORGOT.”]

A CONSTANT READER tells us that she became so deaf from a severe
cold, that she could not hear the clock strike when close to it. For
this deafness she tried the following prescription, for which, she
says, a lady paid a physician three guineas. She moistened a little
wool with the fat of uncooked bacon, and put it in her ears, changing
it every second day. The weather being cold, she tied a lace lappet
over her ears, and when out of doors covered them with her bonnet
strings. In less than a fortnight her hearing was restored, and she
has had no return of deafness. Another lady recovered her hearing by
means of taking a strong tonic, taking also nourishing food, and so
strengthening the entire system, and with equally satisfactory results.

S. MEARER.—We do not recommend the profession you name. It is one of
such great temptation, and such a hindrance to spiritual life and
progress. It is also exceedingly trying to the health.

HELEN ADA.—All games of ball are of very remote origin. The Greeks
played them assiduously, and gave a statue to Aristonicus for his
wonderful play. Tennis is thought, from the terms used in the game,
to have originated in France prior to the fifteenth century. There
is a book called “Annals of Tennis,” by Julian Marshall, which would
interest you.

AWKWARD SIXTEEN.—Ask a surgeon. We could not give an opinion without
seeing them. It is always a risky thing to carry bottles full of any
liquid in a trunk; it is better to put them in the handbag, if there be
room.

NOTE OF INTERROGATION.—A widow can claim a third of her husband’s
property, and the remaining two-thirds are divided in equal shares
between his children, by whichever wife. The marriage settlements, if
any exist, are apart from this. You may have money from this source.

A. B. C.—Always consult your rector as to the decorations of his
church. Your writing is fairly good and legible.

PERSIS.—It would be better to consult your doctor about your fits of
sneezing, as there are several causes, and, independently of outward
irritation of the air passages, some affections of the stomach are said
to produce them.

SARA AMELIA.—The Mishna of the Jews was the oral law, and the Gemara
was the commentary upon it, and these two united form the Talmud. The
Masora is the true reading of the Scriptures, while the before-named
Mishna and Gemara combined gave the true interpretation. The
commencement of the Masoretic Notes is dated by some as far back as the
time of Ezra, the inspired writer of the book bearing his name in the
Old Testament.

VIOLET and SUNFLOWER.—The St. Bernard puppies could be disposed of by
advertising them. Of course, a pedigree would make them more valuable.
We should think that the fowls wanted a much warmer fowl-house.

ELLA must put her name on her mother’s card. Young ladies of twenty-one
do not have separate cards.

ARIEL.—Leave the steel brooch in oil for a day or two, and then rub it
well with chamois leather. Should that prove ineffectual in removing
the rust, send it to a silversmith to be cleaned.

E. M. H. must let her friends know that she has returned, and the best
way to do that is to call and see them.

ERNESTINE.—The name De Lesseps is pronounced as in English, excepting
that the final “s” is mute. The name Sodor is derived from _Sodor Eys_,
or South Isles—_i.e._, the Hebrides, the Orkneys being known as the
North Isles. These Southern or Western Isles were made an Episcopal
diocese by Magnus, King of Norway, in 1098, and were united as one
diocese to the Isle of Man in 1113.

JOHN’S KITTEN.—May 6th, 1853, was a Friday, and July 21st, 1867, was a
Sunday. We are glad to hear that our answers have helped you.

JANIE SHAW.—Miss Ellman, The Rectory, Berwich, Sussex, is secretary of
an early rising society, as well as of other societies.

F. E. S.—There is always a table for finding dates in every “Whitaker’s
Almanack.”

MISS MOORE SMITH wishes it to be known that her Home Workers’
Missionary Union passed from her hands into those of Miss Chute, 25,
Longford-terrace, Monkstown, co. Dublin, and thence again into other
management. Perhaps Miss Chute might give any information desired.

DAISY A. (Moor-street).—The “Old Maid’s Story” is not without merit.
The language flows very easily, and, with more experience and plenty
of perseverance, we think the writer might do something worth reading
later on.

FORGET-ME-NOT, MAGGIE DAVIES, and LITTLE DOT.—Write to our publisher
about the index, “Crown of Flowers,” etc. The 13th November, 1833, was
a Wednesday, and the 12th October, 1833, a Saturday. It is pleasant to
hear of your appreciation of the G. O. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 211: dreadfuly to dreadfully—“dreadfully sensible”.]




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 366, January 1, 1887" ***

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