Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 374, February 26, 1887
Author: Various
Language: English
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VIII, NO. 374, FEBRUARY 26, 1887 ***



[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]

VOL. VIII.—NO. 374.]      FEBRUARY 26, 1887.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.



A FAMILY LIKENESS.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

[Illustration:

    “I TELL THEM ALL THE HOUSE IS FREE,
    AND BID THEM MAKE THEMSELVES AT HOME.”]

_All rights reserved._]


    My parlour is a pleasant place,
      I love its silence and its shade,
    ’Tis like some sweet, accustomed face
      So dear, it need not fear to fade:
    And here I sit with folded hands,
    To welcome John from foreign lands.

    You see that portrait in the room?
      My great aunt’s—long ere she was wed.
    Once, when my mother praised its bloom,
      John turned to me and softly said
    (And then at least he thought it true),
    “A very lovely face—like you!”

    Don’t blame him. No. I had no wealth:
      His fortune, too, was all to seek.
    Though love might enter in by stealth,
      He thought it was no time to speak.
    So silently John went away,
    And now he brings his wife to-day.

    And there they are! And this is he
      (I’d know his voice if I were blind!);
    And in his smiling spouse I see
      A gracious beauty, fair and kind,
    A stately lady—not at all
      Like yon quaint picture on the wall!

    And now for all the boys and girls
      Who make my old friend’s household bliss;
    Oh, Johnnie, with the chestnut curls,
      I’m sorry he’s too old to kiss!—
    I only say, “How like his father!”
    And take his hand and press it rather.

    I tell them all the house is free,
      And bid them make themselves at home,
    And so, with peals of laughing glee,
      About the stairs and rooms they roam:
    But Johnnie joins not in their rout;
    He stays with us, and peers about.

    He sees that portrait on the wall
      (Still hanging in the same old place);
    He turns about before us all,
      And says, “That is a lovely face.”
    His mother rises up to see;
    His father smiles, and looks at me.

    “It ought to be restored,” says he,
      “It’s piteous how these beauties fade”
    (Ah, the old dream is safe with me).
      John has forgotten what he said!
    Old picture, we’ll forget it too—
    Come, Johnnie, here’s a seat for you!

[Illustration:

    “HE SEES THE PORTRAIT ON THE WALL
    STILL HANGING IN THE SAME OLD PLACE.”

    [_See page 338._]



TINNED MEATS: THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.

BY A. G. PAYNE, Author of “Common-sense Cookery,” “Choice Dishes at
Small Cost,” “The Housekeeper’s Guide,” &c.


PART III.

There is no doubt that in this country the present generation is far
more luxurious than the one that preceded it. Living is to a great
extent a question of habit. At the present moment a Russian soldier
is paid at the rate of a shilling a month, and his only ration is
rye-bread baked into biscuit, washed down with a draught of water. The
British workman of the day requires a hot meat dinner, cooked from
fresh meat expressly for him alone. Were his wife to supply him with
cold meat, he would probably grumble. In the last century a labourer
was content with a piece of fat pork boiled on Sunday. Possibly in the
next century we shall have our soup kitchens for the poor altered into
turtle soup kitchens; for it is a fact that the luxuries of one century
become the necessities of the next.

It is a question worthy of consideration whether this country has not
reached that pitch of luxury and self-indulgence which all history
teaches us is the turning-point in a nation’s greatness. Ananius,
Azarius, and Misael have told us that we thrive better on pulse and
water than on the king’s meat. Let us hope as a nation that, unlike the
king in question, seven times may not pass over us to cure us of our
luxury and pride.

I will not enter into a description of the various uses of the more
expensive luxuries now sold in tins. I refer to truffles, cocks’
combs, _fina cière_, _ragout_, _foie gras_, etc. Mushrooms, however,
are exceptions. They seem like gifts of nature, and, like the manna
of old, they require us to rise early and gather in our harvest
fresh, not forgetting that, like manna, they will not properly keep
till the morrow. It is, however in cases like this, when the food is
of a perishable nature, that the invention of preserving in tins is
so useful. There are probably few of what may be called accessories
to food more useful or more delicious than mushrooms. Mushrooms are
preserved in tins in two forms, by far the most common one being quite
plain in water. Were I to give a list of all the various dishes in the
composition of which mushrooms enter, I should require as many volumes
as I am allowed columns. I would, however, remind housekeepers that
small tins of mushrooms can now be obtained at sixpence each from all
respectable grocers.

I will give one or two simple cases to illustrate the various uses to
which mushrooms can be applied.

First, mushroom sauce.

You can have brown mushroom sauce and white mushroom sauce.

To make brown mushroom sauce from tinned mushrooms, open the tin of
mushrooms and add the contents, liquid and all, to about an equal
quantity of good, thick, rich, brown gravy. The mushrooms should be
chopped small, and served in the gravy just as they are.

White mushroom sauce, which is so delicious with boiled fowl, can be
made by adding a tin of mushrooms to some good béchamel sauce. Béchamel
sauce is some very strong stock, mixed with some boiling milk, or,
still better, boiling cream, thickened with a little butter and flour.
When the tin of mushrooms is added to the white sauce, the whole should
be rubbed through a wire sieve with a wooden spoon. This helps to
thicken the sauce, and greatly adds to the flavour.

Another simple instance of the use of mushrooms is some kind of fish
_au gratin_. Take, for instance, a sole. Dry it, flour it, and egg
and breadcrumb it in the usual manner. Next take a sixpenny tin of
mushrooms, strain off the liquor, and chop up the mushrooms finely with
a piece of onion as big as the top of the thumb down to the bottom of
the nail, a piece of lemon peel, say about the size of the thumbnail
and as thick; that is, you only use the yellow part, and not the white.
Add also sufficient chopped parsley to fill a teaspoon, as well as a
little pepper and salt. Fry all these in a frying-pan with some butter
for a few minutes, and when it is partially cooked place about half
of it in a tin sufficiently long to hold the sole. Place the sole on
the top of these chopped ingredients, and place the remainder on the
top of the sole. Pour all the butter in the frying-pan on it, and, if
necessary, add a little more butter, so as to keep the sole moist,
and bake it in the oven till the sole is done. Of course the time for
baking varies with the size of the sole and the fierceness of the oven.
When it is finished, a little finely-grated Parmesan cheese may be
shaken over the whole. Parmesan cheese can now be obtained in bottles,
the price of a small bottle being about eightpence or ninepence. The
Parmesan cheese is, however, not absolutely necessary. Also a few bread
raspings shaken over the whole gives it a finished appearance. This
dish looks a great deal better if the tin is the same shape as the
sole, and the fish served in the tin in which it is baked. Long oval
tins are sold on purpose.

Almost any kind of fish can be served in this way, such as lemon soles,
fresh haddock, filleted brill, filleted plaice, etc. Just before the
sole _au gratin_ is sent to table many persons add about a teaspoonful
of sherry to the sauce by which it is surrounded. To my mind it is a
doubtful improvement.

Another very excellent form of preserved mushrooms of which I cannot
speak too highly, is what is known as black Leicestershire mushrooms,
preserved in gravy. These are quite different from the ones usually
sold in tins. They are round and flat in shape, and are much more like
the ordinary mushrooms that we are accustomed to gather in the country,
being white on one side and black on the other. The way to use them
is to make the tin hot in boiling water, and then add the contents to
either a well cooked steak or chop, taking care that the red gravy that
runs out of the steak or chop is added to the gravy in the mushrooms.
It is an improvement if you have some good thick gravy, to add a
little of it to the gravy in the tin. One of these tins very greatly
improves the flavour of a dish of hash or stewed steak. I would
strongly recommend you to try the experiment of using one of these tins
the next time you have a chop or steak. They can be served just as they
are, after being made hot, in a sauce tureen, and will be found far
superior to any mushroom sauce generally met with, even when made from
freshly gathered mushrooms. The cost of a small tin of these excellent
mushrooms preserved in gravy is about sevenpence.

We will now consider tomatoes in tins. Fresh tomatoes are now preserved
whole, and will often be found very useful. Suppose, for instance, as
we mentioned in our first article, that we are taken by surprise in a
country house far away from all shops, and we want a delicious little
entrée in a hurry. We will suppose the store cupboard to contain a tin
of tomatoes preserved whole, and also a tin of mushrooms. The dish we
are going to send to table is called tomatoes _au gratin_. We will
suppose the larder to contain a piece of cold boiled bacon, but raw
bacon would serve our purpose equally well. Take the piece of cold
boiled bacon, and with a blunt knife scrape off about two or three
tablespoonfuls of fat. Chop up very finely a tin of mushrooms with a
piece of onion, lemon peel and parsley, exactly as if we were making a
sole _au gratin_. Add a small saltspoonful of dried thyme. If the thyme
is fresh, less than half that quantity will be ample. Fry all these
ingredients in a frying-pan with the fat bacon, and then add sufficient
bread-crumbs to make the whole into the consistency of a pudding. Now
take the tomatoes very carefully out of the tin without breaking them,
and I would warn you that they require very delicate handling. Give the
tomatoes a gentle squeeze so as to get rid of any of the pips inside.
Then with a teaspoon carefully fill the tomatoes with the mixture we
have just made. The more mixture you can get into each tomato the
better. Next pour a very little salad oil into a tin—oiled butter will
do—and place the tomatoes one by one on the tin without breaking them,
and bake them in the oven. When they are hot through, they may be
served. In taking them out of the tin and placing them on the dish, use
a slice similar to that for taking out fried eggs.

The only difficulty I know of in making this delicious dish is to avoid
breaking the tomatoes, which are more liable to give way when they
are hot than when they were first taken out of the tin. Shake a few
bread-raspings over the top of each tomato before serving—that is,
cover the top of the mushroom mixture with the bread raspings to make
it a nice brown, but do not shake the bread raspings over the tomato
itself. If the tomatoes are placed in a silver dish and surrounded with
a little bright-green fried parsley, it has a very pretty appearance.
If you have some good brown gravy in the house, the tomatoes can be
served in a little gravy; only do not pour the gravy over the tomatoes,
as it would utterly spoil their appearance, but pour a little gravy
into the dish first, and then place the stuffed tomatoes carefully
in it. The gravy should be rich, thick, and of a good brown colour;
otherwise the tomatoes _au gratin_ are best served as they are.

Tomatoes preserved whole will be found useful to ornament a large
variety of dishes, such as _tête de veau en tortue_, _poulet à la
Marengo_, etc. For instance, a simple dish, but very bright-looking,
can be made as follows:—From the remains of some cold boiled potatoes
make some ordinary mashed potatoes; and if you live in the country,
where cream is cheap, remember a very little boiling cream added is
a very great improvement, both in appearance and flavour. Mashed
potatoes, to be really good, should be rubbed through a wire sieve.
Pile the mashed potatoes up in the middle of a vegetable dish, and
place round the outside alternately a mutton cutlet and a whole tomato.
The cutlets can be cooked perfectly plain—that is, simply grilled on
the gridiron like a mutton chop—or they can be fried after being egged
and bread-crumbed. The tomatoes simply want being made hot by being
placed on a greasy tin and warmed up in the oven. Place the cutlets
round the mashed potatoes, first leaving room for the tomatoes between
each. Then take out the tomatoes with a slice, and make a bed in the
mashed potatoes, in which they can quietly repose; otherwise they are
apt to smash and run, and make the dish look untidy.

We will next consider the best way of utilising the various vegetables
that can be obtained in tins, such as asparagus, green peas, French
beans, and last, but not least, _macédoines_.

First with regard to asparagus. Of all the vegetables preserved in tins
I think this is the best. It requires no preparation whatever. Make a
piece of toast, and place it at the bottom of a vegetable dish; then
make the asparagus hot in the tin, and when the water in which the tin
has been placed has boiled for some four or five minutes the tin can
be taken out and opened. In opening a tin of asparagus, cut the tin
right round the edge, so that the sticks of asparagus can be taken out
without breaking them, and take out any tops that may be left in the
tin, and add them to the rest. Strain off the liquid, and place the
asparagus on the toast, the white part resting on the edge of the dish.
The asparagus should therefore be divided into two parts, so that the
green parts meet on the toast and half the white sticks rest on one end
of the vegetable dish and half on the other. A little ordinary melted
butter or white sauce is generally served with them. For my part, I
prefer the asparagus quite plain.

Tinned asparagus differs in one respect from ordinary asparagus,
inasmuch as you can nearly eat the whole of it. Asparagus can be eaten
cold as a salad, and a very delicious salad it makes. Open a tin just
as it is, strain off the contents, dry the asparagus on a cloth, and
place it as I have described before on a dish, but without any toast.
Now make a little sauce to pour over the tips as follows:—Take, say,
a couple of ounces of butter, and dissolve it in the oven in a teacup
till it runs to oil. Now take it out, and add to it three brimming
teaspoonfuls of freshly-made mustard, a dessertspoonful of vinegar,
and a saltspoonful of pepper and another of salt. Stir this up with
the oiled butter. As the butter begins to get cold the sauce commences
to get thick, and as soon as it has got into that state in which it
resembles custard, pour it over the asparagus, of course leaving
the ends of each stick free from the sauce, as it is now customary
to eat asparagus with the fingers. This sauce, to be good, requires
real butter, which is a substance now rarely met with, even at
respectable grocers, the adulteration of butter with fat being almost
universal—this universal adulteration being the chief cause of the
depression of trade throughout the country. The salad should not be
served till the sauce is quite cold and sticks to the asparagus.

Green peas are now to be had preserved in tins, not only very good but
very cheap. Good preserved peas should be small and of a light green.
When the peas are large and high coloured, they are inferior. The fact
is that the former are young and the latter old. Preserved peas are
best served in a course by themselves, though, of course, they can be
handed round with ordinary joints. The art of sending preserved peas
to table is to make them look and taste as much as possible like green
peas freshly gathered. For this purpose you should act as follows:—Make
the peas hot in the tin and take, say, a dozen fresh mint leaves and
scald them in the water in which the tin is being made hot. Next take
these hot mint leaves and put them in a vegetable dish. Open the tin of
peas, strain off the liquor, and pour the peas on to the mint leaves.
Now add a small saltspoonful of powdered sugar, half a saltspoonful
of salt, and a small pat of butter as big as a five-shilling piece.
Toss the peas for a minute or so lightly together, so that the butter
is dissolved and the sugar and salt melted, and the fresh mint leaves
brought to the surface. Now send the dish to table. The fresh mint
leaves help to convey the idea that the peas are fresh. In everything
we eat and drink imagination goes a long way. Who, for instance, would
care to drink port wine out of the spout of a teapot, even if the
teapot were solid silver?

I might here mention in passing that a small sixpenny tin of peas
will be found very useful in ornamenting a boiled leg of mutton. If
you want to make a boiled leg of mutton look really nice, proceed
as follows:—Of course you have boiled turnips and carrots with it.
Boil the turnips whole, and when they are tender take them out of the
water and cut each turnip in half and scoop out the centre, so as to
make it like a cup. Now take the outside part of the carrot, which
is a brighter red than the inside part, and chop it up into small
pieces. Place the leg of mutton in the centre of the dish, and pour
over it either some of the water in which it is boiled or some thick
caper sauce. Now fill up these cups made out of the scooped turnips
cut in half with a tablespoonful of green peas and a tablespoonful of
chopped-up carrot alternately. It is a very simple garnish, and gives
but little trouble; but what a difference it makes in the appearance!

We will next take French beans, or, as they are properly called,
_haricots verts_. I think these deserve to be served in a course by
themselves, even more than peas. If they are served with a joint they
must simply be made hot in a tin, then drained and allowed to dry,
and handed round just as they are. French beans go best with a haunch
of venison or roast mutton. If, however, you serve the beans as a
course by themselves, you must, after making them hot and draining
off the liquid, add a couple of tablespoonfuls of good white sauce,
that is _béchamel sauce_, or if you have none, add to a tin of beans
about enough fresh butter to fill a dessertspoon; add also about a
saltspoonful of finely chopped fresh parsley, a little pepper and salt,
and about a teaspoonful or rather more of lemon-juice, as well as a
little powdered sugar. The beans should be tossed lightly together
until the butter is dissolved, and then served.

Last, but not least, come _macédoines_. _Macédoines_ in tins are simply
mixed preserved vegetables, the chief ingredients being green peas,
chopped carrot, and turnip.

_Macédoines_ are one of the most useful kind of tinned goods to have
in the house, as you can always make a pretty dish at a few moments’
notice. A spoonful of _macédoines_ will turn some clear soup into a
bright-looking spring soup. A tin of _macédoines_ made hot and placed
in the centre of a dish of mutton cutlets always has a bright and
appetising appearance. _Macédoines_ can also be added to the remains of
some cold potatoes, and used to make a German salad; while, with a few
hard-boiled eggs and a small pot of _caviare_, we can make with their
assistance that excellent supper dish known as a Russian salad.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]



THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

BY THE REV. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”


CHAPTER V.

The bank-vole—A long-tailed field mouse—Its varied
diet—Insect-eating—Robbing a moth-hunter—Treacles and their
visitors—The voles as climbers—The water-shrew—Signification of
its name—Habits of the water-shrew—Its activity and grace in the
water—Teeth of the shrews—Structure of its ears—Mode of swimming—The
flattened body—Colour of the water-shrew—Its food—The shrew and the
rat—An unfounded accusation—Burrow of the water-shrew—Superstitions
regarding the shrews—The shrew ash—Land-shrews—The
shrew-mouse—Distinctive structures—Mortality among shrews—Killing
shrews with shovels—The pigmy shrew—Our smallest mammal.

As might be expected from its name, the BANK-VOLE (_Arvícola
glaréolus_) is to be sought upon the banks of our brook. As its tail
is nearly as long as that of the common mouse, it is often called the
“long-tailed field mouse,” and it may easily be distinguished from a
true mouse which does inhabit the country by the shortness of its ears,
the bluntness of its snout, and the white colour of its paws.

It has many of the habits of the campagnol, but its diet is more
diversified, including insects, worms and snails, and it is accused of
eating young birds.

A rather startling incident, showing its insect-eating proclivities,
was witnessed by my son, Theodore Wood, some years ago.

In those days he was an enthusiastic lepidopterist, and was in the
habit of going out at night “treacling” for moths. This process is
simple in principle, though rather difficult in practice. Many moths
are irresistibly attracted by the odour of treacle mixed with the
newest and coarsest rum. The moth-hunter, therefore, mixes treacle and
rum, and at night paints with the mixture the trunks of suitable trees.
Attracted by the odour, the moths fly to the bait, swallow the sweet
mixture greedily, and become so intoxicated that they either fall or
can be picked off the tree with the fingers.

Now, the “treacler” has many enemies. Slugs of the most portentous
dimensions descend from their hiding places in the tree, and absorb
the treacle just as if they were so many hungry leeches fastening on a
plump and thin-skinned patient. Toads sit in a row round the trunk of
the tree, waiting to snap up any moth that falls. The bats soon learn
the value of a treacled tree, and sweep rapidly by it, whipping off the
pre-occupied moths as they pass by.

On one occasion my son caught sight of a bank-vole, which had climbed
up the tree and was taking its share of the spoil.

All the voles are admirable climbers, as indeed is necessary, in order
to enable them to gather the corn and fruit of the hawthorn and wild
rose. Their paws grasp the corn stems or tree twigs as if they were
hands like those of the monkey, and they run about the slender branches
of the hedges and shrubs that line the banks like monkeys among the
trees of their native forests.

Like the campagnol, they make globular nests of grass, which may be
found among the herbage of the bank by those who know where and how to
look for them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just as the ordinary farmer lumps together half-a-dozen species or so
of small birds, under the comprehensive title of “sparrows,” so do most
people consider that every animal which labours under the misfortune of
being small in dimensions, brown in colour, and having a tail appended
to its body, must be either a rat or a mouse, according to its size.

No one can be familiar with the banks of any brook without being
acquainted with the pretty little WATER-SHREWS, which, like their
relatives of the land, are almost invariably considered as mice,
although, as we shall presently see, they are not connected in any way
with the creatures which they superficially resemble.

If the observer will pick out some spot where he can be tolerably
screened, and where the water of the brook is clear and rather shallow,
he will be very likely to come upon the water-shrew (_Cróssopus
fódiens_). Both of these names are very appropriate. The first, or
generic, name is of Greek origin (as all generic names ought to be),
and signifies “fringe-footed.” The name is due to the fringe of stiff
hairs with which the feet are edged. A similar fringe is found on the
lower surface of the tail. As these fringes are white, they are very
conspicuous. Their object will presently be seen.

The second, or specific, title is (as all specific titles ought to be)
derived from the Latin, and refers to the habits of the species. It
signifies a digger or burrower, and alludes to its custom of digging
burrows in the banks of the brook in which it loves to disport itself,
and where it obtains much of its food.

As with other creatures, absolute stillness and silence is required on
the part of the observer before the water-shrew will even show itself.
Though there may be plenty of the little animals within a few yards,
not one will be visible. But in ten minutes or thereabouts the silence
will reassure them, and they will make their appearance on the bank.

I have seen them playing with each other on the bank of a rivulet
which at that time was so dried up by want of rain that the water was
scarcely a foot in width. They were almost within reach of my hand,
and could easily have killed one or two with a stick. But as I prefer
watching the habits of animals to killing them, they continued their
pretty and graceful evolutions undisturbed.

Being sociable little creatures, a single water-shrew is seldom seen,
and, if the observer should detect one of the animals, he may be
tolerably certain that it will presently be joined by others. They are
as playful as kittens, and, in their way, quite as graceful, their
lithe bodies and active limbs being able to assume as many varied
attitudes as may be seen in a family of kittens at play.

They chase each other over the bank, pretend to fight fiercely,
squeaking the while as if wounded to death, just as puppies will do
when playing and making believe to be hurt. Then one will jump into the
water, and dive, as if to escape, while one or two others will pop in
after it, and chase it under water.

Indeed, on the occasion which I have just mentioned, the whole
proceedings reminded me forcibly of the games in which the boy swimmers
of Oxford were wont to indulge for the best part of a summer’s day.

One of our favourite games was for one to dive into the Cherwell
(mostly from the top of a pollard willow), and then for the rest to
dive after him, and try to catch him under water before he had swum a
certain distance. We used to shriek in our sport quite as much, and as
loudly in proportion to our size, as the water-shrew squeaks, and I
cannot but think that if any being as much superior to man as man is to
the shrew could have watched us, we should have amused him much in the
same way that the shrew amuses us.

In his admirable work on the British mammals, Mr. Bell states that the
water-shrew will dive into a shallow, rippling stream, and run over
the stones, pushing its long snout under them, and turning them over,
should they be small, for the sake of dislodging and capturing the
fresh-water shrimp (_Gammarus_), and then carrying it off to the bank
and eating it with an audible, crunching sound.

I have not personally observed the creature engaged in this sub-aquatic
hunt, though I have often seen it dive, and have been near enough to
note its singularly beautiful aspect as it wriggles its irregular way
under the surface.

Air is largely entangled among the hairs of its body, the imprisoned
bubbles looking just like globules of shining silver. The
water-spider, which is also a common though unsuspected inmate of the
brook, is adorned in a similar manner when it dives.

No one can watch these pretty little creatures without being interested
and amused. But amusement ought not to be our sole object in observing
the inhabitants of a brook. Let us catch one of the animals and keep
it long enough to examine it. There is little difficulty in capturing
a water-shrew, as the little animals are so fearless when they think
themselves unobserved that a small hand-net can easily be slipped over
them in their gambols. We need not keep our captive long, and, after
inspecting the characteristic fringe of the feet and tail, we will
examine its head and jaws.

A mere glance at the head ought to tell us that it cannot be a mouse,
no mouse having a long, pointed snout, which projects far beyond the
lower jaw. On opening its mouth and examining its teeth, we not only
see that it cannot be a mouse, but that it is not even a rodent. It
is, in fact, much more nearly related to the hedgehog than to the
mouse. All its teeth are sharply pointed, and the lower incisors
project almost horizontally forwards. The animal must, therefore,
be predacious in character, and a comparison with the structure of
other animals shows that it belongs to the important though not very
numerous group of the insectivora, or insect-eaters, of which the mole
is the generally accepted type. There are, however, some systematic
zoologists who hold that the shrews, and not the moles, ought to be the
typical representatives of the insectivora. This, however, is a matter
of opinion, and its discussion does not come within the scope of our
present undertaking.

Before we release our captive, we will examine its ears.

These are small, as are those of all water-inhabiting mammals, but
there is a peculiarity in their structure which is worthy of notice.
They are furnished with three small valves, which, being made on the
same principle as those of the heart, are closed by the pressure of the
water as soon as the animal dives below the surface, and open by their
own elasticity when it emerges.

Now, we will allow it to escape into the water, and take note of it as
it swims away.

I have already casually referred to the irregular course which it
pursues in swimming. This is due to the fact that the water-shrew
drives itself along by alternate strokes with the fringed hind feet,
so that its progress reminds the observer of that of a boat propelled
by two unskilful rowers, who have not learned to keep time. Still, its
pace is tolerably rapid, though it lacks the steady directness which
characterises that of the water-vole.

Another remarkable point in its swimming is that the outstretched legs
cause the skin of the flanks to be widened and flattened in a way
that reminds the observer of the flying squirrel when passing through
the air. Although in the water-shrew the skin is not nearly as much
flattened as in the squirrel, it is expanded sufficiently to alter the
shape of the creature in a notable manner.

Supposing the observer to be tolerably familiar with the terrestrial
shrews, he must have been struck by the blackness of the fur of the
back, and the contrasting whiteness of the under-surface. So strongly,
indeed, is the contrast marked, that an exceptionally dark variety was
long considered as a distinct species, and called the “oared shrew.”

Like the insectivora in general, the water-shrew is not at all
particular in its diet, providing it be of an animal nature. As most of
us know, the hedgehog, although its normal food consists of insects,
snails, and the like, will feed on frogs, toads, mice, and even snakes
and blindworms. So will the water-shrew, if it can be fortunate enough
to find the dead bodies of any of these creatures, for it is not
sufficiently powerful to kill them for itself.

In Mr. Bell’s work, to which reference has already been made, there is
an interesting notice of the carnivorous habits of the water-shrew.

An ordinary rat had been caught and killed in a steel trap, and upon
the body of the rat was perched a little black creature, which proved
on examination to be a water-shrew, which was trying to make a meal
upon the rat. It had already bored a hole in the side of the rat, and
was so absorbed in its task that it suffered itself to be touched with
a stick without being alarmed.

This little animal does not restrict itself to the neighbourhood of
water, but is often found at some distance inland. It has been accused,
and I believe with justice, of devouring the eggs of river fish, a
crime which, as I have already mentioned, is wrongly attributed to the
water-vole.

Although we may see the water-shrew swim away and disappear below the
surface of the water, we may watch in vain for its reappearance. As
is done by the duckbill of Australia, the animal always makes several
entrances to its burrow, one of them being on the side of the bank,
below the surface of the water. It can, therefore, enter or leave the
brook without being observed.

All the shrews, whether of the land or water, were at one time the
objects of universal dread, and even the toad and blindworm could
scarcely be more feared.

As one old writer remarks, in his sweeping condemnation of the animal,
“It beareth a cruel minde, desiring to hurt anything, neither is there
any creature that it loveth, or it loveth him, because it is feared of
all.”

It was held to be the special foe of cattle, biting their hoofs while
in the stall and running over their bodies as they lay chewing the
cud in the field. A cow over which a shrew had run was said to be
“shrew-struck,” and to fall straightway into a sort of consumption,
accompanied with swellings of the skin.

The disease, being caused by the shrew, could only be cured by the
shrew, the usual mode of treatment being to burn the animal alive and
rub the cow with the ashes. As, however, a shrew might not always be at
hand when a cow was taken ill, the ingenuity of our forefathers devised
a plan of having essence of shrew always within reach.

A shrew was caught alive, and a hole bored into the trunk of an ash
tree. The shrew, which must be still living, was put into the hole, the
entrance to which was then closed with a wooden plug. As the body of
the shrew decayed, its virtues were supposed to be absorbed into the
tree, so that a branch of a “shrew ash,” or even a few leaves, were
supposed to be an effectual cure if laid upon the suffering animal.

The tail of a shrew, when burned and powdered, was considered as a
certain remedy for the bite of a dog; only the tail must be cut from a
living shrew.

I have already made casual mention of the shrews of the land.

Two species of land-shrews are recognised as inhabitants of England.
One is the common SHREW, or SHREW-MOUSE (_Sorex vulgáris_), which for a
long time was thought to be identical with the water-shrew. The fringed
feet and tail, however, afford sufficient indications that it is a
distinct species.

Towards the end of autumn there seems to be quite a mortality among the
shrews, their bodies being plentifully strewn about the roadways and
paths across fields. Why this should be so no one can tell, though many
conjectures have been offered, one absurd theory being that man and the
shrew are so antagonistic to each other, that when a shrew tries to
cross a pathway made and used by man it dies from sheer antipathy.

This fact was known to Pliny, and Topsel, the old writer who has
already been quoted, is of opinion that when a shrew dies in a
cart-rut, the finder should not fail to secure so valuable a prize.

“The shrew which by falling by chance into a cart road or track doth
die upon the same, being burned and afterwards beaten or dissolved into
dust, and mingled with goose-grease, being rubbed or anointed upon
those who are troubled with the swelling coming by the cause of some
inflammation, doth bring into them a wonderful and most admirable cure
and remedy.”

The same author mentions its predacious habits, and states that it is
especially fond of the putrid flesh of the raven, the French using it
as a bait, and killing numbers of shrews as they are feasting on the
dead bird. He is especially careful to mention that the deluded shrews
are killed with shovels.

The third species of British shrew is the PIGMY-SHREW (_Sorex
pygmæus_), which is even smaller than the harvest mouse, and is the
smallest of all the British mammals.

I have mentioned the three species, because until quite recently much
confusion reigned concerning them and their habits, and much difficulty
has been found in disentangling them.

For example, no distinction had been recognised between the common
shrew and the water-shrew, while the pigmy-shrew was thought to be
the young of the common or erd-shrew, and an exceptionally large
specimen of the water-shrew was supposed to be a separate species, and
distinguished by the name of oared-shrew.

So, by means of carrying out our study of the water-shrew we have
not only found much that is interesting and amusing, but have added
something to our knowledge of animal physiology.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: NEST OF THE CAMPAGNOL.]



HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

SKETCH IV.—MADRIGALS AND SECULAR PART MUSIC.

BY MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital.


In my last sketch I endeavoured to show you, as briefly as I could, the
historical aspect of sacred concerted music in some of its vocal forms,
with and without instrumental accompaniment. We will now, for a short
space, consider vocal concerted music as adapted to secular uses.

Prominent here above its fellows stands the Madrigal, claiming
precedence not only for its antiquity, but also for its lofty style,
and, in most cases, learned and elaborate development.

Once again the name for our subject is veiled in a certain amount of
doubt and speculation. There are at least five different theories in
reference to the derivation of “Madrigal,” not one of which seems
altogether suitable. All disputants agree on one point, at any rate,
that “Madrigal” was originally the term given to poems founded upon a
motto or theme, and was afterwards transferred to the music to which
such poems were wedded.

From the rarity of MSS. in early times, one is led to believe that
the Troubadours extemporised the discant[1] which they added to their
secular melodies, and which was as undoubtedly the origin of the
madrigal as the combination of plain chant and discant was the fount
from which sprang the motett. The connection of the term with a poem
of a popular character certainly existed as early as the fourteenth
century, and perhaps earlier.

There appear to have been three classes of secular composition,
for which madrigal became the general term—viz., madrigals for one
voice, with accompaniment; madrigals for several voices, in parts and
unaccompanied; and, lastly, madrigals accompanied by many instruments,
and sometimes described as “apt for viols and voices.” The English
writers preferred the second class, and excelled in it.

In the fifteenth century the madrigal was well known in the Low
Countries, being at that time invariably constructed according to the
ancient ecclesiastical modes, and sometimes containing great features
of elaboration. I complained, when speaking of the history of the mass,
that musical subjects originally associated with profane words were
introduced as canti fermi, but we find in the case of the madrigal that
the reverse happened, and that passages of plain chant were used in
connection with some light secular counter-subject.

Petrucci, before mentioned as the inventor of movable music types, was
the first to publish these works, composed by such representatives of
the early Flemish madrigal school as Okenheim, Tinctor, Josquin des
Prés, Agricola, and several others. I should like once again to quote
that learned writer on music, Mr. Rockstro, who considers this first
period “no less interesting than instructive to the critical student,
for it is here that we first find science and popular melody working
together for a common end.”

From 1530 to the end of the sixteenth century a great advance was
taking place in art generally. Appropriate treatment of words, and, if
it were necessary, simplicity itself, restrained that desire to show
contrapuntal complexity and other conceits at the selfish expense of
truth and honesty.

This advance in the right direction was supported by the last composers
of the old Flemish school, Archadelt, De Wert, Waelrant, and that
great writer Orlando di Lasso, at whose death the madrigal school of
the Netherlands ended; but not so the madrigal itself, which long ere
this had been transplanted into other countries, and had commenced to
grow most healthily in Italy. In fact, Archadelt’s first collection of
madrigals was published in Venice in 1538, and was speedily followed by
five other sets, in some of which we find specimens by the first really
good Italian madrigal writer, Costanzo Festa. In his work, and until
Palestrina, vestiges remain of the Flemish style; but gradually the
Roman or Italian element destroyed all foreign character and influence,
and alone remained.

Palestrina wrote madrigals with equal facility and merit in all styles;
he named two of his volumes “Madrigali Spirituali,” sacred music, but
intended rather for the chamber than the church, for which latter
the motetts were written. He varies every passage according to the
sentiment of the words, and above all his contrapuntal learning, places
his noble sincerity and purity of style and expression. Would that our
modern work possessed such simple nobility!

Succeeding him, Felice Anerio produced, and in 1585 published, three
volumes of Madrigali spirituali, and, soon after the year 1600, two
volumes of secular madrigals; there were besides fine madrigals by
Giovanelli Nanini, Francesco Anerio, and last but not least, Luca
Marenzio. These and others formed the great Roman school, but there
existed a school in Venice also, founded by Willaert the Netherlander,
from which sprang the works of the two Gabrielis, Leo Hasler,
Gastoldi and Croce. In Florence also madrigals were very popular for
a short time, until the craving of the Florentines for instrumental
accompaniment destroyed their early affection for purely vocal music.

In Naples a lighter form (villanella) existed, but in France and
Germany it found no home, where the chanson and volkslied held their
respective sway.

In England a national school was formed which took firm root, and
developed into fully as healthy a tree as any of the rival foreign
growths. First of all Italian madrigals were introduced and printed
in England, but by the end of the sixteenth century Byrd and Morley
had published original specimens, and the madrigal was fast becoming
an English institution, supported by such excellent composers as
Weelkes, Edwardes, Kirby, Dowland, Wilbye, Ford, Benet, Michael Este,
and others. We may call special attention to Morley’s collection
in honour of the virgin Queen Elizabeth, named the “Triumphes of
Oriana,” including madrigals by many of the above-named writers. It
was published in 1601. Only a few years later Orlando Gibbons brought
out a volume of “Madrigals and Motets,” and just a hundred years after
the earliest publication in England of such works, appeared a book
of madrigals collected by Martin Pierson. Madrigals they undoubtedly
were, though he called them “mottects.” Ambros, in his “Geschichte der
Musik,” speaks in the highest praise of our great madrigal school, and
names it “one of the most pleasing flowers of that Elizabethan soil,” a
soil teeming with great scholars, poets, and dramatists.

To conclude, the madrigal is generally interpreted by many voices to
each part, and as a rule is the more effective in proportion to the
number of singers employed. Whereas the glee, into which the madrigal
gradually changed, and of which we are about to speak, is intended to
be sung by a single representative of each part. Other differences,
more important than this, we shall have occasion to note later on.


GLEE.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century the madrigal, properly so
called, disappeared from amongst the compositions of both English and
foreign musicians. The word _glee_ is the Anglo-Saxon “gligg”—music,
and has no special reference to joyfulness; in fact, it is as common
to find the title “serious glee,” as it is to see “cheerful glee.” A
glee is unaccompanied, and is written for at least three solo voices,
most frequently men. The chief differences between the glee and the
older form of madrigal are the natural results of evolution in harmony,
and the wedding of words to expressive music, even in defiance of
ancient and mechanical rules. The tonality of the former is modern, the
subjects are constantly changing, and are seldom developed, leaving an
unsatisfactory feeling of restless abundance, inability to make the
best use of the rich resources, and a consequently frequent complete
cadence, which in many cases gives a detached, hesitating feeling to
the work. Continuity seems to be the best test of great ideas; having
something to say, and if worth saying, saying that something thoroughly
and logically.

Our best glee writers, living from 1740 to the early part of this
century, were Samuel Webbe, Dr. Callcott, his son-in-law, William
Horsley, Sir H. R. Bishop, and Sir John Goss. If you go back to the
commencement of the glee period, by a careful study of the works of
Weelkes and Gibbons, you will find in the latter’s compositions many
striking novelties in harmonic progression, and in those of the former
equally powerful and novel contrasts in movement and expression, and
in the masterpieces of both great independence of thought, in which
combined advances we trace the transition from the madrigal to the
glee, the latter being essentially English.

Later in the seventeenth century, during and after the Commonwealth,
meetings for the singing of glees and catches were generally held in
inns and taverns, the musicians being forbidden the theatres, previous
to the restoration of King Charles II.

Glees were first published in the collection by John Playford, called
the “Musical Companion.” Catches, canons, and rounds took the place
of the old glee after this: and even these, according to Dr. Greene,
were seldom sung about the middle of the eighteenth century. Amongst
excellent writers of catches and canons we find Henry Purcell,
Dr. Croft, Dr. Blow, and many others. Shortly after Dr. Greene’s
lament—that is, in 1760—a catch club was started for the resuscitation
of glee and catch singing, and since then unto our own times clubs and
societies have flourished for this purpose, and have encouraged English
composition in these forms.

It is thought by some writers that Sir Henry Bishop’s glees are not
properly so called, because they have independent accompaniments. Their
form, however, is generally that of the best glees.

A canon is a species of imitation, the most strict and exact of all
imitations, written according to rule (καυώυ), the idea being that one
voice shall start a melody and some other voice follow with the same
melody a few beats later on, imitating the first voice note for note,
and usually interval for interval, either at the unison, the octave, or
some other distance. At one period canons were made musical puzzles, by
the composer writing only the first part (called the “dux,” or leader),
and then, by some sign over one of the bars, indicating at what point
the following voice (or “comes”) should come in, the latter singer
having to guess the correct interval at which he was expected to enter.
However ingenious such riddles may be, they do not help art.

A catch at first greatly resembled the round, where a complete
continuous melody was written out, and when one singer had reached a
certain point in this melody, another singer had to begin, and _catch
up_ his part in time—the difference between catch and canon being that
in the former each part imitates at the same pitch; in the latter the
imitation may be at any interval from the original voice. Besides,
many canons are connected with sacred words, and introduced into our
cathedral services, whereas the catch, in the reign of that dissolute
monarch, Charles II., degenerated into an improper play upon words,
assisted by music. At a later date, in the eighteenth and at the
beginning of this century, this idea of the singers “catching at each
other’s words,” so as to alter the meaning of those words, was cleverly
used by S. Webbe, Dr. Callcott, and others. A well-known example by the
latter will best explain the effect produced:—

    “_Ah! how, Sophia_, could you leave
    Your lover, and of hope bereave?”
    “_Go, fetch the Indian’s_ borrowed plume,
    Though richer far than that you bloom.”
    “_I’m but a lodger_ in her heart,
    Where more than me, I fear, have part.”

The result of one voice entering after another is, that the first seems
to be shouting, “A house a-fire!” the second excitedly answers, “Go,
fetch the engines!” whilst the third excuses himself by saying, “I’m
but a lodger!” After all, these could only be considered ingenious
trifles, and most of the singing clubs have turned their attention to
the more interesting and higher forms of madrigal, glee, and part song,
which, as a later development, we will now speak of.


PART SONG.

A part song is most likely to prove itself a melody harmonised, in
three, four, or more parts—that is to say, there will be but little
contrapuntal or imitative writing about it. It is of German origin; but
it has been imported into our country, and our native composers have
written some very beautiful specimens.

Part songs have been written either for sopranos, altos, tenors, and
basses, or for male or female voices only. Many are in the ballad form,
in which the same music is repeated to any number of verses; others
are more elaborate, and contain portions allotted to solo voices, or
to a single voice accompanied by a chorus. Part songs may be set to
either secular or sacred poems. Schubert’s, Weber’s, and Mendelssohn’s
contributions to this form of music are of great value and of wonderful
variety.

Those of the latter helped to revive the taste for part music in
England, and assisted in the foundation of the many classes and smaller
choral societies which nowadays are in existence all over the country,
from Penzance to the north of Scotland, and the formation of which
creates the demand in our country for composition of this kind. Amongst
modern English writers may be named Henry Smart, Sullivan, Samuel Reay,
Barnby, Macfarren, Miss Macirone, Eaton Faning, and last and greatest,
J. L. Hatton. I might add to this list many names, for the making of
part songs is without end.

Whether in two, three, or more parts, the part song should be sung by a
number of voices, the proportion, of course, being carefully balanced.
I must tell you before I finish that there are also many duets, trios,
and quartets which do not come within the range of the part song, it
being intended that they shall be rendered by a single representative
of each part, but many of these are extracted from works in which each
part is taken by one of the _dramatis personæ_. Such excerpts we cannot
include in our consideration of complete works. In my next sketch I
hope to conclude the subject of vocal forms, and to turn your attention
to instrumental varieties.

(_To be continued._)


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Discant—Counter-melody.



VARIETIES.


MUSIC RUN MAD.

“Yes,” says Heine, writing of the piano, “the piano is the instrument
of martyrdom whereby the present elegant world is racked and tortured
for all its affectations. If only the innocent had not to endure it
with them! (Alas! my neighbours next door, two young daughters of
Albion, are at this moment practising a brilliant study for _two left_
hands.)

“These sharp, rattling tones, without a natural ‘dying fall’—these
heartless, whirling tumults—this archi-prosaic rumbling and
tinkling—this pianoforte mania kills all thought and feeling, and we
grow stupid, insensible, and imbecile. This hand-over-hand dexterity
of the piano—these triumphal processions of piano _virtuosi_—are
characteristic of our time, and prove utterly the triumph of mechanical
power over the soul. Technical ability, the precision of an automaton,
identification with the wire-strung wooden machine—this sounding
instrumentification of humanity, is now lauded and exalted as the
highest attainment of man.”


ENDLESS LABOUR.

    “Some respite to husbands the weather may send;
    But housewives’ affairs have never an end.”

            —_Tusser._


AN ANAGRAM.—“The best anagram,” says Chevreau, “I have met with is one
which was shown me by the Duchess de la Tremouille. She was the sister
of the Duc de Bouillon and of Marshal Turenne, and her name was Marie
de la Tour—in Spanish, Maria de la Torre—which a Spanish anagrammatist
found to be exactly ‘Amor de la Tierra.’”


OUR WANTS.—We are ruined, not by what we really want, but by what we
think we want; it is wise therefore never to go abroad in search of our
wants.


WORKING WONDERS.—“Time works wonders,” said a young man of
twenty-seven, when he returned home and found his elder sister only
eighteen.

       *       *       *       *       *


To the Editor of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.

SIR,—Will you kindly allow me space to express my warm thanks for the
numerous parcels of old Christmas cards, scrapbooks, and dolls for
Indian children, which I have received in response to my appeal in your
December number?

I have acknowledged most of these gifts direct to the friendly donors;
but some were sent anonymously, and I am glad to take this opportunity
of thanking all who contributed. The “Two Little English Girls” (S.
and N. H.) and “A Young Domestic Servant” are among those who gave
no address, and their parcels were very welcome. I was able to send
off the cards that arrived just after Christmas Day at once to Madras
in a case that had been packed. The others I will transmit very
shortly, mostly to Madras, but some to a school at Poona, the lady
superintendent of which has asked me to let her have some pictures
for her little scholars. Miss Govindarajulu, the Deputy-Inspector at
Madras, wrote to me lately that the head master of a girls’ school had
begged for a second supply of cards, as he had found the attendance of
the children so much improved in consequence of his having had some
for distribution last March. She says that sometimes Mrs. Brander lets
the children choose which cards they like best, and they always take
those with the brightest colours. This leads me to tell your readers
that a very pretty effect is produced by pasting or gumming Christmas
cards, each separately, on to a piece of gay-coloured calico. A little
margin of calico should be left round the card, and this should be
snipped, so as to form a fringe.

Mrs. Brander has been continuing her inspection tours, travelling from
one place to another to examine the girls’ schools. She went lately
from a town called Salem, which she reached by railway, to a small
place thirty-one miles distant—Atur. The road is so frequented by
thieves that she was advised to engage drivers for her procession of
carts belonging to the caste of those very thieves, so as to ensure
not being attacked. This was done, and they proved “most polite and
excellent drivers.” The school at Atur contained only forty children;
but Mrs. Brander felt that she did good by visiting it. The prizes that
she had brought were distributed, and the little girls were delighted
to receive them. An important native gentleman of the place who came to
the ceremony made a good speech in the Tamil language, and altogether
Mrs. Brander’s arrival was felt to be an encouraging incident in the
life of that far-off place.

I shall be glad after a while to tell your readers how their kind
presents were used; and I may add that I shall still be grateful for
more.

            E. A. MANNING.

    35, Blomfield-road, Maida-hill,
        January 18.



DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.

BY A LADY DRESSMAKER.

[Illustration: ON THE MEER.]


Just at the present writing we are in the middle of the sales, which
now seem to be carried on far into the month of February, at many
of the shops, and certainly appear to offer each year more and more
benefits to the purchaser of goods. But it must be understood that the
said purchaser have her wits about her, and know what she wants. This
last is the case with very few women who are not very methodical in
their purchases of dress, and very rarely make their plans far ahead.
This is explained, first, by their slavish adherence to the ephemeral
fashions of the day, and also by their being led so much by the eye,
and buying things they fancy, not the things that are really suitable
or needful to them. There are few women who dress on any plan of what
is most becoming to their individual style, or most lasting, with
a view to their particular purses; and the longer I live the more
convinced I am that it needs special qualifications to be a “shopper”
of any ability; the greatest requisite of all being a cool, calm head;
and, if you have children to cater for besides yourself, the power to
make a plan and stick to it. It is wonderful how much you find to help
you when you once do this, or how easily everything arranges itself.

“But,” says someone, helplessly, “how am I to know what to wear or what
my style is? Where am I to find rules to guide me?” In the present
day we seem to have two rules, both of which are comparatively easy.
The first is that the complexion is to be the guide as to the colours
worn, while the second is that the eyes shall perform that office for
us. Where there is a poor complexion, the first rule may be followed,
but where the eyes are good, I think the last is decidedly the best.
For instance, the many women who possess good eyes of a greenish or
decidedly green hue will look best in olive, bottle, or very dark
Tyrolese green—called sometimes a “hunter’s green,” having much blue
in it; and the large army of women with yellowish-brown eyes look best
in shades of yellowish-brown. The same may be said of blue eyes, which
are changed into a hue like spring violets by a judiciously-chosen blue
of a dark shade. Grey eyes which verge on blue may also wear blue;
but the blue must be of the shade called “royal,” as a blue with no
reflections will not answer.

For very dark women and girls with good clear skins, there is a large
amount of choice in colour—red, orange, and yellows, as well as black,
grey, and navy blue. But if the skin be sallow and dull, she may use
dark and light reds—no blues nor greens. White and primrose-colour
are likewise generally becoming to them. Fair-skinned people may wear
browns, blues, and pinks, as well as green.

But after all, the great thing, it seems to me, is to be able to choose
for one’s self; and thus to avoid either the extreme of fashion or the
fear of dowdiness; and the taste of the Englishwoman seems generally
to turn to quiet, neat styles. It is to her good taste and sense that
we owe most of the best fashions of the day—the tailor-made, neat
dress of tweed cheviot or woollen material; the sensible coloured
under-petticoat, dark stockings, and the comfortable ulster.

So far as hygienic dress is concerned, the rules of that are fairly
fixed now, and most women and girls have decided in favour of the
tight-fitting, elastic woollen combinations, either of Dr. Jæger’s
make, or of some English firm. Add to that the divided skirt, made of
black cashmere or serge, and lined with flannel for winter use, as the
sole needful under-garments for the cold weather. As to the stays, they
may be the new knitted ones of Jæger’s make; the low riding-corsets, or
else a boned bodice made of jean, and modelled like the dress-bodice,
to fit without squeezing or tightening in. So long as the divided
skirt is used as an under-skirt, no objection can be taken to it, as it
does not show at all. The dress above should be made short enough not
to require lifting, however muddy the roads and pavements; and it is
decidedly the most comfortable garment ever invented in that capacity.

[Illustration: GIRLS’ WINTER DRESSES IN WOOLLEN MATERIALS.]

Of course, as the sales are going on, there is little that is novel to
chronicle. Indeed, the winter events, where all that is pretty in dress
are seen, are the private views of the two great picture galleries—the
Royal Academy and the Grosvenor Gallery. At these two places all the
_élite_ and the famous in literature, art, and society congregate;
and generally wear their prettiest clothes, I think. Of course, some
æsthetic ladies are to be seen. One of them had on a pelisse of
moss-green velvet, made very short-waisted at the back, with a small
round cape, the skirt hanging long, straight, and full; in short, much
like a “Kate Greenaway figure,” and very peculiar was the effect. One
lady wore a brown cashmere, with pea-green trimmings, and flowing
ribbons of pea-green, which, I suppose, must have been an artistic
fancy. The great difference between the artistic and æsthetic dressing
is in the way the dress is cut at the neck. The artistic portion bares
its throat bravely, at any and every age, and cuts its dresses well
down on the collar-bone; while the general public wear high neck-bands,
and try to reach the tips of their ears; assisted by big beads and
ruchings of satin. At present neither class affects collars, unless the
falling lace of the æsthetic lady can be mentioned in that category.

There was a great deal of brown worn, relieved by yellow, and also
much green in various shades, the most popular being moss-green and a
new hue called “jade.” There was also a good deal of heliotrope, and
that always in woollen materials; so I should not be surprised if we
found this hue in vogue in the spring. It is extremely becoming to many
people. Black jackets and mantles are worn with it, and also black
bonnets with heliotrope trimmings. Black plush is the most popular
material for small or large mantles, and it seems, in any case, to be
very much trimmed all over—shoulders especially. Amongst these artistic
ladies the bonnet-strings are usually tied very loosely, resting on the
throat, while everyone else in the “Philistine” world—as, I believe,
it is nick-named—still wears theirs tightly tied under the chin, with
short ends, and the bows tied under the chin, and so much pulled out as
nearly to touch the ears, one loop being ornamented by a brooch or pin,
generally jewelled.

Red in all shades was also much worn. In some cases it was quite a
bright scarlet; but I did not think the idea a happy one. I looked very
carefully at the numberless so-called tailor-made suits, and, after
all, admired the wearers—neat, trim and tidy—the most. They were of all
materials—ladies’ cloth, cheviot, homespun, and undyed Shetland cloth.
Many of them were suitable for any season of the year, as, indeed,
the true tailor-made gown should always be. The newest thing in them
that I saw was a skirt put on in three immense box-pleats, so big that
one formed the front, and the two others were enough for the back and
sides, the skirt itself being quite plain and free from any ornament
whatever. The newest muffs seemed to be those made of the material of
the dress. The trimming was of fur, plush, or jet passementerie.

Amongst the few changes in fashions I must mention that the basques to
bodices for everyday wear seem to be longer, and in some cases they
are put on separately to the bodice. Polonaises also are becoming very
general, and, no doubt, in the spring we may see a great return to
them—certainly the most becoming and useful of any of our dresses.
The polonaise that was illustrated in our dress article with the
pleated bodice will be much in vogue, and also a smockfrock polonaise
that is very pretty and becoming, but, of course, would need the
smocking performed in the first style of that difficult art. This makes
it rather expensive, and the houses who make a speciality of the work
find it far from easy to get good workers, and, consequently, these
smocks are expensive.

This winter there has been so much choice in the matter of styles and
shapes that nothing can be called “old-fashioned,” and I am looking
forward with hope to the long wished-for day when our own individual
thought will, in a great measure, rule our fashions, and make us much
happier in having less to worry ourselves with, if our gowns prove
not exactly like Mrs. A.’s or Mrs. B.’s; and that they bear the mark
of last year, or even of the year before. So long as they suit us
personally, it really ought not to matter.

[Illustration: PRINCESS DRESSING GOWN.]

This year mantles have been either very large or very small, and
bonnets have been both remarkably high and almost hoodlike in shape.
Hats, too, have been small and close-fitting, or large and spreading.
As to our dresses, we have worn polonaises, pointed bodices, and
jacket-bodices quite indiscriminately. Norfolk blouses have been also
much worn, and they promise also to continue in favour, as they are
most useful for young and old. The same may be said of the jersey
bodice, and the so-called garibaldi skirts. In regard to out-of-door
jackets, I should think the same tight-fitting, jaunty-looking jackets
will rule such as we have worn for the last two seasons. They are too
useful to be discarded as permanent occupants of our wardrobes.

In our sketch of “girls’ winter dresses in woollen materials,” I have
carefully given every method of draping the skirts and making the
bodices that has been worn this winter; and I consider most of them
will be continued on until the spring, as the “wrapping style” of which
the drapery hangs in straight folds, and as if wrapped round us, is
very popular with everyone; and people seem to have grown tired of the
skirts which were made of pieces of material. The skating picture,
too, shows the general effect of out-of-door dresses during the cold
weather; and the way in which fur was used by the best dressmakers
and tailors. The dresses are more graceful, and less heavy-looking
than usual, when trimmed in that manner. We do not often have such a
cold winter as the present has been hitherto, and I hope my readers
have applied themselves to learn the lessons of sensible and hygienic
clothing which I am constantly preaching to them. Armed by it, they
would have successfully resisted the cold, and escaped unharmed. I am
more and more convinced that most of the illnesses and deaths of our
winters arise from want of sensible clothing, and from the fact, too,
that we are all accustomed to regard England as a temperate climate,
when in reality the cold is more felt here, on account of its dampness,
than in severer latitudes.

So many of our girls have begged that a plain and simple shape for
a dressing-gown should be added to our paper patterns, that, after
looking about me for some time, I have decided to select a princess
shape, as one that could be made at home by anyone with little
difficulty, either in flannel or any other material selected. The
pattern will be quite suitable for a dress, if required, as many
servants prefer that shape to any other. Indeed, when made up in a
blue and white striped Galatea, I do not know any dress in which a
girl looks better or is more becomingly attired for going about her
morning duties. I must confess I like my maidens to look their best
and happiest while under my roof, and nothing but the most exquisite
neatness will content me; and I have found a plain girl grow quite
pretty after a few months of care in the ordinary matters of the
toilet. The weekly bath is a thing that every mistress can see that her
servants have, and also a few hours for attending to and making and
mending their own clothes.

The princess dressing-gown, or dress, consists of seven pieces, and
may be made of either eight or ten yards of material, according to the
width. The half of the back and the half of the fronts are given, and
the fronts may be cut in one, if the pattern be intended for a dress.
Price of paper pattern, 1s.

All paper patterns are of medium size—viz., 36 inches round the
chest—and only one size is prepared for sale. Each of the patterns
may be had of “The Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G. Davis, 73,
Ludgate-hill, E.C., price 1s. each. It is requested that the addresses
be clearly given, not omitting the county, and that postal notes
crossed only to go through a bank may be sent, as so many losses have
recently occurred. The patterns already issued may always be obtained,
as “The Lady Dressmaker” only issues patterns likely to be of constant
use in home dressmaking and altering; and she is particularly careful
to give all the new patterns of hygienic underclothing, both for
children and young and old ladies, so that her readers may be aware of
the best method of dressing.

The following is a list of those already issued, price 1s. each.

January, 1886, princess under-dress (under-linen, under-bodice and
underskirt combined); February, polonaise, with waterfall back; March,
new spring bodice; April, divided skirt and Bernhardt mantle, with
sling sleeves; May, Early English bodice and yoke bodice for summer
dress; June, dressing jacket, princess frock, and Normandy cap for
a child of four years; July, Princess of Wales’ jacket-bodice and
waistcoat, for tailor-made gown; August, bodice with guimpe; September,
mantle with stole ends and hood; October, pyjama, or night-dress
combination, with full back; November, new winter bodice; December,
patterns of Norfolk blouses, one with a yoke, and one with pleats
only; January, 1887, blouse-polonaise, with pleats at back and front;
February, princess dressing-gown.



MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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


CHAPTER XIX.

A CATASTROPHE.

About three weeks after my mistress’s visit something very terrible
happened. I wish the history of that day would get itself told without
the pain of telling it. My life has been a happy one, thank God! I have
been “led by paths that I have not known,” but even now I never look
back upon that day without a shudder. Oh, Reggie, my darling! But God
was good to us, and the danger passed; still, it will be only in heaven
that we may bear to look back on past perils without dimness of eyes
and failing of heart!

I had never left Rolf alone with the children for a moment since Judson
had told me of his mischievous propensities. I had grown fond of Rolf,
and he was certainly very much improved; but I always felt he was not
to be trusted, and either Hannah or I kept a strict guard over him. He
was never permitted to enter the nursery in the morning; if we went
out, he joined us, as a matter of course; but more than once when he
begged for admittance I had refused it decidedly. Hannah was always
busy in the morning, and the children slept for an hour, and if there
were time I liked to take Joyce to her lessons, or to set her some
baby-task of needlework, and Rolf always made her so rough.

On a rainy afternoon or in the evening she would be allowed to romp
with Rolf, and they always played together on the beach. Rolf was more
in his element out of doors. Judson had been very unwell for some days;
she was a sickly sort of body, and was often ailing; but just then she
had a threatening of quinsy, and seemed very feverish and suffering.

Her room was close to the nursery, and it was only sheer humanity for
Hannah or myself to go in now and then and see what we could do for
her. I had got it into my head that she was somewhat neglected by the
other servants. I know Gay thought so, for she asked me to do what I
could for her.

She had been ordered some linseed poultices that morning, and Mrs.
Markham had come up to the nursery and asked me very civilly if I would
apply them, as the upper housemaid was away, and Susan was very clumsy
and helpless.

“I will stay with the children,” she said, quite graciously, for her;
“and Hannah is here.” And as I knew Rolf was in the garden with his
aunt, I could not find a loophole for excuse. I do not think I was
wrong now, for how could I have refused such a request? But the fates
were against me. That is a foolish and untrue expression, but I will
let it stand.

The poultices were far from hot, and poor Judson, who seemed in great
pain and very nervous about herself, begged me to go down to the
housekeeper’s room and make some more. “It is no use Susan making them,
and Mrs. Rumble is always so busy,” she whispered; “do go yourself,
Miss Fenton, and then I shall be more sure of hot ones.”

The housekeeper’s room lay at the end of a long passage leading from
the hall, shut in with red baize doors. These swing doors deadened
sound, and that was why I did not hear Rolf come in from the garden and
scamper upstairs.

The front-door bell rang immediately afterwards, and some visitors
were asked into the drawing-room. I knew Gay was about the premises,
and the idea never crossed my mind that Mrs. Markham would desert her
post and leave the three children alone in the nursery; but I heard
afterwards that this was the case. An old Indian friend had called, and
Mrs. Markham had desired Rolf to summon Hannah from the night nursery;
but Rolf, who was seldom obedient to his mother, had simply ignored the
order.

I was some little time in the housekeeper’s room. The kettle did not
boil, and I was compelled to wait. I was rather impatient at the delay.
As I stood talking to Mrs. Rumble, I saw Mr. Hawtry ride up to the
front door.

I succeeded at last in making the poultices. Judson was very grateful
to me, and thanked me warmly as I put them on. I had just covered her
over comfortably and taken from her the red woollen shawl in which she
had wrapped herself, when a sudden report, as though from a toy cannon,
and then a piercing scream from the nursery, made me start as though I
had been shot, for the scream was from Joyce.

The next instant I was in the nursery, but, oh, merciful heavens! the
sight that met my eyes. Hannah had just opened the door. Rolf and
Joyce were huddled together on the window seat, beside themselves with
terror, and there stood Reggie in the middle of the room with his
pinafore and white frock in flames! I must have uttered a scream that
roused the house, and then it seemed to me as though I knew nothing,
and felt nothing except the smarting pains in my arm and shoulder. I
had thrown the child on the floor and covered him with my body, and the
woollen shawl was between us, and I was crushing the dear life almost
out of him with that terrible pressure.

I seemed to know instinctively that nothing else could save him.
Happily, I wore a stuff dress, for there was no rug or carpet in the
nursery, and, with the open door and windows, another moment would
have been too late. I could hear Reggie’s piteous cries, but I dare
not release him; I must crush and smother the flames. There was the
terrible smell of burning, the singeing of stuff, a sudden uproar round
me, confused voices and exclamations. I seemed to hear Gay’s voice
crying, “Oh, Merle! you will smother the child!” And then strong arms
lifted me off Reggie. I knew it was Mr. Hawtry; no one else could have
done it. His grasp gave me intense agony, and I tried to free myself.

“Let me go; I must see if he is hurt.” But Gay had him already in her
lap, and I knelt down beside her and examined him carefully.

His frock and pinafore were hanging in blackened shreds around him, but
there was only a large hole burnt in his flannel petticoat, and one of
his dear little legs was scorched; not a curl of his hair was singed,
and only one hand had sustained a slight injury. They said there were
bruises on him that I had caused by my violence, but that was all, Mrs.
Markham assured me; there were tears in her eyes, and her face was as
white as death as she said it.

“The little fellow will soon be all right,” observed Mr. Hawtry,
kindly; “he has been frightened and hurt that makes him cry so. But now
it is time your wounds should be dressed, Miss Fenton.”

I looked at him as though I failed to comprehend his meaning, but he
pointed to my arms with such a pitying expression on his face, that I
looked too. My sleeves were hanging in shreds like Reggie’s frock, and
there were large burns on each arm; my right shoulder felt painful,
too; a faint sickening sensation seemed creeping over me. I must have
got my arms under him or I should not have been so badly burnt, and
some of my hair was singed. When Gay touched me gently I shuddered with
pain, and they all looked at me very gravely.

“We must have Dr. Staples, Roger,” observed Mrs. Markham; “her arms
must be properly dressed.”

“I will go for him at once,” returned Mr. Hawtry, “but I advise you to
give her a little wine or brandy; she looks faint with pain.” And then
he went away, and we could hear him galloping down the avenue and along
the road.

I drank what they gave me, but I refused to lie down until Reggie had
been undressed. I would not be persuaded without the evidence of my own
eyes that he had sustained no serious injury. I suppose his scorched
leg pained him, for he still cried incessantly and beat us off in his
usual fashion, but when Hannah had dressed him in his nice clean frock,
he grew pacified at the sight of his blue ribbons, and only said,
‘Poor, poor,’ as he pointed to me. He wanted to come on my lap, but
when I tried to take him I turned so faint, that Gay looked frightened
and snatched him away.

I wanted to know what had become of Rolf, but Mrs. Markham said,
sternly, and her lips were still very pale, that she had sent him to
his room. “Tell me how it happened, Joyce,” she continued, drawing the
child to her. “I told Rolf to fetch Hannah; did she not come to you?”

“Rolf didn’t fetch her, Aunt Adda; he said he was a big boy, and would
take care of us. Poor Rolf did not mean to be naughty, did he, nurse?”

“Rolf must be severely punished for his disobedience; he has nearly
killed your little brother, Joyce. Tell me what Rolf did after that.”

“He asked me if I would not like to see his dear little cannon that
went pop when he told it,” went on Joyce, looking extremely frightened.
“I did not know cannons were wicked things, and I said yes, and Rolf
showed us the cannon, and told us to get out of the way, for it would
kill us dead, and I runned, and baby clapped his hands and runned
the wrong way, and Rolf had fire in his hand, like Hannah lights the
candles with, and baby’s pinafore got on fire, and I screamed as hard
as I could for nurse.”

It must have been just as Joyce said, for the toy cannon was on the
floor, and a box of matches beside it. Probably Rolf had not seen
Reggie beside him, and had thrown the lighted match aside in his
excitement. Mrs. Markham sighed deeply as she listened. She had
sustained a severe shock; her face looked very dark and rigid as she
left the room. I was afraid she meant to punish Rolf severely, and
begged Gay to follow her and plead for mercy.

“Rolf has had a fright that will last him for life; his terror has been
punishment enough.” But Gay shook her head.

“It is no use interfering with Adelaide; she will take her own way. I
am sorry for Rolf; but he deserves any punishment he gets. Reggie would
have been burnt to death but for your presence of mind, Merle; none of
us could have reached the nursery in time. Mr. Hawtry said so at once.”

Reggie burnt to death! and then my mistress would have died, too;
she could not have survived the horror of that shock. I begged Gay
faintly not to say such things; the bare mention of it turned me sick.
I suppose she was alarmed by my ghastly look, for she kissed me, and
said, soothingly, that I must not distress myself so; we could only be
thankful that Reggie was safe.

Dr. Staples came soon after that. He was a benevolent-looking old man,
and was very kind and gentle. He said one of my arms, the left one,
was severely burnt, and that it would be some little time before it
was healed. “These things depend a great deal on constitution; but you
seem strong and healthy, Miss Fenton, so I hope you will soon be right
again; but you must not expect to lose the scars.”

I was sorry to hear that, for I knew the scars would remind me of a
terrible hour in my life. The dressing was very painful, and when it
was finished I was compelled to follow Dr. Staples’s advice and go
to bed. I was suffering from the shock, and I knew my arms would be
useless to me for a week to come. I felt shaken and sick, and unable to
bear the childish voices.

Gay followed me into the night nursery and gave me all the help
she could, and she did not leave me until my head was on the
lavender-scented pillow. In spite of pain and dizziness, it was nice to
lie there and hear the birds twittering under the eaves and the bees
humming about the flowers, and to look out on the sunshine and feel a
great mercy had been vouchsafed to me, that I had not been suffered to
fail in the hour of peril.

Gay hung up her cage of canaries in the window to divert my mind, and
laid a bunch of dark clove carnations, with a late rose or two among
them, on the quilt.

“Mr. Hawtry is still here, Merle; he is very anxious to know if you are
in less pain, and whether there is anything he can do for you. He seems
quite grieved because Dr. Staples says your arm is badly burnt.”

I sent a civil message of thanks to Mr. Hawtry, and then I detained Gay
a moment.

“Miss Gay, you must write to Mr. Morton yourself. I have promised your
sister to tell her everything; but it will shock her too much, and I
think Mr. Morton should know first.”

Gay looked distressed.

“Need we tell them, Merle? Violet is not at all well; Alick said so in
his letter this morning. Scotland does not seem to suit her, and he
thinks they will soon come home.”

“And they have not been away a month yet,” I observed, regretfully;
“not more than three weeks and two days, and Mr. Morton is so fond of
Scotland.”

“Alick thinks more of Vi than deer-stalking. If she be not well he will
bring her home without a word of grumbling. In some respects Alick is a
very good husband. Why need we say anything about the accident, Merle?
Reggie is scarcely hurt at all; his scorched leg will soon get right.”

“It is not fair to keep anything from them. I promised I would tell
everything, and my mistress must know I am invalided and cannot do my
duty.”

“You need not fret about that,” she returned, cheerfully. “Susan shall
help Hannah, and I will be here as much as possible. I am a famous
nurse. We will make Mrs. Rumble wait on Judson. Very well, Merle, I
will write to Alick; but I would much rather not.”

I had forgotten poor Judson, but I did not forget Rolf; I asked several
times after him, but Gay had not seen him. Rolf was in disgrace, and a
close prisoner to his room. He had had his dinner sent up to him; but
Adelaide was lying down in her own room all the afternoon with a bad
headache, and, as Rolf’s communicated with hers, no one could visit him
unperceived.

I wondered if Mrs. Markham’s eyes were at last opened to the danger of
Rolf’s disobedience and her own faulty management. She was to blame
as much as the child. She had given me her word to remain in the
nursery, and no visitors should have tempted her from her post. It was
no surprise to me to hear she was ill with worry; her conscience must
have reproached her for her breach of trust. If Reggie had been killed,
his death would have been owing to her carelessness. Later on in the
evening, just as it was getting dusk, Gay came to me for a minute with
a plate of fine fruit in her hand. They had tempted me all day long
with delicacies, but I had felt too ill to eat. The fruit just suited
me, for I was feverish with pain.

“Adelaide has just come downstairs,” she said, with a droll little
laugh. “Mr. Rossiter had heard of the accident, and had dropped in
to inquire, so father kept him to dinner. When Adelaide heard that,
she came down as soon as possible, and there she sits, looking like a
ghost, until Mr. Rossiter takes his departure.”

“And Rolf?”

“Oh, I suppose Rolf is asleep,” she returned, carelessly; and as she
was evidently in a hurry to return to the drawing-room, I would not
keep her; but as soon as she had closed the door a sudden idea came
into my head. I would go and see Rolf myself; I was not easy about
him. I knew his mother could be too severe even with her idolised boy
on occasions, but I never could bear a child to be long unhappy. I
rose very quietly, so as not to disturb the children, and threw on my
dressing-gown. I was rather afraid my white face and bandaged arms
would frighten Rolf, until I remembered it was dusk, and he could not
see me distinctly.

Mrs. Markham’s suite of rooms lay in the west corridor. I knew no
one would be about; poor Judson was in bed, so I reached Rolf’s room
without interruption. I thought I heard him sobbing softly to himself
as I opened the door. When I spoke to him, making my way through the
summer twilight to his little bed, he started up and held out his arms.

“Oh, Fenny, is that really you, dear Fenny? Do come close and let me
feel you. I have been thinking of such horrid things.”

I told him gently that I was in great pain, and that he must not touch
me, but that I would sit down for a little while beside him and talk to
him.

“But I may hold your hand,” he pleaded. “Is your hand burnt too, Fenny,
or don’t you like to touch me because I am such a wicked boy, as mother
says, and very nearly killed poor little Reggie?”

My heart melted at his pitiful tone, and I stooped over him and kissed
his hot face.

“You may hold my hand, Rolf, dear, if you like; it is only my arms that
are hurt; there, we are comfortable now. Tell me, have you had a very
miserable day?”

“Oh, so miserable!” and there were tears in Rolf’s voice. “Mother has
been so angry; she shut me up in this room though it was such a fine
day, and would not let anyone speak to me, and I could not get her to
answer although I said over and over again that I was sorry and would
not have hurt Reggie for the world, he is such a dear little fellow,
you know. Oh! I am so fond of him. But mother said no, she would not
listen; I had disobeyed her, and nearly killed Reggie, and that Aunt
Violet would never speak to me again.”

“Oh, yes she will, Rolf.”

“But if Reggie had been really burnt, you know,” and here Rolf
shivered; his hand was quite cold though his face was burning. He was a
nervous, excitable child, and no doubt this long summer’s day had been
a martyrdom to him. He had conjured up all sorts of horrible fancies to
haunt his dreams. Yes, he had been sufficiently punished, I was sure of
that.

“Tell me how it happened, dear,” I said, quietly.

“I was firing my cannon to please Joyce. I know mother told me never
to take it in the nursery, and that she did not like my lighting it
unless Judson had the matchbox, but I forgot.”

“Did you really forget, Rolf?”

“Yes, really I did; I never do remember things, you know. I was only
thinking how Joyce would scream when the cannon popped. I told them to
get out of the way, only Reggie, poor little fellow, ran against me
and knocked the match out of my hand—it was alight, you know—and then
Joyce did scream, and,” but here Rolf buried his head in the pillow;
the recollection was evidently too painful. “You will all hate me,” he
sobbed, “because I nearly killed Reggie—you and Aunt Violet, and I do
love Aunt Violet, because she is so pretty.”

“No one will hate you, my poor child; we are only sorry that the son
of a brave soldier like Colonel Markham should be such a coward as
to disobey his mother. Your mother told you to fetch Hannah. Did you
forget that too, Rolf?”

“No,” in a conscience-stricken voice, “I did not forget, Fenny, but I
thought it would be fun to take care of the children.”

“But it was disobedience, Rolf, just as much as your coming into the
nursery at that time you took advantage of my absence first, and then
of your mother’s. I think a brave soldier like your father would call
that cowardly. Now, I want you to listen to a story about the bravest
boy of whom I ever heard.” And as I stroked his rough head I told him
the story of Casabianca and the burning ship.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]



[Illustration: New Music]


NOVELLO, EWER AND CO.

_Concone’s Lessons._ Fifty Lessons for the Medium Part of the Voice,
and Forty Lessons for Contralto, or for Bass and Baritone.—It is
needless for us to recommend sterling works like these, the value of
which has been acknowledged for so long a time; but we may call special
attention to this admirable new edition, containing, as it does, a
completed system of phrasing and expression marks, a correction of the
breathing points, and a careful revision at the hands of Mr. Randegger,
the well-known professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music.


STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.

_The Return of May_, a choral trio for female voices, is a very
clever piece of three-part writing, with an interesting independent
accompaniment. It is by Amy Elise Horrocks, and the words are those of
Mrs. Hemans.

_Fly, little Song, to my Love._—A most charming ballad by Alfred
Cellier, whose writings are always graceful in melody and uncommon in
harmony. The constant repetition of the initial phrase becomes a little
tiring, beautiful though the phrase undoubtedly is.

_Violets._—A sweet, simple song addressed to some flowers plucked to
cheer a poor invalid in the “great, dim, smoky city.” Poetry by Ellis
Walton. Music by R. B. Addison.

_Four Songs for Tenor._ Composed by Whewall Bowling.—A good present
for tenors who sing something greater and better than the drawing-room
ditty of commerce. The accompaniments are beautiful, and need good
playing.

(a) _Four Sonnets by Shakespeare._ The German version by Bodenstedt.
(b) _English Lyrics._ Second set. Words by Shakespeare. Composed
by C. Hubert H. Parry.—Of these, the sonnets will be above the
comprehension of the average singer. They are very fine and wonderfully
thought out and wedded to the sentiment and expression of Shakespeare’s
powerfully expressive words. The lyrics from Shakespeare’s plays are
more easily grasped, and cannot fail to give enjoyment. In No. 5, “When
icicles hang by the wall,” there is a funny introduction of the song
“We won’t go home till morning” in the accompaniment!

_Characteristic Tunes of the British Isles._ (Books 1, 2.) Selected
and arranged for four hands by C. Hubert H. Parry.—Very original duet
arrangements of our well-known national songs. “Three Blind Mice” is
treated in a very droll manner. For perfect beauty we think you will
agree that “The Pearl of the White Breast,” an Irish air, bears the
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that song best known to modern singers.

_Larghetto and Allegro._ For violin and piano. By John Christian
Mantel, who in 1730 was organist of South Benfleet, in Essex, and who
appears by his writing to be an admirer of Handel’s.—The edition is by
Otto Peiniger, at whose recitals these old English violin pieces have
been played.


J. B. CRAMER AND CO.

_The Silent City_, by Cotsford Dick, may be recommended as a Sunday
song. Effective and easy, and of moderate compass.

_O Loved and Lost._ Song. Written and composed by Lord Henry
Somerset. Published in F and A. The former key suitable for basses
and contraltos, and the latter key for sopranos and tenors.—Full of
delicate sentiment and graceful treatment of what are sometimes rather
trite expressions in melody.

_At the Concert._ Humorous song. By Henry Pontet.—Will amuse, if it
does not point an obvious moral to concert-goers, who attend those
entertainments in the body, but in spirit (and conversation, alas!) are
far, far away.

_A June Song_, by Mary Carmichael, is, what it should be, suggestive of
the “odour of hay:” “full of the scent and the glow and the passion of
June,” as the pretty words tell us.


HUTCHINGS AND CO.

_The Wreck of the Hesperus_ is set by C. H. Lewis as a cantata for
female voices, and merits the attention of ladies’ choirs.

_The Long White Seam._ Song by Jean Ingelow. Set to music by Wilfred
Bendall.—A song of more than average excellence by this rising composer.

_The Evening Farewell._ A four-part song. Composed by Sir G. A.
Macfarren, to words by his father.—Presenting nothing uncommon about
it, this little part-song runs smoothly, and may be easily performed.
Singers will enjoy the soft effect of the minor common chord on B flat,
immediately following and, as it were, qualifying the major chord upon
the same root. If proof were needed as to which should be in reality
the relative minor to any major scale, the scale possessing the same
signature to start with, but contradicting that signature in practice,
or the scale having the same dominant and the same leading note, this
little passage alone would decide us in favour of the latter.

_Broken Heart_, _An Old Tale_, and _May Song_.—Piano pieces, good in
their form, songs without words, but very suggestive of their titles,
and carefully written, by John Urich.

_Alla Tarantella._ Caprice for piano. By Joseph L.
Roeckel.—Characteristic and well worked up to the necessary pitch of
mad fury.

_Danses Sclave._ Pianoforte duets. By J. C. Bridge, M.A.,
Mus.Doc.—Rather a mild notion of the impetuous Slavonic dance, with
its strange accents and brusque uncouthness, combined with its many
charming and sad quaintnesses. You should learn these duets, though;
for even if they prove that a man writes best in accordance with his
environment, they will also prove themselves interesting, pleasant
tasks for young pianists.

In _Elementary Music_, Book I. of a complete school, by Alfred Gilbert,
M.R.A.M., it seems to us that the arrangement made is likely to
prove rather confusing than otherwise. Too much is said. One of the
statements, at least, will be a source of trouble, viz., that “the
white keys of the pianoforte are called naturals.” What will the little
student do about E♯, F×, G×, C♭, B♯, E♭♭, etc., etc.? The contradiction
of the above statement occurs naturally enough in the music
provided later on, but only in the music. [Transcriber’s note—the
multiplication sign, x, has been used in the paragraph above in place
of the double sharp symbol and two flat symbols in place of the double
flat symbol.]


J. AND J. HOPKINSON.

_In Dreamland City._ By Theo. Bonheur.—A pretty song, with a graceful,
taking refrain.

_Bonnie Face._ Words by the late Hugh Conway. Music by A. H.
Behrend.—Another sad invitation from either a grannie, or an auntie,
or an unclie to a little childie to keep its spirits up, and, if
possible, remain a little child for ever, as the opportunities for
enjoyment, or, at any rate, for laughter, become limited when we learn
to read and write. Enough to damp the ardour of any healthy, growing
child.


EDWIN ASHDOWN.

_La Zingara_, for piano, by Michael Watson, is named by him “Morceau
alla Tarantella.”—The bite of the tarantula seems in this case to be
rather pleasant than otherwise; it would be better styled “A Gipsy
Dance.”


MARRIOTT AND WILLIAMS.

_Mirage._—An expressive, powerfully-written song, by Edith Marriott,
who shows great progress in her various compositions.

_There’s a Bower of Roses._—A charmingly simple setting of these
lovely words of Thomas Moore.


F. PITMAN.

The Christmas double number of the _Violin Soloist_ is a marvellous
twopennyworth, containing twelve well-known pieces. They are fingered
and bowed thoroughly, and the whole number is well printed and got up.


W. J. WILLCOCKS AND CO.

_Verviers_ is the name of a bright, sparkling _air de ballet_, written
for the piano by Ivan Caryll.

_Three Sketches_, by Edward L. Hopkins, are quiet Sunday scenes
expressed on the pianoforte.


T. H. BARNETT.

_Saltarello_ in A minor. By R. J. Thompson.—A bright little movement
for players of moderate capacity and ready fingers.



A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.


CHAPTER IV.

LAST DAYS.

It might have seemed now that Marie Thérèse of France had endured
enough of sorrow, and that her days might be allowed to flow on
evenly—not, indeed, joyfully, but in a calm content. For a year or
two it seemed as if this would be the case, but there were still other
storms to be encountered before the life history was to be complete.

Five years after the second Restoration the Duc de Berri was
assassinated at the Opéra. The Duchess of Angoulême was one of those
immediately summoned to the ante-room of the Opera House, where her
brother-in-law lay dying. Her husband, fearing some danger, would
have restrained her from accompanying him, but she felt her place was
there. “What,” exclaims Châteaubriand, “were dangers to her, who was
accustomed to look revolution in the face!” Herself overcome with
grief, she paid a noble tribute to the fortitude of the Duchesse de
Berri. “She is sublime,” she said more than once; and, bending over the
dying man, she said, “Courage, brother; and if God calls you hence, ask
my father there to pray for France and for us.”

When, six months after his father’s death, the only son of the Duc and
Duchesse de Berri was born, it was the Duchess of Angoulême, to whom
the blessing of children had been denied, who showed the infant to the
people assembled before the palace windows with every sign of joy and
delight.

The death of Louis XVIII. in 1824 made the Duchess of Angoulême
Dauphine of France. But her life continued as retired as ever, and she
spent much of her time in watching over the early years of her little
nephew, the Duc de Bordeaux. After six comparatively uneventful years
the storm broke which doomed her to a final exile. The duchess was at
Dijon when a hostile reception at the theatre announced to her that
there was once more a revolution. Travelling all night with one or two
attendants to Versailles, she made her way in the disguise of a peasant
to St. Cloud, only to find that the King was at Rambouillet. “Can you
forgive me?” cried Charles X. as he met his niece. Her answer was an
embrace. “I trust,” she said, “we are now united for ever.” The King
abdicated, and the Duc d’Angoulême surrendered his claims in favour of
the little Duc de Bordeaux, while Louis Philippe of Orleans was to be
Lieutenant-General during the prince’s minority. But the Chamber of
Deputies declared for Louis Philippe. After some little hesitation, he
consented to become “King of the French,” and there was nothing left
for Charles X. but to depart. Escorted by the commissioners sent by the
new king for the purpose, the royal family passed with slow stateliness
on their way to the sea coast, taking a fortnight in reaching
Cherbourg. The last pageant of the departing dynasty was witnessed
for the most part with silent respect. The little Duc de Bordeaux and
his sister, ignorant of the meaning of it all, stood at the carriage
windows, bowing and kissing their hands in their childish way to the
people, and the sight of the children made the tears start to many
eyes. The Duchess of Angoulême sat in one of the carriages, silent and
alone, save for a lady-in-waiting. It seemed a hard fate that condemned
her once more to exile. It was the 16th of August, 1830, when they
embarked for England, and it was characteristic of the duchess that she
lingered longest on the deck, watching the shores of France as they
receded for the last time from her sight.

The exiles landed at Weymouth, and spent two months under the
hospitable roof of Cardinal Weld at Lulworth Castle. Thence they
repaired to Edinburgh, where they occupied the palace of Holyrood.
Thence, in the end of the year 1832, they returned to the Continent,
and took up their residence in the old Hradschin palace at Prague. From
Prague they removed to Goritz, and here, in the winter of 1836, Charles
X. died. Eight years later the Duchess of Angoulême was left a widow.

The last years of her life were spent at Frohsdorf, a plain, somewhat
uninteresting house near Neustadt, commanding a prospect over the
plain which extends to the borders of Styria, which had been purchased
for her from Caroline Murat, the ex-Queen of Naples, and to which she
retired after her husband’s death. The Duc de Bordeaux (better known
to modern readers as the Comte de Chambord) and his sister, afterwards
Duchess of Parma, resided with her, and old and faithful courtiers and
servants—all of whom were French—formed her household. Distinguished
Frenchmen often visited Frohsdorf, and were always received graciously
and kindly. In 1848 the news was brought to the duchess of the fall of
Louis Philippe. “It is enough,” she said, as the story brought vividly
before her the memory of another fall eighteen years before, “I dare
not listen any more; we are too completely avenged.”

It was a sorrow to her that her nephew seemed content to let
opportunities slip past him, and she had at last to acknowledge that
he was unlikely to regain the throne of his ancestors. His training
had been of a narrowing character, and he lacked the energy and the
decision which, if exercised at the right time, might have led to great
results.

The end came to the Duchess of Angoulême at Frohsdorf, in the autumn
of 1851. Her illness lasted only two days, and she died on the 16th
of October, the fifty-eighth anniversary of her mother’s execution.
We may not doubt that the happiest day of her long, eventful life
was that which marked its close, and re-united her at last to all
those she loved. “I do not fear death,” she wrote, in her last will,
“and, lacking merit of my own, I place all my trust in the mercy of
God.... After the example of my parents, I pardon with my entire soul,
and without exception, all those who have injured or offended me;
sincerely praying God to extend to them His mercy, and to me also for
the pardon of my sins. I pray God to shower down His blessings upon
France—France, that I have never ceased to love under my bitterest
affliction.”

She was buried, in accordance with her expressed wish, in the vault of
the Franciscan Convent at Goritz, between her husband and the King,
her father-in-law. In the same vault there now rest the two children
over whose early years she had watched with tender care—Henri Duc de
Bordeaux and Comte de Chambord, and Louise Marie Thérèse Duchess of
Parma.

A few words which form the close of an article on the Duchess of
Angoulême, which appeared in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ at the time of
her death, sum up her life history so concisely, that I append them
here by way of conclusion:—

“Of the seventy-three years of her life, she passed eight (the best of
her youth) in restraint or in a dungeon, and thirty-eight in exile, and
yet she died acknowledging the mercies and the glory of God. Let us who
have not known affliction, or who have been but lightly visited, derive
wisdom from the instruction offered us by the pious daughter of Louis
Seize and Marie Antoinette.”

        R. W. R.

[THE END.]



A GERMAN NUPTIAL EVE.

BY ONE WHO WAS PRESENT.


It is an old custom in Germany, and one which we may hope will never
die out, to have a gathering of friends on the nuptial eve, either at
the house of the bride elect, or, when this is too small, in a hotel.
Most of the guests are expected to appear in some character, and give
a recitation or song, if possible, composed for the occasion, and
referring in some way to the bride and bridegroom. It is a cheerful,
pleasant custom, and helps to make the last evening in the old home
a happy and joyous one, by surrounding the bride with the friends of
her youth who come to wish her God speed in the new life about to open
up. It seems in many ways much better than having a party after the
wedding, when the bride and bridegroom are no longer among the guests,
and it is pleasanter to remember that the last festivities in the old
home were brightened by their company.

Let me give a sketch of a nuptial eve, or, as our German cousins call
it, a “Polter Abend” gathering, at which I was present, held at the
house of the bride, and for that reason more homelike than if it had
been held in a hotel. In former times it was common among all classes,
but now chiefly among the poorer, for the guests to bring old crockery
and smash it before the door of the house, so that next morning, if it
had been a large party, the unfortunate father had to employ a man and
cart to carry away the fragments. I was unable to discover the origin
of this, but it seems like our throwing an old shoe after the bride as
she leaves home. Has it anything to do with the German custom of giving
the baby a shilling when he breaks his first plate? Most people appear
to be not altogether sorry that this marriage custom is dying out.

Without any crockery, but with a little inward fear and trembling,
owing to my slender knowledge of the language, I stood, one evening
last September, at the house of my friend, waiting for the door to open
to introduce me into the midst of the excitement. Glad I was to find
several who could speak English, and I was tempted to talk more English
than German.

The programme of the evening commenced by Fräulein and a young medical
student singing a very humorous duet together, containing some warnings
to the bride and bridegroom, who, however, seemed to enjoy it as much
as anyone. In accordance with a time-honoured custom, which is also
observed when moving into a new house, a little girl went up to the
bride, and, after reciting a poem, gave her a stand containing salt and
a bread-basket, in order that the newly married couple, on commencing
housekeeping, might have something with which to begin and keep them
from starvation. Perhaps the salt may also be meant for a warning
against ever letting any bitter words pass between the two who are now
so loving to each other, and the bread may also signify contentment
with the simpler things of life, coupled with the rich delicacy of love.

After the bride had received this present, a dwarf with a long white
beard, described by Scheffer, the German poet, as Perkeo, dwarf of
Heidelberg Castle, came forth, and sang a song of his own composition.
It narrated several events in the lives of the bride and bridegroom in
a very amusing manner. The dwarf was personated by the medical student,
a younger brother of the bridegroom, and he told how, in the earlier
days of courtship, they used to send him away to play with other boys,
in order to be alone together, and how, having wisely learnt English,
they would tease him by speaking in that language, which he, poor
fellow! did not understand. But now that is all forgotten, and he is
quite ready to forgive them for all their misdeeds in the past, ending
by wishing them a very happy and joyous future.

While we were having some refreshments, a peasant girl from Southern
Germany appeared, dressed in the pretty costume peculiar to the
district, and with a basket upon her back such as is seen in all
pictures of German market-women. It contained crockery. Addressing
the bride, and after praising up her wares, and saying how impossible
they were to break, she carelessly let fall an already broken cup,
but in such a manner as to make it appear as if it broke in falling.
She quickly atoned for her stupidity by presenting the bride with a
beautiful china tea and coffee set painted by her mother, and which she
was very careful _not_ to break. Very heartily she was received, and
continued to receive the congratulations of her friends until no less a
person than the self-appointed ambassador of her most gracious Majesty
Queen Victoria and of the President of the United States is announced.
He came as a joint ambassador of the two nations, partly because he
had himself lived some years in England, and partly because the bride
had lived in America, so that it was fitting that someone should
represent these nations. The manner in which he was received showed
the cordial relationship existing between Germany and these countries.
He finished, after mentioning the recent marriage of the President, by
conveying united congratulations to the bride, who was delighted with
the voice from the old country, and who, by the way, had placed a small
American flag above a large German one.

The young Englishman having finished, a lady decorated the bride with
the bridal wreath, reciting a poem composed by herself. A pretty custom
usually takes place at this moment. All the young people present form a
circle round the bride, who stands blindfolded in the centre and places
the wreath upon someone’s head, showing who will be the next to be
married. Unfortunately, it was omitted on this evening, so we did not
know on whom the lot would fall, much as we should have liked to, and
the question remains unanswered.

When the bride had received the wreath, the bridegroom’s father recited
a poem, and gave the bride a box containing the rare meerschaum powder,
brought from Ruhla, a great seat of the meerschaum pipe trade in the
Thuringer Wald. The German wives are noted for being good _hausfraus_
(housekeepers), and frequently a girl will go into a _pension_ to
learn housekeeping before she is married. This powder is for cleaning
purposes, and serves as a reminder of what is expected from the bride.

The evening finished by one more very clever speech from the student,
who made some capital jokes about the partnership of the two names,
which were, both in German and in English, names of very common
businesses, without which we could not live, and certainly, if they did
not go hand in hand with each other, a general failure would be the
result. And with everyone in good humour, we bid adieu at half-past
eleven, we English almost thinking that we might take a lesson from
the Germans, and very much increase the pleasures of a wedding by
instituting a “Polter Abend” in England.

            W. A. H. LEGG.

    Arnstadt, Nov., 1886.



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

BEATTIE.—You do not say where you reside. You should write for all
such information to the special college under whose training you will
find it the most convenient to place yourself. Address the secretary.

G. M. H. should read all our answers to correspondents under the above
heading, as her questions have been answered over and over again in our
volumes. In one of the early volumes there was an article entitled “How
to Earn One’s Living.”

A. MC.—You should write to the secretary of the Holloway College for
Women direct, and obtain their prospectus, stating your wishes and all
the particulars of the case.

E. T. G.—The Latin motto, _Virtus semper viridis_, is that of three
families—_i.e._, Corry, Green, and Lowry, and means, “Virtue is always
flourishing.”

C. M. should write direct to the secretary of the College of
Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C. 2. We give you the same
advice; you had better read and judge for yourself.

POLLIE.—Write to the secretary of the Civil Service Commissioners,
Cannon-row, S.W., and obtain the printed prospectus of rules respecting
the clerkships of the telegraph department. If you look through our
answers under the above heading, you will see scores of replies to this
question.

C. KERSHAW.—There is a training home for domestic servants, The Guild
of Aid, at Zeals, near Bath, Somerset, and one at 19, Romney-place,
Maidstone; matron, Miss Kemp. Also St. John’s Training School for
Girls, Westbourne-park, W.; matron, Miss McEwen.


ART.

ZILLAH.—If the medium known as Florentine is used when painting upon
silk, it is not necessary to prepare the foundation.

MARS.—In mirror painting it is necessary to use one of the many
mediums advertised, or the oil paints are easily removable with
turpentine or a penknife.

THE LADY OF AROOSTOCK.—It is extremely difficult to sell original
drawings, and much more so to sell mere copies. So we fear that we
could not help you. Shew’s mounting medium for photographs is the best
to employ.

IVY.—The safest manner of cleaning photographs is to immerse them in
pure clean tepid water, and then wipe them dry with a soft silk rag.


WORK.

A MOTHER is thanked for the recipe she kindly gives for a description
of embroidery, especially her own:—For the foundation, prepare as
proposed for crazy work in our part for November, 1886. Get artificial
flowers of velvet, old or new, the brighter the better, and of all
varieties. Tack them on the sprays, large or small, or grouped; then
use buttonhole-stitch to fasten down every flower in coarse crewel
silk, of the respective colours required by the flowers, finishing
round the larger flowers and leaves with gold tinsel cord, and using
small yellow beads for flower seeds. The stems should be made in shaded
greens with crewel-stitch, and the whole effect is very brilliant.

TEETEE.—With reference to your helping to support your mother and
yourselves by dressmaking, no friends worth keeping would cast you
off on that account. No disgrace is attached to honest work, but
you would show consideration for the feelings of others by working
under Christian names, a common practice amongst dressmakers and
milliners; and this little act of delicacy for your relatives’ sake
will be appreciated by them, supposing the family name be one of any
distinction—a common one would not matter. We advise you to get some
lessons in fitting from a good tailor, as women dressmakers fail
signally on this point, as a general and almost universal rule.

[Illustration: SPRING

    “MARCH WINDS,
      APRIL SHOWERS,
    BRING FORTH
      MAY FLOWERS.”]

LOVER OF THE G.O.P.—On no account take any notice of such a note. It
was a most intrusive and impertinent act on the part of a strange man
to drop it into your lap in the railway carriage. It showed that he
mistook you for a girl lacking grievously in self-respect and in any
knowledge of propriety.

FIDELIS.—We have advised our correspondents very many times against
such advertisements, which are almost all catchpennies, and intended to
delude and swindle the foolish and unwary. We have no knowledge of each
separate advertisement, and we speak only as a general rule, of course.

E. H. E. K.—The best cotton to use for knitting a quilt is No. 6,
with No. 12 needles. In asking how much cotton you would require, you
never mention the size of the quilt which you mean to make, but after
knitting one of the diamonds you will know how much you have used, and
also the number of diamonds you will require, and you can calculate
from that. If you keep to one maker you can always match the cotton
exactly.

AN IRISH DOCTOR’S WIFE.—To make a stitch, put the thread before the
needle. A slipped stitch means one that is passed from one needle to
the other without knitting it. We think you would find it easier to
induce some experienced knitter to give you a few instructions.

KASCHEU.—1. The cracker nightdress case may be made in plush. This
case resembles a cracker in shape, the two ends being secured with
drawstrings about four inches from the edge, and this frilled part is
lined with satin. The nightdress is placed in the centre, where the
bonbon of a real cracker is secured. 2. For plush embroidery, coarse
silks are used, and the patterns are worked in outlines. The material
presents such difficulties that the embroidery is never very elaborate.
The watch pockets to match the cracker nightdress case are shaped like
half a cracker, and are placed upon the foundation upright. The watch
pockets are hung up by a ribbon, and are gathered at the top.


MISCELLANEOUS.

VIDA.—It is only in convents that women take vows of celebacy.
Remember also that there is a Divine rule for guidance in reference to
sacred vows, which must include every description outside the simple
and imperative obligation to serve God humbly and faithfully in your
ordinary daily life and conversation, and in the inner sanctuary of
your own heart, for which Divine rule see Numbers xxx. 3, 4, 5.

SRIXO.—In no case should a hostess go in first to her own dining-room;
every guest should precede her, excepting the guest that escorts
herself, or _vice versa_. If a cake be presented to a girl on her
birthday (which is by no means _de rigueur_, and like the ever-provided
wedding cake) it may be placed either at the top, bottom, or side of
the table, as the mistress of the house may please.

CONSTANT READER.—We are very glad that you see your past errors, and
are endeavouring to act as shall be pleasing to your Heavenly Master
in your daily life, and as ever in His sight. Ask for the help of the
Holy Spirit so to do. The Odd Minutes Society might meet your wishes in
trying to do some little extra work for Him in His poor. Write to Miss
J. Powel, Luctons, Buckhurst-hill, Essex, for her prospectus. You might
get some fingering wool, and crochet or knit for them in odd minutes.

LICHEN.—You should pay a visit to a florist’s, and ask for the species
you name and examine for yourself. If anything be worth knowing it is
worth taking a little trouble to obtain information. Our girls are too
lazy and continually ask us to hunt through the indexes supplied for
their own use. When you have made a full inspection of the flowers for
yourself, you can get direct special information from the florist.

DUCHESS.—The verse you quote is not taken from any of the canonical
books. It is apocryphal.

INQUIRER does not appear to be at all acquainted with the Holy Gospel
according to St. John, or she would know where to find the text quoted.
She ought to feel ashamed of such ignorance, and we recommend her to
read that Gospel through, and commit some of our Lord’s discourses to
memory. We also advise her and all our girls to obtain a concordance of
the Holy Bible at our office, as soon as they can afford to buy one.

NIL DESPERANDUM should obtain medical advice. We can only make general
statements, which may or may not be correctly applied to individual
cases.

BATTY.—If the glaze be produced by the wearing-away of the nap of
the cloth, there is no cure for it. Perhaps you could turn it with
advantage.

APE and DONKEY (New South Wales).—Lads of nineteen are certainly
too young to choose partners for life, and no girl would be wise in
binding herself to marry a young fellow who could not know his own
mind. A man should be at least twenty-five before he asks any girl to
risk her happiness in giving him a promise of marriage. If an escort
from church on a Sunday evening be desirable, you should make due
arrangement for it before venturing to go. Impromptu accidental offers
of escort are very inexpedient. In such cases you should have another
girl with you likewise.

SPHINX.—Accept our thanks for your kind letter. We cannot decipher it
all, but see no question to be answered.

BUSINESS WOMAN.—We have given a long series of articles on the subject
of Good Breeding, and also of Etiquette, of an exhaustive character.
Some are entitled “Duties,” etc. Look for them in the indexes, and you
will learn all you require to know under any circumstance in which you
may be placed.

BROWNY.—To become talkative would be most objectionable. Read our two
articles on “The Art of Conversing Agreeably.” We thank you for your
prescription against sea sickness, viz.—2 grains of bromide of sodium
taken three times a day, two days before going on board, and night and
morning while on board. But we have not tried it, and so must advise
anyone wishing to experiment on the dose, to consult her own doctor
before so doing.

A DUBLIN LASSIE.—The 18th December, 1871, was a Monday. In reply to
your second question, see our answer to “Browny.”

SUSIE M.—Our blessed Lord was tempted in all points, like as we all
are. Read the other passages in connection with this distinct and
positive statement.

A PARLOUR-MAID writes, “What will remove black spots from silver?” and
she goes on in the next sentence to say, “when the plate is cleaned
they go away.” What more does she wish to know? Clean, the plate, and
do so frequently and regularly.

POPSEY.—September 5th, 1856, fell on a Friday. Conversion to God may
be sudden, but is more generally a gradual and growing conviction of
sin and apprehension of the way of salvation, a gentle process of
drawing to Christ by feelings of gratitude for mercies received, and
through hearing and reading of His love. This appears to be a more
reliable and satisfactory process than sudden convictions with an
assurance of faith. Still, such conversions as the latter do occur.
There are many godly people, also, who have never known any change
since their early childhood, but who always feared God and trusted in
His atonement.

A. PAYNE.—You are doing a very rash thing in trying to thin yourself
by taking carbonate of soda in daily doses. You will thus thin your
blood, and thinness of blood often results in dropsy, spots, and boils,
etc. Your being stout is a great advantage, if not excessive. You have
some substance to waste safely in case of illness. Do you wish to
look like the poor scarecrows with pipe-stopper waists? Your hand is
scarcely formed, and you should use a softer pen.

HELIOTROPE (New Zealand).—1. We read your letter with interest,
although the answer to it be so late. You are very right in the views
you express about marriage. Young girls are too apt to take its
responsibilities upon themselves without counting the cost, or their
own suitability. 2. Changing the key of a song seldom improves it. But,
at all events, if the key were unsuitable for your voice, your singing
would be more agreeable than it would have been in the original key.
Accept our thanks and best wishes.

M. WRIGHT (New South Wales).—We thank you for so kind a letter, and
assure you, as we did “Heliotrope,” that such as you have both written,
have encouraged us in our work. We may also add that, if you have not
had the benefit of a good education, you have profited by what you
had far better than many girls who had that advantage. We wish you
God-speed.

THE VICAR’S DAUGHTER (Victoria).—We cannot answer your question exactly
in the form you wish, but may, at least, say that you might procure
what you want through the Messrs Trübner, Ludgate-hill, London, E.C.
Accept our best thanks and good wishes.

MINNEHAHA.—Dr. Samuel Johnson died on the 13th of December, 1784.
The name Helena ought to be pronounced with the accent on the first
syllable, _i.e._, Hel-e-na, although the island of that name is
pronounced otherwise, the accent being placed on the second syllable,
and divided thus, St. He-le-na.

PERPLEXITY.—We recommend any unbeliever to read the Rev. Joseph Cook’s
“Monday Lectures,” first and second series, “God and the Conscience,”
and “Life and the Soul,” sold by Messrs. Ward and Lock, Dorset
Buildings, Salisbury-square, London, E.C.

WELL-WISHER ELSIE.—Your hand is rather a poor one, but it is legible,
and is at any rate preferable to the coarse Stonehenge type affected by
so many girls. We suppose the phrenologist meant to say that you could
if you tried so to do, pass a good examination in the science and art
of music.

EVELYN B.—The papers written by Miss Caulfeild on etiquette, good
manners, and duties have extended through most of our volumes,
beginning with vol. i. and ii., and one and all are valuable authority
on all such points.

EVER HOPEFUL.—The best way to get the information would be to write to
the vicar, enclosing a stamped envelope, and ask whether he can supply
it from the registers of his church, and if so, what the fees will be.
Then, on his answer, you can remit the fees asked.




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 374, February 26, 1887" ***

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