The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 369, January 22, 1887
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 369, January 22, 1887

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 369, January 22, 1887

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII, NO. 369, JANUARY 22, 1887 ***

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 369.]

[Price One Penny.

JANUARY 22, 1887.

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

CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
I ONLY WISH I HAD.
THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.
AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO.”
NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.

By the Rev. JOHN KELLY, Translator of “Hymns of the Present Century.”

THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA (“CARMEN SYLVA”).

All rights reserved.]

PART I.

Carmen the song and Sylva the wood,
Join them together, the wood-song is heard;
If in the woods I had not been born,
Ne’er should I sing a song night or morn.
I’ve often learnt from the melody
Of birds, and woods have whispered to me,
While my heart beat time within my breast,
And wood and song have sung me to rest.

Such, roughly rendered, is the explanation that the gifted and distinguished authoress gives of the nom de plume which she has assumed. In the last line there is a reference to the woodland castle—Mon Repos, or My Rest—where she passed her youth.

Her father was Hermann, Prince of Wied, a cultivated and thoughtful man, fond of philosophical speculation, and a writer on topics connected with his favourite studies. Her mother was Princess Maria of Nassau, who is described as “a woman of great beauty and true elevation of soul, of strong will, keen understanding, self-sacrificing spirit and indefatigable activity, inexorably strict with reference to herself, but overflowing with kindness and consideration towards all with whom she is brought in contact.”[1]

Elizabeth, the subject of our sketch, now the Queen of Roumania, was born on the 29th of December, 1843. As a child, she was impetuous in temper, reserved and resolute in disposition, and unbending in will. Her imagination was very lively. In her fourth year she was placed under the charge of a governess to receive regular instruction. Up to that time her mother had been her sole teacher. She was so lively that she suffered physical torture if she had to sit quite quiet. Once, when she was sitting for her portrait, along with her younger brother, Prince William, she resolved to keep still. Hardly had she done so for five minutes before she suddenly fell off her chair in a fainting fit. Her mother’s former governess, Fraülein Lavater, who came to Mon Repos for some months every year, was the only one who could tranquilise her.

Very early Princess Elizabeth displayed a charitable and sympathetic disposition. She used to accompany her mother on visits to the poor, and thus she became acquainted with their needs. She would give away whatever she could dispense with; yet she was not destitute of sound practical sense. One day her mother gave her a large piece of woollen stuff. The little Princess was overjoyed, and exclaimed—

“Now I can give away all my clothes!”

“Had you not better give the woollen stuff to the poor children?” said her mother; “your white clothes would be of less use to them than the coarse stuff.” It was a new thought to the child, and she at once perceived the reasonableness of the suggestion, and acted on it.

In November, 1850, her youngest brother Otto was born. He was afflicted with an organic malady, and in order to procure the best professional advice, the family went to Bonn in the spring of 1851. Many distinguished men—artists and savans—gathered around the princely family. Among others the patriot-poet, Ernst Moritz Arndt, then eighty-two years old, was a daily visitor. He read his patriotic songs to them. The Princess Elizabeth sat upon his knees while he did so, and listened with rapt attention and flushed cheeks. Many a time the venerable poet placed his hands upon her head and explained to her the beautiful name which she bore. “Elizabeth,” he said, “signifies ‘God is rest.’”

The present Crown Prince of Germany, then a student of Bonn, was also a frequent visitor.

It was at this time that the future Queen first saw Roumanians. They were the brothers Stourdza, who were then studying at the University.

Princess Elizabeth for a long time cherished the wish to sit on the form in the school with the village children. One morning, bursting into the room where her mother was much occupied, she asked if she might go with some farm children to the school. The Princess Maria did not hear the question, but nodded kindly to the child. Princess Elizabeth, taking this sign for permission, rushed off to the neighbouring farmhouse. There she heard that the children had already gone to school. She followed them quickly, and entered the schoolroom while the singing lesson was going on. The teacher was highly flattered when he saw the Princess standing at a form, and quite happily joining with full voice in the singing. The farmers’ little daughters, who had some notion of Court etiquette, regarded it as quite unseemly that the daughter of a Prince should join with such a very loud voice in singing with the village children! As soon as the Princess’s voice was heard above the voices of the other children, the girl next her put her hand on her mouth, and sought to impress upon her Serene Highness the impropriety of her position.

Meanwhile the greatest consternation was felt at the Castle on account of the disappearance of the Princess Elizabeth. Servants were sent out in all directions. For a long time they searched the neighbouring beechwoods and surrounding villages in vain. At last they found the little Princess, full of delight with her exploit, in the village school of Rodenbach. The missing child was carried back to the Castle, and confinement to her room for the rest of the day was the issue of the morning’s exploit.

She was a born ruler of others. In playing with children of her own age, whether of her own or of peasant rank, her ascendancy was at once acknowledged and yielded to. She was the ringleader in the wildest games. The fantastic ideas which came into her head, and on which she acted, overmastered her for the time. They were realities to her.

Her literary genius was early developed. She composed occasional pieces when she was nine and ten years old. At twelve years of age she attempted to write a novel. At fourteen she had invented dramas and tragedies. The more terrible the scenes were, the better was she pleased. Morning and night she was devising stories. She was subject to alternations of high spirits and depression, and total lack of self-confidence. She would be tormented by the idea that she was disagreeable and insupportable to everyone. “I could not help it,” she confesses; “I could not be gentle, I could only be impetuous. I was heartily thankful to all who had patience with me. I was better when the safety-valve of writing poetry was opened to me.”

In order to moderate the exuberance of her feelings, her mother took her at every opportunity to scenes where she might be deeply impressed by the realities of life. She was present at many a sick and death bed. Her brother’s case familiarised her with the sufferings that many have to endure. The first deathbed at which she was present was her grandmother’s, the Duchess of Nassau’s. It made an ineffaceable impression upon her. The sight of the body excited no terror in her mind. Her thoughts went beyond death. She hastened to the garden. The roses were in full bloom. She gathered the most beautiful, and returned with them to the chamber of death, and decorated the bed and the room with them. Her conception of death was poetical. Her mother had taught her to take a bright view of it.

Brought up by her mother in the fear of God, her first visit to church was a memorable occasion to her. Henceforward the Sundays and holydays were the bright spots in her life. With devout attention she followed the course of the service, and was deeply impressed by the exposition of Holy Scripture. She meditated on what she heard for days, and often wrote down the sermons.

At the end of six years her governess, Miss Jossé, who discharged her difficult duties with great fidelity and zeal, left Neuwied, and the Princess was placed under the care of a tutor, Mr. Sauerwein. On his arrival at the Castle the Princess Maria received him with the words: “You are getting a little spirit of contradiction for your pupil. She has no traditional faith. Her first questions always are, ‘why?’ and ‘is it true?’”

Mr. Sauerwein was a distinguished linguist; had resided a long time in England, and was an enthusiast for that country, its history and institutions. He gave all his lessons in the English language. Latin and Italian were translated into English. The Princess read Ovid, Horace, and parts of Cicero with him, and wrote Latin, English, and Italian exercises. She also learnt arithmetic and geometry. Lessons in physical science she took along with a companion and most intimate friend, Maria von Bibra. She was taught French by a Parisian lady, and in the evening after tea read the old chroniclers, as well as the dramatists. Schiller and other German classics were studied. At fifteen she took a keen interest in politics, and was a diligent reader of newspapers. From a very early period she had a great fondness for legends and folklore. “I would throw away,” she says, “the most beautiful history, or even comparative grammar, to the study of which I was passionately devoted, into a corner, for a little legend.”

Romances were forbidden till she was nineteen years of age. Then she was permitted to read “Ivanhoe” and others. Everything that was likely to excite her too lively imagination was purposely withheld from her.

At the beautifully situated Castle of Mon Repos, with its fine view of the Rhine and its splendid beechwoods, the Princess Elizabeth was in her element. She delighted to roam in the woods in the stormiest weather, when it was raining in torrents or snowing heavily. The house was too strait for her, and she would go forth, accompanied by three dogs of St. Bernard, to enjoy the battle of the elements. In autumn, when the yellow leaves lay in heaps on the ground, she would wander for hours, listening to the rustling of the leaves. Every leaf, blade of grass, bird, and flower—every sunbeam that lighted upon the landscape, had a meaning for her. She would return home with her head full of poetical ideas, which she would write down. These poetical effusions tranquillised her mind. No one knew anything of them. She kept them a profound secret. Her mother wisely concluded that the best thing to do was to let her take her own way. The Prince used to say, when she was determined to have her own way, “We must not compel people for their own happiness; we must allow them to attain to insight.”

At sixteen years of age the Princess began to write all her poems regularly in a book. She put all her thoughts and feelings into verse, which from henceforward formed her diary. Until she was thirty years of age she knew nothing of the technical part of the art of poetry. A time came, however, when she thought she ought to despise poetry, and when she threw herself with all her might into the study of music. She got into such a nervous condition, however, that her mother had to forbid her playing the piano for two years. Then she took to her pencil and painting. This failed to satisfy her, and she despaired of her abilities, and believed that she would never attain the ideal at which she aimed.

All who knew the Princess at this time retain a vivid impression of her vivacity and grace, of her slender figure, fresh complexion, her luxuriant dark brown hair, and large blue eyes, which looked as if they would penetrate and search the very soul. Without being exactly beautiful, the intellectual refinement of her features made her countenance very attractive. From her surroundings she was called Princess Wood-rose.

When governesses and tutor had left the Castle, Pastor Harder, the Mennonite Baptist preacher from Neuwied, came every day to teach the Princess logic, history, and church history. She profited much from her intercourse with him. She could open her heart freely to him on subjects on which she exercised the strictest reserve with everyone else. His preaching went to her heart. Her poetical diary contains many entries written after the services.

In 1860 she was confirmed, after being prepared for the rite by the Ecclesiastical Councillor Dilthey, in presence of all her sponsors, the nearest relatives of the houses of Wied and Nassau, and the present Empress of Germany, at that time Princess of Prussia.

Times of sore trial came to her. Her father was always ill. The sufferings of her little invalid brother increased, and her mother was absorbed by anxious duties. During her brother’s illness, to whom her mother wholly devoted herself, the Princess was thrown much into the society of her father. She worked with him, copied for him, and read to him. He would discuss with her the questions on which he wrote. The intelligence and receptivity of his daughter delighted him. The house was, however, too quiet for the lively girl. It was therefore decided that the invitation of Queen Augusta should be accepted, and that Fraülein Lavater should accompany her to Berlin. She found it difficult to keep within the bounds of Court etiquette, and converse in a becoming manner. She felt most at home in the family of the Princess of Hohenzollern, who passed the winter in Berlin.

It was at this time she first met her future husband, then Prince Charles of Hohenzollern. The story is told that one day as she, according to her custom, was bounding quickly down the stairs in the Castle, she slipped on the last steps, and was prevented from falling by Prince Charles, who caught her in his arms.

Soon after her return home the cases of her brother and father were pronounced to be hopeless. Prince Otto’s sufferings increased from month to month. His mother sought to prepare him for his end by pointing him to Christ and heaven. In January, 1862, Prince Hermann was unable to leave his bed. Princess Elizabeth nursed her father, while her mother was incessant in her attendance on her beloved son. On the 16th of February, 1862, Prince Otto died. “Thank God! thank God for ever and ever!” was the exclamation of his bereaved mother, as she stood by his body. His father, family, friends and connections from far and near, all who loved and admired the boy, joined with his mother in her thanksgiving.

After the funeral the family paid a visit to Baden-Baden. On their return the young Princess threw herself with all the ardour of her nature into the work of teaching. In the Castle there was a lame boy, who had been received on account of his delicate health, and at a farm in the neighbourhood of Mon Repos the Baroness von Bibra resided for some time with two little nieces. With these three little children the Princess set up a school. Her mother observed with quiet satisfaction the patience, perseverance, and aptitude to teach displayed by her daughter. The boy, Rudolf Wackernagel, made such progress that he was able to enter the fifth class in the Gymnasium at Basle.

The winter of 1862-63 was passed with her parents at Baden-Baden on account of her father’s health. Here she “came out.” From entries in her diary it would appear that she had offers of marriage at this time. There are some lines in which she writes of the kind of love that alone brings happiness, and she adds that a maiden rejects anyone who does not really love her. “A maiden,” she says, “is happy in her parents’ house, from whence she casts modest looks into the world.”

In the autumn of 1863 she went with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, to Ouchy, on the Lake of Geneva, and for the winter to St. Petersburg. On the way to the latter place she saw her father for the last time at Wiesbaden. He did not expect ever to see his daughter again. Everybody was charmed with her at the Russian Court. She did not feel at ease, however, amid the grandeur which surrounded her. Her imagination was excited by all that she saw and heard, but her nerves suffered. The Grand Duchess sought to calm her mind by varied but regular occupation. The day was filled with music, reading, study of the Russian language, etc. Rubinstein first, and afterwards Clara Schumann, taught her music. When she expected Rubinstein to come, her excitement was so great that it almost took away her breath. She regarded him with such veneration that she lost all heart, from a sense of her own little talent. The climate and nervous excitement brought on gastric fever. For weeks she was confined to bed. It was her first illness. She had never tasted medicine before she was twenty. She could hardly believe, therefore, that she was really ill. As soon as she was able to do so, she buried herself in a philosophical work by her father, a copy of which he had sent her, and wrote to him telling him the pleasure it gave her. She enjoyed the seclusion from the gaieties that were going on. “It is very strange,” she wrote to her father; “yesterday I read ninety pages of philosophy, and was so rested that everyone was astonished at my looking so well. But if only two or three ladies come, and tell me the gossip of the town, and of all the things that are going on, it makes me droop like a withered leaf.” When she was well enough she resumed her social intercourse with the Grand Duchess, but had a sudden relapse. It was an anxious time for her mother: her husband dangerously ill, her daughter invalided at a distance, and she not there to nurse her! “I know she is in God’s hands,” she wrote, “and under the care of faithful and loving friends, but that does not take the pain, the load of sorrow, from my heart.” The Princess Elizabeth was able to venture into the open air again at the beginning of March. It seemed as if her recovery would be rapid. A few days later, however, she received the tidings of her father’s death. She loved her father with enthusiastic tenderness. She owed her intellectual development, for the most part, to him. Her grief was heightened by the thought that she had not been with him in his last days. But no murmur escaped her lips. She bore the blow with such composure and resignation that everyone about her was deeply impressed and touched. She sought to comfort and strengthen her mother. “We shall fill the desolate void with our love,” she wrote, “and therein find our happiness.” She regarded her father as a shining example, and sought to think and act according to his ideas. In the judgments she formed, she imitated his mildness and candour, which condemned nothing without fully proving it.

At Easter she left St. Petersburg with the Grand Duchess Helena, and visited Moscow, and in June returned to Germany. Her mother met her in Leipzig. The meeting, as may be imagined, was very affecting. After their return to Mon Repos a reaction from the recent excitement and agitation which she had experienced set in, and the Princess Elizabeth was overcome by apathy. Her mother, therefore, gladly consented to her accompanying the Grand Duchess Helena to Ouchy.

During the years 1866, 1867, 1868, she paid visits with her aunt or mother to Switzerland, Italy, France, and Sweden, meeting with much to interest her.

Little did she think at the end of this time of the career on which she was so soon to enter. She always wished to have “a calling” in life. She did not wish to live a life of pleasure, or the life of an intellectual dilettante, but one of real usefulness. She resolved to devote herself to the work of education, and be the teacher of a school. Her mother consented, on the condition that she should go through a regular course of preparatory training for the purpose, and pass an examination. But “man proposes and God disposes.” During the spring of 1869, while she was with her mother in Bonn, they received an invitation from the Prince of Hohenzollern to pay a visit to Düsseldorf. The mother divined the purpose of the proposed visit, but the daughter had no suspicion of it. She was delighted only with the prospect of seeing the Princess of Hohenzollern and Princess Marie, whom she had met in Berlin, and with whom she had corresponded ever since.

(To be concluded.)

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

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

CHAPTER XVI.

eaving the Priory on her right, Fairy went down the street in which stands the pretty old wooden house in which Anne of Cleves is said to have lived, and which goes by her name, from whence she turned up a lane into the High-street, and going to the bottom of the hill on which the High-street is built, she paused at a blacksmith’s shop.

The blacksmith was the father of the veterinary whom Fairy was seeking, and both men were standing in the shed, the blacksmith in his apron, with his hammer in his hand, scratching his head, and looking exceedingly puzzled, the veterinary in his shirt-sleeves, which looked like a protest against the heat which streamed from his father’s forge. He, too, looked equally puzzled.

In the centre of the shed stood a third figure, a gentleman, tall, thin, young, and dark—if not handsome, at least very good-looking—with an aristocratic air about him which at once caught Fairy’s fancy. She saw at a glance he was unlike anyone she had ever met before, by the cut of his clothes and the dark moustache, in days when moustaches were rarely seen in England; she half suspected he was not English, and his first words, in a strong foreign accent, confirmed this idea.

“I want to take it wif me, a horse’s iron, the iron of a horse.”

Fairy’s appearance in the shed caused the stranger to turn round, and seeing a lady he took off his hat and bowed so profoundly, at the same time stepping back, and gracefully hinting, by a wave of his hand, that his business would wait till hers was concluded, removed any lingering doubts in her mind as to his nationality. He was French, she was sure, and for the first time in her life, to her knowledge, Fairy found herself face to face with a Frenchman, as great a curiosity then as a Japanese or Chinaman is now.

Fairy returned his elaborate bow with a pretty inclination of her graceful head, and briefly stated her business to the veterinary, who, however, seemed to hesitate at first to come at once, and Fairy was obliged to resort to a little judicious flattery to induce him to comply with her request.

While she was speaking the stranger had an opportunity of indulging in a good look at her without her being aware of it. How pretty she was! fresher and brighter and prettier than ever among the dark, grimy surroundings of the blacksmith’s shop, which formed a striking background for this brilliant little vision of youth and health and beauty, the red glow of the furnace sending a rosy reflection over her white dress, and kindling the soft golden lights in her hair into a burning auburn. How simply she was dressed too! the first of her countrywomen who understood the art of dressing herself who had yet crossed the stranger’s path, he afterwards told her; and yet her boots and gloves, about which Fairy was very particular, fitted her tiny hands and feet to perfection.

Where did she come from, this blooming little creature, who looked as if a puff of wind might blow her away, so small and slight and dainty was she? And in default of wind the young Frenchman was by no means sure that she would not suddenly spread out a pair of wings from among the folds of her white drapery and fly away! At any rate he determined to speak to her first and satisfy himself that she was flesh and blood, and not a mere sprite or vision, so as she turned to leave, after having prevailed upon the veterinary to do her bidding at once, he stepped forward, and, with another grand bow and a smile, he said, in his native tongue—

“Mademoiselle peut-elle parler Français?”

“Mais oui, monsieur,” answered Fairy.

“Pardon mille fois, mademoiselle est Française?” said the Frenchman, with true French politeness.

“Mais non, monsieur,” laughed Fairy, in a half-reproachful, half-deprecating tone.

“Mademoiselle speaks like a native, but will she have the kindness to tell me what is the English for fer-de-cheval; I have forgotten?”

“A horseshoe,” said Fairy.

“A horseshoe,” lisped the Frenchman.

“A horseshoe, and he asked for a horse’s iron; no wonder I didn’t know what he meant,” growled the blacksmith, proceeding to get the article in question.

“A horseshoe—a horse’s iron,” laughed the veterinary, in an undertone of scorn, as he went his way to look after John Shelley’s sheep.

“Yes,” said the Frenchman, in French, to Fairy, “I want a horseshoe. They tell me a horseshoe always brings good luck, so I am going to keep one in my room.”

“Oh, but it is no use to buy a horseshoe; you must find it, pick it up on the road, and keep it for it to bring good luck,” laughed Fairy, speaking French.

“Is that it? Well, never mind, this horseshoe has brought me some good luck at any rate already.” And then, fearing he was presuming too much on his brief acquaintance to pay the compliment his last speech implied, he added, apologetically, “I have not often the good luck to meet a lady out of France who speaks French so fluently as mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur is very kind to say so, but unless I can be of any further use I must say good morning,” said Fairy, moving to the door.

The young Frenchman uttered a thousand thanks, bowed lower than ever, and stood uncovered at the door of the shed, watching till Fairy’s little figure and fluttering white skirts disappeared from view.

“Rum ways! Is Mr. Parlez-vous, with his outlandish talk, going to stand there all day in the broiling sun? He’ll have a sunstroke if he does. He is the queerest customer ever darkened my door,” growled the blacksmith, as he hammered on his anvil to attract the stranger’s attention.

The stranger had no intention of moving until Fairy had disappeared from view, and then he put on his hat and walked up to the anvil.

“Who is that lady?” he asked.

“Nobody knows,” growled the surly old blacksmith.

“What is her name?”

“Can’t say; nobody knows,” answered the blacksmith, in a still surlier tone, though to do him justice he thought this fine gentleman’s sudden interest in the shepherd’s Fairy, as people called her, boded no good to Fairy.

“How much is the horse-iron—shoe, I mean?”

“Sixpence, sir.”

The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question.

“What is that lady’s name?”

The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s Fairy.”

“But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.

“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which was now lying by the side of the first.

“And where does John Shelley live?”

“At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.”

“Comment? How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?”

“Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further.

“Easy or difficult, I shall find it, my civil friend,” said the young Frenchman, in French, and then, raising his hat, he wished the blacksmith good-day, and left the forge, muttering to himself a criticism on the manners of these English not over flattering to our nation.

“Palavering jackanapes, talking a tongue that no one understands but himself! What has the shepherd’s Fairy to do with him, I should like to know? But there don’t appear to be any scarcity of half-crowns with him; seems made up of them. A queer customer—a mighty queer customer; I wonder where he hails from.” And so saying, the blacksmith went to his door to look after the young Frenchman.

The stranger walked up the High-street to the Crown, where he had left his horse, and when it was brought to him, innocently asked the ostler if he could get back to Oafham, where he was staying, by Bournemer.

“Yes, sir; you can go across yonder meadows; there is a drift right through them which will bring you out close upon John Shelley, the shepherd’s, house; go past that and turn sharp to your right, that will take you straight back to the park,” said the ostler, giving the stranger all the information he required for nothing.

A few minutes later the blacksmith strolled casually up to the inn, and inquired of the ostler who that foreign gentleman was.

“Dunnow; reckon he is some relation of Lady Oafham up at Oafham Park; they say my lady’s sister is married to a French gentleman; anyhow, he is staying there. I know the mare.”

“He is a rum customer, wherever he is staying. He didn’t happen to ask you where John Shelley lived, did he now?” said the blacksmith.

“No, but I happened to tell him,” returned the ostler.

“More fool you, then. Ah! he is a queer customer.” And muttering to himself all the way down the street, the blacksmith returned to his forge.

Meanwhile the French gentleman rode slowly off in the direction indicated by the ostler, keeping his horse to a walking pace for fear he should overtake Fairy, who, after a little while, he discerned as a little speck of white some way in front of him. He paid no heed to the ostler’s directions now; where that speck of white led he would follow, but at a safe distance, lest he should frighten or annoy her if discovered. Keeping well in the rear, he saw Fairy finally turn into the field in which the shepherd’s cottage stood, and as soon as she was out of sight he put his horse into a canter, and rode past, taking a good survey, as he passed, of the house of the shepherd’s Fairy, whom he had traced to her home.

(To be continued.)

HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.

By AN EXPERIENCED TEACHER.

PART I.

WHAT TO AVOID.

It will most likely surprise my readers that I should begin this article by telling them when not to practise. I think this a very essential point, although not often spoken of by teachers.

I heard, a short time ago, of a young lady desirous of having singing lessons, whose instructor said it would be best for her to practise three times a day for ten minutes. The girl, being engaged in teaching most of the day, found it difficult to manage her time, but contrived, by having the first ten minutes before breakfast, to fit in the three intervals. No wonder her throat got bad and her health suffered!

If, among my readers, there should be one similarly occupied, believe me, it is not wise to take lessons during the term, as talking for so long a time is sufficient exercise for the throat and chest. Wait till the holidays, and then begin.

If you tire the vocal chords and the surrounding parts, you weaken instead of strengthening them, and injure the purity of tone.

We will suppose you have had your first lesson, say, of forty-five minutes; and on reaching home feel inclined to practise, to impress on your mind your teacher’s corrections. Yet you must not do so; as you have already sung enough. By all means, look over the music you have used and mark anything you may be likely to forget; also start a note-book, and make memoranda of the hints received from time to time.

Say that your lesson takes place in the morning; probably in the afternoon you will be able to take a quarter of an hour in which to practise. In this way, you will have done far more good than if you sat straightway down to the piano when you were excited and heated after your first lesson, when you might have been tempted to try over your songs, to settle which to take the next time, and have gone from one thing to another, till, to your great surprise, it is lunch time, and, it may chance, instead of your usual good appetite you have none. An artistic temperament is often very excitable, and if this is your case you will perceive how much you would have taken out of yourself in that one morning.

Should you be out of health, do not practise; you may sing a little, going through one song or two (no more) will cheer you; but do not try exercises, for your voice will not be in its usual state, consequently you will be likely to force it.

Again, if it ever happens that you are cross, or vexed, do not choose that time either. Do not sing your exercises after a long walk, or after a hearty meal, nor after bending for any length of time over needlework, writing, or any occupations causing stooping.

On many of these occasions you could practise the pianoforte; singers should well study their accompaniments.

All these “don’ts” are especially addressed to the zealous student, whose very enthusiasm may do much harm.

The dilatory one may say, “If I am to practise at none of these times, when, then, shall I do so?”

There are plenty of opportunities still, but it depends greatly on home duties how the time should be apportioned.

We will imagine the first thing after breakfast some domestic task calls your attention. When you are at liberty, go then to your piano (this should be scrupulously kept in tune), but first spend five minutes in practising breathing—of which I shall speak later on—then sing for five minutes sustained notes, without crescendo, the “mezza di voce” 𝆒 𝆓 being a finishing study which must not be attempted till the voice is fully under control; then give five to slow scale passages, and five more to simple distances of thirds, or what particular exercise your teacher may have given. Before the mid-day meal you may be able to give a few minutes again to sustained notes; but mind, only use your middle ones. These should have the chief attention for quite a month or more before either the upper or lower ones are tried.

Another interval can well be given some time after noon; and in the evening practise your songs—as at that time you might annoy other persons with your exercises. They are not calculated to cheer the heart of the listener, especially when imperfectly done, as they will be at first.

PART II.

CHIEFLY ON RESPIRATION.

We will now turn our attention to the different ways of breathing.

In throat or collar-bone breathing (the wrong method) the region of the upper ribs is most strongly distended; the collar-bone, part of the breast-bone, the shoulders, the spine, and in laboured breathing even the head, take part in this mode.

It is fatiguing and injurious, yet it is very general, both in speaking and singing; and in time it would make the voice weak and tremulous. There is little doubt it produces a tendency to sore throat. Some authorities even say that imperfect respiration is one of the causes of consumption, and that practising deep breathing in the proper manner is a preventive.

Most likely if you were told to inhale deeply, you would open your mouth and try to expand the chest from above. This is quite wrong; it is styled collar-bone breathing.

It is a mistake to suppose the upper part of the chest is the chief reservoir of air required for the voice; that is brought into play by nature at times of exhaustion only.

Now for the proper mode: diaphragmatic or abdominal respiration. The diaphragm is a muscular membrane stretching from the front to the back, and in a state of rest is arched upwards towards the lungs, but on inhaling, its sides contract and the arch is flattened, causing the cavity of the chest to become enlarged, and the air rushes in by the windpipe and distends the lungs. When the muscles are relaxed, the elasticity of the lungs squeezes out the air, and the diaphragm is drawn up again to its original form.

A good position in which to acquire this mode of inspiration, is to lie down at full length on the back, the head as low as the body, and begin to inhale slowly (the clothes must be quite loose), then you will find the parts below the ribs expand like a pair of bellows. Another way. Sit on a chair—it must not be low and easy—with your hands folded behind it and breathe leisurely; or, stand perfectly upright, put your hands behind you, and draw in the air gently but deeply, retaining it for ten seconds or more, then let it go as slowly as possible.

Do not try to take too deep a breath at first, or you will find you cannot retain it. Your power will gradually increase.

Practise, without singing, sometimes in one of these positions, sometimes in another, twice or thrice a day, but not for many minutes at a time. It will strengthen the lungs and organs of digestion. You will now have found how important it is for the clothing to be loose, I hope.

It is well to close the mouth when one wishes to take breath. Especially at long rests the singer should do so, as it prevents the throat and vocal chords from getting dry. If they do become so the voice loses sweetness.

Remember a good tone does not depend on the great volume of air ejected: indeed, too much breath expended will make it uncertain. Flat singing is now and then the result of this forcing. The air must be given out gradually, not jerked out.

Avoid coughing; it is an injurious habit easily got into; if you feel an inclination to do so before beginning to sing, check it if possible, and instead quietly swallow.

Let me advise you not to eat nuts or similar dry things before singing, and here is another hint. Do not sit in a low chair with the feet perched up on a stool after meals, as the digestive faculties cannot act well in such a position. With an impaired digestion the voice may become affected.

Never talk in the open air if the weather is cold and damp, nor when travelling, nor at any time, if it can be avoided, where there is much noise.

Many persons wrap up the throat excessively. One of my pupils came once with no less than two silk handkerchiefs under a fur-lined cloak, besides wearing a boa. A silk scarf is enough even for the winter; fur is not healthy to wear unless it is in the form of a loose mantle.

It is a good plan on getting up each morning to bathe the neck with cold water, afterwards drying well, using plenty of friction, also to gargle the throat with cold water.

For the expansion of the chest, I strongly advise the use, night and morning, of an elastic chest expander. It must be strong enough to require a distinct effort to stretch it, and the exercise must be persevered with for ten minutes at a time, until the muscles begin to ache. By-and-by it can be used for a longer period.

The singer must observe the laws of health, remembering that the vocal organ is but an instrument, though played on by the soul.

A few more words before closing this article. Perchance one of my readers may be anxious to sing well, though unable to have the benefit of receiving lessons. In that case, I do not advise the study of exercises, unless some tuition has first been received from a competent person, as bad habits are so easily formed though not so easily got rid of.

Let the songs you choose lie well within your range of voice, without runs or shakes; nothing being more absurd than to hear ornaments badly executed.

When it is possible, try to hear a professional render a song that you know. There are many ballad concerts given, and the music that will be performed is generally advertised. Take your copy with you, and mark all places where breath is taken, where a crescendo is made, and where the time is slackened or accelerated. You will get a good lesson on a song in this way, and if you persevere your style will by degrees improve.

Before singing a new song, practise the accompaniment well, then study the words, making it a rule to recite them, that you may give proper effect to both music and poetry. Try always to bear in mind, what is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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

CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER GUEST AT MARSHLANDS.

he following two or three weeks passed rapidly and pleasantly; but for two serious drawbacks that hindered my thorough enjoyment, I should have owned myself perfectly happy, but Mrs. Markham and Rolf were perpetual thorns in my side.

A consciousness of being disliked by any human being, however uncongenial to us, is always a disagreeable discovery. The cause of the repellent action of one mind on another may be an interesting psychological study, but in practice it brings us to a sadder and lower level. I knew Mrs. Markham honestly disliked me; but the cause of such marked disfavour utterly baffled me.

Most people found her fascinating; she was intellectual and refined, and had many good qualities, but she was not essentially womanly. Troubles and the loss of her children had hardened her; embittered by disappointment, for her married life, short as it was, had been singularly unhappy, she had come back to her father’s house a cold, resentful woman, who masked unhappiness under an air of languid indifference, and whose strong will and concealed love of power governed the whole household. “Adelaide manages us all,” Miss Cheriton would say, laughing, and I used to wonder if she ever rebelled against her sister’s dictates. I knew the squire was like wax in the hands of his eldest daughter; he was one of those indolent, peace-loving men who are always governed by their womankind; his wife had ruled him, and now his widowed daughter held the reins. I think Gay was like her father; she went on her own way and shut her eyes to anything disagreeable. It would never have done for me to quarrel openly with Mrs. Markham; common sense and respect for my mistress’s sister kept me silent under great provocation. I controlled my words, and in some measure I controlled voice and outward manner, but my inward antagonism must have revealed itself now and then by an unguarded tone.

My chief difficulty was to prevent her spoiling Joyce. After the first, she had become very fond of the child, and was always sending for her to the drawing-room, and loading her with toys and sweetmeats. Mr. Morton’s orders had been very stringent about sweetmeats, and again and again I was obliged to confiscate poor Joyce’s goodies as she called them. I had extracted from her a promise that she should eat nothing out of the nursery, and nothing could induce the child to disobey me.

“Nurse says I mustn’t, Aunt Adda,” was her constant remark, and Mrs. Markham chose to consider herself aggrieved at this childish obstinacy. She spoke to me once about it with marked displeasure.

“I have had children of my own, and I suppose I know what is good for them,” she said, with a touch of scorn in her voice; “you have no right to enforce such ridiculous rules on Joyce.”

“I have Mrs. Morton’s orders,” I replied, curtly; “Dr. Myrtle told me to be very careful of Joyce’s diet; I cannot allow her to eat things I know will hurt her,” and I continued to confiscate the goodies.

But though I was firm in all that concerned the children’s health, there were many occasions on which I was obliged to submit to Mrs. Markham’s interference; very often my plans for the day were frustrated for no legitimate cause. I was disposed to think sometimes that she acted in this way just to vex me and make me lose my temper. If we were starting for the beach, Judson would bring us a message that her mistress would prefer my taking the children into the orchard, and sometimes on a hot afternoon, when we were comfortably ensconced on the bench under the apple trees, Judson would inform us that Mrs. Markham thought we had better go down to the sea. Sometimes I yielded to these demands, if I thought the children would not suffer by them, but at other times I would tell Judson that the sun was too hot or the children too tired, and that we had better remain as we were. If this was the case, Mrs. Markham would sometimes come out herself and argue the matter, but I always stood my ground boldly; though I was perfectly aware that the afternoon’s post would convey a letter to Prince’s Gate, complaining of my impertinence in disputing her orders.

My mistress’s letters were my chief comfort, and they generally came on the morning after one of these disputes. She would write to me so affectionately, and tell me how she missed me as well as the children, and though she never alluded openly to what had occurred, there was always a little sentence of half-veiled meaning that set my mind at rest.

“My sister Gay tells me that the children are getting so brown and strong with the sea air,” she wrote once, “and that dear little Joyce has quite a nice colour. Thank you so much for your ceaseless care of them; you know I trust you implicitly, Merle, and I have no fear that you will disappoint me; your good sense will carry you safely through any little difficulty that may arise. Write to me as often as you can; your letters are so nice. I am very busy and very tired, for this ball has entailed so much work and fuss, but your letters seem to rest me.”

Rolf was also a serious impediment to my enjoyment. Ever since I had helped him with his kite, he had attached himself to me, and insisted on joining us in all our walks, and in spending the greater part of his day with us. I was tolerably certain in my own mind that this childish infatuation excited Mrs. Markham’s jealousy. Until we had arrived she had been Rolf’s sole companion; he had accompanied her in her drives, harassed her from morning to night with his ceaseless demands for amusements, and had been the secretly dreaded torment of all the visitors to Marshlands, except Mr. Hawtry, who was rather good to him.

His precocity, his love of practical jokes, and his rough impertinence, made him at feud with the whole household; the servants disliked him, and were always bringing complaints of Master Rolf. I believe Judson was fond of him in a way, but then she had had charge of him from a baby.

When Rolf began to desert the drawing-room for the nursery, Mrs. Markham used all her efforts to coax him back to her side, but she might as well have spoken to the wind. Rolf played with Joyce on the beach; he raced her up and down the little hillocks in the orchard, or hunted with her for wild flowers in the lanes that surrounded Marshlands. When the children were asleep, he invaded my quiet with requests to mend his broken toys or join him in some game. I grew quite expert in rigging his new boat, and dressed toy soldiers and sailors by the dozen. Sometimes I was inclined to rebel at such waste of time, but I remembered that Rolf had no playfellows; it was better for him to be playing spillikins or go-bang with me in the nursery than lounging listlessly about the drawing-room, listening to grown-up people’s talk; a natural child’s life was better for his health. Miss Cheriton told me more than once that people who came to the house thought Rolf so much improved. Certainly he was not so pale and fretful after a long morning spent on the beach in wading knee-deep to sail his boat or digging sand wells which Joyce filled out of her bucket. When he grew too rough or boisterous I always called Joyce away, and with Hannah and myself to look after them no harm could come to the children.

I grew rather fond of Rolf, after a time, and his company would not have been irksome to me, but for his tiresome habit of repeating the speeches he had heard in the drawing-room. He always checked himself when he remembered, or when I held up my finger, but the half sentence would linger in my memory.

But this was not the worst. I soon found out that anything I told him found its way into the drawing-room; in fact, Rolf was an inveterate chatterbox. With all his good intentions, he could not hold his tongue, and mischief was often the result.

It was my habit to teach the children little lessons under the guise of a story, sometimes true, sometimes a mere invention. Rolf called them “Fenny’s Anecdotes,” but I had never discovered an anecdote about crossness.

One day I found myself being severely lectured by Mrs. Markham for teaching her son the doctrine of works. “As though we should be saved by our works, Miss Fenton!” she finished, virtuously.

I was too much puzzled to answer; I had no notion what she meant until I remembered that I had induced Rolf to part with some of his pocket-money to relieve a poor blind man that we found sitting by the wayside. Rolf had been sorry for the man, and still more for the gaunt, miserable-looking woman by his side; but when we had gone on our way, followed by voluble Irish blessings, Rolf had rather feelingly lamented his sixpence, and I had told him a little story inculcating the beauty of almsgiving, which had impressed him considerably, and he had retailed a garbled version of it to his mother—hence her rebuke to me. I forget what my defence was, only I remember I repudiated indignantly any such doctrine; but this sort of misunderstanding was constantly arising. If only Rolf would have held his tongue!

But these were mere surface troubles, and I often managed to forget that there was such a person as Mrs. Markham in the world; and, in spite of a few trifling drawbacks, I look back upon this summer as one of the happiest in my life.

I was young and healthy, and I perfectly revelled in the country sights and sounds with which I was surrounded. I hardly knew which I enjoyed most—the long delicious mornings on the beach, when I sat under the breakwater taking care of Reggie, or the afternoons in the orchard, with the brown bees humming round the hives and the children playing with Fidgets on the grass, while the old white pony looked over the fence at us, and the sheep nibbled at our side. I used to send Hannah home for an hour or two while I watched over the children; it was hard for her to be so near home and not enjoy Molly’s company; and those summer afternoons were lazy times for all of us.

I think Miss Cheriton added largely to my happiness. I had never had a friend since my school-days, and it was refreshing to me to come in contact with this bright young creature. I was a little too grave for my age, and I felt she did me good.

I soon found she resembled my mistress in one thing: she was very unselfish, and thought more of other people’s pleasures than her own. She used to say herself that it was only a sublime sort of selfishness that she liked to see everyone happy round her. “A gloomy face hinders all enjoyment,” was her constant remark. But I never knew anyone who excelled more in little kindly acts. She would bring me fruit or flowers almost daily; and when she found I was fond of reading, she selected books for me she thought I should like.

When Mrs. Markham did not use the carriage—a very rare occasion, as she had almost a monopoly of it—she would take us for long country drives, and she would contrive all sorts of little surprises for us. Once when we returned from a saunter in the lanes, we found our tea table laid in the orchard, and Miss Cheriton presiding, in a gay little hat trimmed with cornflowers and poppies. There was a basket of flowers in the centre of the table, and a heap of red and yellow fruit. We had quite a little feast that evening, and all the time we were sitting there, there were broods of chickens running over the grass, that Gay had enticed into the orchard to please the children, and grey rabbits, and an old lame duck that was her pensioner, and went by the name of Cackles.

“Oh, auntie, do have another feast,” Joyce would say to her, almost daily; but Miss Cheriton could not always be with us; visitors were very plentiful at Marshlands, and Gay’s company was much courted by the young people of Netherton and Orton-upon-Sea.

I knew Mr. Hawtry was a constant visitor, for we often met him in our walks; and it seemed to me that his face was always set in the direction of Marshlands.

When Rolf was with us he was never allowed to pass without notice, and then he would stop and speak to the children, especially to Joyce, who soon got over her shyness with him.

“Mother says Mr. Hawtry comes to see Aunt Gay,” Rolf remarked once, when he was out of hearing; “she told grandpapa so one day, and asked him if it would not be a good thing; and grandpapa laughed and nodded; you know his way. What did mother mean?”

“No doubt she meant that Mr. Hawtry was a kind friend,” I returned, evasively. How is one to silence a precocious child? But of course it was easy to understand Mrs. Markham’s hint.

I wondered sometimes if Mr. Hawtry were a favoured suitor. He and Miss Cheriton certainly seemed on the best of terms; she always seemed glad to see him, but her manner was very frank with him.

I took it into my head that Gay had more than one admirer. I deduced this inference from a slight occurrence that took place one day.

I was on the terrace with the children one morning, when a young clergyman in a soft felt hat came up the avenue. I knew him at once as the boyish-faced curate at Netherton Church, who had read the service the last two Sundays. I had liked his voice and manner, they were so reverent, but I remembered that I thought him very young. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, and though not exactly handsome, had a bright, pleasant-looking face.

Rolf hailed him at once as an old acquaintance. “Holloa, Mr. Rossiter; it is no use your going on to the house; mother is not well and cannot see you, and Aunt Gay is with the bees.”

Mr. Rossiter seemed a little confused at this. He stopped and regarded Rolf with some perplexity.

“I am sorry Mrs. Markham is not well, but perhaps I can see Mr. Cheriton.”

“Oh, grandpapa has gone to Orton; there is only me at home; you see, Miss Fenton does not count. If you want Aunt Gay I will show you the way to the kitchen garden.” And as Mr. Rossiter accepted this offer with alacrity, they went off together.

We were going down to the beach that morning, and I was only waiting for Hannah to get the perambulator ready, but as a quarter of an hour elapsed and Rolf did not make his appearance, Joyce and I went in search of him.

I found him standing by the beehives, talking to Miss Cheriton and Mr. Rossiter. They all looked very happy, and Mr. Rossiter was laughing at something the boy had said; such a ringing, boyish laugh it was.

When I called Rolf they all looked round, and Miss Cheriton came forward to speak to me. I thought she looked a little uncomfortable, and I never saw her with such a colour.

“Are you going down to the beach? I wish I could come too, it is such a lovely morning, but Mr. Rossiter wants me to go to the schools; Miss Parsons, the schoolmistress, is ill, and they need help. It is so tiresome,” speaking with a pettish, spoilt-child air, turning to the young clergyman; “Miss Parsons always does get ill at inconvenient times.”

“I know you would not fail us if it were ever so inconvenient,” answered Mr. Rossiter, looking full at her—he had such nice clear eyes; “you are far too kind to desert us in such a strait.”

But she made no answer to this, and went back to the beehive, and after a moment’s irresolution Mr. Rossiter followed her.

“Do you like Mr. Rossiter?” asked Rolf, in his blunt way, as we walked down the avenue. “I do, awfully; he is such a brick. He plays cricket with me sometimes, and he has promised to teach me to swim, only mother won’t let him, in spite of all grandpapa says about my being brought up like a girl. Grandpapa means me to learn to swim and ride, only mother is so frightened ever since the black pony threw me. I am to have a quieter one next year.”

“Have you known Mr. Rossiter long?” I asked, carelessly.

“Oh, pretty long. Mother can’t bear him coming so often to the house; she says he is so awkward, and then he is poor. Mother doesn’t like poor people; she always says it is their own fault; that they might get on better. Do you know, Fenny, Mr. Rossiter has only two little rooms at Mrs. Saunders’, you know that low house looking on the cornfields; quite poky little rooms they are, because mother and I went there. Mother asked him if he did not find it dreadfully dull at Netherton, and he laughed and said, ‘Oh, dear no;’ he had never been more comfortable; the people at Netherton were so kind and hospitable; and though mother does not like him, he comes just as often as though she did.” And I soon verified Rolf’s words; Mr. Rossiter came very often to Marshlands.

(To be continued.)

I ONLY WISH I HAD.

By MEDICUS.

here are five hundred of my lady readers, at the very least, who can easily guess the reason why Medicus did not appear before them so regularly last summer.

“Five hundred!” I think I hear some girls say; “why are these five hundred in the secret? And what about all the other thousands?”

Stay, and I will tell you. For four months this last season I was “on the road,” travelling in my own chariot—I am surely not wrong in calling it a chariot, seeing it is twenty feet in length—throughout the length and breadth of Merrie England, and I put down the minimum of Girl’s Own readers who visited this chariot and its owner at five hundred, though, seeing that schools with their teachers, numbering from twenty to seventy, sometimes paid a visit to me, all of whom were ardent admirers of the “beautifully and tastefully illustrated G. O. P.”—the girls’ own words—a thousand might be nearer the mark.

But what, it may be asked, has this to do with the non-appearance of Medicus before his readers? Why, everything; because I find it all but impossible to do literary work “on the road.”

I might have done more, though.

“I only wish I had.”

And these words form the text on which I desire this month to speak a few homely words to my girls, young or not young.

“I only wish I had.” How often a medical man hears those same words; spoken, it may be, with blanched lips, by some poor mortal who is languishing on a bed of sickness and pain. “I only wish I had.” Had what? Taken better care of health while it lasted.

I sat by the bedside of a poor girl some years ago, and heard her repeat those same words frequently. I had somewhat more time to spare then than I have now, or I could not have sat there for an hour or two at a time reading to her or to myself. She did not speak much, being in the final stage of consumption, but she assured me again and again it was “such company” to have me there, so what could I do?

“I wish I had.” These words, it seemed to me, were too often on her lips. Sometimes it was only the first two words, “I wish,” she breathed, as if the weakened lungs and voice refused to add the others. I think I see Esther D—— even now, a long, thin, pale hand on the coverlet, a white, thin face, with a flush on the high cheeks, little blue veins meandering over the temples, and sad blue eyes, with dark dilated and glistening pupils.

“I wish I had.” Wish she had what? Taken a word or two of advice I gave her in a friendly way, just before she started for the seaside on a holiday trip.

She looked bright, strong, and beautiful that day, though I could tell, from her transparent skin, her too soft hair and drooping eyelashes, that in her veins were the seeds of our island illness, and that it would need but little to fan it into flame.

“I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly,” she said, her eyes dancing with good humour.

“Yes,” I said, as I bade her good-bye, “but not excitedly, Esther; and remember what I said about night air, damp feet, and warm clothing.”

There was a little impatient toss of the head, and just about half a frown, and I smiled, expecting her to say, “Oh, bother!” but she did not.

Well, poor Esther died.

But I know of nothing more sad when one is ill than the thought that the illness might have been avoided.

“I wish I had been more careful.”

If you let your thimble fall, it will drop to the ground, will it not? This is a law of Nature; and as sure and certain is every other law of Nature. Nature will forgive, but she never will forget. If you, for example, sit in wet clothes, evaporation takes place; in other words, the damp of your clothes passes off in steam, and, as water requires so much heat to convert it into steam, it takes this heat from the nearest source, and that is from your body. It absorbs animal heat. What is the consequence? Why, baby there could understand this simple lesson in physiology. The consequence is that the surface of the body becomes chilled. Well, then another law of Nature comes into force. The law is this: Cold contracts. Cold contracts everything, even iron. Witness the difference in the length of railway iron rails in summer and winter. Given a sun-heat of, say, one hundred and twenty degrees, and they are all close together at the ends. Given a winter temperature of thirty-two degrees, or under, and the rails do not touch, but gap.

And the cold on the surface of the body contracts the veins and arteries. With what result? With the result that the blood is to some extent squeezed—to use simple language—out of them, and, as it must flow somewhere, it rushes in upon the internal organs of the body.

Now, we all of us have some one organ weaker than the others, and it is this organ that suffers from a surfeit of blood in its veins, driven inwards by a chill. It may be Miss Ada’s liver, and she has in consequence “a horrid bilious attack,” as I have heard it called, or it may be worse, suppression of the bile entirely, followed naturally by blood poisoning and jaundice.

It may be Miss Ada’s lungs. The blood is driven in upon the surface thereof; this surface becomes congested and red, though no one can see it. Nature tries to relieve the congestion by throwing off through the walls of the veins or arteries the watery portion of the blood. This tickles the lungs, and a cough is the result. But the very act of coughing increases the mischief tenfold, and what was at first water may become matter.

Nor may the mischief end here; for, if inclined to have consumption, the tubercle, as it is called, will now be deposited in the lung surface or tissue. Why? Because, the veins being congested and enlarged, the flow through them is more sluggish. I do hope I’m making myself understood! The flow, I say, is more sluggish, and deleterious matter, that otherwise would have been washed or carried away in the secretions, gets time and opportunity to settle.

Now do you understand how a chill from a draught or from damp clothing may cause mischief of even a fatal character?

Will you take my advice, and wear judicious clothing, or will you wait till the mischief is done, and then say, “I wish I had”?

Mind, I do not wish you to go about, even during the cold months of winter, swaddled with as much clothing as a mummy, but I do wish you to wear woollen clothing—next the skin, at all events.

Age has nothing at all to do with it. The young are even more apt to catch deadly colds than the older or middle-aged.

I often wish there was some woollen material manufactured in this country—thin, warm, and soft, with a smooth surface that would render it perfectly suitable for underclothing for the most delicate-skinned girl. Flannel, such as is sold in the shops, has its good points, but it really has many objectionable ones. I hear new flannel extolled. I may be fastidious, but I really do not care for its perfume. Then there are your woollen jerseys, or whatever you call them, and merino ditto. Why, they are so rough, I, myself, would rather fall back upon silk.

“I WISH I HAD BEEN MORE CAREFUL.”

In Germany, I believe, they have a material that is eminently suitable for the purpose I am advocating.

There is a chance for some manufacturer to come to the front. Meanwhile, our girls will go on wearing linen and catching colds; and I do assure my readers that they would be both astonished and shocked were I to tell them the average number of fatal illnesses brought on annually in England from neglect of proper precautions for the preservation of health.

But if winter hath its dangers from cold, and wet, and frost, neither is summer exempt.

Would I have girls wear wool in summer? Undoubtedly.

Wool is not only a protection against cold, but against intense heat as well. It is a go-between, so to speak.

We all know that thatched houses are warm in winter and cool in summer, but possibly the words of Stanley, the great African traveller, may be new to many, although the truth they contain rests upon the same natural basis as that about thatched houses. I cannot give the exact words of this truly great man, but they are to this effect:—

“The only way a European can withstand the intense heat of tropical Africa is by wearing garments of wool.”

This is very easily understood. Wool is a non-conductor. In winter, therefore, it conserves or retains the internal or animal heat, and in summer it will defend the skin and the blood from becoming fevered by the scorching rays of the sun.

I do not expect my youngest readers to be interested in one-half of what I am now writing, but I most earnestly desire their mothers and guardians to lay my words to heart, and to act upon them, so that they may not hereafter have to say, with sighs of regret—

“I wish I had.”

There is one other little matter I wish to point out to my thoughtful mamma-readers, with regard to clothing, and that is, the absurdity of not having dress, either for boys or girls, made the same thickness at the back as at the front.

It really is ridiculous to clothe the chest in front and leave it to starve between the shoulders. I have before now pointed out to you that people catch colds in the chest far more often from chills caught from behind. Verbum sap.

Well, now I shall change my tune, and go on to another subject which also has a bearing upon colds and coughs and ill-health of every kind engendered by wintry weather.

One-half of the people in this country are not breakfast-eaters.

Are you really a breakfast-eater? Do you get hungry as soon as you have had your bath? As soon as you have said your good-morning, do your eyes roam over the table-cloth with a wholesome desire to know what is on board? If you are healthy, and have discussed that matutinal meal, nothing can hurt you all day. You may walk through the most unwholesome streets and lanes in the City, and come forth intact.

On the other hand, do you feel languid when you get up? Do you cast a longing, lingering glance behind you as you commence to dress? Do you come downstairs caring little what is to eat? Are your fingers numb and cold? Do you require to slowly sip a cup of tea before getting an appetite even for toast and butter, and that new-laid egg you have to coax yourself to eat? If so you are not in health. Go not anywhere during the day where you are likely to breathe a tainted air, or be influenced by cold or damp. If you do not take my advice in this respect you may live to say—“I wish I had.”

But have I no remedy to suggest for my breakfastless readers?

Oh, yes, I have! There is a cause for everything. Your want of appetite in the morning may depend on one or other of many things. To be sure, it may be constitutional. You may have a weak heart and be altogether delicate in consequence. But ten to one you have nothing of the sort. Besides, if your heart be only functionally weak, do not forget that it is a muscular organ, as much so as your forearm or biceps, and, like the biceps, can be strengthened by good food and plenty of pleasant exercise in the open air.

But there are other reasons why appetite absents itself at the breakfast hour. As my space is nearly filled, I can but name a few.

Late suppers are inimical to health in the morning. They create restless nights, or, if the nights be not restless quite, the sleep is not refreshing. The stomach ought to sleep as well as other organs; and if it does not, depend upon it that it will not be fit for its duties next morning.

Badly ventilated rooms. Sleeping in a room where there is not an abundance of fresh air is poisoning to the blood. The carbonic is not burned off therefrom, and dulness and lethargy are the result. You awake in the morning feeling your sleep has done you little good, feeling you would like just another hour. Believe me, if you slept as long thus as Rip Van Winkle, you would feel precisely the same when you opened your eyes.

Want of exercise and neglect of the bath also destroy the appetite for the morning meal.

And medicines will not make up for want of obedience to Nature’s laws. But if you return to these with heart and soul, then a mixture of infusion of quassia, say a tablespoonful, with ten drops of dilute phosphoric acid, and twenty of the compound tincture of bark, may be taken with great benefit, a quarter of an hour before breakfast and dinner.

See, then, to your appetite as well as clothing, especially in cold, inclement weather, and may you never have those bitter, regretful words to utter—“I wish I had.”

THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

By LOUISA MENZIES.

CHAPTER III.

THE CALLING IN LIFE CHOSEN.

As Eveline had said, what seemed an accident determined Mark’s choice of an occupation. A cousin of his mother’s came to spend a few days at the rectory. He had recently lost a very promising son, and was much softened and saddened by his trouble, and in his saddened mood his thoughts turned to his cousin James, whom he remembered a bright and cheery lad, very much his own junior. He knew that there were two lads at Rosenhurst, one the son of his cousin James, the other of his widowed cousin Margaret, and he thought with interest of him who bore his own name, and wondered whether he in any way resembled his lost Edward—whether he was a true Echlin, like his father, earnest, teachable, and faithful.

Miles Echlin was the head of a publishing house, holding a high position in London, and by the death of his son, not only he himself but the business had experienced an irreparable loss. He wanted comfort, he wanted help, and in this saddened mood he came down to Rosenhurst Rectory. Lady Elgitha, fully alive to the fact that many sons of noble houses were at the present time engaged in commerce, was at some trouble to be civil to him, and schooled her son to proper behaviour; but outward civility did not impose on the keen-sighted man of business, and before he had been twelve hours at the rectory he was convinced that Gilbert was indolent, opinionated, and selfish.

Margaret and her children came to dinner, and there was much pleasant chat among the elders about the days when they had been children, and when Miles had thought it a great treat to spend the holidays with his uncle at Westborough, but he had little opportunity then for making acquaintance with Mark and Eveline; but when next morning he walked over with the rector to the cottage, Miles felt at once the calm and restful sense of home, where all the members were in harmony, and where the grave, handsome face looking down from the wall seemed to his mind, saddened by recent sorrow, to promise him sympathy. He had known Michael Fenner very slightly, being at the time of Margaret’s marriage already much immersed in business, but a glance at the picture of her husband, and at Margaret’s own composed and gentle face, assured him that she would listen, not only with patience, but with true interest, to what he should tell her about his son, and so it came about that during his stay at Rosenhurst he spent most of his time at the cottage, and talked much with and of Mark.

At the end of four days he returned to town, and in less than a fortnight there came a letter from him inviting Mark to come and stay with him in town, and offering him a share in his business if he would devote himself to the study of it.

It was not without hesitation that Mark acceded to the proposal; either of the callings he had been meditating on would, he thought, have been more to his taste, but in either he would have been a comparatively poor man, unable to do much for his mother and sister, and he could not flatter himself that in either he was much wanted. Here there was a place left vacant which he might fill, a positive call from a weary heart which he might comfort.

His mother was slow to give her opinion in the matter; it was too easy, too pleasant for her to have her son occupied in work which would not take him very far away, which would not overtax his energies; she could hardly believe that it would be desirable for his highest interests; she feared lest James and Elgitha might be vexed that the offer had not been made first to Gilbert. Of course Miles was a sort of tradesman, and Elgitha could scarcely be supposed to admire trade; still she might have liked Gilbert to have been first consulted.

She took the letter up to the rectory, and laid it before her brother. The rector read it carefully, and returned it to her with a sigh and a smile.

“I suppose Mark will go,” he said.

“He has not made up his mind yet,” said Margaret.

“Does he dislike the idea of desk work?”

“I don’t think he ever thought of disliking it. If he were to be a teacher or a clergyman he would have a great deal of desk work, wouldn’t he?”

“Certainly, and promotion is so slow; unless he happened to possess the gift of oratory, he might be a curate at forty.”

“I fancy he thought rather of being a teacher.”

“Very hard work; breaking stones on the road is play to it,” said the gentle rector, who had no talent for teaching, though he had a very pretty talent for preaching. “It seems a pity that he should not close with Miles’ offer; Mark would be a treasure to him.”

“You think he would?”

“Can you doubt it? Don’t you know what he is to you and to me? On all grounds I think he should accept it, if he has no personal dislike to the arrangement. At all events he should go and try.”

So Mark went, and Gilbert, with many a shrug, pronounced him a lucky fellow, and promised to come and dine with him.

The rector took occasion, on Mark’s departure, to speak to his son as to his own path in life.

“Mark has made his start in life, Gilbert. Don’t you think it would be advisable for you to make up your mind as to what you will do?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it would; but it is so hard to make up one’s mind when one has no special vocation. Mark’s a lucky fellow; his mind was made up for him.”

“I have very good reason to think that if you had had Mark’s aptitude, the offer would have been made to you.”

“It is a pity I hadn’t; but I don’t suppose it’s a man’s fault not caring for things. It must be a great bore to you, sir, to have a son like me, who doesn’t care for any of the things you care for. I don’t suppose two men were ever more unlike.”

“I don’t ask you to consider what I should like you to do; that, perhaps, would be unfair; but only to see that, taking your own view, what you are doing will not pay. If I were to die, there would not be more than enough for your mother and sister.”

“So you have told me before; so the mother has told me. It is unfortunate that I have no taste for anything. I don’t find that I care about doing the same thing for two days together.”

“Does it never occur to you that there is such a thing as duty?”

“A very useful dissyllable, no doubt, sir, and telling in a song; but it is very much gone out of fashion nowadays, with the Church Catechism, high pews, and church clerks. No one considers that he ought to be ‘content with that state of life,’ etc.”

“Gilbert,” said Mr. Echlin, more sternly than he had ever spoken to his son, “if you do not woo duty as a mistress, she will drive you as a taskmistress. The man who has no love of duty had better never have been born. He has no high aims, no ennobling thoughts. Do not, I beseech you, give me the misery of knowing that my only son is an idle man.”

“Do not distress yourself, father. I suppose I shall drop into something before long. There can be no hurry. If you had ten children it would be another matter. There’s Elgitha; she has energy enough, and cares about lots of things. If you would send her to Girton, sir, I feel sure she’d take a double first, and like it.”

“She might do very much worse, I believe,” said Mr. Echlin, turning away. He went into his study with a sore heart to write his Sunday sermon on the beauty of holiness, and Gilbert found half an hour’s amusement in teasing his sister’s canaries.

It was not long before Mark Fenner’s start in life brought changes to Rosenhurst. The more Miles Echlin knew him, the better he liked him. Mark possessed one of those strong natures that rests in itself, never impatient to thrust itself forward, and never much occupied with a consideration of its own wants or pleasures. Accepting in the fullest and heartiest sense all the duties that were comprehended in the partnership offered him by his mother’s cousin, and loving them because they were duties, he set himself with all his heart to master the technicalities of the business, and entered into the enthusiasms of the old publisher with all a young man’s energy.

“It was a lucky thing, sir, that visit to Rosenhurst,” said Evans, Mr. Echlin’s head clerk and factotum, when Mark had been some six months in London. “Mr. Fenner is a born publisher. He takes to the printer’s ink as a babe to its mother’s milk. As things have turned out, it really seems quite providential.”

“I am glad you think so, Evans; it is my own opinion exactly. I hope the lad is satisfied. How those dear ladies at the cottage must miss him!”

When Mr. Echlin left his office after this conversation, he took his leisurely way to Manchester-square. It had always been a principle with him to live within an easy walk of his business, having early imbibed a taste for that most healthy of all exercises, and having found that there was no better time for thinking over business. Indeed, for many years he had never embarked upon an undertaking until he had turned it over in his mind during two or three days’ walk to and fro.

As he strolled home that evening it was June, and the whole earth was singing with gladness. The City’s great heart was throbbing with welcome to the sweet summer, and stretching out eager hands for the fruits and flowers of the country. Roses and strawberries lay in tempting proximity in the shops, women’s clothes fluttered airily in the breeze, and young men skimmed cheerily along, taking note of the luncheon-bars where American drinks were for sale, while elderly men looked fresh and rosy in light trousers, light hats, and light waistcoats.

As Mr. Echlin walked on, nodding to an acquaintance here, exchanging a word or two there, his mind was pursuing some such train of thought as this:—How fine the weather was; it was a pleasure to breathe. This time last year Edward had been by his side; it was on the 18th of June; he remembered it because he had made a little excuse for the extravagance, saying that we ought not to forget the anniversary of Waterloo; and they had stopped to buy the first basket of strawberries. How little had either of them thought that the course of their quiet life would so soon be broken! It was a dismal thing to think that he had let him go to Rome at that time of the year. But then he seemed so strong; nothing ever ailed him. Dr. Dickenson said, indeed, that he had no reserve force—weak vital energy, like his dear mother. To wish him “good-bye” for a six weeks’ holiday, and never to see him alive again! Well, well, it was sad. Such a son, too, and with all his future so easy before him! Well, well, it wouldn’t be so very long that he would have to survive him; he was almost sixty; it could not be so very long. And now he had Mark Fenner. Strange that all the time Edward was with him he had never thought of going down to Rosenhurst to see James and poor Margaret. And then his thoughts carried him to the little cottage at the rectory gate, where the two women lived who must miss their good son and brother so much, and who must be so much missed by him.

Thus meditating, he reached his own door, which he opened, according to his custom, with a latchkey, and passed down the cool passage into the large, cool, but rather sombre dining-room.

The table was laid for two, the silver and glass shining on the white damask, while the old butler stood with his smile of welcome by the shining mahogany sideboard, whereon was displayed the usual row of bottles—port, sherry, and claret, with a dessert of early strawberries and biscuits. It was all very comfortable, but just a trifle dreary; so, at least, Miles thought it must be to the young man who was now knocking at the door, who was to use the second knife and fork and be his companion all the evening.

At the cottage at Rosenhurst what would the young man’s mother and sister be doing now? Perhaps sitting down to their modest meal, waited on by the little country damsel with round eyes and rosy cheeks; perhaps going through the more stately but rather dismal ceremonial of “dining at the rectory.”

All the evening, while they dined, read the papers, and, later on, in deference to the beauty of the night, strolled through the quiet streets towards the Regent’s Park, and saw the moon hanging like a silver disc in the sky—while Mark, following his lead, discoursed of the lovely woods of Sunbridge, of the hedges fragrant with wild roses and honeysuckle, of the sweet, pure air, of his mother and her garden, of his sister singing in the twilight to the old piano—there always lay the thought suggested to him by the words of Evans in the afternoon, “As things have turned out, it really seems quite providential.” Mark Fenner was already much more to him than he could ever have hoped from one who was not his own son; he was doing his work with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his strength, accepting it as the business of his life. But might not he for his part—he, Miles Echlin—do something on his side also to make the lad’s life brighter—to make the house in Manchester-square, now for nearly thirty years his home, a little more cheery and a little more homelike to the boy who had grown up in the little cottage at the rectory gate at Rosenhurst?

If there is much cause of lamentation at the overcrowded dwellings of the poor, something might also be said plaintive and touching about the desolation of the houses of the wealthy—of the rich carpets so seldom trodden, the couches on which no limbs ever find repose, the mirrors reflecting nothing but each other, of the soft beds which are never pressed, and all the elaborate machinery of modern life gathered into chamber after chamber, and never used. Extremes meet, and the rich man in the desolation of his empty chambers may be as much in need of pity as the poor man crowded out of his one apartment by the superabundance of his domestic ties.

The house which Miles Echlin called home consisted of suites of reception-rooms furnished in the costliest taste of thirty years ago, when Mrs. Echlin was alive, and Edward, a bright boy of three, was making sunshine in the house, while there was a possibility of sons and daughters yet to come; but the cheery little wife, for whose sake and by whose direction the furnishing had been done, took a cold—a mere nothing, it seemed—and passed almost suddenly out of the life so full of hope and happiness for her, just as a bright flame which makes the whole room glad is blown out by a puff of wind coming one knows not whence. Then Miles, saddened and sobered, went about his work, caring little for the large house, only seeing that it was properly cleaned and aired, walking methodically through the great rooms, and coming at last to live in two of them, his dining-room and a small sleeping room, which had been his dressing-room while his wife was alive. A few friends came to see him at intervals, and there were some to whom the silent house was a home whenever they came to town; but Miles had no heart for company. When Edward should be grown up would be time enough; the boy should marry, and then the house would once again echo with laughter and song; he should make his own choice—it would be sure to be a worthy one, and they would find a corner for the old man, and not think him in the way. Edward grew up, and was all that his father wished him to be; then came the second bitter disappointment, and the big house was more empty and silent than ever.

On that June evening, as he strolled with Mark through the quiet streets, and glanced up at the lighted windows in the houses of his neighbours, at the groups of people, old and young, on the high balconies, and caught the waves of laughter or song, the silence, the darkness of the house into which they introduced themselves by a latchkey, seemed almost unendurable. The gas was turned low in the dining-room; the portrait of Mrs. Echlin looked thin and spectral; the plate and glass on the sideboard suggested anything but good cheer, looking rather like mummies from which the life has long since departed. Mark turned up the gas, and they saw that it wanted five minutes to ten. What a long evening it had been. Mark was tired, and thought, if Mr. Echlin didn’t mind, he would go to bed; he said something in apology about country habits; he did not say that he was up every morning before six practising certain technicalities which were necessary for the carrying on the business; nor did he complain of the heat and closeness of the office, though both were trying to a country lad.

Mr. Echlin wished him “good-night” kindly, but rather like one in a dream, and when the butler came in at eleven, according to custom, with his master’s candle, and to carry up the plate, he still sat in the same chair, but he was leaning back with a satisfied look; the inkstand and blotting-pad were on the table, and a sealed letter lay before him.

“Are you ready for your candle, sir?” said Martin, taking all in at a glance.

“Yes, quite,” replied the master, rising briskly from his chair. “Good-night, Martin; fine weather for the country.”

“Splendid for the crops, sir,” said Martin, a cockney to the backbone, who was imbued with the idea that the more the sun blazed the better the corn grew; but as he turned out the gas the old man wondered to whom his master had been writing, a wonder which was not relieved in the morning, as was generally the case on the rare occasions when Mr. Echlin wrote a letter at home, by his being requested to post it, for his master brought the letter down with him, laid it on the mantelpiece with the direction downwards, and carried it out in his own hand when he went to business, all which unusual proceedings served to fix Martin’s attention on the letter, and to impress him with the idea that it must be a document of much importance.

(To be concluded.)

AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.

By ANNE BEALE.

ive years ago the first appeal for the Princess Louise Home was inserted in The Girl’s Own Paper. It appeared in the weekly number dated February 25, 1882. The response to it was hearty and immediate, and from all parts of the habitable globe arrived contributions in money and goods towards a bazaar for the benefit of this “National Society for the Protection of Young Girls.” The bazaar was held in May, but the account of it was given in the number for July 22, 1882.

Every subscriber likes to know what becomes of his or her donations; therefore we purpose to look into results by paying another visit to our old friends at Woodhouse, Wanstead, before terrifying our readers by announcing another fancy fair.

“Old friends” is almost a misnomer, for new faces greet us everywhere as we enter the precincts of the grounds and ancient abode. Mrs. Talbot, the esteemed matron, has resigned, and Mrs. Macdonald reigns in her stead. Miss Tidd, the originator and untiring secretary of the bazaar, is happily married. So is the schoolmistress, who, it will be remembered, was also a pupil trained at the Home. The monatresses of to-day are the scholars of five years ago, and our own particular girls have diminished in number. Thanks to the bazaar and collateral causes, we have been privileged to gain admission for nearly a dozen, of whom the greater number are in service and doing well, and when we make urgent demands for our girls, four only respond to them; but they have not forgotten us. We find two in the kitchen and two in the laundry, and hear that a couple of these are going to service after Christmas. They all look rosy and happy, in spite of the fumes that surround them; for the young cooks are bending over two gigantic saucepans, whence issues a very savoury odour, and the juvenile laundresses are enveloped in the less appetising exhalations from damp linen; for this is folding, drying, and mangling day, and one of our particular girls is turning the mangle. This large and commodious laundry has been erected, opened, and utilised since our last visit to Woodhouse. There are different compartments for sorting, washing, drying, ironing, mangling, packing, and delivering, which all communicate with one another. We live and learn; for we had scarcely realised before all the processes of laundry work. And this is all done by manual toil; for there is no steam. Seven of the elder girls are at present in training under a special experienced matron and laundry-maid, and as customers increase, more will be drafted off to this particular work, and open the other parts of the establishment to an increased number of inmates. As laundries almost invariably pay, it is confidently hoped that the income of the Home will be greatly increased by this agency, and both friends and strangers are “cordially invited,” as the phrase now is, to try it. The tariff of charges is the ordinary one laid down in London and the neighbourhood, and arrangements have been made with those ubiquitous carriers, Carter and Paterson, to fetch and return boxes and hampers of linen from and to any part of this vast metropolis free of charge; and customers may count on being supplied with the said boxes and hampers gratis and securely padlocked. What could they want more? “Good washing and ironing,” is the reply; and we trust these will follow the demand. Over a thousand articles have to be washed weekly for the inmates of the Home alone; so under all circumstances the hand is kept in.

Our laundresses boast of a separate establishment, which they have called Primrose Cottage, probably after the Primrose League, of which they have heard. This is a long room with a long green-baize-covered table, communicating with the laundry. A short time ago it was a sort of outhouse; now it is a sitting and dining-room, adorned with texts. If funds only came in, many other tumble-down and ill-paved portions of this country seat might be vastly amended. But neither Rome nor Woodhouse was built or repaired in a day. Soon, however, we hope to see a splendid drying-ground replace the present one, for the asphalted roof of the laundries offers every facility for it. If we may be permitted to make a personal remark, we would venture to say that a rosier, healthier set of laundry-girls could nowhere be seen, and the roses extend from face to arms. As we descend from Primrose Cottage to the laundry, we are arrested by a remark made by the secretary, as he points upwards to an iron girder—

“This was a great encouragement to me. This iron came from Providence, and bears that name. I took it as a good sign, and worked on in faith,” he says.

Assuredly there is the word “Providence” stamped on the iron, and we will not pause to inquire whence its origin, but hasten onwards to see what the Divine Providence is doing for His rescued children, and what He requires us to do.

Most of them are in the playground, and their ringing voices and laughter sound mirthful, and convey no impression of the depraved homes from which they have been taken. About a dozen of them, however, are gathered round a fire in what is called their playroom, which might be better paved and appointed, if only those—we dare not mention funds again in this place, seeing we are about to make an appeal vigorous enough to melt hearts harder than these very rough stones on which the children play. A bundle of picture text cards attracts the whole school into the playroom, and we are soon surrounded by about fifty girls of ages varying from eleven to fifteen and over, all thankful for very small mercies. We are thus enabled to declare them very well-mannered; for instead of pressing forward to seize on the coveted card, they stand back, each urging a companion to the front. Slight touches indicate character and training, and this reticence speaks for itself. In spite of many difficulties inseparable from the education of girls mostly born and bred in a doubtful atmosphere, it is possible to cultivate a certain delicacy and refinement amongst them.

“I am sorry to be obliged to leave you; but I am going to take this girl to her place,” interrupts the matron, as a respectable-looking, neatly-dressed maiden appears amongst her schoolfellows to bid them good-bye.

She has passed her term of years in the Home, and is about to make her start in life. A good outfit and a respectable place have been provided for her somewhere in Kent, and the kind matron will not lose sight of her until she places her in the care of her new mistress. Indeed, the girls are never lost sight of, as their touching letters and frequent returns home prove, as well as the communications made to the matron on each change of place.

“If you keep your situation and have a good character for one clear year, the committee will give you a guinea as a reward, together with a new dress,” says the secretary, encouragingly.

How little we realise the feelings of the young servant as she leaves the best home she has known for a stranger one, and hurries off to the train about to whirl her away into a new world! When we inquire her previous history, we are told that she was “surrounded by immoral influences, and rescued just in time.”

Let us hope that her mistress will be able to write of her as many mistresses have written this year of girls sent to service before her—in terms of high commendation. Here are one or two extracts:—“Mary has been in my service for three years, and I have much pleasure in testifying to her continued good behaviour. She works hard, is very trustworthy, and I should be very sorry to part with her.” “Ellen is a very good girl, and during the two years she has been with me has given me great satisfaction. I hope she may remain with me many years,” etc.

When we consider what may have been the fate of these young people had not friends of the Home intervened, we are thankful for what our readers have done to help them. We are attracted by one who sits rather apart, and is bigger than the others. She was rescued from a life of such awful terrorism that even now, when reproved, she hides under the beds, creeping from one to another like a wild animal. She has, it is said, lost half her wits from fear; but it is hoped that kindness may recall them from their “wool-gathering.” She seems less perplexed than she was.

We should like to linger, and learn the story of all the girls; but we are summoned from the outworks to the keep, where lessons and housework alternate, just as they did when last we were here. As to the dormitories, they are literally ablaze with colour, for a generous, anonymous donor has sent seventy scarlet woollen coverlets, and each bed boasts of one. But there are at present only sixty-one inmates, and, accordingly, nine of the said coverlets are set aside. We are anxious to fill the home, which will hold one hundred. Therefore that last resource, a bazaar, is still in contemplation. Adverse circumstances prevented its taking place in 1886, the jubilee year of the Institution; so we hope that 1887, the jubilee year of our well-beloved Queen, may see it consummated. Will the readers of The Girl’s Own Paper continue their kind efforts, and send us work or money, as seems to them best? Some eight hundred pounds resulted from the last bazaar, which was mainly attributable to the start they gave it; and already numerous contributions have been received, the work of their willing fingers. Five years ago the office of the Princess Louise Home was crowded with packages containing their gifts. May it be so again, and may the writer once more be privileged to record them, and may another round dozen or more of girls be safely housed, taught, and placed in service, as the result of their labours.

Several distinguished and influential ladies have already promised their aid in various ways, and we are stirring ourselves up to hope for “a great success.” H. R. H. the Princess Louise will open the bazaar, life and health being granted to her. We will pray that they may be extended and lengthened, and that she may see the Home that bears her name full to overflowing.

We are thankful that our readers have such good memories, and that they have not forgotten this, their first love, while contracting an attachment for another, equally worthy. Happily the philanthropic heart is large, and its hand ever open.

We have been so long the historian of the Home that we find nothing new to say about it, therefore we will wind up by a visit to the secretary’s private abode, in order to see one of the girls, now in his service, who was a Woodhouse bird when last we looked into the nest. A drive across Wanstead Flats, through a portion of the Forest, and past the picturesque village, brings us to his hospitable domicile. Hence he walks almost daily to oversee the Home, so that he, at least, is not idle, since he must also supervise monetary matters in London diurnally. We congratulate him on having such a quiet halting-ground midway.

It would be out of place to describe it, or the excellent luncheon of which we partook, but it is quite allowable to say that the neatly dressed, rosy-faced parlour-maid waits uncommonly well, and that she is a good specimen of Woodhouse training. We are gratified by her recognising us, and if all the readers of The Girl’s Own Paper could have seen her bright smile of welcome and respectable appearance, they would have rejoiced with us. But she is only one of the many who have been aided. During the fifty years of the existence of the Institution, nearly three thousand have been rescued from danger of one kind and another, fifteen hundred of whom have been received since it has been known as “The Princess Louise Home.” Forty-three of these were admitted only last year. Close upon eleven hundred have become domestic servants, and who can calculate the inestimable good done to them and society by rescuing them from indescribable evils?

As we stood upon the platform of the Snaresbrook Station awaiting the train, we moralised on this. Sunset with its heavenly glow overspread Epping Forest and Wanstead-park, beyond which lies the Home. We reflect on the Divine love which has inspired in the human heart the desire to devote all we see around us to the overworked citizens of the largest city in the world; and to open to some of her tempted children the gates of the rescue house in the distance. We recognize in the evening glow that God’s love never fails. We will strive to obey His command, which says “Let brotherly love continue.”

We perceive both degrees of love in the subjoined list, and feel assured that Christ’s little ones will be still held in tender remembrance.

In addition to the seventy coverlets already mentioned, we are requested to state that 224 valuable articles have been received at the Home from a lady who desires her name not to be announced. These vary from scarlet blankets to children’s hose.

Lady Greenall and Mrs. Edward Lloyd have also sent magnificent gifts of clothing, made and unmade; and “The Hampton Court Association of Ladies for the Care of Friendless Girls” has likewise contributed a valuable parcel of clothing, through the Dowager Lady Clifford.

In money, three guineas from Lady Martin and ten shillings from C. W. B. D. have been received.

Contributions sent to the Secretary, Mr. Gillham, at 32, Sackville-street, W., will be immediately acknowledged by him, and subsequently in this Magazine.

“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”
OR,
THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

By DORA HOPE.

lthough Mrs. Wilson was very much better, her improvement still greatly depended upon having perfect quiet and freedom from all excitement, and her nurses found that if she was in any way disturbed or agitated in the evening, she either lay awake the greater part of the night, or, when worn out for want of sleep, was compelled to take the soothing medicine, which always had a depressing effect upon her next day.

One evening, Ella had just left her aunt, who was drowsily watching nurse’s final preparations for the night, when the whole house suddenly rang with piercing screams and cries for help from the kitchen.

Greatly annoyed and frightened, Ella ran downstairs to stop the noise, and, on reaching the kitchen, was horrified to find Annie, the housemaid, rushing about the room with her dress in flames, and shrieking wildly for someone to save her. The cook, meanwhile, was crouching in a corner with her apron over her head, so that, as she said afterwards, she “might not see Annie burnt to death before her eyes.”

Ella quickly shut the kitchen-door, thereby stopping the draught of air, which was blowing the flames in all directions, and then, with more presence of mind, although not much better success, than the cook, she seized a jug of water, and flung it over the flames, and ran for more.

Unfortunately, it was burning oil that had caught fire, and was setting alight to the matting that covered the floor, and the water only spread the mischief further.

Happily, nurse now appeared in the doorway, and instantly perceiving what was the matter, tore up a heavy hearthrug, and wrapping it round Annie, soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames; while Ella, perceiving the good effect of her plan, promptly imitated her example, and pulling up doormats, and anything woollen she could reach, threw them on the burning oil on the floor, and she and nurse soon stamped out the flames.

Directly the fire was quite out, nurse urged Ella to return to her aunt, while she herself examined the extent of Annie’s burns. Happily, the poor girl was wearing a dress of thick woollen material, which had taken a long time to ignite, so that, although her muslin apron had made a great blaze, she herself was hardly injured at all. It was, in reality, Mrs. Wilson who suffered the most, the excitement causing her a sleepless night, followed next day by a violent headache and feverish attack.

After breakfast the following day, Ella made up her mind to hold a solemn inquiry into the causes of the accident, the result of which filled her with amazement that the whole house had not been burnt down long ago.

There was no gas in the house, and, as a great deal of oil was required, a large tin vessel containing several gallons was kept (or was supposed to be) in an outhouse; while, in order to avoid the danger of taking a light near this supply of oil, Mrs. Wilson had given instructions that the lamps should always be cleaned and re-filled during the morning.

But the outhouse was cold, and the lamps were often forgotten until they were wanted in the evening; so the large can of oil had been surreptitiously brought into one of the pantries, where it could be more easily got at.

On this occasion, as on many others, Annie had forgotten to fill the hall lamp, and when it reminded her of the fact by smoking, making a choking smell, and finally going out, she took it down and filled it, using the naked flame of a benzoline lamp to light the dark little pantry.

Even this foolhardy act did not, as it might have done, set the whole store of oil in flames, and she actually trimmed and re-lighted the lamp in safety, and was carrying it through the kitchen, when a sudden draught blew the flame of the benzoline lamp against her hand, on which some oil was spilled. This flamed up, and the frightened girl dropped both lamps. The larger one exploded in the fall, setting fire to the oil and to her own apron, and, but for nurse’s quickness and presence of mind, she would probably have been burned to death.

All this information, very unwillingly given, added to cook’s remark that there was not a lamp that would burn properly in the house, so frightened Ella that she felt inclined to give up the use of lamps altogether, and burn nothing but candles. On second thoughts, however, and after consulting Mrs. Mobberly, to whom she always referred in all her difficulties, she sent instead for the man who had supplied the lamps, and had them all reviewed.

He declared that all the mischief arose from the dirty state of the lamps, which, much to the indignation of the maids, he requested Ella to look at, to prove the truth of his words.

“If you have good lamps, and keep them perfectly clean, and burn good oil, you are quite safe,” he said; “but if you neglect any of those three, they are the most dangerous things you can have about a house.”

Ella honestly acknowledged that she knew nothing at all about lamps, and had never cleaned one in her life, but she was determined to understand the matter thoroughly now, and begged the man to explain exactly what cleansing was necessary to keep them in good order.

He advised that the lamp glasses and globes should be washed every week with warm water, soap, and soda, but they must be most carefully dried before using. The different parts of the burner should be brushed out, or rubbed clean with a cloth every day; and at least once in two months the whole brass fittings taken off and well washed.

In a well-made lamp all parts of the burner should take to pieces in order to be cleaned. The wick-tube and perforated plate through which the air has to pass to feed the flame should be most particularly seen to. Charred wick and paper, match heads and dust are often allowed to fill up the holes of the grid, causing a poor flame, a bad smell, and, not unfrequently, an explosion.

“Don’t be afraid of plenty of warm water and soap and soda,” the man repeated; “only you’d better look out pretty sharp, miss, and see that they get the whole thing perfectly dry before it is lighted again, or you’ll be having another explosion, and perhaps you won’t come off as well next time.”

Ella thanked the man for his goodnatured advice, and determined henceforward to examine the lamps for herself every day, to make sure her directions were really carried out. Both she and the nurse made as light as possible of the affair to Mrs. Wilson, who, on seeing for herself that Annie was not much the worse, was quite contented that it had been a very trifling matter which had unnecessarily frightened them; and feeling herself worn out and irritable with sleeplessness, and the consequent feverishness, she indulged in some rather biting sarcasms on the “hysterical young ladies of the present day, who make a fuss about nothing at all,” and begged Ella to remember that she liked the house kept quiet last thing at night.

These very undeserved reproaches were rather hard for poor Ella to bear, but she managed to keep silence, and as soon as she was released consoled herself by writing a doleful letter to her mother, with a full account of the whole affair, adding the oft-repeated remark that “she would never be able to manage a house—it was not in her.”

As she expected, her letter brought a speedy reply.

“You must not be discouraged, my child,” wrote her mother, “when you have to accept blame for the faults of others; that is the very essence of self-denial, to give up everything, even the credit you feel you have deserved, for the sake of others; and if it cost you no effort to do, it would be no denial of self. At any rate you have been successful, for the very fact that you are blamed proves that you have saved Aunt Mary the worry and annoyance of knowing her servants to be careless and incompetent, and thereby you have done much to help on her recovery.

“Now about the lamps. My own experience has taught me one or two other lessons, which I will pass on to you.

“The wick must fit the lamp, and be the right kind for that particular burner. If you are not sure about the kind to get, they will always advise you if you go to a good shop to buy the wick.

“Then, again, the oil is not (or should not be) all burnt out before the lamp is refilled, but fresh oil is added to what is already in. After this process has been continued some time, however, the oil becomes turbid, and gives a disagreeable smell when the lamp is lighted. To avoid this, the oil should occasionally be emptied out of the lamp, and the whole thing washed before being refilled with fresh oil.

“You cannot insist too strongly on proper care being used in filling the lamps; one brilliant housemaid we had when you were children was caught filling a lamp holding it over the kitchen fire, that the oil might run over on to the fire, and not make a mess on the floor. After that I filled them myself till I got a maid whom I could thoroughly trust.

“And do not try to be economical in buying the oil; I cannot advise you which kind to use, as I do not remember what the lamps are like, but go to a good shop, and get the best they recommend. I have generally used a very good kind, called ‘water-white.’ The poor oils throw off a most explosive gas at a low heat, and do not give so much light as better oils. If you are careful on all these points, you need not be in the least nervous about the lamps; we have always used them till the last year or two, and have never had an explosion or accident of any sort.”

With all this information to guide her, coupled with her own observation of the construction of the lamps, Ella felt herself mistress of the situation, and determined that for once she would insist upon having her own way.

She had the oil removed to the little outhouse again, the door of which she locked, and kept the key herself, only giving it to Annie at the time she had appointed for filling the lamps.

The result of this decided measure was that Annie became sullen and disobliging, while the cook, taking her part, made rude remarks in a tone purposely loud enough for Ella to hear, about the discomfort of having two mistresses in the house; and nurse caught her, a short time afterwards, complaining to Mrs. Wilson of Ella’s overbearing ways and unreasonable orders, and of the “nasty, stuck-up ways” of the nurse. She was very quickly and unceremoniously turned out of the room; but the mischief was already done, for Mrs. Wilson, with the natural irritableness of an invalid, insisted on having the servants admitted to the room whenever they wished to see her, and partly, too, in consequence of her weakness, which made her unwilling to have any kind of upset in the house, and partly that she believed the servants to be honest and trustworthy, while she knew Ella was ignorant and inexperienced, Mrs. Wilson made matters worse by always taking their part, and blaming Ella for actions which had existed only in the imaginations of the maids.

One complaint especially annoyed Ella. At home they had always been accustomed to arrange the work and the meals on Sundays so that not only the family, but the servants also, might attend a Bible class in the afternoon, in addition to the regular morning or evening service; and as she was very anxious that the servants at Hapsleigh should have the same liberty, Ella had done as much as she could of the necessary work for the sick room herself on that day, and had so managed that one or other of the maids had been able to go out every Sunday afternoon since her arrival.

It was, therefore, with considerable surprise and vexation that Mrs. Wilson one morning showed her a note she had just received from the teacher of the Bible class Annie was supposed to attend, asking if she could be spared to come once in the month, so that the lady should not lose sight of her altogether.

This was rather too much for Ella’s patience, and after with some difficulty convincing Mrs. Wilson that the girl had not even once been hindered from attending the class, she went straight off to call on the teacher. It seemed that Annie had lamented to that lady that with sickness in the house and an unreasonable young mistress, she would be unable to attend the class until Mrs. Wilson was well again; whereas in reality she had been going every Sunday to visit some friends whom she knew would be disapproved of both by her mistress and her teacher.

However, happily for all parties, matters were coming to a crisis.

Ella went, as usual, one morning to speak to the old gardener, whom she found digging in a secluded corner of the garden, with the ducks following closely at his heels, and poking with their flat bills into the freshly-turned earth, searching for worms or any other choice morsels that good fortune might bring in their way.

The old man evidently had something on his mind, and, after the usual greetings and inquiries after Mrs. Wilson, he stuck his spade into the earth and leaned his arms on the top of it, as if prepared for a long conversation; at which the old drake cocked his head on one side, and stared at him out of one eye with an air of virtuous indignation at having his own labours interrupted in this way.

The conversation did not seem easy to begin, however, and it was only after a good deal of hesitation that he said at last—

“I’ve lived along of the missus now these forty year.”

“Yes, I know you have, Mallard. Why, I remember you all my life,” replied Ella, wondering what was coming.

“Well, Miss Ella, I ain’t told no tales, and I ain’t goin’ to tell no tales; but what I say I say; and that is as ’ow there’s things goes on in this ’ouse as ’adn’t ought to; and I ain’t lived along o’ the family, man and boy, these forty years without knowin’ as when the doors is locked at night they ought to be locked, and not so many goin’ in and out as what there is.”

And having finished this enigmatical speech, accompanied by many mysterious nods and winks, the old man pulled up his spade, and, touching his hat to Ella, disappeared amongst the bushes, leaving Ella and the ducks gazing after him in mutual astonishment.

(To be continued.)

NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.

A paper in Science Gossip for August, 1886, gives a very interesting description of the sprouting of a sycamore seed.

These seeds have wings especially adapted for floating a heavy body. In November they are caught by the wind, and whirl round and round till they reach the earth. They always grow in pairs, although, if looked for now among the grass or on the wayside, many of them will be found single, having been separated from their companions. If a few of the double seeds are brought into the house, placed in a warm situation under a bell glass, and kept watered, their growth may be watched, and some marvels of nature learned.

Every process is wonderful: the separation of the double seed, showing their junction to the stalk, then the appearance of the rootlets which are the first signs of growth, and then the cotyledons, or “nursing leaves,” whose function in life is to nourish and protect the pair of true leaves hidden within their embrace, till they are strong enough to defend themselves, when the cotyledons fall off and die.

The folding of the cotyledon is a study in itself. “They are folded so as to occupy the least space, i.e., first fold in half, and then in half again, like a ribbon reduplicate, and not coiled round (circinate) like a fern frond, which, growing later in the season, requires less protection.”

So the life goes on, showing fresh wonders and beauties at every stage of its growth, each step showing the wisdom and love of the great Creator and Designer.

Plants grown indoors need constant care; it is advisable only to keep as many as can be properly attended to. Very few can stand gas, and all thrive better if removed when it is lighted. The watering, too, needs careful attention; they should not be kept too wet during the cold weather, although they must never get quite dry. They need plenty of light, so it is important that the windows should be kept clean, to allow a full measure of sunshine. The pots must be kept clean, and when a green growth appears on the outside they should be well scrubbed. They must not stand in a draught, which causes a chill, and checks the growth of the plants.

Outdoor gardening this month depends greatly on the weather. If cold, all tender plants must still be protected, and even if warm they should not be encouraged to grow, as frosts may be expected for some time to come yet. Unless it is actually frosty, rose-trees needing it may be pruned, also raspberry, gooseberry, and currant trees. Turf may be re-laid, and, if necessary, grass-seed sown; the grass should be rolled after wet weather.

Pay attention to bulbs now; crocuses and snowdrops should be starting. As soon as tulips, hyacinths, and other bulbs show their foliage, they should be protected at night by a light covering, until the frosts are over.

In February, annuals may be sown indoors in boxes, and gradually hardened off for the garden, where everything should now be made tidy and ready for the spring, which will soon be coming.

In the warmer counties of England the wild daffodil will soon be flowering. The old-fashioned “daffy-down-dilly,” though only of late years fashionable in town drawing-rooms, has always been a favourite with poets and artists, and all true lovers of the country. Wordsworth gives a beautiful description of “a host of golden daffodils.”

“Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”

And who does not remember Herrick’s quaint but beautiful verses, beginning:

“Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon.”

Or Spenser’s equally charming description of Cymoënt with her companions playing by a pond, and

“Gathering sweete daffadillyes, to have made

Gay girlonds from the sun their forheads fayr to shade.”

The name sometimes given them of “Lent Lilies” is peculiar to places where they flower; in colder countries, where it would have no significance, the name is unknown.

Like every other growing thing, the daffodil has much about it worthy of notice. It deals in sixes; six lobes to the corolla, and six pollen stamens, but a three-lobed ovary, and only one seed-leaf.

The wild daffodil has little scent, but being, like the majority of spring flowers, of a bright yellow colour, it is easily seen by the day-flying insects, on whose visits it depends for fertilisation, while some of its near relatives, which are chiefly visited by night moths, are white and strongly scented, in order to be conspicuous even in the darkness.

At this time of year, when the more hardy birds are beginning to return to our shores, as well as in autumn when they are migrating, a great number of our songsters are killed annually by flying against telegraph wires.

Those that fly by night are the most frequent victims, but besides these many either fly or are blown against the wires, and killed or injured so severely that they die before long.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

Melissa Matheson.—The Braille System is the invention of M. Louis Braille, who was a blind professor at one of the national French institutions for the blind in Paris. The work of copying the cut-books is done by ladies, and the blind copy the embossed copy five times at least. You can obtain full particulars on applying to the secretary, British and Foreign Blind Association, 33, Cambridge-square, Hyde Park, London, W.

A Lover of History.—Sir William Wallace was defeated at Falkirk, July, 1298, by Edward I., brought to London, and hanged at Smithfield, 24th August, 1305, seven years afterwards. His public life extends over a period of fifteen months, and as to the history of his private life, there is an absolute blank. The whole of the fables about Sir William Wallace are the product of Blind Harry’s imagination.

A Martinite.—You do not mention where you live, so our help will not be as effectual as it might be. You would obtain evening classes at the Birkbeck Institution, Bream’s-buildings, Chancery-lane, E.C., in all the branches you name. Subscriptions, 4s. quarterly, 12s. annually.

S. A. U.—We should think you fully capable of taking a situation as governess with your certificates, which say so much for your general education, as well as attainments in music. Your handwriting is certainly not good, and looks uncultured. The only way you can improve it is to take some pretty handwriting and form yours on it.

M. B. B.—You should write to the secretary of the College of Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C., for their prospectus, and all information for the current year or coming term. It holds half-yearly pupils’ examinations, the certificates given being recognised as guarantees of a good and general education. The fee is 10s.

ART.

Mermaid.—Seaweed taken from rocks should be placed in a basin of cold fresh water to spread itself out, and removed from thence on to a sheet of blotting-paper by sliding a card under it. See directions already given, and the article on how to preserve seaweed.

Memory.—The price mentioned in the article upon crystoleum for finished pictures was obtainable when the work was new, at which time the paper was written. Five years have elapsed since that time, and many people have learnt the art, so that the price it could fetch at first is no longer given, unless the work be very superior and the subject of large dimensions.

Mary.—Fan painting is decidedly remunerative, and has the advantage of being home-work; but a certain amount of originality is essential for it, as well as practical skill and experience and very great neatness.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Winifred Mary wants “a remedy for taking sunburn off the face and hands.” Shut yourself up in a bandbox, my dear, and when winter clouds and winds return you may open the lid and inspect the condition of your complexion. If a cure have been effected, come out; if not, shut yourself up in the dark a little longer. If you live to rejoice in the return of the summer’s sunshine you had better wear gloves and a veil.

Rose Henshaw.—We regret our inability to avail ourselves of your story. If you send your address in full, it shall be returned to you.

Lizzie Herbert.—We are glad you are happy in your marriage, even in the circumstances you name. But “one swallow does not make a summer.” We only laid down general rules, more especially for girls in the upper ranks of life. In your special case you seem to have acted wisely.

Hezekiah.—We think that the “best thing to make you look as if you had not been crying” is not to cry. We imagine that your royal namesake cared little whether his eyes were red or not, because his was real grief.

Anne S.—No stranger could venture to give advice for deafness without seeing the patients and becoming acquainted with a variety of circumstances connected with them. Deafness may be hereditary or accidental, from a cold, an abscess, a plug of cotton, a secretion of wax, a fall, and thickening of the membrane, or a broken drum from a loud noise. It is an ailment too serious for guess-work.

Violet.—The sons of a commoner could not inherit the rank their own father did not hold merely because their mother’s former husband was a peer. However, there are some few peerages that run in the female line, the mother being a peeress “in her own right,” not by marriage only. See our letters on “Girls’ Allowances,” in vol. v., pages 54, 91, 246 and 764.

Myrtle.—Provided a licence were obtained, the marriage would be legal anywhere. If “Myrtle” is a Protestant, the ceremony should be performed by her own minister as well.

Fitzgerald.—We are much obliged for the account of your visit to Wales, and regret that we can make no use of it; but it is very well written for a girl of your age.

Une Jeune Fille.—You would find a mention in the “Princesses of Wales” of the Princess Charlotte, at page 773, vol. vi. We have read the verses, but as yet they do not show much promise of future poetry in them.

A Sorrowful Wife.—The Act passed last session will enable you to summon your husband for maintenance without the intervention of the Poor Law Guardians. Hitherto deserted wives have been obliged to throw themselves on the parish before taking proceedings; but the necessity for so doing no longer exists, and the benefit cannot be too widely known, as it is a very excellent change.

E. G. (Leeds).—We sympathise much with you in your sorrow and trouble, and were glad to hear from you.

Marguerite Vance.—She would be his niece by the half-blood, and, of course, he could not marry her.

Winnie must keep her feet dry and warm, and place herself away from the fire when she comes in from a walk, as the heat of the fire will make her nose burn.

Ella Kingsley.—Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Oliphant, Mrs. Craik, Rosa N. Carey, and Anne Beale, are all good and careful writers, whose books are quite fit for young girls to read.

Minnie M. (Maidstone).—Your verses are pretty, and give some promise, but need correction.

Polly.—The condition of your hair seems to imply a deterioration of your general health, for which you probably need tonics and better living. Vaseline is highly spoken of for the hair, and might be of use.

Maggie.—1. As silkworms’ eggs are sold in Covent Garden Market, perhaps they might buy yours, if they can be proved thoroughly healthy and strong. 2. The acidulated drops such as are almost universally sold are most injurious to the enamel of the teeth.

Cecilia.—Your lines on “Evangeline” give some promise for the future. The first sixteen lines are correct, the last sixteen are not so, neither in the number of feet nor fall of the beat, or emphasis.

May.—The fault lies with yourself if you “hold back,” and be “unable to raise yourself from sin to a certain extent,” because our Divine Lord has promised to “give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him.” It most certainly is not our Father’s will that we should not “attain grace for a little while.” The evil will that keeps you back is that of your own heart and of the arch-tempter and deceiver. In reciting to uneducated people or children, select what they can comprehend, but what is good, though simple.

Miss Dayns.—Persons requiring any publication issued by the Religious Tract Society, whether a number of this paper or otherwise, should apply to the publisher (as we are always telling our correspondents), as the Editor has nothing to do with that department. He regrets that he has no knowledge of what Miss Dayns’s question was, nor in which number it may yet be answered. The number of answers inserted depends on the amount of space.

Christabel.—Ash Wednesday is the first day in Lent in the English and Roman Church. In the latter the priest makes the sign of the cross on the foreheads of the people, saying, “Remember thou art but dust and ashes, and to dust thou shalt return.” Shrove Tuesday is the day preceding Lent, when in the latter church the people go to confess and be shriven.

Una.—1. We think the process of hardening, as carried out by exposure to cold, is of questionable wisdom in most cases. 2. We have made no personal trial of the instrument you name, but heard a friend commend its utility.

Vivian Kate.—1. A young man who presumed to introduce himself to a girl could know nothing of common propriety nor of the respect due to an unprotected woman. Any knowledge of etiquette in such an individual is, of course, out of the question. In the circles of society where the rules of etiquette obtain, such impertinent intrusion on the part of a man would not be tolerated. 2. Wash the blue sateen in tepid water.

Hopefull.—The water takes up all the camphor requisite, and will last for some time in the wash. You can use it again when you make it fresh.

Dora (Aged 13) sends a poem, written when confined to the house by indisposition one Sunday, from which we can only quote one verse—

“And one, though pale, yet beautiful,
Lay in a darkened room,
But the sweet texts she uttered
Seemed to dispel the gloom.”

Did she mean this description of an invalid to apply to herself?

Mary.—1. The town named by you, Altrincham, in Cheshire, is usually spelt “Altringham,” and pronounced accordingly. 2. We say “crocuses,” not “croci.”

Lonely Girl writes her nom de plume so illegibly that we cannot decipher it, so do not know what she wrote about on the first occasion that she addressed us; but she may feel happy in the assurance that we do not think, judging from her second letter, that she could have written anything needing the apology she now makes on the chance of having done so.

Anti-Ant.—You may keep the ants from shelves by keeping the latter washed with a strong solution of alum and water. You should also sprinkle insecticide powder over the floor, only be careful if you have a cat. Should this prove insufficient, apply to a chemist. Without doubt, Sir John Lubbock would appreciate his pets’ all-pervading presence as little as you do were he a guest in your house and found them, as you say, in his “meat, bacon, bread, cheese, pastry, sugar, plate, and cup” at all times and seasons!

Gwendoline R.—1. We could not condense into two or three lines all the rules of lawn tennis contained in the manuals of instruction respecting the game. You should buy one of these. 2. Eat no more sweetmeats if you wish to cure your complaints.

Geranium should write to our publisher. The editor’s department is perfectly distinct from his.

Feathers.—Curl the ostrich feathers by gently drawing every filament between the edge of a blunt penknife and your thumb.

Polly.—1. By “elective affinity” we suppose natural selection was meant. 2. Your handwriting is rather a poor one.

Katherine van Hemskirk.—We are sure that you could not do better than send the articles of clothing you name to the Home for Upper-class Children, 11, South-grove, Tunbridge Wells. Any of our readers who have school books or any suitable books for such a home would do a useful and charitable act in sending contributions of these kinds to this little institution.

Buchan and J. B.—The verses by these young people express good sentiments in feeble language. They ought to make themselves acquainted with the rules of metrical composition. This at least could be accomplished, though the gift of original ideas cannot be acquired by any amount of study.

One of Two.—For the meaning of girls’ Christian names, see our articles in vol. iv. In Webster’s large illustrated dictionary of the English language you will find those of most names, male as well as female.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Aus “Carmen Sylva’s Leben,” von Natalie, Freiin von Stachelberg—(From “Carmen Sylva’s Life,” by Nathalie, Baroness of Stachelberg. Third revised edition. Heidelberg. 1886).

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

Page 261: dont’s to don’ts—“don’ts”.]

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Table of Contents

- THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

- CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.

- PART I.

- THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- MERLE’S CRUSADE.

- CHAPTER XV.

- I ONLY WISH I HAD.

- THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

- CHAPTER III.

- AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.

- “SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;” OR, THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

- NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.

- ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

- EDUCATIONAL.

- ART.

- MISCELLANEOUS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE