The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 357,
October 30, 1886, by Various

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 357, October 30, 1886

Author: Various

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Language: English

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THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER.

VOL. VIII.--NO. 357.

OCTOBER 30, 1886.

PRICE ONE PENNY.




THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.


[Illustration: "THE POOR LITTLE BARONESS, WHO WAS ASLEEP, STARTED UP."]


CHAPTER V.

THE CHATEAU AFTER THE LOSS OF THE BABY.

As the baron had conjectured, the housemaid whom he had called out of
the nursery to look for Léon's cane, on finding her master had gone
without it, did not hurry back, but stopped talking to some of the other
servants for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when she returned to the
nursery, and to her amazement found the baby was gone. She was not
alarmed at first, except she supposed she should get a scolding from the
nurse, who she imagined had come in and taken the child to another room;
however, having the excellent excuse that her master had called her away
she went in search of the nurse, but now not finding her anywhere, and
hearing from the footman that she was not expected back till very late,
Marie became seriously alarmed.

"Perhaps madame has taken it into her room; she might have heard it
crying, and fetched it," suggested the footman, and Marie, very much
against her will, felt she was in duty bound to go and see.

So, knocking at her mistress's door, she called out, "Madame, has she
taken the baby?"

The poor little baroness, who was asleep, started up, and called to the
servant to come in.

"Madame, has she the baby?" repeated the girl.

"The baby? No, what do you mean? Where is it, and where is nurse?" cried
the baroness, jumping up and slipping on a dressing-gown and slippers.

Marie began to cry, and to pour forth such a volley of words, excuses,
fears, alarms, and wonders that the baroness could make out nothing, and
rushed to the nursery to see for herself what had happened. The empty
cradle did not, however, throw much light upon it, and the servants who
answered the bell, which the baroness clashed wildly, looked as scared
as the sobbing Marie to find the baby had disappeared. A search from
attic to basement was at once instituted, the men-servants were sent
into the grounds with lanterns, the whole house was turned topsy-turvy,
in the midst of which the nurse returned, and finding her baby was gone,
went into violent hysterics, while the young baroness, with flying hair
and dilated eyes, rushed about, wringing her hands, and looking, as she
felt, distracted with grief.

The search was, of course, in vain, and they were just coming to the
conclusion that the baby had been stolen, when the baron returned from
seeing Léon off.

The moment the baroness heard his voice in the hall she flew down the
wide oak staircase, crying, "Arnaud! Arnaud! My precious baby is gone,
it is stolen; find her, find her, or I shall go mad." And a glance at
her wild eyes almost testified she spoke the truth.

"She is not stolen, she is safe enough," said the baron, sulkily.

"Safe? Where? Where? Take me to her, my precious one; where is she?"
cried the baroness, with a loud burst of hysteric laughter on hearing
her child was safe.

"Silence, Mathilde, don't behave in this ridiculous style. Come with
me," said the baron, in a tone his wife had never heard him use to her
before, and which had the effect of reducing her to tears; and, sobbing
wildly, she hung on her husband's arm as he half led, half carried her
upstairs, and laid her on a sofa in her own room.

"Now, Mathilde, if you will try and compose yourself, I will tell you
what I have done with the baby. For some time I have felt sure that you
were ruining the child's health by the absurd way in which you coddle it
up, and, moreover, making yourself a perfect slave to it, neglecting all
your other duties," began the baron, as he seated himself on the edge of
the sofa by the side of his sobbing wife, who was, however, much too
anxious about her baby to be able to listen patiently to the marital
lecture to which the baron was about to treat her.

"But Arnaud! Arnaud! where is the baby? Oh, do tell me; it is cruel to
keep me in this suspense," sobbed the baroness.

Now, to be cruel to his wife was the very last thing the baron intended;
it was only out of the extremity of his jealous love for her that he had
sent the baby away. Thoughtless and selfish he might have been, but
surely no one could say he had been guilty of cruelty to this wife, whom
he loved so madly that even her love for her child had raised the demon
of jealousy within his breast. The word "cruel" stung him to the quick;
it was a new phase of his conduct, one that had never struck him before,
and as he glanced at the poor little baroness, who had half risen on the
sofa, and was looking at him with an agonised look on her pretty face,
he was seized with remorse, and felt it impossible to go on with the
_rôle_ he had attempted to play of the wise father and husband, who had
only acted for the good of his wife and child. Already he was beginning
to repent of his rash act, and if it had been possible to go after the
yacht the chances are the baron would have started at once, and brought
back the baby for the pleasure of seeing its mother smile again. As it
was impossible, the next best thing was to make the best of it, and if
Mathilde could not be comforted in any other way, why he must promise to
let her have it back again. He decided all this as he petted the
baroness, and tried to comfort her by whispering fond nothings into her
ear; but he soon found all his caresses were useless, unless he yielded
to her entreaties and told her where the baby was, and as all he knew
about it was that it was on board Léon's yacht, on which it was being
taken, he believed, to England, though he was by no means sure, this
did not tend to allay the poor mother's anxious fears.

Her baby confided to the wild Léon's charge, tossed about in a yacht
with not a woman on board to take care of it, her fragile little
daughter, on whom the wind had never been allowed to blow, now at the
mercy of wind and waves for days, and then, supposing the child was
alive, which in her present mood the baroness declared to be impossible,
even if it were, not to know where it was till Léon came back, perhaps
for a week or more, for the baron dare not tell her it would probably be
a month before he returned--oh, it was unbearable! She was sure she
could neither eat nor sleep until she had her baby back. Life until then
would be a burden to her. What could she do without it? Already she was
sure it knew her; and oh, how happy she had been watching by its cradle!
If Arnaud only knew how she delighted in nursing and playing with it,
even to gaze on it while it slept was a joy to her! Oh, if he only
understood, he would never have been so cruel as to send it away.

All the baron's arguments as to the advantages to the baby which were to
be derived from his scheme, and the wonderful health and strength it was
to derive from leading a less luxurious life, failed to reassure the
baroness, and she passed a sleepless night, and looked so ill and
miserable the next morning that the baron was angry with her for looking
ill, and with himself for being the cause. No one in the house but the
baroness had been told the night before what had become of the baby, the
general opinion being that it had been taken or sent to some woman in
the neighbourhood to look after; but when it became known that it was
sent away in Léon's charge no one knew where, the sympathy with the
baroness was universal, and the baron found himself looked upon as a
jealous tyrant, with no real love for either his wife or child.

"A nice father you are," cried his brother Jacques.

"The idea of trusting Léon with a baby. Why, he will pitch it overboard
if it cries," said little Louis, a remark which so annoyed the baron
that he promptly seized Louis by the collar and turned him out of the
room.

"You really must have been mad, Arnaud, to dream of such a thing as
entrusting Léon, of all people in the world, with an infant," said the
old baroness, for once taking the part of her daughter-in-law against
her son.

Père Yvon said nothing just then; it would not have been wise to have
done so while the baron's temper was ruffled by the criticisms of his
family or in their presence, but when he was alone with Arnaud, Père
Yvon spoke his mind pretty freely, and read the baron a severer lecture
than he had ever done all the years he was under his tuition.

It was nothing but jealousy which had prompted such a mad, cruel act,
and jealousy of the most unreasonable--he might almost say
unpardonable--kind: a father to be jealous of his wife's love for his
own child! There was a German saying, excellent in the original, but
which lost the double play upon the words in the translation which Père
Yvon quoted to the baron--

    "Die Eifersucht ist eine Leidenschaft,
    Der mit Eifer sucht muss Leiden schaffen,"

which means, freely translated, that jealousy is a passion which brings
misery to him who indulges in it; and Père Yvon impressed upon Arnaud
that if any misfortune happened to the baby, he would have no one to
blame but himself, for though all sins bring their own punishment,
jealousy is undoubtedly one that can never be indulged in with impunity.
This, and much more to the same effect, Père Yvon said, and the baron,
lying in an easy chair, listened patiently enough, partly because he was
very fond of the chaplain, and partly because he was so angry with
himself now for his folly that it was a relief to him to be blamed
roundly for it.

All that day the baroness wandered about the house in a vague, restless
way, unable to settle to anything, and trying to amuse herself by
consulting with the nurse as to how they should go and fetch the baby
back when they discovered where it was. She ate little or nothing, and
after another sleepless night looked so worn and ill that the baron sent
for a doctor, who came and urged strongly that the baby should be sent
for at once, or he would not be answerable for the consequences; the
suspense and anxiety were telling so on the baroness that if the strain
lasted much longer he feared she would have an attack of brain fever.

On hearing this the baron was dreadfully alarmed, and telegraphed to
Léon's agent at Havre to let him know immediately he heard from M. Léon
de Thorens, who had sailed two nights before in the Hirondelle for a
cruise in the Channel. The agent telegraphed back that he knew no more
than M. le Baron at present, but so soon as he received any further
information he would let the baron know. This did not reassure the
baroness, who had taken it into her head that something had happened to
the yacht, and not all Arnaud's promises that the moment he knew where
the child was he would go himself and bring her back could comfort the
poor, anxious little mother, who, with pale cheeks and black marks round
her great brown eyes, which were always large but looked bigger than
ever now that they had not been closed since the baby left, wandered
about the château, looking like a picture of despair.

This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent
to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England
with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was handed
to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the message
over again and again before the words, though they were burnt indelibly
into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind. Slowly he
grasped the terrible truth; poor Léon, the life of the house, wild,
handsome Léon was drowned, and his own poor innocent baby as well,
drowned, and by his fault. He was little better than a murderer, he
thought, in the first outburst of his grief, and he must tell Mathilde,
and perhaps kill her too. How should he ever have the courage to do
this? Strange to say, though perhaps, after all, it was not strange, the
baron was far more cut up at the sad fate of his little girl, whom, a
few days ago, he had been so anxious to get rid of, for a while, at
least, than he was at the news of poor Léon's death. So much hung on the
baby; Mathilde's life might almost be said to depend upon its recovery,
and now he must go and strike the blow which would perhaps kill her.
Père Yvon was indeed right; his jealousy was truly bringing a terrible
punishment in its train, and the baron buried his face in his hands, and
sobs of bitterest grief shook his whole frame. At last, rousing himself,
he went to the door of the study where the chaplain was engaged teaching
the younger boys, and beckoned him out. Père Yvon saw at a glance by the
baron's pale, scared face, as well as by the telegram he held in his
hand, that something terrible had happened, and drawing Arnaud into the
nearest room, he asked eagerly what was the matter. The baron answered
by placing the telegram in his hands, and paced the room in a frenzy
while Père Yvon read it. The chaplain's first thought was for the poor
widowed mother, whose darling son was thus cut off in the beauty of his
youth. He had known her so many years, and had comforted her in so many
sorrows, it was natural he should think of her first, before the other
mother, who had her husband to comfort her, and whose child was only an
infant of a few months old.

"La pauvre baronne! My poor madame! It will break her heart: her darling
son," murmured the chaplain.

"Ah, poor Léon. I can't realise it yet that we shall never see him
again, and my poor, innocent baby too; it will kill Mathilde. Oh, mon
père, how are we to tell them?" groaned the baron.

"I will tell your mother; it is not the first time I have been the
bearer of ill news to her, and you must break it as gently as you can to
your wife. It is a sad day indeed for this household, but the Lord's
will be done. He knows best, and He will not send any of us more than we
are able to bear," replied Père Yvon, as he went on his sad mission to
the old baroness.

As he had said, he had broken many sorrows to her, but he had never had
to deal a heavier blow than when he told her her favourite son was
drowned, the son of whom she was so proud, whom she loved better than
all her other children; but the baroness was a saintly woman, and one of
her first sayings after she heard the news was, "Mon père, it is hard,
but it is just--he was my idol."

She did not grieve in any extravagant way; she did not absent herself
from any meals; she attended mass, for she was a devout Catholic, in the
private chapel every morning, and, indeed, spent a great deal of time
there in prayer; she never gave up one of her accustomed duties, visited
the poor as regularly as ever, but from the day she heard the sad news
to her death, which happened a few years later, she was scarcely seen
to smile again, and she was never heard to mention Léon's name except to
Père Yvon. Hers was a life-long sorrow, too deep for words, too deep for
even tears to assuage its poignancy; her heart was broken; she had no
further interest in this life; all her hopes were centred on that life
where she hoped to meet her darling son again, never to be separated
from him.

The young baroness bore her trial very differently. She gave way to a
passionate outburst of grief on learning that her baby was drowned--a
grief in which the baron shared, and was, indeed, in more need of
consolation than his wife, for to his sorrow was added remorse and
bitterest stings of conscience for having brought such sorrow to his
wife, about whom he was very anxious, until the doctor assured him the
sad certainty was even better for her than the terrible suspense she had
been enduring for the last week. To a young, passionate nature hitherto
undisciplined by the sorrows of life, like the young baroness's,
anything was easier to bear than suspense, and the doctor assured Arnaud
that the passionate grief in which his wife indulged would do her no
harm--on the contrary, she was more likely to get over it quickly.
Violent grief is rarely lasting; there invariably follows a reaction.

A few days later the baron received another telegram from the Havre
agents, telling him they had found out that the Hirondelle had left
Yarmouth, on the Norfolk coast, where she had been lying for two or
three days, the day before she was lost, and was then intending to
cruise round the coast of Great Britain. The baron was immediately
raised from the depths of despair to the highest pinnacle of hope on
hearing this, for he felt sure Léon had gone ashore at Yarmouth to place
the baby with some Englishwoman, and had remained there some days on
purpose. Confiding his new hope to Père Yvon, he at once decided to
start that night for England by Dover and Calais, for already steamers
ran once or twice a week between these ports. He would then go on to
Yarmouth by stage-coach, and make all inquiries for his baby. His
difficulty was, he did not know the language, but living near the
Château de Thorens was a Monsieur de Courcy, who had married an English
wife, and spoke English very well. He was intimate with the De Thorens,
and the baron hoped he might be able to help him in his trouble.

Accordingly he called on the De Courcys at once, and, to his great
relief, Monsieur de Courcy offered to go to Yarmouth with him, while
Madame de Courcy suggested that the baroness should come and stay with
her during their husbands' absence, for the château was a very gloomy
place for the poor young mother while the shadow of death rested upon
it. Arnaud jumped at this, for he had never been separated from his wife
since their marriage, and he would far rather leave her with this pretty
young English lady than at the château, while his mother's grief for
Léon saddened the whole household. It was easy to account for his
journey to England, by saying that he was going to get particulars of
the accident from the place off which it happened. This would seem only
natural to Mathilde, who must on no account be told that he had any hope
of finding the child. She had accepted the news of its death without
questioning it, and it was far better to let her continue under this
impression than to raise fresh hopes, which, after all, might never be
realised, and if he could only persuade her to come to Parc du Baffy
while he was away he would feel quite happy about her.

Madame de Courcy and the baroness were on intimate terms with each
other, although Madame de Courcy was a staunch Protestant, and both the
baron and baroness bigoted Romanists; but the great attraction to
Mathilde, as Madame de Courcy guessed, would be her child, a beautiful
boy of three years old, in whom the baroness had delighted until her own
baby was born and absorbed all her time and affection. Knowing this,
Madame de Courcy offered to send her boy to the château with the baron,
hoping to inveigle the baroness to return with him to Parc du Baffy, a
manoeuvre which succeeded admirably, for Mathilde, not having seen the
little Rex for some weeks, was so enraptured with him that she could not
part with him, and as Madame de Courcy could not be asked to spare her
child as well as her husband, the baroness consented to go and stay at
the Parc while the baron was away. The little Rex was too old to remind
her of her own baby, and his pretty mixture of French and English amused
her immensely, and for the moment charmed away her sorrow. Had she known
the real object of her husband's visit to England, the suspense and
anxiety would have made her seriously ill; not knowing it, the change
and Rex's society did her good, so that Madame de Courcy was able, after
a day or two, to write to the baron and tell him his wife was certainly
better and more cheerful since she had been at the Parc du Baffy.

Meanwhile the baron and M. de Courcy reached Yarmouth safely, and
learned the day and hour on which the Hirondelle arrived and also left
Yarmouth, and that the cause of her remaining so long there was the
absconding of an English sailor, named, or, at all events, calling
himself, John Smith. The baron was more elated than ever at hearing
this, for he knew the Englishman was to place the baby out to nurse, and
if he were safe, the chances were that the child was too; but when,
after having run two or three John Smiths to earth and discovered that
they bore no resemblance to the original, it became evident that the
real John Smith had made himself scarce, and was probably not John Smith
at all, the baron's hopes of recovering the child again fell, though he
could not abandon the idea that if he could only find the runaway
sailor he should hear some news of the child. The wish was, perhaps,
father to the thought, but he could not help thinking the child was not
on board the Hirondelle when she went down, now that he found the
English carpenter had left the yacht at Yarmouth. But the baron felt his
inability to speak English a great drawback to prosecuting his inquiries
as fully as he would have liked, although M. de Courcy was very kind and
did all any friend could have been expected to do; still, it was not the
same as speaking the language himself, as the baron felt, and he
bitterly regretted he had never tried to master its difficulties. Many
of the Yarmouth fishermen and boatmen remembered the Hirondelle and the
handsome French gentleman to whom she belonged, but not one had ever
seen the sign of a baby on board her, though this did not throw much
light on the matter, as the baby might easily have been kept below or
removed at night.

At last, after spending a week or ten days in fruitless inquiries, the
baron and his friend returned to France, the baron convinced in his own
mind that some hope of his child being safe still existed, a hope which
he dared not communicate to the baroness, but which, nevertheless,
lingered in his breast for many a long day.

(_To be continued._)




THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

BY EMMA BREWER.


INTRODUCTION.

A gentleman asked me the other day upon what subject I intended next to
write, and on telling him that the Editor had kindly permitted me to
deal with the Bank of England and the National Debt, he said, "Nonsense!
what do girls want to know about the Bank of England and the National
Debt? Let them be content to leave all such knowledge to men, and rest
satisfied if they get their dividends all right and know how to spend
them properly and keep out of debt."

He seemed to forget that to do even the little he permitted us would
require knowledge and education of a liberal character, and that without
these our desires might outrun our income, and getting into debt might
prove our normal condition.

A thorough knowledge of our circumstances is better than partial
blindness, and to see things all round and weigh them justly is better
than sitting with hands folded while men see and judge for us.

The subjects of the Bank of England and the National Debt are well worth
a study, and will not fail to afford us both varied and interesting
information.

Among other things they will tell us how the Bank of England came into
existence; what the nation did previous to its existence; how our
country came to have a debt which it has never been able to pay off, and
how it would prove a calamity if it were possible to pay it off
suddenly.

Again, we shall learn the meaning of "selling out" and "buying in"
money, and what is understood by "consols," "reduced threes," "stocks
going up and down," "a run upon the Bank," "panic," and many other such
terms.

There is no reason why girls should not be able to give answers to all
of these, and every reason why they should, seeing that an intimate
knowledge of these subjects is as much a part of our nation's history as
is the history of our kings and queens, our wars, and our institutions.

And even beyond this, it is a matter of importance that girls having
property, little or much, should understand the character of those to
whom they entrust it.

There are many and valuable books published upon these subjects, but
they are expensive to buy and take a long time to wade through; in
addition to this, they are so learned that we women-folk fail often to
get the simple information we require, even when we have read them.

The Bank of England, either by name or by sight, is known, I suppose, to
all of us; but its origin, its working, its influence, is not so
familiar to us, and it does not seem to me that we should be going at
all out of our province if we were to ask the "Old Lady of
Threadneedle-street" to tell us something of her history, her household,
and her daily life, seeing that most of us contribute to her
housekeeping, some more, some less.

We trust her so completely that "safe as the Bank of England" has passed
into a proverb; yet, for all that, we should like the old lady's own
account of how she came into existence, and how she became such a power
in the land, and what she does with all the money we lend her, and out
of what purse she pays us for the loan.

She certainly ought to be able to tell an interesting tale--for her
palace, her servants, her house-keeping, her treasures, her cellars, her
expenditure, her receipts and clearing, the frights she has every now
and again both given and received, must each and all be more amusing and
full of interest than any fairy tale told by Grimm or Andersen.


CHAPTER I.

THE STORY OF THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

And so you want me to tell you the story of my life! Telling tales is
not quite in my line, but I will do the best I can; and should I become
garrulous and tedious, as old ladies are wont sometimes to be, you must
recall me by a gentle reminder that you live in the present century,
whose characteristics are short, decisive, and by all means amusing.

My career has been a strange and eventful one, as you yourselves will
see if I can interest you sufficiently to listen to the end.

Of course, I was not always known as the Old Lady of
Threadneedle-street; indeed, I can well remember the feeling of
annoyance with which I saw _Mr. Punch's_ illustration of me in 1847, as
a fat old woman without a trace of beauty, except in my garments, which
were made of bank notes. I have kept a copy of it, and will just pencil
you the outline.

The annoyance was intensified when I found myself handed down to
posterity by him as the _Old_ Lady of Threadneedle-street. He could have
no authority for this picture, seeing that, like the Delphian mystery of
old, I am invisible, and deliver my oracles through my directors.

You are girls, and will quite understand the distress of being thrust
suddenly into old age. Up to 1847 I was young, good-looking, and
attractive, and to be bereft of my youth and romance at one blow; to
know that from henceforth all would be prosaic and business-like, that I
should never again have lovers seeking my favour, was a condition of
extreme pain. I had always prided myself on my figure, but even this
_Mr. Punch_ did not leave me, but told the world that it was due to
tight-lacing. It was very cruel, and I have sometimes thought it was
envy of my position; but let that go. I took counsel with myself, and
determined to face the future with the resolve to be the very nicest old
lady in the world, and to make myself so useful to my fellow-creatures
that they should love me and stand by me even though my first youth had
passed. And I am sure you will agree with me in thinking that I have
accomplished this, and that not only have I kept clear of weakness and
decrepitude, but have achieved for myself a reputation and position
second to no lady in the land.

It has been necessary for me to make this little explanation, otherwise
you might have thought I had never been young. And now to proceed.

It was in the reign of William and Mary that I first saw the light,
being born in Mercers' Hall on the 27th of July, 1694.

From this place, after a few months, I was removed to Grocers' Hall,
Poultry; not the stately structure with which you are acquainted, but
one much more simple, which was razed to make room for the present
building.

I may say, without vanity, that my birth created a sensation throughout
the length and breadth of the land.

The House of Commons even was not exempt from this excitement, but set
aside its serious work to discuss whether or not I should be strangled
and put out of the way, or nurtured into strength by its support and
countenance.

Those members who were in favour of the last resolution declared that I
should rescue the nation out of the hands of extortioners, lower
interests, raise the value of land, revive public credit, improve
commerce, and connect the people more closely with the Government, while
those of the contrary opinion assured the House that I should engross
the whole money of the kingdom, that I should weaken commerce by
tempting people to withdraw their money from trade, that I should
encourage fraud and gaming, and corrupt the morals of the nation.

Little recked I of all the stir and commotion my birth was causing, as,
nursed and cared for by my father, William Paterson, a Scotch merchant,
and his friend, Mr. Michael Godfrey, I gradually grew into strength. It
was not till long afterwards that I heard and understood the
circumstances of my birth, and how around me were centred the interests
of the kingdom.

When I was only twelve months old, those who were bound together to take
care of my interests separated my father from me, giving as an excuse
that he was of too speculative and adventurous a spirit to be entrusted
with my welfare.

Poor father! It has always seemed to me very sad that he who had worked
so long and so persistently for my success should have been condemned to
spend the last years of his life in solitude and neglect in Scotland,
while I, his child, was gradually becoming everything that his highest
ambition could have pictured; but so it was.

[Illustration: THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. From "Punch."]

I have often wished that he had employed those last weary years of his
in writing a history of his life. I am sure it would have interested all
classes of readers, but I suppose he was too sad and out of heart. He
was forty-one years of age at the time of my birth, having been born in
Dumfries in 1658. He was one of those who may be said to live before
their time. He possessed great ability, knowledge, and experience, and
was a great traveller, yet, with all this, his life was a series of
disappointments and failures.

His great friend, Michael Godfrey, who had worked so faithfully by his
side, would, I am sure, never have forsaken him, but he was struck down
by a ball in the trenches of Namur, in 1695, while seeking the king in
my interests.

He was a great loss to me, although I was too young at the time to
estimate it fully. He has left behind him a quaint and graphic account
of my infancy, with which I shall hope to make you acquainted later on.

Should you feel any interest in him, look in St. Swithin's Church some
day when passing, and there you will find a monument to his memory,
which records that he "died a batchelour, much lamented by his friends,
relations, and acquaintances for his integrity, his knowledge, and the
sweetness of his manners."

My name "Bank," which signifies "bench" or "high seat," I derived from
Italian forefathers, who, in early days, carried on their business in
the public places or exchanges on _benches_.

This business of theirs consisted chiefly in being the depositories of
the wealth of rich people, and making payments for them according to
written orders, and further in receiving money from some people on
interest, and lending it to others at a higher rate. I have been told
that in their day making a profit by lending money was not considered at
all an aristocratic proceeding, and procured for those who indulged in
it the name of usurers, a word I do not like; it savours of sordidness.

From my very birth I was educated to be reliable, steady, secure, and
faithful, and to be true and just in all my dealings.

It was made clear to me that it was the lack of these qualities in the
money affairs of the kingdom which had led to the necessity of my
existence, and I was made distinctly to understand that it was only upon
my developing largely these peculiar traits of character that I should
continue the existence thus begun.

       *       *       *       *       *

My education was quite different from that of other girls. I had to
learn arithmetic almost before I could speak, and the state and
condition of kings and governments were instilled into my mind as
regularly as food into my body.

There were no novels, no light literature for me, except what I could
extract for myself out of the dry material placed before me. Still, my
mind was not warped with this peculiar bringing up, and now that I am an
old woman, I think I can see that I owe this to the character of those
who governed and directed me.

Of course, this peculiar education and training kept me far ahead of
other girls, and while they were scarcely out of the nursery, and still
enjoying battledore and shuttlecock, I was seeking information, either
by reading or conversation, concerning my forefathers, position, duties,
and property.

Young as I was, I began to feel creeping over me a sense of
responsibility, and a longing to know how best to fulfil all that was
required of me. I knew that I was rich, but how did I become so? I knew
that my riches were expected to make others rich, but how? I was always
asking questions, and sometimes succeeded in getting an answer, which
served as a clue, and sent me to search old parchments or to make
comparisons.

It was some time before I could piece the scraps of information
together, but gradually I did so, and then assuredly I saw the awfulness
of my influence and position, and determined, with God's blessing, to be
a comfort and support to the widows and orphans who trusted in me, as
well as a source of strength, security, and honour to the nation and its
rulers, and I resolved that henceforth my name, _the Bank of England_,
should carry with it a meaning wherever it was heard, far beyond its
original signification; it should be another term for wealth, honour,
and thrift--a something to be trusted, and in which nothing foul, mean,
or sordid must be found.

(_To be continued._)




HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

SKETCH I.--THE ORATORIO AND PASSION MUSIC (SACRED DRAMA).

BY MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital.


In a former number, in prefacing reviews of new music, we said
sufficient upon the subject of listening to music to call the attention
of our many readers to the performances going on so frequently in all
parts of the world, and now we persuade ourselves that there may be some
to whom a short account of the various and varied forms, to which our
attention as audience is most frequently invited, would be of interest,
even though they have some knowledge of the subject already; and that
there may be others to whom these very incomplete sketches may appear as
information, and as an incentive to further investigation.

For our first sketch we have chosen the oratorio, for it is undoubtedly
the highest form of musical dramatic art, and is founded upon and
contains the greatest and deepest truths of the Christian life. As
regards the actual music forms employed, we find, indeed, similar ones
in the operas, such as the various forms of recitative, the aria, the
duet, and the chorus, and even the scena; but in the sacred works, who
are the heroes and heroines? Are they not the instruments of the Divine
power, the messengers of the good tidings? And what are the subjects?
Are they not the struggles, the trials, the victories of noble souls?
With such sacred characters, with such lofty thoughts, the composers of
the oratorio, dealing, not with the semblance of truth that the opera
contains, but with the truth itself, are bound to express their feelings
and emotions in the grandest and most perfect thoughts.

Purely sentimental ideas, and the whole list of passions and struggles
in human existence, rather form the basis of opera than the proper
subjects for oratorio, and the modern attempts to transform the sacred
ideal into the region of operatic and dramatic realism seem to fall
singularly short of expectation. To our minds, the strongest period in
the history of oratorio was the time of Handel and Bach, and writers of
to-day have yet to graft on to their work the more careful study, and
the strengthening influence of these noble masterpieces in stronger
cuttings, to make the struggling young plant a healthy and beautiful
tree. Let us progress, by all means, but true progression is but the
joining of all that is good in the preceding age with all the fresh
beauty God bestows upon us in this our day.

We seem to be comparing or contrasting the secular form opera and the
sacred oratorio, and it is interesting to know that the origin of both
may be traced back to the same source--viz., early miracle plays and
moralities. For some time after the introduction of Christianity into
Eastern Europe, the new converts seem to have retained their fondness
for the heathen practice used in religious, as in secular, celebrations
of theatrical representations, which were chiefly upon mythological
subjects, and all of which angered and distressed the priests of the new
religion. However, the latter soon found out that it was necessary to
reach the minds of these people through their more acutely trained
senses and the medium of their old traditions, and thus in these early
ages the dramatic element worked its way into the church worship.
Spiritual plays were arranged by the priests in all parts of
Christianised Europe, who chose scenes and stories from both Old and New
Testaments, and from the lives of the saints and holy men. The plays
were acted upon a stage, usually erected under the choir of the church.
As women were not permitted to appear, priests took all the characters,
male and female. We learn, from many reliable sources, that these sacred
representations had a great effect upon the pious worshippers.

In the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and chiefly in
the west of Europe, profane elements crept in amongst the holy legends,
and these religious entertainments also developed so greatly, that
hundreds of actors would be engaged in representations lasting over
several days, whilst the eager audiences were so large that the churches
could not contain them, and the stage had to be erected in the
market-places, and out of doors.

The direction passed more and more into the hands of the laity, who
employed jongleurs, histrions, and strolling vagabonds, whose acting
included gross buffoonery, and whose profanity completely choked the
religious growth first implanted by these miracle plays. The stages, it
should be explained, were of curious construction, being divided into
three stories, the upper one containing the heavenly characters, the
middle one being for the people upon earth, and the lowest for the
denizens of hell.

At the beginning of the sixteenth century the whole Catholic world was
influenced by those reforms so necessary to the Christian Church of that
time, and so bravely contended for and gained by Luther. The
demoralisation which weakened all the church's fabric was deeply
deplored by the Catholic clergy, and we find at the close of this
century St. Philip Neri founding a congregation of priests in Rome and
drawing youths to church by dramatising in simple form such stories as
the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, etc., which were set to music in
four parts with alternate solos, first by Animuccia (a pupil of
Goudimel), and later on by the great Palestrina. These "sacred actions"
or plays were not performed in the church itself, but in an adjoining
chamber, called in Italian "oratorio," an oratory, and the title has
since then adhered to this species of sacred work.

Our girls will be pleased to know that the first oratorio, set to music
by Emilio del Cavalieri, was written by a lady, Laura Guidiccioni. It
was acted for the first time in the year 1600, probably in the oratory
of the Church of Santa Maria della Vallicella, in Rome. The name of the
work is "The Representation of the Soul and the Body." It was to be
played in appropriate costumes, and certain choruses were to be
accompanied, in a reverent and sedate manner, by solemn dances. Some of
the characters were Time, Pleasure, the World, Human Life, the Body,
etc.

As the various forms of music, already named as common to the opera and
oratorio, developed in the former, so in proportion they expanded and
became freer in the latter; those portions which had been mainly founded
upon plain song became more expressive and dramatic, and the melody
assumed a flowing and cantabile character. But whereas you would imagine
that a closer connection between the secular and sacred would be the
result of this change, nevertheless, the composer's conviction that the
music must strive to be of adequate importance to the sacred words and
subjects caused a line to be drawn, ever growing more and more marked,
as time and growth in grace and knowledge went on, between the secular
and sacred musical drama.

In the seventeenth century we find Carissimi greatly advancing oratorio,
and composing really noble music. You may remember a revival of his
"Jephtha," by Mr. Henry Leslie, a few years back. Scarlatti, Stradella,
and others also contributed to this period. But, notwithstanding its
Italian birth and infancy, it remained for Germany to bring oratorio to
a vigorous manhood, and to its lofty position in the world of music. The
compositions of Handel and Bach, early in the eighteenth century, placed
this sacred art form upon a pinnacle of such height and strength, that
few composers have the stamina or knowledge wherewith to reach it.

Having gazed at this, for a time, culminating summit, let us go back to
the early days again for a moment to notice a branch of this tree, a
member of this sacred family, whose growth has been parallel with that
of the subject of our sketch, viz., the Passion oratorio, one dealing
with the sufferings and death of our blessed Redeemer. Foremost amongst
the miracle plays, in which originated the sacred drama, was the
representation, during Holy Week, of the Passion of our Lord. To this
day we have interesting relics of this custom, such as the Oberammergau
play in South Bavaria, the performances in the Sistine Chapel in Rome,
and in some parts of Spain. The oldest Protestant composition on this
subject was published in 1570.

At the commencement of the seventeenth century a great development
followed in the writings of Heinrich Schütz, who wrote music to the
Passion, as told by all four evangelists, and whose tercentenary was
celebrated last year by commencing the publication of all his works. He
did much towards the great musical development in Germany. Following in
his footsteps came Sebastiani, at the end of the century, and Keiser at
the commencement of the eighteenth. In Keiser's Passion we find, in
addition to the Bible narrative, reflective passages for a chorus,
holding much the same functions as the old Greek chorus, with
interpolated solos for "the Daughter of Sion" and "the Believing Soul,"
some of which are used later on by Bach, especially in his setting of
the subject according to St. John's Gospel. John Sebastian Bach added,
moreover, many well-known chorales in which the people could join, and
these favourite old hymn tunes had the greatest power over the hearts of
the worshippers.

Now we have returned to the period at which we left oratorio, and side
by side with Bach's great Passion music stand up those massive
monuments, the oratorios of Handel, of which so much has been written,
and many of which you all know and love so well. It is worthy of notice,
if only to show how recently (viz., almost halfway through the
eighteenth century) action, and costume, and other accessories were
tolerated in connection with the sacred subjects, to tell you that at
the performance of his first English oratorio, "Esther," at the theatre
in the Haymarket, Handel appended the following note to the playbills:--

"N.B. There will be no acting on the stage," this being called shortly
after "oratorio fashion," even when applied to performances of secular
dramatic subjects which were to be sung, and not acted.

After these great works of Handel, no important oratorio was heard in
England until Haydn's "Creation," in 1798. Then, in the present century,
Spohr followed with his "Crucifixion," "Last Judgment," and "Fall of
Babylon;" and then Mendelssohn, that greatest disciple of Bach, whose
"Elijah" and "St. Paul" quite revived the taste for oratorio, and gave
an impetus to it, which extends to our day.

To end this fragmentary sketch, we may fairly say that oratorio should
contain two important elements:--

I. The narrative form, as subject of the whole work.

II. The didactic and contemplative, as interpolations in soliloquy, or
in chorus of adoration, prayer, and warning.

A third element, the dramatic accessories of costume, scenery, and
action, we have dispensed with, and, I think, happily so.

We find in these days in many nations, including our own dear country,
composers are striving after this highest and noblest ideal; let us pray
they may receive that strength necessary for so great a responsibility.
There is none greater in music, and our hearts tell us that unless a
composer knows and believes himself that the subject which in reverence
he approaches is the truth itself, which he must proclaim and preach as
a conviction of his own--we say that unless he thus incorporates himself
in his work it is but mockery, and the result of it nothingness.




NOTES FOR NOVEMBER.


During this month we get the finest effects of the changing tints of
foliage; after a wet, windy summer the colours are poor, but fine and
varied after dry calm weather.

These autumnal changes of colour are caused by decay and death; the life
in the leaf enabled it to withstand certain chemical changes, which it
can no longer resist as the vital force wanes, and the green colouring
matter is either changed or destroyed.

We can prove this fact for ourselves if we notice how often, while all
the rest of a tree is green, the leaves and small branches which are
partly broken, and have, therefore, lost a great part of their vitality,
lose their green colour, and become yellow or red.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not only are the broad effects of a landscape made beautiful in autumn
by the rich colouring of large masses of trees, but the close observer
will find every hedge, bottom, and wild common flaming with colour.
Heath tell us "it is the commonest plants whose colours are the most
beautiful and striking." Amongst those which produce the most brilliant
autumnal tints, the following are found almost everywhere in the hedges
in England: Bramble, hawthorn, wild strawberry, dock, spindle-tree, herb
robert, cranes-bill, silver weed, hedge maple, dogwood, black bryony,
ivy; while in the kitchen gardens nothing can exceed the beauty of the
asparagus and the common carrot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many birds come to England from the north to spend the winter. Wild
ducks, woodcocks, fieldfares, and curlews are coming now, besides
thrushes, larks, and other small birds. Some of these live with us all
through the year, and are only joined by relatives from colder climates.
In very cold winters many birds who do not usually migrate, are driven
south in search of food; but the reception they meet with is hardly
calculated to attract great numbers of strangers to our shores; for the
notice one usually reads in the newspapers is that such and such a rare
bird "has been seen and _shot_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is as hot as we have it in India, or, at any rate, I feel the heat
as much." One often hears this statement on a hot summer's day from an
Indian visitor; while, on the other hand, our Canadian cousins assure us
that their bright, clear winter, though so intensely cold, is not so
trying as ours. This is to a great extent caused by the unusual moisture
of the air in England. John Burroughs tells us that "the average
rainfall in London is less than in New York, and yet it doubtless rains
ten days in the former to one in the latter," which he explains by the
fact that in England "it rains easily, but slowly."

That we can bear greater dry than damp heat is easily proved by holding
one's hand before a fire, and then plunging it into hot water, using a
thermometer in both cases to test the heat. The same fact with regard to
cold can be tried by holding both hands in a draught of cold air, the
one hand being wet, the other dry.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lovers of natural history are not all aware what advantages the first
sharp frost offers them for the study of animal and vegetable life in
ponds. Thoreau, one of the most devoted admirers of nature, says in his
"Walden," that, "The first ice is especially interesting, being hard,
dark, and transparent, and affords the best opportunity that ever offers
for examining the bottom, where it is shallow; for you can lie at your
length on ice only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the surface of
the water, and study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three
inches distant, like a picture behind a glass."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Country girls have an opportunity during the early darkness of winter
afternoons of appreciating one of the dangers which beset arctic
explorers during the long twilight which takes the place of day during
the winter months in those northern climes. In towns, the well-lighted
and well-paved streets make walking in the dusk as easy as in the day;
but girls, whose walks lead through fields and rough country lanes, know
how many trips and stumbles are caused by the uncertain light before
darkness sets in. Greely, in his terribly sad history of the sufferings
of his men during their arctic expedition, tells us how much their
difficulties were increased by this dimness of the light. It was
necessary that they should go long journeys on foot, each man carrying a
heavy load of provisions and other stores; and he adds: "The absence of
sufficient light to cast a shadow has had very unfortunate results, as
several of the men have been badly bruised and sprained. When no shadow
is formed, and the light is feeble and blurred, there is the same
uncertainty about one's walk as if the deepest darkness prevailed. The
most careful observation fails to advise you as to whether the next step
is to lie on a level, up an incline, or over a precipice. A few bad
falls quite demoralise a man, and make him more than ever distrustful of
his eyesight."

       *       *       *       *       *

There is not much to be done in the garden this month, but bulbs may
still be put in, though the flowers will not be so good as those planted
earlier. Hyacinths, narcissi, and tulips planted now ought to flower in
April.

If the weather is mild, the grass should be rolled occasionally; early
peas and beans may be planted in a dry place, and a little radish seed
sown in a warm corner, but they must be carefully covered if a sharp
frost comes.

Green hedges should be clipped, and shrubs needing it pruned. Now that
the leaves are off, the fruit trees may be more easily examined, and
dead branches, or those that rub against one another, removed.

If the weather is very cold, take care of delicate plants by spreading
cocoa-nut fibre or light manure over the beds, or by covering the plants
with matting.




CHILD ISLAND.

FAIRY TALE FOR YOUNGER GIRLS.

[Illustration]


A long time ago--so long that it was ages before my grandfather was a
little boy, and long before his grandmother was a little girl--there
was, not far from fairyland, a beautiful lake, the waters of which were
so clear that as they sparkled in the sunlight they glistened and
gleamed like silver: and so it was called the Silver Lake. Beautiful
white swans sailed majestically on its surface, and thousands of gold
fishes swam in its clear waters.

On one part of the lake the most lovely water-lilies opened up their
white flowers, looking, as some people said, like tiny boats; but one of
the little girls I am going to tell you about thought they looked like a
set of green saucers and white cups, and used to call them the swans'
best tea-things. Now, in the midst of this Silver Lake stood the
beautiful island called Child's Island. Such a lovely little island as
it was had never been seen before, and I verily believe has never been
seen since.

Black clouds never came near it, for there the sky was blue and
cloudless always, and I am told that at night more stars might be seen
from that pretty isle than from any other part of the world; but whether
that is true or not I cannot tell. But I do know that its shores sloped
green down to the water's edge, that the brightest and sweetest flowers
bordered every pathway, that the roses were without thorns, and there
was not a single nettle in the whole island. I know, also, that the
grass was the greenest, the trees the shadiest, the flowers the
brightest, and the fruit the ripest to be found anywhere. As to the
animals, there were none but the gentlest kind. Little white mice went
peeping about with their wee pink eyes, pretty tame squirrels bounded
from tree to tree, and a herd of graceful fawns fed and played in the
meadows. Birds of the gayest plumage and sweetest song were there;
pretty poll-parrots hopped among the trees, crying, "What's o'clock?
What's o'clock?" In short, it was the brightest, merriest, sunniest spot
in the world, and I can say no more in its praise than that. All day
long the sun shone gently down upon the little isle, and the wind never
raised its voice above a whisper.

But, besides birds and butterflies, fawns, and flowers, there was
something else in this pretty isle. Now, what do you guess that
something was? Why, a beautiful fairy palace.

I call it a fairy palace, not because fairies lived there, for they did
not, but because it was the work of fairy hands, and was more beautiful
than any other palace in the world. It stood in the midst of a lovely
garden, but no wall or railing shut it in from the rest of the island;
and you and I, had we been there, might have walked across the green
lawn, and plucked some of the gay flowers, and gone up the marble steps,
without anyone saying, "Stop! You must not go there." Round about the
palace, in groups of twos and threes, were several little houses, all
very beautiful and all exactly alike.

[Illustration]

Now, I daresay you will think that this was a very pretty place, at the
same time, very strange; yet the strangest and, to me, the most charming
thing of all was that there were none but children in this little
island. They were all quite young, the eldest amongst them were not
twelve years old; they were the king and the queen, who, of course,
lived in the beautiful palace. And thus, because only children dwelt
there, it was called Child Island.

[Illustration]

Well, these little folks had nothing to do but to play; and a rare time
they had of it, as you shall hear; but perhaps you would first like to
know how it happened that they were alone in this island without any
grown people to take care of them. Then listen, and I will tell you.

The Silver Lake and Child Island belonged to the good fairy Corianda,
who was very fond of little children, and took great pleasure in
inventing games for, and otherwise amusing them. She loved all children,
but she was especially fond of those of Noviland, the king of which was
one of her subjects. She used often to slip on her magic veil, which
rendered her invisible, and go amongst the little folks of Noviland to
watch them at their play, or at their lessons, or to peep at them whilst
they slept. It was in this way that she found out there was scarcely a
child in Noviland but what was discontented with what it had, and sighed
for what it had not.

One fancied that Noviland would be the jolliest place in the world for
little boys if there were no lessons, no schools; but grammar and
spelling spoiled all. Pepitia thought that if she might wear fine
dresses like mamma, have a coach and six to ride in, and no one to
control her, she would be perfectly contented. The little Teresa sighed
for a land where there was no A B C, and Dorinda for one where toys grew
on trees, and no hard-hearted shopkeeper demanded money before they were
plucked. Herbert wished he lived in a place where there were plenty of
gay butterflies, and that he had nothing to do but to hunt them. Thus
each child had something to wish for, and something to be discontented
about.

I wonder whether there are children in any other part of the world who,
like those of Noviland, want what they have not, and grumble at what
they have? Do you know any? Ah, no! I suppose there are no other little
folks so silly, so I won't urge the question, but go on with my story.

When the good fairy heard all these murmurings, she said to herself, "I
will gratify these little people for a short time in what they want, and
we shall see if they will be happy then."

So she set her fays to work, and had built on Child Island the beautiful
palace and houses I have told you of. When all was ready, she and her
fays took the little grumblers out of their beds one fine night and
wafted them away, whilst still asleep, to Child Island, taking care, I
should tell you, to leave changelings from Fairyland in their places, so
that the parents might not be filled with grief in the morning to find
that their dear children had been stolen away.

The next morning, after the sun had dispelled the mist which always
seemed to hang about him before breakfast at Child Island, and he was
fresh and bright for the day, like little boys with clean faces ready
for school, the young strangers were all assembled on the lawn in front
of the palace, and the fairy spoke to them as follows:--

"My dear children, as you all fancy you would be happier if you were
quite free from control, and if you had nothing to do but to play, I
have brought you to this beautiful island, where you can amuse
yourselves all day long. You will have everything supplied to you, and
there will be no one to dictate to you. These pretty houses I give you
to live in. The palace is for the king and queen, and the other houses
are so precisely alike that none of you will be able to dispute as to
choice. You, Philip, who are the eldest boy, shall be king, and you,
Pepitia, who are the eldest girl, shall be queen. Be kind and
good-natured to one another, and I will always be your friend. Don't eat
too much fruit or cake, as that will make you ill. Now, come with me,
and I will show you the inside of the palace."

Then they followed the good fairy, in a merry crowd, up the marble
steps into the hall of the palace, and a grand hall it was, with its
rows of pillars and richly decorated walls. The fairy led them up the
staircase and through the royal apartments, which consisted of
drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, bedrooms, and dressing-rooms, where the
looking-glasses reached from floor to ceiling and the wardrooms were
filled with magnificent dresses. Then into the throne-room, hung with
crimson velvet embroidered in gold, and where, at the upper end, were
two golden thrones inlaid with precious stones and cushioned with
crimson velvet. The more they saw the more delighted the little folks
were; they clapped their hands with joy, and cried, "Oh, my! how
beautiful!" at least twenty times in a minute.

"Oh! shouldn't I like to be you," said Amanda to Pepitia, "you will be
queen, and have all these fine things."

After they had seen all that was in the palace, the fairy took them over
the other houses, all of which were elegantly furnished, but it would
take up too much time to tell you of all the beautiful things that were
in them. Just fancy how you would like to furnish a little house that
had drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, and whatever you
fancy you would like to put there _was_ there, and even more than that.
No wonder the children were pleased.

After the fairy had shown them all the pretty things the houses
contained, and had allotted to each set of children the particular house
they were to inhabit, a crystal car, drawn by six white swans, was seen
to approach the shore. Then the fairy said, "Now, my little dears, I
must go, for here is my coach and six come to fetch me." So she kissed
them all round, bade them be good children, said she would come to see
them again some day, got into her car, and was soon out of sight, the
children shouting, "Good-bye, dear Fairy, good-bye," till they could see
her no longer.

Then they said, "What shall we play at first?"

"Let us go into that pretty dell, where the fawns are at play, and
gather some of the flowers," said Pepitia. To this they all readily
assented, and ran skipping and singing into the dell. Some pulled long
rushes and sat themselves down to weave little baskets; some gathered
nosegays, some played with the fawns. Presently one of them said, "Oh!
suppose we have a dance."

"Yes, yes, yes, so do," cried a dozen little voices.

"But there's no music," objected the queen, "we can't dance without
music. How I wish we had some!"

"I'll hum a tune," said Sophia; and she immediately began one.

"No, that's so stupid," said Amanda.

"Oh!" screamed a little boy. "Look there!"

"Look where? What's the matter?" cried they all.

"Why, look at that big yellow thing," replied the child, pointing to a
large gourd which lay upon the ground, "it's opening all by itself!"

And sure enough it was slowly opening, as if it were a monster mouth
taking a lazy yawn. The children clustered together and watched it
eagerly, when, to their great amazement, out popped a little figure, not
more than six inches high, dressed in a suit of sky blue velvet with
white lace ruffles at the throat and wrists. The dress was fastened down
the front and at the knees by diamond buttons; diamond buckles were in
its shoes, white silk stockings on its legs, and on its head a crimson
cap with white feather. As soon as this quaint little figure jumped out
of the gourd he was followed by another, and another, and another, till
there were a full score of them, all dressed exactly like the first, and
each carrying a tiny musical instrument in his hand.

As the last jumped out the gourd closed, and the leader of the
Liliputian band stepped a few paces in front of his fellows, and, taking
off his feathered cap, made a low bow to the king and queen, then,
without speaking a word, he sprang on to the foremost branch of a white
Mayflower bush, which was in full blossom, and immediately his little
companions perched themselves on different branches behind him, and
began tuning their tiny instruments.

The children, full of glee, arranged themselves for a dance, the band
struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley," and away they all went, their little
feet keeping time to the music as truly as the leader's tiny baton. They
danced, and they danced, and they danced, till they were too tired to
dance any more, then they flung themselves down to rest; upon which the
little leader of the band jumped down from his perch and placed himself
on a broad smooth leaf, that two of his band spread on the grass
opposite to where sat the king and queen.

He made a low bow to their majesties, the band struck up, and the little
fellow commenced dancing a _pas seul_. If you had seen him prancing and
capering about the leaf, now with his arms akimbo, going jauntily round
and gracefully bending his body from side to side, keeping time to the
music as he did so; now suddenly clasping his hands above his head,
whirl rapidly round and round till he got to the front edge of the leaf,
and then, springing into the air, come down on the very tips of his
pointed shoes; if you had seen all this I think you would have laughed
and shouted as loudly as did Rosetta, Minette, and all the rest of the
little folks. When the droll fellow had finished his dance he flourished
his feathered cap, made a low bow, and backed to where his companions
were standing. The gourd slowly opened again, and each little fellow
making his bow, popped in as quickly as he had popped out; then the
gourd closed, and nothing more was seen of the little musicians that
day.

The children gathered round the gourd and tried to open it; tapped at
it; called to the little musicians to come back; bent down their pretty
heads to listen; but all was useless, no sound came from it, and they
might as well have tried to open the oak tree 'neath which they stood as
it.

Now, for fear you should think that the good fairy had left these little
children to take care of themselves entirely, to cook their own food,
wash their own clothes, make their own beds, and all that sort of
work--for children, you know, cannot do these things for themselves, and
that is why they are always so good and obedient to mammas and papas and
kind aunts, who see to all these things being done for them--I will tell
you what queer, droll little beings she left in the island to attend to
the domestic concerns of the young king and queen and their little
subjects.

Just shut your eyes and fancy you see a little brown figure with small
dark eyes, like black beads, sharp nose, thin lips, and glossy red hair,
combed off the face, plaited into a long tail behind, and tied by a bow
of black ribbon. Then fancy this little figure, with arms so long that
they reach to its knees, dressed in a dark blue smock frock without
sleeves, a red leather belt round its waist, dark red trousers on its
legs, and green morocco shoes on its feet; then call it a Noman, and you
will see precisely the sort of beings which were left to wait on the
young inhabitants of Child Island. They were all alike and all dressed
alike; they used to make their appearance and begin to dust and sweep,
and light fires, and such like, just after cock-crow every morning, and
they all disappeared every night directly the children were safely
tucked in bed. They came all together and they disappeared all together,
but where they came from or where they went to nobody ever knew, so you
must not expect me to tell you.

I daresay you will think these Nomen a strange race, but I am going to
tell you something stranger still concerning them, and that is that none
of them could talk, no--not one!

Was not that odd? They had some way of talking amongst themselves by
means of signs, but the only words they could say to their young masters
and mistresses were, "nob, nob," which meant no, and "yah, yah," which
meant yes. These they uttered very quickly, and nodding their heads at
each sound.

Now, the good fairy had charged these little beings to be very kind and
attentive to the children; to cook their meals and serve them nicely,
and to keep their houses in pretty order.

She also charged the children to be kind and gentle to the Nomen; never
in any way to tease, annoy, or insult them, for if they did, the fairy
said, and she looked very grave as she said it, "some punishment would
immediately follow." This Master Edmund found to be quite true, when one
day he attempted to kick the Noman who was brushing his hair, for as he
raised his leg to kick, an invisible hand pulled the other from under
him, and Master Edmund measured his length on the floor. So, also, Miss
Sophia, who said one day, whilst looking in the glass, admiring herself
and sneering at the Noman who was fastening her frock, "What a fright
you are with your squiny eyes and red hair! I shouldn't like to be such
a fright as you are." Upon which she immediately felt a sharp prick on
her nose, whereon a large red pimple, as big as a cherry, made its
appearance; her frock was torn to tatters, and on going to her wardrobe
for another she found it quite empty, so she had to wear her rags all
that day, as it was not until the next that the clothes came back to her
wardrobe, and the pimple left her nose. I warrant me she will never be
saucy to the Nomen again!

Master King Philip had a lesson of the same kind once, at his dinner
table, when all his court were dining with him. Calling to one of the
Nomen who were waiting, "Make haste, you brown rascal, and fill me a
glass of wine!" the words were scarcely out of his mouth than he got a
smart sounding slap on his face, and his elbow was violently jerked, so
that he spilt all his wine, whereupon the little lords and ladies
tittered, and some were so uncourtly as to laugh outright, and say it
"served him right," which made Master King Philip wish he had not been
so bounceable.

One evening, after they had been some weeks on the island, the king told
his courtiers to prepare for a butterfly hunt, which he intended to have
the next day. Early on the morrow they all assembled at the palace,
attired in green and white, and each carrying an ivory rod, at the end
of which was a green net, with which to catch the butterflies. On
reaching the top of the staircase the little lords went to the
dressing-room of the king, and the little ladies to that of the queen.
Her majesty was dressed in white satin trimmed with green.

"Won't you wear your crown?" asked Rosetta.

"Well, I don't know," said the queen, in an undecided tone of voice.
"Ought I? Won't it be too heavy for the chase?"

"Oh, but kings and queens always wear their crowns when they go
out--don't they?" said Rosetta, appealing to her companions.

"Yes, yes; to be sure they do. Wear the crown--do wear the crown!" they
all cried, clapping their hands.

Pepitia did not require much persuasion on the subject, as she dearly
liked to be finely dressed. And, indeed, when she had put it on, and
also her velvet train lined with satin and trimmed with ermine, I must
confess she did look a charming young queen. The little Dorinda was so
struck with her appearance that she screwed up her face into a comical
expression of surprise, and, holding up both her hands, exclaimed--

"Oh, my! Aren't you smart!"

"But I don't like the way your hair is done," said Amanda, who was
disposed to be quizzical.

"Don't you?" rejoined the queen, tartly. "Then you needn't."

Amanda was on the point of making an equally tart reply, when
fortunately the king appeared at the door, and so interrupted the
threatened dispute. He also wore his crown and train, and, moreover, he
carried the ball and sceptre in his hand; for this little monarch was
not disposed to part with any of the insignia of royalty, and thought he
might as well not be a king if he did not wear the grand trappings
belonging to his office.

Then the whole party went down into the hall to be marshalled into
proper order by Alphonse, who always took upon himself to be master of
the ceremonies whenever he could get a chance. This was not effected
without a vast deal of chattering and confusion; and report says that
one or two sounds like "Shan't!" "Shall!" were distinctly heard,
followed by what sounded like, and probably was, a slap.

The little train-bearers were especially difficult to manage, owing to
their constantly wanting to speak to one or other of their companions in
the rear, which inclination occasioned their majesties several
unmajestic jerks from behind, and, of course, called forth a sharp
reprimand from the majesty so pulled; the only effect of which was a
vast deal of giggling amongst the little girls, and the making of droll
faces by the little boys.

"Please, queen, Edmund's making a face!" cried a little lady-in-waiting,
looking at the culprit and speaking to the queen.

"Oh, you story-teller!" cried Edmund, indignantly. "I ain't."

"I'll box your ears if you do so again, you rude boy," said the queen,
turning sharp round on the guilty Edmund. At this threat the urchin made
a queer grimace, and then pretended to cry, sobbing out, "Oh, please,
queen, don't!"

[Illustration]

At length all were got into their proper places, and the procession set
out. The king and queen, with their train-bearers, marched first, then
strode consequential Master Alphonse, and the rest of the party
followed, two and two, all singing a jingling rhyme as they marched, and
swinging their nets to the tune. This is what they sang:--

    "Bring your nets and make haste;
    Come away to the butterfly chase,
    Up the meadow and through the dell,
    By the path we know so well;
    Shout loud, jump high,
    And haste to catch the butterfly."

When they came to the dell where most butterflies were to be found they
all separated and got their nets ready, whilst Alphonse took a thin
switch and gently beat amongst the flowers, which grew in great
profusion.

Presently a cloud of large, brilliant butterflies flew up, and the
children, shouting, started off in chase of them. The train-bearers were
not proof against the excitement of the moment, and, quite forgetting
their post of honour, scampered off pell-mell with the rest, leaving
their majesties looking rather foolish.

"The rude little things, to run off in that manner!" cried the queen.

"Here, I say, you Alphonse!" shouted the king, forgetting his dignity,
"come back! I shan't play if you're going off like that. Come back."

But Alphonse was too busy chasing a brown and gold butterfly to heed
King Philip or anybody else.

Just then there flew past an immense butterfly with wings of crimson,
black, and gold. Philip immediately forgot all about being a king; away
went ball and sceptre, and off he started in full chase. Now the queen
loved butterflies no less than the king, so no sooner did she see him
take to his heels than she started off in pursuit of the same butterfly.

Away they both went, their trains flying behind them, over hillocks and
through bushes, quite regardless of their fine clothing.

The butterfly led them a fine dance; many a time they thought they had
got it, but it always managed to fly off just as the extended thumb and
finger were about to close upon it. Philip and Pepitia were tired,
though by no means inclined to give up the chase, when the butterfly
burrowed itself deep into a convolvulus flower that grew on the top of a
not very high bank.

"Now we shall have him," cried Philip, as they both scrambled up the
bank. But, alack and alas! Pepitia's foot got caught in her long train
just as she got to the top of the bank, and down she fell, roly-poly, to
the bottom.

Poor Pepitia! she quite forgot she was a queen, and began to cry most
lustily, not the less because she could not use her arms to raise
herself, for in her tumble she had got so rolled round and round in her
train that she could not move her limbs.

Philip ran quickly to her assistance, and soon extricated her from her
embarrassment, but as she still continued to cry, he tenderly, for he
was a tender-hearted boy, sat her down on a grassy mound and tried to
console her.

"What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself, dear?"

But Pepitia only sobbed and sobbed instead of answering, partly because
she was hurt, and partly because she was vexed, and the poor little king
began to fear she would never leave off crying.

"I wish that Alphonse and the rest would come back," said he, feeling
disposed to pick a quarrel with "that" Alphonse when he did come.

(_To be concluded._)




AFTERNOON TEA.

[Illustration]

(_See Frontispiece._)


    A pretty cottage, and maidens three,
    Blithe and happy as maids can be,
    Out in the garden at afternoon tea.

    Just such a feast as girls will make--
    Fruit and flowers and a big plum cake,
    And plenty of laughter for laughter's sake.

    The sunflowers nodded their heads so tall,
    The dahlias smiled 'neath the moss-grown wall,
    The three little maids outdid them all.

    I warrant me in that garden gay
    Was never a bloom more fair than they,
    As they sipped their tea on that summer day.

    Three little maids. Ah! one is dead,
    And one is married; and one, unwed,
    Now lives alone in the old homestead.

    There are silver threads in her golden hair,
    Her cheek is pallid and lined with care,
    Yet is she still accounted fair.

    And daily her gracious, tender ways
    Win a more loving meed of praise
    Than did the prime of her girlish days.

    Yes, youth will wane as the years go by;
    Too soon do the rose-leaves scattered lie,
    But charms there are which may never die.

    And hence it happens that oft we trace
    Through timeworn features the soul's sweet grace,
    And beauty lives in a faded face.

    SYDNEY GREY.

[Illustration]




HEALTHY LIVES FOR WORKING GIRLS.

"Grant her in health and wealth long to live."

These are the words in which many of us, Sunday after Sunday, pray for
our gracious Queen. We desire for her health and wealth; and justly so;
both are necessary. The one for her comfort, and to enable her to
perform her arduous duties; the other for her exalted rank and position.

For ourselves, however, it is to be hoped we rarely pray for what is
termed wealth; but, on the other hand, how needful it is that we should
supplicate unceasingly for health. "Grant me health, Lord, to perform my
daily task." We have, indeed, need to ask for that unpurchasable, that
priceless blessing. If we possess it already, we need to implore its
continuance; if we have lost it, so much the more earnestly and devoutly
should we solicit a return to its paths. Yes, next to the possession of
a healthy conscience, we hold physical health to be the greatest of all
gifts, but, like most of the grandest, fairest, and divinest things on
earth, many of us accept it as a matter of course. And when, through our
own want of forethought, through neglect of the most ordinary rules of
health, through reckless indifference, we are forced practically to
acknowledge that the most robust health has its limits of endurance,
then we chafe and pine; and life, which seemed such a joyous, easy thing
a month ago, is now a dreary burden, duty a heavy chain, pleasure a
fiction; and self, weary self, rises in the ascendant, occupies all our
sympathies and thoughts, and leaves us dissatisfied and indifferent,
ungrateful and ungracious.

There are those who believe that by not attending to or neglecting their
health they are acting unselfishly. They say it is so selfish to be
always considering whether this is good or harmful or that is likely to
encroach upon the domain of health. If this sentiment is carried to the
verge of hypochondria, we grant its truth. There is nothing more odious
than a person who is constantly looking out for the weathercocks, and
who, as soon as he finds the wind in a certain quarter, shuts himself
up, and carefully excludes all intercourse from the outer world; or who
can trace certain symptoms--the hypochondriacs' pet word--to the extra
spoonful of salt or sugar in yesterday's seasoning; who is a bore to his
surroundings and a melancholy object of interest to himself; who is
nothing but a useless encumbrance upon the face of the earth.

This is not the taking care which we advise or suggest. Things good in
themselves may be perverted into errors by the spirit and the want of
judgment with which they are pursued, and we fervently believe that if
our prayer for health is answered, it will be first by the opening of
our own eyes to facts and laws to which we were hitherto blind, or of
which we have been ignorant, than to the practical observance of these
laws, and our willingness to be subject to them.

But it is not of those who are merely inconvenienced by illness that we
would speak to-day. Not of those who are only subjected to the loss of a
little pleasure, a good deal of temper, and who are learning a lesson in
being patient. In a word, we do not write for the well-to-do invalid,
but for a very different class. Our remarks are intended especially for
those of "our girls" to whom health is, perhaps, the only capital they
possess. To whom loss of health means loss of work, loss of wage,
anxiety, which aggravates matters, and perhaps serious privations to
those in any way dependent upon their exertions.

Yes, the army of girl and women workers in this great metropolis is,
indeed, a vast one, and work for them is no sinecure. If they cannot
work so thoroughly or efficiently as men, at least it is for them
greater toil than for the sterner sex. Of a more delicate organisation,
of less robust frame, of smaller powers of endurance, the "buffets of
fortune" meet with less resistance, and are more readily yielded to.
Added to this, men have the advantage of being early trained to the
habit of work which many of our girls have not, and they have greater
facilities afforded them for outdoor exercise, of which they very
readily avail themselves. These are all advantages which women do not
possess, or if they do, it is after a careful course of acquired
systematic training with a view to meet those demands upon their health
and strength which are entailed by the continued and steady application
to one branch of labour or to one particular profession. There is no
doubt that a girl cannot take up an engagement which demands her daily
presence at a stated place and at a given time, to perform duties which
perhaps require the concentration of mental powers, and very frequently
the maintenance of the body in one position for many hours together.
There is no doubt, we repeat, that unless such avocations are begun and
continued with decidedly common-sense views as to diet, hygiene, and
general deportment, but little time will elapse ere our girl will
succumb for a greater or less period to the unusual fatigue and the
unwonted restrictions to which she has to submit.

It is fatal in such cases to regard health from a careless or
indifferent standpoint. It is a question which must be considered by
every one of the legion of working girls and women who labour for their
own, and often for others' bread. Looking at it from the most practical
standpoint, it will be found to be the greatest economy in the end. If
the health is kept at a fair standard of excellence, the mental powers
are maintained in a state of useful energy. As soon as health is below
par, even when not sufficiently so as to force us to desist from work,
the brain loses its elasticity; we are dull, become mere machines
instead of intelligent workers, and our duty gets irksome and fails to
interest us. And here let us interpose one word. If we wish to spare
ourselves that most wearying of all sensations, that fatal sense of
boredom and disgust for our daily task which sometimes creeps in upon
us, we must try with all our hearts to take an interest in what our
hands find to do. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do that do with thy
might." It is not only right to think and act up to this; it is the
greatest wisdom also; for our own comfort and happiness. Work done with
a will only takes half the time in doing. The hours fly, and the sense
of weariness has no time to creep in. This is a spirit, it will be
found, which can be easily cultivated, and will, after a little effort,
come quite naturally, much to our benefit in every way.

It has seemed to us, in spite of the great advance that has been made in
the teaching of hygiene, and the possession by many of a fair knowledge
of the laws which govern it, that there is still a lamentable want of
practicability in its application; that is to say, the theories we
learn, and to which we subscribe, are rarely, and then very imperfectly,
carried out in actual individual life. We grant that great improvements
are visible on all sides, in what we might term general hygiene; but
where we perceive a great deficiency still, is in that personal
application of the laws of health which must and can only be properly
applied by individuals to themselves, so as to make them fit into the
circumstances under which they exist.

It will not help our girls much, for instance, to have learnt the number
of cubic feet of oxygen that is necessary for turning the purple blood
into scarlet--the amount of nitrogenous, phosphatic, carbonaceous, and
other elements which are requisite for building up new tissue, etc.,
etc., and many other dry facts of a kindred nature, if she does not put
this knowledge to practical use. There is a wide division between facts
thus learnt off glibly at school and the practical application of them
to our daily wants.

The human body, if it is to be maintained in but a fair state of health,
requires a certain amount of fresh air--a certain amount of
flesh-forming, bone-forming, brain-forming, and warmth-giving nutriment.
Our girls require to have a tolerable, if not exactly a faultless,
circulation, in order that these various foodstuffs may be digested,
_i.e._, converted into these flesh, bone, and brain-forming tissues. In
order to have a tolerable circulation, the body must have a regular
amount of exercise and of fresh air. There, in a nutshell, is the secret
of the whole matter. Given a fairly normal state of health to begin
with, that health may be maintained by a little wise direction of our
actions towards supplying the really very moderate demands of Nature,
upon which, however, modest as they are, she insists, to enable her to
carry on the process of healthy life. Deprive her of that little, and
the results are such as we too frequently see--broken-down health from
overwork (so-called) of many of our busy sisters. It is our intention
here to endeavour to put this plainly before our girls.

We will imagine, then, that some of our girls have to pass many--say
eight or ten--hours of their days in work; that that work is sedentary
work; that our girls are very apt to stoop, for their poor backs get
weary sometimes. We will imagine that it is winter, and sitting as they
do all day, they like to have all the windows closed. Our girls will not
feel very hungry when meal-time comes, especially if they have to
provide their own meals. In fact, many of our girls practise a little
economy in this direction, if the choice of doing so rests with them.
Economy, we all know, is imperative in many conditions of life--not only
amongst working girls; and it is a serious matter to practise it
wisely--to determine and mark clearly the line that divides the luxuries
from the necessities. In the former practise as much economy as you
will; in the latter it is only a false way of meeting matters which will
have to be balanced by-and-by with heavy interest.

Well, our girls not being very hungry (for their lungs are full of
impure air, and they feel tired and weary--rather sleepy too--all from
the same cause), they think they will make themselves "a nice cup of
tea--strong, you know." They do not care whether they have milk with it
or not, so long as the tea is strong and gives them a fillip. With this
they will eat a little roll and butter or bread and cheese. This
so-called meal is either partaken of in the room in which they work, or
our girls go out for it. In the latter case they stand a little better
chance; for often the fact of going out of the room in which they have
been seated all the morning brings with it a sense of returning
appetite, and induces them to procure a more substantial meal. But even
this is rarely the case; for they have an odd sinking at the chest, and
if they eat a heavy meal and sit down directly after it, they get that
weight behind their waistbands, they cannot breathe, and they feel
altogether miserable. They do not feel like this, they think, after the
good, strong tea--the clearest proof to them that they should look to it
as a main resource during the midday rest. Probably tea is again hailed
with delight during another break in the work-hours; and at the end of
the day our weary one is so fearfully tired, although she has been
sitting all day, that she feels as though her limbs would never carry
her home. Come what may, she must ride. She puts herself into the first
Underground Railway carriage that will take her to her destination, and,
exchanging the carbonic acid gas of the workroom for the sulphurous gas
of the underground tunnels, she arrives home spent and utterly tired
out, longing to get to bed and rest her weary limbs and pillow the poor,
fatigued head. In the morning, feeling refreshed after Nature's kind and
grateful rest, she plucks up again and walks to the scene of her duties.
But she has to be there by a certain time, and, somehow, she always
manages to be just a little late in starting, so that at the last she
has to hurry to arrive at the appointed hour. She looks at every clock
she passes; she starts at some which tell her that it is later than she
thought, feels relieved at others which are more merciful; and, putting
on an extra spurt at the last, manages to arrive just to the minute.

But what good can our girl get from a walk taken under such
circumstances? It is ten times as fatiguing--the mind is harassed, the
heart is beating wildly, and the breathing is short and hurried.

The routine of the previous day is then repeated. There is the same
shyness of air, the same imperfect meal, the same lassitude, the same
finale.

Pursue this course, or one similar to it, for a few months and we defy
any girl to keep well. She may not yet break down altogether, but she
will have lapsed from positive into negative health, and the merest
straw may turn her negative health into actual bodily incapacity--which
means the loss of work and wages to which we have referred.

And is it to be wondered at? Our girl has been steadily withholding
from Nature all those elements upon which she imperatively insists as
the condition under which alone she will consent to carry on her work.
Long-suffering she is, and ever eager to repair any neglect that has not
been carried too far. Only return to the right path, and she busily sets
to work to make good the ravages which have followed upon our ignorance
or neglect of her laws. But it must be the right path. None other will
do. She will not be cajoled into working with any other than her own
simple tools.

Our girls have withheld from her air, food, exercise--the three great
factors of her powers--and have given for them miserable substitutes.
Though kind, she cannot be put off with excuses. She is inexorable, and
the same results will follow our neglect of her laws, whether it be due
to a want of acquaintance with them or want of attention. It is as much,
if not more, from these causes, then, that our girl has become ill than
from the supposed overwork. Overwork might have been the immediate
cause; that is to say, her collapse might have followed upon a little
extra pressure or hurry of work; but the real cause will be found to lie
in that steady neglect of the primary laws of health to which we have
alluded, and upon which too much emphasis cannot be laid. Had it not
been so, the fatigue engendered by an extra hour's work would have been
set right by a good night's rest.

And when our girl is ill, her recovery will depend upon the degree to
which she is enabled to meet the demands of Nature. If she can have
plenty of rest, peace of mind, fresh air, light, digestible, and
nourishing food, sunshine, and genial surroundings, she will soon be
herself again. But if our brave worker has not these indispensables, or
has them in a chance, get-me-if-you-can sort of way, then she lingers
on, and often rises from her couch but half cured, and plunges on again
under the old conditions, until something occurs which some persons call
"a chance," some by another name, which mercifully changes the current
of her life for a while, or perhaps for a permanency.

It is said that "men do work while women weep." That is part of an
old-time ditty. In this generation women do not leave all the work to
their brothers, and we will hope that in proportion as we work more, so
we weep less. And women are not to be pitied that it is so. Work is one
of the greatest of blessings, and when its aim is high, is, we believe,
blessed. There is no reason why our work should be irksome to us, or
should be aught but a pleasure. We must make up our minds to a certain
number of disagreeables, and be prepared to meet them as they arise; but
beyond that we should endeavour to take a pleasure in our work and a
pride in its correct fulfilment. This will be easy to do with health,
but without it will require more moral resolution than many of us
possess.

Let us then turn this subject over in our minds and see if nothing can
be done to make matters a little smoother; to enable us to be happy in
our work-a-day lives; to lessen the chances of becoming ill, and, in
spite of circumstances, to meet Nature's demands in one way or another.

First, then, as to air. That early morning walk is a good thing. It is
well to get the lungs filled with pure morning air. Even in the London
streets the air is tolerably good at that time. But many of our girls
live a little way from the crowded streets, and only come into them for
business or professional purposes. Some live too far to walk the whole
distance into town. If that is the case, they should ride part of the
distance. They should choose for the walking that part of the route
which has the most trees about it, going a little out of their way even
to walk through one of the parks or squares. They should not hurry, but
should take care previously to allow themselves ample time. This can
quite well be done by a little management, and when our girls are imbued
with a sense of its importance we are sure will be. They should, if
possible, meet one of their companions who is going the same way, and
should chat to their hearts' content. (We are not afraid of the
non-performance of this part of our prescription.) This will exercise
the lungs, send plenty of fresh air into them, and lessen fatigue. A
walk, under such conditions, is of untold value.

Our girl then will begin her day in better spirits. She will feel in a
lighter mood; difficulties will be brushed aside. Instead of a furtive
glance at the clock, and a thankful gasp that she has arrived in time,
she will never think of the hour till she enters the room, for she has
not troubled her mind about it, knowing she has given herself ample
time. With all the arts of persuasion at her command she will then seek
to lead her companions to have the windows open, just a chink or two at
the top; and will gradually lead them round to her own conviction of the
necessity for fresh air, and of the great desirability there is for an
outlet for the carbonised air which is being emitted by one and all from
their lungs. Before long she will have gained her point, and the open
window will be a daily fact.

We are speaking now, of course, of our sensible girl, the one who has
taken in the justice of our remarks, and who intends to act up to them
as far as she can.

At luncheon time she will produce from her store some well cut
sandwiches, made preferably with brown bread, and, with heroic
determination, refuse tea (for it is hard to give up a habit), and will,
instead, regale herself with a glass of milk, or a cup of cocoa; or, if
she has neither of these, she will make a little strong beef-tea of
Liebig's extract of meat, and partake of it with her roll and butter,
remembering that, by the addition of an egg, she will make her broth
more sustaining.

If she goes out to a restaurant and does not care for meat, she will
recollect that its properties may be found more or less in eggs, in
milk, in lentils, in haricot beans, in oatmeal, and in peas. Oatmeal
porridge and milk form an excellent, inexpensive, and nutritious lunch
or midday dinner. In some form or other one of these nitrogenous foods
should be taken during the midday meal; and, if the taste and finances
permit, should be supplemented by a little fresh, stewed, or dried
fruit. Fruit is most wholesome, and is well enclosed within the border
line of necessities.

Then, when tea time comes round, our sensible girl will either take milk
again, or else will dilute her tea largely with milk, or, failing that,
with water, and will refuse altogether to drink tea that has "stood" for
more than a quarter of an hour. In the evening she will feel less tired
(_i.e._, less exhausted from want of air and food), and will repeat her
method of procedure of the morning on her journey home. Arrived there,
she will feel far less weary and exhausted, and will enjoy a quiet,
social evening, a book, a little music, or some such relaxation.

But we can hear her, O. S. G., saying, after pursuing this _régime_ for
awhile, "It is true I am better in a great many ways, but I do still
have back-ache, I do still have the weight in my chest, which I know now
to be indigestion; you say nothing about that. Even your pea-soup or
your oatmeal porridge punishes me, and make me wish we could altogether
live without eating."

Be not so impatient, my dear sensible one, we are coming to that now.
One great reason of your back-ache is that stoop of yours. You seem to
think it essential to maintain your spine in the shape of the letter C.
You have got into a very bad habit, and if you try now to sit upright
you get as tired as possible--your back, too, is not the only sufferer;
your digestive organs are all cruelly cramped--all the delicate
machinery, by the aid of which occur the changes of the food in its
conversion to the different bodily tissues, is impeded in its action, is
hemmed in, is fretted. Instead of a free circulation, and an unimpeded
course between all the channels of communication, the functions of
digestion are carried on with difficulty, and the stooping pose is the
cause of many other complications into which we have not space to enter
here.

We have said that exercise is necessary. A great part of that is indeed
gained by the walk to and from business. But that is not sufficient.
Indeed, we do not consider that walking exercise, exclusive of any
other, is sufficient to keep the body in health; but in the instance we
are imagining it is especially insufficient. The body ill brooks being
kept in one posture for any length of time; and during sedentary
occupation some of the muscles are maintained in a state of extension,
whilst others are as unduly kept in a state of relaxation. These
relative conditions, kept up as they are for hours and hours, cannot
fail to have their marked results on the health of our girl. If she were
at home, she would throw her work aside, get up and walk about a little,
or run upstairs to stretch out her limbs; but in business this is not to
be thought of; so she must bear it as best she can. Not so, say we.
There is even here a remedy--even here a way of procuring an immense
amount of relief. Our only fear for its adoption, however, rests in its
extreme simplicity. But when our girl thinks a little more she will
learn that all really great and effective things are simple, and that it
is only their useless wrappings that blind people to their real simple
grandeur. We shall give O. S. G. our remedy in its modest garb of
truthfulness, and she will, we think, not reject it. We would advise
her, then, three or four times during the day, to stand upright by her
chair--she need not even move from her place--throw her shoulders back,
stretch her head up, expand her chest, and arch the spine well inwards,
remaining in that position for at least half a minute. This will
entirely change the posture of all the muscles, those which before were
expanded being now contracted, and _vice versâ_. She will then send her
arms straight up over her head, and either bring them down from there
like a wheel, or, if she has not room for this, will bend her arms so as
to form a V with each arm, the two points of the V being respectively
the shoulder and hand and the lower point the elbow. If done properly,
this will beautifully expand the chest, and will contract the muscles of
the back both laterally and longitudinally. Our girl must take care,
however, to keep her head very erect, if she would have the whole
benefit of the exercise. The whole business occupies about a minute and
a half; it is as easy and as simple as breathing; and, we repeat, its
usefulness is not to be measured.

The chief difficulty in this part of our _régime_, after its extreme
simplicity, will lie in its novelty. It will seem absurd and ridiculous
to those who do not understand these matters, but O. S. G. will have to
learn to bear the ridicule of others some time during her life, and she
might as well begin now. She may be sure that only those will laugh at
her whose opinions are not worth considering, and if she quietly
persists in doing what is right, the ridicule will first be changed into
respect, and then into imitation.

O. S. G. must remember that her health is her all. At least, it is the
all of the girl of whom we are speaking. Now, it is most imperative that
she should guard that health as she would a treasure. Once aware of the
simple rules which must be observed to that end, she will shape her
actions so as to make them fit in with the circumstances of her life.

The dress of our girl workers is also a point to be considered. It
should be durable, suitable, comfortable, and should be made simply and
practically. The dress is far better when made in one, _i.e._, not
divided at the waist, then the weight of the garment is equally
distributed over the body, from the waist and shoulders. There should be
no steels or kindred impediments, which have to be considered in sitting
down. A durable wool material, thicker in winter, thinner and lighter in
colour and texture in summer, is always the most durable, and keeps its
freshness longer. The bodice should fit well and comfortably at the neck
and round the arm-holes, so that there is no pressure anywhere.

For a working gown there is nothing, in our opinion, to equal the
princess dress, made to clear the ground, and modernised, if our girl
wills, by a flouncing, and a little puffed drapery behind, either with
or without a scarf loosely tied round the waist.

For slender girls the round-gathered dress and bodice (in one) are very
useful and suitable. The principal advantage of the princess dress is
its continuity from the shoulders downwards, leaving the waist free of
bands and tapes. With spotless collars and cuffs, our girl will be both
suitably and well dressed. A good woollen combination under-garment for
warmth and protection from the cold, thicker in winter, thinner in
summer. One, or at the most two, woollen petticoats, made with sloping
bands, to prevent pressure at the waist, will form a very comfortable
and practical dress, and, moreover, one that will present a very fair
appearance.

No, we know we have said nothing about stays; we are no friend to them;
we dislike them heartily, and we shall never rest until we can release
our girls from their trammels. We know the difficulties that present
themselves on all sides, but these can be met and overcome. Once release
our girls from this bone and steel bondage, her health will rise to a
high state of excellence. But she has so accustomed herself to use her
stays as a prop upon which she leans, that not without great resolution
on her part will she consent to pass through the small discomfort of the
change.

Once she has done so, however, she will wonder that she never thought of
it before, so light, so free, so agile will she feel. These stays are
our girls' worst foes, and have as much to answer for the indigestion as
all else put together.

If our girls wish to be happy, merry workers, as well as hard,
responsible workers, they will have to learn to do without stays; they
will have to train their own muscles to supply them with the support
they now seek in the corset.

"How are we to do this?" we hear some exclaim, who have followed us so
far. "How are we, who work from morn till eve, to begin 'training our
muscles?' We have no time now for that sort of thing."

Get a little more patience, dear girls. Reforms go slowly, but steadily,
if willing hearts go together. We hope ere long to show you that this,
too, is possible.

Meantime, for an immediate step in the right direction, let us urge upon
those who have not the courage to throw aside the corset, to set about
rendering it less harmful. Let the working corset be soft, and denuded
of its bones, and let the front steel be exchanged for a very flexible
one, and let the stays, above all, be very loosely laced. We feel we are
weak in conceding thus much even, but we look upon it as the thin end of
the wedge, which represents the fulfilment of our aim.

We think we have now said enough to set our girls thinking, and though
we have far from exhausted our subject, we hope that each reader will be
able to deduce some hints which may be applicable to herself.




BOOKS FOR TIRED GIRLS.


Have not some readers of THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER a few to spare?

A little reading-room and library for business girls is about to be
opened in the new Y.W.C.A. Buildings, 316, Regent-street, now quickly
nearing completion. Help is greatly needed in making it really
attractive for those whose minds are hungry after the day's mechanical
work, but who are too weary to take up a prosy volume.

Brightly written works of history, biography, natural history, travels,
etc., would be warmly welcomed, and good poetry and fiction; also graver
books, specially such as would be helpful to Sunday-school teachers.

Parcels should be addressed to Miss L. Trotter, 316, Regent-street,
London, who will thankfully acknowledge them.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

H. F. and CONAMARA.--Write to Griffith and Farran, St.
Paul's-churchyard, E.C., for a small shilling manual called a "Directory
of Girls' Clubs," which will give you a large choice of educational,
literary, industrial, artistic, and religious societies instituted for
the benefit of girls, the cost being little more than nominal.

M. HEDGE.--The change of your address, from what has been given in the
"Directory of Girls' Clubs," will probably cause you inconvenience,
which it is now too late to avoid. You should have named the probability
of a change. In any case, we can tell our readers that those who wish to
avail themselves of your useful Society for Studying Languages, should
address the secretary at Lyndhurst Lodge, Chelsea-road, Southsea, Hants.

A. G. O. E.--We scarcely think that any system for helping the memory
for ordinary use would be of service to you in the matter of playing
long pieces of music by heart; it is so much a mechanical operation, the
hands often acting while the mind is preoccupied with other matters. Try
to learn a simple air, not a long piece of six pages.

A SWISS GIRL.--The Cambridge and Oxford examinations are open to
students of all nationalities alike. For information respecting those of
either university, write direct. If you wish to compete in the Cambridge
junior local examination, held in December, you must be under seventeen.
Write to the Rev. G. F. Browne, St. Catherine's College; fee, £1. For
the Cambridge senior you must be under eighteen. The Cambridge higher
(local) examinations are held in December and in June; fees, £1 and £2.
An honour certificate in this examination admits to Tripos examinations
the members of Girton and Newnham who have resided during a sufficient
number of terms, provided the student has passed a language and
mathematics. If your age should exclude you, you might go to the
universities of Edinburgh, Glasgow, or St. Andrews, where no limitations
are made in respect to age.

GUESS.--We advise you to write to the British chaplain of the Embassy
Chapel, in the Rue d'Aguesseau, for information and the best advice, as
he has taken a special interest in the matter of English girls being
sent to French schools, and has publicly addressed the question in all
its many bearings. Address the British Chaplain.

ANXIOUS MOTHER.--See our answer to "Guess." There is a French Protestant
institution, directed by Madame Yeatman Monoury, 27, Bd. Eugène, Parc de
Neuilly, Paris, which is, or was, patronised by the Rev. Canon Fleming,
the late Bishop of Carlisle, Bishop of Down, Lord Napier of Magdala, and
other persons of consideration. There is also a Protestant school at 27,
Rue des Bois, près du Bois de Boulogne, for which the charge amounts to
£60 per annum. Apply to the lady directress, Mademoiselle Jonte.


ART.

A COLONIAL SUBJECT.--The illuminating body mentioned is used on
parchment and hot-pressed drawing-paper. It is mixed with the
water-colours to render them opaque.

R. C. M.--1. To press flowers, gather them when dry, not quite
full-blown, and before the sun has faded them; press them between sheets
of botanical-paper, change and dry the latter constantly. 2. You can
draw an outline upon a mirror with red pencil and Indian ink. It is
better, however, to mark the design through tracing-paper with a
knitting-needle.

ASTHORE and DOLLY.--The generality of the advertisements named by you
are not to be relied on, and we advise your not spending your money as
you propose.

LARRY WILFER.--Female art scholarships are conferred by the Slade
School, by the Crystal Palace School of Art, and by the National Art
Training School, South Kensington. Apply for farther information to the
secretaries of each of these schools.

A WOULD-BE ARTIST.--There is a school of wood-engraving at 122,
Kennington Park-road. The yearly fee for instruction is £3, and free
scholarships after the first year are obtainable by students. These
latter must be upwards of sixteen years of age.

PRINCESS PEACE.--1. There is a preparation sold by Lechertier and Barbe
for fixing chalk drawings. It is a liquid, which is blown upon the
picture when finished with an apparatus resembling a scent-spray (price
2s.). 2. If you can obtain regular employment from a good firm,
wood-carving is profitable, especially when you can originate your
designs; but these appointments are not to be had every day. Show some
of your work to an upholsterer, or a carver and gilder, and you may
either obtain an engagement or at least an order.


HOUSEKEEPING.

A YOUNG WIFE is certainly entitled to display any large articles of
silver she may possess on her sideboard in the dining-room.

PASTORA should have the silver cleaned by a silversmith. 2. A recipe for
"pot pourri" has lately been given.

A FARMER'S DAUGHTER.--The feathers required a very much longer time for
drying, and must also be "stripped," as it is called, _i.e._, all the
large thick stalks taken out. It is these which have not dried, and
retain the animal particles, causing the smell.

PINCHER and FREDA.--A recipe for "pot pourri" was given at page 224,
vol. v.

A YOUNG DOMESTIC.--We should recommend the eiderdown quilt being sent to
a cleaner's, as it will only lead to disappointment if you wash it at
home. Put a little glycerine on the tea-stain before it goes to the
wash.

PRIMROSE should try a little tripoli and water upon the surface of the
table. It will remove the spots.

PRIMEVERE.--There have been no other papers but those you mention on
"Economical Housekeeping," but we shall probably give more on both
subjects.

WILLOUGHBY.--We do not think that either green gooseberry jam or jelly
can be kept green; they always boil a light red.

NOVICE IN HOUSEKEEPING.--If you paid more attention to ascertaining what
meat, game, fish, poultry, fruit, and vegetables were in season (fully
in), and then procured them at places where you had not to pay for extra
high rents, as you do when shops are situated in expensive localities,
you would bring down your bills greatly.


MISCELLANEOUS.

INKY PEN.--We sympathise much with your anxiety, but we can only say to
you as we say to all who wish to succeed in literary work, you must try
and try again for a long time before you will succeed, and success is
not even then assured.

E. MC. T.--Your sedentary life as a dressmaker does not agree with you.
You should try to take more exercise and warming food. Dress in woollen
under-clothing, and rub the body well in the morning with a cloth dipped
in salt and water.

VIOLET VERNON.--We have heard that the homoeopathists have a special
cure for such little excrescences.

TOM-TIT writes very well. The 2nd of January, 1865, was a Monday.

NYMPHIA ALLA.--Disease or weakness of the nervous system is often,
unhappily, an inheritance from our parents. Not that they may be nervous
themselves, but that their course of life--late hours, over-taxed brain,
poor living, fast living, drink, or bad constitution, etc., result, one
or more, in bequeathing a wretched inheritance of weak nerves, not
positive disease, to their children. Live generously, go to bed early,
be much in the open air, and take a tonic if required, and by a doctor's
advice.

ALONE.--We sympathise with you, and approve of the sentiments you
express in verse; but the latter is not even correct in composition,
quite apart from its lack of any ideality, which is inseparable from
true poetry. No sentence should be divided (excepting as a joke in a
burlesque piece) between two lines thus--

    "But 'what' He was preparing _for
    Him_ was not on earth; it was where"

B. W. complains of "taking fits of laughter into her head." Evidently,
she has apartments to let in that repository. In any case, it is well
that she should find so much to entertain her and feel so bright and
happy. This state of things will only change too soon.

FIDDLESTICKS.--Your verses have been written without due knowledge of
metrical composition.

MATY GERTY.--We are glad to hear that you have rosy cheeks. Surely you
would not like to look like a washed-out, pasty-faced, sickly little
girl? Young folks often get spots in the face from eating too fast,
swallowing half-masticated food, and indulging in too much jam and sugar
and "lollypops." By this means they spoil their teeth as well as their
skin.

GLADYS.--Your neck should be examined by a good surgeon. You may have
broken some small tendons, and need to be bandaged. It might be
desirable to go to one of our first-class hospitals, and so get the
opinion of more than one experienced surgeon. You write a pretty hand.
On no account change it to the coarse "park-paling" style of writing
which so many girls affect to look "strong-minded." They do not take us
in by it!

VERY GRATEFUL WOMAN.--Homoeopathic doctors give vegetable
medicines--not minerals. The principle of the system is "like cures
like." Allopaths give drugs of a directly opposite character to the
disease, instead of that which, taken in health and in different
proportions, would produce the disease to be cured.

[Illustration]

L. M. O.--The famous Library of Alexandria was burnt by the Saracens in
642 A.D. It was a union of two collections. One was made by the
Ptolemies, and the other was that of Pergamus, formed by Eumenes, and
given by Mark Antony to Cleopatra. Eumenes was a chief officer in the
army of Alexander, and well worthy to succeed him, as he did.

[Illustration:

RULES

_I. No charge is made for answering questions._

_II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym._

_III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any of the
questions._

_IV. No direct answers can be sent by the Editor through the post._

_V. No more than two questions may be asked in one letter, which must be
addressed to the Editor of_ THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, _56, Paternoster-row,
London, E.C._

_VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter of the nature
of an advertisement will be inserted._]

JOEY.--We will consider your wishes in future, if possible.

UNHAPPY S. (we cannot read the name).--We feel for you much in being
separated from a home so dear to you; but you must look away from all
second and human causes of this separation to the ruling Hand of One who
is as good and as merciful as He is wise and mighty. If you wish for
peace and real happiness, seek His favour and guidance and personal care
in daily prayer. Lay your troubles at His feet, and ask Him to give you
a contented spirit, and grace to be thankful and reverently loving
towards "Him who first loved us."

ROSEBUD.--Wear stuff shoes, instead of leather, and let them be very
easy and wide in the toe.

AMERICA.--You will find a full list of Miss Wetherall's (Susan Warner's)
works in any encyclopædia. We have not room in our over-crowded
correspondence column for long lists of books, so only give the chief
works of interest.

SWEET NINETEEN (?).--The young ladies of a family are called Miss Edith,
Miss Margaret, etc., by gentlemen who do not know them well.

IONA would not require to know the name of the head of the department.
She should ask for the secretary or the head clerk.

PRIMROSE.--Lord Beaconsfield was by birth a Jew, and of very ancient and
distinguished family; but he became a Christian by conviction. Having
had no personal acquaintance with him, we could not possibly answer such
a question as yours, even were it right to do so.

DAISY A.--Your contribution is declined, with thanks. It is not devoid
of merit, but needs more experience in writing.

GEORGIANA W.--We are much obliged, but do not think the essay fit for
our amateur page, nor is the subject new nor interesting enough.

ETON GARDENS had better wear gloves to protect the hands. We know no
other way.

A FIJI GIRL.--The work of a bookkeeper is the same almost everywhere.
She keeps books, and in a hotel she would make out the accounts of the
visitors, of course.

DAMARIS.--The lady bows first, of course, if she has been formally
introduced. Invite the brother, certainly. If you know the family you
do not need a separate introduction to him.

LAURA.--We have always prophets of evil amongst our friends, and a
celebrated American advises that "no one should prophesy unless he
knows." There are no reasons for believing that there are any real
inspired prophets now, if that be what you mean.

STRUGGLING BIRD.--We sympathise with you; but in committing your way to
God in prayer, you do the best that we could recommend. It is best to
avoid any exercise of authority over your sister, who is so wild and
wilful; but should she do anything very wrong, you will have to lay the
case before your father, painful and ungracious as the duty may be. You
are right in regarding example as better than precept.

CAMOMILE is thanked for her grateful letter. If she used a better pen
her friends would like her writing better.

FERNIE.--1. Herne Bay is on the east coast, and thus exposed to the
trying winds from that quarter, to which you specially object. Ventnor,
in the Isle of Wight, various places on the south coast of England and
in the Channel Islands, especially in Jersey and the Isle of Sark, would
suit your mother. The latter island is specially ordered as a cure for
asthma. 2. After pressing the leaves between sheets of blotting-paper,
varnish them with a solution of gum-arabic.

SIRENA.--If you eat hot cake or buttered bread, of course take off one
glove at afternoon tea.

A YOUNG WIFE.--We are not quite sure that we should advise any business
man to give up in England and go to Australia unless he saw his way very
clearly indeed. Why do you not write to your friend who has already
emigrated, and take his advice on the subject? Write also for full
particulars of expenses and advice to the secretary of the Colonial
Emigration Society, 13, Dorset-street, Portman-square, W. The rates of
passage, third-class, are, £18 and kit; sailing vessel, second-class,
from £20 to £28; third-class, £17 to £21.

A LOYAL IRISH GIRL.--We are very glad that you have been improved by the
late competition. We are much obliged by your kind offer. Your letter is
very creditably written and composed.

SWEET WILLIAM.--Directions for bookbinding were given in vol. ii., pages
342, 426, and 810.

R. L. I.--Our paper can be got in all the colonies. Many thanks for the
information that the free grants of land were stopped in Tasmania in
January last.

A NURSERY GOVERNESS, we think, is unhappy and discontented because she
dwells on herself and her own feelings too much, and thinks too little
of other people and their happiness. She must try to live most in
others, and in giving pleasure and love to them. As yet she fails to
comprehend the Christ-like character which is so lovely an acquisition,
and the higher service to which we are destined by following Him in all
things. Love is the keynote, and, if she try, in so doing is the
happiest and truest life to be found.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR should bear in mind the enormous ages attained by the
antediluvian patriarchs, and that the world around them was so quickly
populated that Cain might, and did, meet with plenty of people who
possibly, as he thought, would regard him as a monster to be driven from
amongst them. A long course of years succeeded that on which he slew his
brother through envy and a hatred as to what was holy and God-fearing.
In the first days of man upon earth they married their sisters, there
being no physical objection to it ordained by a merciful God.

M. R. (Norwood).--We pity you! To what a miserable, unwholesome state of
deformity you have reduced yourself! We do not open our columns to
persons who boast of having so far degraded themselves.

F. M. C.--On no account take a cold bath if it do not agree with you.
Have it tepid, or as warm as you feel comfortable. If the bath-sheet
were warmed you would run no chance of being chilled. The 17th June,
1865, was a Saturday. The violin is not an easy instrument to learn, and
requires a good ear; but we should recommend it in preference to the
banjo or the concertina. The guitar is also unsuited for general music.

LIZZIE MATTIE CLOVER.--Coals are called "black diamonds" because coals
and diamonds are both carbon.

SINGLE DAHLIA.--You do not name your age. Try St. Mary's Hospital,
Paddington, W. Write to the matron. We could not say whether it would be
against you. The 12th March, 1864, was a Saturday.

HOPEFUL.--Perhaps you need a tonic. Ask a medical man, and take plenty
of exercise and a tepid bath every morning.

LUCY.--From what you say of your being "saucy" to your stepmother, and
that you are slapped "whenever you tell lies," and that you think you
"ought to do as you choose," we see that you have been a spoilt child,
and deserve some sort of correction. You are evidently well and suitably
fed. We greatly disapprove of tight-lacing. If you were good, obedient,
and respectful, you might then venture to say when the maid laced you
in. It is to be regretted that so young a girl should wear any at all.

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS might undertake bookkeeping, or, if she know any
thing of millinery, she might get a little extra work from that. Her pay
in the shop is very small. Everyone should be paid enough to live upon,
and 8s. a week is not enough to live and dress upon.





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