THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

“‘ARTHUR!—OH—ARTHUR!’ SHE GASPED.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XVI.

Lady Darcy left the young people by themselves after luncheon, and as was only natural, conversation at once turned on the proposed visit to London. Peggy was too much perturbed to speak, but Mellicent put the very inquiry which she most wished answered, being never troubled with bashfulness in asking questions.

“Has your mother’s tooth been hurting her very much, Rosalind?”

“Tooth! what tooth? Oh, I think she did have a little twinge one night; but it’s not the dentist whom she is really going to see. That’s only an excuse. She really wants to go to some parties,” said Rosalind lightly, whereat her brother scowled at her under heavy brows.

“What business have you to say that? What can you know about it, pray? If mother says she is in pain, it is not for you to contradict, and make up your own explanations. Leave her to manage her own affairs——”

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He spoke rapidly, but Rosalind only shrugged her shoulders, and whispered something in Max’s ear at which he smiled and nodded his head, evidently taking her part against her brother, to Peggy’s intense indignation.

No words were exchanged between the partners on the subject of the calendar until they were once more at home; when Robert took advantage of the first quiet opportunity and came up to Peggy with a face of set determination.

“Mariquita!” he said, “I am—not—going—to give in! If you stick to me, I think we can still manage to get the calendar off in time. There are twenty more quotations to be found. I’ll sit up to-night and fix them off, and go on writing as long as I can keep awake, but I can’t take a dozen books up to town with me, so I must leave it to you to finish up. I’ll mark the passages I choose, write the full address on a piece of paper, and leave everything ready for you to make up the parcel. All you will have to do will be to write the remaining cards, and to see that it is sent off on Friday. Five o’clock will be time enough, but if you can get it off in the morning, so much the better. You think you can manage as much as that?”

“Oh, yes! I’d do anything rather than give up now. It would be too grudging. I am not afraid of a little more work.”

“You have done more than your share already. I am mad about it, but it can’t be helped. I couldn’t refuse to go with the mater, and I wouldn’t if I could. She is really not at all strong, and does not like the life down here. It will do her good to have a few days’ change.”

Peggy looked at him steadily. She did not speak, but her eyes grew soft and shining, and there was something at once so sweet, so kindly, and so gentle in her expression that Rob exclaimed in surprise—

“I say, Peggy, you—you do look pretty! I never saw you look like that before—what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Doing!” Peggy straightened herself at that, in offended dignity. “Doing, indeed! What do you mean? Don’t you think I am pretty as a rule?”

“Never thought about it,” returned Robert carelessly. “You are Peggy—that’s enough for me. A nice state I should be in to-day if it were not for you! You are the jolliest little brick I ever met, and if I get this prize it will be far more your doing than my own.”

Well, that was good hearing! Peggy held her head high for the rest of that evening, and felt as if nothing would have power to depress her for the future. But alas, when the pendulum is at its highest, it begins to swing downwards. Peggy’s heart sank as she watched Robert drive away from the door the next morning, and it went on sinking more and more during the next twenty-four hours, as she realised the responsibility which weighed upon her shoulders. When she came down to breakfast on Friday morning the calendar was finished and ready to be made up for the post, but her head was splitting with pain as the result of the long hours’ work stolen from sleep, and a dead weight of depression had settled on her spirits. It seemed of a sudden that all this work and effort was waste of time; that the chances of being successful were infinitesimally small; that even if it were gained, the prize was of little value; that if Robert’s absence for four days made such a difference in the life at the vicarage, it would become altogether unbearable when he said good-bye at the beginning of the year and went up to Oxford; that she was a desperately unfortunate little unit, thrust into the midst of a family which was complete in itself, and had only a kindly toleration to offer to a stranger; that, in all probability, there would be a war in India, when her father would be killed, her mother die of a broken heart, and Arthur be called out to join the ranks of the recruits. She conjured up a touching picture of herself, swathed in crape, bidding good-bye to her brother at the railway station, and watching the scarlet coat disappear in the distance, as the train steamed away. It was all most miserable and picturesque, and outside the fog gathered, and the rain poured down in a fine, persistent drizzle. It was one of those typical November days when it seems as if the earth itself is in the blues, and that it becomes everyone living on its surface to follow its example.

When afternoon came Peggy curled herself in an armchair in the corner of the study, and stared gloomily at the fire. It was four o’clock. In another hour the postman would call for the letters and she would deliver the precious packet into his hands. She had made it up in the dinner hour with some faint idea of carrying it to the village, but she was tired, the rain poured, and Rob had said that the afternoon post would do. She had given up the idea of going out, and taken a nap instead on the top of her bed. And now it was four o’clock. Mellicent called out that she was dying for tea-time to come; it had seemed such a long, long day; they really ought to have tea earlier on these dreary, murky afternoons. “I want my tea!” she chanted, in shrill, penetrating tones, and instantly the refrain was taken up by the other voices, and repeated over and over again with ever-increasing volume, until the mistress of the house rushed in to discover the reason of the clamour.

“Bless your hearts, you shall have it at once!” she cried. “I’ll ring and have it brought in, and ransack my cupboards to see what treats I can give you. Poor dears, it is dull for you sitting indoors all day long. We must think of some bright, exciting games for this evening.” No sooner said than done; she did not wait until Mary appeared, but bustled off to meet her, to enlist the cook’s sympathy, and put out the promised delicacies, and when the table was set she returned to the room and seated herself, smilingly, in Esther’s place.

“I am going to stay with you this afternoon,” she said brightly. “Draw up your chairs, dears, and let us be jovial. There is no credit in being happy when the sun is shining, as dear old Mark Tapley would have said; but it will really be praiseworthy if we succeed in being festive this afternoon. Come, Peggy dearie!”

Peggy turned her dreary little face and stared at the table. From outside came the sound of the opening and shutting of the door, of footsteps in the hall. She glanced at the clock, wondering if it could possibly be the postman already, found it was only ten minutes past four, and dismissed the supposition with a sigh. “I don’t—think—I want——” she was beginning slowly, when, of a sudden, there came a tremendous rat-tat-tat on the schoolroom door; the handle was not turned, but burst open; a blast of chilly air blew into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, handsome youth, with square shoulders, a gracefully poised head, and Peggy Saville’s eave-like brows above his dancing eyes.

“Oh, what a surprise!” came the cry in loud laughing tones. “How do you do, everybody? Just thought I would step in as I was passing, and have a cup of tea, don’t you know.”

“My boy! My boy! Oh, how good to see you!” cried Mrs. Asplin rapturously. Mellicent gurgled with surprise, and Peggy stood up by her chair and stretched out both arms like a child to its mother.

“Arthur!—oh—Arthur!” she gasped, and there was a pathos, a longing, an almost incredulous rapture in her voice which made the tears start in Mrs. Asplin’s eyes, and brought a cloud of anxiety over the new-comer’s face.

“Why, Peg!” he cried. “My little Peg! Is something wrong, dear? You look as melancholy as——”

“Peggy has not been like herself for the last few weeks. I think she has had an attack of home sickness, and longing for her own people. I’m so glad you’ve come. You will do her more good than a dozen tonics. Bless the boy; how big he is! And how did you manage to get away, dear, and how long can you stay? Tell me all about it. I am consumed with curiosity——”

“I can stay till Monday or Tuesday, if you can put me up; and I came away because I—I suppose I am not quite up to the mark. My head bothers me. It aches, and I see black specks floating before my eyes. The doctor advised me to knock off for a few days, and I thought I would rather come here than anywhere.”

“I should think so, indeed. Of course we can put you up—proud and pleased to do so. Well, this is a pleasant surprise for a dull November day! You couldn’t have had a better one if you had had a hundred wishes, could you, Peggy? You won’t feel melancholy any longer?”

“I’m just enraptured! Saturday, Sunday, Monday—three whole days and two halves, as good as four days—almost a week! It’s too delicious—too utterly delicious to realise!”

Peggy drew deep sighs of happiness,{259} and hung on to Arthur’s arm in an abandonment of tenderness which showed her in a new light to her companions. She would not loosen her grasp for a moment, and, even when seated at the table, kept her fingers tightly locked round his arm, as though afraid that he might escape.

As for Arthur himself, he was in the wildest spirits. He was as handsome a young soldier as one could wish to see, and his likeness to Peggy seemed only to make him more attractive in the eyes of the beholders.

“Hurrah!” he cried cheerily. “Hurrah, for a good old vicarage tea! Scones? that’s the style! Mary made them, I hope, and put in lots of currants. Raspberry jam! I say, mater, do you remember that solemn waitress you had, who told you that the jam was done again, and when you exclaimed in horror, said, ‘Yes, ’um, it’s not a bit of good buying raspberry jam. They like it!’ Ha, ha, ha, I’ve often thought of that! That looks uncommonly good cake you have over there. Thank you, I think I will! Begin with cake, and work steadily back to bread and butter—that’s the style, isn’t it, Peggums? Esther, I looks towards you! Mellicent, you are as thin as ever, I see. You should really do something for it. There are regular hollows in your cheeks.”

“Nasty, horrid thing! You are always teasing! How would you like it if you were struck fat yourself?” cried Mellicent, aggrieved. But, in spite of herself, her chubby cheeks dimpled with smiles as Arthur rolled his eyes at her across the table, for there was something irresistibly fascinating about this young fellow, and it was like old times to see him seated at the tea-table and to listen to his merry rattling voice.

“The dominie must grant a general holiday to-morrow,” he declared, “and we will do something fine to celebrate the occasion. We’ll have out this wonderful camera in the morning and take some groups. You and I must be taken together, Peggy, to send out to the parents. You promised to send me copies of all the things you took, but you are as false in that respect as the whole race of amateur photographers. They are grand hands at promising, but they never, by any chance—— Hallo! What’s that? My cup over? Awfully sorry, mater, really! I’ll put a penny in the missionary-box. Was it a clean cloth?”

“Oh, my dear boy, don’t apologise! I should not have felt that it was really you if you had not knocked your cup over! To see the table-cloth swimming with tea all round, convinces me that it is Arthur himself, and nobody else! Tut, tut! What does a table-cloth matter?” And Mrs. Asplin beamed upon her favourite as if she were really rather delighted than otherwise at his exploit.

It was a merry, not to say noisy, meal which followed. Peggy’s lost spirits had come back with the first glimpse of Arthur’s face; and her quips and cranks were so irresistibly droll that three separate times over Mellicent choked over her tea and had to be relieved with vigorous pounding on the back, while even Esther shook with laughter and the boys became positively uproarious.

Then Mr. Asplin came in, and Arthur was carefully concealed behind the window-curtains, while he was asked whom he would most like to see if the choice were given him. In provoking manner he mentioned at once a brother in Australia, and when informed that relations were not on the list, recollected an old college chum who was out in the Mauritius.

“Oh, dear, what a stupid man!” cried his wife in despair. “We don’t mean the friends of your youth, dear! Think of the last few years and of your young friends! Now, if you could choose whom would you——”

“Arthur Saville!” said the Vicar promptly, upon which Arthur made a loophole between the curtains and thrust his mischievous face through the gap, to the Vicar’s amazement and the uproarious delight of the onlookers. A dozen questions had to be asked and answered about studies, examinations, and health, while Peggy sat listening, beaming with happiness and pride.

It came as quite a shock to all when the Vicar announced that it was time to dress for dinner, and Mrs. Asplin looked at Peggy with an apologetic smile.

“We were all so charmed to see Arthur that I’m afraid we have been selfish and engrossed too much of his attention. You two will be longing for a cosy little chat to yourselves. If you run upstairs now, Peggy, and hurry through your dressing, there will be a little time before dinner, and you could have this room to yourselves.”

“Yes, run along, Peg! It won’t take me ten minutes to get into my clothes, and I’ll be here waiting for you!” cried Arthur eagerly. And Peggy went flying two steps at a time upstairs to her own room.

The gas was lit; the can of hot water stood in the basin, the towel neatly folded over the top; the hands of the little red clock pointed to six o’clock, and the faint chime met her ear as she entered.

Peggy stood still in the doorway, an icy chill crept through her veins, her hands grasped the lintel, and her eyes grew wide and blank with horror. There, on the writing-table lay a brown paper parcel—the precious parcel which contained the calendar which had been the object of such painful work and anxiety!

(To be continued.)

TWO OF THE GREATEST AFFLICTIONS OF GIRLHOOD:

BLUSHING AND NERVOUSNESS.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

Some years ago an enterprising physician discovered that the whole human race was insane.

This doctrine naturally drew forth from the public considerable indignation. We do not believe that we are insane. But the answer of the author was concise: “You cannot prove that you are sane, therefore you are insane!”

And a large number took his word and believed it. Nay; even now people are to be met who believe that everyone is insane. Nay—further! There are many persons who not only believe everyone to be insane, but believe that all physicians hold the same opinion!

And yet, if you ask one of these philanthropists if he thinks that he himself is insane: “Oh, well—no; you see I am an exception. I do not mean to say that I am better than anyone else, but I am different from everybody that I know. No, I do not think that I am insane.”

Yesterday we were interviewing a gentleman “lodger” in an asylum, who had come to the conclusion that all the inmates of the house—nurses, patients, physicians and servants—were all insane, himself alone excepted. This is a common creed in lunatic asylums.

No, everyone is not insane. The doctrine is fallacious. But we all pass through phases in our lives when our minds are not capable of fully grasping every detail of the situation. In other words, we are all liable to nervousness.

What is nervousness? Think for yourself and try to answer the question. It is difficult, we admit.

Is not nervousness a state in which the mind does not rise to the situation? Is it not a condition of uncertainty? Is it not, as it were, a feeling that you know not what step to take next or what answer to give to a question? Is it not a conviction that you are out of place?

Indeed, it seems to us that nervousness is the expression of being mentally ill at ease.

Few persons realise what a terrible disease nervousness really is. It is one of the greatest annoyances of youth. It renders many girls utterly miserable when they first “come out.” It is most fearful suffering, and one which brings many girls to a life of misery.

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There is but one other condition which troubles girls more than nervousness, and that is excessive blushing, and blushing is but a physical expression of nervousness.

It is commonly held that the work of physicians is confined to the body, and that they have no knowledge of the troubles of the mind. It follows from this that the study of the mind has been grossly neglected by medical men, and even the simplest mental aberration will baffle many worthy practitioners, simply because they consider that the mind is not their province.

We can delay no further and must get on to consider the practical side of our task, the causes and treatment of blushing and nervousness.

We suppose that we must first mention the physical causes of blushing and nervousness. Many would consider these to be of the first importance. They are not.

Blushing is a momentary relaxation of the minute blood-vessels of the skin of the face, caused by an impression received by the brain. The vessels relax, they become distended with blood, and the face becomes red, hot and swollen.

If this phenomenon lasts but a minute it is called a blush; if it lasts for a longer period it is called a flush. The former is usually due to mental causes, the latter invariably to physical conditions.

Blushing is the direct effect of a more or less powerful stimulus passing to the brain from one of the special senses. Flushing is the effect of a stimulus from one of the internal organs, usually the stomach.

Anæmia, indigestion, constipation, and various other ailments cause flushing, and very rarely they produce blushing.

This is all we have to say of the physical causes of blushing and nervousness, except that people who are ill or run down are often irritable and nervous. But the illness is not the cause of the nervousness, it only paves the way for it to become manifest; it only reduces the force by which nervousness is normally overcome.

It is in the workings of the mind that we must seek the causes of nervousness.

We are not all born with the same mental powers. Each inherits from her parents certain hereditary tendencies. We all know that insanity runs in families; so does nervousness; so does every kind of mental inclination, but only to a certain extent. We do not inherit the virtues, the vices, the powers or the mental shortcomings of our parents; we inherit a tendency to them—a tendency which may develop and reproduce in us the minds of our fathers. Or these tendencies may be modified or suppressed by education; or they may be overwhelmed by some individual peculiarity which we have not inherited from our parents, but which had its beginning in our own minds.

The mind of anyone is an individual in itself. It has its own passions and inclinations different from those of any other, but it must be educated. Each of us must have a solid basis of general knowledge ere she can use her mind. In other words we must all be educated.

And in education, or rather in the lack of some portion of education, you will find the causes of blushing and nervousness.

Nervousness is more common amongst the highly educated classes than amongst others. And yet you say that nervousness is caused by defective education. How can this be?

You have not got a true notion of education! You say education but you mean study; you confine the term to that part of education which is learnt at school and from books; you have fallen into the common error of the age by supposing that education is synonymous with schooling!

At school we learn to read, to write. We learn a little science, perhaps a smattering of art and the elements of a language or two. Is this all the education required by man? Is this sufficient food for the mind of man for threescore years and ten? Do you learn nothing else in your life than this little handful of unimportant subjects? No, you do not! Far more than nine-tenths of your education is gained without your knowing how: not without effort, but without your knowing that you are educating yourself.

Our forefathers had no books; they never went to school; they knew but little of art or science, and their technical skill was of the rudest. We call them barbarians, but why? They had their passions as we have them; they had their joys and their sorrows; they had their thoughts; they were educated. The viking of old was a man with a highly wrought mind. Though differing in detail, his education was the same as ours. It was the study of himself and his companions.

Let us glance a little into these defects of education which cause nervousness.

From what has been said, the reader will perceive that the lack of knowledge of herself or her companion is the commonest cause of nervousness; this indeed is the case. The girl who leaves the nursery for the first time is shy and retiring: she cannot speak to anyone without confusion; she has no experience of life. A new episode has occurred and she cannot at once rise to the situation. She is not at home; she is nervous.

And so if you think over the position in which you have been nervous, you will see that in the majority of cases, your trouble was due to inexperience.

The girl who has never spoken to anyone except her own friends is nervous when she first speaks to a stranger. After she has been introduced to one or two persons her nervousness vanishes, for she has become used to her new situation.

Who has not felt nervous when she first appeared in public? Who has not felt most unpleasant sensations when she first sang or played before an audience? Yet after her second or third appearance all traces of nervousness vanish, because now she is accustomed to her surroundings.

The warrior who will face death on the field without compunction may fly in terror if he hear the buzz of a moth. Or if he is unused to feminine society he will be completely cowered by a single woman.

The scientist who has astonished the world with his inventions is yet too nervous to deliver a lecture to half-a-dozen students, for he is used to his laboratory but is a stranger to the lecturer’s chair.

These are examples of what may be called healthy nervousness. They are transient and can be overcome by the will. We will now talk of some more complicated causes of nervousness.

There are many girls who have the misfortune of having been spoilt during their childhood, and who as girls have had every wish gratified. When these girls go into the world they often become irritable and impertinent, or shy and retiring, or excessively nervous and bashful.

There are girls (and we are sorry to say there are a great many of them) who between the ages of fifteen and twenty do nothing but loll on a sofa and read cheap novelettes and other wretched and unwholesome literature. These persons usually blush like beetroots when spoken to. They are always nervous and usually silly and rude.

Self-consciousness is one of the greatest and most important causes of nervousness. The fear of “giving oneself away” is a very potent factor in the causation of nervousness.

Some people confuse self-consciousness with self-conceit. But they are diametrically opposite conditions. The self-conceited girl believes herself perfect. She cannot make a mistake. What she says must be right. She has no fear of committing herself. Why should she ever be nervous? And she never is nervous.

The self-conscious girl is the reverse of this. Not only does she know her shortcomings, but she takes an exceedingly gloomy view of everything. Truly she is always thinking about herself, but her thoughts are not flattering. She puts herself in the worst light and imagines that everyone else sees her in the same way. She imagines everyone is laughing at her. She is confused. She is nervous.

Not all girls are nervous or blush from the same cause, nor are they nervous in the same way nor in the same situations. Some girls blush only when in the company of strangers, others even when speaking to their greatest friends. Some blush or are nervous only when talking to persons of the opposite sex, others when talking to anybody.

We can divide the various kinds of nervous girls into the following groups—

There are many other kinds of nervousness, but we cannot enter into the discussion of them here.

To everyone who glances down this table it will be apparent that the same explanation will not accord for all these conditions. Such diametrically opposite states as that of Nos. 4 and 5 cannot be due to the same cause. We must therefore briefly describe the various mental states on which each form of nervousness depends.

The first case, girls who blush or are nervous when talking to strangers but are perfectly at home when talking with their friends, is one of the commonest of the eight types of nervousness. This is the purely natural result of inexperience.

The very many girls who are exceedingly annoyed to find that they cannot be introduced to anybody without blushing or stammering or vainly trying to break a distressing silence, may be comforted by the assurance that ere many months are passed they will have become more accustomed to the very strange conditions imposed upon us by social usage and to abruptly starting a conversation with a person whom they have never seen before.

To some girls it may be a relief to know that young men are very much more bashful, more inclined to blush, and find much greater difficulty in starting a conversation to the first person to whom they are introduced than girls do. The news will certainly be well received by all girls suffering from this form of nervousness that a very short space of time will see the end of their annoyance.

The sixth division of nervousness, that{261} condition in which girls are only nervous when talking to persons of the opposite sex, is only a mild form of the first and, like it, it is a very transitory state.

The second class of nervous girls is that in which the members are nervous when talking to friends as well as to strangers. This is the most numerous class of all. This form of nervousness is sometimes due to indigestion or other derangements of health. It is to this class that we shall more especially refer when considering the treatment of nervousness.

That form of nervousness in which the sufferer is perfectly at ease in the excitement of a crowded room but who cannot endure to talk with one person alone is a comparatively rare condition. It is typically met with in cases of nervous exhaustion. It is tolerably common in persons who have just recovered from some forms of depressing diseases.

The fifth class contains two very distinct groups of cases. There are many people who are distressed in a crowded place. Many persons who are not feeling up to the mark are often depressed and get a headache in a crowded place, even where there is no noise or conversation going on. This is a form of nervousness that is almost exclusively met with in elderly or middle-aged persons.

It is in the second of the groups of people who are nervous in large assemblings that we see the most advanced grades of self-consciousness. We have seen girls in drawing-rooms, at concerts, and even in church, suffering from this malady (for though it appears as vanity or self-conceit, it is neither one nor the other, but a true disease). They shift about, looking from one person to another, wondering what the various members of the assembly are thinking about them. If anyone happens to turn his glance in the direction of a girl with this form of nervousness, a regular outburst occurs; she blushes and perspires profusely, putting her hand up to her hat or fringe or rearranging some part of her dress, wondering what can be a amiss, or she wipes her nose with her handkerchief, thinking that there must be a smut there to cause the unknowing agitator to turn round and look at her. It will never strike her that the unwelcome gaze of the stranger is purely accidental, or may be excited by the elegance of her dress or person. No, there must be something “funny” for anybody to turn round and stare at her like that!

The two last divisions of nervousness need but little comment. They are due to bodily ill-health and are part and parcel of physical weakness.

We must now turn to the most important and most difficult part of our task—the description of the means by which these various forms of nervousness may be overcome. We have several times mentioned that many forms of nervousness are commonly caused by ill-health, and we may now state that all forms are rendered worse by any departure from physical health. It is therefore obvious that if the sufferer is anæmic or has indigestion, or any of the other ten thousand diseases to which we poor humans are subject, it is essential that the unhealthy state of her body should be cured ere she should try the special methods of treatment to cure herself of nervousness.

As nervousness is so frequently the result of a one-sided education and lack of experience, we would expect that persons who have secured a varied tuition would be less subject to nervousness than their less widely but perhaps more deeply educated sisters. And this we find to be the case. It is a knowledge of a wide scope of learning, of the little ins and outs of our very elaborate social customs, of a more or less superficial knowledge of current views and events, which will help a girl to be at home in society, rather than a deep knowledge of any one subject. This is the proper place to point out that the popular idea that nervousness is due to a feeble intelligence is totally untrue. It requires a considerable amount of mental power to be able to be nervous. Some of the greatest men in history have been conspicuously nervous.

The girl who rapidly falls in with social customs, who can join in conversations on the ordinary subjects of talk, and who can grasp and retain the little ways of society which she cannot fail to observe, need never fear of retaining any temporary nervousness she may have experienced when she first “came out.”

Since experience is so antagonistic to nervousness, it follows that the pursuit of experience is a very necessary point in the treatment of nervousness. Of all ways of acquiring experience none can equal travelling; for the experience gained by moving from place to place is exceedingly varied, and it is this varied experience that is needed to cure nervousness.

Often when nervousness is so intractable that it cannot be cured by other means, we advise the subjects to leave society for a year or two, to travel, if possible, or else to gain an insight into the ways and working of the world before again attempting to face the terrors of social life.

In many parts of this article we have maintained that self-consciousness was an exceedingly common and important factor of nervousness and blushing. If we could remove self-consciousness we could cure most, if not all, forms of nervousness.

Suppose that a girl is self-conscious and she enters into conversation with another girl who is not self-conscious. The question is broached by the healthy-minded girl. She asks—

“Do you think that Mr. Jones’s French poodle would look better if he were shaved?”

The nervous girl will undergo severe agitation as to what she ought to answer. “You see, if I say ‘no,’ it may show that I do not know anything about dogs. In fact, I must be very careful not to give myself away as an ignoramus.”

As a matter of fact neither of these girls knows much about dogs, perhaps neither would recognise a French poodle if she saw one. The questioner, still waiting for the simple reply which her question needs, looks into the face of her nervous companion, and at once the latter’s wits desert her altogether. “Why did she look into my face? I must be looking very ugly to-day? I know my dress is old-fashioned, but it is very rude of her to notice it!” etc., etc. This poor girl cannot bring her mind to bear on the subject of the conversation; she is eternally thinking of herself. If she would only think about what her questioner is talking of, instead of thinking about what her companion is thinking about her, she would no longer be self-conscious, no longer nervous.

The conversation concerning the French poodle has upset her altogether; she leaves her first companion and seeks another. But here she can boast no greater success. Perhaps she will brave a third effort at conversation, but it is all to no purpose; she is either too fearful of committing herself or saying something unseemly, or else she knows that her companion is secretly laughing at her. Utterly downhearted she eventually sits down in a corner and remains silently agitated for the rest of the evening.

What a terrible state is that of self-consciousness, and yet how common! And yet of the large number of persons who suffer from it how many try to overcome it? Because it is far easier to foster than to subdue these feelings is no reason for not making any attempt to quell them.

A very important piece of advice to give to all nervous girls is to avoid all trivial conversations, especially talking scandal. It is unfortunately a fact that nervous girls are often quite themselves when discussing the weaknesses of their friends and neighbours, but such conversation begets a distrust of their friends, and we have no doubt that the habit of talking against one’s neighbours is sometimes a direct cause of that form of nervousness in which girls cannot talk to their own friends without blushing. They know what their friends say about others behind their backs, and they fear that they too will be discussed in their absence. To such girls as these we may say, give over such worthless friends and try to know others who use their tongues to a more proper purpose, and never, under any circumstances, talk scandal yourselves.

Self-conscious girls must get out of the habit of revolving in their minds what answer to give to a simple question. When you are talking socially, it is really of very little consequence whether your answer is correct or not. You should indulge in conversation with everybody whom you wish to know, and with whom your parents or guardians wish you to be intimate. You must not sit in a corner and mope because you thought that Miss Smith was criticising your dress when you were trying to converse with her. Be a woman and bravely attempt to join in conversation. It does not matter if you make mistakes. We are all human. We all make mistakes. But it would indeed be a funny world if we never attempted to open our mouths lest we should say what is indiscreet or fallacious. Remember that when you have once braved your inclination to sit down and be silent, half the battle is over and you will soon grow to look with astonishment at your foolish behaviour of some weeks back. Since experience is the great cure for nervousness, gain all experience you can both by reading, by the study of the arts and sciences and by observation of the doings of others and the working of this great world. Keep your eyes open and look around you. However limited your own circle may be, it still contains more to be studied than you can learn in your lifetime. Trivial literature, and especially cheap novelettes, should be avoided, for they give you a false notion of life and deal with silly and impossible predicaments.

There are doubtless many people who think that nervousness can be cured by diet, exercise and drugs. To such as hold this view we readily admit that when nervousness is caused by bodily ill-health, or by lack of precautions to the laws of well-being, such is the case. But the true nervousness, seen so commonly in perfectly healthy persons, who rigorously follow all the laws laid down by physicians and general experience, is totally uninfluenced by physical treatment of any kind.

Blushing, which is one of the forms of nervousness most frequently due to physical causes, is often to be cured by careful diet and other therapeutical measures. There is one drug which is often of use in this condition. Ichthiol taken in 2½-grain doses will often help to cure blushing due to physical causes. No drug whatever is of use in “nervousness.”

We have now finished our account of nervousness. If it has been somewhat lengthy, it is nevertheless extremely brief when the gravity and complexity of the subject is considered. We have not described all forms of nervousness, nor do we expect to cure all persons suffering from those varieties that we have described. But we hope and trust that those who suffer from these most distressing ailments will derive some benefit from our task.

{262}

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE YEAR 1807.

More than eighteen months had slid away since the day when Denham Ivor had been summarily despatched with other détenus to Valenciennes. Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition, not of certainty. For aught that his friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

Roy continued to live at Verdun with his parents, for the long-desired passport to England had never been granted. Though not compelled to give his parole, or to sign his name twice daily at the maison de ville, as were all détenus who did not care to pay a monthly tax for freedom from this bugbear, he was practically as much one of Napoleon’s prisoners as any man in the place.

One day in the spring of 1807 he stood upon the ramparts, gazing eagerly towards the nearest town gate. Roy at sixteen was much the same that Roy at twelve or fourteen had been, only decidedly taller and broader. He looked almost as boyish as ever, with the same curly fair hair and honest grey eyes. Not so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but attractive enough.

To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy’s life are a goodly slice of time, and Roy had now been four years a captive, banished from England, and separated from his twin-sister. He might and often did chafe and fume, and it had been a sore disappointment not to find himself on his sixteenth birthday an officer in the English Army. Still, he had good health and unquenchable spirits, and however impatient he might be by fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had the gift of making the best of things; and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose Denham, he managed on the whole to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything and everybody.

“I say. Hallo! There’s something going on,” he exclaimed.

Roy gazed with widely-opened eyes, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling Roy that he would meet him presently on the ramparts. Roy supposed that he would be expected to remain where he was till his father should return. But as he watched, the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that direction to discover what was being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught with a “Hallo, Roy!”

“I beg your pardon, sir. What’s up?”

“A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe,” the young clergyman answered. “There was a report this morning that we might expect them; and it seems to be true. Any friends of yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate.”

Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself among the crowd with great dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but that some news of him might now be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could have known how the boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a word about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had assured himself that he did not expect, yet keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months passed warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly his glance fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against a wall. A little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy’s first impression was of somebody who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face without recognition, so much was it altered; the features sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow; he does look done!” thought Roy, and he went nearer.

“I say—hadn’t you better give me that little thing to hold?”

“Why—Roy!”

The voice too had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be mistaken.

“Den—you don’t mean to say——”

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

“You’ve come back! I am glad!”

“Yes. How are you all?”

“Den—I say—what’s wrong with you?”

A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the child from Ivor’s arms.

“No words can thank you, sir, for your goodness to us,” he said, not noticing Roy. “God will reward you. I never can.”

“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s. Come and see me some day—tell me how you’re getting on.”

“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”

Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned, to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.

“You back too! That’s good. And your wife?”

“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They’re in a cart with others—thanks to Captain Ivor”—in a lower tone. “Never mind about us; get him home”—with a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got to find rooms for ourselves, after I’ve been to the citadel. Must report myself there first, I’m told. And then I shall have to meet my wife.”

Roy moved two or three paces away with him.

“I say, tell me—what’s been the matter with him? He looks as if——”

“Not well for some time, and sharp attack of illness a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!”

“What for?”

“Child’s father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he’s about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest.”

Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham’s arm.

“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back. There’s one near.”

He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search.

Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.

“Roy—got Ivor? That’s right,” he said in his quick fashion. “Don’t bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and answer for him, and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard what’s been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I’m told, and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you{263} a bit of my mind, Ivor, another day. You don’t look up to understanding it now.”

Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they drove off, Roy watching his restored friend with a rapt gaze.

“Den, what was it for? Why didn’t you ride?”

“I did intend. Somebody else was in more need.”

“Couldn’t you have had a second horse?”

“No. The order took everyone by surprise. Most of us were short of cash.”

Roy thought of what Curtis had said. “And I suppose you gave what you had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself.”

“I shared with others—of course—”

“But you ought to have kept enough for riding. You’d no business—Den, you’re awfully used-up.”

“When did you hear from me last?”

“Oh, ages and ages ago. I began to think—Are you glad to come back?”

“To my friend, Roy? Yes,” with an affectionate glance.

“Isn’t it a beastly shame that I can’t be in the Army yet?”

“Ah, that sounds like the Roy of old!”

“But it is. A beastly shame. What made you carry that little girl?”

“Her father fell lame, and she didn’t take to other people, I could not stand the wailing. He’s a good honest fellow—badly off through no fault of his own.”

“Shame!” muttered Roy again. “What is the reason for your all being sent back now, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising his condition, sank into silence, unable still to take his eyes from that worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down. “Shall I go and tell them?”

“No—no need. I’ll come. Can you pay the driver? I’m cleared out completely.”

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was Lucille, as was often now her custom. She had gradually become almost a member of the Baron family, and one and all they were extremely fond of her. When Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through Ivor’s, one startled “Ah-h!” broke from her, before the other two had grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.

“Denham!” the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron’s grasp of Ivor’s hand and his fixed gaze were like those of Roy. Mrs. Baron’s delight was even more plainly expressed. She had long been as an elder sister to Denham, and when he bent to kiss her hand, with the grave deference which he always showed towards her, she did what she had never done before—gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek.

“This is joy! O this is joy,” she said. “Nothing else could be so great a happiness—except going home. Welcome, welcome!” Then she held his hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. “But, my dear Denham, you have been ill—surely you have been ill. How thin!—how altered! What have you been doing to yourself?”

“He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes,” cried Roy, before Denham could speak. “He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to somebody else.”

“Was that necessary?” the Colonel asked.

“I thought it so, sir.”

“Papa, he had no money left. That was why. He gave it all away. He couldn’t even pay the driver, coming up here.”

“But you could have borrowed from somebody—you would know that I should repay!”

“If I could have been sure, sir, that you would still be here—but there was no certainty. And so many now are in difficulties, that it is no easy matter to borrow—except by going to those whom I will have nothing to do with.”

“How did you manage about food? My dear, make him sit down. How did you manage?”

The question was disregarded. “Any letters?” Ivor asked.

“One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?”

“Not since leaving Verdun.”

“They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a statement in the Moniteur not long since, as to correspondence with England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had been taken possession of by the French Government, and bills to the value of millions of pounds sterling.”

“No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That may have been when I was ill.”

“You have been ill, then?”

“Yes. Nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank’s letter reach you? Post?”

“Through M. de Marchand—under cover to him. We have advised her repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But doubtless our letters don’t reach them.”

Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground. Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, “Do not be merciless to your friend. Give him some small repose. He is what you call—dead-beat.”

Roy nodded. “You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn’t you?”

Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor asked, “Where is the letter?”

“Roy has it, put away,” Mrs. Baron said. “It is partly to Roy and partly to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else.”

“Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and a change of clothing,” Ivor said, rather drily. “Well, since you can assure me that ’tis all good news, I will wait half-an-hour.”

“And then I’ll read it to you, if you like,” observed Roy. “It isn’t very interesting, Den. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes to near. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my grandmother does not say much—does she?” with a look at his mother. “Save that Polly is well.”

“Which point settled, I will beg, if I may, for a supply of water,” Ivor replied.

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

Many people think night air injurious and carefully close their windows even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the sleeper.

A little powdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china basins.

When the edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.

When tortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.

In case of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to prevent a draught.

If you do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to make a fire fiercer.

The seeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into the best plants.

{264}

BREAD AND CAKES.

Household Bread.

Ingredients.—Three pounds and a half of flour (household), about one pint and a quarter of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a half of salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce of moist sugar.

Method.—Put the flour and salt in an earthenware pan, and mix well together; put the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream with the sugar, and add to it a gill and a half of the warm water. Make a well in the flour and mix in the yeast and water, so that there is a soft batter in the middle of the flour; sprinkle flour over this, lay a cloth over the pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen minutes to set the sponge; then stir in the rest of the water; flour the board and knead the dough for about twenty minutes until very elastic; replace it in the pan with a deep cross scored on the top to help it to rise, cover up and put in a warm place to rise one hour and a half. Make into loaves and bake; the oven should be very hot at first and moderate for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will take nearly two hours to cook. If the water used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be killed and will not act.

Gingerbread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of golden syrup, four ounces of brown sugar, four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of mixed spice, two-thirds of a gill of milk.

Method.—Put the flour, sugar, ginger and spice in a basin and mix well together; put the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan and melt over the fire; pour the contents of the saucepan into the contents of the basin, mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.

Scones.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, two ounces of dripping, three ounces of sugar, half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a few sultanas (floured and picked).

Method.—Mix the tartar and the soda well with the flour in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk rather more soft than for pastry, roll into two thick rounds, cut each into six equal pieces, lay on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain scones can be made by leaving out the sultanas and the sugar. These scones are best made with milk that is slightly sour.

Plum Cake.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of dripping, six ounces of brown sugar, six ounces of sultanas (floured and picked), four ounces of currants (washed and dried), one teaspoonful of baking powder, two eggs, one gill and a half of milk.

Method.—Put the dripping in a basin and work it to a cream with a wooden spoon; mix the flour with the baking powder and stir it into the dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas and sugar, and last of all the eggs beaten up with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin, and stand the tin on a thickly-sanded baking sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an hour and then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.

Seed Cake.

Method.—Make like plum cake, using an ounce of caraway seeds for the sultanas and currants, and a little less milk.

Unfermented Bread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, one tablespoonful of baking powder, milk and water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.

Method.—Mix together to a soft dough; make into six rolls, brush with milk and bake in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.

Potato Cake.

Ingredients.—Three-quarters of a pound of mashed potatoes, half a pound of flour, two ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg, half a gill of lukewarm milk.

Method.—Melt the butter, and mix it with the mashed potatoes, mix in the flour and baking powder, add egg well beaten and the lukewarm milk. Flour the board, roll into a thick round, lay on a floured and greased tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters of an hour.

Rock Cakes.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of currants (washed and dried), two ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping, two ounces of brown sugar, one ounce of candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground ginger, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk.

Method.—Mix the flour and baking powder in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the currants and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger, mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in little rough heaps on a greased tin with two forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.

Citron Buns.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of margarine, two ounces of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk, three ounces of citron.

Method.—Mix the flour with the baking powder, rub in the margarine with the tips of the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized pieces of the citron peel and chop the rest small; mix the chopped citron with the other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten with a little milk. Mix rather wet; divide into eight, lay on a greased tin, lay a piece of citron on each cake and bake for fifteen minutes in a good oven.

Shortbread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of butter, half a pound of castor sugar.

Method.—Rub six ounces of the butter into the flour and sugar, melt the rest and mix it in; work a little with the hands to form a dough; roll into two thick rounds and pinch them round the edge with the fingers to ornament them. Prick over the top with a fork or a biscuit pricker; put two or three large pieces of candied peel on each and bake about half an hour in a moderate oven.

Rice Cakes.

Ingredients.—Three ounces of ground rice, two ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs, vanilla.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, add the sugar and cream to that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the flavouring; fill greased patty pans and bake in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.

Almond Cakes.

Ingredients.—Eight ounces of flour, four ounces of butter, five ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring, a little water.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, stir in the sugar, beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each to prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of the flour after the eggs are beaten in, lastly the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush some little cake moulds with clarified butter and dust them with mixed castor sugar and flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake mixture and bake in a good oven a pale brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold ice as follows.

Icing.—Sift half a pound of icing sugar and mix it very smoothly with a little cold water and enough almond essence to flavour it until it is just thick enough to coat the cakes, pour over and let it set. Put a crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips of blanched almonds to ornament.

Chocolate Cake.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of grated chocolate, three ounces of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, one small teaspoonful of baking powder, vanilla flavouring, a little browning.

For the Icing.—Half a pound of icing sugar, three ounces of chocolate, a little water and browning.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream, add the castor sugar and the grated chocolate; beat the eggs in one at a time, putting a little flour with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring and a little browning. Have ready a cake tin brushed out with clarified butter and lined with buttered paper; put in the mixture, which should three parts fill it, and bake in a good oven about one hour and a half.

For the Icing.—Melt three ounces of chocolate; mix the icing sugar with about four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the melted chocolate; work well with a wooden spoon and pour over the cake when it is cold.

Roscommon Loaf.

Ingredients.—One pound of wholemeal flour, quarter of a pound of household flour, one ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, sour milk to mix.

Method.—Mix the flour, salt and soda well in a basin, rub in the dripping, mix to a rather soft dough with the sour milk; make into a flat loaf, score across with a knife, and bake in a good oven one hour and a half.

{265}

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”

(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

{266}

WANTED: A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION.

By JAMES and NANETTE MASON.

Do you think we are going to advocate that all of us should retire to dreamland to pass a drowsy existence there with the creations of our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken. It is not possible to put everything in the title, otherwise we might have made this one run, “Wanted: a little more imagination for those who, at the right times, have not enough, and a little less for those who, on all possible occasions, have too much.” But it is the “too little” which is of most importance for the purposes of ordinary life, and that is why the title stands above as it does. Our first business is to be practical and to speak of imagination as an aid in the work and conduct and duty of every day.

Of all powers possessed by our minds this is perhaps the most wonderful—the power of making pictures inside our heads, seeing there what eyes know nothing of and what outside ourselves has really no existence. It gives an importance—a glory even—to the most obscure and solitary lives. Possessed of a vivid and healthy imagination, a girl may live very much alone and yet be full of company, entertaining a ghostly good society that in some respects is even an improvement on that frequented by her less isolated friends.

Everything is the better for being shone on by its magic light—even love. Imagination, someone says, is to love what gas is to the balloon—that which raises it from the earth! It is, as we all know, the test of genius; but it is found, too, in ordinary people as a useful servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether out of our inner life and we would be very poor creatures.

However, as we have said, we have sometimes not enough. This happens, for example, when we fail to look at things in a spirit of kindliness, and give utterance to criticism on other folk, hard, harsh, and unreasonable.

Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise that all are not alike and that allowance—and a wide allowance too—should be made for differences both in thought and action. For this reason we find them often wanting in sympathy and sometimes even cruel.

This the imaginative seldom are. “Put yourself in her place” is their golden rule—the best rule that was ever devised for enabling us to go through the world adding daily to the happiness of it.

Only have a little more imagination and you will be tolerant and kindly and ready to make excuses not only for those you love, which is easy, but for those you dislike, which, as everyone knows, is a much harder matter. The “little more” will make Kate shut her mouth again the next time it flies open to let out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It will make Eliza pay that little account she has been owing for the last six months without a thought in all that time of the dressmaker needing the money. It will make Maggie give up grumbling that Beatrice writes to her so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,—she the eldest of a great bunch of sisters and her mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut her visit short next time she calls on Alice, so leaving hard-worked Alice to get through her school tasks for the morrow without sitting up to all hours of the night. In fact, what will it not do in the way of giving smoothness to the wheels of life?

Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which to obtain a look at ourselves, and when we get a little more of it, it is like turning up the gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves then as others see us, and a pretty exhibition it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous, whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this way gets to know it. There is thus always hope for the imaginative—they can realise what they are, and, without self-knowledge, what chance of reformation is there for anybody?

Our friend Josephine, for example, came to us the other day, keen on being an authoress; but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no imagination. With only a few grains of it, she would have seen that becoming an authoress is for her impossible, because what she wants is publishers’ and editors’ cheques and what she does not want is trouble.

A well-trained imagination—not one inclined to run riot; no, certainly not that sort of a one—is of great assistance in enabling us rightly to sum up people and things. Our critical faculties are worth little and only lead us into mischief and mistakes without it. Possessed of only a “little more,” not a few of us would often be saved from being misled by appearances and enabled to steer clear of the troubles that come from drawing wrong inferences. The world is a difficult enough world to live in, for things are but seldom what they seem, and some art, like this one we are talking about, is needed by which we can illuminate life and get at the real essence of all that interests us.

Another use of imagination is in the reading of books, and on this subject no one has written better than the late Professor Blackie, who held very decided opinions about the importance of having the imaginative faculty properly trained.

“As there are many persons,” he says, “who seem to walk through life with their eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others who read through books, and perhaps even cram themselves with facts, without carrying away any living pictures of significant story which might arouse the fancy in an hour of leisure or gird them with endurance in a moment of difficulty.

“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you read a chapter of any notable book, not what you saw printed on a grey page, but what you see pictured in the glowing gallery of your imagination. Have your fancy always vivid and full of body and colour. Count yourself not to know a fact when you know that it took place, but then only when you see it as it did take place.”

These words form as valuable a note on the art of reading as we are likely to meet with for many a day.

To train the imagination adequately, the Professor points out, it is not enough that pictures be made to float pleasantly before the fancy—that is merely the amusement of the lazy. We should call upon our imagination to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they arise, and not be content till we see them with our minds almost as clear, distinct, and life-like as we might have done with our eyes.

For the culture of the imagination, works of fiction are no doubt of great service, but the most useful exercise of this faculty is when it buckles itself to realities.

“There is no need,” says the Professor, “of going to romances for pictures of human character and fortune calculated to please the fancy and to elevate the imagination. The life of Alexander the Great, of Martin Luther, of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable characters on the great stage of the world who incarnate the history which they create, is for this purpose of more educational value than the best novel that ever was written or even the best poetry. Not all minds delight in poetry; but all minds are impressed and elevated by an imposing and a striking fact. To exercise the imagination on the lives of great and good men brings with it a double gain; for by this exercise we learn at a single stroke, and in the most effective way, both what was done, and what ought to be done.”

What is true of the value of imagination to the student of books is equally true of its importance to all who devote attention to music and art. Without imagination, the pursuit of either is little better than a waste of time, and the more of it we bring to their culture, the more successful we shall be. Let girls, then, and their parents and teachers, look to it and do what they can to encourage this most spiritual of all our faculties, the very life of artistic effort, and a magician to whom everything is possible.

A great and good use of imagination is to reproduce to us our past lives. It is something more than memory. Memory says I was at such a place on a certain day, but imagination brings up the place—the Highland loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn morning, the purple heather on the hills, the steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking the steamer, the young man in the coffee-room smiling to the landlord’s daughter, the taste of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the burned oat-cake.

“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a dream,” and by imagination we can dream it all over again. And the recollection is sometimes better than the reality, just as in moonlight our village looks more lovely than in sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our ear, and a halo is thrown over the unsightly and disagreeable.

An additional charm too is that many a problem which may have puzzled us when things actually happened, is solved before we begin to look back. The relationship of people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes, sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain; the foolish have got their deserts and the wise have got theirs; the envious have grown lean and the good-natured and kindly have become fat; the wasters have fallen to poverty and the industrious have risen to fortune.

Such changes as these give value and interest to our recollections when we wake the ghosts of the past and make them parade before us. We are able in a way which was impossible before to be actors, spectators, and enlightened critics—all three rolled in one.

Girls who have now but little short lives, with comparatively few incidents to recall, can hardly realise what a gratification this wandering over the enchanted ground of imagination imparts to mature years. If they did they would often be saying to themselves, How will this look in recollection? And such a thought would keep them from many a frivolity and many an error. But, short lives or long lives, let us go over our past often if for no other reason than that we may understand ourselves, not to speak of our gaining such knowledge as will enable us to steer a safe course through the perils of the future.

Speaking of the future reminds us that that is a great territory of the imaginative. By imagination girls are witches to foretell what is to happen the day after to-morrow.

Now we spend our time ill if we build castles in the air and trust to them as if they{267} were substantial edifices. But, for all that, to let the imagination dwell on what is yet to come has its uses and may be a valuable help to conduct.

Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly extravagant ever to be realised have brightened many dull and monotonous lives, and for that reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged. Besides this there is an important gain resulting from our projecting the imagination into the future—we are thereby prepared for many events which now find us quite unprepared.

The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination who danced and sang all summer-time. They should have pictured to themselves the snow on the ground, the pools frozen over, and the wind whistling through the bare branches.

A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have all my life had a vision of a workhouse door open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising early and working hard. It is that which has made me saving and prosperous.”

A similar vision might work a change on some people we know. Bring your own self forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that imagination of yours, picturing yourself as old and disinclined for work, and see if ever after you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.

A little more imagination may often be recommended to the good looking, not forgetting all who think themselves so. Perhaps we should rather say a little more of the right sort, for they indulge in flights of fancy enough when it is a matter of picturing those brought into captivity by their charms. They should leave considering their conquests and captives and make an effort to realise what they themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty, if they live so long. The beauty and attractiveness of youth will then be over, and unless they have something else to recommend them, their place will be on one of the back seats of human life.

This should set them furnishing the inside of their heads as richly as Nature has done the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental culture endures and is found attractive, and even charming, to the very end of the chapter. There are few sadder sights than that of a beauty in ruins with an untrained intellect and none more refreshing than that of a bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind it stored with information and animated by shrewdness and good nature.

There is danger in all things, for all—yes, even the best—may be misused. Imagination is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and brighten our lives as we have seen, but that does not happen with the foolish. Instead of occupying this wondrous faculty with what is profitable and beautiful, they devote it to what is degrading and mean, and thus become a great deal worse with imagination than they would be without it.

And, even where its subjects are not positively objectionable, imagination sometimes wastes its energy on whimsicalities and runs riot in the broad fields of extravagance and nonsense. Of such a nature was the fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to the end of her days, showed great reverence for dogs and cats because she believed them animated by the souls of her ancestors.

A very silly use of imagination is to picture to ourselves suspicions, dangers and misfortunes. Some of us have a great deal of ability in this line, and endure torments daily over evils that never arrive.

“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you” is a safe rule, and only a stupid girl will set her imagination working so as to make herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the stupid class—no doubt, Caroline, it is on this occasion only—or she would at once get rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us last Tuesday that the letters sent to her by her sweetheart were detained at the post office and read. As if the postmistress, even in her country place, had not something better to do!

Another danger of the imagination is that we are apt to take refuge in it against the duties of real life. In real life there is friction, and there is nothing of that in dreamland. We can make that pleasant country to suit ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction, without mishaps, everything coming just right. Our business, however, in the world is not to dream but to act, for which reason this great gift of imagination must be kept in its proper place. It is a good servant, but, by foolish indulgence, may become a very bad master.

But, after making all allowances for dangers—those we have named and others that might be stated—the fact remains that to the greater number of us a little more imagination would not come amiss. It would make our lives richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly, more sensible. It is only a “little more” that is wanted. That any of us are entirely destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry sticks” is not common for girls.

AN EMBROIDERED BABY’S CARRIAGE COVERLID OF HOUSE FLANNEL.

I was recently asked by a lady friend to design her a simple piece of embroidery for her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that the design was not to be elaborate, as there was very little time to work it.

The illustration here given is the design I made, but it has a very different appearance in black and white to what it had when worked in two tones of blue worsted on house flannel. Still, those readers who do embroidery will know what allowances to make.

I sketched the design right away in charcoal, and anyone at all accustomed to using a pencil will have no difficulty in doing this. Divide your material in half, and then draw a line in the middle horizontally, and others above and below this. These lines will guide you in getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as the principal lines are symmetrical, it is enough. I found you can easily sketch in vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel and it easily dusts off afterwards.

The whole of the forms were produced in outline, and to show the sort of stitch, I have given a leaf full size. The ground is soon covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap look either. The fault many embroiderers make in carrying out a design is that they miss the “swing” of the lines, get broken-backed curves and clumsy-looking details. To obviate this you ought to keep looking at your work as a whole. Dwelling too long on any part of the design is likely to upset the balance of the whole.

It is obvious that in the design given the stems are the first features to be worked, as the leaves and flowers merely grow from them and are of secondary importance. It will add to the grace of the design to get the lower part of the stems gradually thicker, say two strands wide towards the base, just as in nature we find a plant gradually thickening as it nears the root.

It will be noticed that a separate border is designed for the piece at the top which turns over. The coverlid should have a worked edging, and to get this even a few niches should be spaced out and drawn on a piece of tracing paper and then pricked over with a coarse needle.

All you have to do is to rub a little crushed charcoal, tied up in a piece of coarse linen or muslin, on the reverse side, when the powdered charcoal will pass through the holes leaving an impression which can be worked over at once.

Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it should be done evenly, and the eye is not quite correct enough if left to itself, and much of the workmanlike look of the whole would be marred if this edging were badly done. The right initial or name can be added or left out if desired. In the latter case put in a flower and a leaf or two.

Those readers who have never worked on house flannel will find it a pleasant material, and for portières and short curtains very excellent both in effect and for wear.

{268}

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

By C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER I.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

Sitting in a cool green shade of trees and flowers, in the still heat of a summer afternoon, I read in your most interesting paper, dear Mr. Editor, a record of noble women who, from the slippery places of wealth and ease, had sprung a mine of happiness in lightening the burdens, and in sympathies for the sorrows, of many who had no helper.

I read and enthusiastically admired, and while admiring tried to appreciate the difficulty which women so placed would find in realising sufferings of which they could know so little by experience—of some troubles they could absolutely know nothing—the want of bread, the deadly fatigue of overwork, the misery of children crying for food, the bitterness of bare poverty, of homes which do not shelter, of empty fireplaces in cold, and shadowless rooms in the heat—and in such heat as we have been taught lately can be suffered even in this dear England of ours.

In the intense heat of the day—while the roses drooped and seemed to sigh for rain, and the birds were silent, and by the shaded pool, at the dark water’s edge, the cows were enjoying some freshness, and the white flocks of waterfowl cowered and waited for the evening breeze—in the stillness my thoughts floated away to curious visions, partly suggested by a lovely series of pictures in the Arabian Nights of magical help and daring exploits, and one, the last (not in any English edition), of a range of mountain caverns, with glittering temptations, through which the prince has to fight his way till he comes to the last vast hall shrouded in darkness and ended by dim heavy curtains, which opened, disclosing the radiant islands in the seven seas, where his love reigns, and the water-nymphs receive him as he leaps into the waves and, singing, bear him to his queen, to rescue and love her.

Visions are curious and arbitrary things, and while dreaming of this often haunting story, I thought that, instead of the gigantic fiend who in the story waves his scimitar over the lover, I saw two radiant angels parting those magic curtains as I in my dream gazed, and they said to me—

“You have loved and revered the courage and self-devotion of the noble servants of the Most High, who have abandoned the luxuries and repose of wealth to save their fellow mortals—the poor, the helpless, and the suffering. Would you know what more can be done?

“There are records in the kingdom of our Master of fellow-servants of ours—women, with no power but their faith, no means but those like the feast for five thousand provided by their Lord by the Galilean lake from a few loaves and small fishes, no strength but the divine energy of love—these servants of God, poor, weak, alone, have done work which has caused joy in Heaven and saved those who, but for them and others like them, would have been lost. Will you dream on, and we will show you visions of some of these?”

In breathless expectation I waited, and gradually the vision resolved itself before me into a wild mountainous country. A castle up the hills was besieged by a horde of savage and furious soldiery. Defence was hopeless, but the few loyal retainers held their own till the three little orphan children of the lord were hurried out of the back postern by their nurse and one (the only) trooper who could be spared to drive the mule on which the two little leddies were seated and to carry the young lord.

Heaven helped them and they safely reached the hut where, concealed and protected by Elspeth the nurse, they escaped the search of their enemies. By day and night this devoted servant worked for them, tended them. To feed them she starved, to clothe them she managed to get by night and hidden mountain paths to the few nobles still left on whom she could rely with the words “My young leddies need this,” “My little lord needs that.”

Years go by, and the brave old Scotchwoman has fulfilled her trust. The young lord has regained his inheritance, and now they all plead that she to whom they owe everything should accompany them to the noble home she has so helped them to regain. But I see her, in advancing years, still spinning on in the Highland home. At all times of need, whether of joy or woe, they call for Elspeth, and she is with them again; but she died as she lived, in the poor home of her fathers, but up-borne by the prayers and the reverence of her people. “Poor, yet making many rich.”

It was in vain the young lord and her leddies claimed her for their richer life of competence and power, but the old Hieland woman said, “Na, na.” She would go to them when on great occasions they wanted her, but her strong independent life was still to be lived among the hills she loved and among her own people; and by the work of her own hands she would still live, and in her hut she would die.

The dream curtains slowly descended, but my last look at the beautiful Highland scene was on the cottage on which the sunshine of Heaven’s blessing still lingered, and on the noble peasant woman who had saved her chieftain’s children.

I might be allowed to mention that, remembering this touching story of fidelity and loyalty as it was told me by the Earl himself years ago, I have searched through many volumes of the history of this great family for further details of the time and place, but in vain, so I must leave the little history as I heard it from the chief’s own lips.

In writing of servants, an anecdote of Lord Shaftesbury, mentioned in a recent work—Collections and Recollections—is worth remembering.

“Speaking of his early and troubled childhood, he said, one only element of joy he recognised in looking back to those dark days, and that was the devotion of an old maid-servant, who comforted him in his childish sorrows and taught him the rudiments of the Christian faith. In all the struggles and distresses of boyhood and manhood, he used the words of prayer which he had learned from the good woman before he was seven years old. And of a keepsake which she left him—the gold watch which he wore to the last day of his life—he used to say, ‘That was given to me by the best friend I ever had in the world.’”

(To be continued.)

“IN MINE HOUSE.”

By LINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of “The King’s Daughters,” etc.

PART II.

ITS INGLE-NOOKS AND HOW TO ECONOMISE THEM.

In olden days the ingle-nook was the centre of the home. Built in a deep recess of the wall, with its copper or brazen cupola, it had benches fitted into its chimney corner on each side. Here, after a day’s work was done, assembled the mistress with her distaff, maidens with their lovers, sons with their netting, and the father with his book. Here chat and song and sacred lore flowed freely and fast. On its wide breast lay large logs of hazel and oak, beechen boughs and green ashwood. Bit by bit as they smouldered away fresh limbs were added, keeping up a crimson glow on the wide hearth.

Nowadays, in mine house slow combustion grates and stoves reign supreme. By their use much of the picturesqueness of our fires is done away with, but a wonderful economy in the coal-bill effected. This is not the case, however, if our particular Mary Jane be allowed to make and mend at her own sweet will. The “Eagle Range” is quite as omnivorous as its namesake if cook keeps every damper out and every cross-door shut. Unless she cleans each flue scrupulously, the “Eagle” and its ilk will only consume lumps of best Orrell—and consume them much faster than an open fireplace would do.

In mine house the first lesson taught a new maid is how to lay and light a fire. Scientifically done, it takes far less kindling wood and far fewer matches than when built up at haphazard. There are two methods of laying a fire. A range or stove must burn from the bottom upwards; the open grate may be ignited on the top.

We will consider our drawing-room fire first. See that every bit of ancient fire is raked away and every cinder riddled on the spot through a 6d. wire-shovel. The meshes of this instrument are wide apart, so only the large cinders are retained by its use; all small morsels and dust fall through without raising a “pother,” and may be sifted afterwards. Now fit a sheet of brown paper across the lower bars and lay over it some lumps of clean round coal. On the top of these empty your cinders, and over them again place wood and bits of crumpled paper in the order named. One match applied to this topmost layer will ignite the tissue, and very slowly it will burn downwards until the Orrell be reached.

This glowing mass must on no account be poked. In fact, if this mode of lighting our sitting-room fires be adopted, sets of fire-irons should be conspicuous by their absence. A very distinct saving is effected by this; first we are spared initial cost of purchase, and afterwards constant extravagant use of the poker is avoided.

Some folk seem to think that flames alone give heat. Now, as a matter of fact, it is the glowing mass which most quickly warms a room. Others talk of “the cheerful blaze.” In mine house we esteem the red heart far more beautiful. As a matter of fact, in mine house, which boasts of ten grates, only two pokers are en evidence. Yet last winter our{269} next door neighbour—who burned double the quantity of coal—complained she could not get her parlour to register 60°, whilst my sitting-room pumped up to and maintained 70° without any difficulty.

There are two ways of minimising the consumption of coal in our modern grates—either get a firebrick to fill up the back thereof and burn only a frontage of bottled sunshine, or leave it as the builder intended and after drawing every bit of round coal to the front bars and seen them well alight, pack the cavity behind with a bucket of well-damped “slack” or coal-dust. This mass will gradually heat and ignite all through and throw out a heat never attained by the ordinary lump fire.

The very best Orrell slack is like small coal, and costs only from 6d. to 8d. a sack as against £1 1s. a ton for bright coal. A fire made up after this economical plan will burn from morning till night without attention. Then, breaking up the solid cake, a bright cheerful result is gained for the hours of twilight and night. Such a fire, too, is invaluable in a sick room—requiring no noisy repairing when sleep ought to reign.

In mine house the kitchen range is scientifically treated also and consumes every bit of refuse.

I allow neither ashpit, pigbucket, or dustbin at the back door. Such extravagant conveniences should never be tolerated where economy in fuel is an object. Even if we have no poultry or porcine animal to devour potato peels, vegetable parings, or scraps of meat, our kitchen range can have its omnivorous mouth filled daily with such. Of course every house mother knows that when cooking is being done, a clear good fire is necessary.

Mary Jane may during those halcyon hours pile on the best coal and be allowed liberally to “rake” it with a heavy poker, otherwise she will send up flabby pastry, raw potatoes, and half-cooked beef. But directly the midday meal be over, every scrap of green stuff, cabbage stalks, every bone—fish or flesh—is laid on the glowing embers of the range in mine house. A layer of wet coal-dust is added, the iron rings are put in place, the door is shut, and all dampers are pulled out. Thus, sans odeur, those atoms of waste food are consumed which, left to lie on an ashpit, would infallibly breed fever of all sorts.

When, at six o’clock, another meal is required, the range is opened, lungs perforated through its crust, some knots of coal allowed, and a liberal use of the “curate” recommended.

For toasting or ironing purposes we utilise a heap of clean cinders which has gradually been accumulating in a corner of the yard. The dews of heaven have kept these damp, and the raindrops have cleaned them before we shovel them on to the fire. Ram them into the grate, and thus provide the best (because most smokeless) fuel for laundry work. Our flat irons, heated by these cinders, are not smoke begrimed or sooty, but keep bright and smooth all the year round.

In the ingle-nook of mine house open fireplaces are, in two rooms, replaced by American stoves. One of them stands about two and a half feet high and cost only 15s. It juts well out in the study—close to the writing-table—and keeps my toes and fingers warm and comfortable at a minimum cost of fuel. An iron arm elbows its way up the closed chimney, and a sheet of zinc nailed over the ordinary grate gives a good draught. The fire-space in this stove is very tiny—a handful of shavings and a spoonful of coal makes it light up cheerfully, and a little damp slack keeps it at furnace heat for hours.

This wee warming-stove has saved its cost over and over again, and is so easily lit up that I manage to have the comfort of a fire long before my house-maidens have quitted the beautiful land of nod. All undue dryness of the atmosphere is counteracted by keeping a pipkin of water steaming on its face, and it is so clean that even the most delicate curtains are not soiled by its use.

The value of having a smutless, smokeless, dustless fire can never be over-estimated in this uncertain climate. Even many evenings in July or August call for a small fire, and the easiness of lighting this stove in the ingle-nook of mine house prevents such a necessity (as I consider it) being considered a luxury.

I do not think I need speak of the virtues of gas as a heating agent. We all recognise the desirability of its use; but, alas! where economy has to be considered in our ingle-nooks, we cannot recommend it. In place of coal gas is desirable; but in addition to coal it is fearfully expensive. In mine house—when dog-days protest against any artificial heat—we use paraffin.

Rippingill has invented and patented so many excellent elaborate cooking-stoves that it is easy to do without our kitchen range. At the cost of about four farthings a dinner consisting of half a leg of mutton, boiled potatoes, peas, cauliflower, and a rice pudding can be cooked to perfection. Even after these are done the ovens will be still hot enough to bake a cake for afternoon tea or some pastry for supper.

The equable temperature maintained by an adjustable flame enables me to “rise” all kinds of fancy bread in my “A.B.C.” stove splendidly, and for making jam it is invaluable. No longer do I dread the annual eruption of stones of ripe raspberries or the arrival of hairy, sweet gooseberries by the gallon. The winter supply of jam in mine house is made without burnt brows or scalded fingers over the little Rippingill that stands in the store-room.

“But don’t the stoves smell fearfully?” is a question often asked. I answer truthfully that they are absolutely odourless when properly attended to. Loose particles of charred wick cause a loss of proper ventilation; drops of oil spilt outside the reservoir, clogged burners, all prevent proper combustion and produce a bad effluvia.

I find that constant supervision is necessary when we use oil in mine house. Then only are the wicks well rubbed, then only are scissors tabooed, then only fags and edges flame not, then only doth economy wait on comfort in my ingle-nook. It requires skilled fingers to keep chimneys clear enough to read by. A drop of ammonia added to the water in which they are washed helps towards this crystalline condition. Then no longer

but sheds round a clear shining light.

Perhaps a word or two about kindling may not be out of place in considering this subject of economy in our ingle-nooks. Our grandmother’s axiom was—

But I think the making of a fire is even more important than its mending or tending. To give our maids inadequate lighting material is very false economy. Well dried, well chopped, well seasoned faggots are a necessity in mine house.

“Ash green” may be “fire-wood fit for a queen,” but it makes bad kindling. Bundles of small sticks may be bought so cheaply nowadays that we should never be without them. Unlike Hamlet, we need not “for the day be confined to fast in fires” if we provide these and a few medicated wheels for hasty work.

On the other hand Mary Jane must be impressed with the fact that twelve bundles represent twenty-four fires at the least. Half a dozen sticks laid lightly in a basket-fashion will do the same work as a whole handful lumped on together. “Waste not, want not,” is a motto much to be observed in this matter.

It is a good thing to have a regular weekly supply sent in, regulated by the number of fires in general use. For extra ones, half a dozen medicated wheels should be kept in the store press, and only given out when one is unexpectedly called for.

I cannot quit this subject of the ingle-nook in mine house without speaking a little about the summer ornamentation thereof. As I hinted before, I personally consider the best ornament of our fire-stoves to be a fire, even in August—or, at least, the makings of a fire if required.

In my best room we lift out the leaded bars and replace them with bright brass ones, filling in the space with faggots and coal and fircones. The glistening rods do not prevent our having an occasional blaze, for a rub with “Globe” polish soon polishes them after use. We do not lift away the pierced brass curb or dogs, but amongst and behind them a few pots of ferns are stood about. They do not mind the draught up the chimney (N.B.—No register is ever drawn down in mine house), and can be judiciously damped as they stand on the tiled hearth. A second suffices to shift these when a fire is called for.

I think easy removal is the primary rule in decoration of our ingle-nook. Thus, heavy, dust-collecting curtains should never be attached to the mantelpiece; much less may art muslin draperies be tolerated. I have seen them in some houses with all their suggestiveness of downright tragedy veiled by flimsy unreality. One spark, one splutter, one fizz, and flames would lick them up like paper. A hammered brass and iron screen—a sheet of looking-glass—if you must hide the settee. On the other hand, a fir or larch bough, with its red-brown stem and crimson tassels, may be laid across the set fire, and one has decoration enough.

Nothing can be beautiful in our ingle-nook which conveys a false notion of the purpose to which it will be applied. Decorative art requires that the nature of construction should as far as possible be revealed or indicated by the ornament which it bears.

“The beauty of fitness” must be borne in mind when we are tempted to fill the fire-baskets in our ingle-nooks with tinsel and shavings, paper designs or artificial flowers. In the huge chimney space of an ancient fireplace logs of wood carelessly piled on dogs was a fit and appropriate decoration. So a well laid fire is, after all, to end with as well as to begin with the best ornament we can stand in the ingle-nook.

Perhaps no object in mine house speaks of higher things in a louder voice than does the fire in its ingle-nook. Scenes of terror and beauty in the Bible often surround a hearth and a flame. The burning bush which hid Jehovah; the flashing fire enfolding itself (Ezek. i.) displayed Him; a furnace lit up the first covenant (Gen. xv. 17), and so on through the whole book.

In one of the Significant Rooms of the Interpreter’s House a fire burned all the year round upon which rival forces poured oil and water—a picture this of God’s grace overcoming the evil one.

And so we weave round the most sacred spot in our homes a fabric of thought and poetry and prayer—

A little cricket still chirps of love and help and warmth and all that makes life lovely.

(To be continued.)

{270}

CHINA MARKS.

ENGLISH PORCELAIN.

PART IV.

Salopian Works, Caughley.

The Salopian Porcelain Works were founded by Thomas Turner, of Caughley Place, who had been employed in the Worcester factory, and becoming manager of the pottery works at Caughley, near Broseley, in 1772. To him are attributed the famous “willow pattern,” the “Nankin” and the “blue dragon,” and the production of the beautiful and distinguishing dark blue colour; Thomas Minton, of Stoke, assisted in the completion of the “Nankin,” being an articled engraver at Caughley. Of Turner the Messrs. John Rose bought the factory in 1799, and in 1814-15 it was broken up. This was a grievous loss, as the porcelain produced there was remarkable for the brilliancy of its glaze, the fineness of its substance, and the beauty of its blue colour. The name “Salopian” indicates its origin, but several other marks of very elaborate designs were employed, being a series of Arabic numerals, as here given, although some slight varieties are noticeable in the different illustrations published.

Coalport and Colebrook Dale.

John Rose, an apprentice of Thomas Turner, of Caughley, Salop, was also the founder of the Coalport and Colebrook Dale, Shropshire, manufactories, and after a time, having purchased the Caughley plant, he united the latter with Coalport, Swansea and Nantgarw factories; the paste of Coalport was a combination, and “felspar porcelain” was produced. Turner’s “willow” and “blue dragon” designs were again resuscitated to a great extent, and various sprig patterns, copied from Chelsea, Dresden and Sèvres porcelain, as well as bearing their marks. Besides these latter, the names and initial letters of the original factories are found on the early examples, and the more recent bear the marks next here following.

The letters “C. B. D.” in monogram, “C. D.” and “C. Dale” stand for Colebrook Dale, and the Coalport mark is simply its name in writing hand. There are other marks that cannot be omitted in the series, such as the name “Salopian” in capitals, in small roms.; the name “Turner” in capitals; the letter “S” in blue stands for “Salopian” (an early mark); the letters “So S” and “Sx.” Also, the crescent surmounting the name “Salopian,” the former in blue and the latter impressed only. One other mark may be named, a dot, and an “S” surmounting the crossed swords.

(The Staffordshire Works—Shelton New Hall.)

The porcelain manufacture was introduced into the Staffordshire potteries in 1777 on the purchase of Champion’s patent, obtained by him from Cookworthy, of Plymouth. The New Hall Works, Shelton, built by Whitehead, produced hard porcelain, much like that of Bristol. The blue tea-ware was in hard paste, with the “willow pattern,” and having Champion’s mark under the glaze, was made in this factory by Turner. Some seventeen or twenty celebrated manufacturers were connected with the Shelton China Works at the “New Hall.” One of these was the celebrated Josiah Spode, who in 1784 took the factory from Banks and Turner, and was in his turn succeeded by his son, J. Spode, junior. This latter introduced soft felspar and bones into the Staffordshire porcelain. Turner junior was followed by Copeland, and Garrett, Thomas Minton and his son, Herbert. Hard paste was introduced into the Staffordshire china by the latter. The second Josiah Spode was the most successful porcelain manufacturer of his time, and the new parish church at Stoke was mainly built and decorated by him. He contributed to it the best porcelain, jasper ware, patent stone pottery, and blue-painted ditto to beautify it.

Mr. William Copeland was his partner, and the exquisite Parian biscuit china or Parian Carrara was carried to the utmost perfection by him. The firm of Josiah Spode and William Copeland, and then Copeland and Garrett, is now known as “Copeland and Sons.”

The Spode china bore the maker’s name, painted or impressed, and surmounted by a crown and inscribed between the branches. Later on it bore “Copeland and Garrett,” or two C’s interlaced; also “Saxon Blue” and “New Blanche.”

The pâte sur pâte, or “slip painting,” was brought to great perfection by M. Solon, the principal artist employed by Messrs. Minton, as well as Mr. Toft.

Josiah Wedgwood’s nephew, Thomas Brierly, introduced the soft paste porcelain at Etruria in 1808; but it was not of long existence. The examples to be seen are decorated with landscapes, birds, and flowers, and are, for the most part, distinguished with the name “Wedgwood” coloured red.

The early marks on Minton’s porcelain are the following (the special mark of Solon Miles being the most ornate)—

Specimens of the earths, clay, stone, sand, etc., were placed in Josiah Wedgwood’s hands by a Mr. Bradley Blake, a resident at Canton, such as employed at Nankin for porcelain. And Wedgwood produced very excellent examples, but he never manufactured this china ware for commerce, although his nephew, Thomas Brierly, did, in 1808, at Etruria. For himself he was a potter, and it was for beautiful varieties of this ware that the famous Flaxman worked designs for him.

The names of Ridgway and Sons, and Heath, Warburton, Clowes, Hollins, and Daniel, are well known in connection with the New Hall China Works at Shelton. But during a course of many years and many successions of proprietorship, there is little space for lists of names in a brief article.

I may here observe that when the Derby works began to decline, after 1825, many highly efficient workmen joined the factory at Stoke-upon-Trent, founded by Turner and rendered illustrious by Spode. Thus the artistic work of the Staffordshire factory at Stoke was greatly improved.

Up to the year 1798 the Stoke manufactures were chiefly restricted to white ware decorated with blue, like ordinary Nankin. The factory was first established in 1790 by Thomas Minton, who had been an apprentice of Thomas Turner (of Caughley) as an engraver, and had then worked for Spode; and in 1788 he settled at Stoke.

The next year he took Joseph Poulson into partnership—the late manager for Spode—and from the year 1793 to 1800 he continued to be a joint manager and proprietor. He died in 1809, when Thomas Minton carried on the business alone. Mr. Minton’s second son, Herbert, succeeded him. John Boyle was his partner for some years, and was succeeded by Daintry Hollins and Mr. Colin Minton Campbell, his nephews. After his death they owned the business.

Steele, Bancroft and Handcock were Minton’s most distinguished painters, and John Simpson was his chief enamel painter of figures and of all the work of the highest class.

M. Solon-Milès, from Sèvres, began work for him in 1870; and to the latter we owe the application of engobe (white slip) on celadon grounds, toned chocolate, grey, and{271} green, which is known as pâte sur pâte—originally a Chinese invention of some centuries old. Solon’s monogram, or “Solon” or “Miles” are sometimes found on his work. The other three given were Minton’s early marks. The ermine surmounting his name has been employed since the year 1851—painted in colours or in gold or else indented.

Some services were produced in Felspar china, decorated with oriental flowers and birds. They were distinguished by a scroll in violet, enclosing a number in red, and below this the mark, “M. & B. Felspar Porcelain.”

Nantgarw China.

The factory of Nantgarw was a small one, founded in 1813, by Billingsley & Walker, at some ten or a dozen miles from Cardiff. The former had been an apprentice to Duesbury, of Derby, and had had great experience, having been in partnership with Coke at Pinxton, then acting as manager at Mansfield, working afterwards at Torksey, Lincolnshire, then at Bristol, and serving under Flight & Barr at Worcester, prior to his founding the manufactory at Nantgarw. In 1820, eight years before the death of Billingsley, John Rose, of Coalport, purchased the plant, Billingsley and Walker going into his service. The marks on the Nantgarw porcelain were either in red or impressed, as illustrated. The paste employed was exceedingly soft and fine in texture; the vases, with beautiful handles and covers, the table services and plaques were painted with landscapes, birds, insects, and flowers. At one time Mortlock (of London) purchased Billingsley’s porcelain in white and decorated and fired it himself. The extreme softness and vitreous fracture of the paste identifies it as of Nantgarw when the mark is lacking. Two other marks of this factory may be given. The name is in capital letters, either painted in red, or more usually impressed, and the second is in red. Sometimes the letters “C.W.” are found impressed underneath the name of the factory, which is supposed to mean “China Works.” Billingsley is supposed to have produced an excellent dessert service painted in flowers which is now the property of Mr. Firbank, M.P.

The Rockingham Porcelain—Swinton, Yorks.

The Rockingham factory was originally established for earthenware; but Thomas Brameld introduced the manufacture of the finest description of porcelain in the year 1820 or 1823, collecting his materials from Cornwall, Dorset, Sussex, and Kent. His dessert, dinner, and breakfast sets, and his ornamental pieces and figures, all highly decorated, were of first-class excellence. The mark usually employed—adopted in 1828—was the Rockingham crest—a Griffin—the Swinton Works being on the estate of Charles, Marquis of Rockingham, together with an inscription giving the name of the factory, and of Brameld—himself a painter on porcelain. The mark was in red. In 1826 they became embarrassed, no expense having been spared on the manufacture of the finest work; but they were kept open through the assistance of Earl Fitzwilliam until 1842. In some examples of the Rockingham china (preserved in the Scheiber collection) the mark varies to “Royal Rock Works, Brameld,” and the words “Manufacturers to the King” below the crest; also the name “Brameld” is sometimes enclosed in an oval design. Some genuine Rockingham ware is unmarked; some have incised marks such as “No. 22,” and “No. 31,” also “Brameld,” giving the batons and dots in addition.

BRAMELD.

There is a splendid specimen of this china to be seen in the South Kensington Museum—a highly decorated vase standing four feet high, and fired in a single piece, also having three handles, representing gold oak-branches, and the whole standing on three lions’ paws, a rhinoceros surmounting the lid or cover. The painter, Isaac Baguley, took over some part of this factory, Speight, Cordon, and Lucas being amongst the chief painters employed.

Belleck White Porcelain.

The factory at Belleck, County Fermanagh, Ireland, was established by Messrs. Armstrong and McBirney in 1856-7, and the porcelain was produced from the Felspar clays on the estate of J. C. Bloomfield, Esq. The use of salts of bismuth, resin, and oil of lavender produced the lustrous glaze for which this ware is remarkable, and the colours obtained from metallic oxides. So unique is this porcelain that no mark is required to identify it; but there is one stencilled or painted upon it in brown, green, or red, and the design is a round tower, a harp, shamrock, and greyhound—the former three being characteristic emblems of the country—but I do not know the origin of the latter. Perhaps it is the crest of the Bloomfields of Fermanagh, on whose estate the felspar was found.

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