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[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 985.]       NOVEMBER 12, 1898.       [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




"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.

[Illustration: "I WISH THEY WERE ENGLISH."]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER VII.

ON PAROLE.

If the shock of this abrupt arrest of the whole body of English
travellers, who happened to be within reach of the First Consul, fell
sharply on those at home, it fell at least no less sharply on those who
were arrested.

An official notice was served upon all who could, by the utmost
stretching, be accounted amenable to the act. In that notice, received
alike by Colonel Baron and by Denham Ivor, they were informed
that--"All the English enrolled in the Militia, from the ages of
eighteen to sixty, or holding any commission from His Britannic
Majesty, shall be made prisoners of war;"--the reason given being the
same as was alleged in the version which speedily appeared in English
papers.

The mention of the Militia was, however, additional; and there was
something else also. It might fairly have been argued that professional
men, men of business, and men of no particular employment, could not be
included in the above statement. To guard against such reasoning the
document went on to explain--"I tell you beforehand that no pretext,
no excuse, can exclude you; as, according to British law, none can
dispense you from serving in the Militia."

This notion was made the basis for a far more sweeping arrest than had
at first been supposed possible. Not only officers in the Army and
Navy, who were then in France or in other countries under the dominion
of Napoleon, not only men who had served or who might be called upon
to serve in the Militia, but lawyers and doctors, clergymen and men of
rank, men of business and men in trade, all alike were detained, all
alike were forced immediately to constitute themselves prisoners of war
upon parole, with only the alternative of becoming prisoners of war in
prison, instead of upon parole.

Those who consented to give their word of honour not to attempt to
escape were allowed to remain at large, and to lodge where they
would, under certain limitations. That is to say, they had to live in
specified places, where they were under the continual inspection of
the gendarmerie, and where they had at regular intervals to report
themselves. Whether they were soldiers, sailors, clergymen, or business
men, they were thus at once cut off from their work in life, and many
were debarred from their only means of livelihood.

As a first move, the mass of the Paris détenus were ordered to
Fontainebleau; and thither Colonel and Mrs. Baron had to betake
themselves. Thither also Denham Ivor would speedily have to follow:
though, on the score of danger to others from infection, a few days'
delay was permitted.

The question had at once arisen whether Mrs. Baron should not be sent
to England with Roy, as soon as the boy might be fit to travel, since
women were theoretically free to go where they would, provided only
that they could obtain passports. But Mrs. Baron refused to consider
any such proposal. She could not and would not be separated from her
husband. "Of course I shall go to Fontainebleau," she said decisively.
"It cannot be for long. Roy must come to us there. It only means
leaving his schooling for a quarter of a year; and he will not be
strong enough for lessons at present. Something is sure to be arranged
soon, and then we shall all go home together."

Others were less sanguine of a quick release; but Colonel Baron could
seldom stand out against his wife, when she set her dainty foot down.
He made a half struggle, and won from her a promise that, if he should
be ordered farther away, she would then consent to Roy's being sent
home. Beyond that he failed to get his own way.

Long before Roy could be counted safe for even the short journey to
Fontainebleau, Denham had an intimation that his going thither might be
no longer deferred. Thus far he had not thought it needful to tell the
boy what had happened; but now the telling had become a necessity.

"Den, I want to look out of the window. Oh, let me look out," entreated
Roy, as the heavy beat of a drum sounded. He wriggled on the hard sofa,
where he had begun to spend a part of each day. Roy had grown thin, and
his eyes blinked weakly when turned to the light.

"You want to see the soldiers?"

"Yes. Do let me. May I try to walk to the window all alone? I know I
can."

Ivor laughed, though not mirthfully. "Try!" he answered, and Roy made a
brave attempt, actually reaching the window without being helped.

"Come, that was good. You are getting on nicely. Now sit down, and look
out for the soldiers. I think they are coming this way."

The boy gazed eagerly, flushing.

"I wish they were English," he said. "I wish I was in England. When
are we going home, Den? And when may I see my mamma? I do want to have
Molly again. It's ages since I saw Molly--and I want her!"

Denham was silent.

"It was stupid of me to be so glad to come away from Molly. Nothing is
half nice without her."

"I am glad you have found that out. She is a dear little sister, and
she would do anything in the world for you."

"Oh, well, of course, I know she would," assented Roy. "And I always
was fond of Molly too. She gets cross sometimes, though."

"Roy never gets cross, I suppose?"

Roy laughed rather consciously, and then gave vent to a sigh. "Oh,
dear, I don't like this chair. Not half so much as the sofa. It makes
me tired. I wish nobody ever had the small-pox. When shall I be all
right again, I wonder? I do hate being ill such a tremendously long
time."

Denham picked him up bodily, as if he had been an infant, carried him
across, and deposited him where he had been before.

"You have done about enough for one day. Oh, you will soon be well
now; no fear! And you may count yourself fortunate, not to have been
much worse. Yours has been a slight attack, compared with what many
people have."

"I don't call it slight. I call it a most beastly horrid illness. Den,
when shall we go home? I want Molly."

Denham took a seat by his side.

"I am not sure. It may not be just yet."

"Why not? I thought we were going as soon as ever we could."

"As soon as possible; yes. The question is, how soon that will be. Some
of us are not able to go yet; but I am hoping that your father will
send you home, and not let you wait for him and me."

"Why, Den?" Roy twisted round to gaze in astonishment. "Why, Den! I
thought you were all waiting, only just till I should get over this.
I didn't know there was anything else. Is there anything else? Has
something happened? Do tell me."

"You and your mother are free to go back to England, as soon as she is
willing to do so. Your father and I are not free."

"Aren't you? Why not? What is the matter with papa?"

"Nothing is the matter with him, so far as health is concerned. Only,
he is not free and I am not free. We are both prisoners."

Roy's large grey eyes grew bigger and rounder.

"Den! Why--Den--what can you mean? Prisoners! You and papa prisoners!
Why, you haven't been fighting."

"No, we have not been fighting. We ought not to be prisoners. Such
a thing has never happened before, in any war between civilised
countries. But war has been declared, as you know was expected before
you were taken ill. And one of the first things that Napoleon did,
directly war broke out, was to make all English travellers prisoners of
war."

Roy clenched his fist.

"He professes to have had provocation. There were French vessels
in our ports, and these were seized, as soon as our Ambassador had
been ordered to return home. But that was in accordance with a very
old custom--centuries old. Napoleon's act of reprisal is altogether
new. It is a thing unheard of--making war on travellers and peaceful
residents; a disgrace to himself and his nation. You know what is meant
by 'reprisals' in war. This is his 'reprisal' for the vessels seized.
Every Englishman in France, or in any country under Napoleon's sway at
this moment, is declared to be a prisoner."

"Then I'm a prisoner too."

"You are under age. Some boys of your age have been arrested, I
believe, but only because they hold His Majesty's Commission in the
Navy. Otherwise, under eighteen you are free."

"But you are not in prison."

"I am on parole. I have given my word of honour not to try to get away."

"Then you mustn't escape, even if you can?"

"No. If I had refused to give my parole, I should have been at once
sent to prison--probably have been thrown into a dungeon."

The boy was as white as a sheet.

"And papa----?"

"Has given his parole also."

"And--mamma?"

"Your mother is at liberty to go home, and your father wishes her to
do so, and to take you; but she says she will not leave him. One can
understand her feeling, and yet it is a pity. In England she would be
safer and better off. But you know how unhappy she always is, if she is
away from your father even for a few days. You, of course, will have
to be sent home soon, so as to go on with your schooling; but at first
you will join us at Fontainebleau. We hope to be all released in a very
little while. The thing is so disgraceful, that Napoleon can hardly
persevere in it--so most people say. But we shall soon see. If we are
not soon set free, your father will no doubt try to persuade your
mother to take you home."

"Where is Fontainebleau?"

"Some distance from Paris. Don't you know the name? Your father and
mother are there already, and now I have to go too. I have only been
allowed to wait for a few days, because of your illness, and I must not
put off any longer."

"Are you going soon? Will you take me?"

"Not just yet, my boy. You are hardly fit for the journey. A chill
might lay you by again; besides, other people might catch the small-pox
from you. So I have settled to leave you here a little longer, in
charge of kind Mademoiselle de St. Roques. She and Monsieur and Madame
de Bertrand will see well after you."

Roy looked very doleful.

"When are you going?"

"I am afraid--to-morrow. But for that I would not have told you quite
so soon. But you will keep up a brave heart. You are a soldier's son,
you know, so you mustn't give in."

Roy's face worked.

"I don't want you to go," he said. "That horrid old beast of a
Napoleon; I wish somebody or other would guillotine him--that I do! He
deserves it richly! Must you go?"

"I'm afraid I have no choice. The gendarmes have been looking me
up; and if I put off any longer I shall get into trouble with those
gentlemen. I'm bound to report myself at Fontainebleau before the
evening of the day after to-morrow. But you will soon come after me.
Why--Roy!"

"I can't help it. It's so horrid," sobbed Roy, direfully ashamed of
himself. "I--don't like you to go. I don't like you and papa to be
prisoners. And oh--poor little Molly! What will she do! Den, why does
God let such wicked men be in the world? I wouldn't. I'd kill them
right off."

"One can't always see the reason. Some good reason there must be."

"I don't know how there can be! It's all as horrid as horrid, and
everything is miserable!" The boy rubbed his coat-sleeve across his
eyes, only to burst out sobbing afresh. "I can't help it," he gasped.
"Oh, please don't ever tell Molly."

"No, I will not. But Molly would understand. It is only that you are
pulled down and weak. In a few days you will not feel inclined to cry.
Never mind, Roy, things will be better by-and-by. You see, you and I
can't help what Buonaparte does. He has to answer for himself. You and
I have only to see that we do _our_ part in life bravely and rightly
and truly. This is rather hard to bear, but it has to be borne, and we
must try and be cheery for the sake of other people. Don't you see?"

Something in the young man's voice made Roy ask, "Do you mind very,
very much?"

"What do you think? Wouldn't you mind in my place? Roy--if you have
Molly at home, I have--Polly!"

"Oh, it's just perfectly horrid!" sobbed Roy. "It's just as beastly as
it can be!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Roy had good reason to talk of "poor little Molly." Molly's state
of mind during many days bordered on despair--so far as despair is
possible to a healthy child. The very idea that weeks and months might
pass before she could again see her beloved twin-brother was too
dreadful.

"Roy will be sent home, of course. It is out of the question that he
should be allowed to stay in France. Think of the boy's education,"
Mrs. Fairbank said repeatedly. But others were not so sure.

There is much variety in the different accounts given at the time, as
to the number of English subjects who actually suffered arrest. Some
estimates amount to as high a figure as ten thousand, but these appear
to make no allowance for the rapid homeward rush just at the last. This
assertion may be found in Sir Walter Scott's writings, which does not
settle the matter, since strict accuracy was not his peculiar gift.
Other estimates give only a few hundreds as the number detained, most
of them belonging to upper ranks in society.

A burning outburst of indignation took place throughout England, and
the newspapers vied one with another in wrathful condemnation of the
"unmannerly violation of the laws of hospitality."

One serious complication of affairs, which perhaps had not been
foreseen by the First Consul, when he took this step, was a deadlock in
the exchange of prisoners, usual in war between civilised nations.

It was impossible for the English Government to recognise that men so
unjustly seized were lawful prisoners of war, by consenting to release,
in exchange for them, French prisoners lawfully taken. Indeed, from
that date exchange practically ceased altogether; English prisoners
having to languish in France, and French prisoners having to languish
in England, without this hope of gaining their freedom before the close
of the war. Some few exceptions were made in later years, but not many.

After a time an attempt was made by the body of détenus
themselves--this being the name that they were known by, in
distinction from regular and lawfully-made prisoners--to obtain their
release. They sent a carefully-worded petition to the French Minister
of War, entreating to be set free, and offering, if their petition
were granted, to pay out of their own pockets the value of those
vessels which had been first seized by the English, as well as to do
their utmost to obtain the release of the French sailors who had been
on board those vessels. This request was flatly refused. The French
Minister, in his reply, plainly declared that the English had not been
detained merely on account of those captured vessels, as was stated in
Napoleon's manifesto, but for other reasons as well.

War, once begun, was carried on with energy by both the English and
the French. Napoleon marched his troops about Europe, as it pleased
him, meeting with little or no resistance. Germany, Austria, and other
nations, all meekly and tamely submitted; the only continental power
which had the pluck to offer even a faint resistance at that date being
little Denmark. Great Britain alone faced the usurper with a scornful
and fearless determination; and the most ardent desire of Napoleon's
heart was to crush the haughty island, which would have none of his
pretensions, and which refused to bow before him.

As a first step, he did his best to damage English commerce, by closing
continental markets against her--supremely careless of the suffering
which, by this move, he inflicted on his own friends and subjects. But
at this particular game England was the better hand of the two. At
that time ironclads were unknown; and though the great three-deckers,
with their fifty or seventy guns a-piece, could not be built in a day,
yet war vessels were of every description, from such three-deckers
down to merchant ships, hastily fitted with a few guns, and sent forth
to do their best. In a short time England had about five hundred war
vessels of divers kinds, large or small, with which she swept the seas,
recaptured such colonies as had been yielded to France by the Treaty of
Amiens, blockaded harbours in countries subject to the First Consul,
and made descents upon French ports, carrying off prizes in the very
teeth of French guns and fortifications.

Napoleon's next move was definitely to announce his intention of
invading England, of conquering the country, and of making it into a
province of France--a feat more easily talked of than accomplished. But
preparations for this scheme were pushed forward on a great scale. Huge
flotillas of flat-bottomed boats, to act as transport for the invading
army, were collected at various places, more especially at Boulogne;
and at the latter spot a camp was formed of about one hundred thousand
soldiers, to be in readiness for the moment of action. Also a fleet of
French men-of-war was being prepared to convoy the flat-bottomed boats
full of soldiers across the Channel.

(_To be continued._)




HENRY PURCELL:

THE PIONEER OF ENGLISH OPERA.

BY ELEONORE D'ESTERRE-KEELING.


On the 25th of November, 1680, there appeared in the columns of the
_London Gazette_ the following announcement:--

"Josias Priest, who kept a boarding-school of gentlewomen in Leicester
Fields, is removed to the great schoolhouse at Chelsey that was Mr.
Portman's. There will continue the same masters and others to the
improvement of the said school."

Leicester Fields was in 1680 the name of that part of London now
known as Leicester Square, and the removal of their school from this
central position to the village of Chelsea, at two miles distance,
must have made a considerable difference in the lives of the young
gentlewomen who had been confided to the care of Mr. Josias Priest. But
preparations were just then being made for a great event, and the wily
dominie doubtless knew what he was about when he chose the drear month
of November for his flitting.

In the great schoolhouse which had been Mr. Portman's there was to be
such a Christmas "break-up" as had never been known, and the young
gentlewomen of Mr. Priest's establishment had no leisure to lament
the gaieties of London life, for their thoughts were fully occupied
by the practising of their music and their steps, not to mention such
frivolous matters as the trying-on of fancy costumes and the twisting
of bright English tresses into the coils which should surmount the
dainty heads of maids and matrons of classic Carthage.

The new Chelsea school-master was nothing if not ambitious, and no less
a thing would satisfy him than the performance of an original opera
by the young gentlewomen of his establishment. To realise the full
extent of this ambition one must remember that up to this time (1680)
opera was unknown in England. The first opera ever written was Peri's
_Dafne_, and this had been privately performed in Florence in 1597.
The same composer's second opera, _Eurydice_, was the first work of
the kind to receive public support, it being performed in 1600, also
at Florence. Opera now slowly found its way across Europe, reaching
Germany in 1627, when Heinrich Schutz's _Dafne_ was given at Torgau;
and arriving at Paris in 1659, in which year _La Pastorale_, by Robert
Cambert, was sung before a public audience. From this time it made
rapid strides in the French capital, and Lully's operatic compositions
were regarded as masterpieces. England, however, still hung back, not
because there was any lack of excellent musicians in the country, but
because the sympathy and encouragement which are necessary to the
advancement of any art were not forthcoming.

Under the stern rule of the Puritans, music had been rigorously
suppressed, and the compositions of our older masters, existing only
in precious manuscripts, had been torn up and trampled under foot. The
destruction of singing-books was so complete that very few specimens
of pre-Commonwealth music now exist, and to add to the general ruin,
valuable organs were broken up, the one in Westminster Abbey itself
being pulled to pieces and its pipes pawned at the ale-houses for pots
of ale.

[Illustration: HENRY PURCELL.]

Although the work of destruction was being thus drastically carried
out by Cromwell's soldiers, the Protector was not himself without a
strong love for music, and one of the acts for which musicians owe him
gratitude was his rescue of the organ in Magdalen College, Oxford. This
beautiful instrument he had privately brought to Hampton Court and
placed there in the great gallery, in order that he might listen to the
music played on it by his secretary, the poet Milton. After Cromwell's
death it was returned to Magdalen College, but eventually it was sold,
and it now stands in Tewkesbury Abbey.

The year of Cromwell's death (1658) witnessed the birth of England's
greatest composer. In a small back street of Westminster, St. Ann's
Lane, Old Pye Street, there was living at this time a clever musician
called Henry Purcell. At the Restoration he was made Gentleman of the
Chapel Royal, and in this capacity he sang at the coronation of Charles
II., when, in order to do honour to the occasion, he, in common with
his colleagues, received "four yards of fine scarlet cloth to be made
into a gown." He was also elected singing-man of Westminster Abbey,
and Master of the Chorister Boys, as well as music-copyist. This last
was deemed a very honourable position, and owing to the wholesale
destruction of church music-books during the Commonwealth, it was no
sinecure; for it must be remembered that in those days there were
no cheap editions of printed music, and every composition had to be
laboriously transcribed by hand, printed copies being very rare and
expensive.

Little is known of the private life of Henry Purcell, senior, beyond
the fact that his wife's name was Elizabeth, and that he was the father
of the greater Henry Purcell, the child whose birth occurred in the
very year in which his father's fortunes began to look up; and in
which, by the accession of Charles II., there was given to music an
impetus that was significantly foreshadowed by the advent of England's
greatest musician.

Beneath the grey walls of Westminster Abbey little Henry passed the
first years of his life, the sounds of music constantly in his ears
and in his heart, and so well had his sweet baby voice been trained
that, at the death of his father, when he was but six years old, he
was admitted as a chorister of the Chapel Royal. His father's brother
Thomas, also a gifted musician, henceforth took care of the boy and
superintended his education with watchful tenderness. His teacher
at this time was Captain Cooke, an old man, who had belonged to the
chapel of Charles I., and who, on the breaking out of civil war, had
turned soldier and fought on the Royalist side. He had won a captain's
commission, and now, as a reward for his loyalty, he was appointed by
Charles II. Master of the Children of the Royal Chapel. Many of the
anthems composed by Purcell, and still in use in our cathedrals, date
from this time, and he was only twelve years old when he wrote the ode
which he called "The Address of the Children of the Chapel Royal to
the King and their Master, Captain Cooke, on his Majesties Birthday,
A.D. 1670, composed by Master Purcell, one of the Children of the said
Chapel."

At sixteen our composer became a pupil of the famous Dr. John Blow, one
of the greatest musicians of this time; and now his genius developed
with marvellous rapidity.

Amongst the minor canons of Canterbury Cathedral, there was one John
Gostling, the fortunate possessor of a bass voice of extraordinary
compass. This man was a great favourite with Charles II., and on one
occasion the King, having arranged a pleasure trip in his new yacht,
_The Fubbs_, round the Kentish coast, desired Gostling to join the
party "in order to keep up the mirth and good-humour of the company."
The boat had not gone very far when a terrible storm arose, and the
danger became so imminent that the King and the Duke of York had to
work like common sailors to help keep the vessel afloat. They escaped,
but the impression made on Gostling was so profound that on his return
to London he selected those passages from the Psalms which declare the
wonders and terrors of the deep, and gave them to his young friend
Purcell to compose, the wonderful anthem "They that go down to the sea
in ships" being the result.

It was with reference to this singer that Charles II. made the _bon
mot_, "You may talk as much as you please of your nightingales, but I
have a gosling who excels them all!"

In 1680 Dr. Blow resigned his position as organist of Westminster Abbey
in favour of his young pupil, and thus at twenty-two years of age, we
find Purcell in possession of the most important musical appointment in
the kingdom. His fame was already secure, but this year was to put the
crown on all his former achievements, and this crown was to be twined
for him by English school-girls.

[Illustration:

              Here lyes
         HENRY PURCELL Esqr
         Who left this Life,
  And is gone to that Blessed Place
       Where only his Harmony
          can be exceeded.
     Obijt 21^{mo} die Novembrs
       Anno Ætatis suæ 37^{mo}
          Annoq Domini 1695
]

In this year Mr. Josias Priest moved his school for young gentlewomen
to Chelsea. In this year also he conceived the bold idea of an English
opera, and having chosen his subject, the classic history of Dido
and Æneas, he had commissioned Nahum Tate, a native of Dublin, who
was already known as co-author (with Nicholas Brady) of the metrical
version of the Psalms, to prepare the book. The brilliant young
organist of Westminster Abbey was engaged to compose the music, and so
heartily did he throw himself into the work that an opera was produced
which could measure itself against the best existing productions of
Italy, France, or Germany.

[Illustration: Purcell's House]

That the music should have been so surpassingly beautiful is the more
surprising when we remember the limitations imposed upon its creator.
With the exception of the part of Æneas, which was given to a tenor,
all the parts were written in the G, or treble, clef as being the
easiest for young gentlewomen; and the orchestral accompaniments were
confined to two violins, a viola, bass, and harpsichord.

The composer himself played the harpsichord parts on this first
occasion, and the audience seems to have consisted, as is usual in
such cases, of the parents and friends of the young performers. The
entertainment was pronounced an unqualified success, and it would
indeed have been a crabbed auditor who could have remained unmoved
while Queen Dido confided the story of her love to her trusty Belinda,
or listened to the protestations of the faithless Æneas. Bands of
shepherds and shepherdesses, enchanters and sorceresses, varied the
solo parts with choral song and dance, and towards the close came that
incomparable death-song, the exquisite pathos and beauty of which still
strike home to every listener. "Remember me," sings the forsaken and
dying queen to her faithful Belinda, "but oh, forget my fate!"

Mr. Fuller Maitland says in connection with this song:--

"It is an inspiration that has never been surpassed for pathos and
direct emotional appeal. It was this directness of expression rather
than his erudition that raised Purcell to that supreme place among
English composers which has never been disputed. The very quality of
broad choral effect which has been most admired in Händel's work was
that in which Purcell most clearly anticipated him. In actual melodic
beauty Purcell's airs are at least on a level with Händel's."

At the close of the performance, the Lady Dorothy Burk, one of the
young gentlewomen of Mr. Josias Priest's school, recited an epilogue,
written for her by Thomas D'Urfey. It is too long to quote entire, but
the following extracts from it may interest our girls of to-day.

    "All that we know the Angels do above,
    I've read, is that they Sing and that they Love.
    The Vocal part we have to-night perform'd:
    And if by Love our Hearts not yet are warm'd,
    Great Providence has still more bounteous been
    To save us from those grand Deceivers, Men.
    Here blest with Innocence, and peace of Mind,
    Not only bred to Virtue, but inclin'd;
    We flourish and defie all human kind.

           *       *       *       *       *

    We hope to please, but if some Critick here.
    Fond of his Wit, designs to be severe,
    Let not his Patience be worn out too soon,
    And in few years we shall be all in Tune."

_Dido and Æneas_ was not printed until 1840, and even then it was but
an imperfect version of the opera that was given to the world. Since
1895--the bi-centenary of the composer's death--the Purcell Society has
been issuing a complete edition of the works of the "English Orpheus,"
and _Dido and Æneas_ has now at last come into its right. During
Purcell's lifetime opera was not held in high favour in this country,
a fact which is significantly proved by the circumstance that _Dido
and Æneas_ had no successor. In the _Gentleman's Journal_ for January,
1691-92, we find this quaint statement: "Experience hath taught us
that our English genius will not rellish this perpetuall singing."
Henceforward our first opera composer confined himself to incidental
music introduced into spoken drama. A poor perversion of _The Tempest_,
by Shadwell, was honoured far too highly by being set to music by
him, and only those parts of the music which were associated with
Shakespeare's words, such as, "Come unto these yellow sands," and "Full
fathom five," have survived.

An adaptation of Beaumont and Fletcher's _Dioclesian_ has fared no
better, but it attained the honour of print during its composer's
lifetime. It was dedicated to the Duke of Somerset, and was accompanied
by an address to his Grace containing the following passage, which is
of interest to us to-day, as showing the respective positions of the
sister arts at the close of the 17th century.

"Music and Poetry have ever been acknowledged Sisters, which, walking
hand in hand, support each other; As Poetry is the harmony of Words,
so Musick is that of Notes; and, as Poetry is a Rise above Prose and
Oratory, so is Musick the exaltation of Poetry. Both of them may
excel apart, but sure they are most excellent when they are joyn'd,
because nothing is then wanting to either of their Perfections: for
thus they appear like Wit and Beauty in the same Person. Poetry and
Painting have arriv'd to their perfection in our own Country. Musick
is yet but in its Nonage, a forward Child which gives hope of what it
may be hereafter in England when the Masters of it shall find more
Encouragement. 'Tis now learning _Italian_, which is its best Master,
and studying a little of the French Air, to give it somewhat more of
Gayety and Fashion."

_Dioclesian_, backed by the Duke of Somerset, was successful. It was
performed in 1690, and was said to have "gratify'd the expectation of
Court and City, and got the author great reputation."

In the following year Purcell wrote the music to _King Arthur_, the
work which, next to _Dido and Æneas_, holds the highest rank amongst
his secular compositions. The drama had been written by Dryden, but
the entire plot had to be so changed, owing to the altered political
situation, that the poet, in his preface, after lamenting the
destruction of his verse, goes on to say--

"There is nothing better than what I intended than the Musick; which
has since arriv'd to a greater perfection in England than ever
formerly; especially passing through the artful hands of Mr. Purcell,
who has compos'd it with so great a genius, that he has nothing to fear
but an ignorant, ill-judging audience."

The immediate success of _King Arthur_ seems to have been great, though
it did not long hold the stage. The time for works of this kind was not
yet come; in 1770 it was revived at Drury Lane, with a considerable
access of popularity. Since that time it has been heard at tolerably
frequent intervals, and a masterly performance was given under the
direction of Dr. Hans Richter at the Birmingham Festival in October,
1897.

Though Purcell's life only extended over thirty-seven years, he had
the composition of odes, on various occasions, for no less than three
English sovereigns. In addition to his numerous contributions in honour
of Charles II., some of which have been noted here, he wrote for the
coronation of James II. the two splendid anthems, "I was glad," and
"My Heart is inditing." He also wrote for James an ode beginning,
"Why are all the muses mute?" There seems to be something of irony
in the fact that he should likewise have been the author of a melody
which, according to contemporary writers, did more than anything else
to "chase James II. from his three kingdoms," but though Purcell
certainly wrote the music ultimately sung to _Lilliburlero_, it is no
less true that he had no knowledge of the use to which his melody would
be put. Amongst his minor compositions of this time were a march and
a quickstep, and the Irish Viceroy, Lord Wharton, was discriminating
enough to recognise that the tune of the latter, wedded to words by
himself, in which the king and the Papists were held up to derision,
would have an extraordinary effect upon the masses of the people.
The event proved that he was right. According to Bishop Burnet, "the
impression made on the army was one that cannot be imagined by one that
saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and
country, were singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a
thing so great an effect."

The tune is a bright, gay one, and is now put to a harmless use by
being sung to the nursery rhyme--

    "There was an old woman went up in a blanket,
      Seventeen times as high as the moon."

It is also sung by young girls in the south and south-east of Ireland,
while reaping in the fields, to the words--

    "Lully by lero,
    Help her along,"

and usually has reference to one of their number who is less nimble
than her companions.

James having fled, it was next Purcell's duty to compose an ode in
commemoration of the accession of William and Mary. This was performed
at the Merchant Taylor's Hall, at a gathering of Yorkshiremen, for
which reason it is now known as the "Yorkshire Feast Song."

He wrote odes to St. Cecilia, which were used at the festival of St.
Cecilia's Day for several years, the finest of them being the last, the
magnificent Te Deum and Jubilate, written in 1694. It was the first
work of this kind that had ever been heard in England, and from the
date of its composition till 1713 it was performed regularly every
year. Then Händel's great Te Deum and Jubilate for the Peace of Utrecht
was composed, and was performed alternately with the work of the
English musician until 1734, when Händel's Dettingen Te Deum displaced
both its predecessors.

In December, 1694, Queen Mary died, and Purcell composed the music
for her funeral. There were two new anthems, "Blessed is the man
that feareth the Lord," and "Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our
hearts." We have the testimony of one who was present in the choir on
this solemn occasion as to the effect produced by the noble music.
"I appeal to all that were present," says this authority, "as well
such as understood music, as those that did not, whether they ever
heard anything so rapturously fine and solemn, and so heavenly in
the operation, which drew tears from all, and yet a plain, natural
composition, which shows the power of music, when 'tis rightly fitted
and adapted to devotional purposes."

The second anthem, "Thou knowest, Lord," has been sung at every choral
funeral in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's from that day to this,
for Dr. Croft, who set the Burial Service to music, abstained from
setting these words, declaring that the music left by Purcell was
unapproachable.

Only a few months after Queen Mary's death the composer also passed
away to "that place where alone his harmony could be excelled," and the
solemn strains of the anthem but lately written for the dead Queen were
sung by his friends and colleagues as they laid the loved master to his
rest beneath the shadow of that organ on which he had so often played.

Dr. Blow, who had stood aside to let the younger musician take his
place, now resumed his appointment as organist of Westminster Abbey;
and, facing the memorial tablet raised there to Henry Purcell, we may
see one placed to the memory of Blow, recording, amongst other tributes
to his mind and heart, that he was "the master of the famous Mr. Henry
Purcell."

A collection of "Choice Pieces for the Harpsichord," by Purcell, was
published by his widow after his death, as well as two books of songs
called _Orpheus Britannicus_. Prefixed to the second of these volumes
is an ode from which, in conclusion, I give a short extract.

    "Make room, ye happy Natives of the Sky,
    Room for a Soul--all Love and Harmony;
    A Soul that rose to such Perfection here,
    It scarce will be advanced by being there.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Ah, most unworthy! shou'd we leave unsung
    Such wondrous Goodness in a Life so young.
    In spight of Practice, he this Truth has shown,
    That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be one.
    So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
    His Music was the very Sense you Writ.
    Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
    So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
    You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind."

[Illustration]




WORDS TO THE WISE OR OTHERWISE.

BY "MEDICUS" (DR. GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.).


The sunsets at Nairn, N.B., are often beautiful in the extreme. Last
night, however, was probably an exception, for the sun gave just one
yellow uncertain glare across the wind-chafed waves, then sank behind
a bank of sulphureous-looking clouds. Darkness came on a whole hour
before its time, and though an almost full moon was in the sky, the
rolling cumulus eclipsed it. And such awful cumulus I have never seen
before; so black, so beast-like in shape. To gaze up into the heavens
was like catching a glimpse of some scenes in Dante's _Inferno_.

Then high and higher rose the wind, howling and "howthering" from off
the stormy Nor' lan' sea. Although my caravan is well anchored down in
the wide green meadow in which I lie, she pulled and dragged at her
hawsers, and swung and rolled like a ship in the chops of the Channel.
But a wild wind and a van that rocks, bring sweetest slumbers to the
brain of the poor wandering gipsy, and it was well-nigh six this
morning before I opened my lazy eyes.

The sea out yonder is an ocean of blue ink flecked with snow-white
foam; for the storm still blows, though less fiercely. Beyond the Moray
Frith sunshine and shadow are playing at hide-and-seek, and so bright
are the colours of woodland and fields, their deep dark greens, their
yellows and the touches of crimson on the beetling cliffs, that they
bring vividly to my recollection the awful pictures I used to paint
when a boy of eight or nine.

It is already well on in the fa' o' the year, and I am still 700 miles
from my English home. But there is a sting in the air now, both morn
and even, which sharply touches up one's kilted knees. Wonderfully
bracing, however; there is health in every breeze, and I believe my
girl-readers, who happen to possess anything having the slightest
resemblance to a constitution, should go out for exercise in all
weathers.

And now let me give a few hints in paragraphs, which I feel certain
will appeal to many of my readers.


UNNATURAL DEFORMITIES.

By this I mean those which are not congenital, such as club-foot, for
instance; deformities, in fact, that girls bring on themselves. I will
go down as low as the feet first. Well, it is, of course, greatly to
be deplored that Providence did not give you feet to fit your shoes;
but really, to compress the feet means perpetual discomfort and danger.
Cases of headaches and extreme nervousness may often be traced to
the wearing of tightly-fitting boots or shoes. Pimples or acne, red
nose, dyspepsia and varicose veins may also be produced through the
same cause. Nearly all deformities of the feet can now be removed by
surgical appliances. Flat foot, or want of arch, is one of these. It is
not only remediable, but it _should be_ remedied.

The toes ought to have play in a shoe, else girls can never walk, or
dance, or play tennis, or golf gracefully. God never meant your foot to
be all one solid lump squeezed into a shoe three sizes too small for
you, or depend upon it He never would have given you toes.

Corns will not form--whether hard or soft--on the foot that wears a
nice smooth stocking and an easy-fitting boot. The nails should be
attended to every morning or evening after the bath, and ought to be
cut square off, and not down the sides, else the consequence may be an
in-growing nail and painful ulceration.

Never sit long with your legs crossed one over the other. It
interferes greatly with the circulation, and may cause varicose veins.

Bent spine.--This is preventible in many ways. When writing, reading
or typing do not lean forward; sit erect, and keep even the neck
straight. Throw the shoulders well back, and thus will you expand chest
and lungs. The same rule holds good if cycling. All kinds of exercises
should be taken that tend to develop the muscles of the chest and give
plenty of room for heart and lungs. Tight-lacing causes shocking and
dangerous deformity, displacing all the internal organs and interfering
with their work, so that your tight-laced girls are at best but hanging
to life by the eyelashes, and the man who marries such a one is no
better than a fool.


PURE BLOOD.

Blood purifiers sold in shops are one of the swindles of the age, and
the time is not far distant, I hope, when quackery will be banished
entirely from the British Isles. Meanwhile beware of everything you see
on a chemist's counter that bears a government three-halfpenny stamp.

You cannot be happy, it is true, if the blood be impure, and moreover,
while it is so you are far more liable to catch colds and coughs and
any ailment that may be epidemic, such as influenza.


RULES FOR KEEPING THE BLOOD PURE.

1. Never eat to repletion. If you eat slowly you will not do so.

2. Avoid too much sugar and pastry, especially if you have a slight
leaning towards _embonpoint_. The lean may use sugar, but not the
round-faced and obese.

3. Good ripe fruit before breakfast.

4. The morning bath to keep the skin pores open, and thus reduce the
work of the internal excreting organs.

5. A large tumblerful of hot water with a squeeze of lemon in it, after
the bath.

6. No tea in the morning, but coffee, cocoa, or hot milk.

7. Eat slowly, masticate well. Never get into an exciting argument at
table.

8. Be regular in all your habits, and sleep with your windows open.

Thus shalt thy blood be pure.


THE EYES.

Now that the nights are getting long, and we have to read by
lamp-light, by electric, or gas-light, a word about the eyes may be
opportune. Don't therefore try or tire your eyes too much. Read in a
good light. Remember that tiring the eyes means tiring the brain, for
the nerves of sight issue therefrom. Students should frequently bathe
brow and eyes in the coldest of water, and rest awhile on the sofa with
a newspaper over the face.

Eyes and health go hand in hand, and if your liver or stomach be out of
order, the eyesight will become more or less dim for a time. It is most
important therefore that girls engaged in study, or who do office work,
should make a point of keeping their health well up to the mark.


CYCLING FOR YOUNG GIRLS.

Cycling is revolutionising the kingdom, partly for good, partly, alas!
for harm. But I want to warn parents against permitting children of too
tender years to cycle. Remember I myself might be called a cyclomaniac.
Many is the article and many the book I have written on this charming
method of pedal progression, but I never have been a scorcher.

I say, and fear no contradiction, that no girl should be permitted to
mount a bike, until she is eleven or twelve years of age, and even
then she must ride in moderation. Else years and years of ill-health
and trouble are in store for her in after-life. Children should be
taken good care of when out cycling, and those with them should ride in
moderation, else the child will kill herself in trying to keep up.

The same may be said about club-cycling for young men. Just as there is
always a tiny wee "drochy" in a litter of pigs, so in a club out for
a spin there is always one or more poor white-faced visions of lads
that a Chinaman could whip, and it is pitiful to gaze on their weazened
white bits of perspiring faces as they bend over their bars and try
to keep up. Such brats often smoke too. Alas! alas! but there is one
consolation, they soon sink into their morsels of graves, and the world
wags better without them.


POVERTY OF BLOOD.

This is usually called "Anæmia." The words of a fellow-practitioner in
a recently published medical journal are so good that I make no apology
for transcribing them for your benefit.

"It is doubtful, in my mind, whether the average doctor realises the
frequency of anæmia. I am sure that if the general practitioner gave
due attention to the factor anæmia, we should have comparatively few
cases of disease extending into the chronic stage. Too few physicians
are accustomed to take into account all the elements of every case,
including this, the most prevalent and essential of all. Any disease
that depletes the system and draws largely on the vital forces will
involve the condition we call anæmia. On all such occasions, it is of
the first importance for the doctor to be constantly on the look-out
for this condition. The best means of diagnosis is microscopic
examination of the blood, to determine its quality from the number of
red corpuscles and the proportion of hæmaglobin, and also as to its
freedom from bacteria.

"As to the treatment of anæmia, blood, in my opinion, is undoubtedly
the only agent that can absolutely restore the normal condition of
blood. Iron has long been the favourite remedy with the profession for
the treatment of anæmia. But a careful study of clinical cases, and
careful perusal of the opinions of the most intelligent medical men,
will elicit the fact that this remedy will not all the time produce
the most satisfactory results. In fact, the majority of physicians
will tell you that iron will act favourably up to a certain point
only. Why is this? It is because iron preparations are not readily
absorbed, and because they can only stimulate cell proliferation, but
cannot help the deficient nutrition of the proliferating cells. It is
for this reason that, as much clinical experience has proved to me and
many others, patients put on iron and other so-called blood tonics
seldom make any permanent improvement. The agent that brings results
clinically is one that not only causes rapid cell proliferation, but
supplies the new-born cells with direct nutrition, thereby causing them
to proliferate in turn; thus finally restoring the blood to the normal
standard."

Well, _au revoir_, girls, till we meet in bleak December. And just
let me thank the G. O. P. lasses who visited my caravan this year in
Scotland, and brought me smiles and pretty flowers.

[Illustration: THE NEW SOPRANO.]




ORPHEUS.

BY "A. N."


  Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to thee
  Smiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,
  Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,
  The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,
  And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,
  And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.

  She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee--she, thrice fair,
  And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,
  Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian groves
  Wandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.
  For she of the floral meadows could never remain below
  Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.

  The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,
  And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,
  And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast--
  Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken--when thy song ceased.
  And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,
  Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.

  Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,
  Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,
  Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,
  In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;
  Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain below
  Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.

  What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless sky
  When this thou knewest--that Eurydice thy love could die?
  The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breath
  And the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,
  And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,
  As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.

  So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,
  Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,
  Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocks
  O'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,
  It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,
  Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.

[Illustration]




FATHER ANTHONY.

BY SOMERVILLE GIBNEY.


CHAPTER II.

Sixteen years had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir
Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at
Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter,
the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now
grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of
the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose
loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the
mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer
in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king,
and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this
moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at
Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had
reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village,
and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of
Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal
troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing
the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware
that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his
troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what
was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed?
Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these
questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would
be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily
had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the
perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a
would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh
would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang
back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped
a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence,
and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put
a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother
had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that
September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without
breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing
down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping
herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the
chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden.
She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on
her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was
not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily
on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than
in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her
soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as
she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of
steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk
with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears
were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing
the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her
some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that
formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the
loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with
bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twig recalled
her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs
of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name
whispered--

"Cecily!"

She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the
next words reassured her.

"'Tis I--Hugh--make no sound!"

"Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it--we have heard all"; and the
girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it
was seized and held.

"Yes, they are after me--hunting me down as though I were some red
deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have
come, bringing peril to my mother and you."

"No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help
you--you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which
would not be instantly discovered."

"The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one
must know I am near the place. Hark!"--and far away in the distance
could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel.

"Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do--what can we do?"

For answer the young man pushed his way through the branches, and,
standing beside his cousin, said:

"What is this you are wearing, child?"

"My cloak."

"The very thing! Give it to me"; and as he took it off her shoulders,
"Now go and see that there is no one in front of the house. It will be
in shadow at present, till the moon is higher, and, thank God, there
will not be much of that this night, for she is yet but young; if none
be about, then raise your kerchief to your face and continue your walk."

"And you?" asked Cecily, as she turned back down the path.

"Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the horses rising the hill."

Cecily made her way along the front of the Abbey, and then, turning,
retraced her steps with her handkerchief held to her face. She did her
best to assume the manner of a person taking a careless evening stroll,
but at the same time her eyes were on the alert, and she could just
discern the figure of her cousin creeping along close to the wall of
the Abbey, until her steps carried her beyond, and she dare not turn
her head for fear the simple movement might be seen by someone and
attract attention. In a few minutes she had reached the evergreens
again, and here she once more turned, and again passed in front of the
Abbey; but, though she scanned the building as well as she was able
through the gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.

Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What had become of him? There was
no door near through which he could have entered the house, and the
cessation of the slight scrunching of the gravel beneath his feet had
told her that he had not proceeded further. But she had small space for
conjecture, for there were galloping steads on the drive leading to the
house, and the next moment she found herself surrounded by a number of
the dreaded Ironsides.

"Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that maiden, and bring her within the
house; she may possess the information we desire. Sergeant Piety,
follow me with six men. The rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround
the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go out or come in, and search
the bushes and thickets."

"What is the meaning of this, sir?" inquired Cecily, assuming an
indignant and surprised air, in answer to the commands given by the
leader of the party.

"I wot ye know full well already, maiden; but if it be otherwise, ye
shortly shall know. Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to your
duties."

Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was led back into the house, and
here the leader took up his position in front of the huge fireplace and
kicked the logs on the hearth into a blaze, as he indicated the spot
where his prisoner was to stand. After warming his hands a moment or
two in silence, he turned about and said:

"One of you remain here with the maid and me; the rest search the
house, and mind ye find him, for he is here. We have certain knowledge
of the fact. Leave no hole or corner unvisited, but bring him before me
alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what gentle means may do in this
direction"--nodding towards the girl.

The troopers separated, some making their way to the kitchen and
chambers on the ground floor, while others mounted the stairs to the
upper rooms and attics.

Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in face of the peril. In after
times when she came to think it all over she wondered at herself, but
she recalled the fact that at the moment she was well-nigh certain her
cousin was not on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the Abbey, and
she had felt that if there were a safe hiding-place to be found his
intimate knowledge of his own home would stand him in good stead in the
emergency.

"Well, maiden, where is this traitor? You had best speak at once, and
save time and trouble, for I doubt not you are well informed of his
movements."

"We have no traitors among the dwellers at Combe Abbey, sir, and if
there be any here now they are no welcome guests, I promise you,"
replied the girl calmly, looking the officer straight in the face.

"I would have you keep a civil tongue in your head, as becomes a modest
maid," replied her interrogator. "Tell me at once, where is this
pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?"

"I know of no 'pestilent rogue' of that name, though that same name is
the property of my cousin and the owner of this house."

"And he is here at this moment."

"Is he? Then why detain and question me, since you are so well
informed? Permit me to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who is but
poorly, and who will be disturbed by this unwonted turmoil, for Combe
Abbey is a peace-loving house." And Cecily made as though she would
cross the hall and mount the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid
his hand on her arm and detained her as the officer continued:

"Stay where you are, wench; this giddy talking will avail you nothing."

"Sir, methinks those that preach would do well to set an example," said
Cecily, with a slight curl of disdain on her lip.

"Ah, in what way mean you?"

"Those that prate of civil tongues should be possessed of the same."

"Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy slut!"

"After that I listen to no more of your instructions, sir. I will not
have you as my master"; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference to the
officer, who, losing his temper, said loudly--

"A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh Travers?"

"I know not."

"But he is here."

"So you tell me."

"You have seen him."

"So you say."

"I will have him!"

"That is as may be. Can I tell you ought else?"

"I can tell _you_ that it will be the worse for all here if he be not
given up at once. The Lord Protector has his eye upon this house."

"Then I wonder he has not seen the owner, since you say he is here."

"Faugh! 'Tis folly to bandy words with a woman! Ah, here is
something!"--as a trooper was seen coming down the stairs leading Lady
Travers.

At the sight Cecily broke away from her captor, and, running to meet
her aunt, offered her arm as a support.

"What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?" asked the old lady.

"It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman has brought us news of
Cousin Hugh, since he asserts that he is here."

"Hugh--here? Where? Why was I not informed?"

"Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready with her tongue, and by
verbal quips has been endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin's
presence here."

"Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I have not seen my son for this
many a long day. Would God I had! But that he was with the army at
Worcester we know full well, since he sent us word of the fact but a
few days since."

"You hear, sir?"

"Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and I will----"

"As you will, sir. The word of a lady counts nought with a soldier
nowadays, it seems."

The officer gave a glance at the young girl as if about to frame a
retort, but it may be the presence of Lady Travers deterred him, for
with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to the troopers and bade one of
them follow him upstairs, while the other remained as a guard over the
ladies. This latter man--the one who had brought Lady Travers from her
room--appeared to possess some shade of good feeling, for as soon as
his officer had disappeared he withdrew to the other side of the hall,
leaving the ladies practically alone in front of the fire, where they
could converse undisturbed.

Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear as unconcerned as possible,
informed her aunt, in a tone that could easily reach the sentry's ears,
how her evening stroll had been so rudely interrupted by the soldiers,
and how she had been made a prisoner and detained in the hall while the
house was being searched. Lady Travers, being totally unconscious of
the near presence of her son, had nothing to conceal, and therefore,
all unknowingly by what she said, ably seconded Cecily's efforts. It
was in this way the ladies conversed for some time, until the captain
descended the stairs after what, from his manner, had evidently been an
unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied him with questions as to
her son's fate. These he answered grudgingly, as though doubting their
genuineness.

Meanwhile the servants had been driven into the hall like a frightened
flock of sheep, and were each interrogated in turn; but their
answers threw no light on the subject, and the officer's expression
at the conclusion of the examination was more puzzled than at the
commencement. He sent for Lieutenant Champneys, and on his arrival
he could report no better success than had attended his captain.
Not a soul had been seen outside the building, save the grooms in
the stable-yard; the gardens, the park and the plantations had been
searched without a trace being found. There were no suspicious
circumstances; no one seemed to wish to conceal anything; no obstacles
had been placed in the way, and yet, from certain information possessed
by the officer, he knew that Hugh Travers, if he had not actually been
in the house or grounds, had been very close to them. He was baffled.
He had anticipated an easy capture, but instead of that the chances of
one seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh Travers was not the only
fugitive on whose head was set a price; there were others suspected
of being in the neighbourhood, and it would be folly to sacrifice all
for the sake of this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was piqued
by Cecily's taunts, and loth to own himself defeated. At any rate,
he would make one more effort. He himself would go round the outside
of the Abbey, and Cecily should accompany him. The moon had risen
by this time, and there was more light than when he had arrived. He
might possibly to able to discover something, or the girl might betray
herself in some way, though he was by no means so certain now as he had
felt at first that she had anything to betray.

Cecily offered no objection to his request for her company, and, having
sent one of the maids for a wrap, they set out together. At first
little was said by either of them, but then it occurred to the girl
that the sound of her voice might act as a warning of danger to her
cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at hand, and she commenced to
talk loudly and rapidly about anything that came into her mind.

They were passing the front of the Abbey, and, as the faint moonlight
fell upon the grey stone face, making the shadows that lingered in the
corners still more deep, Cecily was pointing out the windows of the
various rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved above the doorway.
"And higher up," she continued, "are two niches, in the one stands
the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of the house, for, as its
name must have informed you, sir, it was formerly a religious house,
and I trust it is worthy of the designation now, though in a slightly
different sense; and in the other---- Oh!"--and Cecily swayed, and
almost fell, but the next moment caught the arm of her companion and
steadied herself.

"Ah, what is it?" exclaimed the officer, looking round suspiciously.

"Forgive me," said Cecily, looking on the ground as if seeking
something. "It was very sharp at the moment. A newly broken flint, I
suppose. May I take your hand for a minute? It is hard to see where one
puts one's foot in this light."

"Certainly, madam," said the officer, rather pleased than otherwise;
for, though a Puritan, he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially
when no one was by to see him. "I trust you feel better already?"

"I thank you, sir--yes."

"You were saying----"

"Ah, yes--about the niches. In one was placed the figure of Abbot
Swincow, and in the other that of a Father Anthony, who was supposed to
have aided him in the building and institution of the house. But they
have suffered much through time and weather, and now bear but small
resemblance to the originals, I trow."

"As a true servant of the Lord Protector it is my duty to destroy such
images, as contrary to the tables of the law, and being the work of
men's hands, but other business is to the fore at the moment, and the
capture of rebels is a more meritorious employment than knocking off
the heads of statues."

"Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your time, seeing it is
some hundreds of years since they took up their position."

"Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks are not seemly in a woman, nor
in a man either, seeing the days are evil. You and I have got on better
since you have bridled your tongue."

"As you will, sir; and now, if it be your pleasure, I will lead you to
the gardens and stables."

"Ah, trooper! Any news?"--as a figure approached them from out the
gloom.

"None, captain--not a living soul--not so much as a rabbit has crossed
my path."

"Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your ears and eyes open, and we may
yet prevail. Lead on, maiden."

Round the gardens, through the stables, up into the loft and store
chambers went the captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the time,
but in a lower tone and far more naturally than before the stumble on
the gravel in front of the Abbey.

At length the round was completed, and as the officer again entered the
hall with Cecily, he said--

"Well, all has been done that can be done. The man I want is not here.
He must have passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot wherein to
rest. But I'll have him yet."

"That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case, I trust that you will not
deem either my aunt or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you all
the help in our poor power in your search."

"Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have done all you can to aid the
ruler of this realm. You have done your duty."

"I have," thought Cecily, though she merely bowed modestly and kept
silence.

"Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the men together; we must away."

"Not before you have supped with us, sir?" said the courteous Lady
Travers. "Combe Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were he friend or
enemy."

"I thank you, madam--not to-night. There is work to be done, and the
soldiers of the Lord think less of their stomachs than their duty." And
going to the door, the officer watched the mounting of his men.

It was then that Cecily found the opportunity to whisper to one of the
serving-men.

"Count how many there be, Roger, and then away to the village through
the orchard and see if the numbers be the same there, and that they
have left none behind to spy. Bring me word as soon as may be."

A few minutes later, and with a farewell salute, the officer led his
men down the avenue, and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.

It was after supper, and when Lady Travers had retired, that Roger
returned.

"The number was the same, mistress, and I followed them a good two
miles or more, and none fell out."

"That is well, Roger; then we may have peace again for a time. And now
to bed, for we are all upset by this night intrusion."

But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole
down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a
roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads.
"Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened
her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the
parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There
was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all
extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over
an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of
care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words,
"Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow
below.

"A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that
came upwards in reply, almost like an echo.

"It is I--Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father,
since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support."

"And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to
boot."

The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until
at length came the direction--

"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The
place is clear of the bloodhounds?"

"Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to
Meerdale."

"Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a
whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to
the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?"

"Of a surety, yes."

"Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at
once. He will not see me."

"It shall be done."

"My mother--does she know I am here?"

"No one knows but me."

"Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will
send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be
nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done,
and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his
wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you
feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with
you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I
would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart,
little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time."

"Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"

And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in
the ivy.

       *       *       *       *       *

More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter
and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king.
And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey
in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the
villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow
he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple,
seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on
the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the
night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.

[THE END.]

[Illustration]




CHINA MARKS.

ENGLISH PORCELAIN.


PART II.


THE SWANSEA WORKS.

The introduction of porcelain manufacture into the earthenware factory
of Swansea was due to Messrs. Hains & Co. towards the close of the last
century; but it was of an inferior kind. In 1802 Mr. Dillwyn purchased
the works, and in 1814 they had arrived at great perfection under the
management of Billingsley. The former retired in 1813 and was succeeded
by his son. The next year the porcelain manufacture was revived
and carried on for about seven years very successfully; Baxter, an
accomplished figure painter, having entered the service of Mr. Dillwyn,
junior, and continuing with him for three years, but returning to the
Worcester works in 1819.

Dillwyn's china seems to have been, as a rule, distinguished by the
impressed or stencilled name (in red) "Swansea," also the tridents, as
illustrated.

[Illustration]

The factory was closed about the year 1820, John Rose of Coalport
having purchased the plant and removed it to his own works.

Sometimes the name "Swansea" is stencilled in red and sometimes
impressed only. A very scarce mark is "Dillwyn & Co."; also the two
words stamped in capitals are enclosed in lines all round.


DERBYSHIRE WORKS.

[Illustration]

Derbyshire porcelain represents four different periods, the manufactory
having been founded by William Duesbury, of Longton, Staffordshire,
in 1781. It was formed from the Bow and Chelsea china, the founder
having purchased part of the plant of the former factory and the whole
of the works of the latter, carrying on the Chelsea and Derby works
simultaneously. His son succeeded him in 1788, taking Michael Kean into
partnership; who ultimately disposed of the works to Robert Bloor (in
1815), at whose death they were closed. But a small factory was opened
by Locker, Bloor's manager, which afterwards passed into the management
of Messrs. Stevenson, Sharp, & Co., and then Stevenson & Hancock. In
the hands of Robert Bloor the manufacture declined in excellence.

The earliest mark is a "D" or the name "Derby" incised or painted in
red. On the union of the works with those of Chelsea and Bow there
was an indication of the combination as seen in the second and third
illustrations given (a "D" crossed horizontally by an anchor), and the
crown was added above the anchor after the Royal visit in 1737, the
mark being, as a general rule, painted in blue. The crown, crossed
batons, dots, and letter "D" were painted diversely, sometimes in gold,
blue, or puce, and subsequently in vermilion. Later on three Chinese
marks were employed, known as "the potter's stool," the Sèvres mark
(a "D" in the centre and crown above), and the crossed swords of the
Meissen factory. The batons in early use are now transformed into the
swords by the present manufacturers, Stevenson & Hancock, and they
have added their own initials; the whole device (crown, swords, dots,
and initials) surmounting the letter "D," as will be seen in the last
illustration.

[Illustration]

It was in the third epoch of the manufacture of what is distinguished
as the "Crown Derby," that porcelain works were established in the
same county by John Coke at Pinxton (near Alfreton), 1793-5. Fine
transparent, soft paste was used there; but the factory was closed
in 1812. The patterns distinguishing this ware was a small sprig
copied from the Angouleme porcelain--such as a blue forget-me-not, or
cornflower, and a gold sprig. At Church-Gresley and at Winksworth (in
the same country) there were other factories connected with the name of
Gill, but undistinguished by any special marks.

The counterfeit mark employed at times on the Worcester china was
likewise used on genuine Derby work, a sign borrowed from the Meissen
factory to which reference has been made. The Duke of Cumberland, Sir
F. Fawkner, and Nicholas Sprimont (a Frenchman) were amongst the first
proprietors, and were succeeded by the latter (Sprimont).

As I observed, the Derby china manufacture passed through four periods
or states of artistic development, the Duesbury being the first and
best (1749), and then the younger Duesbury and Kean. Under the Bloor
direction--lasting from 1815 to 1849--for some reason or other the
artistic excellence declined.

Bloor's agent, Locker & Co., Stevenson, Sharp & Co., and Courtsay
marked their work with their own names. The proprietors at the present
time are Messrs. Stevenson & Hancock, and they have ceased to use the
old mark as regards the batons, and now employ hilted swords, and have
added their initials ("S" and "H") one on either side, as will be seen
in the illustration. It may be well to observe that a six-pointed star,
stamped in the centre, at the bottom of any article may be accepted as
a Crown Derby mark. The porcelain produced by Mr. Duesbury resembled
the Venetian in the Cozzi period.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

It would be impossible to enter into a detailed account of all the
various marks that distinguish the Derby china; but I may observe, as
regards the last given (in a square form), that it appears on a plate
of Oriental pattern, the crown and letter "D" painted in red. The
square is not always surmounted by the crown. The capital "D" in italic
lettering surmounting the written name "Derby" is the early mark used
before 1769, and is found on very old china. The "N" is an incised mark
and is probably an indication that the porcelain was produced in the
old works in Nottingham Road; and when in 1769 the Chelsea works were
united to those of Derby, the union was indicated by the anchor of
Chelsea crossing an italic capital of the letter "D." Derby figures are
generally very roughly marked with three round blotches underneath them
and the number scratched on the clay.


THE LIVERPOOL WORKS.

To Mr. Richard Chaffers--contemporary of Josiah Wedgwood--we owe the
introduction of porcelain ware into the pottery factory in Liverpool
in 1769. Of him, the latter said, "Mr. Chaffers beats us in all his
colours." After ten years' work, having caught a fever from his manager
Podmore, he died.

Philip Christian became the leading potter after that, and he produced
large china vases equal to Oriental work and of great perfection. His
china is marked "Christian" in capital letters.

John Pennington was specially celebrated for beautiful punch-bowls and
for a very fine blue, for the recipe for making which he refused 1,000
guineas from a Staffordshire house. His business began in 1760 and
lasted for thirty years. His mark was "P" "p" or his name in capital
letters. He had been apprenticed to Josiah Wedgwood, thence he went
to Worcester as foreman and chief artist to Flight & Barr, before he
conducted the works at Liverpool.

Pennington carried on the china manufacture in Liverpool from 1760
to 1790. And, prior to him, I may name the factory of W. Reid & Co.,
of Castle Street, Liverpool, whose principal manufactures were in
all descriptions of blue and white said to have been as good as any
produced elsewhere in England.

Chaffers was drawing soap-rock from Mullion (Cornwall) in 1756 in
preparation for the manufacture, even before Cookworthy of Plymouth had
produced his hard-paste porcelain.

Besides the Penningtons and Philip Christian, Barnes, Abbey, Mort, Case
and Simpson are all names celebrated in the Liverpool factory and in
the neighbourhood.


THE LOWESTOFT PORCELAIN.

The Lowestoft manufactory in Suffolk was founded by Hewlin Luson, Esq.,
in 1756 and erected on his own estate in the first instance at Gunton
Hall.

In 1775 the Lowestoft porcelain had attained great perfection. Hard
paste was then introduced, after a period of twenty years of the use
of the soft, which was of fine quality. The hard was of very thick
substance, but with a fine glaze.

So close was the resemblance acquired to Oriental porcelain at
this factory that it was difficult for the general observer to
distinguish between them, which difficulty was enhanced by the fact
that no mark was ever used as it was an object with the proprietors
to make their work pass for genuine Oriental ware. Yet there were
certain peculiarities in style and colouring which were sufficient to
betray their origin. Amongst these the prevalence of the rose in the
declaration of a very large proportion of the china often served to
identify it, being painted by Thomas Rose. The flower was generally
pink and represented as having fallen from the stem. The most difficult
of recognition amongst the varieties of Lowestoft china are the
examples in white and blue.

Amongst other designs, the "fan and feather" pattern was striking in
character in imitation of the Capo di Monte; painted in blue, purple,
and red, and often in diaper work in gold and colours. Here also a very
fine egg-shell china was produced bearing delicately-painted ciphers,
coats of arms, crests and scrolls, and designs in pink camaieu, with
highly-finished gold borders, pearled with colours; also dessert
services with raised mayflowers on blue and white grounds and pierced
sides; transfer-painting being also in use.

As every description of device taken from nature, including Oriental
figures and other designs, was produced at this factory, it is
impossible to describe them all. I may here observe that a china teapot
of the distinctive "owl service" pattern was recently sold for upwards
of £50.

The revival of the works after the opposition raised to them in Luson's
time by the London manufacturers was due to Messrs. Walker, Browne,
senior and junior, Aldred, and Richman, and Allen, who carried on a
large trade with Holland.

The ultimate closure of the works was due to a disastrous combination
of circumstances, which took place about 1803-4. There was a decline in
the art some few years previously. It became too showy and over-gilded.

I said that the Lowestoft manufactory had no distinctive mark,
nevertheless some pieces may be found bearing the painted initials "F.
R." in capital letters, standing for "Frederick Rex" (the Great), and
two other examples of marking are those of a head of Christ, which is
inscribed "R. Allen, Lowestoft, aged 88, 1832," and a teapot (in hard
paste) of Oriental design has the name "Allen" surmounting "Lowestoft,"
painted in red underneath it.

(_To be continued._)




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in
Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.


CHAPTER VI.

A week after this, Mrs. Saville came to pay her farewell visit before
sailing for India. Mother and daughter went out for a long walk in the
morning, and retired to the drawing-room together for the afternoon.
There was much that they wanted to say to each other, yet for the most
part they were silent, Peggy sitting with her head on her mother's
shoulder, and Mrs. Saville's arms clasped tightly round her. Every now
and then she stroked the smooth brown head, and sometimes Peggy raised
her lips and kissed the cheek which leant against her own, but the
sentences came at long intervals.

"If I were ill, mother--a long illness, would you come?"

"On wings, darling! As fast as boat and train could bring me."

"And if you were ill?"

"I should send for you if it were within the bounds of possibility,
I promise that! You must write often, Peggy--long, long letters. Tell
me all you do, and feel, and think. You will be almost a woman when we
meet again. Don't grow up a stranger to me, darling."

"Every week, mother! I'll write something each day, and then it will be
like a diary. I'll tell you every bit of my life...."

"Be a good girl, Peggy. Do all you can for Mrs. Asplin, who is so
kind to you. She will give you what money you need, and if at anytime
you should want more than your ordinary allowance, for presents or
any special purpose, just tell her about it, and she will understand.
You can have anything in reason; I want you to be happy. Don't fret,
dearie. I shall be with father, and the time will pass. In three years
I shall be back again, and then, Peg, then, how happy we shall be! Only
three years."

Peggy shivered and was silent. Three years seem an endless space when
one is young. She shut her eyes and pondered drearily upon all that
would happen before the time of separation was passed. She would be
seventeen, nearly eighteen--a young lady who wore dresses down to
her ankles, and did up her hair. This was the last time, the very,
very last time when she would be a child in her mother's arms. The new
relationship might be nearer, sweeter, but it could never be the same,
and the very sound of the words "the last time" sends a pang to the
heart.

Half an hour later the carriage drove up to the door. Mr. and Mrs.
Asplin came into the room to say a few words of farewell, and then left
Peggy to see her mother off. There were no words spoken on the way, and
so quietly did they move that Robert had no suspicion that anyone was
near as he took off his shoes in the cloak-room opening off the hall.
He tossed his cap on to a nail, picked up his book, and was just about
to sally forth, when the sound of a woman's voice sent a chill through
his veins. The tone of the voice was low, almost a whisper, yet he
had never in his life heard anything so thrilling as its intense and
yearning tenderness. "Oh, my Peggy!" it said. "My little Peggy!" And
then, as in reply, came a low moaning sound, a feeble bleat like that
of a little lamb torn from its mother's side. Robert charged back into
the cloak-room, and kicked savagely at the boots and shoes which were
scattered about the floor, his lips pressed together, and his brows
meeting in a straight black line across his forehead. Another minute
and the carriage rolled away. He peeped out of the door in time to
see a little figure fly out into the driving rain, and walking slowly
towards the school-room came face to face with Mrs. Asplin.

"Gone?" she inquired sadly. "Well, I'm thankful it is over. Poor little
dear, where is she? Flown up to her room, I suppose. We'll leave her
alone until tea-time. It will be the truest kindness."

"Yes," said Robert vaguely. He was afraid that the good lady would
not be so willing to leave Peggy undisturbed if she knew her real
whereabouts, and was determined to say nothing to undeceive her. He
felt sure that the girl had hidden herself in the summer-house at the
bottom of the garden, and a nice damp mouldy retreat it would be this
afternoon, with the rain driving in through the open window, and the
creepers dripping on the walls. Just the place in which to sit and
break your heart and catch rheumatic fever with the greatest possible
ease and comfort. And yet Robert said no word of warning to Mrs.
Asplin. He had an inward conviction that if any one were to go to the
rescue that person should be himself, and that he, more than anyone
else, would be able to comfort Peggy in her affliction. He sauntered
up and down the hall until the coast was clear, and then dashed once
more into the cloak-room, took an Inverness coat from a nail, a pair
of goloshes from the floor, and sped rapidly down the garden-path. In
less than two minutes he had reached the summer-house and was peeping
cautiously in at the door. Yes; he was right. There sat Peggy, with
her arms stretched out before her on the rickety table, her shoulders
heaving with long, gasping sobs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched
themselves spasmodically, and the smooth little head rolled to and fro
in an abandonment of grief. Robert stood looking on in silent misery.
He had a boy's natural hatred of tears, and of anything like a scene,
and his first impulse was to turn tail, go back to the house, and send
someone to take his place, but even as he stood hesitating he shivered
in the chilly damp, and remembered the principal reason of his coming.
He stepped forward and dropped the cloak over the bent shoulders,
whereupon Peggy started up and turned a scared white face upon him.

"Who, who--oh! it is you! What do you want?"

"Nothing. I saw you come out, and thought you would be cold. I brought
you out my coat."

"I don't want it; I am quite warm. I came here to be alone."

"I know; I'm not going to bother. Mrs. Asplin thinks you are in your
room, and I didn't tell her that I'd seen you go out. But it's damp. If
you catch cold your mother will be sorry."

Peggy looked at him thoughtfully, and there was a glimmer of gratitude
in her poor tear-stained eyes.

"Yes; I p-p-romised to be careful. You are very kind, but I can't think
of anything to-night. I am too miserably wretched."

"I know; I've been through it. I was sent away to a boarding-school
when I was a little kid of eight, and I howled myself to sleep every
night for weeks. It is worse for you, because you are older, but you
will be happy enough in this place when you get settled. Mrs. Asplin
is a brick, and we have no end of fun. It is ever so much better than
being at school, and, I say, you mustn't mind what Mellicent said the
other night. She's a little muff, always saying the wrong thing. We
were only chaffing when we said you were to be our fag. We never really
meant to bully you."

"You c-couldn't if you t-tried," stammered Peggy brokenly, but with a
flash of her old spirit which delighted her hearer.

"No; of course not. You can stand up for yourself; I know that very
well. But look here, I'll make a compact if you will. Let us be
friends. I'll stick to you and help you when you need it, and you stick
to me. The other girls have their brother to look after them, but if
you want anything done, if anyone is cheeky to you and you want him
kicked, for instance, just come to me and I'll do it for you. It's all
nonsense about being a fag, but there are lots of things you could do
for me if you would, and I'd be awfully grateful. We might be partners
and help one another----"

Robert stopped in some embarrassment, and Peggy stared fixedly at him,
the pale face peeping out from the folds of the Inverness coat. She
had stopped crying, though the tears still trembled on her eyelashes,
and her chin quivered in uncertain fashion. Her eyes dwelt on the
broad forehead, the overhanging brows, the square, massive chin, and
brightened with a flash of approval.

"You are a nice boy," she said slowly. "I like you! You don't really
need my help, but you thought it would cheer me to feel that I was
wanted. Yes; I'll be your partner, and I'll be of real use to you yet.
You'll find that out, Robert, before you have done with me."

"All right, so much the better. I hope you will, but you know you can't
expect to have your own way all the time. I'm the senior partner, and
you will have to do what I tell you. Now I say it's damp in this hole,
and you ought to come back to the house at once. It's enough to kill
you to sit in this draught."

"I'd rather like to be killed. I'm tired of life. I shouldn't mind
dying a bit."

"Humph!" said Robert shortly. "Jolly cheerful news that would be for
your poor mother when she arrived at the end of her journey. Don't be
so selfish. Now, then, up you get. Come along to the house."

"I wo----" Peggy began, then suddenly softened, and glanced
apologetically into his face. "Yes, I will, because you ask me. Smuggle
me up to my room, Robert, and don't, don't, if you love me, let
Mellicent come near me! I couldn't stand her chatter to-night!"

"She will have to fight her way over my dead body," said Robert firmly,
and Peggy's sweet little laugh quavered out on the air.

"Nice boy!" she repeated heartily. "Nice boy, I do like you!"

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




"IN MINE HOUSE."

BY LINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of "The King's Daughters," etc.


PART I.

ITS CUPBOARDS.

Mine house is not an old-fashioned, picturesque one; it boasts of no
mullioned windows or deep embrasures. It is like hundreds of others
to be found scattered over England--built after the same plan and
decorated after the same fashion. It stands in a street, and is
reduplicated on every hand like a cardboard expanding toy. It draws a
peaked gable roof over its red brick face, and has no originality to
awake attention.

In one thing only is mine house unique. Its general architecture it
owes to its builder, its cupboards to a certain little old lady who
lived therein for many years. Every spot has been utilised, and I
rejoice in the most comfortable interior it is possible to imagine. "A
place for everything and everything in its place" is a motto easily
followed in this mine house.

Nowadays most matrons have wakened to the delights of a well-cupboarded
"manio," or abiding-place. The first thing looked for in taking a
new house is its capabilities in this direction. The long-headed
woman values every recess and corner as a possible press. She knows a
few shillings spent in pine-boards, hooks, curtains, and locks, can
transform dust-collecting angles into dust-resisting receptacles.
With a little forethought and contrivance, our carpenter can be so
superintended that such work need not be made into "fixtures"--sliding
grooves and panels, a few staples and screws, insure easily taken-down
wardrobes, and need not strain the purse of even a frequent flitter.

The first necessary cupboard in mine house is the linen press. This
should, if possible, be built over those unseemly hot-water pipes which
supply the bath from our kitchen boiler. There should be graduated
shelves in it--wide ones to hold sheets, narrow ones for table napkins,
d'oyleys, etc. Every shelf should be neatly lined with white paper, and
one at least must have linen laps to tie over our least-used napery.
Plenty of lavender bags--measuring the length of the press--should be
placed everywhere; not tiny satchel-like things, which rumple into
corners and get mislaid, but at least a yard in length and just as wide
as each shelf.

On the door should be pasted a list of the linen stored in this our
press. This list varies much in each house; but I will tell you what I
consider absolutely necessary only. First, there should be six Irish
linen tablecloths for parlour use and three breakfast cloths; six fine
table-napkins for every member of the family. For kitchen wear, three
smaller coarser cloths are required, and, if you wish to inculcate
habits of nicety in your maids, three napkins apiece must be provided.
This allows for one in use, one at the laundry, and one in reserve.
Half-a-dozen fringed tea-cloths, half-a-dozen sideboard slips, a couple
of dozen oval, round, and square d'oyleys, and the embellishment of the
dining-table is secured.

We next come to the sleeping rooms. In our press we must number three
pair of sheets for each bed--each upper one frilled and embroidered
with our monogram. These sheets may be of twilled cotton, but their
accompanying fellow slips must be of linen. Linen wears better, looks
better, and feels nicer than cotton. There should be six to each single
bed. Cash's hem-stitched frilling gives a dainty finish to these
slips, and will wear as long as the linen. Beside the bed-linen should
lie chamber-towels; of these it is nice to have several dozen, with
different borders, when possible, so that each room may keep to its
own set. Cheap towels are most expensive in the long run; those flimsy
honeycomb ones requiring incessant laundrying. Buy good huckaback, or
satin diaper, and beautify them with marking initials in cross stitch.
This is easily done by tacking a small square of coarse canvas into the
corner and withdrawing its strands after working. Ingrain cottons of
all colours can now be bought for this work; the red wears and washes
best.

Our dressing-tables also claim a niche in our linen press. Three sets
of covers being necessary for each.

At the very top of our press, it is well to have some very wide shelves
fixed. They will be overhead, so may jut out into the room. In this
cupboard--lined with brown holland, and scented with camphor balls--we
shall do well to store spare blankets in the summer, down quilts when
not in use, and any straw pillows. They will always be warm and ready
for immediate service, as the hot-water pipes will keep them well aired.

So much about furnishing our linen press. The replenishment of
it should be constant. Even when we use our dozens of towels in
rotation, they will wear out, and it is necessary to keep up the
stock by occasional purchases. Careful mending, too, is necessary. No
pillow-slips minus buttons or tapes, no tiny hole in a tablecloth,
should be seen in a well-kept linen press. When sheets wear thin, they
should be split in half, sides brought to the centre, and the worn
edges hemmed. When constant folding brings frays in a tablecloth, the
laundress should be directed to fold them across instead of lengthways.
This will double the life of our finest diaper. Towels, when ragged,
can be doubled and made into bath cloths and chamber rubbers; loops of
tape attached will be useful for hanging in place.

The next cupboard claiming attention in mine house is the crockery one.
Here are stored cups and saucers, plenty of spare glass, water-jugs
and crofts. It is well to keep in this press extra lamp-chimneys and
gas-globes. Best dessert dishes, too, should be placed on the top shelf
and any ornaments not in daily use.

Hanging presses are a great boon to the tidy housewife. One for spare
dresses should be built on any landing large enough. American pegs
screwed into the wall over a sheet of well-stretched holland answer the
purpose of skirt-hanging. To each of them should be tied a double width
of the same material to wrap round our silk and muslin robes. Sometimes
bags, forty-six inches long, are preferred to draw over the skirt and
to hang with it from a peg. With these bags it is unnecessary to have
doors to this cupboard, as their use is a safeguard against dust, even
if a curtain only be hung in front of the recess.

A remnant cupboard is not always met with, but what a boon it is in
mine house. My old lady had one fixed in a spare room. A top shelf is
ready for rolls of wall paper, remnants of curtains, calicoes, and
flannels, old square of blanket fit for scouring purposes, old linen
for dust-cloths fill its pigeon-holes, whilst a rag-bag of red twill
hangs below all, and is stuffed with scraps too small to be rolled or
folded.

A medicine cupboard is a necessity in mine house. One hung not higher
than one's head is best. This should be divided in half; one partition
provided with a well-locked door, the other protected only by a
curtain. In this latter portion may be kept narrow and wide bandages,
goldbeater's skin, and sticking plaster, cotton-wool, and a pair of
scissors, some strong thread and tape, vaseline and powder. In the
locked part all the family pharmacopœia must be secluded. "Poisons"
should be printed legibly on the door, and the key should never
leave our own _chatelaine_. Have in this a bottle of sweet nitre for
feverishness, and some pilules of aconite; spirits of camphor for a
cold, and a screw of lump sugar; a two-ounce bottle of castor oil
with an old teaspoon near it, spongia, Ipecacuanha wine, and syrup
of squills ready for croup; a tin of linseed, another of mustard, a
flask of sweet oil, a bottle each of eucalyptus, camphorated oil and
glycerine; belladonna tincture for sore throats; carron or green oil
for a burn; and liquorice powder or Cascara pellets for constipation.
In mine house all these things are necessary, and should be found in
the medicine cupboard.

A jam press is a nice addition to our housewife's corner. Every pot of
marmalade or jelly should have a label on it stating when it was made.

    "Raspberry jam,
     No. 1 boiling,
    July 20th, 1899."

In a dry situation there is no need to cover each crock. If well boiled
and made of fresh sound fruit, it should "jell" enough to keep without
excluding air. A sheet of newspaper laid over the rows of pots is all
my old lady ever thought necessary for her home-made jam. But then
her jam press had air-holes bored in the door. These were masked with
finest wire netting, and effectually prevented mouldiness.

A boot cupboard lengthens the lives of all our bottines. Two shelves
about two feet apart should be protected in front with a chintz curtain
hanging from tiny rings to a brass pole. Every pair of boots should
be kept here, protected from dust and ready for wear. Trees fitted
into each are really economical, as they double the existence of all
outdoor footgear. Damp boots, too, can be filled with oats, and dry
slowly in this cupboard, instead of being hardened and shrivelled over
the kitchen range.

Of course a store press is a _sine quâ non_ in mine house. I do not
keep this locked, for servants should be trusted in a family. Here
everything likely to be wanted in an emergency is kept--tins of salmon,
herrings and tomatoes, collared head, _pâte de foie gras_, corned
beef, pickles and chutnees, potted meats, bottled fruit for pies,
capers, peppers, spices, lentils by the stone, and all farinaceous
preparations; soap by weight cut up and dried, currents washed and
picked ready for use, raisins, sultanas, soda in a sack, etc., etc.
In order to keep these things really nice and fresh, stone jars with
covers are the best to put them in. But when these prove too expensive,
wide-mouthed pickle bottles may be used, labelled clearly so that
their contents are recognised at once. Flour should be kept in a tub,
apples and sugar in casks. This store cupboard must be cleared out once
a month, its shelves swept down, and fresh lining paper put there on
them. It is easy then to note where our supply is running short, and to
supplement it, easy to see where a bag has burst, or bottle is leaking,
and to substitute other ones.

A _multum in parvo_ cupboard is one of the comforts in mine house.
Here, under lock and key, are kept spare dozens of cotton, spools,
papers of needles, boxes of pins, both hair and dress, tapes and
measures, paper and envelopes, pens by the gross, and pencils by the
score. These can often be picked up at sales for next to nothing, and a
constant supply of such necessities is at hand.

A carpenter's cupboard is a boon to every household. In mine house one
is fitted up in a tiny closet under the stairs. So many little things
go wrong in the framework of our homes--locks grow stiff, handles come
off, window cords break, nails want driving. How well it is when the
mistress of a house can wield hammer and gimlet and screwdriver; and
yet how often are such tools missing when required. In my carpenter's
cupboard there is always a heavy-headed, light-handled little hammer
for adjusting carpets or putting in tacks; also a coal-hammer for
heavier work. Here a gimlet may be found, and several different-sized
screwdrivers, a box of assorted nails; hooks and screws are also found
there when wanted. A small sharpening plate and flask of oil for
keeping the family couch in easy trim, a smoothing plane and saw, wire
nails and coils of thin cord, a pair of pincers, and a good knife. I
find a stitch in time in carpentering saves more than the proverbial
nine.

And now I think I have told you about most of the cupboards in mine
house, and what is found therein. I have not described the housemaid's
closet with its hairbroom, its pope's head, its twig, its besom, its
dustpan and brush, or its other et ceteras. Every mistress of a family
knows what is required therein, only let me suggest that her usual
feather-head dusting-brush should be conspicuous by its absence. Never
was so senseless a plan devised for flicking particles from one place
to another as that same feather whisk. Let the housemaid have plenty
of damp dusters at hand, and germ-pregnant dust will be effectually
removed.

I have omitted, too, all account of the butler's pantry. Houses
nowadays that keep such an official are governed by a housekeeper,
and not by the mistress herself. Besides, I am writing about small
establishments in which women do the work. For that reason, my next
paper will be all about the ingle-nooks in mine house, and how to
economise these.

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

KATHERINE.--We can tell you all about your complaint, for we can speak
from personal experience, having been liable to the condition for many
years. The disease is called "herpes labialis." It is one of a large
group of affections which consist of small blisters on a red base and
occur on various parts of the body. That variety of herpes which occurs
on the side of the trunk is called herpes zoster or shingles. Herpes
labialis is a very common complaint. It frequently recurs in those
liable to it and often occurs on both sides of the mouth at once. It
is very erratic and scarcely ever occupies the same site in two or
more successive attacks. Of its cause we know but little. It is very
common in typhoid fever and other infectious diseases, and is almost
constantly present in pneumonia. In some people it occurs after every
slight disturbance of digestion, after alterations of diet, or after
change of residence from one place to another. It frequently recurs at
regular intervals of time. Its origin is unquestionably nervous. It
begins with a sharp smarting pain in a limited region of the lips or
chin. The smarting increases, the place gets red, and in a few hours
vesicles make their appearance. In a day or two the vesicles dry up
and a scab forms which eventually drops off, leaving a red mark which
persists for a week or more. It is purely superficial and never leaves
a scar. To prevent this condition is by no means easy. Find out, if
possible, what causes it, and then, if you can remove the cause, the
condition will probably cease. During an attack, thickly dust the place
over with zinc oxide and cover it with cotton wool. No drug has the
slightest effect on the condition, and indeed the same may be said
of every form of treatment. Like so many other nervous diseases, it
runs its course uninfluenced by treatment. Often the liability to the
condition disappears as if by magic and never again returns.

MARGUERITA.--No, there is not any danger in threadworms. An injection
of salt and water will remove them. A dose of one grain of santonin
followed by a mild purge is sometimes sufficient to get rid of them.

ONE IN TROUBLE.--Of course, if a person next door contracted typhoid
fever from bad drains, you do stand a risk of catching the disease from
the same source. Typhoid fever is not infectious in the usual sense of
the term; that is, it is not caught from one person by another. Washing
the soiled linen of typhoid patients may produce the disease unless
the clothes have been disinfected. If the vegetables that you grow are
cooked before you eat them, they will not produce typhoid, for the
organism of typhoid is killed by boiling water. If the men have not yet
removed the old pipes from your garden, you should certainly complain
to the sanitary inspector of the district about it, and have the
pipes removed at once, for they are not only unsightly but positively
dangerous, both to yourself and to the whole neighbourhood.

A LOVER OF THE "G.O.P."--Irregular action of the heart may be due to
weakness, anæmia, indigestion, or true heart disease. Of course by
irregular action of the heart you mean perceptible, irregular thumpings
of the heart--what we usually call palpitation, in fact. You yourself
cannot tell whether your heart is beating regularly or not, unless
you are a physician. By far the commonest cause of palpitation is
indigestion, and infinitely the rarest cause is heart disease.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

M. C. F. (Bristol).--Many thanks for your card. We have already
corrected the error of our correspondent, A. S. C. D., about B. M.

CRIMSON RAMBLER.--We should advise you to read Mrs. Watson's articles
on "What are the County Councils doing for girls?" in THE GIRL'S
OWN PAPER for March, July, August, and September, 1887. There is a
domestic economy school at Northampton where girls can obtain board,
lodging, and thorough practical instruction in cookery. This would
perhaps be the nearest to you. Fifteen free studentships are offered
for competition, but if you did not gain one, the sum you mention
would probably be more than enough. Write for full details to Byron R.
Simpson, Esq., County Hall, Northampton. Opportunities simply abound in
all directions for the training you require, and space would fail us to
enumerate them all, but we may just add that the cost of training at
the London National Training School of Cookery, Buckingham Palace Road,
S.W., is thirteen guineas for the full course of twenty-four weeks. The
papers we mention will supply every detail.

DOROTHY.--We should advise you also to consult Mrs. Watson's articles.
The Clerk, Technical Instruction Committee, West Riding Offices,
Wakefield, may help you if you write to him. You might also write
to the Secretary of Girton College, Miss Kensington, 83, Gloucester
Terrace, Hyde Park, London, requesting information.

FOSBURY.--The character of Tom Thurnall appears in _Two Years Ago_, by
Charles Kingsley. The book is a charming and beautiful one, and will
never be "old-fashioned" in the depreciatory sense.

BETSY TROTWOOD.--1. In the bars of organ music you enclose, the bass
notes are played on the pedals. 2. A turn placed over a chord means
that the top note of the chord is played as a turn.

BONGIE'S FRIEND.--1. We should advise you to write to the poetess
you name through the publishing office of the paper. 2. Your English
writing is very good. "Comply" is a better word than "agree" with my
desire, and Mr. is always written in the abbreviated form, but you
express yourself excellently.


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

MISS M. H. COUPLAND, 12, Crescent Parade, Ripon--a teacher, fond of
literature and music--would like a German correspondent, each writing
in the language of the other.

GERTRUDE PADFIELD, Birtsmorton Court, near Tewkesbury, Worcestershire,
wishes to correspond with a French girl, who is requested to send her
name and address.

GÄNSEBLÜMCHEN.--A German girl would like to exchange letters with an
Italian girl, a French girl, and an English girl, living in London. Her
greatest wish would be to find an Italian correspondent. Would those
who like to answer please give their address.

MISS VALENTINE MASSARIA, S. Moisé 2243, Venice, would like to
correspond with an English girl of good family of about her own age
(16) or a little older; both to write in English.

MISS K. L. A., c/o the Misses Thompson, Orgill House, 15, Goldsmith
Road, King's Heath, Birmingham, would like a French lady correspondent
between twenty and thirty years of age.

J. A.--Cruet-stands have long been relegated to the side-board, and
from thence handed round by the footman or waitress. Pepper, salt and
mustard are placed at the corners of the dinner table, together with
tablespoons. Ham and chicken patties, and mince-pies, are generally
placed on dish papers (with stamped borders) in plated dishes. Eggs
(boiled) and hot chestnuts folded in a napkin in a deep pudding dish,
or a bowl with a stand, such as is used for fruit.

FLORENCE BENTON.--1. Longfellow's Poems are far preferable to those
others to which you refer; which are very rough and sometimes obscure.
So you have lost nothing by inability to purchase them.--2. Old red
and black English stamps have a certain value, and this depends on the
letters on the corners. The water-mark also must be consulted, which
may be seen by holding the stamp up to the light. This was sometimes
a crown or a star, or a crown surmounting two "C's"; for India, an
elephant's head; Jamaica, a pineapple, etc. It is called a "water-mark"
as it was produced by very small jets of water projected in the stamp,
which washed away minute fragments of paper and thinned it in the
outline pattern required. These water-marks and the corner letters
were employed to protect the Government from forgery. These letters
varied in their selection and combination; and if you had examined a
whole sheet of them you would have discovered that no two stamps had a
similar arrangement of letters. A little "Handbook for a Collector of
Postage Stamps," by W. T. Ogilvie, would help you. Swan, Sonnenschein
& Co., Paternoster Row, E.C., would also assist you. We are glad our
paper pleases you so much.

I. W. L. inquires what can be done to relieve, or save the flesh from
burning through an accidental sprinkling of vitriol. It cannot be
too much impressed on those who have occasion to employ so dangerous
a liquid, that no application of water should be made. It is that
combination of liquids that burns into the flesh. Wipe off the vitriol,
or any other such burning liquid, with a perfectly dry cloth at once,
and no injury will follow. The application of common chalk on the place
will likewise prevent burning. Wipe thoroughly, and then rub in the
chalk before venturing to wash it at the time of your next ablutions.

MARGARET.--It is quite true that there are blue, green, yellow or
sand-coloured, and red diamonds; for the colour is no absolute guide to
the nature of the gem. There are green sapphires, white ones, and some
of a yellowish, or grey hue. There are also black or grey pearls, and
it is only the composition of the gem that determines its class.

MILDRED MARCHANT.--There is a book on _Orchids for Amateurs_, which is
greatly commended by the _Gardener's Chronicle_, and published at 170,
Strand, W.C. It is by James Britten, F.L.S., and W. H. Gower. It would
be sent carriage free. The illustrations are excellent.

MAORI.--Certainly, you must not touch meat, nor a bone with your
fingers when eating. You should clean your teeth both morning and
night, at least; three times would be better, and requisite for those
who wear false teeth on a plate. Your writing is very neat and legible.

FOUR GIRLS.--See our Extra Christmas Number for what you ask.

WHITE HEATHER.--We do not believe in the so-called science of
palmistry.




THE GIRL'S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.


_Full details of this Competition, with its prizes and certificates of
merit open to all readers of THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, were given on page
14_.


Questions 37-48.

37. What famous musical composition came to a violinist in a dream?

       *       *       *       *       *

38. When did witchcraft cease to be recognised as a crime by the law of
England?

       *       *       *       *       *

39. What famous book was mislaid when in manuscript and partly written,
and was only discovered by the author nine years afterwards in the
drawer of an old writing-desk?

       *       *       *       *       *

40. What English Cathedral was set on fire and severely damaged by a
man who was afterwards found to be insane?

       *       *       *       *       *

41. What is the best diet for brain-workers?

       *       *       *       *       *

42. What saint was so able a musician that according to tradition an
angel descended to earth enraptured with her melodious strains?

       *       *       *       *       *

43. What is the origin of the three ostrich feathers as a badge of the
Princes of Wales?

       *       *       *       *       *

44. When did ignorant people in this country imagine they had been
defrauded out of eleven days by those in authority?

       *       *       *       *       *

45. Who was the hermit who lived for over thirty years on the top of a
pillar?

       *       *       *       *       *

46. What famous stone in this country is said to have been Jacob's
pillow?

       *       *       *       *       *

47. Why is the wedding-ring worn on the fourth finger of the left hand?

       *       *       *       *       *

48. How did the forget-me-not get its name?

The answers to the above questions, Nos. 37-48, together with the
answers to questions 25-36, which appeared on page 78, must be sent in
on or before January 27, 1899.

Address to THE EDITOR, THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER Office, 56, Paternoster
Row, London, E.C., and at the left-hand top corner of the envelope or
wrapper write the words "QUESTIONS COMPETITION."

       *       *       *       *       *


TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

The following changes have been made to the original text:

Page 110: "Ltitle" to "Little".

Page 111: "aad" to "and"--"tapes and measures".