[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 361.      NOVEMBER 27, 1886.      PRICE ONE PENNY.]




THE FLOWER GIRL.

[Illustration: THE FLOWER GIRL.]

_All rights reserved._]


    What is she thinking of, what is she dreaming of,
      Dreaming awhile ere the sun has quite set?
    Is it the home of her earliest childhood
      That for a brief hour she cannot forget,
    Where the sweet violets grew blue in the wild wood
        With dewdrops all wet?

    All the day long in the great crowded city—
      Crowded, yet lonely to each in the crowd—
    “Violets, sweet violets, a bunch for a penny!”
      She has been crying, still crying aloud.
    She has been merry at selling so many,
        Merry and proud.

    Now as she watches the sun that is setting,
      Far o’er the roofs and the masts of the ships,
    Does her mind turn to the sweet unsold flowers,
      Gathered by baby hands, pressed by child-lips,
    While in a day-dream, through wild woodland bowers
        Once more she trips?

    Is it the fragrance that clings to her basket—
      Fragrance of violets that rich men have bought—
    That takes her to woodlands away from the city,
      Where with blue violets the moss is enwrought?
    Surely the wings of God’s angel of pity
        Shadow her thought.

            A. M.




MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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


CHAPTER VIII.

LABORARE EST ORARE.

My mistress (how I loved to call her by that name!) was beginning to
give me her confidence. In a little while I grew quite at my ease with
her.

She would sit down sometimes and question me about the book I was
reading, or, if we talked of the children, she would ask my opinion of
them in a way that showed she respected it.

She told me more than once that her husband was quite satisfied with
me; the children thrived under my care, Reggie especially, for Joyce
was somewhat frail and delicate. It gratified me to hear this, for a
longer acquaintance with Mr. Morton had not lessened my sense of awe in
his presence (I had had to feel the pressure of his strong will before
I had been many weeks in his house, and though I had submitted to his
enforced commands, they had cost me my only tears of humiliation, and
yet all the time I knew he was perfectly just in his demands). The
occasion was this.

It was a rule that when visitors asked to see the children, a very
frequent occurrence when Mrs. Morton received at home, that the head
nurse should bring them into the blue drawing-room, as it was called.
On two afternoons I had shirked this duty. With all my boasted courage,
the idea of facing all those strangers was singularly obnoxious; I
chose to consider myself privileged to infringe this part of my office.
I dressed the children carefully, and bade Hannah take them to their
mother. I thought the girl looked at me and hesitated a moment, but her
habitual respect kept her silent.

My dereliction of duty escaped notice on the first afternoon; Mr.
Morton was occupied with a committee, and Mrs. Morton was too gentle
and considerate to hint that my presence was desired, but on the second
afternoon Hannah came up looking a little flurried.

Master had not seemed pleased somehow; he had spoken quite sharply
before the visitors, and asked where nurse was that she had not brought
the children as usual, and the mistress had looked uncomfortable, and
had beckoned him to her.

I took no notice of Hannah’s speech, for I had a hasty tongue, and
might have said things that I should have regretted afterwards, but my
temper was decidedly ruffled. I took Reggie as quickly as possible from
her arms, and carried him off into the other room. I wanted to be alone
and recover myself.

I cried a good deal, much to Reggie’s distress; he kept patting my
cheeks and calling to me to kiss him, that at last I was obliged
to leave off. I had met with a difficulty at last. I could hear the
roaring of the chained lions behind me, but I said to myself that I
would not be beaten; if my pride must suffer I should get over the
unpleasantness in time. Why should I be afraid of people just because
they wore silks and satins and were strangers to me? My fears were
undignified and absurd; Mr. Morton was right; I had shirked my duty.

I hoped that nothing more would be said about it, and I determined that
the following Thursday I would face the ordeal; but I was not to escape
so easily.

When Mrs. Morton came into the nursery that evening to bid the children
good-night, I thought she looked a little preoccupied. She kissed them,
and asked me, rather nervously, to follow her into the night nursery.

“Merle,” she said, rather hurriedly, “I hope you will not mind what I
am going to say. My husband has asked me to speak to you. He seemed a
little put out this afternoon; it did not please him that Hannah should
take your place with the children.”

“Hannah told me so when she came up, Mrs. Morton.”

In spite of all my efforts to restrain my temper, I am afraid my voice
was a little sullen. I had never answered her in such a tone before. I
would obey Mr. Morton; I knew my own position well enough for that, but
they should both see that this part of my duty was distasteful to me.

To my intense surprise she took my hand and held it gently.

“I was afraid you would feel it in this way, Merle, but I want you
to look upon it in another point of view. You know that my husband
forewarned you that your position would entail difficulties. Hitherto
things have been quite smooth; now comes a duty which you own by your
manner to be bitterly distasteful. I sympathise with you, but my
husband’s wishes are sacred; he is very particular on this point. Do
you think for my sake that you could yield in this?”

She still held my hand, and I own that the foolish feeling crossed me
that I was glad that she should know my hand was as soft as hers, but
as she spoke to me in that beseeching voice all sullenness left me.

“There is very little that I would not do for your sake, Mrs. Morton,
when you have been so good to me. Please do not say another word
about it. Mr. Morton was right; I have been utterly in the wrong; I
feel that now. Next Thursday I will bring down the children into the
drawing-room.”

She thanked me so warmly that she made me feel still more ashamed of
myself; it seemed such a wonderful thing that my mistress should stoop
to entreat where she could by right command, but she was very tolerant
of a girl’s waywardness. She did not leave me even then, but changed
the subject. She sat down and talked to me for a few minutes about
myself and Aunt Agatha. I had not been home yet, and she wanted me to
fix some afternoon when Mrs. Garnett or Travers could take my place.

“We must not let you get too dull, Merle,” she said, gently. “Hannah is
a good girl, but she cannot be a companion to you in any sense of the
word.” And perhaps in that she was right.

I woke the following Thursday with a sense of uneasiness oppressing me,
so largely do our small fears magnify themselves when indulged. As the
afternoon approached I grew quite pale with apprehension, and Hannah,
with unspoken sympathy, but she had wonderful tact for a girl, only
hinted at the matter in a roundabout way.

I had dressed Reggie in his turquoise blue velvet, and was fastening
my clean frilled apron over my black gown, when Hannah said quietly,
“Well, it is no wonder master likes to show people what sort of nurse
he has got. I don’t think anyone could look so nice in a cap and apron
as you do, Miss Fenton. It is just as though you were making believe to
be a servant like me, and it would not do anyhow.”

I smiled a little at Hannah’s homely compliment, but I confessed it
pleased me and gave me courage. I felt still more like myself when my
boy put his dimpled arms round my neck, and hid his dear face on my
shoulder. I could not persuade him to loosen his hold until his mother
spoke to him, and there was Joyce holding tightly to my gown all the
time.

The room was so full that it almost made me giddy. It was good of Mrs.
Morton to rise from her seat and meet me, but all her coaxing speeches
would not make Reggie do more than raise his head from my shoulder. He
sat in my arms like a baby prince, beating off everyone with his little
hands, and refusing even to go to his father.

Everyone wanted to kiss him, and I carried him from one to another.
Joyce had left me at once for her mother. Some of the ladies questioned
me about the children. They spoke very civilly, but their inquisitive
glances made my face burn, and it was with difficulty that I made
suitable replies. Once I looked up, and saw that Mr. Morton was
watching me. His glance was critical, but not unkindly. I had a feeling
then that he was subjecting me purposely to this test. I must carry out
my theory into practice. I am convinced all this was in his mind as he
looked at me, and I no longer bore a grudge against him.

Not long afterwards I had an opportunity of learning that he could own
himself fallible on some points. He was exceedingly just, and could
bear a rebuke even from an inferior, if it proved him to be clearly in
the wrong.

One afternoon he came into the nursery to play with the children for
a few minutes. He would wind up their mechanical toys to amuse them.
Reggie was unusually fretful, and nothing seemed to please him. He
scolded both his father and his walking doll, and would have nothing
to say to the learned dog who beat the timbrels and nodded his head
approvingly to his own music. Presently he caught sight of his
favourite woolly lamb placed out of his reach on the mantelpiece, and
began screaming and kicking.

“Naughty Reggie,” observed his father, complacently, and he was taking
down the toy when I begged him respectfully to replace it.

He looked at me in some little surprise.

“I thought he was crying for it,” he said, somewhat perplexed at this.

“Reggie must not cry for things after that fashion,” I returned,
firmly, for I felt a serious principle was involved here. “He is only a
baby, but he is very sensible, and knows he is naughty when he screams
for a thing. I never give it to him until he is good.”

“Indeed,” a little dryly. “Well, he seems far off from goodness now.
What do you mean by making all that noise, my boy?”

Reggie was in one of his passions, it was easy to see that; the toy
would have been flung to the ground in his present mood; so without
looking at his father or asking his permission, I resorted to my usual
method, and laid him down screaming lustily in his little cot.

“There baby must stop until he is good,” I remarked, quietly, and I
took my work and sat down at some little distance, while Mr. Morton
watched us from the other room. I knew my plan always answered with
Reggie, and the storm would soon be over.

In two or three minutes his screams ceased, and I heard a penitent
“Gargle do;” then “Nur, nur.” I went to him directly, and in a moment
he held out his arms to be lifted out of the cot.

“Is Reggie quite good?” I asked, as I kissed him.

“Ood, ood,” was the triumphant reply, and the next moment he was
cuddling his lamb.

“I own your method is the best, nurse,” observed Mr. Morton,
pleasantly. “My boy will not be spoiled, I see that. I confess I should
have given him the toy directly he screamed for it; you showed greater
wisdom than his father.”

It is impossible to say how much this speech gratified me. From that
moment I liked as well as respected Mr. Morton.

My first holiday arrived somewhat unexpectedly. A little before the
nursery dinner Travers brought a message from Mrs. Morton that Joyce
was to go out with her in the carriage, and that if I liked to have
the afternoon and evening to myself, Mrs. Garnett could take charge of
Reggie.

The offer was too tempting to be refused. I do not think I ever knew
the meaning of the word holiday before. No schoolgirl felt in greater
spirits than I did during dinner time.

It was a lovely April afternoon. I took out of my wardrobe a soft
grey merino, my best dress, and a little grey velvet bonnet that Aunt
Agatha’s skilful hands had made for me. I confess I looked at myself
with some complacency. “No one would take me for a nurse,” I thought.

In the hall I encountered Mr. Morton; he was just going out. For the
moment he did not recognise me. He removed his hat hurriedly; no doubt
he thought me a stranger.

I could not help smiling at his mistake, and then he said, rather
awkwardly, “I did not know you, Miss Fenton. I am glad you have such
a lovely afternoon for your holiday; there seems a look of spring in
the air,” all very civilly, but with his keen eyes taking in every
particular of my dress.

I heard from Mrs. Garnett afterwards that he very much approved of Miss
Fenton’s quiet, ladylike appearance, and as he was a very fastidious
man, this was considered high praise. There was more than a touch of
spring in the air; the delicious softness seemed to promise opening
buds. Down Exhibition-road the flower-girls were busy with their
baskets of snowdrops and violets. I bought a few for Aunt Agatha, then
I remembered that Uncle Keith had a weakness for a particular sort of
scone, and I bought some and a slice of rich Dundee seed cake. I felt
like a schoolgirl providing a little home feast, but how pleasant it
is to cater for those we love. I was glad when my short journey was
over, and I could see the river shimmering a steely blue in the spring
sunshine. The old church towers seemed more venerable and picturesque.
As I walked down High-street I looked at the well-known shops with an
interest I never felt before.

When I reached the cottage I rang very softly, that Aunt Agatha
should not be disturbed. Patience uttered a pleased exclamation when
she caught sight of me. “Is it really yourself, Miss Merle? I could
hardly believe my eyes. Mistress is in there reading,” pointing to the
drawing-room. “She has not heard the bell, I’ll be bound, so you can
surprise her finely.”

I acted on Patience’s hint, and opened the door noiselessly. How cosy
the room looked in the firelight! and could any sight be more pleasant
to my eyes than dear Aunt Agatha sitting in her favourite low chair, in
her well-worn black silk and pretty lace cap. I shall never forget her
look of delight when she saw me.

“Merle! Oh, you dear child, do you mean it is really you? Come here and
let me look at you. I want to see what seven weeks of hard work have
done for you.”

But Aunt Agatha’s eyes were very dim as she looked.

“There, sit down, and get warm,” giving me an energetic little push,
“and tell me all about it. Your letters never do you justice, Merle. I
must hear your experience from your own lips.”

What a talk that was. It lasted all the afternoon, until Patience
came in to set the tea-table, and we heard Uncle Keith’s boots on the
scraper; even that sound was musical to me. When he entered the room I
gave him a good hug, and had put some of my violets in his button-hole
long before he had left off saying “Hir-rumph” in his surprise.

“She looks well, Agatha, does she not?” he observed, as we gathered
round the tea-table. “So the scheme has held out for seven weeks, eh?
You have not come to tell us you are tired of being a nurse?”

“No, indeed,” I returned, indignantly. “I am determined to prove to
you and the whole world that my theory is a sensible one. I am quite
happy in my work—perfectly happy, Uncle Keith. I would not part with my
children for worlds. Joyce is so amusing, and as for Reggie, he is such
a darling that I could not live without him.”

“It is making a woman of Merle, I can see that,” observed Aunt Agatha,
softly. “I confess I did not like the plan at first, but if you make it
answer, child, you will have me for a convert. You look just as nice
and just as much a lady as you did when you were leading a useless life
here. Never mind if in time your hands grow a little less soft and
white; that is a small matter if your heart expands and your conscience
is satisfied. You remember your favourite motto, Merle?”

“Yes, indeed, Aunt Agatha, ‘Laborare est orare.’ Now I must go, for
Uncle Keith is pulling out his watch, which means I have to catch my
train.”

But as I trudged over the bridge beside him in the starlight, and saw
the faint gleams lying on the dark, shadowy river, a voice seemed to
whisper to my inner consciousness, “Courage, Merle, a good beginning
makes a glad ending. Hold fast to your motto, ‘Laborare est orare.’”

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

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


CHAPTER III.

Enemies of the water-vole—The heron—The death-stroke—Ways of the
heron—Watching for fish—A hint to naturalists—Observers in the New
Forest—Return to wild habits—The fox, the cow, and the owl—The heron
and the eel—The cormorant and the conger—The heron’s power of wing—How
the heron settles—Its resting-place—Power of the heron’s beak—Heronry
in Wanstead Park.

The water-vole has but few enemies whom it need fear, and one of them
is now so scarce that the animal enjoys a practical immunity from
it. This is the heron (_Ardea cinerea_), which has suffered great
diminution of its numbers since the spread of agriculture.

Even now, however, when the brook is far away from the habitations of
man, the heron may be detected by a sharp eye standing motionless in
the stream, and looking out for prey. Being as still as if cut out of
stone, neither fish nor water-vole sees it, and if the latter should
happen to approach within striking distance, it will be instantly
killed by a sharp stroke on the back of the head.

The throat of the heron looks too small to allow the bird to swallow
any animal larger than a very small mouse; but it is so dilatable that
the largest water-vole can be swallowed with perfect ease.

The bird, in fact, is not at all fastidious about its food, and will
eat fish, frogs, toads, or water-voles with perfect impartiality. It
has even been known to devour young waterhens, swimming out to their
nest, and snatching up the unsuspecting brood. In fact, all is fish
that comes to its beak.

If the reader should be fortunate enough to espy a heron while watching
for prey, let him make the most of the opportunity.

Although the heron is a large bird, it is not easily seen. In the first
place, there are few birds which present so many different aspects.
When it stalks over the ground with erect bearing and alert gestures
it seems as conspicuous a bird as can well be imagined. Still more
conspicuous does it appear when flying, the ample wings spread, the
head and neck stretched forwards, and the long legs extending backwards
by way of balance.

But when it is on the look-out for the easily-startled fish it must
remain absolutely still. So it stands as motionless as a stuffed bird,
its long neck sunk and hidden among the feathers of the shoulders, and
nothing but the glancing eye denoting that it is alive.

This quiescence must be imitated by the observer, should he wish to
watch the proceedings of the bird, as the least movement will startle
it. The reason why so many persons fail to observe the habits of
animals, and then disbelieve those who have been more successful, is
that they have never mastered the key to all observation, _i.e._,
refraining from the slightest motion. A movement of the hand or foot,
or even a turn of the head is certain to give alarm; while many
creatures are so wary that when watching them it is as well to droop
the eyelids as much as possible, and not even to turn the eyes quickly,
lest the reflection of the light from their surface should attract the
attention of the watchful creature.

One of the worst results of detection is that when any animal is
startled it conveys the alarm to all others that happen to be within
sight or hearing. It is evident that all animals of the same species
have a language of their own which they perfectly understand, though it
is not likely that an animal belonging to one species can understand
the language of another.

But there seems to be a sort of universal or _lingua-franca_ language
which is common to all the animals, whether they be beasts or birds,
and one of the best known phrases is the cry of alarm, which is
understood by all alike.

I need hardly say that it is almost absolutely necessary to be alone,
as there is no object in two observers going together unless they can
communicate with each other, and there is nothing which is so alarming
to the beasts and birds as the sound of the human voice.

Yet there is a mode by which two persons who have learned to act in
concert with each other can manage to observe in company. It was shown
to me by an old African hunter, when I was staying with him in the New
Forest.

In the forest, although even the snapping of a dry twig will give the
alarm, neither bird nor beast seems to be disturbed by a whistle.
We therefore drew up a code of whistles, and practised ourselves
thoroughly in them.

Then, we went as quietly as we could to the chosen spot, and sat down
facing each other, so that no creature could pass behind one of us
without being detected by the other. We were both dressed in dark grey,
and took the precaution of sitting with our backs against a tree or a
bank, or any object which could perform the double duty of giving us
something to lean against, and of breaking the outlines of the human
form.

Our whistled code was as low as was possible consistent with being
audible, and I do not think that during our many experiments we gave
the alarm to a single creature.

When the observer is remaining without movement, scarcely an animal
will notice him.

I remember that on one occasion my friend and I were sitting opposite
each other, one on either side of a narrow forest path. The sun had
set, but at that time of the year there is scarcely any real night, and
objects could be easily seen in the half light.

Presently a fox came stealthily along the path. Now the cunning of the
fox is proverbial, and neither of us thought that he would pass between
us without detecting our presence. Yet, he did so, passing so close,
that we could have touched him with a stick.

Shortly afterwards, a cow came along the same path, walking almost
as noiselessly as the fox had done. It is a remarkable fact that
domesticated animals, when allowed to wander at liberty in the New
Forest, soon revert to the habits of their wild ancestors.

As the cow came along the path, neither of us could conjecture the
owner of the stealthy footstep. We feared lest it might be that of
poachers, in which case things would have gone hard with us, the
poachers of the New Forest being a truculent and dangerous set of men,
always provided with firearms and bludgeons, having scarcely the very
slightest regard for the law, and almost out of reach of the police.

They would certainly have considered us as spies upon them, and as
certainly would have attacked and half, if not quite killed us, we
being unarmed.

But to our amusement as well as relief, the step was only that of a
solitary cow, the animal lifting each foot high from the ground before
she made her step, and putting it down as cautiously as she had raised
it.

Then, a barn owl came drifting silently between us, looking in the
dusk as large and white as if it had been the snowy owl itself. Yet,
neither the fox, nor the cow, nor the owl detected us, although passing
within a few feet of us.

In the daytime the observer, however careful he may be, is always
liable to detection by a stray magpie or crow.

The bird comes flying along overhead, its keen eyes directed downwards,
on the look-out for the eggs of other birds. At first he may not notice
the motionless and silent observer, but sooner or later he is sure to
do so.

If it were not exasperating to have all one’s precautions frustrated,
the shriek of terrified astonishment with which the bird announces the
unexpected presence of a human being would be exceedingly ludicrous.
As it is, a feeling of wrath rather prevails over that of amusement,
for at least an hour will elapse before the startled animals will have
recovered from the magpie’s alarm cry.

Supposing that we are stationed on the banks of the brook on a fine
summer evening, while the long twilight endures, and have been
fortunate enough to escape the notice of the magpie or other feathered
spy, we may have the opportunity of watching the heron capture its prey.

The stroke of the beak is like lightning, and in a moment the bird is
holding a fish transversely in its beak. The long, narrow bill scarcely
seems capable of retaining the slippery prey; but if a heron’s beak
be examined carefully, it will be seen to possess a number of slight
serrations upon the edges, which enable it to take a firm grasp of the
fish.

Very little time is allowed the fish for struggling, for almost as soon
as captured it is flung in the air, caught dexterously with its head
downwards, and swallowed.

It is astonishing how large a fish will pass down the slender throat
of a heron. As has been already mentioned, the water-vole is swallowed
without difficulty. Now the water-vole measures between eight and nine
inches in length from the nose to the root of the tail, and is a very
thickset animal, so that it forms a large and inconvenient morsel.

It is seldom that the heron has, like the kingfisher, to beat its prey
against a stone or any hard object before swallowing it, though when
it catches a rather large eel it is obliged to avail itself of this
device before it can get the wriggling and active fish into a suitable
attitude. The eel has the strongest objection to going down the heron’s
throat, and has no idea of allowing its head to pass into the heron’s
beak. The eel, therefore, must be rendered insensible before it can be
swallowed.

Generally it is enough to carry the refractory prey to the bank, hold
it down with the foot, and peck it from one end to the other until it
is motionless. Should the eel be too large to be held by the feet, it
is rapidly battered against a stone, just as a large snail is treated
by a thrush, and so rendered senseless.

If the feet of the heron be examined, a remarkable comb-like appendage
may be seen on the inside of the claw of the hind foot.

What may be the precise office of this comb is not satisfactorily
decided. Some ornithologists think that it is utilised in preening the
plumage, I cannot, however, believe that it performs such an office. I
have enjoyed exceptional opportunities for watching the proceedings of
the heron when at liberty, as well as in captivity, but never saw it
preen its feathers with its foot, nor have I heard of anyone who has
actually witnessed the proceeding.

[Illustration: IN WANSTEAD PARK.]

It is not always fair to judge from a dead bird what the living bird
might have been able to do. But I have tried to comb the plumage of a
dead heron with its foot-comb, and have not succeeded.

Another suggestion is that the bird may use it when it holds prey under
its feet, as has just been narrated. These suggestions, however, are
nothing more than conjectures, but, as they have been the subject of
much argument, I have thought it best to mention them.

Sometimes it has happened that the heron has miscalculated its powers,
and seized a fish which was too large and powerful to be mastered.
Anglers frequently capture fish which bear the marks of the heron’s
beak upon their bodies, and in such cases neither the fish nor the
heron is any the worse for the struggle.

But when the unmanageable fish has been an eel, the result has, more
than once, been disastrous for the bird. In Yarrell’s work on the
British birds, a case is recorded where a heron and eel were both found
dead, the partially swallowed eel having twisted itself round the neck
of the heron in its struggles.

A very similar incident occurred off the coast of Devonshire, the
victim in this case being a cormorant. The bird had attacked a
conger-eel, and had struck its hooked upper mandible completely through
the lower jaw of the fish, the horny beak having entered under the chin
of the eel.

The bird could not shake the fish off its beak, and the result was
that both were found lying dead on the shore, the powerful conger-eel
having coiled itself round the neck of the cormorant and strangled it.
The stuffed skins of the bird and eel may be seen in the Truro Museum,
preserved in the position in which they were found.

Having procured a sufficiency of prey, the heron will take flight for
its home, which will probably be at a considerable distance from its
fishing ground. Twenty or thirty miles are but an easy journey for the
bird, which measures more than five feet across the expanded wings, and
yet barely weighs three pounds. Indeed, in proportion to its bulk, it
is believed to be the lightest bird known. The Rev. C. A. Johns states
that he has seen the heron fishing at a spot fully fifty miles from any
heronry.

The peculiar flight of the heron is graphically described in a letter
published in the _Standard_ newspaper, Sept. 25th, 1883.

“One summer evening I was under a wood by the Exe. The sun had set, and
from over the wooded hill above bars of golden and rosy cloud stretched
out across the sky. The rooks came slowly home to roost, disappearing
over the wood, and at the same time the herons approached in exactly
the opposite direction, flying from Devon into Somerset, and starting
out to feed as the rooks returned home.

“The first heron sailed on steadily at a great height, uttering a loud
“caak, caak” at intervals. In a few minutes a second followed, and
“caak, caak” sounded again over the river valley.

“The third was flying at a less height, and as he came into sight
over the line of the wood, he suddenly wheeled round, and holding his
immense wings extended, dived, as a rook will, downwards through the
air. He twisted from side to side like anything spun round by the
finger and thumb as he came down, rushing through the air head first.

“The sound of his great vanes pressing and dividing the air was
distinctly audible. He looked unable to manage his descent, but at the
right moment he recovered his balance, and rose a little up into a tree
on the summit, drawing his long legs into the branches behind him.

“The fourth heron fetched a wide circle, and so descended into the
wood. Two more passed on over the valley—altogether six herons in about
a quarter of an hour. They intended, no doubt, to wait in the trees
till it was dusky, and then to go down and fish in the wood. Herons
are here called cranes, and heronries are craneries. (This confusion
between the heron and the crane exists in most parts of Ireland.)

“A determined sportsman who used to eat every heron he could shoot, in
revenge for their ravages among the trout, at last became suspicious,
and, examining one, found in it the remains of a rat and of a toad,
after which he did not eat any more herons. Another sportsman found a
heron in the very act of gulping down a good sized trout, which stuck
in the gullet. He shot the heron and got the trout, which was not at
all injured, only marked at each side where the beak had cut it. The
fish was secured and eaten.”

I can corroborate the accuracy as well as the graphic wording of the
above description.

When I was living at Belvedere, in Kent, I used nearly every evening
to see herons flying northwards. I think that they were making for the
Essex marshes. They always flew at a very great height, and might have
escaped observation but for the loud, harsh croak which they uttered
at intervals, and which has been so well described by the monosyllable
“caak.”

As to their mode of settling on a tree, I have often watched the
herons of Walton Hall, where they were so tame that they would allow
themselves to be approached quite closely. When settling, they lower
themselves gently until their feet are upon the branch. They then keep
up a slight flapping of the wings until they are fairly settled.

An idea is prevalent in many parts of England that when the heron sits
on its nest, its long legs hang down on either side. Nothing can be
more absurd. The heron can double up its legs as is usual among birds,
and sits on its nest as easily as if it were a rook, or any other
short-legged bird.

In many respects the heron much resembles the rook in its manner of
nesting. The nest is placed in the topmost branches of a lofty tree,
and is little more than a mere platform of small sticks. Being a larger
bird than the rook, the heron requires a larger nest, and on an average
the diameter of a nest is about three feet.

Like the rook, the heron is gregarious in its nesting, a solitary
heron’s nest being unknown. In their modes of feeding, however, the
two birds utterly differ from each other, the heron seeking its food
alone, while the rook feeds in company, always placing a sentinel on
some elevated spot for the purpose of giving alarm at the approach of
danger.

The heron is curiously fastidious in its choice of a nesting-place,
and, like the rook, prefers the neighbourhood of man, knowing
instinctively when it will be protected by its human neighbours.
Fortunately for the bird, the possession of a heronry is a matter of
pride among landowners; so that even if the owner of a trout-stream
happened also to possess a heronry, he would not think of destroying
the herons because they ate his trout.

In captivity the heron can be tamed; but it is not to be recommended as
a pet. It is apt to bestow all its affections on one individual, and to
consider the rest of the human race as enemies, whose eyes ought to be
pecked out.

I was for some time acquainted with such a bird, but took care to keep
well out of reach of its terrible beak, which it would dart to an
unexpected distance through the bars of its cage.

It formerly ran loose in a garden, and was almost slavishly
affectionate to the gardener, rubbing itself against his legs like a
pet cat, and trying in every way to attract his attention. He had even
taught it a few simple tricks, and I have seen it take his hat off his
head, and then offer it to him.

But just in proportion as it became friendly with the gardener it
became cross-grained with the rest of the world, attacking everyone
who came into the garden, and darting its beak at their eyes. Its last
performance caused it to be placed in confinement.

An elderly gentleman had entered the garden on business, when the bird
instantly assailed him. Knowing the habits of the heron, he very wisely
flung himself on his face for the purpose of preserving his eyes, and
shouted for help.

Meanwhile the heron, wishing to make the most of its opportunity,
mounted upon his prostrate victim, and succeeded in inflicting several
severe pecks upon his body and limbs before the gardener could come to
the rescue.

The peck of a heron’s beak is no trifle, the mandibles being closed,
and the blow delivered with the full power of the long neck, so that
each blow from the beak is something like the stab of a bayonet, and so
strong and sharp is the beak that in some foreign lands it is converted
into an effective spearhead.

Few people seem to be aware that a large and populous heronry exists in
Wanstead Park, on the very outskirts of London.

At the end of summer, when the young birds are fledged, the heronry
is nearly deserted, but during the early days of spring the heronry
is well worth a visit. The great birds are all in full activity, as
is demanded by the many wants of the young, and on the ground beneath
may be seen fragments of the pale-blue eggs. On an average there are
three young ones in each nest, so that the scene is very lively and
interesting, until the foliage becomes so thick that it hides the birds
and their nests.

(_To be continued._)




THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

BY EMMA BREWER.


CHAPTER II.

Just for a little time I must leave my personal history to inquire how
England managed to do without me so long, and what the circumstances
were which at length rendered my existence imperative.

In the days following the Norman Conquest, the Jews, whose one pursuit
in life was the commerce of money, were the compulsory bankers of the
country.

They were subject to much cruelty and persecution, as you may see for
yourselves in your histories of the Kings of England. It is not to be
denied that their demands for interest on money lent by them were most
extravagant. In 1264 the rate of interest exceeded 40 per cent., and I
believe that 500 Jews were slain by our London citizens because one of
them would have forced a Christian to pay more than twopence for the
usury of 20s.[1] for one week, which sum they were allowed by the king
to take from the Oxford students.

They were ill-treated and robbed from the time they came over with the
Conqueror until the reign of Edward I., who distinguished himself by
robbing 15,000 Jews of their wealth, and then banishing the whole of
them from the kingdom; and thus, as much sinned against as sinning, the
compulsory bankers of the period departed.

There was no time to feel their loss, for immediately after their
expulsion the Lombards (Longobards), or merchants of Genoa, Florence,
Lucca and Venice, came over to England and established themselves in
the street which still bears their name.

There was no doubt as to their purpose, for it was a well-known fact
that in whatever country or town they settled they engrossed its trade
and became masters of its cash, and certainly they did not intend to
make an exception in favour of London.

I am not going to deny that they introduced into our midst many of
the arts and skill of trade with which we in England were previously
unacquainted; and it is to these Lombards or goldsmiths we owe the
introduction of bills of exchange, a wonderful invention, and one which
has served to connect the whole world into one, as you will see when
the proper place arrives for their explanation.

These Lombards, immediately after their arrival in London, may have
been seen regularly twice a day parading Lombard-street with their
wares, exposing for sale the most attractive articles; and in a short
time became so successful that they were able to take shops in which to
carry on their business as goldsmiths.

These shops were not confined to the one street which bears their name,
but were continued along the south row of Cheapside, extending from the
street called Old Change into Bucklersbury, where they remained until
after the Great Fire, when they removed to Lombard-street. There seems
to be no street in the world where a business of one special character
has been carried on so continuously as in Lombard-street. In the time
of Queen Elizabeth it was the handsomest street in London. In addition
to the art of the goldsmith, they added the business of money-changing,
the importance of which occupation you will be able to estimate when we
come to the subject of the coins of the realm.

From money-changers they became money-lenders and money-borrowers—money
was the commodity in which they dealt, and 20 per cent. the modest
interest they asked and obtained for their money.

Of course they gave receipts for the money lodged with them, and these
circulated and were known by the name of “goldsmiths’ notes,” and were,
in fact, the first kind of bank-notes issued in England.

The Lombards were a most industrious class of people, and left no
stone unturned by which they could obtain wealth; and in an incredibly
short time we find them not only wealthy, but powerful, and occupying
a very prominent position; and you may be quite sure that under these
circumstances they did not escape persecution.

Under the pretext that the goldsmiths were extortioners, Edward III.
seized their property and estates. Even this seemed but slightly to
affect them; for in the fifteenth century we find them advancing large
sums of money for the service of the State on the security of the
Customs.

In the latter days, and, indeed, up to the time of my birth, the
banking was entirely in the hands of the goldsmiths, but carried on in
a very rapacious spirit, as is frequently the case when unrestrained by
rivals.

I dare say you have all noticed the three golden balls on the outside
of pawnbrokers’ shops. Originally these were three pills, the emblem of
the Medici (physician) family; but in some way they became associated
with St. Dunstan, the patron saint of the goldsmiths, under the name of
the three golden balls—an emblem which the Lombards have retained.

Are you curious to know how the sign has so degenerated as to be the
inseparable companion of the pawnbrokers of the land? Well, listen.

Pawnbrokers’ shops, or loan banks, were established from motives of
charity in the fifteenth century. Their object was to lend money to
the poor upon pledges and without interest. Originally they were
supported by voluntary contributions, but as these proved insufficient
to pay expenses, it became necessary to charge interest for the money
lent. These banks were first distinguished by the name of _montes
pietatis_. The word _mont_ at this period was applied to any pecuniary
fund, and it is probable that _pietatis_ was added by the promoters
of the scheme, to give it an air of religion, and thus procure larger
subscriptions.

Well, these banks were not only called mounts of piety, but were
known also as Lombards,[2] from the name of the original bankers or
money-lenders. Now you see how it is pawnbrokers bear the sign of the
goldsmiths.

You who know so well where to place your money, both for interest
and security, when you have any to spare, can scarcely understand
the trouble and annoyance which our merchants and wealthy people
experienced at having no place of security wherein they could deposit
their money. At one time they sent it to the Mint in the Tower of
London, which became a sort of bank, where merchants left their money
when they had no need of it, and drew it out only as they wanted it;
but this soon ceased to be a place of security. In 1640 Charles I.,
without leave asked or granted, took possession of £200,000 of the
money lodged there. Great was the wrath of the merchants, who were
compelled, after this unkingly act, to keep their surplus money at
home, guarded by their apprentices and servants. Even here the money
was not safe, for on the breaking out of the war between Charles and
his Parliament, it was no uncommon occurrence for the apprentices to
rob their masters and run away and join the army.

When the merchants found that neither the public authorities nor their
own servants were to be trusted, they employed bankers, and these
bankers were goldsmiths.

Many a tale, however, has reached me of the shifts and contrivances
of people to secure their savings and surplus money—people whose
experience had taught them to distrust both authorities and places, and
who would not, under the new state of things, have anything to do with
the bankers. One I will relate to you.

A man whose life had been one of hard work and self-denial, and who had
two or three times lost his all through the untrustworthiness of the
people with whom he had lodged it, determined to be their dupe no more.
Money began once more to accumulate, and all things prospered with him;
but no one could imagine what he did with it; as far as his household
could tell, he did not deposit it with anyone outside the house,
neither could they discover any place within where it was possible
to stow it away. No persuasion could move the man to speak one word
concerning it.

At length he died, without having time or consciousness to mention
the whereabouts of his money. Search was made in all directions, but
without success.

While living he had been a regular attendant at one of our City
churches, and, occupying always the same corner in the old-fashioned
square pew, was well known to the clergy and servants.

A few weeks after his death the pew-opener told the rector, in a
frightened voice, that she could no longer keep the matter from him,
for as surely as she stood there, the ghost of the man who died a week
or two ago haunted the church by night and by day.

Instead of ridiculing her for her foolish fancy, the rector allowed her
to tell her story quietly, seeing that she was superstitious and very
nervous.

She related that several times during the past weeks, when quite alone
in the church for the purpose of sweeping and dusting, she had heard a
peculiar noise proceeding from the pew where the old man used to sit,
and it sounded to her exactly as though he were counting out money, and
she would be very glad if he would look to it and verify her statement.

Accordingly the rector and his curate accompanied the woman to the pew.
At first all was quiet, but as they listened, assuredly the sound came
exactly as described; they felt round about the pew, and at length
discovered a movable panel near the flooring. It was the work of a
moment to remove it, and there, in a good sized cavity, lay heaps of
money wrapped up in paper, which last had attracted the mice, and it
was their little pattering feet among the coins which had caught the
woman’s ear. The man had evidently dropped in his week’s savings on
Sundays, believing that it would be safer in the church than elsewhere.

It seems that after the restoration of Charles II., he being greatly
in want of money, the goldsmiths lent it, demanding ten per cent. for
the loan. Often, however, they obtained thirty per cent. from him, and
this induced the goldsmiths to lend more and more to the king, so that
really the whole revenue passed through their hands.

In 1672 a sad calamity befel the bankers, and put a check on their
prodigal lending. King Charles, who owed them £1,328,526, which he had
borrowed at eight per cent., utterly refused to pay either principal or
interest, and he remained firm to his resolution.

The way in which bankers transacted their loans with the king, was in
this manner:—As soon as the Parliament had voted to the king certain
sums of money out of special taxes, the goldsmith-bankers at once
supplied the king with the whole sum so voted, and were repaid in
weekly payments at the Exchequer[3] as the taxes were received.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Ruding, vol. I.

[2] The Lombards, or _montes pietatis_, lent on gold and silver
three-quarters of their value; on other metals half of their value;
and on jewels according to circumstances. The rate of interest was
determined in 1786 at five per cent.

[3] Exchequer, so called because there was a building with a square
hole in the floor, through which they used to drop the notes and gold
on to a table beneath, covered with a chequered cloth.

[Illustration]




DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.

BY A LADY DRESSMAKER.


We have had such a mild and delightful autumn, that all kinds of winter
garments have been delayed in making an appearance. This is especially
the case with mantles and the heavier class of jackets. However, there
is enough to show us that no great novelty has been introduced. Mantles
are all small and short, and the majority have ends in front more or
less long. Black plush seems a very favourite material, and is much
overladen with trimming. Plain plush is also used for paletôts, and for
large cloaks; but there is a new-patterned plush, with ribs in layers,
that is much used also. Beaded shoulder-straps and epaulettes are worn
as well as ornaments at the back, and sometimes beaded braces round
the join of the sleeve in the small mantles, and a strip of the same
may be used to outline the seam at the back. These hints may help some
of my readers to do up a last year’s mantle with some of the moderate
priced bead trimmings now in vogue. Paletôts or cloaks are made both
long and medium in length. They are made in plush, cloth, and rough
cloths, but are not seen in the finer fancy stuffs which are made use
of for mantles and jackets. These fancy cloths have an appearance as
if braid were sewn on to the surface. The cloak paletôts, when long,
close in front to the feet, and the fronts are trimmed with a border
of fur, which is shaped on the shoulders like a pointed old-fashioned
“Victorine.” No fur is placed at the lower edge of the cloak; the cuffs
are deep. Fur trimmings on jackets that are tight-fitting follow the
same rule, and have no trimming of fur at the edge. Fur boas are very
decidedly the fashion this winter, and there seems no end to their
popularity. Some of them are flat at the neck, like a collarette; and
others are attached to the mantle. The newest boas are rather shorter,
and some are nothing more than fur collars that clasp round the throat;
and these collars, or “tippets,” will probably take the place of the
fur capes that have been worn so long. Grey furs are more in fashion
than brown ones—such as chinchilla, grey fox, squirrel-lock, and
opossum, and I see that quantities of American raccoon are also being
prepared. Of course, the best kind of furs, like sable, marten-tail,
mink, or blue fox, are not within the ordinary range of purchasers, and
few people care to spend so much money on dress as their acquirement
entails. There is also a new feeling to be taken into account; the same
feeling that makes thinking women and girls decline to wear birds,
and their heads and wings, _i.e._, the feeling that the seal fishery
as hitherto conducted is cruel; and that one may wear furs that are
too costly in other ways. I often think if mighty hunters—instead of
hunting down the buffalo, and the other animals useful to the Indian in
the North West—would go to India and hunt the tigers that so cruelly
prey on the natives there, we should wear those skins with much
pleasure as well as advantage. But the account of the slaying of a
mother-seal ought to be enough for a tender-hearted woman. I have never
cordially liked sealskins since I read of the devotion of one poor
mother-seal in particular to her young; and I have never had a sealskin
jacket since.

[Illustration: AT THE ENGLISH LAKES.—AUTUMN AND WINTER GOWNS.]

There are numbers of jackets in every style, but all are made of
woollen materials, not of silk nor of velvet. Most of them are
tight-fitting, and are smart looking and stylish. Both single and
double-breasted ones are seen. Hoods are much worn, but are by no means
general. Coloured linings are used to pale-coloured or checked cloth
jackets, but not to black or brown ones. Small mantles and cloaks
are tied at the neck by a quantity of ribbons to match the colour of
the cloth or plush. One of the new ideas for mantles is that of a
semi-fitting jacket over a long close-fitting cloak.

[Illustration: UNDER NORTHERN SKIES.—A STUDY OF COMFORT IN DRESS.]

The new bonnets and hats are much smaller and prettier now, and there
are in consequence many of these quieter hats to be seen worn by
well-dressed girls in the streets of London. Formerly no girl who
wished to be thought somebody ever wore anything but a bonnet in London.

The velvet trimmings of bonnets are put on gathered, doubled and
pleated, sometimes with as many as three frills at the edge. Many of
the bonnets are without strings, and have pointed fronts, and there is
much jet trimming used even on coloured velvet bonnets. I am sorry to
say that our fashionable caterers continue to prey upon the feathered
creation all over the world. This winter the owl has evidently fallen
a victim, and there are besides the tern, kingfisher, and the heron.
How I wish this wicked and cruel bird slaughter could be prevented, and
that my numberless girl-readers would try to avoid giving it the least
encouragement. While we have the beautiful ostrich feathers, we cannot
need these other poor victims offered up on the altar of feminine
vanity and unthinking cruelty.

Some of the felt hats for the season are very pretty. They have high
and sloping crowns, the brims are often only bound with ribbon, but if
wide and turned up at the back, they are lined with velvet, or rather
only partly lined, as half of the brim at least is left unlined. Many
of them have brims turned up all round, like one of the old turban hats.

The ribbons in use at present are of all kinds, satin and velvet
reversible, as well as _moiré_ and velvet, or satin and _moiré_. These
have an edge of lacet, or one with tufts of silk, in colour. Velvet
ribbons with corded stripes have one edge purled and the other fringed;
and the strings of bonnets are of narrow _picot_-edged ribbon.

The number of white gowns that have been worn during the past season
and up to the present moment has been remarkable, and has quite
justified the name of a “white season.” Even as the weather became
colder, a charming mixture of materials was introduced, viz., white
corduroy, and some soft woollen stuff, like serge or flannel. For the
winter white will be the special fashion for young people for the
evening, and any colour can be given by trimming. It seems likely that
perfectly smooth cloths, of the nature of habit-cloths, will be used
for winter day dresses, trimmed with bands of short dark-hued fur, or
with velvet to match the colour of the cloth. The colours that will
be worn in these will be myrtle, a new shade of blue, a tint like
heliotrope, and a reddish violet.

Fancy materials in mixed colours abound, the mixtures being green
and ruby, brown and red, sage and vermilion, and others of the same
unæsthetic nature. The new browns are called Carmelite, chestnut,
rosewood, hair, and earth; the new reds are, Bordeaux, Indian, currant,
and clove. A new green is called verdigris. Grey does not seem to be
popular, and brown and red violet are the special colours of the season.

In the making of dresses there is but little change. The skirts are
still short, and the draperies still long; while there is a fancy
for over-trimming bodices of all kinds. This will be a blessing for
the possessors of half-worn and very ancient bodices. Bracers are
one of the novelties as a form of trimming for the latter. They are
also trimmed in imitation of a Zouave jacket. Polonaises seem to be
returning to favour, and will be worn later on over lace skirts for
evening dress. Serge seems to me to be the most favoured material this
winter, and it forms the ground work of half the fancy cloths and
mixtures. Stripes and crossbars are in the highest favour, and both
alpaca and foulard are used, and with poplin, chuddah cloth, velvet,
and silk rep, form the generality of the new dresses. There are numbers
of hairy-looking woollen materials, but I should not think they would
wear as well as a good serge, which is always a useful purchase.

The new petticoat materials in winceys are very gay and pretty, and the
pattern is usually of stripes; but the materials are various, being
sometimes all wool, or wool and silk mixed, and in the weaving there is
usually a rough or knotted stripe. Some of the new petticoats have a
few steels in them, and the addition makes the dress hold out from the
heels a little. A small steel-wire dress-improver is, however, quite
enough for most people, and very little crinolette is now worn—nothing
ungraceful nor immoderate in size. Other petticoats of better quality
are made of plain silk or satin, and one of the new fashions is to line
them with chamois leather, so as to make them warmer.

[Illustration: NEW WINTER JACKET BODICE.]

Shoes are more worn in London than boots, and laced shoes more than
buttoned ones. The same is the case with boots, which are considered
to fit better, and to look more stylish when laced than buttoned. I
have been very glad to see that sensibly-shaped boots and shoes are
on the increase, having wider toes and lower, broader heels. At the
present moment many of the best shops have them in their windows, and
have found it best and wisest to keep them for their customers; in
fact, the knowledge of hygienic necessities, and of all kinds of proper
clothing, is being so much extended and impressed on the public mind
on all sides, that I should not wonder if we all became quite reformed
characters, and wore, ate, and drank only such things as were good for
us.

I must not forget to mention gloves and their styles. Most people
usually wear Swede or kid gloves during the winter months; but this
year there are some such delightfully warm and pretty gloves in wool
and silk to be seen in the shops, that many will no doubt be tempted
to purchase them. If the dress be of a quiet colour, the gloves should
match it; but if red, or of a decided colour of any kind, the proper
gloves to wear would be tan-colour. These latter are also used in the
evening, except when the dress is black, or black and white, when the
gloves should be of grey Swede.

Our illustrations for the month are full of suggestions for making new
gowns and for altering old ones. It will be seen that the gowns are
both simple and elegant, with long flowing lines, and little or no
fulness of drapery. The prevailing fancy for jackets is shown, and the
newest model of a cape-like sleeve is given in our large front picture
of a seashore, “Under Northern Skies.” Much braiding is used, and it
is shown in two ways—laid on in flat bands, and also in a pattern on
the mantle. The new shapes of hats are much more moderate, and most
of the new shapes are illustrated. Our paper pattern for the month is
represented as worn by a lady in the centre of the smaller picture,
“At the English Lakes;” the centre figure shows its pretty and jaunty
outlines. It may be worn with either a plain waistcoat or a full silk
plastron, divided into puffings as shown in our sketch, which may be of
a soft Indian silk. It is of the last and new design, and will be found
a most useful winter bodice for usual daily wear. The pattern consists
of a collar, cuff, front, half of back, side pieces, and two sleeve
pieces. About four yards of 30 inch material are required, perhaps
less, if very carefully cut. All patterns are of a medium size, viz.,
36 inches round the chest, and only one size is prepared for sale. Each
of the patterns may be had of “The Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G.
Davis, 73, Ludgate Hill, E.C., price 1s. each. It is requested that the
addresses be clearly given, and that postal notes crossed only to go
through a bank may be sent, as so many losses have recently occurred.
The patterns already issued may always be obtained, as “The Lady
Dressmaker” only issues patterns likely to be of constant use in home
dressmaking and altering, and she is particularly careful to give all
the new patterns of hygienic underclothing, both for children and young
and old ladies, so that her readers may be aware of the best method of
dressing.

The following is a list of those already issued, price 1s. each.
April—Braided, loose-fronted jacket. May—Velvet bodice. June—Swiss
belt and full bodice, with plain sleeves. July—Mantle. August—Norfolk
or pleated jacket. September—Housemaid’s or plain skirt.
October—Combination garment (underlinen). November—Double-breasted
out-of-door jacket. December—Zouave jacket and bodice. January—Princess
underdress (underlinen, underbodice, and underskirt combined).
February—Polonaise with waterfall back. March—New spring bodice.
April—Divided skirt, and Bernhardt mantle with sling sleeves. May—Early
English bodice and yoke bodice for summer dress. June—Dressing
jacket, princess frock, and Normandy cap for a child of four years.
July—Princess of Wales’ jacket-bodice and waistcoat, for tailor-made
gown. August—Bodice with guimpe. September—Mantle with stole ends
and hood. October—“Pyjama,” or nightdress combination, with full
back.—November—New winter bodice.

[Illustration]




THE BUILDERS OF THE BRIDGE.

BY MRS. G. LINNÆUS BANKS, Author of “God’s Providence House,” “The
Manchester Man,” “More than Coronets,” etc.


CHAPTER II.

    “But, Muse, return at last; attend the princely Trent,
    Who, straining on in state, the north’s imperious flood,
    The third of England called, with many a dainty wood
    Being crowned, to Burton comes, to Needwood, where she shows
    Herself in all her pomp, and as from thence she flows
    She takes into her train rich Dove and Darwin[4] clear—
    Darwin, whose font and fall are both in Derbyshire,
    And of whose thirty floods that wait the Trent upon,
    Doth stand without compare, the very paragon.”

So began England’s descriptive poet, Michael Drayton, to sing the
praises of the glorious Trent in his “Polyolbion;” but Milton was more
terse in his invocation—

    “Rivers, arise! whether thou be the son
    Of utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulfy Don,
    Or Trent, who, like some earth-born giant, spreads
    His thirty arms along the indented meads.”

Thus much the poets; but in plain prose be it told that the Trent
needed no invocation to “arise.” It had, and has, a tendency to arise
and flood the meadows in its course most disastrously, as it did no
later than last May. The many arches of its bridges tell the tale.

But long before bridges were built or were common, there was need to
cross the river, either by ford or ferry, and its treachery must have
been known in very ancient days, since Swark—whoever he might be, and
whether he found a natural ford or made an artificial one—set up on
end an unwrought monolith above the height of a man as a guide for
wayfarers to find the crossing-place when the waters happened to be
“out”; since there the waste and meadow-land lay low for many a broad
mile.

There was scarcely a speck in the blue vault of heaven when Earl
Bellamont and his friends, leaving a cloud of dust behind them, crossed
the shrunken, snake-like river that mirrored their gleaming armour in
its broken, scale-like wavelets, as if it held their images and would
fain clasp them. And so the sun had shone for weeks,

    “All in a hot and copper sky,”

until the earth cried out for rain from its parched and cracking lips.
Only near the red, marly banks of the river did the grass and herbage
retain its vivid tint of green. As the days went by the air seemed to
grow hotter; the cooks in the kitchen, piling fresh logs upon the fire,
wished the guests gone and the wedding over. The falconer out on the
moor in the glare with William Harpur and other squires, or the anglers
by the streams, had scarcely the best of it, though Lady Bellamont
wearied of her many cares, and censured the languor of her daughters
and her maids.

Preparations had not ceased, they had only renewed; and there had been
unwonted doles to the villagers of good things that would have spoiled.

At length, when even the weaving of tapestry or the twanging of the
lute was a toil, there rose a cloud in the north-western sky. The
cattle lowed, the leaves turned themselves over to welcome it, the
hawks screamed in the mews. That was the morning of the 14th, when
the very hush in the air was significant. The cloud spread, darkened,
blackened, but in the distance.

“There is a storm somewhere over our northern hills!” exclaimed the
prior, who had been up on the battlements. “The clouds hang black and
low over Dovedale.”

“It seemeth such a day as heralded the great storm three years ago,”
cried Lady Bellamont, in alarm. “And, ah! what a flash was that!”

The younger ladies gathered together in shrinking groups, as if the
fears of the matron were infectious. Only Idonea kept at her word, and
scorned to show timidity, whatever she might feel, as the mutterings of
thunder rumbled over the hall.

It was high noon, but the sky was darkening overhead. The horn at the
great gates was blown. A messenger in hot haste had come spurring from
the ford and up the hill, glad to save himself a drenching, for the
great drops were pattering on the leaves and leads like hail.

He had come at full speed from Oxford. King Henry had ratified the
great charter of English liberty. His master, the earl, and his friends
would be home ere nightfall. The bridal must be upon the morrow. He
had, moreover, private messages and tokens for the ladies, Idonea and
Avice, from their coming bridegrooms.

The messages were not for general ears; the love-tokens were a couple
of golden crosses richly wrought and set with gems. Five rubies
clustered in the centre of Sir Ralph’s gift to Idonea, five pearls in
Sir Gilbert’s to Avice.

They were dainty trinkets, but Avice took hers shrinkingly. “They seem
like crosses set with tears and drops of blood,” she whispered, with
white lips, to Idonea, who started, and, if she said “Tut, tut! they
are precious tokens,” was not altogether unaffected by her sister’s
superstitious dread.

In answer to inquiries, the messenger replied that he “thought the
Trent was rising. It was higher than when his lord had left Swarkstone.”

It had been still lower at sunrise that day.

Two hours later Friar John blew the horn at the gate. He and his mule
were pitiably drenched.

The Dove was swollen when he crossed the bridge near Egginton, he said,
though the downpour did not come until he had left it five miles behind.

“Now, heaven forfend there be not such a flood as swept Swark’s Stone
away three summers back. The passage of the ford would be perilous to
my lord now that is gone,” cried Lady Bellamont, wringing her hands,
and it might seem with reason, for now the floodgates of the skies were
loosed, and heaven’s artillery waged war with earth.

“Storms and travellers are in Almighty hands, good dame,” said Prior
John, soberly. “Tell your beads devoutly, and trust your all to Him.”

Avice and Idonea, with other damsels and dames, were already on their
knees in prayer, their hearts beating wildly.

William Harpur, pacing up and down, glanced through the dim glass
windows on the scene without, and then from one to other of the
shuddering women within.

“I think, Prior John,” he observed, with a slight curl of lip, “it will
be a sorry welcome for my noble kinsman and his friends when they come
in, wet and weary, if no board be spread, no dry garments ready for
their use.”

The taunt seemed to sting the good dame.

“Storm or no storm, Will, my lord shall not find us unprepared.
Maidens, attend me.” And she swept from the tapestried reception-room,
followed by her daughters and the noble maids who did probationary
service under her, and soon her silver whistle might be heard, as one
or other did her bidding, and all below-stairs was speed and bustle—and
covert fear.

The hours sped. The storm seemed to abate. The board was spread. The
time for the evening meal came and went.

There were no arrivals. There were whisperings among hungry guests, for
time was flying.

Squire Harpur paced the rush-strewn floor impatiently, biting his nails
and cogitating.

The dark came down—the double dark of storm and evening. The great
time-candle in its sheltering lanthorn burnt the quarters down, and the
hours.

Villagers came scurrying to the hall in dismay. The meads were under
water. Their fresh-cut hay was floating down the stream, with many a
tree and bush from parts beyond in the west.

The lovely sisters had busked themselves afresh to receive their
lovers; dark tresses and fair were coiled in golden nets, and on each
bosom shone her token cross of gold.

But as the hours and minutes flew, dress was disregarded, their lips
quivered with anxiety.

At length Avice whispered to her mother, “Had we not best set a cresset
burning on the watch-tower, and send torch-bearers to light the passage
of the ford?”

“I have already given orders, child; I feared to speak my alarm to you.”

But even torches will not keep alight in rain and hurricane. The men,
headed by Will Harpur, returned to the hall drenched and discomfited.

“The blazing sky will be their surest guide,” said he; “we cannot keep
a torch alight. But do not give way to bootless terror, good aunt, the
storm will have kept our friends at Ashby, or, at least, have driven
them back. They would never be so mad as to attempt the passage of the
ford.” Then, aside to the prior he added, “The land is covered for
more than half a mile, and in mid-stream the marly water runs like a
torrent, bearing bushes, beams, and haycocks swiftly out of sight. They
must have gone back.”

Almost as he spoke there was a rapid thud of hoofs heard advancing up
the hill.

There was the strong black charger of Earl Bellamont, and close behind
came the bay mare of Sir Gilbert.

They were both riderless!

A moment of speechless horror, then shrieks and wailing filled the air.

Mid the sobbing and lamentations of women, and the clamour of men,
fresh torches were kindled, horn lanthorns lighted and affixed to
poles. Then, with the prior and Will Harpur at their head, all the men
about the place rushed forthwith ropes and shepherds’ crooks, and aught
that might save a drowning man.

Alas! it was all too late.

Their bravest and best beloved were gone for aye.

Too rashly impatient, and trusting the leadership of impetuous Earl
Bellamont, Sir Ralph and Sir Gilbert had disregarded the remonstrances
of more cautious companions, and dashed across the waste of waters, so
low at first as barely to cover their horses’ fetlocks.

Alas! some floating bush may have misled the old man, for all at once
they seemed to be carried down stream and disappear, as if they had
missed the ford, or the current had been too strong for men weighted
with armour.

Sir Ralph had mounted his foot page behind him, and the scion of
another noble house was lost.

Their esquires, following behind, had been impotent to save, and only
by turning sharply round and fighting with the rising waters did they
manage to preserve their own lives.

Day by day as the thick waters subsided did the search continue along
the devastated banks until the dark Derwent, rolling its great volume
of water into the Trent, barred further passage, and made the quest
hopeless.

A silken scarf caught in a bush, a broken lance and pennon, a battered
casque, a saddle-bow, were all the relics found of father, bridegrooms,
page.

Lady Bellamont was borne down by the shock. Avice drooped like a broken
lily; only Idonea seemed capable of thought or action.

The subsidence of the flood brought spurring in the more prudent party
to comfort their own wives and daughters, along with the downcast
esquires to tell the needless tale.

There was no consoling Lady Bellamont. She seemed to take the triple
loss to her own heart, and grieve for her daughters as much as for
herself.

In vain the prior offered such consolation as his faith afforded.
She sat like a stone, rigid and immovable; would take no sustenance
whatever.

The tears shed over her by Idonea and Avice seemed to petrify as they
fell rather than melt. Their affliction but intensified her own.

“If they had died in battle as brave men should, we might have borne
it bravely,” she said, at last; “but to be slain by the cold, cruel,
treacherous waters in the height of joy and hope, almost within hail of
home, it is too terrible, too terrible, prior; I cannot be resigned.
And for my crushed roses—orphaned, widowed, ere they became wives—it is
too much; I cannot survive it.”

And before that month was out the twin-sisters were left to weep out
their tears in each other’s arms, and bear the fresh blow as best
they might, with only the good prior to watch and guard them in their
orphanhood, and lead them to bow meekly to the inscrutable decrees of
heaven.

There was William Harpur willing to do the co-heiresses suit and
service, and leave his own estate, a mile or so away, to the care of
his reeve, whilst he administered affairs at the hall, but neither the
prior nor the sisters cared for his interference, and when the old
retainers, with the seneschal at their head, came in a body at the
prior’s summons to swear fealty to the ladies Bellamont, and Idonea
accepted their homage for herself and her sweet sister, as one born to
command, he turned away to bite his nails in displeasure, and quitted
the hall before the sun went down.

But though Idonea could order the household, and the seneschal could
keep the retainers in order, and the reeve overlook the villeins and
lands, nothing seemed to rouse the drooping Avice, or remove the more
rebellious sorrow that mutely burned on the cheeks and in the eyes of
Idonea.

“My daughters,” said the prior, on the eve of his departure, “duty
calls me away to my own flock. The bridge I built over the Dove three
years agone, after the great hurricane, has, Friar Paul brings word,
been shaken sorely. I must needs see to its repair. The safety of
many lives depends on its stability. Yet I would fain see you more
submissive to the divine will ere I depart. Think how many sufferers
there have been by the same calamity—how many a hearth has been laid
bare, how many cry aloud for sustenance the flood has swept away.
Abandon not your hours to selfish lamentations, but go abroad, see
how the poor hinds bear their sorrows, and endeavour, by good and
charitable deeds, to win the favour of your offended Lord. Look on
the crosses that ye wear, and think of His wounds and His tears, and
remember that His blood and His tears were shed for others, not for
self.”

Idonea’s eyes were fixed on him when he began; they drooped as low as
those of Avice ere he ended.

“Father,” said she, “your rebuke is just. We have thought the world was
our own—in joy and in sorrow. It shall not be so henceforth. We ask
your blessing ere you go.”

The benediction was spoken, and on the morrow he was gone.

They, too, went forth in their mourning-weeds, and saw what sorrow
meant for the very poor and for the class above them. Tottering huts,
bare fields, where the only crop was dull red mud; mothers in rags
weeping over naked and famishing babes; churls looking hopeless on
desolation, or seeking wearily to repair a fence or clear a garden. And
wherever they went they left hope behind, as well as coin, or food,
or raiment from the hall. But some took their gifts and sympathy with
sullen thanklessness. They were little better than serfs, and were more
inclined to resent the ability to bestow than feel grateful to the
willing bestowers.

Seneschal and reeve said they would spoil the peasantry with their
frequent alms; and even the prior when he came suggested moderation in
doles, which destroyed honest independence and fostered beggary.

But the sisters had found ease in helping others, and ere long sought
the prior’s advice over a project to serve the people for generations
yet unborn.

They had discovered that sorrow and calamity come to the poor as to the
rich, and they proposed to preserve others from losses and heartaches
such as theirs.

There was a general lamentation that Swark’s Stone was gone and the
ford less readily found.

“Sister,” said Idonea, “had there been a bridge over the Trent like
the Monks’ Bridge over the Dove, we had been happy wives, not mourning
maidens. Let us up and build one. If we cannot restore our dead, we may
preserve life for the living.”

“Right gladly,” assented Avice. “We may so make our sorrow a joy to
thousands.”

The prior hailed their project as a divine inspiration, hardly
conscious he had struck the keynote. They were rich. They would hear
nought of suitors. What better could they do with their wealth?

He drew plans, he found them masons. Stone was not far to seek for
quarrying; but, to be of service, the bridge must cover broad lands as
well as common current.

“Twenty-nine arches!” cried William Harpur. “The cost will be enormous.
It will swallow up your whole possessions! You must be mad; and the
prior is worse to sanction such a sacrifice.”

“The sacrifice was made when the river robbed us of our dearest
treasures. We must save others a like sacrifice at any cost,” said
Avice, now as bold as her sister.

The work began and went on steadily. Honest labour was paid for, and
churls, who had lived half on doles and housed like dogs, were paid a
penny[5] a day or a peck of meal, and took heart to work with a will.
There were always loose stones and wood about, and no one said nay when
they began to repair and improve their own dwellings. And so industry
came to Swarkstone with the building of the bridge. Heaven, too, seemed
to smile upon the undertaking, for never a disaster occurred to mar it.

But, as Squire Harpur had prophesied, the cost was enormous. It was the
work of years. Woods were cut down to supply timber for scaffolding;
then lands were mortgaged or sold, and who but William Harpur was chief
buyer? But still the work proceeded.

“Travellers who can cross the river dry-shod will gladly pay a small
toll for the privilege,” said the sisters, as the last of their
possessions, the old hall, passed into their cousin’s hands, and they
took refuge in a small house in a bye-way, which goes by the name of
“No Man’s-Lane” to this day.

It was a glad day for travellers on horse or foot when Swarkstone
Bridge, of twenty-nine arches, was declared free for traffic, a bridge
which spanned the Trent and its low meads for three-quarters of a mile,
and the good Ladies Bellamont, who built it, had a right to expect
those who could thus travel safely and dry-shod at all seasons to be
grateful for the inestimable boon.

They had no charter to exact a toll to repay the moneys they had
expended; but there was at the Swarkstone end a small chapel erected
and dedicated to St. James, in which it was fondly hoped the
users of the bridge would pause to thank God and drop their small
thank-offerings in a box set there to receive them.

At first, when they began to build, people about called the sisters
“the twin angels;” but by the time the bridge was built it had
ceased to be a new thing. It was used as a matter of course; but the
thank-offerings grew fewer and fewer as people ceased to remember the
danger and discomfort of the passage by the ford.

They had impoverished themselves for the security of strangers. The
offerings of gratitude would not keep life in the good sisters. They
began to spin flax for a livelihood. Avice bore her lot meekly. Not
so Idonea, into whose soul the sense of ingratitude was eating like a
canker. But Avice said gently, “If we gave our wealth to build a bridge
expecting a return, what answer can we make to our Lord when we go to
Him? Let us be content that our individual losses will be the gain of
thousands after us.” And that put an end to Idonea’s rebellion.

At length the aged prior, who had built Monks’ Bridge between the
counties of Stafford and Derby for a people as ungrateful, stirred up
William Harpur to remember the poor kinswomen on whose lands he was
flourishing, and he offered them a home at Ticknall.

The offer came too late to save them. The Ladies Bellamont died as
they had lived, together, and were buried with their two symbolic
crosses on their breasts. And then, thanks chiefly to the prior, who
reverenced them, a marble monument could be erected to their memories
with their sleeping effigies upon it. It was inscribed “The Builders of
the Bridge.” But the prior would fain have added, “They built unseen
another bridge over the troubled waters of life—a bridge from earth to
heaven.”

THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[4] The Derwent.

[5] A penny a day was a good wage then. Money had a different value.




HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

SKETCH II.—OPERA (SECULAR MUSICAL DRAMA).

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


Although it is stated that the ancient Greeks intoned their tragedies,
and introduced, besides, some form of melody (μέλος), the whole
question of the existence of opera at that period of artistic
prosperity, when all forms of learning were so powerfully nourished,
is a matter for speculation. Their authors certainly give us wonderful
accounts of the great effects that this music had, and state that it
formed an essential part of their drama, but beyond these records, in
all probability much exaggerated, we have no data. Opera we must assume
to be a comparatively recent invention. To the end of the sixteenth
century, composers had written all their finest work for the Church,
and had, very rightly, devoted their best efforts to the praise and
worship of the Giver of all musical ideas and beauties.

Even that which was known as secular music, and was intended for
social occasions, was written in ecclesiastical forms, and the very
folksongs had their freshness rubbed off by contrapuntal developments
to which they were not suited, and were dragged in their new and
ill-fitting costume into the masses and motetts of the day. The Church
possessed most of the art and learning of the age, and, with that, a
corresponding power over the ignorant people. Thus music had been,
so far, choral music; all the secular forms, villanellas, glees,
madrigals, and lieder, being in from three to six parts and more. The
expressive solo form (_monodia_), whether _recitativo_ or _arioso_, was
as yet unknown. As the people attained more knowledge, and with it more
freedom, secular music gradually separated itself from the restraints
of the Church, and, as in other parallel cases, freedom at length
degenerated into licence.

At the end of the great Renaissance period, when, after Suliman
had taken Constantinople, the great scholars there fled before the
conquering Turks into Italy and other new homes, an impetus was given
to the study of Greek literature, and a desire to repossess the Greek
drama in all its original beauty and perfection was the ambition of
many an Italian student. In Florence the poet Rinuccini, the singer
Caccini, Galilei, the father of the astronomer, and, at a rather later
date, Jacopo Peri, used to hold meetings in which they not only agreed
that the existing musical forms were inadequate for a true musical
drama, but they proceeded forthwith to compose pieces for one voice on
what they imagined to be the Greek model.

Emilio del Cavalieri is one of the first composers known to have
tried to set music to the new form of drama. The poetess Guidiccioni
(mentioned in the sketch “Oratorio”) supplied the words. His first
efforts were “Il Satiro” and “La Disperazione di Fileno,” and they were
performed in Florence in 1590, the poems being set to music throughout.

Peri followed with his “Daphne,” in which _aria parlante_, a kind of
recitation in strict time, first appears. It is well described by
Ritter, in his “History of Music,” as “something between well-formed
melody and speech.” It appears to have pleased the Greek revivalists
immensely, and they quite believed it to be the discovery of the lost
art. Peri composed “Euridice” in the year 1600, on the occasion of the
marriage of Henry IV. of France with Maria di Medicis, and in his work
we have a primitive version of all our operatic forms.

Composers now occasionally used the _arioso_ style; but their Greek
beliefs prevented them from introducing a good broad melody form.
The principal numbers of “Euridice,” for example, were choruses and
declamatory recitatives. The orchestra was hidden behind the scenes,
the only purely orchestral piece being a little prelude (called
“Zinfonia”) for three flutes.

With such material and upon so simple a basis was opera formed—an
art construction which, in its more modern garb, has played a very
important part in the history of European society.

Of really great composers who advanced this _drama per musica_, one of
the earliest and most important was Claudio Monteverde. He imbued it
with his musicianship and originality, employing particular effects
for each scene and for each character, his object being to unite the
varying sentiment of the poem with his music. In his operas, the first
of which was “Orfeo,” new and less cramped forms of accompaniment,
giving singers greater freedom in dramatic action, followed such
reforms as a better use of rhythm and more truthful illustration of
sentiments, whilst an increased orchestral force was added to other
means of expression.

The Italian Church writers began to compose operas, and in the
seventeenth century we find the recitation form receiving new vigour
and truthfulness of detail at the hands of, amongst others, Cavalli
(whose real name was Caletti-Bruni), Cesti, and Alessandro Scarlatti,
Carissimi’s greatest pupil. Scarlatti did much for the opera. He is
supposed to have invented the short interludes for instruments between
the vocal phrases, and he certainly introduced the first complete
form of aria, known as the “Scarlatti-form,” which, however, with
its tiresomely exact repetitions, seems to us quite artificial, and
anything but dramatic. About his time _recitativo_, as we know it, was
separated from the _aria parlante_.

Succeeding Scarlatti, came the pupils of his Neapolitan school, amongst
whom were Durante, Buononcini, Porpora, Jomelli, and others, and with
them we reach a period during which the opera-form sadly deteriorated.

Composers had broken away from the ecclesiastical forms—nay, more, the
chorus had become of no importance, but, instead, the new aria, which
might have taken an advantageous position as a means for occasional
soliloquy and meditation, without interference with the dramatic story,
now usurped the place of the latter altogether, and an opera meant
nothing more than a string of arias in set form, an excuse for showing
off the best voices to the greatest advantage, the most successful work
being that one which pandered most to the vanity of the singers, who
altered and embellished the melodies of their mechanical slave, the
composer.

Dramatic significance was fast disappearing, and a reformer was sadly
needed, and that reformer appeared early in the eighteenth century
in the person of Gluck, a Bohemian, who, after studying in Italy and
writing several operas after the traditional Italian models, settled
in Vienna, and there worked out his great ideas of regeneration and
reform.

His “Orfeo,” produced in 1762, created a great sensation, and in
Alceste (1766) we find him, to quote his own preface to it, “avoiding
the abuses which have been introduced through the mistaken vanity of
singers and the excessive complaisance of composers, and which, from
the most splendid and beautiful of all public exhibitions, has reduced
the opera to the most tiresome and ridiculous of spectacles.”

He considered that music should second poetry, by strengthening the
expression of the sentiments and the interest of the situations, and
adds, “I have therefore carefully avoided interrupting a singer in
the warmth of dialogue, in order to wait for a tedious ritornel; or
stopping him during one of his sentences to display the agility of his
voice in a large vocal passage.” He greatly increases the importance of
the introduction or overture, making it foreshadow the nature of the
coming drama.

Composers were either too hardened or too cowardly to at once follow
and imitate his excellent reforms, and great disputings and much
rancour ensued, Gluck being opposed by the singers and the old school
headed by Piccini.

We will leave this _opera seria_ for a moment, restored to its high
position in art, and glance at a lighter form, the _opera buffa_,
or comic opera, which may be traced to the little _entr’actes_, or
_intermezzi_, given as a sort of relaxation between the acts of plays,
as early as the sixteenth century. At first, madrigals, or favourite
instrumental solos, were used for this purpose; later on, when
operatic forms appeared, you find scenas or duets, in which the chief
idea was to raise a laugh, very often at the expense of good taste.
Scarlatti’s pupils developed these _intermezzi_, and gave them such
artistic importance that they grew to be rivals to the grand opera, and
eventually held their own position as _opera buffa_. Pergolesi was most
successful in this style, and his “La Serva Padrona” (1746), one of the
earliest specimens, was a great favourite. The accompaniment was for
string quartett only, and there were but two _dramatis personæ_. His
fellow student, Leonardo Vinci, wrote several comic operas, and further
on, Nicolo Piccini, whom we have just left opposing Gluck in Paris,
made many advances in _opera buffa_, giving greater contrasts and more
elaborate and effective _finales_ than his forerunners. In fact, he was
stronger in this sort of composition than in _opera seria_, to which
latter we now return.

We find at the end of the eighteenth century the brilliant and
successful works of Paisiello, a rival, at that time, of Mozart. At the
same period Sarti, Salieri, Cimarosa, Paër, Righini, and others wrote
operas.

The spirit of revolution, which was uprooting all old traditions, good
and bad, at the end of the eighteenth century, forced even the Italian
composers to see that more was required than they had ever given, to
make opera what it should be, and they were compelled to acknowledge
that, after Gluck’s reforms and their still lasting effects, and after
Mozart’s influence and his noble examples, they must take up higher
ground if they would succeed in other than the Italian cities.

They composed, therefore, in a more serious manner for Paris or Vienna,
and the Italian opera gained a fresh importance by the slight reforms
thus adopted, and through the successful power of Rossini it again held
sway in the principal European courts.

Rossini made a great many melodies and much pecuniary profit, and
finding the singers ready to return to those abuses against which Gluck
had protested so strongly, rather than permit them to play tricks
with his music and embellish his melodies, he made the trills and
embroideries so fulsome himself that there was nothing left which they
could add!

In the present century Mercadante, Bellini, and Donizetti followed
in his train; following them comes Verdi, who is still living, and
whose later works are very fine, being a happy combination of immense
dramatic insight with effective situations and great melodic charm. We
find in Boito the most decided attempt to unite Italian traditions and
the latest German development. Thus much for the land in which opera
was born.

Opera soon spread, and travelled to the various European courts, and
became there the amusement of noble and wealthy patrons. Such prestige
did it carry with it, that to be successful in England or Germany, a
composer had to write in the Italian style.

France, whilst building upon the Italian foundation, created an opera
in many ways differing from that form. Real French opera was first
written by Lulli at the end of the seventeenth century. He will be ever
remembered as the inventor of the overture, which replaced the small
introduction of the Italians. Another thing he did which was new: he
brought into his scheme the dance or ballet; and a third point was,
that in his operas the chorus played a most important part.

Following Lulli, we see Rameau greatly developing all these resources.

When Gluck migrated to Paris he found the supporters of Italian opera
backed by such essayists as Rousseau and Baron von Grimm, and named the
“Bouffonists,” opposing the “Anti-Bouffonists,” who adhered to Lulli
and Rameau. Also there were Philidor, Gretry, and others trying to
combine the new and old styles. Gluck cut down the superabundance of
melody, adapted his own reforms already referred to, gave the overture
its true connection with the poem, and, as it were, out-Rameaued
Rameau. With all his works produced in Paris he made great successes,
notwithstanding his rival Piccini’s powerful opposition.

We will again leave Gluck elevating, for this time, the French stage
also, and glance at _opera comique_, a term used in France as early as
1712.

I suppose that the equivalent of the Italian _intermezzo_ was the
_vaudeville_. Claude Gilliers appears to have written many about this
period.

In the latter half of the century Dauvergne composed “Les Troqueurs,”
in imitation of the Italian _intermezzi_, and in this work the
dialogue, which in _opera buffa_ would have been sung, was spoken,
a custom still adopted in France. Duni, Philidor (a wonderful
chess-player), and Monsigny wrote many _operas comiques_. Gretry also
appeared at this time as one of the superior composers—also Gaveaux,
Gossec, and J. J. Rousseau, followed by D’Allayrac.

To return to grand opera, the man most influenced by Gluck and his
advances was Mehul, whose “Joseph” and “Le Jeune Henri” are well known,
and who possessed undoubted talent. In the present century I may
mention Catel, Isouard, Berton, and Boildieu, the latter’s “Calife de
Bagdad” and “La Dame Blanche,” and other works having been received at
the time with enormous enthusiasm.

Two composers, Italian by birth, Cherubini and Spontini, wrote much in
the style and under the influence of the French opera. We all know and
like Cherubini’s “Les Deux Journées,” “Medea,” and “Anacreon.”

Spontini is spoken of as “the composer who embodied in his operas the
life and spirit of the Empire under the First Napoleon.”

Coming into this century, we notice, as important French opera
composers, Hérold, of “Zampa” celebrity, Adolphe Adam, and Auber, who
studied under Cherubini, and composed more comic operas than anything
else, and whose work always contains light elegant melody and brilliant
orchestration. Halévy has earned a good name by such operas as “La
Juive” and “La Reine de Chypre.”

An exceptionally great man was Hector Berlioz, who strove in new paths,
and in the face of great opposition, to base his efforts upon the study
of Gluck, Weber, and Beethoven.

Meyerbeer, though born in Germany, wrote as much for French opera as
for any other. He seems to have been a sort of musical turncoat, and
every turn brought golden success. He became the greatest of French
opera writers; but, in addition, he wrote German opera for Germans,
Italian for Italians, and ensured by this system of “all things to all
men” the applause which he so highly coveted.

To conclude our French list, there is a composer, whose “Faust” will
live long; I allude to Charles Gounod, who has written many other
operas containing great dramatic beauty, richness of orchestration, and
grace of melody. Following him are Bizet, whose “Carmen” has been so
popular, Massenet, and Ambroise Thomas.

In England there is but little history to give you.

English music and drama were first connected in a primitive way in the
early miracle-plays and mysteries performed at Chester and Coventry and
in other towns.

Shakespeare, in his plays, gives several directions for musical
interludes, and introduces songs and choruses, more particularly in “As
You Like It,” “Twelfth Night,” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In the
first half of the seventeenth century William Lawes, and Henry, his
brother, wrote music to the masques, in which poetry, music, scenery,
and mechanical accessories were combined, producing a decided advance
in the direction of real opera; but, notwithstanding the patriotic
championship of budding English opera by these gentlemen of the Chapel
Royal, and notwithstanding the existence of the great school of
madrigal writers, they were never encouraged to attempt dramatic work,
as the nobility already demanded Italian opera and Italian composers
and singers. During the civil war, and until Charles II.’s restoration,
the theatres were closed by the Puritans, and even from 1660 they were
only opened for five years with an occasional performance of a masque
by Sir William Davenant, the then poet laureate, set to music by Locke,
in one of which, “The Siege of Rhodes,” we find the recitative style
used, and spoken of as new to England, although well known on the
Continent.

After those five years came the Plague, and following it the Great
Fire, so that it was not until nearer the end of the century that a
fair start was made in opera, and that the powerful and masterly works
of Henry Purcell saw the light. His genius was undoubtedly superior to
that of Lulli in France or Scarlatti in Italy, and he became a power,
not in England only, but throughout Europe. Alas, that he should have
died so young! The form of opera settled by him and his followers was
similar to the French and German, in that whilst the important parts
would be sung, the subordinate dialogue was spoken, and there was no
accompanied recitative, excepting in some of Dr. Boyce’s and Dr.
Arne’s operas. Arne’s “Artaxerxes” has the dialogue, _à l’Italienne_,
set entirely in recitative form.

But these were exceptions. Dibdin, Dr. Arnold, William Jackson (of
Exeter), Shield, Storace, Attwood, Sir Henry Bishop, and many others
adhered to the spoken dialogue. It should be quite understood that
their music, when it occurred, formed an integral portion of the whole
work, and, therefore, differed from interpolated pieces, which could be
withdrawn without breaking a sequence.

In 1834 John Barnett produced his “Mountain Sylph,” the first important
English opera in the strictly modern style of that age, and one which
introduced the school typified by Balfe, Wallace, and Macfarren.
Italian influence was evident, and has only lately been supplanted
by the power of Germany, and, in one or two noteworthy instances, by
the graceful delicacy of the French school. But the time for English
opera is ripe; we have watched the dangers into which other schools
have fallen; we have seen their heroes extricate them from those
dangers; we have learnt what reforms are needful; the generous support
and encouragement which has assisted the Italian, French, and German
schools should now place all mercenary consideration on one side, and
extend itself freely to those native artists who, in a spirit of true
patriotism, are striving for the reputation and artistic honour of our
country.

To Handel we owe the final settlement of Italian opera in London, for
which end he composed over forty operas, none of which are remembered,
but from whose pages the good numbers were extracted and transferred to
his oratorios!

Comic opera, originating in Italy and developing in France, had, and
still has, some footing in England. A very successful specimen was “The
Beggar’s Opera,” performed in 1728 at Rich’s Theatre, in Lincoln’s Inn,
with a libretto by Gay. So enormous was its success, that people said,
“It made Gay rich, and Rich gay!” From this and following successes
arose the ballad opera, a form of comic opera taken up by the best
composers. “The Duenna,” music by Linley, words by Sheridan (Linley’s
son-in-law), may be quoted as an excellent specimen. Finally the wealth
of England has been able to procure and import the finest foreign works
and artists, and its riches have assisted in impoverishing what little
native art we possessed.

For the last part of my sketch I have reserved German opera.

Although Italian opera soon worked its way into Germany, in fact, as
early as the year 1627, when we reach the end of our story, we shall
find the Germans in possession of the most advanced form of modern
drama.

Heinrich Schütz set the first opera to music. It was Rinuccini’s
“Daphne,” already set by Peri in Florence.

Italian style and Italian vocalists reigned supreme until the time
of Gluck, with such exceptions as the Hamburg operas of Keiser and
Handel, which contained German characteristics, and also the attempts
on the part of Hasse, Graun, and Naumann to combine Italian and German
qualities.

With Gluck came the great reforms in Vienna, as elsewhere, and there,
too, party feeling ran high, Gluck being warmly opposed by Hasse and
his party. In Ritter’s admirable “History of Music,” already largely
quoted from, whilst blaming the German princes for obtaining Italian
operas at extravagant cost, he asks us to remember that these same
princes “prepared the road, however unconsciously, for a Gluck, a
Haydn, and a Mozart; for all these masters’ early efforts were rooted
in the Italian school of music.”

Germany all this time had no national opera, the Hamburg attempt
failing for want of encouragement.

As we have previously done in dealing with the other countries, so now
we will glance at the lighter form of opera for a moment.

The German _operette_, or _singspiel_, was brought into notice by
Johann Adam Hiller about the middle of the eighteenth century. He
produced numbers of these, full of charming original melodies, and with
spoken dialogue, as in _opera comique_.

Amongst several writers of these light works we may number Schweitzer,
André, and Benda, who introduced the melodrama, in which dialogue is
spoken during an undercurrent of expressive and illustrative music.
There is also Johann Friedrich Reichardt, composing, at the end of the
seventeenth century, a sort of _vaudeville_ known as the “Liederspiel.”

Contemporary with these stand Dittersdorf and Haydn, and, in Southern
Germany, Klauer, Schenk, and Müller.

These small operas at first rather imitated the French school; but
at the time of the above composers the national life and sentiment,
in however insignificant a manner, had crept in, and the germ of a
national type existed.

At such a critical moment came the great genius who was to develop the
elements of both serious and comic opera, and raise them to a lofty
pedestal, and that genius was Mozart.

Whilst accepting the forms of his day, he gave to them new life and
meaning, and his illustration of each character, together with his
masterly _ensembles_ and _finales_, in which, whilst each singer
maintains his individuality, clearness is still pre-eminent, will
ever abide as marvellous examples of dramatic scholarship and musical
beauty. Besides understanding exactly what the human voice was capable
of doing, he raised the orchestral accompaniment to a very high
position.

Whilst Gluck _attacked_ Italian opera, Mozart _moulded_ it in such
a fashion that the old stiff traditions were no longer possible in
Germany.

At the commencement of this century, I must add to the list such names
as Winter, Hummel the pianist, Weigl, Himmel, and, last and greatest,
Beethoven, whose one opera, “Fidelio,” will endure in its pure nobility
as long as music endures.

The romantic school of poetry now finding its way into Germany, was
soon aided by appropriate musical settings by Spohr, Marschner, and
Weber—the greatest of them all. Of his operas, “Der Freischütz” is the
finest, the most popular, and the most thoroughly German.

Schumann wrote one opera, “Genoveva,” and Mendelssohn, ever searching
for a libretto, commenced setting Geibel’s “Loreley,” but death came
before he could finish it.

Meyerbeer, a Berliner by birth, and sometimes German in work, we have
already noticed in connection with his French operas.

Richard Wagner, by his theories and his great compositions, has
caused opera once more to become the field for dispute, research, and
speculative thought.

He maintains, to put it briefly, that the real character and meaning of
opera has been all this time misunderstood. He carries into practice
what Gluck preached, viz., that music should second poetry, in order to
be in its proper place. He says, “The error of the operatic art-form
consists in the fact that music, which is really only a means of
expression, is turned into an aim; while the real aim of expression,
viz., the drama, is made a mere means.”

It seemed to him that the chief hindrance to the free action of drama
was the concert aria, so he drops it altogether, using a melodious
recitation in lieu of it, and calls his works dramas, not operas. His
orchestra illustrates the emotions and thoughts of each character,
and the peculiar timbre of each instrument supplies the individuality
of the person represented—a practice suggested first by Monteverde;
and he further binds together the various episodes and scenes in the
story, by using short _motovos_ or phrases which shall recall to the
audience previous situations and events—a device used by Gluck, amongst
others. Wagner very happily combines in himself the poet and musician.
He rightly claims that his music should not be heard apart from its
companions of equal value—the poem, the scenery, and the action. He
has met with as much opposition as did Gluck, but the time has come
when his works receive due recognition, and an appreciation increasing
yearly in proportion to our unbiassed study of them.

However excessive we may feel the reformer’s zeal to have been, these
masterly art-forms supply wholesome food for meditation, and numberless
suggestions for action, to every earnest and unbigoted student of this
and coming generations.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MISCELLANEOUS.

JOSEPHINE.—Your symptoms point to tight-lacing—red nose, spots, bad
digestion, bad breath, etc. A fine woman with a handsome figure (say
five feet five inches in height) should measure twenty-six inches round
the waist, and in later life twenty-eight. Of course, a very small or
very thin girl would naturally measure less. You know which description
applies to yourself. The modern girl, with a waist like a tobacco-pipe,
and bulging out above and below like a bloated-looking spider, may
solace herself with the assurance that her liver is cut in half, and
that she would make an admirable specimen for a lecturer to descant
upon. We advise her to bequeath her remains to some hospital for the
benefit of science and the warning of others.

SEAGULL.—Beechy Head is not the highest cliff on our coast-line; that
at Holyhead is higher, and measures 719 feet, while the former is
only 564 above the sealine. The Great Orme’s Head, in Wales, is 678
feet, and Braich-y-Pwll 584 in height; but St. Catherine’s Cliff,
on the south coast of the Isle of Wight, is higher than all those
before-named, and rises to 830 feet.

PRUDENCE PRIM.—Do you know a small illustrated book called “The Flowers
of the Field”? Perhaps that would suit you; published by the Society
for Promoting Christian Knowledge. After a certain time, letters
waiting till called for at a foreign post-office are opened and
directed back to the respective writers. Your writing is too careless;
some letters well formed, others very nondescript.

PAT OGAL.—Send the nun’s veiling dress and white kid gloves to a
cleaner’s, and if you can make a bargain about the dress, do. For
gloves you pay 2d. a pair.

S. L. W. W.—1. There is a little book called “Line upon Line,” and
another called “The Peep of Day,” which are very suitable for children
of such tender years. 2. You should try to spell better. The word
“instruction” is not spelt “inscurction.”

BERTHA.—Have you never heard of a little appliance called a
needle-threader? You would find it most useful, and could procure one
at a fancy-work shop.

JOAN R.—Try to forget yourself, and to help and be polite to everyone
else—busy for them even in the smallest attentions. You will have no
time for brooding over your nervousness when you are married, so there
is probably “a good time coming” for you. Try to prepare for it by
studying nursing, cookery, patching and darning, etc.

AN ANXIOUS ONE will find her question many times answered if she
takes the trouble to look through our correspondence columns under
“Miscellaneous.”

E. K.—If you cut off the worn finger ends and sew them neatly at
the seams, they would be of use in a hospital for female patients
in winter. We may suggest the New Hospital for Women, 222,
Marylebone-road, N.W., of which we have given an illustrated account.
Any contributions in half-worn clothing (or new articles) of use for
wear would be gratefully received there, books included.

LOVER OF THE SEA.—1. The hair darkens as years roll on, and the change
begins to take place at three years old, if not before. In middle life
it is very many shades darker than in youth. 2. The Bible does not say
that “it is never too late to repent.” We are always told “to-day is
the accepted time; to-day is the day of salvation ... now, while it
is called to-day,” etc. No promise is made for to-morrow. If you put
off making your peace with God, He may not bestow on you the grace of
repentance and the desire to turn to Him.

JERRY.—Your verses are very freely written, and give a good deal of
promise, though some little errors need correction. Part of the small
illustration with pen and ink gives hope of better things to come,
and both do you credit; but it must be a matter of consideration
whether the verses can be inserted in the G. O. P. You did not have
them certified, which is a strict rule of ours when selecting amateur
contributions.

A COUNTRY MEMBER OF THE G. F. S.—You appear to be in a very sad state
of health, and to need change of air, good diet, and perhaps, when
suffering from an attack of neuralgia, a tonic; but the latter should
be prescribed by a doctor.

ALBERTA ROXLEY.—1. You do not give a sufficiently explicit description
of the “Hymn to Music” for us to divine which you mean. 2. The “Wide,
Wide World” has no sequel. Why are all our girls so crazy about
sequels? There are very few written, and a good thing too; a new story
is better than an old dish warmed up.

LITTLE PUSS should ask her mother or governess for suitable books
to read. Some on natural history would be interesting, as well as
necessary for her to study.

ONE ANXIOUS TO KNOW.—Should a husband die intestate, but leave a wife
and a sister, half goes to the wife and the other half to his sister,
or his brother, as the case may be. If the man had had children, the
wife would only have had a third instead of half.

WEE WILLY WANKIE.—1. It depends on the age and size of your boy
companion. The less little girls of fifteen walk in the London streets
(the squares and certain residential quarters excepted) the better,
if without a lady companion much older than themselves, or a maid. 2.
What a ridiculous question your second is! “At what age should a girl
become engaged?” There is no “should” about the matter, and there is no
special age either. Any age after twenty-one, up to seventy, provided
the right man proposed and no family duties stood in the way. All
depends on God’s good Providence. He may see fit that you should never
marry.

SCOTCH LASSIE.—We do not see that you were rendered more liable to the
complaint you name on account of having a bad digestion.

TOPSY TURVEY.—Yes, there are luminous plants, which give a
phosphorescent light. The root-stock of a jungle orchid becomes
luminous when wetted; wrapped in a piece of damp cloth, in an hour’s
time it becomes very bright. A certain member of the fungi family,
which, if you have a damp cellar, may be found growing on the walls,
is known to emit so much light as to enable you to read without other
means. The nasturtium, double marigold, and hairy red poppy and
potatoes, when in process of decomposition, are all phosphorescent,
more especially the latter.

MISLETOE.—If you wished to paint portraits or landscapes, your first
step would be to learn to draw and study perspective; then the colours,
and how to produce others by blending them. So, if you have any
original thoughts, and beautiful similes occur to you by which you
could illustrate those thoughts, you should study the art of metrical
composition in all its varieties, so that corresponding lines should
always correspond and the emphasis fall on the right syllable. What you
send us is not even good prose, the mere construction is all wrong, and
there is no new idea in it; but the religious feelings expressed are
very good.

JACK.—If such an unfeminine name be selected by a girl, we certainly
advise her to wear gloves when rowing. Perhaps thick washed-leather
ones would be the most suitable. We suppose you mean a sign denoting a
pause, only you make a straight line over a dot instead of a curved one
with the points downwards. A pause leaves the duration of the note, or
the rest over which it is placed, to the performer’s taste and musical
feeling. Were there no dot beneath the short curved line, it would be a
“bind” or “tie” connecting two notes, the first of which alone is to be
struck.




_“FEATHERY FLAKES,”_

OUR NEW CHRISTMAS PART,

IS NOW PUBLISHED.

[Illustration]


FEATHERY FLAKES.

    What time we for a while have bidden
      Farewell to summer’s bright array,
    And azure skies again are hidden
      By grim December’s garb of grey;

    When the pale sun, his warmth withholding,
      Too often shows a cheerless face,
    And falling snow is fast enfolding
      Earth’s treasure in its soft embrace;

    We give these pure white showers a rival
      And namesake in our Christmas page,
    Whose charm shall have less brief survival,
      And banish not with winter’s rage.

    Go, Feathery Flakes! Go forth, nor tarry
      At limits of our colder zone;
    And may you, for the trust you carry,
      Be warmly met and widely known.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 132: swalowed to swallowed—“swallowed with perfect ease.”]