[Illustration:

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 363.      DECEMBER 11, 1886.      PRICE ONE PENNY.]




GREEK AND ROMAN ART AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

BY E. F. BRIDELL-FOX.

[Illustration: THE BIRTH OF ATHÉNÉ.

(_From a Vase in the British Museum._)]

_All rights reserved._]


PART II.

THE ELGIN MARBLES.

    “Abode of gods whose shrines no longer burn.”

I have now to complete my account of the sculptures of the Parthenon,
that wonderfully beautiful temple to Athéné (or Minerva), at Athens,
which has never ceased to be the centre of attraction for all visitors
to Greece from the time it was first built—namely, about 435 years
B.C.—even till the present moment, when it stands a shattered wreck on
its rocky height.

My first article dealt chiefly with the long, sculptured frieze
that ran continuously the whole length of the walls of the building
(protected by the outer colonnade), and the ceremonials which that
frieze represented. The present article will be devoted chiefly to the
fragments of the external frieze, and to the figures of the eastern and
western pediments, which represented the chief legends connected with
the goddess.

I will, before proceeding, here pause a moment to account for the
shattered condition in which those fragments now are.

In 630 A.D. the Parthenon was consecrated for use as a Christian
church. Like the famous church at Constantinople, it was dedicated to
Santa Sophia, the Divine Wisdom. The older temple, that stood near the
Parthenon, called the Erecthium, which had been far more venerated by
the early Athenians than the Parthenon itself, was about the same time
also consecrated. This latter was dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

Long before this date, Christianity had happily become the religion
of the Roman Empire by law established—that is to say, of the whole
civilised world. It is evident that in adapting the Pagan temple for
Christian worship it was impossible to allow the fables of Paganism to
remain depicted over the chief entrance, however splendid as works of
art. Accordingly, we find that the entire centre group in the pediment
facing the east was completely done away with, a plain surface of blank
wall filling the space whereon, in all probability, the inscription of
the Christian dedication was placed. The subordinate figures at the two
extremities were left, as, without the central group to explain their
object, they could have had no intelligible meaning.

Our business for the moment is to show what means exist for restoring
the lost central group, which was the key of the subject. The evidence
is two-fold. There is, first, the Homeric hymn which gives the legend
of the birth of Athéné; and, secondly, there is the description given
of the Parthenon by the ancient author, Pausanias.

Pausanias was a Greek gentleman, native of Lydia, in Asia Minor, a
geographer and traveller, who visited noted sites in Greece with the
express purpose of seeing and describing all that was most beautiful
and interesting in Greek art. He lived about one hundred and fifty
years after the Christian era. His travels or “Itinerary” has come
down to us, and a most curious and interesting work it is. He saw and
described the Parthenon with much enthusiasm, with all its beautiful
statues and works of art, as “still perfect,” though they were, even in
his day, already considered as ancient art. He refers to the Homeric
hymn as suggesting the subject of the group on the eastern pediment
over the principal entrance to the temple.

This Homeric hymn to Athéné gives the account of her fabled birth, full
grown and fully armed, from the head of her father, Zeus (or Jupiter).
It describes her, first as the goddess of war, and afterwards, when she
has thrown off her arms, as the goddess of the peaceful arts. I give
the hymn in full.


HOMERIC HYMN TO ATHÉNÉ.

    “I sing the glorious power with azure eyes;
    Athenian Pallas! tameless, chaste, and wise.
    Trito-genia,[1] town preserving maid,
    Revered and mighty, from his awful head
    Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike armour dressed,
    Golden, all radiant! Wonder strange possessed
    The everlasting gods that shape to see,
    Shaking a javelin keen, impetuously
    Rush from the crest of Ægis-bearing Jove.
    Fearfully Heaven was shaken, and did move
    Beneath the might of the cerulean-eyed;
    Earth dreadfully resounded far and wide;
    And lifted from its depths, the sea swelled high
    In purple billows; the tide suddenly
    Stood still, and great Hyperion’s son long time
    Checked his swift steeds, till, where she stood sublime,
    Pallas from her immortal shoulders threw
    The arms divine; wise Jove rejoiced to view.
    Child of the Ægis-bearer, hail to thee!
    Nor thine, nor others’ praise shall unremembered be.”

Such is the famous hymn. And from Pausanias we learn that it afforded
to the sculptor, Pheidias, the subject for his chief group on the
eastern pediment. But, exactly how he treated it we have no precise or
definite knowledge.

THE EASTERN PEDIMENT.—“Doubtless, in this composition, Jupiter (Zeus)
occupied the centre, and was represented in all his majesty, wielding
the thunderbolt in one hand, holding his sceptre in the other; seated
on his throne, and as if in the centre of the universe, between day
and night, the beginning and the end, as denoted by the rising and the
setting sun.

“It is probable that the figures on his right hand represented those
deities who were connected with the progress of facts and rising
life—the deities who preside over birth, over the produce of the earth,
over love—the rising sun; whilst those on the left of Zeus related to
the consummation or decline of things—the god of war, the goddess of
the family hearth, the Fates, and lastly the setting sun, or night.
Whilst the divine Athéné rose from behind the central figure in all the
effulgence of the most brilliant armour, the golden crest of her helmet
filling the apex of the pediment.”

I quote this glowing description from Sir Richard Westmacott’s
“Lectures on Sculpture.”

This, however, is all conjecture, for the space is a mere blank. As
some little aid to the imagination to help to fill the blank, I give
a sketch of the same subject, viz., the birth of Athéné, copied from
a painting on a vase now in the British Museum. The artist may have
probably seen the Parthenon, and may have taken a free version of the
subject, from memory, to decorate his vase. We find the same subject
repeated, with variations, on other vases. Zeus (Jupiter) occupies the
centre, a small Athéné springs forth from his head, Hephaestos (Vulcan)
stands by with his axe (with which he has split open the thunderer’s
head to let forth the infant deity), Poseidon (Neptune), with his
trident, behind him; and Artemis (Diana), with her bow, and a nymph,
on the other side, look on. The figures on the vases are so extremely
stiff and formal as compared to the grand, life-like statues of the
pediments, that I hesitate to give my illustration. But it shows the
probable arrangement of the group. The figures on the vase are red on
a black ground, treated perfectly flat, without the slightest modelling.

To return to the pediment of the Parthenon itself, the space
immediately surrounding the blank, on each hand, is filled with
different gods, who appear to look with wonder and admiration towards
the central group. At the extreme end on the left the rising sun,
Phœbus-Apollo, drives the car of day out of the ocean; while Seléné,
goddess of night, plunges downward with her team of steeds, into the
waves, at the end on the right.

Of the figures referred to, we may identify the following
fragments:—First, we note a fragment of the sun-god, his powerful
throat and extended arms emerging from the waves, as he shakes the
reins to urge on his prancing steeds; before him, a splendid head of
one of the horses of his car, the head flung back, as if he tossed
his mane in eager movement to rush up into the daylight. Next comes
a recumbent figure, of heroic manly proportions, the most perfect of
the Elgin collection. A lion’s skin on which he reposes, leaves little
doubt but that it was intended to represent the youthful Hercules, the
god of strength. It is popularly, but erroneously, known as Theseus.
Then come two grand, matronly, seated personages. The attitude and
beauty of proportion in these two stately figures is considered no
less admirable than the subtle arrangement of their flowing draperies.
They probably represent Demeter and her daughter, Persephone (the
Ceres and Proserpine of the Roman mythology). The younger one leans
her arm lovingly on the shoulder of her mother. The mother, Demeter,
raises her arm, as if in astonishment at the news communicated by the
next figure, who comes rushing towards them, her drapery flying far
out behind her, from the rapidity of her movements. This is doubtless
Iris, the messenger of the gods, sent to announce the wonderful events
transacting in the central group. Three fine dignified female figures,
on the further side of the pediment, equally distant from the centre,
appear to have balanced this last group of Iris, Ceres, and Proserpine.
These were the three Fates, who spun the thread of human life, named
by the Greeks, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropus. Two are seated, a little
apart; the third reclines, half leaning on the lap of the second.
These three figures are equally well preserved, and equally noble and
beautiful with the group to which they correspond on the further side.

The subject of this eastern pediment is evidently supposed to have
taken place on Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in Greece, the
fabled home of the gods, and the figures were intended to represent a
conclave of the gods.

THE WESTERN PEDIMENT.—The subject of the west end, on the contrary, may
be supposed to have taken place in Athens itself, on the Acropolis. The
subject here was the contest between Athéné and Poseidon (or Neptune)
for supremacy in Athens. Here we find local personages, such as the
river deities (the rivers personified), and the legendary kings and
heroes of Athens. These statues, with the exception of Athéné and
Poseidon, are a size smaller than those on the eastern pediment, being
not at all more than life size. The object for which this assembly has
met is to see which of the two deities could present the best gift to
the Athenians. Poseidon struck the earth; the horse appeared, so the
story runs. Athéné did the same; the olive tree grew before them. Both
were most useful gifts; but the olive tree, on account of its fruit and
the oil which it yields, was considered to have the higher claim.

Athéné was proclaimed the victor. The gods bestowed the city upon the
goddess, after whom it was named Athens; and Poseidon was so enraged,
continues the legend, that he let loose the waters of the angry sea
(which, as monarch of the waves, of course obeyed his behests), and
straightway it overflowed its banks and deluged the plain round Athens.

Such is the story, and in the times of Pausanias were shown the three
great dents on the rock, the marks of the trident of Poseidon, where he
had struck the earth, as well as a small pool of salt water. The Greek
traveller mentions having seen these things.

Strangely enough, these two same old-world curiosities were
re-discovered not many years ago when excavations were being made on
the Acropolis, in the very centre of the older temple, near to the
Parthenon, where Athéné and Poseidon were once jointly worshipped.
Athéné and Poseidon were the two central figures in the midst of their
assembled votaries, the legendary kings and heroes of Athens, and the
local nymphs and river gods.

This group is terminated at each end by recumbent figures, supposed
to represent the two streams that water the plain round Athens—the
Illissus and the Cephissus. The figure of Illissus is scarcely second
to the so-called Theseus for beauty of manly proportions; it is perhaps
more graceful and less vigorous. “Half reclined, he seems, by a sudden
movement, to raise himself with impetuosity, being overcome with joy
at the agreeable news of the victory of Athéné. The momentary attitude
which this movement occasions is one of the boldest and most difficult
to be expressed that can possibly be imagined. The undulating flow
given to every part of the drapery which accompanies the figure is
happily suggestive of flowing water.” Next to the Illissus is a broken
fragment of the nymph Callirrhoë, who represents the only spring of
fresh water in Athens; while next to the Cephissus, on the other side,
sits King Cecrops, the mythical first king of Attica, with his wife,
Agranlos (her name means a “dweller in the fields”), and his daughter
Pandrosus (whose name means “the dew”).

Of the two heroic figures in the centre, Athéné and Poseidon, whose
contest is the subject of this western pediment, the only fragment
now existing is the muscular, finely-developed back and chest of the
sea-god; and of Athéné, the upper half of the face (the sockets of the
eyes intentionally hollow, that they might be filled in with precious
stones), also one of her feet, and the stem of the famous olive tree.

A careful model of the Parthenon in its present condition is placed in
the Elgin Room, and by reference to that we can identify the fragments
on the pediments, and can also see the position of the various
sculptures. The sculptured figures on it are copied from drawings
made from the Parthenon itself at Athens in 1674, by a French artist,
Jacques Carey by name, before Lord Elgin had removed those which we
now possess, and when many of the figures were far less damaged than
they now are. The Parthenon had been used as a powder magazine by the
Turks when they conquered the city in 1687. It was during the siege
that a bomb from the enemy fell into the edifice, igniting the stored
gunpowder, and the whole centre part of the ancient temple, with a
part of its lovely frieze, was blown into the air. Again, a similar
misfortune occurred in the Greek struggle for independence and freedom
in 1827. Yet, in spite of the terrible gap, enough of the building
is still left for us to admire the wonderful beauty of proportion,
and simple, yet grand, lines of the outline; and more than enough to
recognise the general plan and places of most of the sculptures that
adorned its walls.

THE METOPES.—These are panels in alto, or high-relief, in the frieze
which ran above the colonnade of the Parthenon. They pourtray the
struggle between the youth of Athens and the centaurs—monstrous
creatures, half horse, half man. This struggle is supposed to have been
intended to typify the contest between intelligence and moral order
on the one hand, against the power of lawlessness and brute force, as
represented by the monsters, on the other—a contest, the result of
which was in that day acutely realised.

There were originally ninety-two of these Metopes, fourteen on each
end, and thirty-two along each side wall. We possess seventeen out of
the ninety-two. So many having been destroyed, it is impossible to
judge with any greater certainty of the subject.

THE STATUE.—My account would be incomplete did I not add a few words
descriptive of the beautiful statue of Athéné that originally stood
within the temple, facing the east. For, although all trace of the
statue itself has long vanished, we know its form by copies in marble
in several of the museums and galleries in Europe. The one at Naples is
considered the best. We have also, in the Elgin Room, two small rough
copies of it.

The grand original, which Pausanias saw and describes as “perfect,” “a
thing to wonder at,” was of gold and ivory. Its robes were of gold, its
flesh was of delicately cream-coloured ivory, its eyes flashed with
precious stones.

“Lovely, serene, and grand,” its gigantic form filled the centre of the
temple, and the golden griffins on its helmet reared themselves against
the very roof.

This statue, with that of the Olympian Jove, was undoubtedly the
exclusive work of the master, Pheidias, who, though he may have allowed
his pupils to assist him in some of the labours of the other figures of
the Parthenon, assuredly hoped that his fame would be secured by these
works. Their fame now, alas! rests solely upon copies and description.
I give a sketch of the best of the two small rough copies in the Elgin
Room. Like the grand original, she holds the figure of Victory in
her extended right hand, and grasps the spear in the left, while her
shield, together with the snake (type of the native soil of Athens) lie
at her feet.

The art of presenting figures in gold and ivory, for which Pheidias is
peculiarly famous, is a lost art. A special name was given to these
statues. They were called Chrys-elephantine.[2] The combined richness
of the gold with the soft hue of the ivory must have produced a
wonderfully fine and mysterious effect when seen in the recesses of a
dimly-illumined temple. The golden robes of the goddess were considered
as part of the State treasury, and were between the times of the great
festivals unfixed from the statue, and stored in the treasure house
at the back part of the temple. They were from time to time carefully
weighed, and were looked upon in the light of national wealth, which
might, in time of need, be drawn upon for the country’s requirement.
The gold of the robes was said to have been worth as much as £100,000.
It is supposed that this part of the goddess was melted down, and
finally reduced to Byzantine coin about the time of the Roman Emperor
Julian—viz., about A.D. 360.

As Athens sunk from her high position among the Greek States, her
processions and ceremonies fell into decay; but while she flourished,
none were more brilliant.

Other festivals there were in Greece besides the one at Athens in
honour of Athéné, where similar athletic games and feats of skill were
performed before the altars of other tutelary gods. There were the
far-famed Olympic games in honour of Zeus (Jupiter), in which all the
Greek States competed. The Odes of Pindar have immortalised the Olympic
chariot races. There were also the Delphic games in honour of Apollo,
the sun god, the god of poetry. The practice of these games lasted in
Greece, and were in use in Rome, till long after Christian times. How
popular they were in those times we may infer from the many references
to them in the Epistles and Acts of the Apostles.

Professor Jebb observes, in one of the admirable series of Shilling
Primers now publishing, the one on “Greek Literature:” “The Greeks were
not the first people who found out how to till the earth well, or to
fashion metals, or to build splendid houses and temples. But they were
the first people who tried to make reason the guide of their social
life. Greek literature has an interest such as belongs to no other
literature. It shows us how men first set about systematic thinking.”
And, he proceeds, “neither the history of Christian doctrine, nor the
outer history of the Christian Church, can be fully understood without
reference to the character and work of the Greek mind. Under the
influence of Christianity, two principal elements have entered into the
spiritual life of the modern world. One of these has been Hebrew; the
other has been Greek.”

Of all the many beautiful things which the Greeks produced, the
Greek language itself is considered to have been the first and most
wonderful; and “no one,” continues the professor, “who is a stranger to
Greek literature, has seen how perfect an instrument it is possible for
human speech to be.”

We may remember that the whole of the New Testament was given to the
world in this beautiful and expressive language; that St. Paul was well
versed in Greek philosophy, and that many of his Epistles were to Greek
cities, and many of his first disciples among the Gentiles were Greeks.

We can also be sure that he must often have been present at Greek games
such as we have been describing. The frequent references and metaphors
referring to them prove this. In the first Epistle to the Corinthians
the references to the foot-races run in the Isthmean games, celebrated
at Corinth, occur again and again. “Know ye not that they which run
in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run that ye may
obtain” (ch. ix. 24); and in the following verse, “They strive for a
corruptible” (or perishable) “crown, but we an incorruptible”—referring
to the fragile crowns or garlands of fresh leaves awarded to the
victors in the games we have been describing.

And again, in the Epistle to the Philippians, iii. 14, “I press towards
the mark” (or goal) “for the prize.” In the first Epistle to Timothy,
vi. 12, “Fight the good fight before many witnesses.”

The first preaching to the Gentiles was to Greek-speaking peoples,
either noted Greek cities, as Athens itself and Corinth, or Greek
colonies in Asia Minor. We find (Acts xii.) how St. Paul actually
visited this same beautiful City of Athens, whose early legends, like
quaint fairy stories, we have been describing; how he stood on the
Areopagus (the Hill of Mars) facing the Parthenon, and must have seen
all its lovely statues and grand monuments still perfect; and how he
“thought it good to be left at Athens alone,” when he there preached to
her wise men and philosophers, and found followers and disciples from
among them, whose hearts were opened to a higher wisdom than any that
the worshippers of the famed Athenian goddess knew.

[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF THE PARTHENON.

(_The Giving of the Prizes. Conjectural Arrangement._)]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Born by Lake Tritonis.

[2] Chrysos: gold. Elephantus: ivory.




MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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


CHAPTER X.

“I TRUST THEM TO YOU, MERLE.”

With the early summer came a new anxiety; Joyce was growing very fast,
and, like other children of her age, looked thin and delicate. She
lost her appetite, grew captious and irritable, had crying fits if she
were contradicted, and tired of all her playthings. It was hard work
to amuse her; and as Reggie was rather fretful with the heat, I found
my charge decidedly onerous, especially as it was the height of the
season, and Mrs. Morton’s daily visits to the nursery barely lasted ten
minutes.

Dr. Myrtle was called in and recommended change for both the children.
There was a want of tone about Joyce: she was growing too fast, and
there was slight irritability of the brain, a not uncommon thing, he
remarked, with nervous, delicately organised children.

He recommended sea air and bathing. She must be out on the shore all
day, and run wild. Fresh air, new milk, and country diet would be her
best medicine; and, as Dr. Myrtle was an oracle in our household, Mr.
Morton at once decided that his advice must be followed.

There was a long, anxious deliberation between the parents, and the
next morning I was summoned to Mrs. Morton’s dressing-room. I found her
lying on the couch; the blinds were lowered, and the smelling salts
were in her hand. She said at once that she had had a restless night,
and had one of her bad headaches. I thought she looked wretchedly ill,
and, for the first time, the fear crossed me that her life was killing
her by inches. Hers was not a robust constitution, and, like Joyce,
she was most delicately organised. Late hours and excitement are fatal
to these nervous constitutions, if only I dared hint at this to Dr.
Myrtle, but I felt, in my position, it would be an act of presumption.
She would not let me speak of herself; at my first word of sympathy she
stopped me.

“Never mind about me, I am used to these headaches; sit down a moment;
I want to speak to you about the children. Dr. Myrtle has made us very
anxious about Joyce; he says she must have change at once.”

“He said the same to me, Mrs. Morton.”

“My husband and I have talked the matter over; if I could only go with
you and the children—but no, it is impossible. How could I leave just
now, when our ball is coming off on the eighteenth, and we have two
dinners as well? Besides, I could not leave my husband; he is far from
well. This late session tries him dreadfully. I have never left him
yet, not even for a day.”

“And yet you require the change as much as the children.” I could not
help saying this, but she took no notice of my remark.

“We have decided to send them to my father’s. Do you know Netherton,
Merle? It is a pretty village about a mile from Orton-on-Sea. Netherton
is by the sea, and the air is nearly as fine as Orton. Marshlands, that
is my father’s place, is about half a mile from the shore.”

I heard this with some trepidation. In my secret heart I had hoped that
we should have taken lodgings at some watering-place, and I thought,
with Hannah’s help, I should have got on nicely; but to go amongst
strangers! I was perfectly unaware of Mr. Morton’s horror of lodgings,
and it would have seemed absurd to him to take a house just for me and
the children.

“I have written to my sister, Merle,” she continued, “to make all
arrangements. My father never interferes in domestic matters. I have
told her that I hold you responsible for my children, and that you will
have the sole charge of them. I laid a stress on this, because I know
my sister’s ideas of management differ entirely from mine. I can trust
you as I trust myself, Merle, and it is my wish to secure you from
interference of any kind.” It was nice to hear this, but her speech
made me a little nervous; she evidently dreaded interference for me.

“Is your sister younger than yourself?” I faltered.

“I have two sisters,” she returned, quickly; “Gay is much younger;
she was not grown up when I married; my eldest sister, Mrs. Markham,
was then in India. Two years ago she came back a widow, with her only
remaining child, and at my father’s request remained with him to manage
his household. Domestic matters were not either in his or Gay’s line,
and Mrs. Markham is one who loves to rule.”

I confess this slight sketch of Mrs. Markham did not impress me in
her favour. I conceived the idea of a masculine, bustling woman, very
different to my beloved mistress. I could not well express these
sentiments, but I think Mrs. Morton must have read them in my face.

“I am going to be very frank with you, Merle,” she said, after a
moment’s thought, “and I do not think I shall repent my confidence.
I know my sister Adelaide’s faults. She has had many troubles with
which to contend in her married life, and they have made her a little
hard. She lost two dear little girls in India, and, as Rolf is her
only child, she spoils him dreadfully; in fact, young as he is, he
has completely mastered her. He is a very delicate, wilful child,
and needs firm management; in spite of his faults he is a dear little
fellow, and I am very sorry for Rolf.”

“Will he be with us in the nursery?” I asked, anxiously.

“No, indeed: Rolf is always with his mother in the drawing-room, to
the no small discomfort of his mother’s visitors. Sometimes he is
with her maid Judson, but that is only when even Mrs. Markham finds
him unbearable. A spoilt child is greatly to be pitied, Merle; he has
his own way nine times out of ten, and on the tenth he meets with
undesirable severity. Adelaide either will not punish him at all, or
punishes him too severely. Children suffer as much from their parent’s
temper as from over-indulgence.”

“I am afraid Rolf’s example will be bad for Joyce.”

“That is my fear,” she replied, with a sigh. “I wish the children could
be kept apart, but Rolf will have his own way in that. There is one
thing of which I must warn you, Merle. Mrs. Markham may be disposed to
interfere in your department; remember, you are responsible to me and
not to her. I look to you to follow my rules and wishes with regard to
my children.”

“Oh, Mrs. Morton,” I burst out, “you are putting me in a very difficult
position. If any unpleasantness should arise, I cannot refer to you.
How am I to help it if Mrs. Markham interferes with the children?”

“You must be firm, Merle; you must act in any difficulty in the way you
think will please me. Be true to me, and you may be sure I shall listen
to no idle complaints of you. I wish I had not to say all this; it is
very painful to hint this of a sister, but Mrs. Markham is not always
judicious with regard to children.”

“Will it be good for them to go to Netherton under these circumstances?”

“There is nowhere else where they can go,” she returned, rather sadly;
“my husband has such a horror of lodgings, and he will not take a house
for us this year—he thinks it an unnecessary expense, as later on we
are going to Scotland that he may have some shooting. All the doctors
speak so well of Netherton; the air is very fine and bracing, and my
father’s garden will be a Paradise to the children.”

We were interrupted here by Mr. Morton.

“Oh, are you there, Miss Fenton?” he said, pleasantly (he so often
called me Miss Fenton now); “I was just in search of you. Violet, your
sister has telegraphed as you wished, and the rooms will be quite ready
for the children to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” I gasped.

“Yes,” he returned, in his quick, decided voice; “you and Hannah will
have plenty of work to-day. You are looking pale, Miss Fenton; sea air
will be good for you as well as Joyce. I do not like people to grow
pale in my service.”

“I have been telling Merle,” observed his wife, anxiously, “that she
is to have the sole responsibility of our children. Adelaide must not
interfere, must she, Alick?”

“Of course not,” with a frown. “My dear Violet, we all know what your
sister’s management means; Rolf is a fine little fellow, but she is
utterly ruining him. Remember, Miss Fenton, no unwholesome sweets and
delicacies for the children; you know our rules. She may stuff her own
boy if she likes, but not my children,” and with this he dismissed me,
and sat down beside his wife with some open letters in his hand.

I returned to the nursery with a heavy heart. How little we know as
we open our eyes on the new day, what that day’s work may bring us! I
think one’s waking prayer should be, “Lead me in a plain path because
of mine enemies.”

I was utterly cast down and disheartened at the thought of leaving my
mistress. The responsibility terrified me. I should be at the tender
mercies of strangers, who would not recognise my position. Ah! I had
got to the Hill Difficulty at last, and yet surely the confidence
reposed in me ought to have made me glad. “I trust you as myself.” Were
not those sweet words to hear from my mistress’s lips? Well, I was only
a girl. Human nature, and especially girl nature, is subject to hot and
cold fits. At one moment we are star-gazing, and the majesty of the
universe, with its undeviating laws, seems to lift us out of ourselves
with admiration and wonder; and the next hour we are grovelling in the
dust, and the grasshopper is a burthen, and we see nothing save the
hard stones of the highway and the walls that shut us in on every side.
“Lead us in a plain path.” Oh, that is just what we want; a Divine Hand
to lift us up and clear the dust from our eyes, and to lead us on as
little children are led.

These salutary thoughts checked my nervous fears and restored calmness.
I remembered a passage that Aunt Agatha had once read to me—a quotation
from a favourite book of hers; I had copied it out for myself.

“Do as the little children do—little children who with one hand hold
fast by their father, and with the other gather strawberries or
blackberries along the hedges. Do you, while gathering and managing
the goods of this world with one hand, with the other always hold fast
the hand of your heavenly Father, turning to Him from time to time to
see if your actions or occupations are pleasing to Him; but take care,
above all things, that you never let go His hand, thinking to gather
more, for, should He let you go, you will not be able to take another
step without falling.”

Just then Hannah came to me for the day’s orders, and I told her as
briefly as possible of the plans for the morrow. To my astonishment,
directly I mentioned Netherton, she turned very red, and uttered an
exclamation.

“Netherton—we are to go to Netherton—Squire Cheriton’s place! Why,
miss, it is not more than a mile and a half from there to Dorlecote and
Wheeler’s Farm.”

“Do you mean the farm where your father and your sister Molly live?”
I returned, quite taken aback at this, for the girl’s eyes were
sparkling, and she seemed almost beside herself with joy. “Truly it is
an ill wind that blows no one any good.”

“Yes, indeed, miss, you have told me a piece of good news. I was just
thinking of asking mistress for a week’s holiday, only Master Reggie
seemed so fretful and Miss Joyce so weakly, that I hardly knew how I
could be spared without putting too much work upon you; but now I shall
be near them all for a month or more. Molly had been writing to me the
other day to tell me that they were longing for a sight of me.”

“I am very glad for your sake, Hannah, that we shall be so near your
old home; but now we must see to the children’s things, and I must
get Rhoda to send a note to the laundress.” I had put a stop to the
conversation purposely, for I wanted to know my mistress’s opinion
before I encouraged Hannah in speaking about her own people. How did I
know what Mrs. Morton would wish? I took the opportunity of speaking
to her when she came up to the nursery in the course of the evening.
Hannah was still packing, and I was collecting some of the children’s
toys. Mrs. Morton listened to me with great attention; I thought she
seemed interested.

“Of course I know Wheeler’s Farm,” she replied at once; “Michael
Sowerby, Hannah’s father, is a very respectable man; indeed, they are
all most respectable, and I know Mrs. Garnett thinks highly of them. I
shall have no objection to my children visiting the farm if you think
proper to take them, Merle; but of course they will go nowhere without
you. If you can spare Hannah for a day now and then I should be glad
for her to have the holiday, for she is a good girl, and has always
done her duty.”

“I will willingly spare her,” was my answer, for Hannah’s sweet temper
and obliging ways had made me her friend. “I was only anxious to know
your wishes on this point, in case my conduct or Hannah’s should be
questioned.”

“You are nervous about going to Netherton, Merle,” she returned, at
once, looking at me more keenly than usual. “You are quite pale this
evening. Put down those toys; Hannah can pack them, with Rhoda’s help;
I will not have you tire yourself any more to-night.”

“I am not tired,” I faltered, but the foolish tears rushed to my eyes.
Did she have an idea, I wonder, how hard I felt it would be to leave
her the next day. As the thought passed through my mind she took the
chair beside me.

“The carriage has not come yet, Anderson will let me know when my
husband is ready for me; we shall have time for a talk. You are a
little down-hearted to-night, Merle; you are dreading leaving us
to-morrow.”

“I am sorry to leave you,” I returned, and now I could not keep the
tears back.

“I shall miss you, too,” she replied, kindly; “I am getting to know
you so well, Merle. I think we understand each other, and then I am so
grateful to you for loving my children; no one has ever been so good to
them before.”

“I am only doing my duty to them and you.”

“Perhaps so; but then how few do their duty? How few try to act up to
so high a standard. I am dull myself to-night, Merle. No one knows
how I feel parting with my children; I try not to indulge in nervous
fancies, but I cannot feel happy and at rest when they are away from
me.”

“It is very hard for you,” was my answer to this.

“It is not quite so hard this time,” she returned, hastily; “I feel
they will be safe with you, Merle, that you will watch over them as
though they were your own. I know you will justify my trust.”

“You may be assured that I will do my best for them.”

“I know that,” returned my mistress, gently. “You will write to me,
will you not, and give me full particulars about my darlings. I think
you will like Marshlands; my sister Gay is very bright and winning, and
my father is always kind.”

“Mrs. Markham?” I stammered.

“Oh, my sister Adelaide; she will be too much occupied with her own boy
and her own affairs to trouble you much. If you are in any difficulty
write to me and I will help you. Now I must say good-night. Have I done
you any good, Merle? Have the fears lessened?”

“You always do me good,” I answered, gratefully, as she put out her
slim hand to me; and, indeed, her few sympathising words had lifted
a little of the weight. When she had left the nursery I sat down and
wrote a long letter to Aunt Agatha, bidding her good-bye, and speaking
cheerfully of our intended flitting. When the next day came I woke far
more cheerful. The bright sunshine, Joyce’s excitement, and Hannah’s
happy looks stimulated me to courage. There was little time for
thought, for there was still much to be done before the carriage came
round for us. Mrs. Morton accompanied us to the station, and did not
quit the platform until our train moved off.

“Remember, Merle, I trust them to you,” were her last words before we
left her there alone in the summer sunshine.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




CHRISTMAS IN A FRENCH BOARDING-SCHOOL.

A Christmas morning of more than twenty years ago is breaking over a
picturesque old town of fair France. The cold wintry sun touches upon
the masts of the ships in her harbour and upon the crowded houses of
the Lower Town, creeps up to the leafless trees upon the ramparts, and
glints upon the steep roofs and stately cathedral of the Upper Town.

From the dormitory windows of a large boarding-school some dozen or
more of girlish heads are peering into the feeble light, in the hope
of seeing across the narrow “silver streak” the white cliffs of their
English home. In vain. A cold, grey fog is rising from the sea, and
baffles even their strong young eyes. The casements are closed, and
as the big school-bell sends forth its summons, the English boarders
hasten into the class-room below. It does not look very inviting at
this early hour; there is no fire and little light, while the empty
benches and the absence of the usual chattering throng of schoolgirls
serve only to make those of them who remain the more depressed. They
gather, from force of habit, round the fireless stove, and wish one
another a “Merry Christmas”; but they neither look nor feel as if a
merry Christmas could be theirs. With hands swollen with chilblains and
faces blue with cold, they stand, a shivering group, comparing this
with former anniversaries, and increasing their discomfort by reminding
one another of the warm firesides, the ample Christmas cheer, and the
lavish gifts with which the day is being ushered in at home.

At length the welcome sound of the breakfast-bell is heard, and our
small party descends to the _réfectoire_. Here excellent hot coffee and
omelettes, with the best of bread and butter, somewhat reconcile us to
our hard lot, while the different mistresses are really very kind to
_les petites désolées_, and do their best to enliven the meal. We are
told that during the ten days’ holiday now begun we shall be entirely
exempted from the necessity of talking French, and shall be allowed
to get up and go to bed an hour later than during the school terms;
moreover, that after service in our own church that morning (for, to
their credit be it said, these ladies, devout Catholics themselves,
never tampered with our belief), we should have a good fire lighted in
the small class-room, where we could amuse ourselves as we pleased for
the rest of the day.

After such good news we set off, under the escort of the English
governess, in revived spirits for church. It was a plain little
building, but we always liked to go; it seemed a bit of old England
transplanted into this foreign town; and to-day the holly and flowers,
the familiar hymns, and our pastor’s short and telling address, made
the service particularly bright and cheery.

We were very fond of our good, gentle little clergyman, and always
lingered a while after the services in the hope that he would speak to
us, as he often did, especially upon any Church festivals; and to-day
we had quite a long talk with him before, with many and hearty good
wishes, we parted in the church porch.

As usual, after service, we went for a walk on the ramparts which
encircle the Upper Town. The view was very fine, comprising on one
side the Lower Town, the shining waters of the Channel, and, on very
clear days, the houses as well as the cliffs of Dover; on the other,
the hills and valleys, watered by the Liane; if we went further still,
and passed the gloomy old château—now a prison—we could trace the roads
leading to Calais and St. Omer; while on a bleak hill to the left rose
Napoleon’s Column.

This rampart walk was a great favourite with us all, and we generally
liked to make two or three turns. To-day, however, we were to have
an early luncheon, and, besides, were yearning for our letters; so
we contented ourselves with _le petit tour_, and hurried home. Here
we found an ample mail awaiting us, whilst among the pile each girl
found a neat little French _billet_ from mademoiselle, inviting us
formally to dinner and a little dance that evening. Of course we
sat down at once to write our acceptances, then, with a cheer for
mademoiselle, turned our thoughts to the absorbing topic of what we
should wear. Dinner was fixed for 5 p.m., so that after luncheon there
was really not very much time left, especially as each girl, besides
the difficulty of choosing and arranging her most becoming costume, had
also to have her hair “done.”

Hair-dressing was an elaborate science in those days, puffs and
frisettes, curls and plaits, being all brought into requisition
on state occasions, and if this—a dinner and a dance given by
mademoiselle, the rather awe-inspiring though extremely kind
mademoiselle, who reigned an undisputed autocrat in our little
school-world—if this, I say, was not a state occasion, I appeal to
every schoolgirl throughout the kingdom to tell me what was.

The _dortoir_ was a gay and animated scene as we English girls repaired
thither after luncheon to “lay out” (rather a dismal phrase, but one
we always used) our best frocks and sashes, our open-worked stockings
and evening shoes, and our black or white silk mittens. One of the
girls was a capital hairdresser, as everyone else allowed, and as
her services were eagerly entreated by the less skilful in the art,
I can tell you her powers and her patience were put to the test that
afternoon.

Oh, the plaiting and waving, the padding and puffing, the crimping
and curling, that we gladly underwent on that memorable occasion!
How openly we admired one another, and—more secretly—ourselves; and
then how very funny it seemed to be walking into the drawing-room as
mademoiselle’s visitors!

Kind mademoiselle! how handsome she looked in her dark satin dress,
with a little old French lace at her throat and wrists! How pleasantly
she welcomed us all, while she gave extra care to the one child amongst
us, who could only wear black ribbons even for Christmas Day.

Of course, all the under-mistresses were there, and one or two of the
non-resident ones. I particularly remember the pretty singing mistress,
and the head music mistress, whose brother I hear of nowadays as the
first organist of Europe; whilst last of all to arrive was Monsieur
l’Abbé, who was a frequent and honoured guest, and for whose coming we
had all been waiting.

The dinner bell rang a few minutes after this important arrival, and
we all descended to the _réfectoire_. How good that dinner was! A
soup such as one never tastes anywhere but in France; the _bouilli_,
which we were too English to care for; the turkey stuffed with
chestnuts—delicious, but so unlike an English turkey; the plum pudding,
very good again, but still with a foreign element about it somehow;
and, as a winding up delicacy, the delicious _tourte à la crême_, a
real triumph of gastronomy.

Then our glasses were filled with claret, and we drank the “health of
parents and relations,” a rather perilous toast for some of us, whose
hearts were still tender from a recent parting; and finally coffee
was served—not the coffee of everyday life, but the real _café noir_,
which we girls drank with an extra dose of sugar, but which to seniors
was served with a little cognac. Then, as we sat over our fruit and
_galette_, mademoiselle and her mother, a charming old lady, with
bright, dark eyes, and soft, silver hair, combined with Monsieur l’Abbé
to keep us merry with a succession of amusing stories of French life
and adventure, until the repeated ringing of the hall bell announced
the arrival of some of the old pupils, who had been asked to join our
dance. Tables were quickly cleared, superfluous chairs and benches
removed, violin and piano set up a gay tune, and then we danced and
danced away until nearly midnight, when the appearance of _eau sucrée_
and lemonade, with a tray of tempting cakes, concluded the fun, and
gave the signal for retiring.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




LACE-MAKING IN THE ERZGEBIRGE;[3]

OR,

THE RESULT OF A WOMAN’S HOSPITALITY.

BY EMMA BREWER.


Annaberg is a bright, thriving little town in Saxony, and, from its
pleasant situation, is known to the people round about as the Queen of
the Erz Mountains.

Its attractions are enhanced by the character of its population, whose
kindness, cleanliness, and industry are known to all.

Like many another old town, it has a history, and boasts of chronicles
which record many memorable facts concerning it, one of which is
peculiarly interesting to us, viz., that a great service was rendered
by a woman, in return for which a great benefit was received, and in
its turn given out again to women, among whom it brought forth fruit a
hundredfold; but this we will explain presently.

This cheery little town is surrounded by pine forests, to which many
of the poor inhabitants of the upper mountains come in the hot summer
months to pick berries and gather mushrooms, and so add to their
scant means. The highest point of the Erzgebirge is only two hours
distant, or about six miles, and it is quite worth while to climb to
it, for from it you get a view which does your heart good. Not that the
character of these mountains is either romantic or wild, like that of
the rugged rocks in the Bavarian Highlands; on the contrary, it is soft
and gently undulating, conveying rest and peace to the heart.

[Illustration]

And what of the inhabitants? Are they as attractive as the mountains?
I cannot be quite sure. Of one thing, however, I am certain, that they
would interest you. They are simple-hearted and good tempered. By
incessant industry they manage, as a rule, to gain a scant livelihood,
although there are bad times when, in spite of constant toil, many
suffer hunger.

[Illustration]

Potatoes, and a suspicious kind of drink which these people call by the
name of coffee, form the chief means of support. Those dwelling high
up in the mountains consider themselves quite happy if they are able
to place a dish of steaming potatoes on their well-scrubbed pinewood
table. If, however, night frosts and long rains spoil these, they have
little else to live on than the clear water from the spring and the
fresh air of the mountains. The result of this is that about Christmas,
which should be a happy time, the ghost of Typhus may be seen stalking
abroad over the mountains, pausing here and there to knock at one or
other of the little snowed-up huts of the weaver, the toy-maker, or the
lace-worker, and the gravedigger finds more than enough to do digging
graves down through the ice and snow.

Necessity has taught these simple people not only to live sparingly and
to exercise self-denial, but it has given them a wonderful cleverness
and readiness in taking up any new industry.

[Illustration]

Just as in great towns the fashions are continually changing, so
the demands of the markets of the world create new trades, and give
a variety to the occupations of even these remote dwellers of the
mountains. In the very poor huts, with shingle roofs scattered about in
out-of-the-way corners of this mountain district, you would scarcely
expect to see the inhabitants working a thousand various and tasteful
patterns of glistening, sparkling pearl articles, which, when finished,
go forth out of those poor huts to adorn the dresses of grand ladies in
Berlin, Paris, and London; yet this is the fact.

[Illustration]

In like manner and in like houses you may see the inhabitants
busy with the beautiful art-industry of pillow lace-making, which
brings us to the interesting fact recorded in the chronicles of
Annaberg—interesting to us because it refers to woman and woman’s work.

[Illustration]

The middle of the sixteenth century was a hard time for the people of
the Erz Mountains. Yearly the population increased, and yearly the
means of support grew less; for the productiveness of the mines, which
up to that time had been great, fell off to such an extent that even
the new tin industry failed to make up the loss.

It was just when the need was greatest that the good Frau Barbara
Uttman, a rich patrician lady of Annaberg, came to the rescue of the
inhabitants by teaching the poor women and girls[4] an entirely new
industry—one that had never been known in Germany. It was the rare art
of making exquisitely soft and costly texture with the hand by means of
dexterously intertwining and knotting single threads of silk or cotton;
in fact, to make what is known as bobbin or pillow lace.

Barbara Uttman (born in 1514, died in 1575), as the story goes, learnt
it from a fugitive Brabantine whom she hospitably received into her
house. If this be so, then was her hospitality rich in good fruit.

Although pillow lace does not hold so high a place in fashion at the
present time as in the good old days, yet the memory of Frau Barbara
is kept in affectionate and pious remembrance by the good and simple
people of the Erz Mountains.

A venerable avenue of lime-trees leads to her tomb in the “Gottesacre”
of Annaberg. It is one of the most simple in style and execution. It
points her out as the founder of the bobbin art, seated at a lace
cushion.

A good action is the most beautiful memorial, just as gratitude is the
highest of virtues.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Past neglect has been in a manner atoned for by erecting a worthy
memorial of her exactly opposite the ancient grey town-hall in the
market-place of Annaberg.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

There is a possibility that this memorial may be the means of reviving
the industry which has been so good a friend to the inhabitants;
and yet it is scarcely possible that it can ever compete with the
machine-made lace of Nottingham, which is comparatively cheap, and, to
the uneducated eye, scarcely to be distinguished from the hand-made
cushion lace. During the last thirty years the poor bobbin villages
would have starved on the ever-decreasing profits had not other
industries sprung up to give them work.

Many attempts have been made to give the pillow lace a fresh start,
a new life; but without any permanent good result. Standing out from
among many noble ladies who have made the attempt, is the Queen Carola
of Saxony, who has done her utmost to keep it going.

She maintains model bobbin schools, wherein children are taught the
industry under skilful supervision. It was she who gave the order to
the poor lace-makers for the bridal veil of the Princess Maria Josepha,
as well as for the lace dress.

It is the object in all the schools to ward off the threatened downfall
of the hand-made lace industry, by the production of patterns full of
taste and style; but this only goes a short way, the markets of the
world must do the rest.

Ladies might do much for the industry if they resolved to wear real
lace instead of cheap machine lace.

A committee of ladies in Vienna have already determined to do this,
which may be the beginning of better things.

Quite apart from its practical purpose of maintaining for the poor
mountaineers a branch of business peculiarly theirs, we must remember
that, should the cushion lace-making fail, an ancient and noble house
industry will have its fall—an industry which is even now able to
turn out beautiful works of art, worthy of high praise, one for whose
success three centuries have laboured.

The effect of this industry among the people who earn their bread by
it is to make them scrupulously clean; their huts have, as a rule, but
one floor, but the boards are always freshly scrubbed, the walls are
spotlessly whitewashed. The kitchen utensils, which are hung on the
walls, are like looking-glasses, so bright are they, and you would
look in vain for dust on the poor furniture of the little room.

The costly lace requires the most particular cleanliness, as well in
the lace-maker herself as in her surroundings.

The manners of these people are those bequeathed them by their
forefathers, and their work is carried on as in former days.

Even little children of four years old earn a few pence weekly at
the cushion towards the housekeeping, by making common wool lace. To
produce tasteful hand lace requires not only great patience, but also
such a high perfection in the art that it must be regularly practised
from childhood, and this explains the reason of such young children
being placed at the cushion.

The bobbin lace-making industry has never brought even a moderate
competency to the cleverest and most industrious worker. How could it,
when, if she work from early morning till late at night, the highest
she can possibly earn is 5s. a week, and in less busy times not more
than two to three shillings?

In the hard winter days no morsel of meat is seen on the table; and if
the potatoes are all consumed, then dry bread, and not much of it, is
all the nourishment they get.

How does it happen that such valuable work fails to give a fair return?
This, with a little knowledge, is easy to answer. It takes a very long
time indeed to produce the most simple lace, and as to costly patterns
of rich and tasteful designs, such as we give here as a cover to a
lady’s sunshade—well, it would require for its production six to twelve
months, or even longer, according to the pattern and the ability of
the worker. This lace-cover is bought in the shops of our great towns
for the ridiculously cheap sum of £5—perhaps £7 10s.—or, at the very
highest, £15.

If you take into consideration the high duty on these articles, the
worth of the raw material, which is generally the best silk, and
the fee to the middle-man, you will see how much remains for the
industrious artist at her cushion—never more than 2s. 1d. a day.

Supposing that a yard of pillow lace cost 7½d. in the shops, you must
take off quite 2½d. for the purchase of material and the fee for the
middle-man, which leaves the worker 5d. as the price of a day’s hard
work, for she cannot make more than a yard a day.

The poverty of the pillow lace-maker is no doubt due also to the low
market price of the lace, and this cannot be remedied, for lace being
not an article of necessity, but only of luxury, the desire to buy will
decrease with every rise in price, especially as the machine-made lace
is produced so easily and in such perfection that it is difficult often
to tell the true from the false.

For the last ten years it has seemed useless to think of bettering the
position of the lace-maker, male or female. Any effort made is rather
to prevent an excellent and artistic industry from dying out. The
population has turned itself to other industries which pay somewhat
better, merely taking up the lace-work when others fail.

For example, men who in summer seek their bread on the plains, either
as bricklayers, labourers, or artisans, join the family circle in
the winter in making lace, and it is wonderful to see what soft and
delicate work is turned out by those hard hands. It is pleasant to see
the wooden stools drawn round the table behind the glass globe filled
with water, through which the lamplight falls sharp and clear on the
spotless work, and watch the family, from the aged grandmother down
to the toddling grandchild, take their places at their cushions or
pillows. For those who have never seen pillow lace made, we will give a
few words.

The pillow or cushion is of cylindrical form, and tightly stuffed. On
this a number of pins are stuck, according to the pattern to be worked.
The threads, fastened to small bobbins, are thrown across the cushion
and placed round these pins; the threads, traversing from left to
right, or _vice versâ_, often weave at once the pattern and the ground.
There is a line in one of the Volkslied which runs—

    “That bobbin lace may prosper ever.”

We echo the wish, but fear it will never be realised.


FOOTNOTES:

[3] Mountains between Saxony and Bohemia.

[4] These wives and daughters of the miners had always worked at point
lace, but this was a quieter and easier work which Frau Barbara taught
them.




“NO.”

BY MARY E. HULLAH.


CHAPTER II.

“Do you like this part of London?” asked Horace, by-and-by.

Embrance had taken off her bonnet and ulster, and was sitting by the
side of the fire. It was one of her characteristics, owing, perhaps,
to the need of rest after long hours’ work, that she could remain
perfectly still for a considerable length of time. She had no desire to
busy herself with fancy work or to twirl her watch-chain; she did not
throw herself into picturesque attitudes, but sat with clasped hands,
listening to her visitor’s easy flow of conversation. A curl of her
dark hair had escaped from the stiff plait, and her lips were parted
with a smile.

“Not half so alarming as I imagined she would be,” was Horace Meade’s
thought, as he pursued his inquiries as to her liking for Bloomsbury,
“but why, in the name of all that’s wonderful, does she wear such a
frightful garment? It requires beauty to carry off a Cinderella garb
of that kind.”

“I find it convenient to live here,” explained Embrance, while her
visitor’s fancy had soared far away, and was drawing her hair high on
the top of her head, putting pearls in her ears, and a mass of crimson
roses in the lace round her throat. “She would make a good study for
the ‘ugly princess,’” he thought.

“I know that you are one of the busy folk,” he said, “Joan has told me
about you and your hard work. I only hope—” with a certain kindliness
that went straight to her heart—“that you are not overdoing it. Joan
ought to look after you.”

Just for a second, Embrance’s dark eyes looked up at him with a flash
of inquiry: could it be that this polite, soft-voiced man was making
fun of Joan and of her? As if ashamed of her suspicion, she replied
gently—

“It is a great pleasure to me to have Joan’s company; we have been
friends for a great many years, ever since we were little schoolgirls.”

“And you helped her with her sums after hours,” said Horace, twisting
the end of his moustache. “I have heard a great deal about you and
your doings, Miss Clemon, but seriously, I should be glad to talk to
you about my cousin, if you will let me.”

“Please do; she has been so looking forward to your coming; will you
be able to suggest any line for her to take up? She doesn’t much
like teaching; she was not very happy at home, and (with a slight
hesitation) her grandfather makes her no allowance while she is here.”

“Poor girl!” exclaimed Mr. Meade, “I expected how it would be; he is
a regular old miser. As for Joan, with all her talent, she’s had no
proper teaching herself, and hasn’t an idea what real work means. What
has she been doing lately?”

Embrance, conscious that Joan had been spending the last fortnight in
making herself a charming terra-cotta walking dress, looked towards
the window, and said that there had been so many fogs, it was bad
weather for artists. Mr. Meade nodded, then marched up to the easel,
and examined the drawing—a study of roses, white and pink—that Joan had
begun a month ago; but even before the roses (which had cost as much as
a week’s rent) withered, she had got tired of the drawing, and had put
it on one side for a copy of a landscape, intended for the good of her
pupil, and also left unfinished.

For some minutes he stood there in silence, took the drawings nearer to
the light, and carefully replaced them on the easel.

“Well?” asked Embrance, anxiously.

“What do you think of them?”

“I am not a judge; I know so little about it.”

“Very likely, but look here” (she came closer to the easel), “you are
accustomed to observe. Do you see the grouping of the roses is pretty
enough, but there, look, that is quite out of drawing, and the stalk is
an absurdity.”

Embrance could not stay there any longer in mute acquiescence: “But she
is so quick,” she remonstrated, “and has a real love”—for painting, she
was about to say, but her sense of truth turned the sentence into: “for
anything that is beautiful!”

He turned away from the window with a sigh. “As an amateur, it is all
very well, but otherwise, I don’t see what is to be done. Poor little
Joan! It’s a bad business; how is she looking, Miss Clemon?”

“Prettier than ever, I think.”

“I am glad to hear it. She is a charming companion, and I am very glad
that you like her. It is a comfort to know that she has got such a good
friend in you.”

Embrance blushed, feeling very uncomfortable, and half inclined to
resent his remarks. It was rather late in the day for a complete
stranger to interfere in such an old friendship as hers and Joan’s.
“However,” she reflected, “I am sure he is very fond of her; I wish she
would come in.”

“Perhaps,” continued Horace Meade, “you think that I have no business
to say this; but the fact is, that I had expected to find, at least I
had not expected to find—that is to say——”

He stopped abruptly, and Embrance could not refrain from laughing: “You
had imagined that Joan had set up housekeeping with a strong-minded
woman of the most extreme type, who didn’t care what became of her.”

“No, no, indeed!” began Horace, but she would go on.

“Please let me explain to you that I would do anything, anything in the
world to make Joan happy. I have been looking forward to your visit; I
hoped that between us we could find some way of helping her.”

It occurred to Horace that this would be an advantageous moment to say
something complimentary, and get himself out of an awkward predicament,
but he did not avail himself of the opportunity. He was a person who
believed in his own insight of character, and Miss Clemon (who was so
widely different from his preconceived notion of Joan’s learned friend)
interested him very much; he was quite sure that she was open and
honest as the day. Better be straightforward, too.

“Thank you very much,” he said, almost as if she had conferred a favour
on him personally, “I will think over what you have said; we will try
and help her; and may I come again soon?”

Embrance answered that she would be very glad to see him, and when,
after a little more chat, he took his leave, she went singing into the
next room, feeling lighter of heart than she had done for days. She
liked Horace Meade very much, and how pleased Joan would be to hear of
his arrival!

Joan was, indeed, delighted to welcome her cousin; Mrs. Rakely invited
him to the hotel, and there were many happy days spent in his society.
His own rooms and studio were in a distant suburb, but he found time to
make himself very agreeable to the ladies, and to show them the sights
of London. Joan was in her element, but too soon there came a period
of reaction. Mrs. Rakely went back to the country, and Horace began to
work regularly; he was slowly making his way as a portrait painter.
Joan fell into low spirits again, she wrote a great many letters,
and received bulky communications from Mrs. Rakely, about which she
maintained a silence, strangely unlike her usual talkativeness. Now
and then she would turn wistful glances on Embrance, as if longing for
sympathy, but she made no confidences. And Embrance treated her with
great tenderness, believing that some slight squabble with Horace was
the cause of her despondency. “Better not to worry her with too many
questions,” she thought, “she will tell me in her own good time.”

Horace came to the little second floor parlour, generally timing his
visits so as to arrive about seven o’clock. He had dined at his club.
If he might be allowed, it suited him best to drop in at this time. He
hoped he wasn’t in the way. Embrance bade him heartily welcome, while
Joan would forget her melancholy, and brighten into fresh beauty under
the influence of her cousin’s pleasant talk. More than once Embrance,
busy as she was, had attempted to leave the cousins to themselves,
while she laboured at a side table; but Horace had a knack of coaxing
her back to the fireside, asking her opinion on some interesting
topic, or referring to her laughingly as a competent authority. And
she had been enticed away to listen to his account of his travels, or
description of his housekeeping failures in his own rooms. He set Joan
hard at work painting menu cards and photograph frames, saying that he
knew a man who would dispose of them at a fair price, and now and then
he brought a drawing for her to copy, but he showed no sign of being
impressed with the progress that she made.

“Do you expect your cousin this evening?” asked Embrance, one
afternoon, about a month after Christmas; “he has not been to see you
for some time.”

“No,” said Joan, wearily. She was lying full length on the hearthrug,
with her head on a pillow, while Embrance arranged the ornaments on the
mantelpiece to her better satisfaction; “but I have heard from him.”

“What did he say?” asked Embrance, fancying that in Joan’s manner she
could trace a desire to be further questioned; “is it a secret, Joan,
or may I know all about it?”

Joan fixed her great eyes upon Embrance, and raised herself from the
ground with one arm: “I have got a secret, but I am not to tell you.
Did you guess that I had?”

Embrance nodded. She had finished putting the ornaments to rights, and
now came and sat on a low chair by the fire. “You would rather not tell
me about it just yet, Joan?”

“Not yet,” said Joan, excitedly. “You will know soon. Mrs. Rakely
knows. But, but”—she hesitated, “I don’t know when Horace will come
here again; he is very inconsiderate sometimes. What do you think he
proposed I should do? I met him one day and asked his advice—you are
so busy, Embrance, there seems to be no time to talk to you. He says
that I had better go back to Doveton!”

“He wants to take her away from me,” thought Embrance, with a pang;
“perhaps he is right, and I ought never to have kept her.” She took
Joan’s hand and patted it softly. “There is no occasion to fret about
it,” she said. “Would you like to go back, Joan?”

“I don’t know,” said Joan, half crying. “I’m sorry I quarrelled with
Horace. I was very disagreeable to him. He doesn’t think I ought to
stay with you much longer.”

“I am sorry,” began Embrance, humbly; but Joan was too much taken up
with her own grievance to listen. She went on: “He offered to speak to
the head of a firm he knows where they make furniture and employ people
(artists, Horace calls them) to decorate rooms and paint panels. He
said I should have to be taught to do it; and, oh! Embrance, I should
hate to be shut up all day; I should feel as if I were in a prison; so
I said I wouldn’t go and see his friend—that I would rather go on the
stage. And then he advised me to go back to Doveton.” Joan was sitting
bolt upright now, and her eyes were sparkling. “Do you think I behaved
badly?”

“It was very hard for you, my poor dear; but I dare say you were not so
disagreeable as you imagine. He would make allowance for your not being
accustomed to keep such regular hours.”

“It’s you who make allowance,” cried Joan. “You are very good,
Embrance; and I am keeping so much back from you. But don’t think
hardly of me; promise me you won’t. Have patience with me, whatever I
do.”

A sharp east wind was blowing across the park; the chestnut-trees
stretched their bare branches grimly towards the sky. Embrance Clemon
was walking home after her day’s work; the dead leaves swept rustling
and dancing towards her. A party of noisy children were racing after
their hoops a few yards in front of her. She had just been told by the
mother of a pupil, with many expressions of regret, that her services
would not be required any more after Easter. Her head was full of
plans, by which she could contrive to manage her slender resources, so
that Joan should not be made to feel that she was in any way increasing
the household difficulties. In truth, she could ill afford to lose a
lesson just now. She had heard no more of Joan’s quarrel with Horace
Meade; she imagined that that was made up long ago; the two had met
more than once, she knew, at a friend’s house, but he had left off
coming to call. Embrance missed his visits; it was clear to her now,
looking back to the last few months, that Horace Meade had brought a
great deal of happiness into their quiet lives—hers as well as Joan’s.
And yet, try as she would, she could not but feel hurt that he should
be so anxious to remove Joan from her influence. “It doesn’t matter,
after all,” she reflected, walking faster and faster in the grey
twilight, “what he thinks of me.” Nevertheless, it mattered so much,
that Embrance grew sad at heart; there came over her a great longing to
throw up the present occupation and go away, anywhere, and begin again;
to shut up her past life tight and firm and to start afresh. And Joan?
She almost smiled at her own folly, as she recollected how impossible
it would be to leave Joan in such an unceremonious fashion.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

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


[Illustration: CHAP X—A FALSE STEP.]

If it had not been for his anxiety about Fairy, this would have been
an excursion quite after Jack’s own heart. He delighted in anything
unusual which varied the monotony of his daily life, and if it partook
of the nature of an adventure he was all the better pleased. As he and
his father tramped along the Oatham-road, one walking on the extreme
right, the other on the left hand side, it was natural that John should
beguile the way with reminiscences of other fogs.

“The worst fog I ever remember was when I was courting your mother,
Jack. It was just after Lewes sheep fair, and a Saturday night, and it
came on quite suddenly, so that I saw it was impossible to attempt to
get the sheep home that night, for I was on Mount Caburn, and I did not
know the mount so well then as I do now. But I always spent Saturday
evening and the best part of Sunday with your mother, and I did not
feel inclined to be done out of my weekly treat by the fog, so, though
I could not get the sheep into fold, I thought I would leave them to
take their chance till the fog lifted, and then come after them; I knew
I should soon find them by the help of the bell-wethers and Rover, so
I left the sheep, and set off to try and find my way home through the
fog. I knew there were one or two nasty places where I might fall and
break my neck, so I went pretty carefully, you may be sure. I had no
lantern with me, and it was a darker night than to-night, and I think
I must have wandered round and round the top of Mount Caburn for three
or four hours before I even began to descend. At last I found I was
actually on a downward track, though I had not the least idea which
side of the hill I was, and I think if I had not been in love I should
have remained where I was till the morning, or at least till the fog
cleared. As it was, I determined, at all hazards, to go on, though I
guessed I should get a scolding from your mother for my pains; so on
I went, on my hands and knees, feeling my way before me, for I was
afraid to walk upright lest I should step over a precipice, and at last
I reached the bottom in safety. Then I had no idea where I was till,
luckily for me, I met a man with a lantern, and he put me in the road,
but it was too late to go to your mother’s that night, and the greater
part of Sunday was spent in looking after the sheep, who had wandered
for miles. But this fog won’t last much longer, Jack; the wind is
rising,” said the shepherd.

“Yes,” said Jack. “I wish it would blow those children home safely. I
do hope nothing has happened to them; but Charlie is so careless, he
leads Fairy into danger without thinking.”

“She does not want much leading into danger; she is apt enough at
running into that, I am thinking, Jack. But what is become of Rover?”
said the shepherd, stopping and whistling.

“Bow-wow-wow,” replied Rover, in an excited tone, from the depths of
the fog.

“Where are you, sir? Come here,” cried the shepherd.

“Bow-wow-wow-wow,” answered Rover, in a still sharper key.

“Come here, sir; what are you at?” cried John Shelley.

“I hope he has not found the children in that chalk-pit. See, we are
near the first one,” said Jack, crossing over to his father, and moving
with him to the chalk-pit, which was at the side of the road.

“I trust not, Jack. Here is Rover; he has found something, that is
clear. All right, I am coming, good dog,” said the shepherd, as Rover
now emerged from the fog, and, by dint of many barks and wagging of his
tail, gave his master to understand that he had discovered something.

The shepherd throwing the light of the lantern in the direction the dog
indicated, followed him, while Jack, with his heart in his throat,
dreading at every step that the next would bring him face to face with
Fairy stretched lifeless at his feet—a picture his quick imagination
had but little difficulty in conjuring up—brought up the rear.

They were at the mouth of a large chalk-pit, but, owing to the density
of the fog, the lantern did not enable them to see more than a yard
before them; moreover, they were obliged to go very carefully, as huge
pieces of chalk were scattered over the centre of the pit. Suddenly
Jack kicked against something, and stooping, picked up a large gingham
umbrella, which, to his joy, he saw at a glance did not belong to Fairy.

“See, father, an umbrella; can this be what Rover is making all this
fuss about?” asked Jack, handing the huge thing to his father to
examine.

“I doubt not; I am afraid we shall find the owner of the umbrella next,
Jack, by Rover’s ways. But look, there is a name cut on the handle,
and it looks as if it had been cut quite recently, too. See if you can
make it out, I can’t; seems a foreign name to me,” said John Shelley,
holding the umbrella close to his lantern for Jack to read.

“D-e-t—No, it is a capital t; De Thorens, that is the name, plain
enough. A foreign one, too, as you said. It must belong to some
stranger, then; perhaps someone has lost his or her way and taken
shelter in this pit. Let us shout, father, they may hear us,” and Jack
shouted, but in vain.

Rover now became more excited than ever, and seizing John Shelley by
the skirts of his smock-frock, dragged him forward, until suddenly
he came to a standstill, and loosing his hold of his master, sniffed
round and round something which was lying a step or two further on.
John Shelley stooped, and, lowering his lantern, turned the light on
the object, and saw to his horror the apparently lifeless body of an
old woman, which was lying huddled together in a shapeless mass. Gently
and reverently the shepherd straightened the limbs, which were already
getting cold and stiff, and then looking at the face, which was not
disfigured by the fall, the old woman having fallen on her back, he
recognised his old acquaintance Dame Hursey.

“Is she dead, father?” asked Jack, in an awe-stricken voice, as he
clutched his father’s arm, for it was a ghastly sight these two were
gazing on in the cold, dark, foggy night, by the weird gleams of their
lanterns.

“Yes, Jack, yes; do you see who it is? Poor old Dame Hursey, the last
person I ever thought to find here, for if anyone knew the Downs it was
she. She is dressed in her best, too; she was not out wool-gathering,
that is clear,” said the shepherd, slowly.

“But what are we to do, father? We can’t leave her here, and we have
not found Fairy and Charlie yet.”

“We must leave her here for the present, Jack; she is dead, and must
have been killed on the spot; I expect Rover will watch by her till we
come back. We must separate; you go back to the police station for a
stretcher and some men, while I go on and look for these children. I
hope and trust they won’t come across this sight; it would give Fairy
a terrible fright. Be as quick as you can, Jack, for if the children
are not on the Race Hill we shall have to go in another direction. I’ll
meet you at the police-station; I shall be back there by the time you
have got the poor old dame carried there. Rover, stay here till Jack
comes back.”

No need to tell Rover twice; he laid down by the body at once, and
there he would have remained till doomsday if Jack or his master had
not returned before; and Jack, though he by no means liked his task,
and would far rather have gone on to look for Fairy, obeyed as promptly
as Rover.

And where were Fairy and Charlie on this cold, dark November evening
in this thick fog? They had not gone to Mount Harry after all, though
they had set out with that intention, for as soon as they reached the
Brighton-road Fairy had suggested they should go to Brighton instead,
and though Charlie, who was rather lazily disposed, hesitated and
raised objections, Fairy overthrew them all, and finally succeeded in
persuading him to take her.

The object of their walk was to pay a visit to a bird-stuffer in
Brighton, and find out the price of an eared-grebe which had lately
been shot in the neighbourhood, and which this man, as Jack, who had
been over two or three times to look at the bird, had told Fairy, was
stuffing and mounting. If only the price were reasonable, a better
Christmas present for Jack could not be thought of. He would be wild
with joy at possessing this bird, which Fairy described to Charlie from
a picture Mr. Leslie had of it. Charlie did not care much what the
price was, but he was curious to see this wonderful grebe with the ruff
round its neck, so he consented to take Fairy.

“How much do you think it will be, Charlie?” asked Fairy, as they
trudged along the muddy road in the mist.

“I don’t know; Gibbons will let us have it ever so much cheaper than
anyone else, because Jack so often gives him birds and eggs, and all
manner of curiosities. How much can you afford, that is the question?”

“Well, mother will give me something, and John and Mr. Leslie will give
me five or ten shillings, and I have got seven myself; I think I can
afford a sovereign altogether. You must give something, too, Charlie,
you know.”

“That’s all the money I have,” said Charlie, putting his hands into
his pockets and producing twopence halfpenny. “That won’t go far,” he
added, ruefully.

“Never mind, it will help. I do hope Gibbons will let us have it for a
pound,” answered Fairy; and buoyed up with this hope, she walked into
Brighton, a good eight miles, without once complaining of being tired.

The bird-stuffer, who knew Charlie well, showed them the grebe with
pride; but, alas! Fairy soon learnt that the price was far beyond her
means, and feeling very much disappointed, for Jack’s sake, she half
repented having taken such a long walk, especially as by the time they
left the shop the fog had come on very thick, and the short November
day was coming to a close. In spite of this, Charlie insisted on going
to the beach to look at the sea for a few minutes, though it was quite
out of their way, and Fairy, tired as she was, could not refuse to
oblige him when he had come so far to oblige her. Happily a very brief
peep at the dull, grey sea in this deepening fog satisfied Charlie,
but, nevertheless, it was five o’clock before they started on their
eight miles walk back to Lewes, and by the time they were quite clear
of the town, which in those days was very much smaller than at present,
and on the Lewes-road it was so dark they could not see the road before
them, and were obliged to walk slowly in consequence; moreover, Fairy
was so tired she hardly knew how to drag one leg before the other.

“There is one comfort,” said Charlie, “it is a straight road; we can’t
lose our way, and perhaps we shall meet someone who will give us a
lift.”

“I wish we could. How dark it is, Charlie. Are we half way yet, do you
think?” asked poor Fairy, whose little feet were so sore she could not
keep up with Charlie.

“Half-way? No, not a quarter yet. You are tired, I know, though you
won’t own it. I told you it was too far for you; here, take hold of my
arm, and I’ll help you along,” said Charlie.

Thus encouraged, Fairy plodded on for another mile or so, during which
time one or two carts passed them, but either could not or would not
hear their requests for a lift, and one so nearly ran over them in the
darkness that they ceased to wish for any more to pass. But before they
were half-way home Fairy declared she must stop and rest a little, and
Charlie, who knew if anything happened to her he would get all the
blame, began to get frightened lest she should faint or be taken ill on
the road, far away as they were from any village.

“Will you let me try and carry you, Fairy?” he asked.

“You?” laughed Fairy, in spite of her fatigue; “you carry me? Why, I
doubt if Jack could, even. No, thank you; let me rest a little on this
tree I nearly fell over, and then I’ll go on again.”

“Very well, but you must not rest long, or you’ll catch cold; besides,
we shan’t get home to-night at this rate. Now, when I have counted up
to a hundred, I shall haul you up,” said Charlie, beginning to assert a
little gentle authority under the circumstances.

Thus they went on, Fairy walking about half-a-mile at first, and then
stopping to rest, but each rest grew longer and each walk shorter, and
Charlie, who had never had a very high opinion of girls in general,
much as he admired Fairy in particular, came to the conclusion that
they were all pretty much alike, and that there was not much to choose
between them. Poor, weak things, they got tired directly, and could
not even walk sixteen miles without making a fuss!

At last, when they were about a mile and a half from the shepherd’s
house, and Fairy now could only walk if Charlie supported and led her,
they saw a lantern coming towards them, and to their joy found it was
John Shelley.

“Oh, John, I am so glad,” cried Fairy, as the shepherd turned the
lantern full on her.

“Fairy! Why, my pretty one, where have you been?” cried John.

“To Brighton; and, oh! John, I am so tired; I shall never get home.”

“To Brighton? Charlie, what do you mean by taking her to Brighton?
But we will get home first, and talk about that afterwards. Take the
lantern, Charlie, and lead the way. The child is dead beat; I must
carry her.” And without another word the shepherd took Fairy up in his
strong arms and carried her home, stopping now and then to rest, but
declaring he was not tired, as she was so light, and he was used to
carrying lambs; and was not she his pet lamb?

This was one of his names for Fairy, and finding he did not seem to
mind carrying her, she submitted gratefully, for she was so tired she
did not care how she got home, as long as she got there somehow.

Mrs. Shelley was at the gate wrapped up in a shawl, and feeling
dreadfully nervous about them, although John had not told her of Dame
Hursey’s terrible end when he came in an hour ago to say, just as Jack
had started off to Mount Caburn to look for the children, he had heard
they had been seen in Brighton that afternoon.

“Here they are, Polly, quite safe, only Fairy is tired out,” said John,
as he carried Fairy into the house, and placed her in his own chair
before the fire.

“Thank God! Children, children, where have you been? But I must tell
Jack first; he has just come in, and was going to have some supper and
then start off after you, John. Jack, where are you? They are safe,”
cried Mrs. Shelley to Jack, who was upstairs.

Down rushed Jack to see for himself that it was true. He looked pale
and anxious, for besides the shock of Dame Hursey’s death, he was tired
out with his search for Fairy after his day’s work on the downs.

“Well, a pretty chase you have given father and me, Mr. Charlie,
dragging Fairy to Brighton in this cheerful weather. If you are not
ashamed of yourself, you ought to be.”

“I did not drag her there; I dragged her home, and a pretty tough job
it was, I can tell you,” said Charlie.

“It was my fault, Jack, not Charlie’s; I won’t have him scolded; and we
had all our walk for nothing, and as John is not angry, I don’t mean to
be scolded either,” said Fairy.

“No, John never is angry with you; if he were sometimes you would not
be half so much trouble; but come, it is no use making a fuss about
it; they are home safely, thank God, so let us have supper,” said Mrs.
Shelley.

But somehow, in spite of their fatigue and long fast, no one was hungry
except Charlie, whose appetite seldom failed him. Fairy was much too
tired to eat, and Mrs. Shelley too glad and thankful to have them all
safe around her, while the shepherd and Jack could not forget poor Dame
Hursey’s fate, which they were only waiting till Fairy and Charlie were
gone to bed to discuss with Mrs. Shelley.

Fairy soon asked to be excused, as she was so tired, and Charlie,
having been sent off with a huge piece of bread and cheese to consume
at his leisure, John and Jack told Mrs. Shelley of the accident.

“Oh dear! oh dear! and to think it might have been that child, Fairy,
or Charlie, instead of poor old Dame Hursey! I shall tell them both
to-morrow, and I hope it will be a lesson to them to be more careful
in the future. Poor old woman! there will have to be an inquest, of
course,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“Yes, the inquest is to-morrow, but there is no one to give evidence
except father and me,” said Jack.

However, when Fairy was told the next morning what had happened, it
was found she was able to throw a little light on the matter, knowing,
as she did, that Dame Hursey had gone to meet her son George the day
her death occurred. She had evidently lost her way in the fog after
leaving him, and the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of accidental
death without any hesitation. Some little discussion was raised as
to the umbrella with the name De Thorens cut on the handle, but as
it was remembered the last time George Hursey was heard of in Lewes
he was living in France, the coroner suggested the umbrella was his,
and that he had perhaps given it to his mother to help her home. This
theory satisfied everyone but Jack, and he, for reasons of his own,
kept his ideas on the subject to himself. He always had thought Dame
Hursey knew more about Fairy than anyone, and somehow he could not help
thinking this word De Thorens had something to do with the child. He
was certain the coroner’s theory was untrue, because he had seen Dame
Hursey with this identical umbrella over and over again; moreover, the
name was recently cut, and as he knew the old woman could not have
done it herself, he guessed her son George did, but why or wherefore
he could not determine; only he suspected it had something to do with
Fairy. But though he turned the subject over in his own mind again
and again as he followed his sheep on the lonely downs, he could make
nothing of it, though he felt sure he held the key to the solution of
the mystery of Fairy’s origin in his hand, if he only knew how to use
it. On the whole, curious as he was about it, he was not sorry to be
unable to solve the puzzle since he feared its solution would lead to
his separation from Fairy.

If he could have known how that one false step of poor old Dame
Hursey’s prevented Fairy from being restored to her parents, shocked
as he had been at her terrible death, it is doubtful if he could have
regretted her sad end as sincerely as he did.

(_To be continued._)




VARIETIES.


A WORD TO PRIDE.

    Say to thy pride, “’Tis all but ashes for the urn;
    Come, let us own our dust, before to dust we turn.”


THE SILENT LOVER.

    Silence in love bewrays more woe
      Than words, though ne’er so witty;
    A beggar that is dumb, you know,
      May challenge double pity.
            —_Raleigh._


MUSICAL CRITICISM.—There are two kinds of people who ought to give
their opinions about music; those who know enough about it to give an
opinion which is really valuable, and those who simply say what they
like and what they don’t like, and no more.


A STRENGTHENING MEDICINE.

A Parisian chemist recently advertised his strengthening medicine for
delicate people in the following terms:—

“Madame S. was so weak at the time of her marriage that she could
hardly stand upright at the altar. Now, after using several bottles
of my medicine, she is capable of throwing the smoothing iron at her
husband without missing him once.”


A GENEROUS NATURE.—Generosity is in nothing more seen than in a candid
estimation of other men’s virtues and good qualities.—_Barrow._


SAVING HABITS.—Take care to be an economist in prosperity; there is no
fear of not being one in adversity.


THE MIND’S SWEETNESS.

      Let thy mind’s sweetness have his operation
    Upon thy body, clothes, and habitation.
            —_George Herbert._


BY FITS AND STARTS.

    The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise,
    And even the best by fits what they despise.
            —_Pope._


WHAT IS WIT?

    True wit is nature to advantage dressed,
    What oft was thought but ne’er so expressed.
            —_Pope._


SELF-KNOWLEDGE.—It is not until we have passed through the furnace that
we are made to know how much dross is in our composition.


FLUENT SPEECH.—The common fluency of speech in most men and most women,
says Dean Swift, is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of
words; for whoever is a master of language, and hath a mind full of
ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both;
whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas and one set of words
to clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. So people
come faster out of church when it is almost empty than when a crowd is
at the door.


AN OBJECTION TO HATRED.—Plutarch says, very finely, that a man should
not allow himself to hate even his enemies; for if you indulge this
passion on some occasions it will rise of itself on others.—_Addison._


AMUSEMENT FOR THE WISE.

Amusement is not an end, but a means—a means of refreshing the mind
and replenishing the strength of the body; when it begins to be the
principal thing for which one lives, or when, in pursuing it, the
mental powers are enfeebled, and the bodily health impaired, it falls
under just condemnation.

Amusements that consume the hours which ought to be sacred to sleep,
are, therefore, censurable.

Amusements that call us away from work which we are bound to do are
pernicious, just to the extent to which they cause us to be neglectful
or unfaithful.

Amusements that rouse or stimulate morbid appetites or unlawful
passions, or that cause us to be restless or discontented, are always
to be avoided.

Any indulgence in amusement which has a tendency to weaken our respect
for the great interests of character, or to loosen our hold on the
eternal verities of the spiritual realm, is so far an injury to us.


FISH AGAINST FRY.

The following _jeu d’esprit_ was suggested by an action at law some
years ago, in which the parties were a Mr. Fry and a Mr. Fish:—

    “The Queen’s Bench Reports have cooked up an odd dish,
    In action for damages _Fry_ versus _Fish_;
    But sure, if for damages action could lie,
    It certainly must have been _Fish_ against _Fry_.”


WISE WORDS ON READING.

One of the common errors of the day is indulgence in indiscriminate
reading. The greater the number of books the more careful readers ought
to be in the choice of them, and as a guide to their value nothing
could be better than the following wise words of Southey:—

“Young readers, you whose hearts are open, whose understandings are not
yet hardened, and whose feelings are neither exhausted nor encrusted
with the world, take from me a better rule than any professors of
criticism will teach you.

“Would you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine
in what state of mind you lay it down. Has it induced you to suspect
that what you have been accustomed to think unlawful may after all be
innocent, and that that may be harmless which you have hitherto been
taught to think dangerous? Has it tended to make you dissatisfied and
impatient under the control of others, and disposed you to relax in
that self-government without which both the laws of God and man tell us
there can be no virtue, and consequently no happiness? Has it attempted
to abate your admiration and reverence for what is great and good, and
to diminish in you a love of your country and of your fellow creatures?
Has it addressed itself to your pride, your vanity, your selfishness,
or any of your evil propensities? Has it defiled the imagination with
what is loathsome, and shocked the heart with what is monstrous? Has it
distracted the sense of right and wrong which the Creator has implanted
in the human soul?

“If so—if you have felt that such were the effects it was intended to
produce—throw the book into the fire, whatever name it may bear upon
the title-page. Throw it into the fire, young man, though it should
have been the gift of a friend; young lady, away with the whole set,
though it should be the prominent furniture in the rosewood bookcase.”


TAUGHT BY A ROBIN.—I am sent to the ant to learn industry, to the dove
to learn innocence, to the serpent to learn wisdom, and why not to the
robin redbreast, who chants as delightfully in winter as in summer, to
learn equanimity and patience?


HANDS AND FEET.

Hands are no more beautiful for being small than eyes are for being
big; but many a modern girl would ask her fairy godmother, if she had
one, to give her eyes as big as saucers and hands as small as those
of a doll, believing that the first cannot be too large nor the last
too small. Tiny hands and feet are terms constantly used by poets and
novelists in a most misleading manner. It cannot be possible that
they are intended by the writers to express anything but general
delicacy and refinement; but a notion is encouraged that results in the
destruction of one of the most beautiful of natural objects—the human
foot.

This unfortunate notion, that the beauty of the foot depends upon
its smallness, leads to the crippling of it, till it becomes in many
cases a bunch of deformity. It is a most reprehensible practice, alike
revolting to good taste and good sense, to put the foot of a growing
girl into a shoe that is not only too short, crumpling the toes into
a bunch, but, being pointed, turns the great toe inwards, producing
deformity of general shape, and, in course of time, inevitable bunions,
the only wonder being that steadiness in standing or any grace of
movement at all is left.


GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHERS.—A writer in a contemporary calls attention to
the very objectionable sharpness with which some girls speak to their
mothers. “In a railway carriage on our journey north,” she says, “the
window seats at one end were occupied by two ladies, evidently mother
and daughter. The latter appeared to be out of temper. The former
mildly remarked, ‘Do you not think we had better have the window up?’
the reply was, ‘Most certainly not,’ delivered in F sharp key. If I
were a modern Cœlebs in search of a wife, I should very carefully
observe the young lady’s manner to her mother before asking the
momentous question, for a girl must be vixenish at heart and unamiable
indeed, when she can address her own mother with such careless rudeness
as one too often hears.”


MODESTY.—Modesty is the appendage of sobriety, and is to chastity, to
temperance, and to humility, as the fringes are to a garment.—_Jeremy
Taylor._




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

MACACO and F. S. D.—“Macaco” recommends a correspondence class,
conducted by a Miss Macarthur, 4, Buckingham-street, Hillhead,
Glasgow. We have before drawn attention to a little useful shilling
manual called “A Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” chiefly educational, and
including religious studies and unions for prayer (Messrs. Griffith and
Farran, St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.). By procuring this a choice can be
made, as the rules and terms of most of them are given. “F. S. D.” had
better try again, by all means, when we give another competition. It
will be found, as you say, to do good, even to those who do not prove
winners.

ELLA.—You might find the first instruction books in history, geography,
and grammar at a secondhand bookstall for a mere trifle. Later on, you
may have the means to obtain the more advanced.

ALTA.—See our answers under the above heading, so continually repeated
in reference to your questions. You are too young to be received as a
nurse. See our reply to “L. N.,” page 31, vol. vi. (part for October,
1884).

ICIPLE.—We do not recommend teachers and Board-school mistresses to
look for engagements in the colonies, however well supplied with
certificates. Nevertheless, to render the matter more certain you had
better obtain information and advice at the Women’s Emigration office,
in Dorset-street, Portman-square, W.

JEMIMA.—1. We can only say to you what we have had to say to many—you
must accept what terms you can get as a governess, your youth being
against you: a “fault that will mend.” The trainer and caretaker,
morally and physically, of children and young people under age is paid
for her experience and extensive knowledge of many kinds, not merely
for her acquirements in science and art. 2. “The Flowers of the Field,”
by the Rev. C. A. Johns, is a nice book of the kind you require (43,
Piccadilly, W.).

S. B. O. F. W.—We think your writing would pass for the examination
you name; but if rounded a little it would be prettier. If you wish to
know how you may serve Christ, read His own words (in the four gospels)
and those of His apostles. Be much in prayer for the aid of the Holy
Spirit, and try to perform the daily duties of life as in His sight.
Deny yourself for others, control your temper, and set a good example.


MUSIC.

DINAH begs us to give her “a great ‘hunch’ of advice” as to the kind of
instrument she may purchase for ten shillings, because, having rather
limited means, amounting to “tenpence per week,” she “could not give a
high price.” She thinks “a bango would suit her, because much like a
nigger,” etc. We advise her to go to a musical instrument shop and see
what she can get for the price she names.

ROB ROY.—One of the largest organs in the world is, we believe, that
which you may see in the Royal Albert Hall, South Kensington. It is by
Willis. It contains 111 sounding stops, and nearly 8,000 pipes. Next
to it is the organ in St. George’s Hall, Liverpool, which has 5,739
pipes; and the Crystal Palace organ has 4,568 pipes. The organ may be
splendidly played by a woman, but, on account of the foot pedals, it is
by no means suitable for her. The strain upon the back and lower part
of the frame is very apt to result in physical injury.

MARY BIRD.—There is no reason why you should not play the flute, if
you have one, excepting that it distorts the shape of the mouth—at
least, for the time—and it is, we suppose, on this account unusual as
an instrument for female culture. The clarionette would be equally
objectionable for some faces, yet it is not unfrequently adopted by
women. The oldest tune or piece of music in existence is of Hebrew
origin—_i.e._, the “Blessing of the Priests,” which is used in the
Spanish and Portuguese synagogues, and was sung in the Temple at
Jerusalem from very remote times.


MISCELLANEOUS.

SISTER TO “CAGED BEAUTY.”—Your request will be considered. We have a
special interest in our girls and other readers scattered over our
far-off colonies. Your letter is well expressed, and your handwriting
is legible and fairly good.

“A BOTHERING GIRL.”—The books of Esdras are in the collection called
the “Apocrypha,” and this may be had from any library. These books are
not inspired, though much that is good is to be found in them, together
with curious fables and traditions. The books of the Maccabees are
much thought of as historical works of great antiquity. A list of the
canonical books of both the Old and the New Testaments is to be found
in all Bibles, and that of the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah is
included amongst them.

EMMA.—The reason that some words are printed in italics in the Bible
is simply this: that there are no corresponding words in the original
language from which the translation was made; but the English words
supplied were necessary to give the meaning, which could not be
understood without them. Perhaps when we give the following example you
will understand what we mean. We all know what is meant when people
say, “How do you do?” but translate it into French, word for word, and
the meaning would be lost.

DEARIE should learn to spell better. She speaks of the word “desert,”
which denotes a barren, uncultivated waste of arid sandy land, but by
which she says she means the last course at dinner, that of fruit,
ice, and sweetmeats. Now this course is called “dessert,” and the
emphasis in its pronunciation is placed on the second syllable, and as
if spelt with a “z” (“de-zert”), whereas in the word “desert” it is on
the first, as “dez-ert.” “Bivouac” is pronounced as “biv-oo-ak.” Her
writing is very pretty, and we thank her for her kind letter.

ANGLICAN CATHOLIC.—We do not give private addresses. St. Augustine was
sent over to this country by Pope Gregory the Great as a missionary,
Christianity having been nearly exterminated by the invasions with
which it was so terribly harassed. He found a Christian church at
Canterbury (St. Martin’s), where Queen Bertha worshipped, having
Luithard as her priest and director. She was a French princess, and
brought him over with her. At that early time the Roman Church had not
evolved nor promulgated many of her modern dogmas.

MARY M.—It is not essential that you should send your address in
writing to the Editor, as in many cases it might hinder the expression,
feelings, and difficulties with the full freedom necessary to ensure
satisfactory advice.

EDMUNDA YORKE.—You had better write and tell him that, having so
forgotten himself and taken undue advantage of the intimacy involved
in the relations between a doctor and his patient on the occasion of
your last visit, your self-respect compelled you, with much regret, to
forego the benefit of his treatment, and you would be obliged if he
would return your book and send in his account.

E. M. TRILL.—You will receive what you require by attending to the
directions given at the end of every article by the “Lady Dressmaker.”
The Editor cannot attend to that department.

ONE SEEKING LIGHT.—1. We recommend you to join the Odd Minutes Society,
of which the secretary is Miss Powell, of Luctons, Buckhurst-hill,
Essex. She will send you all particulars about it, and we think it is
exactly the useful work that you require. 2. Read Isaiah i. 16, 17, 18,
lv. 7, and Ezekiel xxxiii. compared with St. John vi. 37, and Hebrews
vii. 25.

VIOLET.—1. Place the steel ornaments in oil, and leave them there
for some time to soak off the rust, and then rub well with a soft
toothbrush and chamois-leather. 2. Your handwriting is not formed.
Spell “truly” without the “e.” Final “e’s” in adjectives are dropped
when they are formed into adverbs.

ALLEGRO, MAB, GIPSY.—There is Miss Mason’s Home of Rest for Christian
Workers, 7 and 8, Cambridge-gardens, Kilburn, N.W.; seaside branch,
Burlington-place, Eastbourne. Terms, from 7s. to £1 per week. There is
also The Cottage Home of Rest, 2, Tilsey Villas, King’s-road, Norbiton
(close to Richmond Park). Apply for form of admission to Mrs. J. M.
Pearson, The Grange, Kingston-hill. Also see our answer to “Daisy.” We
think that Cobham, Surrey, would suit you.

IDALIA (Demerara).—We read your nice letter with interest, and tried to
realise the sketch you give of your surroundings. How we wish we could
see the “pink and red morning glory,” the “Hushfalia,” “Waxplant,”
and Stephanotis “running all up to the banisters on both sides,” etc.
Accept our thanks for the kind wish expressed to send us some of them.
We do “take the will for the deed.” By some means your silver bracelet
has become oxidised, and your only plan will be to send it to a
silversmith. Your writing, if sloped a little from right to left, would
be excellent.

OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.—The form of speech, in such common use, to which you
refer, is perfectly understood (in the real meaning assigned to it) by
the visitors to whom it is addressed. Thus it is not a deception. There
are “at home days,” and “not at home days.” On the former your mistress
will be found in her reception-room; on the latter, she will not be
found awaiting visitors there. If persons in society agree together
to adopt a certain phrase to signify a certain thing, and not as a
deception, you may use that phrase, at the orders of your mistress, in
the sense in which she meant, and her visitors will receive it. Your
letter and the verses, though incorrect in composition, do you credit,
and we wish you God-speed!

HOPE.—We recommend you to get a small sixpenny manual on canaries and
their treatment. Your bird has probably been in a draught. See our
article at page 775, vol. iii. Our correspondents are as numerous as
ever, and the difficulty is to find space for all the answers written.
Your handwriting is not formed.

MARIAN.—The Jewish year begins with Tisri, which month follows
immediately after the new moon following the autumnal equinox; but the
ecclesiastical year begins with the seventh month—viz., Nizan or Abib.
The following is the entire list:—Tisri, Marchesvan, Chislev, Thebet,
Sebat, Adar, Nisan, Tjar, Givan, Thammuz, Ab, and Elal.

MISCEL.—When reading or reciting to a public audience, it is usual to
stand, unless the piece to be read be very long. You should (or might)
hold the letter. “If you were to see So-and-so painted by so poor a
painter, and bad _at that_” (bad event for a bad attempt). This is the
meaning of the Americanism.

INQUIRER.—Chemists have signs of their trade like other tradesmen.
The hairdresser has a striped pole, the publican chequers, or a bush,
etc. Divide your ancient from your modern coins, and let each of these
be sub-divided according to size and age. Have little trays with a
succession of shallow circular cells lined with coloured paper to
receive them, deep enough to preserve them from any touch of the tray
that lies on it.

IGNORAMUS.—You could clean the large white skin hearthrug by means of
powdered plaster of Paris. There is no difficulty in making a small
copy of a large picture; the difficulty would be in enlarging.

[Illustration: SHE STRETCHETH OUT HER HAND TO THE POOR;
YEA, SHE REACHETH FORTH HER HANDS TO THE NEEDY.

PROV. XXXI, 20.]

M. W. A.—On a liberal computation, the cost of keeping a pony varies
from £10 to £20 per annum. The grazing will cost less than that of a
cow, and £4 or £5 would cover it. You may give him turnips and carrots,
and scraps from the house of vegetables and bread. Oats would cost
about 10s. a month; but they are really quite unnecessary. A cartload
of hay at a corn-merchant’s price would be about £5, more or less,
and this should last one pony from the end of a summer’s grass (about
the end of October) till the beginning of May next year, when grass
would be resumed. But unless the animal were groomed and harnessed by
yourself, you must also take the expense of a groom into your account,
and the cost and repair of a trap.

KATHLEEN.—Rest your foot for a couple of days, and if inflamed poultice
it a few times; then cut the nail quite straight at the top, and scrape
(with a penknife or scrap of glass) down the centre to thin the nail
in the middle, and so dispose the sides to rise up instead of bending
downwards and inwards, from the convex (or rounded) shape of the nail.
It might be best at first to cut the nail rather in a “u” or “v”
shape in the middle, instead of quite straight across, as you may do
afterwards.

PERPLEXED ONE.—The only wrong we see about the whole matter is that you
did not confide all to your mother. A girl should keep no secret of her
own from her. She is the adviser and the protector of her daughter, and
if desirable that you should renew your acquaintance with him, she will
know best what steps to take. Never let her find out by chance what
concerns you so seriously, more especially when anyone else has been
made a confidant.

GUINEVERE.—1. The term “furniture” is too vague to enable us to give
you advice. You do not even say whether it be wood, stuff, or leather.
It is very hard to remove inkstains, but if you refer to our indexes
you will find more than one recipe for removing them. The probability
is that in taking them out you extract the dye of the material
likewise. 2. Break up a small stick of chocolate into a cup, and pour
the least drop of boiling water upon it. When dissolved, pour boiling
milk upon it, stirring all the time.

LANGE.—Sponge the oil-cloths with milk and water, and rub them dry;
then rub over with beeswax, dissolved in a little linseed oil. We
“thing” your handwriting is not formed, but promises well. We think
little girls ought to be “shy.” It will wear off quite as much and as
soon as it will be desirable for you to get rid of it.

CHRISTABEL.—Probably the letter may be returned to your friend through
the Dead Letter Office. You write a curious hand, but it is very
legible, which is the great object to be gained.

SHARP does not always merit her nickname. She says: “A gentleman said I
have dreamy Southern eyes. I am as a rule treated kindly. Perhaps it is
because I have such pure blue orbs.” Now, little lady, you have made a
blunder—sharp as you may be—for Southern eyes are black, not blue. 2.
Weymouth is a very nice place, and while there we advise you to write
copies and learn the correct spelling of what you call “Wensday.” For
all particulars respecting clerkships in the Telegraph Department, you
must apply to the Civil Service Commissioners, in Cannon-row, W.C.

A. M. H.—Gainsborough’s “Duchess” was at Agnew’s when it disappeared.

R. S. V. P.—Clean your white wool shawl with flour, or rinse it in a
lather of soft tepid water and curd-soap, or in bran and water. We are
glad that you found our recipe for apple pickle so satisfactory. We
congratulate you on your writing.

T. C. S.—Have you consulted your mother’s wishes respecting your
leaving home to be a missionary? Remember that however excellent a
profession may be, your first duty is to your parents. You are only
in your teens, and, even were you of age, God’s providence might have
other work for you to do. Your prayer should be “Lord, what wouldst
Thou have me to do?” and He will probably answer you through the voice
of your parents. “Requite” them; and if they approve of your desire,
write to Miss Lloyd, 143, Clapham-road, S.W., secretary of the Mission
Training House for Ladies, The Poplars, Addlestone, Surrey.

CLARRIE.—The author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” is Mrs. Craik, _née_
Muloch.

DEEPLY ANXIOUS.—Be at peace. You have confessed to God and a sister,
and have truly repented and made restitution. There is no occasion for
your telling anyone else, nor of doing more than making the little
present you propose to give. Sin under all these circumstances is sin
forgiven.

POSSIE.—The edelweiss is an Alpine flower. It resembles a star, with
irregular rays, cut out of frosted velvet, of a cream colour, and
there is a pretty centre to it. So many travellers have carried away
the roots of this plant, that the Swiss Government has issued an order
prohibiting it under a penalty.

STAR.—We have many times warned inquirers that those who advertise
for used English postage stamps do so for nefarious purposes—that is
to say, they obliterate the postmarks and defraud the Government by
selling them for use a second time. For felony like this the severest
punishment is due. Do not lend yourself to such evil doings.

GWEN.—The little roll or piece of bread used at dinner is generally
placed within the folds of the napkin or at the right of the plate.

VENTNOR LASSIE.—You should take the prescription to a good chemist.
He will understand all about it, and give further directions; but our
advice is, leave nature alone, and do not mind the quizzing. If they
saw you were quite indifferent to it they would desist.

MARGARET.—There is a swimming club held in the Queen’s-road, Bayswater,
just beyond Whiteley’s, besides at 309, Regent-street, W., and
elsewhere.

MAYFLY.—There is a Home of Rest at Malvern, where girls in business,
ladies of small means, and servants may be received at from 7s. to
£1 per week. Members of the Girls’ Friendly Society are taken at the
lowest rate named, and any respectable girls recommended by two members
or two associates of that society will be eligible and received, room
permitting.

GRANDPAPA’S WORRY.—1. We must refer you to advice already given in
our pages respecting the constitutionally damp condition of either
hands or feet. There is no such thing as “fate.” 2. There is a Divine
Providence, and we are told that evils threatened, and even prophesied
by God’s command, may be averted through repentance and prayer. Nothing
happens by chance, and not only this world, but the whole universe, is
ruled and sustained with a regularity and method like that of the most
perfect clockwork.

SMIKE.—The 29th of February, 1865, was a Wednesday.

SCOTCH NELL.—We should prefer the Shetland pony, if well trained and
sure-footed, for our own use.

LUCY must take the pebbles to a lapidary and have them drilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 176: Dittograph “not” corrected—“does not always merit”.]