The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 365, December 25, 1886
    
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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 365, December 25, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: June 20, 2021 [eBook #65651]

Language: English

Credits: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII, NO. 365, DECEMBER 25, 1886 ***




[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 365.      DECEMBER 25, 1886.      PRICE ONE PENNY.]




WHERE HEAVEN BEGINS.

BY RUTH LAMB.


    Not at the gates of pearl or streets of gold,
      Not with the endless day or songs of praise;
    In meeting those above we loved below,
      Or echoing back their new, exultant lays.

    Not in the thought of tears for ever dried,
      Of pain, want, weariness and sorrow fled;
    Or in the thought that nothing there can part
      Those loved and lost ones whom we call “Our dead.”

    So vast our heritage, we claim all these,
      For Jesus bought them, made our title clear;
    Yet, blessed thought! for heaven we need not want—
      Our Lord is with us, and our heaven is here.

    No night, no fear, if Christ within us dwell;
      Above where Jesus reigns can be no night.
    Heaven here with Jesus, and His hand shall lead
      O’er Death’s dark threshold into life and light.

[Illustration: “ABOVE WHERE JESUS REIGNS CAN BE NO NIGHT.”]

_All rights reserved._]




THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

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


CHAPTER XII.

John Shelley’s White Ram was a great success; up to Friday everything
had gone well; the puddings and cakes had been pronounced excellent,
the beer first rate; and though there had been no stint, John had kept
his word, and no one had as yet been any the worse for it. The tent,
too, was voted a great improvement on a close kitchen, and there, when
supper was over, the men sat smoking and singing their sheep-shearing
songs, while Jack and Fairy listened outside, Jack having hitherto
resisted all his father’s invitations to sup with the other shearers,
in which Fairy, knowing his feelings, assisted him, and, to please her,
John did not press it.

On Friday evening, when Jack and the other shearers came back earlier
than usual, it was found that Charlie had forgotten to bring home a
lamb that was ailing and required nursing, so, as John Shelley could
not be spared from the supper, and Charlie by no means inclined to go,
Jack, tired as he was, set off to fetch it. While he was gone, the last
of the series of suppers went on in the tent, and was over and the
singing begun before he returned. Fairy wandered out into the field to
listen to the men’s voices as they sang their favourite song.[1]

    “Here the rosebuds in June and the violets are blowing,
    The small birds they warble from every green bough;
      Here’s the pink and the lily,
      And the daffydowndilly
    To adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
    ’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
    But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.

    “Our shepherds rejoice in their fine heavy fleeces,
    And frisky young lambs which their flocks do increase.
      Each lad takes his lass
      All on the green grass,
      Where the pink and the lily,
      And the daffydowndilly
    Do adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
    ’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
    But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.

    “Here stands our brown jug, and ’tis filled with good ale,
    Our table, our table shall increase and not fail.
      We’ll joke and we’ll sing,
      And dance in a ring,
      Where the pink and the lily,
      And the daffydowndilly
    Do adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
    ’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
    And the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.”

As the men sung these verses to a swinging tune, which if not very
high musical art, at any rate had plenty of go in it, and suited the
occasion, Fairy strolled across the meadow into the road by which she
knew Jack would come, to meet him. She had not gone very far before
she saw him coming, with his crook in one hand, and what looked like a
dead lamb dangling in the other. As he got closer she saw this was the
case, and there was a frown on Jack’s handsome face; though vexed and
tired as he was, he smiled when he saw Fairy, and Jack’s smile was a
singularly sweet one, which lighted up his whole face.

“Is it dead, Jack?” asked Fairy, sympathetically.

“Yes, and all for the sake of a little care. If Charlie had only had
the sense to bring it home with him we might have saved it; he must
have seen it was dying when he came away, but all he thinks of is
getting home to the White Ram. I wish there weren’t such a thing, for
if I had not been forced to leave my sheep to that boy for the sake of
the shearing it would not have died, I am sure.”

“Poor little lamb. I am very sorry for you, Jack; but it is the first
you have ever lost, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and if I had my way, I would give Charlie such a thrashing that
he would take pretty good care it was the last. Lazy, careless young
scamp!” said Jack.

“Never mind, Jack, he will always be lazy; it is his nature, just as it
is yours to be always poring over books; but come home and have some
supper; you look tired out; mother has saved some for you. What are you
going to do with that lamb?”

“Bury it; but I will have some supper first,” said Jack, leaving the
lamb just inside the gate of the field, which they had now reached.

Unfortunately, just at that moment Charlie came rushing out of the tent
from which the chorus “of the pink and the lily and the daffydowndilly”
was still rolling, shouting for Fairy at the top of his voice. He was
flushed and excited, his blue eyes sparkled, and he looked just what
he was—a healthy, happy, lazy, labouring boy of sixteen, fresh and
clean, but in thick shoes and corduroys, and not the least pretension
in manner or appearance to be anything but a shepherd’s lad, thoroughly
enjoying his first shearing-feast. As soon as he saw Fairy he ran up
to her, and seizing her by the waist, cried—

“Come along, Fairy, let us have a dance.”

“Don’t, Charlie, I don’t want to dance; I am going to give Jack his
supper,” said Fairy, pushing him away.

“Nonsense! let Jack get his own supper. Come along.

    ‘Each lad takes his lass,
    All on the green grass,’”

sung Charlie again, seizing Fairy by the waist; but before the words
were out of his mouth, Jack, in an ungovernable fit of temper, had
raised his crook, intending to give his brother a good stroke across
the shoulders with it, but Charlie, turning his head suddenly round to
see what was coming, met the blow, which fell heavily across his right
temple. He staggered backwards half-stunned, and fell to the ground,
striking the back of his head in his fall against the stone gate-post.

There he lay insensible, and for the moment both Jack and Fairy
thought he was killed on the spot. Down on their knees beside him they
both knelt. All Jack’s anger vanished, and only a terrible fear, too
terrible for words, taking possession of his heart.

“Oh, Jack, Jack, what shall we do? what shall we do? Charlie, Charlie,
do open your eyes! Oh, Jack, has he fainted? What is it?”

“I don’t know, Fairy. Fetch mother, will you? We must carry him into
the house,” said Jack, trying to feel if Charlie’s heart were still
beating.

Fairy flew rather than ran into the kitchen, where Mrs. Shelley was
sitting resting after her hard week’s work, listening to the shearing
songs, and watching lest Jack’s supper should burn. In spite of the
hard work, perhaps partly because of it, it had been a very happy week
to her, for she was very proud of John’s position as captain of the
company, and up to the present nothing had occurred to spoil the feast;
it had been as merry as any “White Ram” ever was, but no excess, no
coarse jokes, no irreverent jests had ever been attempted, and Mrs.
Shelley knew, if her husband did not, that his presence was in itself
enough to prevent their occurrence. And now what an ending it was to
have.

“Mother! mother! come and help Jack! Charlie is dead, we are afraid,”
cried Fairy, standing on the threshold, her great eyes open wider than
ever, and her pale cheeks testifying there was at any rate some truth
in her words.

Mrs. Shelley was not a nervous woman, and she did not for a moment
believe Charlie was killed, though she rose immediately to go and see
what was the matter.

“Killed; nonsense, he has fainted, I suppose. Where is he? What has
happened?” she asked, as she followed Fairy.

“By the gate. Jack wants you to help to carry him indoors; he is
insensible.”

“Insensible! What has made him insensible? How did it all happen?”

“I don’t know, it was all so quick. Charlie wanted me to dance with
him, and Jack was angry because his lamb is dead, and he hit Charlie
with his crook, and somehow Charlie fell and knocked his head against
the stone gate-post,” said Fairy.

They were close to Charlie and Jack, and Mrs. Shelley saw at a glance
it was a more serious matter than she had at first supposed, and
having, like Jack, a quick imagination, as well as a quick temper, she
guessed what had prompted Jack to raise his hand against his brother,
and, for the first time in her life, she turned and spoke unkindly to
Fairy.

“Go out of my sight; it is all your fault; but for you there would
never have been strife between my boys. Fool that I was to take you
in, when something warned me, even then, it would lead to no good. Oh!
Jack, Jack, my son, my son, what are we to do?”

Even then, in the first flow of her grief, Mrs. Shelley’s sympathy
seemed to be for her darling son who had struck the unlucky blow, and
not for the poor boy stretched lifeless, to all appearance, on the
ground.

“Get him indoors first, mother, and then I will run to Lewes for the
doctor. If you will take his feet, we can easily manage him.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure; we don’t want all those men to know what has
happened. Your father will be out in a few minutes for some more ale,
and then we can tell him,” said Mrs. Shelley, helping Jack to carry
Charlie to the house.

Again Mrs. Shelley was thinking of her eldest boy. If, indeed, Charlie
were killed, she knew it would be a terrible thing for Jack, and in
any case she did not want all this shearing company to know what had
happened, and gossip about it.

As she and Jack carried Charlie to the house, Fairy followed,
trembling, and wondering what Mrs. Shelley’s cruel words meant. Why
was it her fault? What had she done? When had she wilfully stirred up
strife between the boys? And where was she to go out of Mrs. Shelley’s
sight? Was she to be turned out of the house because poor Charlie was
dangerously hurt? Frightened and grieved for Charlie and Jack, cut to
the quick by Mrs. Shelley’s words, Fairy threw herself on the bench
outside the door, and burst into tears.

A minute or two later, John Shelley, coming out of the tent to fetch
some more beer from the house, saw the unwonted sight of Fairy crying
as if her heart would break.

“Fairy! Why, my pet, what is it? Crying at my White Ram. What is the
matter?” he asked, laying his hand on the bowed golden head.

“Oh John, John!” sobbed Fairy, clinging to him, “poor Charlie is
dreadfully hurt; it was partly an accident and partly Jack hit him, and
he fell, and he is insensible. Go in and see. I mustn’t come.”

John had not time to stop and ask why Fairy must not come, but went in
to the little sitting-room, where Jack and Mrs. Shelley were applying
restoratives to the still insensible Charlie.

“What is this?” said the shepherd, glancing sternly from the prostrate
Charlie to Jack, who dared not meet his father’s glance.

“Hush, John! it is a terrible business—listen.” And in a few words Mrs.
Shelley, who had heard from Jack exactly how it occurred, told her
husband the story, and what prompted the unfortunate blow.

“Poor boys, poor boys! Jack, Jack, what were you thinking of?” cried
John Shelley, stooping over Charlie to try and see where he was hurt.

“He is alive, thank God; perhaps he is only stunned; we must go for Dr.
Bates at once,” said John, after a brief examination of Charlie.

Here a stifled sob broke from Jack, who was standing with his head
buried on his elbow which he was leaning on the corner of the
chimney-piece, and caused the shepherd to turn to the son who was
suffering far the most acutely. John crossed the room to his eldest
son, and put his arm round his neck. He did not say a word, but as
Jack grasped his father’s hand, he knew that he not only forgave him,
but sympathised with him also. If they had never understood each other
before they understood each other now, these two, as they stood half
broken-hearted by the chimney-piece. Jack understood that whatever
trouble might be in store for him in consequence of his hasty act,
his father would be his friend and do his best to help him; he knew,
too, that he would never hear a word of blame from his lips, for as
children, the shepherd had ever been wont to forgive them directly they
showed any signs of repentance, and it did not require much penetration
to see that Jack already bitterly regretted his hasty temper. And the
shepherd understood what it was that had roused Jack’s anger; in fact,
at any rate, he could quite sympathise with his vexation and annoyance
at the death of the lamb, and he guessed at his jealousy with regard to
Fairy, for Jack’s love for her was no secret to his father.

“Jack, some one must go for the doctor at once. Will you, or shall I?”
asked the shepherd.

“Oh! I will, I can go quicker; besides, you can’t leave the men yet,”
said Jack, rising and seizing his hat.

“That is the best plan; I can’t dismiss these men yet, but I will tell
them we have had a bad accident, so I can’t ask them to stay late, and
I’ll come in every few minutes, Polly, to see how you are going on,”
said the shepherd, as Jack left the house.

All this happened much quicker than it has taken to tell, and ten
minutes after the blow was struck Jack was running across the fields
to Lewes like a madman, knowing that his brother’s life hung in the
balance. While he was gone John Shelley told the men in the tent his
youngest boy had met with a serious accident, and was lying between
life and death, and, to their credit, the men unanimously stopped
singing and took their departure before Jack returned with the doctor.

So ended John Shelley’s first White Ram.

(_To be continued._)


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Taken from the Sussex Archæological Collections (out of print).




A VEXED “WOMAN’S QUESTION.”

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.


There is no more vexed “woman’s question” than that of “clothes.” It
has been said that if we see how a man regards money and deals with it,
we see the whole character of the man; and we think it is equally true
that if we find out how a woman or girl feels and acts about clothes,
we should have an excellent key to her nature and history.

There is the woman to whom “clothes” are the object of life. This does
not necessarily mean that she is a rich woman, who can spend much
money, nor does it mean that she succeeds in being a well-dressed
woman. She may be one of those who indulge in what the poet Crabbe
called “The piteous patchwork of the needy vain,” and who send “one
poor robe through fifty fashions”; or she may be a millionaire, always
on the alert to catch up the latest fashionable outrage on good taste
and good sense. Only in either case, dress is always foremost in her
thoughts. The first question she asks about any public event is, “What
did the ladies wear?” Her first anxiety concerning any crisis in her
own life is, “What shall I put on?” At church she remembers the
bonnets and not the text; and the moment she enters an evening party
she appraises all the toilets present, and is unhappy unless hers
is the most modish and costly, whether it be with the costliness of
Worth’s latest whim from the Continent, or of the last box of frippery
received at the village shop.

If she feels that any reflection is cast on her waste of time and
expenditure of money in the matter of dress, she defends herself in the
following manner—that she owes it to society to look nice; that it is
everybody’s duty to make the most pleasant appearance; that it is well
to employ labour and to put money into circulation, etc., etc. If she
has “gone in” for “culture,” perhaps she may quote Browning—

    “Be thy beauty
    Thy sole duty,” etc.

On the other extreme there is the woman who does not care a bit for
dress; who says she wishes we were born covered with black fur, or that
we might cut holes in a sack for our feet and arms, and tie it up round
our necks! She carries out her words so far as generally to appear in
garments specially unsuitable to the occasion on which they are worn,
and seems arrayed in remnants and oddments, chosen without any regard
to her age, complexion, or circumstances; she thinks getting up a lace
fichu is “a waste of time,” and finds it too much “bother” to wear the
little ornaments with which family affection may have provided her.
She defends herself from any charge of slovenliness by pointing to the
swamp of petty frivolity in which too many female lives are sunk, and
avers that she scorns any regard which would be influenced by what she
wore or did not wear. It may be said in her favour that she generally
grows tidier and trimmer as she advances in life, and, proving much
more amenable to the criticisms of “her young people” than she was to
the raillery of school friends and cousins, is often a matron of comely
and attractive appearance.

Then there remains the great multitude between these extremes—a
multitude who does not quite know its own mind, and cannot find any
principle whereby to regulate its movements; who wants to look pretty
and to please, yet is afflicted in its conscience when it reflects on
the sin of personal vanity, and on our responsibility for the souls
and bodies which are perishing at our gates; a multitude who is sadly
tossed between the conflicting arguments of the more strongly-biassed
ladies whom we have just described, with the demoralising result that
it generally leans in practice towards the former, and in theory
towards the latter.

It is this great multitude of girls and women whom we would like to
help by offering a few broad principles for their consideration;
for principles underlie everything. And it is only by our grasp on
principles that we can guide ourselves through the ever-varying details
of duty.

Let us say at once that it is the right of all to be well dressed,
because that means to be dressed suitably to the climate and
circumstances in which they live, and to their occupation, age, and
appearance. A woman may be quite as well dressed in print and serge as
in velvet and satin. When you hear people complaining that “nowadays
everybody will go so well dressed,” you hear a misuse of language;
and language loosely used is a dangerous thing; because it leads to
looseness of idea. Nobody has any right to complain of anybody’s being
well dressed. What they really mean is that these are unsuitably
dressed. And there is a great deal of unsuitable dress in the world
of the kind, more or less in degree, of that seen in the daughter of
a _parvenu_ millionaire of the Western States, who, when she went to
a sensible New England seminary, where the young ladies were expected
to wait on themselves, descended to the scullery in a velvet robe and
diamond earrings!

Anybody, therefore, is not well dressed whose attire unfits her for
the performance of those actions which _ought_ to be her duty. The
tight-laced, be-flounced be-trained damsel proclaims to the world her
utter unwomanliness. The nursery would soon make havoc in her finery.
Let us hope she would never carry it into a sick room, and in the
kitchen it would be a nuisance and a bad example. But then “Isn’t it
pretty for wearing in the parlour during those hours when we are doing
nothing?” Let us reply with other questions: “Ought there to be hours
when we are doing nothing?” And “In providing ourselves with clothes
only fit for such occasions, are we not falling into the error we often
smile at in working men who will buy stiff, uncomely Sunday garments
of broadcloth and silk hats, instead of providing themselves with gala
suits of the sensible tweed that will serve afterwards for work-a-day
wear?”

We began by saying that everybody has a right to be well dressed in the
true meaning of the phrase. But, as Ruskin says in his grand “Letter
to Young Girls,” “Although in a truly Christian land every young girl
would be dressed beautifully and delightfully: in this entirely heathen
and Baal-worshipping land of ours, not one girl in ten has either
decent or healthy clothing, and you have no business, till this be
amended, to wear anything fine yourself.” And Jean Ingelow, a writer
with whose works you cannot too soon make acquaintance, brings this
indictment against our sex—“For them mainly are the gorgeous pageants,
are the costly clothes, the gold lace, the carpets of velvet pile, the
diamonds and the splendours of life. The pride of life is in their
souls, and mainly for them. It is luxury that stands in the way of the
civilised world, so that men cannot marry young and be happy. For the
earth does not produce unbounded riches for a few while yet the many
can have enough. Equality is a word without meaning or possibility; but
notwithstanding, squalor and destitution might be things outside our
experience, as should be luxury and waste.”

This brings us to the principle that should guide our expenditure,
whether the sum at our command be large or small. Of material we should
buy the best and most durable within reach of our purse. We have no
right to keep people employed in weaving and making up useless and
perishable shoddy articles. It is a dishonour to them to do such work,
and if they are forced to do it that they may get bread to eat, we
are keeping them in the worst kind of slavery. That we pay them for
it does not make it any better, any more than if we paid them for any
other degrading and wasteful service. We insult them by taking their
industry and trampling it under foot, as if they had no concern in
their work, but only in their wages. How can the industrial classes
retain self-respect under such circumstances? And when self-respect is
lost, respect for others always goes also. Quite lately we saw a lady
sitting in a dressmaker’s room watching the “setting-up” of what was
considered a very grand garment. Its materials were certainly of the
costliest, but it had yards of delicate silk trailing on the ground to
an extent that must have ensured their speedy destruction, even on the
most ceremonious occasion, and over the short front skirt hung masses
of tulle, festooned by elaborate iridescent glass drops, worthy of the
decoration of a South Sea Island god! Seeing our friend’s grave face,
we asked her what she was thinking of, and she replied, “I am thinking
of the men who wove that silk to be trodden on, and the girls who sewed
those beads to be smashed. Poor things! I would rather be the grimiest
maid-of-all-work toiling for real human needs, or the roughest tailor
or cobbler, working to cover honest human nakedness.”

Let all dress, therefore, always be as durable as can be, both in
material and mode. As to “fashion,” even that has a root of necessity
and common sense, because dress must change as social habits and
customs change. Ruskin advises that no garment should ever be thrown
aside because unfashionable, and that no costly fashion should ever be
followed. Think what that word “costly” involves. Tight lacing, heavy
flouncing, open bodices, high heels, and so forth, costly of health;
dead birds’ wings, and everything else costly of suffering; complicated
trimmings, costly of time and human energy in a world where there are
thousands of little children growing up ill taught, thousands of sick
people dying ill tended, thousands of industrious folk slaving to death
for a paltry pittance.

It seems to us that when a lady has once discovered the dress best
suited to her age, appearance, and condition—the ideal robe in which
she would wish to be painted for the eyes of unborn generations—her
future study will be, not how much she can “follow the fashion,” but
how little she need follow it to escape singularity. Fashion has
nothing to do with a desire to be pleasant in the sight of others.
Let any of our readers turn to the graceful studies of girl-life
with which M. E. E. makes us so familiar, and then to the figures in
any fashion-plate, and ask themselves candidly which are most likely
to commend themselves to the eye of artistic taste or of domestic
affection?

And here we come to the matter of making ourselves “fair to see.” This
is a decided duty. We have to make ourselves attractive to those whose
love we desire, and to those from whose wisdom we wish approval. But we
imagine that the desire to be loved and approved has a very small share
in extravagance and fantasticalness in dress. Let us speak out plainly.
We seldom befrill and bedeck ourselves, and waste time and money,
to please our parents or friends, but rather to spite and outshine
our “dearest enemies” among our female acquaintances. Suitability of
style, dainty freshness, and tasteful variety will always satisfy
love; and good sense, combined with a little industry and taste, will
easily secure these desirable objects. I remember the approving notice
bestowed by a great divine and philanthropist on the appearance of a
young literary woman, who, travelling under difficult and troublesome
conditions, was provided with a very few dresses of the plainest
quality and style, but who by artfully varied arrangements of muslin
or lace and coquettish little additions of tasteful ribbon, managed to
give her friends’ eyes an ever-new surprise and pleasure. Can there
be a prettier picture than that of a modest little maiden trying how
a rose-coloured bow will brighten her sober dress, to please papa—or
perhaps somebody else?

And now we come to the consideration of “luxury.” If we are always
to remember the ignorant and the starving, are we never to have
anything whose price might have paid teachers or bought bread? Let
us hear Ruskin again:—“What of fine dress your people insist upon
your wearing, take and wear proudly and prettily for their sakes.”
Let us never seek luxury of any sort—let us rather avoid it; but let
us still accept it with delight when it comes to us by the hands of
genuine love. The diamond in a girl’s engagement ring, the gold locket
enclosing her mother’s portrait, the dainty filigree bracelet sent
by her brother abroad, the exquisite lace set worked by her dearest
friends, are on quite a different line from the fashionable jewellery
and ornaments which she buys for herself or teases her relatives to buy
for her—as different (with all reverence be it written) as the gift of
the alabaster box of precious ointment tendered by a loving woman to
her Master is different from the cases of Rimmel’s perfume which are
squandered at every ball.

And thus we see that the great principle which underlies this
vexed “woman’s question” of clothes is the great principle of love
itself—love, serving others, considering others; love bestowing, love
receiving. Such love needs no law, being itself the highest law.




THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

BY EMMA BREWER.


CHAPTER III.

You want to know where they obtained the money in order to lend it?
Well, from all those who had money to deposit—the merchants, the widows
and orphans whose small incomes were derived from money lodged with the
bankers; these all received a small interest from the goldsmiths, who
lent their money again at a much larger interest; so you can see that
when the king refused to pay, it was not possible either to return the
principal or pay the interest to those of whom they had borrowed. Great
was the distress, therefore, not only among the merchants, but among
all who had lodged their money with the goldsmiths. The voice of the
people grew so loud and angry, that at length Charles found himself
compelled to pay the interest, though he never paid back the capital.
In 1625 King Charles sent the Duke of Buckingham to Holland to borrow
£300,000 on the pledge of the Crown jewels.

You can see by what I have told you how difficult it was for the people
to find secure places wherein to deposit their money, and how ruinous
was the interest demanded if, on the other hand, they desired to
borrow. Great, indeed, was the need of some establishment capable of
advancing money at a reasonable rate on the security of Parliamentary
grants. One or two private bankers of high repute strove to improve
matters. Especially may I mention Child and Hoare. To the former by
common consent belongs the celebrity of having the first banking house,
which was established in 1620 on the site of the present building;
and I am proud to bear testimony to the fact that from that year to
the present day, all through the troublous times of banking, it has
maintained the high position and respectability in which Mr. Francis
Child left it.[2] Hoare’s bank was established in 1680.

These men did something towards steadying the money market; but it was
left to me to clear the country of the insecurity and rapacity which
had so long obtained.

Before proceeding with my personal history, I should like to explain
a certain method of keeping accounts before I came into power, which
accounts I strictly paid up as they fell due. It was known by the name
of _tallies_,[3] or _tally_.

“The word ‘tallies’ is derived from the French, and signifies cutting.
The tallies were pieces of wood cut in a peculiar manner to correspond
or tally. For example, a stick of hazel or some other wood, well dried
and seasoned, was cut square and uniform at each end. The sum of money
which it bore was cut in notches (a notch signifying so much, according
to the size) in the wood by the cutter of the tallies, and likewise
written upon two sides of it by the writer of the tallies. The tally
was cleft in the middle by the deputy chamberlain with a knife and
mallet, whereby it made two halves, each half having a superscription
and a half-part of the notch or notches. Thus cut, one part was
called a tally, the other a counter-tally. When these two parts came
afterwards to be joined, if they were genuine they fitted so exactly as
to be parts one of the other.”[4]

You will understand, therefore, “that the notches corresponded to the
sum for which it was an acknowledgment; the writing on the other sides
containing the date and the payer. The rod was so cut that each half
contained one written side and half of every notch. One part was kept
in the Exchequer and the other was circulated.

“When the time of payment arrived, the two parts were compared, and
if they tallied or corresponded all was right; if not, there was some
fraud, and payment was refused. Tallies were not finally abandoned in
the Exchequer till 1834.”

Having thus cleared the ground, I will proceed with my story.

You already know of the sensation which my appearance in the world
caused, but I have not yet told you that I started in life with the
sanction and support of the Government, and that I received my Charter
of Incorporation, as it was called, on the day I was born.

Those who had the charge of me found it no easy matter to fulfil all
that was demanded of them by the Government for my safety. For, by Act
of Parliament, passed especially for my benefit, they were authorised
and commanded to raise the sum of £1,200,000 within a given time by
voluntary subscriptions, and in case of their failing to do this, I was
to lose my charter.

This was a most difficult undertaking, and under the circumstances
its success was doubtful; for, as you may suppose, I had many enemies
among the money-lenders and people opposed to the Government, who, from
self-interest, did all in their power to ruin me. Happily, however,
the subscriptions came pouring in from individuals, both native and
foreign, and from bodies political and bodies corporate, and that so
rapidly that within ten days the whole sum was obtained and my charter
secured; and thus, bound together with the subscribers, I became a
corporate body, under the name of the Governor and Company of the Bank
of England.

And now I must tell you that with this £1,200,000, my original capital,
I did my first stroke of business, which was to lend it to the
Government, who were in want of money to prosecute the war, and who
for the loan of it paid me interest at the rate of 8 per cent., with a
further allowance of £4,000 a year for management, which, if you reckon
up, you will find afforded me an income of £100,000 per annum—a nice
little sum to start in life with.

To understand my position, you must hear something of my household and
my housekeeping.

It was deemed needful and proper that I should have a governor,
sub-governor, and twenty-four directors, all of whom, it was decided,
must be either natural-born subjects or have been naturalised; and
further to render them eligible for my service, they must have a
certain sum of my stock—Bank of England Stock—standing in their
names and for their use. The governor must possess £4,000 of it, the
sub-governor £3,000, and each director £2,000, at least.

Regarding my position at this present time, you will scarcely believe
how simple and economical was my way of living originally. I occupied
only one room in the hall of the Grocers’ Company, and employed but
fifty-four assistants, whose united salaries did not exceed £4,350.

I must here state that my governors and directors were no expense to
me, but served me without proposing any advantage to themselves, save
and except the interest they would receive from their contributions to
the capital stock of £1,200,000, and the position they would derive
from being of my household.

It was in this one room, with almost primitive simplicity, we lived and
performed the duties of our household. I have a letter in my pocket,
yellow with age and almost crumbling to pieces, written by a gentleman
who paid me a visit in the days of my youth. He writes: “I looked into
the great hall where the bank is kept, and was not a little pleased
to see the directors, secretaries, and clerks, with all the other
members of that wealthy corporation, ranged in their several stations,
according to the parts they held in that just and regular economy.”

[Illustration: GOLDSMITHS’ ROW.]

It is a pleasant picture which he draws, and one that I love to look
back upon. I think we all derived benefit from working together in
that intimate and kindly manner; it made us strong and of one mind. Of
course, I have grown quite accustomed to a much grander way of living;
it is a sign of my prosperity and my usefulness, and I am thankful, but
I am afraid if you came upon me unawares in my grand parlour you would
find me with a sad sort of yearning for the early primitive simplicity
and kindly feeling.

Many were the rules and regulations I was subject to in those early
days, and even now, all powerful as I feel myself to be, I am still
governed by them. They were irksome, but I never thought of rebelling,
for I knew that their object was to give me a high position and keep me
out of the way of temptation to meanness and dishonour.

One was that I must never trade in any wares, goods, or merchandise
whatever.

Another, that I was never to borrow or owe more than the amount of my
capital, and that if I ventured to disregard this command I should
bring down punishment on the heads of those whose money had endowed me
with my fortune.

Again, I was strictly forbidden to pay any dividend at any time save
only out of this same capital or stock.

Yet one more, I was to lend no money to the Government without the
consent of the Parliament, under a penalty of three times the sum lent,
one-fifth of which was to go to the informer.

How little I thought that a strict adherence and submission to this
early discipline would pave the way to a future in which my movements
would influence the whole body of the public, my opinions and
determinations affect all the markets of the world, and in which my
one room would have extended itself beyond three acres of ground; but
I must not get on too fast—you will see all this for yourselves as the
years of my history roll on.

My early life was not without its cares and struggles which strained
to the utmost the talents and energy of my household. I was but three
years old when I was first attacked, not as you may think, by scarlet
fever or measles, but by ill-treatment and cruel sarcasm.

A child, by name _Land Bank_, living at Exeter Change, not very far
distant from Grocers’ Hall, was ridiculous enough to set up as my
rival. Had she confined herself to fair play while striving to win
from me public favour, I think I should rather have enjoyed it, but
believing that all things were allowable in love and war, she descended
to be spiteful, and being gifted with humour and wit she used them
against me without mercy.

Papers were circulated in all directions with the one view of injuring
me. You will be able to see them, as I have preserved copies—

Here is one—“The trial and condemnation of the Land Bank at Exeter
Change, for murdering the Bank of England at Grocers’ Hall.”

Another, which had a wide circulation, was one supposed to be my last
will and testament, in which “I bequeathed my obstinacy and blunders,
my self-conceit, my blindness, my fears,” and in which “I commanded my
body to be burned lest my creditors should arrest my corpse.”

A third contained an epitaph—

“Here lies the body of the Bank of England, who was born in the year
1694—died May 5th, 1696, in the third year of her age.

“They had issue legitimate by their common seal £1,200,000 called bank
bills, and by their cashier two million sons—called Speed’s notes.”

These papers, so widely circulated, were not without their effect, and
for some time I and my people were in no enviable position. We had to
struggle for a precarious existence—in fact, we had a difficulty to
make the two ends meet.

My notes were at a heavy discount, and I had not always the money
to meet the demands of my creditors. And, just as it always happens
when one is short of money, everybody wanted to borrow of me, amongst
others the Government sadly pressed me for a loan. Oh dear, that was
a troubled period of my life, but help came and prevented disaster by
tiding me over the difficulty.

It was very long before I found myself in a like dilemma, for I soon
learned that to be short of money or, in fact, any difficulty in money
matters, would deprive me of the confidence of the public, and that
would never do; for to me, more than to anyone, confidence was money.

It was cruel behaviour of the Land Bank, but fortunately, except that
it gave me a period of great anxiety, it did me no permanent harm.
Indeed, now that I look back upon it from this distance of time, I
think it was clever of the Land Bank to handicap me, a young beginner,
with her weight of merciless wit, a thing very hard to deal with, or
even to trace, when once it has issued from mouth or pen.

This little trouble being over, we went about our daily work in the one
room as usual; work, which was gradually increasing both in quantity
and responsibility, occupied us from morning till night, and the way in
which we performed it called forth many a word of praise. I remember
seeing the following in a journal which encouraged and pleased me
greatly—

“There never was a body that contributed more to the public safety than
the Bank of England, and who upon every emergency has cheerfully and
readily supplied the necessities of the nation, and in many important
conjunctions has relieved the nation out of the greatest difficulties,
if not absolutely saved it from ruin.”

I may be excused for feeling proud, for I began to see that not only
was I fulfilling my mission, but that the world was aware of it.

The work which occupied my early days was very complicated, although it
fell far short of what I now perform. I will try and give you a little
idea of how I spent my days.

Picture to yourselves my one room, with its directors, clerks, and
secretaries each at his table or desk and ready for the special work
allotted to him.

You want to know where I sat, I, the young and handsome girl. Well, I
was everywhere, infusing life and energy and cheerfulness into all.

With clear head and accurate mind, I watched and verified every
transaction, encouraging and helping all who came to me as far as it
was possible, and giving my warnings gently where no help could be
extended.

All is ready for business—it is early morning—and soon the door opens
to admit a few at first who bring in their hands the peculiar sticks
notched and written on, which were called tallies, and which I have
explained to you in a previous part of my story. These people make
their way up to a certain table and ask that money may be given them in
exchange for the tallies.

This is readily granted for a certain consideration, provided the tally
be correct—or may be, they desired to lodge the sticks with me. In any
case I obliged them, and by my action I made tallies current payment
in the land which, as my friend, Michael Godfrey, stated in his quaint
pamphlet, “The country had long wish’t for,” and which certainly could
not have been effected without me.

If you watch, you will see others passing into the room, bringing
securities of many kinds and asking to borrow money upon them, which
was readily granted, at much less interest than had ever been demanded
before.

Others, who had confidence in me, came to ask that their money might be
lodged with me, to which I assented, telling them that not only would
we give them interest for the money so lodged with me, but that it
would be as much at their disposal as though kept in their cash-box at
home, and very much safer.

[Illustration: 1
  ________            ___________________________________________________________
 /        \    /\    /                                                           |
/          \  /  \  / De Edv̅o̅. Ironside Pip̅m̅. R. q mutu̅a̅t̅ H Annuit ry—           \
| May Dril. \/    \/                                                             \
|            Kent. solubil. ex le Sinking Fund A^l. C^l. R. R. Georg. Sedi Conc. \
|      Mich^5 yjse die Octob^r. A^s R^i R^s Georg. Sede. xy.                     \
\                                                            /\    /\    /\      \
 \               /\  /\  /\  /\    /|  /|  /|  /|  /|  /|   /  \  /  \  /  \     \
  \___/\_/\_/\__/  \/  \/  \/  \__/ |_/ |_/ |_/ |_/ |_/ |__/    \/    \/    \____\

No. 1 is an exact copy of a section of an Exchequer Tally acknowledging
the receipt of £236 4s. 3½d. on Oct. 25, 1739, from Edward Ironside
Esq., as a loan to the King on Three per Cent. Annuities.]

[Illustration: 2

   ______________            ____________________________________________________
  /             /\    /\    /                                                    |
 /             /  \  /  \  /                                                     \
/             /    \/    \/                                                      \
\                                                                                \
 \                                                                               \
  \______________________________________________________________________________\

No. 2.—Each large notch represents £100, and a single cut of the notch
signifies half the amount. Thus the upper line of No. 2 represents
£250.]

It was to the interest of all concerned in my establishment to
reduce the interest of money, otherwise we could not have used it to
advantage. We were receiving only 8 per cent. for my stock; the lower,
therefore, we brought all other interest, the more valuable was my
stock.

Previous to my starting in life, the nation had been paying from 12 to
20 per cent. interest for money, which, if it had continued, must have
ruined the kingdom; and as, by the way I did my work, this would be
no longer necessary or possible, those who had been, up to this time,
making money in this fashion, were compelled to spend it on land or
lend it at a moderate rate.

Others came in during the day to have their foreign bills of exchange
discounted, which I did at the rate of 3 per cent. per annum,
undertaking the inland bills and notes for debts at 4½ per cent. per
annum.

This was the kind of work which I performed in my early days, and upon
which has been built up that wonderful fabric of money transactions
associated with my name in this the nineteenth century. I am afraid the
very relation of my day’s work two hundred years ago has wearied you;
if so, forgive me. I felt it necessary to my character to show you that
the work undertaken by me from the very first was good and honourable,
conscientious and helpful, and that wherever my household did a good
stroke of business for itself it was not at the expense of others’
ruin; on the contrary, we could not help ourselves to riches without
extending the benefit all round.

(_To be continued._)


FOOTNOTES:

[2] He kept his money-chests in old Temple Bar.

[3] The revenue was often anticipated by tallies.

[4] Madox: “History of the Exchequer.”




CHRISTMAS IN ITALY.


We were spending a winter on the Riviera, and, after trying various
hotels in town and country, had finally established ourselves in a
pretty little Italian villa, _palazzino_, as the peasants called it,
not many miles from Genoa.

From the terraced garden there was a wide and splendid view. On our
left, as we looked seawards, was the city herself, her marble palaces
and churches rising crescent-wise behind the bay, which on the eastern
side is bounded by the headland of Porto Fino. Facing us was the
shining sweep of the Mediterranean; while to the right hand the Alpes
Maritimes trended away into the far distance, their giant peaks and
hollows an ever-present, ever-changing feast of colour—whether seen at
early dawn, a glory of rose and gold; or at sunset, a gorgeous vision
of amber and crimson, and softest, tenderest violet; or under the
southern moonlight, a study in oxydised silver.

For me mountains have always had a peculiar fascination, and no
landscape ever seems complete without them. I could spend, and, indeed,
did spend, when in Italy, many an hour in watching their changing hues.
But to-day none of our party had time for indulging in mere sentiment.
Throughout the week we had been rambling among the hills and valleys in
quest of mosses, ferns, and other greenery wherewith to decorate the
house; for this was Christmas week, and the day after to-morrow would
be Christmas Day itself.

How difficult it was, even as we worked at the familiar mottoes and
rejoiced over the holly, which, after a seemingly hopeless search, we
had at last found in a remote corner of the Doria woods—how difficult
it was, I say, to realise the fact that this was the 23rd of December.
Why, the garden was full of roses, camellias, and heliotrope; the air
was as soft as upon a summer’s day in England; and we were out of
doors in thin woollen dresses and large, shady hats, rejoicing in the
brilliant sunshine.

We had to give up our pleasant work early that afternoon, as we had
engaged to help at a children’s party given by a kindly English doctor
in the neighbouring village. He had hired a large room at the hotel,
and invited about forty children to a sumptuous tea; and, though
wintering abroad for health’s sake, and with doubtless many an anxious
thought for wife and little ones at home, he most unselfishly catered
upon this evening for the amusement of “other folks’ children.”

The long table was covered with dainties such as little folks love,
while assiduous waiters handed round cups of delicious-looking coffee
and chocolate.

Tea over, there was an adjournment to another room in which all
kinds of merry romps were carried on for an hour or two, a general
distribution of presents took place, a hearty cheer was raised for the
kind doctor, and the young flock trooped gaily home.

Christmas Eve we spent in really hard work over our decorations. The
dining-room was made festive with mottoes in pine sprays and trophies
of orange-boughs laden with fruit, while the drawing-room was adorned
with maidenhair fern, lycopodium moss, arbutus-berries, and the
much-prized holly before mentioned. Then, about six p.m. we started to
spend the evening with some charming neighbours.

The host was German, his wife English, and their two children spoke
both languages with equal facility, adding thereto no mean proficiency
in Italian. An Italian marquis and his younger brother, a married
sister of our hostess, with her husband and little girl, a German
composer, with our own quartet, made up the party. We were at once
ushered into the room in which the Christmas tree had been placed; for
the children, at least, were on the tiptoe of excitement as to their
gifts; and thence, after due distribution thereof, we adjourned to the
dining-room for high tea.

The table was a picture, with its bowls of crimson or pale-pink
china roses. Each couvert had its own bouquet of heliotrope, fern,
and camellia; while the profusion of handsome silver and of ancient
Nuremberg glass combined still further to set off the tasteful
appearance of the whole. What with the many German dishes, and
the chatter of the German tongue all around me, I seemed to be
transferred bodily from the shores of the Mediterranean to the dear and
well-remembered Fatherland—an illusion which was not dispelled until an
hour or so later on, when we found ourselves walking homewards under
the brilliant, starlit sky of the south. On this particular night, too,
the stars were shining with a radiancy which in England would betoken
a hard frost; only that in this case the stars themselves looked so
much larger, and in many instances shone with such intensity as to make
themselves the centre of a distinct halo.

We met numbers of people on their way to midnight mass, either at the
various shrines in the mountains or at favourite churches in Genoa, and
at about eleven p.m. the bells began to ring, and went on at intervals
for four hours, when they ceased for a time, to recommence at five
a.m., and summon the worshippers to early mass.

I inaugurated Christmas in Italy by dressing with open windows, then
joined the younger members of our party in carol-singing outside
our hostess’s bedroom door; after which we all descended to the
dining-room—not, as it would have been, in England, to spread out icy
hands and feet to the welcome blaze of a roaring fire, but to open the
long French windows and to stand awhile upon the balcony watching the
lizards flitting swiftly in and out among the crevices of the marble,
and the green frogs jumping about the boughs of the orange-trees.

Breakfast in Italy was never a heavy meal; but to-day, in honour of the
day, polenta cake and chestnut bread were added to the usual omelette
and roll, to which due attention having been paid, we returned to the
balcony and eagerly awaited the postman.

He brought a goodly supply of letters for each of us, and with thankful
hearts we set out for morning service.

The church was full of roses—red, white, and yellow. Arbutus and fern
wreathed the east window and the chancel arch; and designs of roses
upon a mossy ground filled in the panels of lectern and reading desk
and the wide window-sills. There was, of course, a good attendance, and
all joined with spirit in the service; but our clergyman rather damped
the conclusion of it by preaching a very long and exceedingly dolorous
sermon, in which he harped upon “vacant chairs,” “absent friends,”
“broken circles,” and “dear invalids,” until he had reduced two-thirds
of the congregation to tears.

Our dinner-party included a few English friends staying at the hotel,
and one or two Italians, the latter being as much interested in our
national customs as we were in theirs. It was certainly quaint enough
to find that the Eastern Counties doggerel had its counterpart among
the shepherds of Sardinia, with whom it is generally used as a cradle
song.

    “Lu letto meo est de battor cantones,
    Et battor anghelos si bei ponem,
    Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta.
    Nostre Segnora a costazu m’istu.
    Ea mie narat: Dormi e reposa,
    No hapas paura de mala cosa.”

In Upper Italy they sing—

    “Dormi, dormi, O bel Bambin,
    Rè divin.
    Dormi, dormi, O fantolin,
    Fa la nanna, O caro giglio,
    Rè de Ciel.”

And a gentleman who joined us later on wound up our charming evening by
singing to a strange old chant the following Burgundian carol, written,
as my readers will perceive, in alternate lines of French and Latin:—

    “Voici la Roi des Nations,
    Natus ex sacra Virgine:
    Ce fils de bénédiction,
    Ortus de David seminæ;
    Voici l’Etoile de Jacob,
    Quam prædixerat Balaam:
    Ce Dieu qui détruisit Jéricho,
    In clara terra Chanaam.”




DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.

BY A LADY DRESSMAKER.


[Illustration: BELOW LAUNSTOWN CASTLE.]

The advent of new ideas in clothing has been later this year than
usual, and we were well into the middle of November before we
recognised many things as novelties in the shops, even though they were
well filled with new dress manufactures as usual. Stripes are a great
deal worn in all materials, but checked stuffs show signs of being
rather more popular, and the fine-lined checks with which we began the
autumn have grown into greater squares as the time has gone on. But
these new checks are not at all in the direction of Scotch plaids, nor
do they show any tendency to such garish colouring. Their hues are
singularly well chosen, and even when the plaid is large it is neither
ugly nor aggressively visible. They are never produced in more than two
shades of colour, and they are mostly made up with velvet of a dark
shade, nearly akin to that of the darkest shade of the plaid. These
woollen materials are coarse and heavy-looking, and nothing seems more
popular than serge and serge grounds to woollens of all kinds. Angola
wools, with their long, untidy-looking, hairy surfaces, are also much
liked; nor must I forget the new woollens, with stripes of braid in
high relief on them.

There are great numbers of fancy silk materials to mix with fine
woollens, such as chess-board designs in velvet and plush on a satin
ground; plain and fancy stripes in plush and velvet; velvet, with
crossbar designs in terry; brocaded silks, the brocade being in velvet,
terry, or plush; and silks with stripes in imitation of lace. All these
may be called trimming materials, and are used for underskirts for
woollen materials as well.

There are several things in the winter fashions which are quite fixed.
First, that there are no trains to any dresses, whatever people may
say—save and except to court dresses and the evening gowns worn by
a few dowagers who fancy old ways the best. The general idea with
reference to all draperies, overskirts, panels, and skirts is to give
length and height; therefore, those of my readers who are very tall
will have to use some judgment in choosing a skirt that shall not make
them look too gigantic. Most of the morning dresses are made of two
woollen materials, a better kind of walking or afternoon dress with
a woollen and silk material, such as I have described. There do not
appear to be any really short tunics, but some dresses have the long
overskirt more raised and bunched-up at one side than they have been.
The skirts are generally rather wider, but are not distended, except by
a moderate _tournure_. The collar, cuffs, and _revers_ are of the same
material as the underskirt, and bands of this material are put round
the edge of the overskirt. When this is a plaid it is cut on the bias,
and with plaids folds are very much used everywhere that they can be
introduced.

The chief changes that one has to chronicle are to be seen in the
sleeves of dresses, which, after remaining quite stationary and
unaltered for a long time, have now quite blossomed out into new beauty
of form, much of which, I think, is derived from Venetian portraiture.
The sleeves of evening gowns are all of this class, and have puffs of
thin material from the shoulders to the elbow; ending in a plain band
of velvet, or a puff of transparent material at the elbow. Some sleeves
have puffs inside the arm at the elbow, and end in a plain band or cuff
round the arm. In the daytime deep cuffs are much worn; they are cut so
as to stand away from the arm like the deep cuffs of a cavalier glove.
Then there are puffs at the shoulder; and there is also a new sleeve
that has no seam at the back of the arm. Shoulder-straps and epaulettes
are very popular additions to the bodice; and we find shoulder-straps
without epaulettes, and epaulettes without shoulder-straps, or both
together. Some of the shoulder-straps to woollen dresses are of the
material of the dress, which may be braided or embroidered.

One bodice which I have lately seen struck me as being both ugly and
peculiar, and it must, I am sure, be a faithful copy of a railway
porter’s waistcoat—with its front of corduroy, and its back of linen.
In the copy, the fronts are of velvet, fancy or plain plush, and the
backs are of plain silk to match it in colour, the sleeves being also
of silk. One of the new fancies is to make the dress-sleeves like the
waistcoat or plastron, the bodice being of a different stuff, and
having a small epaulette on the shoulder. I have been careful to give
all these changes in detail, as they will, I know, be very valuable to
the home dressmaker, and to those on whom the burden rests of “doing
up” half-worn dresses, and making themselves look well and ladylike on
small means.

Bodices are a great deal trimmed at present. Waistcoats, plastrons,
and full or plain plastrons with long _revers_ that extend from
shoulder to the point of the bodice, as well as braces, are all forms
of trimming. The latter are now put on much higher than they were,
and are carried close to the band at the neck, and they sometimes
meet in the centre of the back. The sleeves are often trimmed round
the shoulder-seams on the bodice—a very useful fashion indeed, as the
sides, which are too well worn by the friction of the arms, can be made
quite respectable for a longer term of service.

There is no change in the way of making dress bodices. The basques
are all cut very short on the hips, and are generally ended in a
square-cut tail at the back, with a fan of pleats, or even plain, and
not with ornaments at all. The darts in front are cut very high, and
are straight in form; and there are two side pieces—one quite below the
arm; and the seam of the side piece at the back is as straightly cut as
possible. The great fancy is still for a narrow and flat back, and all
methods of cutting out tried to produce this effect.

[Illustration: IN A CORNER OF THE DRAWING-ROOM.]

There is not very much to relate about mantles this month. They all
seem to be short at the back and long in front, the ends being either
square or pointed. In the latter case many of them are tied with ribbon
bows, or have other ornaments of braid, beads, or chenille. Striped
materials are used for making up handsome cloaks; and ulsters are
usually made of checked woollens, though they are by no means “loud”
in tone. The small mantles of plush, brocade, and velvet are very much
trimmed and ornamented; and in this way—as the beaded trimmings and fur
bands are moderate in price—mantles that have already seen service may
be helped over another winter. The long jackets will be found to cut
into shape very well; and I have recently helped to alter a _paletôt_
which had been dyed, by cutting it up nearly to the waist, at the back,
and into deep square ends in front. The trimming then laid on was
black astrachan, about two and a half inches deep all round, and in
a V shaped point on the back, with cuffs and a tiny epaulette on the
sleeves, making it quite a new garment at a very small expense, viz.,
2s. 6d. for the dyeing and about 6s. for the five and a half yards of
astrachan.

Instead of the almost forgotten sets of linen collars and cuffs, many
ladies are wearing pleated satin, the pleats being very close and
small. The satin is used in various colours, and appears also in the
necks and sleeves of evening dresses, especially in black ones, where
the bright hues of the satin look refreshing. A velvet bow may finish
it at the neck.

These are certainly halcyon days for the home milliner, for so
little trimming is placed on bonnets that it is quite worth while
to manufacture them at home, after a look at the many shown in the
windows. Care must be taken to set the bows in front up well, and, if a
soft material, a long bit of wire will form a support.

The flower of the day is the white chrysanthemum, and one sees it
everywhere—on dinner tables, as button holes, and forming bouquets.
Very few flowers, however, are seen in millinery, and ribbons seem in
greater favour. A new idea in the way of dress pockets is to have the
pocket made as a little gathered bag or reticule, which hangs at the
side for the handkerchief.

The stockings produced for wearing this winter are quiet and
ladylike-looking, being self-coloured, to match any dress with which
they may be worn; or, if embroidered, the patterns are small, or the
stripes are merely fine lines of colours. The newest shoes all appear
to lace, not button; and this will probably keep them in all the better
shape, as they can be pulled tightly together or loosened, as desired.
Laced boots are also returning to favour, for the same reason; but I do
hope my girl-readers will not neglect their laces, and always try to
keep a spare lace in the house, in case of breakages, as nothing looks
so bad, or is really so wretched in wear, as a broken or an untidy,
unevenly pulled-up lace. For skating, of course, laced boots are a
necessity.

The new winter muffs of fur are not large, and nearly all of them are
supplied with a purse or pocket of some kind, and also have handles
of fur, which are more convenient than the purse; for the muff can be
slung over the arm when shopping, or when it is necessary to keep the
hands free; a style that seems more sensible than the long cord round
the neck for grown-up people. Long boas are not quite so long as they
were, and are now more used with one long tail hanging down than two,
the other end being the head of some furry creature—mink, marten, or
squirrel; and so far does this idea go, that the legs are often seen as
well, which is a painfully suggestive idea.

Our illustrations for this month are peculiarly successful in showing
the prettiest of the winter styles, especially in the larger picture of
out-of-door gear. The long cloaks are shown with two different styles
of trimming, and a short jacket braided with thick cord—which is very
girlish and graceful. So, also, is the short mantle trimmed with bands
of fur. In the corner of the drawing-room—which serves as a warm and
cosy refuge to two of our girls—we have our paper pattern of last month
illustrated, with a plastron of soft silk added to it, for wearing in
the house; while a waistcoat is used for the out-of-doors dress. The
young girl in the armchair wears a “Norfolk,” or pleated jacket, like
her dress, which has an air of simplicity and elegance. These “Norfolk
jackets” we propose to adopt for our paper patterns for this month.
The first is really a repetition of that we have already given, which,
however, is as much worn as ever; and the second is rather a new form,
with a yoked top, which is sometimes made pointed both in front and
behind. The first of the “Norfolk jackets,” or blouses, is that without
a yoke, and for this I will repeat the directions given very carefully,
for it is a pattern that can be cut out and made-up by anyone, however
inexperienced they may be. It consists of seven pieces: the front,
back, collar, belt, two halves of a sleeve, and a cuff. The back should
be cut double, as there is no join down the centre; a deep hem must be
allowed on each side the front where the buttons are placed; the pleats
turn forward, and the position of the notches should be very carefully
observed. The edges may be finished by a row of machine stitching,
which should be even and good.

[Illustration: NORFOLK JACKETS.]

No lining is needed, as a general rule, to this bodice. The pleats
are run down, like the breast of a shirt, or may be stitched with a
machine. The quantity of material required for either of these bodices
would be about three yards and a half of thirty-six inches in width.
No seams are allowed in the pattern. The other blouse is made with
a yoke, and has nine pieces, viz., front, back, two sleeve pieces,
collar, cuff, belt, and two yoke pieces, back and front. In cutting
out, the back must be cut double, and in making up the yoke should
be stitched flatly on the pleated portions with the machine before
joining the bodice together. Both the belts should be lined with
buckram, and machine-stitched at each edge, to render them firm and
useful. These blouses are worn both out of doors and in, and are made
and worn at present in blue, crimson, and all shades of red, in black
and white, and may be worn with differently-coloured skirts. They are
very suitable for young girls, and may well form the first experiment
in their own home dressmaking for the inexperienced. The materials
used are elastic cloth, serge, diagonal, blue linen, cashmere, and, of
course, any dress material which may be in fashion.

All paper patterns supplied by “The Lady Dressmaker” are of medium
size, viz., thirty-six inches round the chest, and only one size is
prepared for sale. No turnings are allowed in any of them. Each pattern
may be had of “The Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G. Davis, 73,
Ludgate-hill, E.C.; price 1s. each. It is requested that the addresses
be clearly given, and that postal notes may be crossed “& Co.” to go
through a bank, as so many losses have recently occurred. The patterns
already issued are always kept in stock, as “The Lady Dressmaker” only
issues patterns likely to be of constant use in home-dressmaking and
altering; and she is particularly careful to give all the new patterns
of hygienic underclothing, both for children and old and young ladies,
so that no reader of the G.O.P. may be ignorant of the best methods of
dressing.

The following is a list of the patterns already issued, price 1s. each:—

April, braided loose fronted jacket; May, velvet bodice; June, Swiss
belt and full bodice, with plain sleeves; July, mantle; August,
Norfolk, or pleated jacket; September, housemaid’s or plain skirt;
October, combination garment (underlinen) with long sleeves; November,
double-breasted jacket; December, Zouave jacket and bodice; January,
princess underdress (underlinen, underbodice, and underskirt combined);
February, polonaise, with waterfall back; March, new spring bodice;
April, divided skirt, and Bernhardt mantle with sling sleeves; May,
Early English bodice and yoke bodice for summer dress; June, dressing
jacket, and princess frock, with Normandy bonnet for a child of four
years old; July, Princess of Wales’ jacket, bodice and waistcoat, for
tailor-made gown; August, bodice with guimpe; September, mantle with
stole ends; October, pyjama, or nightdress combination, with full back;
November, new winter bodice; December, patterns of Norfolk blouses, one
with a yoke and one with pleats only.

[Illustration]




NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.


EDWIN ASHDOWN.

_Vanished Years._ Song. By Seymour Smith.—A sympathetic, easy setting
of the sad words by Helen M. Waitman. It is published in F and A flat.

_The Violet and the Snowdrop._ Song. By Ethel Harraden, with words
by Gertrude Harraden.—A simple story, simply illustrated. The violin
accompaniment, charming as it is, would have been much more so, had
it been broken up a little more. There is no rest for it, and this
destroys much of its effect. The same part has been transposed an
octave for a violoncello. The song is within the compass of most
singers—C to D, and not higher.

_Two Melodies_ for violin and piano, by the same composer, Miss
Harraden, meet all the requirements of the youthful amateur violinist.
They are simple, effective, and melodious. As they are so evidently
intended for young people, we are surprised that the violin part is
neither fingered nor bowed.

_Six Romances._ For the pianoforte. By Sir George Macfarren.—If the
others are as delightful as Nos. 4 (_Lullaby_) and 5 (_Welcome_), which
we have before us, these romances are the most graceful and sympathetic
works for the piano which this great theoretical master has given us.

_Tarantella._ In G minor. For pianoforte. By J. Hoffmann.—A very
characteristic specimen of this phrenzied dance. The excitement is well
sustained to the close.

_Violanté._ A Spanish Waltz. For piano. By Michael Watson.—Containing
what Mr. Corder would call “distinct local colouring,” and developing
a graceful subject. Is it because the melody is in Spanish that the
title-page is in French?

_Gavotte._ In D. By Ariosti (1660-1730). Arranged by Edwin M. Lott for
the piano.—An interesting relic by a man who, like Buononcini, was at
the commencement of the eighteenth century a powerful rival to Handel
in opera production, and who, like Buononcini, is now almost entirely
forgotten.

_Arpeggios._—An extremely useful collection of these technical
passages. By Edwin M. Lott.—The arrangement of the arpeggios is founded
on the well-known work of Charles Chaulieu, who taught the piano in
London 1840-9.

_Two Andantes_, for the organ, by Walter Porter, are mild, harmless
movements, containing many signs of the youthful amateur about
them. Amongst others is the fact that the pedals are used without
intermission from beginning to end, augmenting a want of contrast and
variety already too apparent in both pieces.


PATEY AND WILLIS.

_Yellow Roses_ we can recommend as a pretty ballad by Michael Watson.
It is published in every necessary key.

_Biondina_, a ballad of a rather better order, by Weatherly, has been
set to music by F. N. Löhr.

_No other Dream._ Song, for mezzo-soprano voice. By Joseph L.
Roeckel.—Is also of the modern ballad type, and hardly attains to the
usual merit of this composer’s songs.

_Clairette._ By Ernst J. Reiter.—A fascinating little dance for piano.
The delicacy of subject and treatment suggests a lady’s composition in
every page.

_Bouquets de Mélodies._ Pour violon, avec accompagnement de piano. Par
Gustav Merkel.—We have received No. 1, a gavotte in C, a well-written
trifle by this scholarly German organist and composer.


ROBERT COCKS AND CO.

_While we Dream._ A song of moderate compass, possessing much musical
feeling, and the originality that we are now led to expect from
Mr. Addison. A curious, not very vocal, effect is produced by the
diminished fourth, in the line, “At our feet long shadows lie.”

_The Old See-Saw_ is a song of the conventional “Swing, swing” type,
but brightly written, and likely to add to Miss Annie Armstrong’s
reputation as a popular writer of small things.


J. CURWEN AND SONS.

A most important addition to the large number of teaching manuals
already published is the _Child Pianist_, divided into grades and
steps, and combining in a thoughtful and systematic way a little
theory and a little practice, never forcing a child, and never letting
the head get in front of the hands or _vice versâ_. Accompanying
these steps with their capital duets for pupil and teacher, by J.
Kinross, written after the manner of Lebert and Stark’s book, we have
a _Teacher’s Guide to the Child Pianist_, an assistance to young
teachers, and an essential explanation to the exercises and method. We
cannot too highly estimate the care and management displayed by Mrs. J.
S. Curwen, the authoress of these valuable works.


F. PITMAN AND CO.

We do not generally notice dance music, but must mention with praise
two compositions of this class by Evelyn Hastings, really charming
and graceful as piano pieces, for little _entr’actes_ at readings, or
between charades; they are the _Onda Waltz_ and the _Postscript Polka_,
the latter being especially happy in its construction.




AN APPEAL.


I should very much like to interest the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
in the little Hindu school girls and native ladies in India, with the
hope that I may receive occasional supplies of dolls, scrapbooks, and
old Christmas cards for distribution. Several times a year I pack
a large case with toys and other attractive things, and it is sent
to English ladies at Calcutta or Madras, or elsewhere. These ladies
give away the contents on prize days and other occasions, when it is
delightful to witness the pleasure of the happy recipients. Presents
from England are particularly liked, not only because they are novel
and different from Indian toys, but also because the school-children
are glad to be thought of by friends at such a distance. Though
their ideas of our country are very vague, they value these tangible
expressions of sympathy in their good conduct and progress, which have
come to them from the other side of the world.

One of the ladies to whom I send cases of presents and prizes is
Mrs. Brander, Inspectress of Girls’ Schools in Madras. During the
last six years her constant occupation has been to examine and report
on schools, and she has often to travel a long way for the purpose.
Though there are some railways in the Madras Presidency, they do not
reach the out-of-the-way places that Mrs. Brander has to visit, so she
makes a part of her journey in what is called a _bullock bandy_. This
is a sort of small private omnibus, drawn by two patient bullocks, at
the rate of two miles an hour. It is sent forward to meet her at some
distant station. Besides the bullock bandy for the inspectress, there
are several other vehicles, forming quite a procession. One is for the
deputy inspector, who has the long name of Miss Govindarajulu; another
for the writers (or clerks), and some for the luggage of the party. Two
Government peons, or attendants, rather like commissionaires, guard
and manage the cavalcade, if so it may be called. The roads are often
very rough and dusty, and for part of the day it is extremely hot.
Sometimes a river has to be forded, for there are not many bridges.
The native drivers are ready to say that the stream is too strong, but
Mrs. Brander does not listen to their objections unless there seems
to be real danger, so down the bank the bullocks are made to go, and
across the water. At night the travellers halt at a rest house, which
is provided at certain places by Government, but does not give very
good accommodation. At last a village is arrived at, where there is
a school, and some of the native gentlemen of the place who are the
managers, receive the inspectress. It is often located in a dark,
close room, or, more pleasantly, in a verandah, under an overhanging
roof. Mrs. Brander then examines the pupils in reading and writing,
arithmetic and needlework. She is not hard upon them, for the teachers
themselves have had little opportunity of learning. The children are
generally bright and quick, very gentle and graceful, and with a
winning but shy manner. It is true they are apt to be idle, but then it
is trying to learn lessons when the heat is so intense, and they are
not taught very intelligently.

Often the mothers of the little scholars crowd to the school, and talk
to Mrs. Brander. At one place several of these women begged her to give
them a lesson in needlework, and she did so; but they all pressed so
closely round her that she had to insist on two or three only looking
on at a time.

Altogether, the arrival of an inspectress at a village is an event of
much interest. Now she usually carries with her luggage a number of
dolls, pictures, small boxes, and Christmas cards, out of her English
store. If it is the time for a prize-giving at any particular school,
she chooses some suitable things, which are placed on a table and
distributed with the usual ceremony, including speeches. And how
pleased the children are! They hug their dolls as eagerly as English
children do, and their dark eyes sparkle with pleasure. Whether or
not it is a prize occasion, Mrs. Brander gives Christmas cards to
the scholars that have attended for a month with regularity, and she
likes to leave a packet with the schoolmaster as future rewards. One
school had become almost empty for some reason, but on hearing of the
Christmas cards the children all came back. These journeys of the
inspectress last often three or four weeks, because there are many
schools to visit. At the end of each tour she returns to Madras. There
she has to inspect a number of larger and more important schools, but
for these, too, she is glad to have prizes ready.

I must not occupy too much space, but I want to mention that when Mrs.
Brander is at Madras she gives an afternoon party to native ladies on
one Saturday in the month. Some English ladies also attend, and there
are various amusements, such as parlour croquet, chess, solitaire,
puzzles, music, and for the little ones, games—as several of the
ladies bring their children. If Mrs. Brander has just received a box
from England, she displays the pretty things, and they are eagerly and
minutely examined by the guests. The party is always much enjoyed,
and on going away the children are often presented with a toy. Other
English ladies at Madras also give occasional parties of the same kind.
Last January there was one at which a beautiful Christmas tree added
greatly to the entertainment.

Now I shall be very glad to take charge of dolls or other toys, and
old Christmas cards (with or without writing upon them) for sending
to India. I need presents not only for Madras but for other places,
only I cannot refer to those now. The dolls should be of composition
or china, not of very soft wax. It is not necessary that their clothes
should take off and on, though for large dolls this is an advantage.
The Indian children are very pleased to have small boxes with lock and
key, to keep their bangles in, and they like bags too. At Calcutta many
of the ladies read English, so that interesting books are of use, if
not very difficult. I shall be able to inform the donors of the way
in which their kind gifts are applied, for Mrs. Brander and my other
correspondents tell me particulars about the children who receive them.
I give my address, and I shall be very grateful on behalf of the little
Indian children if my appeal is responded to.

            E. A. MANNING,
    35, Blomfield Road, Maida Hill, W.




“NO.”

BY MARY E. HULLAH.


CHAPTER IV.

Soon after Easter Mrs. Rakely paid a visit to London. She was a person
with a chronic grievance; and though she had done her utmost to bring
about Joan’s marriage, she considered it necessary to feel ill-used,
because her favourite companion was not at hand to amuse her.

She called on Embrance, and carried her off—almost without asking her
consent—to spend a long afternoon.

“I wish I had had you yesterday, my dear. Horace Meade came to dinner.
Joan begged me to ask him; and as I met him in Bond Street, I did;
otherwise, I think it would have escaped my memory. I took a fancy to
him at one time; but he was always eccentric, and he looks more so than
ever since he has been in Italy.”

“I did not know that he had been in Italy.”

“Yes. He has only just returned. It was a foolish thing to do, flinging
away his chance of getting his picture into the Royal Academy.
Joan told me about it. But that’s my objection to young men taking
to art—they are so eccentric. Now he is going abroad again—I have
forgotten where, my memory is not what it used to be; but he did tell
me.”

As long as Mrs. Rakely had someone to listen to her she was quite
satisfied. She took Embrance to a picture gallery; trotted her through
four or five milliners’ shops in search of an ideal bonnet; asked her
advice about umbrellas, and then bought the one she liked best herself;
and finally left her, thoroughly exhausted, at the corner of her own
street.

A foreign letter was awaiting Embrance’s arrival. Mrs. Clemon was not a
regular correspondent, but when she did write she sent a good budget of
news, pouring out a complete history of her experiences for the benefit
of the niece who had been to her as a daughter. She was happy; her son
was doing well. Now and then there came a hint that Embrance would be
heartily welcome, if she could make up her mind to come out. In the
next page, much blotted and smudged, came the tidings that William
was engaged to be married to a neighbour’s daughter, a pretty girl
and well brought up; but, ah! it might have been so different! Still,
she would not complain, only now would Embrance come? There was room,
and to spare. William and his wife would rejoice to see her. Let her
think over the proposal, and not decide in haste. Then the letter went
on to tell of preparations for the wedding. There were little bits of
information concerning the bride’s family, and there was a great deal
about an Irish help who had run away and left them at a moment’s notice
without rhyme or reason. At the very end of the page came another
suggestion, in William’s hand, “Come for a year, and try how you like
us”; after which his mother had taken up her pen again to say, “Bless
you in all your doings, my child, whatever course you decide upon.”

Embrance kissed the letter and put it away carefully. There was no time
to read it again to-night, or to think if she should follow her aunt’s
wishes. She was wofully behindhand with her work, and to-morrow morning
she had an extra lesson to give to a backward pupil who lived at South
Kensington. The long day with Mrs. Rakely had tried her newly-gained
strength to its utmost limits, and her ankle was very painful. She
limped towards the chiffonier in search of a book; in the glass over
the mantelpiece she saw the door open with the familiar jerk that
always preluded Annie’s knock.

“Come in,” said Embrance; but the words died away on her lips as she
recognised the figure in the doorway, whose shoulders towered above the
little handmaiden.

“Mr. Horace Meade.”

There was no sign of eccentricity in Horace’s appearance; even Mrs.
Rakely might have been satisfied. He wore a dark, grey coat, and in his
hand he carried a hat which was scrupulously glossy and well brushed.
When he spoke his manner and voice were very quiet, much of the fun
seemed to have died out of him during his sojourn in Italy, and his
first remark was commonplace to the last degree.

“I heard from Mrs. Rakely that you had met with an accident. I am
exceedingly sorry; I called to inquire how you were before I leave
town.”

“You are going away for some time, I suppose?” asked Embrance, when
she had invited her visitor to sit down. He took a chair by the window,
and seemed interested in the growth of some ferns that Joan had sent
from her garden.

“I hardly know. I have several portraits on hand that must be finished
as soon as possible. But my studio is not habitable yet; it is being
painted, and the workpeople are lamentably slow. When these commissions
are disposed of, I may go away for several months, perhaps I shall get
as far as Constantinople.”

“I have often thought that Constantinople must be a most interesting
city to visit.”

“Oh, very; it is so beautifully situated; there is no other place quite
like it.”

“No, I have never seen any place like it.” (“I suppose,” Embrance was
thinking while she uttered her brilliant remark, “that he was offended
at my writing to him.”)

“I was a fool to come at all,” said Horace to himself, “but I wanted to
see her once more; she looks horribly ill.”

“I am sorry to see that you are still lame,” he said, aloud, as
Embrance subsided into silence after her last attempt at light
conversation.

“I am much better,” she said, quickly; “I’m only a little tired this
afternoon. Are you looking at the ferns? Joan sent them; she is very
well and happy. I often hear from her.”

“I am glad of that; I only heard of her marriage by chance, about a
fortnight after it took place. Well, I hope it is a happy ending to her
many troubles.”

“Yes,” said Embrance, quietly, “I hope so.”

“You were in her confidence all along, of course, Miss Clemon?”

“No, I did not know of her engagement.”

“That was really heartless of Joan! I hope you were angry with her?”

“No,” said Embrance again, “but I miss her very much.”

“I hope that you mean to go and stay with her shortly; the change would
do you good.”

“I don’t know. I must say good-bye to her, of course, if I go to New
Zealand.”

It had not seemed so clear to her a quarter of an hour ago that she
would accept her aunt’s invitation as it did now.

“You would go to your relations—to Mrs. Clemon?”

“She wishes it very much,” explained Embrance, remembering how he had
once before made a similar question; “if I don’t like it, I am to come
back again.”

“I think,” said Horace, with a desperate effort to speak naturally,
“that the voyage would be an admirable thing for your health. I hope
that you will be very happy there. If I can be of any assistance to you
in arranging about your passage—in fact, in any way, pray make use of
my services.”

Painfully conscious that he had delivered this speech very much after
the manner of a stage father in a heavy melodrama, he rose to take his
leave. Embrance sank back into her chair as he left the room. Five
minutes by the clock, his visit had lasted, he had been most kind and
considerate, but—she wished that she had never written that letter.

Horace met a friend at his club, with whom he dined. It was late when
he got back to his own rooms. He opened the door of the studio to
see what progress the workmen had made. The room presented a forlorn
appearance. The carpets were up, and the furniture was covered with
sheets; all about the floor were paint-pots, shavings, and workmen’s
tools. A writing-table stood apart in the window; Horace bethought
himself of a sketch-book which he had left somewhere about, perhaps in
one of the drawers. The top drawer was unlocked, and as he pulled it
open he saw a heap of letters and advertisements which had accumulated
during his absence. He had opened a great many of them, leaving the
rest to a more favourable opportunity. It occurred to him now that the
opportunity had arrived. He lighted a cigarette, dragged a chair from
a corner of the room, and began tearing up circulars and invitations
to parties that had taken place weeks ago; they would have to be
answered some day, not now. At last he came upon some bills, and
underneath these a grey envelope. He opened it leisurely. The letter
was dated, “February 2nd”—the day before he had gone abroad. “Dear Mr.
Meade,—Please come and see me. I have made a mistake.—Yours truly,
EMBRANCE CLEMON.”

He read it over and over again, turned it backwards and forwards, then
he put it down with a sigh. It must have been written shortly after
that conversation in the park that he had been trying to forget. It
was an apology—a direct appeal to him—and he had taken no notice of
it! Nay, worse than that! With a groan, he pushed away the candle and
rested his head on his hands, exclaiming, “And _I_ have been advising
her to go to New Zealand!”

Never had the backward pupil seemed so backward as she did that day.
She had made twelve mistakes in a simple dictation; she had written
an essay on Catherine of Arragon, whom she persistently confused with
Catherine of Medici; and she had worked her sums on a method of her
own, involving one direct certainty—that the answers could not by any
possibility be correct. Embrance succeeded in concealing her vexation,
and the two hours’ lesson ended more happily than might have been
expected. The girl (who was good as gold, though not gifted with a
taste for study) helped her dear Miss Clemon into her ulster, and let
her out of the hall-door, with many injunctions that she was to take a
cab if she got tired, or if it rained too fast.

Embrance pined for a little air, and was determined to walk, in spite
of the wet. It was a long way; her umbrella was dripping and her
ankle was aching sadly before she reached the corner of the street.
In the distance a policeman was slowly pacing along, the pavement was
slippery, and the road was shining with puddles. There was not a break
in the leaden-coloured sky or a breath of wind to interfere with the
steady downpour. Embrance’s umbrella had seen hard work; the rain
pattered through the little holes in the silk; she had the greatest
difficulty in keeping the book she carried out of the wet.

Well, it was not far now, though the street was long. Number 11, number
12, number 13; that was the house with the door-knocker that Joan had
made a sketch of (she said it was like her grandfather). Number 14.
There was a quick step behind her, and another umbrella was walking
side by side with her.

[Illustration: “MR. HORACE MEADE.”]

“Good morning. I have been waiting to speak to you. I am so glad that
you are come at last.”

The owner of the umbrella looked excited; his artistic eccentricity was
to the fore; he held a scrap of grey paper in his left hand; his gaze
was fixed on Embrance.

She said no word of greeting, but dropped the dictionary that she had
been guarding with such care.

He picked it up for her. “Let me carry it.”

“Thank you. I do not like to trouble you”—and the rain trickled down on
to her gloves and cuffs as she held out her hand towards him.

“Not at all,” said Horace, politely, as he pocketed the book,
regardless of the mud. “The fact is, if you don’t mind listening, I’ve
come to make an apology.”

Embrance glanced at the piece of paper that he was beginning to
unfold, and the blood rushed to her cheeks.

“You see,” explained Horace, speaking very fast, “I don’t want to be
a worry to you, only I should like you to know that this got put away
with a heap of papers, and I only opened it last night. I hadn’t a
notion yesterday that you had written to me. I wish I had. You are
getting so wet. Will you let me hold my umbrella over you? It will be
better so. Thank you,” as she murmured something that was not a refusal.

She had nothing now to carry; she clasped her hands, and looked
straight in front of her down the rainy street.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had written to me?”

“I thought you had had the letter, and would rather not answer it.”

“Why did you write at all?”

“To explain my mistake,” said Embrance, confusedly.

“Then you did make a mistake, and I was the sufferer?”

With a flash, her dark eyes turned to his. The look of joy on his face
brought peace and comfort to her.

“I am sorry,” she began.

“Are you?” he asked, tenderly. “Don’t be sorry on my account. If I had
come to see you at once, would you have sent me away a second time,
Embrance?”

They had passed number 25, and were walking towards the City, unmindful
of the rain. In their hearts was the brightest sunshine.

“Would you, Embrance?”

She unclasped her hands; for a second she rested her fingers on his
arm, as she answered, “No!”

[THE END.]




OUR TRACTARIAN MOVEMENT.

BY ANNE BEALE.


As the Religious Tract Society never wearies of publishing wholesome
literature, so tract distributors should never flag in spreading it
abroad. Since our first sketch of work accomplished, we have had some
experience, and are thankful to be able to say that religious books
are now gladly accepted, where some years ago they would have been
scornfully rejected. They are particularly welcomed on Sunday, when
policemen, cabmen, firemen, and other public servants who cannot attend
a place of worship, say they like to have something to read when they
are off duty. Of course, the magazine or book is more acceptable than
the mere tract, and when regularly supplied is often eagerly accepted
and expected.

“I have had this before,” said a policeman, looking at a picture of
_The Cottager and Artisan_. “I haven’t seen you for some weeks, and
I thought you’d forgotten me.” The oversight was soon remedied. “You
would be surprised if you knew how many of the Force will read this,”
said another. “Perhaps a dozen of us. We pass it on, and it does us all
good.”

“That’s just what I do,” said a cabman, who chanced to be near.
“Perhaps, ma’am, you will read this which was given to me.” He took
a well-thumbed book from his pocket, which we subsequently read and
“passed on” also.

The railway officials welcome us gladly as they stand or sit at their
enforced Sunday work.

“It is better than the papers,” said a young porter, whom we heard with
some companions singing hymns below ground.

Even the newsboys, with the Sunday papers under their arms, like to
have something profitable for Sunday reading. One ragged, pale little
fellow was in the habit of telling us one Sunday what were the contents
of the small book he received the previous Sabbath; and another youth
of larger growth emphatically demanded “A big’un. I likes a big book,
please.” These and sundry others are the hawkers of newspapers. Oh! why
cannot people wait till Monday morning for such secular reading, and
why are our ears to be deafened with cries of the ‘paipers’? Cannot we
give one day in seven to the service of Him who said, “Remember the
Sabbath-day to keep it holy,” and who added, “I am not come to destroy
the law, but to fulfil”?

I wish all those who will not remember it had heard an undeserved
rebuke administered to us on a weekday by a railway official;
undeserved, because we do not travel on Sunday, either to hear popular
preachers or otherwise amuse ourselves.

“I shall be happy to take your book to-day, ma’am; but I never accept
one on Sundays,” he said. “Why?” we inquired. “Because you know we have
to work all day Sunday for the public, and I don’t think people who
travel on Sundays, and break the law themselves, have any right to give
us books to teach us how to keep it.” Let Sabbath-breakers take this to
heart.

It is very rarely that we meet with a rebuff. On one occasion, however,
when distributing illustrated leaflets to a party of scavengers, we
were arrested by the words, “No, thankee. I don’t want one.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate cant, and it’s all cant.”

“I am sorry. Do I look like a cant?”

“No; I can’t say as you do.”

“He’s a bad’un, and al’ays rude to the ladies,” whispered a neighbour
confidentially.

We often encounter gangs of navvies, who have their own ideas on most
subjects, and like to air them.

“I don’t want tracts; I have heaps of books at home, and read all
Sunday and every evening,” said one. “I’ll warrant me I have some you
haven’t. Have you got ‘Heaven is my Home’? and ‘Paradise Lost’?” He
enumerated many others, after which he poured forth his feelings on
political matters, inveighing against the Poor Law, the School Board,
the distraint system, and saying what he would do if he were in power.
When we ventured to suggest that he would not mend matters if he went
the lengths he proposed, he began an argument that we were obliged to
cut short both for his employer’s sake and our own; but he was a fair
example of “The British Workman.” The navvy is a shrewd discriminator.

“Is that in favour of Bradlaugh?” asked one; “because, if it is, I must
decline it.

“Oh, if it isn’t I’ll read it with pleasure.”

Another stood considering his small offering, and volunteered, “This
don’t tell us to throw away one’s pipe and backy; somebody gave me a
tract as did. They’ve kept many a man from doing a rash act. If I was
without my backy I should sometimes be inclined to destroy myself. It
calms one down, somehow, and makes one more contented. ’Tis all very
well to preach against drinking, but as to backy, that’s different.”

A fine, stalwart-looking young man lamented that he had had scarcely
any schooling, and feared that the reading we offered him might be too
abstruse for him. He had taught himself to write a little by copying
letters, and could spell out easy sentences; but his education had
ceased when he was six years old. His home was in Devonshire, but his
navvy work had taken him far afield. We recommended him to go to a
night-school, and he was well inclined to do so. We fell in with him
several times afterwards, and found that he had followed our advice,
and went three times a week. He said the teacher would not let him rest
after he had spoken to him, but made him go at once.

All young men are not so amenable, and sometimes make a jest of what is
meant to help them.

“Have you anything to suit me? I am an atheist,” asked one, glancing at
our wares.

“They are sure to suit you; take which you like,” we replied.

He chose one haphazard, and the title was “Cross-bearing.”

“What’s an atheist?” asked a burly looking bystander of his mate.

“Oh, one of them Bradlaughites,” was the answer, as they both came
forward for a book.

On another occasion a flippant young mason inquired if “it was about
love.”

“Yes, the best kind of love; about Jesus,” we replied.

“Oh! I don’t know Him. I only love those I know,” he said, but he took
the book.

It is melancholy to see how many youths seem to know little of Him who
died to save them. One Easter Sunday we ventured to attack a knot of
them who were holiday-making. The pictures always attract, so they
were soon engaged in contemplating them.

“Is it about Jesus?” asked one.

“Yes.”

“Ah! He was a good man,” he continued.

“He was your Saviour, and mine,” we added.

“Do you believe it?” he inquired, with real earnestness.

“Yes; the little book will tell you so.”

What was the result? Who shall say?

We are sometimes astonished at the eagerness of the men and boys,
working in scores or even fifties, to secure the tract, leaflet, or
magazine. The supply rarely answers the demand, for even from the tops
of high houses in process of being built, we hear a shout of “Don’t
forget us, please,” while the workmen on _terra firma_ volunteer to
distribute as many as we can spare. All seize with avidity on _The
Child’s Companion_, for all, or most, have families at home, and
“something for the little ones” is a boon.

“I read them out while my wife sees to the house,” said one. “I can’t
afford to buy them, but I carry home all I can get.”

“I read it to father, and father reads it to mother, and mother reads
it to me,” was the satisfactory acknowledgment of a little girl who
came in for one.

“Here are two young gentlemen who would like to study them, I am sure,”
said a master mason, indicating his juvenile aids, he having accepted
one himself.

The other day we were arrested by an old man, a scavenger, who said
we couldn’t give him too many good books, for he loved them. “I was
fifty-two years without entering a place of worship,” he added. “I was
guard to a travelling wagon, and worked Sundays and weekdays. Four
years ago I had a bad illness, and a lady converted me. I promised God,
if He was pleased to restore me, that I would serve Him for the rest
of my days. I thought I was dying, but I got better, thanks be to Him;
and I have kept my word ever since. I have been to church three times a
Sunday, and to mission-hall twice a week. I have been on my knees night
and morning for twenty minutes, and I thank and praise the Lord.”

It is this Sunday working which is the cause of so much irreligion.
Turn where you will, those employed have the same tale to tell. They
all say that if only they could be ensured every other Sunday they
would be satisfied, but to have no Day of Rest was bad both for body
and soul. Indeed, one of them argued that the soul perished with the
body, and that he could prove it from Scripture. Here and there we find
men brave enough to refuse all Sunday work, and they say they have not
lost by it.

“I never turn a wheel on Sunday,” said a cabman. “Many of us stand out
against it, and all who do say they are better off than those who work.”

He was certainly a good specimen. His cab was his own; he was well
dressed, and his horse as brisk as himself. It was evident that
“the one day in seven” agreed with them. It is well known that the
life both of man and beast is shortened by the breach of the fourth
commandment, and it is clear that the Great Legislator blesses its
observance.

We have occasionally fallen in with the regular _colporteurs_, and been
convinced of the good done by the sale of their religious literature.
Once at a coffee-stall we were greeted by an emphatic “God bless
you and your work,” and the gratuitous contribution did not seem to
interfere with the monetary. The holders of these stalls are always
glad of something to read, and are willing to distribute wholesome
reading to their customers. Strange incidents sometimes occur when you
take a poor, wearied, out-of-work yet respectable fellow-creature,
for a cup of coffee and a plate of cake or bread and butter, to one
of these wayside restaurants. One evening at dusk we encountered a
glazier, who, having received the tract, said he had not tasted food
since daybreak. He was a foreigner, a Pole, who had been in England
ever since the Polish insurrection of some thirty years ago. His father
was a gentleman. He had a wife and children, and had been looking for
work all the day. A trifle for them and refreshment for him opened his
heart, and he gave his address. Subsequently a district visitor found
it, and discovered that he was a Polish Jew. He was not in, but his
wife said that it was contrary to their faith to receive relief from
one not of their own religion; but in his hunger food was heaven-sent
through “a sister,” and he could not refuse it. Neither did she reject
a shilling. The family were subsequently placed under the protection
of a charitable Jewish lady, who said, with truth, “That her people
took such care of their own poor, that they had no need to apply to the
Christian.” Still, it is well that Jew and Gentile should meet, as they
now do, happily, in works of general benevolence. The reign of Christ
will begin when universal love takes the place of sectarian hate, and
religious persecution ceases.

Time and space would fail us to tell how the men of the Fire Brigade
love reading, and how they showed us with pride a number of _The
British Workman_, sent to them monthly by Miss Weston—for are not
the brave fellows mostly sailors? Or how other public servants speak
gratefully of monthly gifts of religious books sent by friends
interested in them, and circulated amongst them. Let no one imagine
that either tract, magazine, or book is thrown away, though a kindly
discretion, and, perhaps, a cheerful manner are needed for their
distribution. We have made an inroad into one of the great laundries,
and find that both men and women employed rejoice at “something to
read” during their brief leisure. Text cards are always welcomed.

“I shall have this framed. It just suits me,” said one.

“I wonder that ladies do not visit our large laundries,” remarked the
superintendent.

This visitation has been begun by members of the Y.W.C.A. May it
prosper! These workers in the steam laundries have a hard life of it,
and stand for long, long hours over their laborious toil. Here are
elderly women and young girls, ready to welcome anyone who will say a
kind word to them, and, perhaps, benefit them thereby.

“I like a whole story that I can read all through,” said one of the
latter, and the cheap reprints of good stories published by the
Religious Tract Society are invaluable. Moreover, they can be lent from
one to another.

It is strange that one still meets with people comparatively young who
cannot read. Much of their religious knowledge is often due to hymns. A
man said he liked the old hymns best, and had known “Glory to Thee” by
heart ever since he was a boy. Others are proud of the fact that their
children will read to them whatever we are pleased to give them, and
sometimes even beg for a book apiece for all the olive branches—“For
fear one should be jealous of the other,” said a cabman. To which we
replied that “jealousy was expensive.”

The other day we fell in with a gipsy encampment: vans and tents
settled on a bit of waste land, having been turned out of a
neighbouring holding for building purposes. In one of the tents we
found a young man and woman, a lovely three-year-old child, and
an infant not yet a fortnight old. The father of the family, aged
twenty-two, had been to night-school once upon a time, but his learning
was nil; the mother, seated on the ground, baby in arms, could not
read; but a ragged urchin who had crept in was going to school the
following Monday. The young couple were strangely handsome, and
rejoiced in the gipsy name of Loveridge. The woman said she had prayed
to the Lord when she was ill. “What else was there to do? I have never
been a great sinner; you know what I mean, ma’am. A gentleman comes
here to preach on Sunday.”

She did not seem fully to apprehend her need of a Saviour, but
acknowledged that we were all sinners. It was a strange, sad scene.
She, seated on her bed of rags at one end of the small, dark, smoky,
stifling tent; her husband also on the ground making skewers at the
other, and apologising for untidiness; the infant apparently dying,
the little girl affectionately stroking our garments. The mother said
she had had no food that day, for the times were bad; and the trifle
we offered was instantly despatched to a shop at some distance for “a
little oatmeal and arrowroot,” the husband being the joyful messenger.
Still, she said she liked tent-life better than she should life within
stone walls. “I have been used to it, and I suppose it is what we are
brought up in that we like best,” she added, simply, and in perfect
English.

Thanks to Mr. George Smith, tent and barge are becoming alive to the
teaching of the Gospel; and soon, we hope, the Testament or tract
will be legible by all their long-neglected inmates. At present,
comparatively few, of the seniors especially, can read them.
Nevertheless, we will scatter the seed far and wide, convinced that it
will bring forth fruit if sown to enlarge and to sustain the kingdom of
our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

MAUD BELIN.—You do not say whether you have been trained as a nurse.
Write to the secretary, Nightingale Fund, H. B. Carter, Esq., 5,
Hyde Park-square, W., or to the secretary of St. Mary’s Hospital,
Paddington, giving full information.

B. K. I. O.—We never heard of lady clerks being employed at the Law
Courts, but in America we hear that women are in full practice as
lawyers.

MOTHERLESS JEAN’S writing shows her to be very young, and so do
her questions. 2. Where does she live? How could we give her the
information she requires about the Kindergarten, not knowing that, when
she says, “she cannot leave home”?

PSYCHE.—If you be going in for “hard reading,” as you say, you had
better look out for a Lemprière’s Classical Dictionary to teach you
something about mythology. Your questions are too many and long.

QUI POSSE VIDETUR POTEST.—Copying is only to be obtained by the
personal inquiry and exertions of those who require it. Your writing
does not appear good enough.

COMPLEX.—We recommend you to apply direct to the secretary or matron
of the Holloway College for the prospectus, and ask for any further
information you require as to Government clerkships. Look through our
answers under the heading “Educational,” and you will soon find the
particulars you require.

ANNIE B.—We have read your thoughtful and well-expressed letter with
much interest, and we think as long as you are of use at home you are
where God needs you, for in our service we do His will the best. But,
as your education has been a little neglected, a certificate will be
valuable to you, and you will be happier in the feeling that you are
doing something to improve yourself for future work. We should advise
you to go in for the examination of the College of Preceptors, fee
10s.; secretary, 42, Bloomsbury-square, W.C.

COPY CAT.—We mention with pleasure the correspondence class conducted
by Miss Pearce, Ledwell House, Steeple Aston, Oxon, for English
history and literature. We regret that it is little known, or would
have been named in the manual of girls’ clubs of an educational
character and otherwise, just published (Messrs. Griffith and Farran,
St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.), compiled by one of our writers for the
benefit of a large number of our girls who are inquiring about them.


MISCELLANEOUS.

NAN and NANCY.—The letters are nicely made, and a little box full of
them, with plenty of duplicates, might sell at a bazaar for the purpose
of guessing the words to be produced by a given number of letters.
But you would not get very much for a box. We thank you for your kind
letter. Your wise friends deserve to be complimented on their powers of
discrimination, really above their tender years. We hope the parents of
these phenomenal geniuses are prudent and do not press them in their
studies.

ONE IN TROUBLE.—Your good or plain looks were given you by your Maker,
and you are only responsible for the expression you wear. Nothing
could be more unjust and unkind than to let a plain girl see that she
is neglected or set aside on that account. But some plain girls are
touchy, and see slights where none are intended, and show discontent
and resentment, which are met with ill-feeling in return. Beware of
falling into this error, and bear the cross laid upon you as you
should, who owe so great a debt of gratitude to Him who made you what
you are. You are not fit for heaven in your present state of mind!

SAPERE AUDE tells us that her friends have written to us on about every
subject “under the globe.” Pray explain what the subjects are that are
connected with that locality? Have they to do with Atlas, the giant, or
the big turtle on which our globe is said, in fable, to be supported?
2. If the German parents you name were naturalised in France, their
children are French. The latter, we suppose, have been registered as
such at their birth, in any case.

CLARICE E. A. inquires, “What is the meaning of Mount Moriah and Mount
Ararat?” The former was a hill to the north-east of Jerusalem, and
formed a part of the cultivated ground of Araunah, the Jebusite, from
whom David bought it, and on this spot Solomon built the temple (2
Chron. iii. 1). The latter is situated in Armenia, consisting of two
peaks about seven miles apart, the point of the highest being 17,000
feet above the level of the sea. It has been generally believed that
upon one of these mountains the ark rested after the Flood, but this
fact is scarcely sufficiently proved. 2. Berlin black, or artist’s
black, is preferable to brunswick black for application to grates.

ONE OF EIGHT.—Your verses show good religious feeling, and, as you are
so young, you may write better by-and-by.

UNICA.—“God save the mark” is a phrase found in Shakespeare’s _Henry
IV._ i. 3. Hotspur, speaking of the messenger, calls him a “popinjay”
who talked of guns, drums, and wounds in an unmanly way, and it would
be sad if “his mark,” who has been in battle, were displaced by this
court butterfly. In archery, when a good arrow was sent, it was usual
to cry out “God save the mark,” meaning, “prevent anyone following to
displace my arrow” in the “gold.”

TOOTSIE.—There are homes for invalids and convalescents at 7s., and
from 8s. to 12s. 6d. a week. You might get into the Female Convalescent
Home, Crescent House, Marine Parade, Brighton. For this home no letter
or nomination is required, but the charge is 8s. a week, paid in
advance, and you may remain there for a month. Address Mrs. Marshman,
4, Ladbroke-square, W. If you take 5s. previously to going there, to
Mrs. Marshman, she will give you a voucher, which must be shown to the
ticket clerk at the station, and he will give you a third-class free
ticket to and from Brighton. Mrs. Marshman is at home every day till
noon to see candidates for admission.

M. SCHWARTZENBERG.—Write to our publisher, Mr. Tarn, for the index,
frontispiece, and title-page, enclosing thirteenpence for the same and
for postage.

OLD-FASHIONED.—If your mother approve of your engagement at so early an
age, and to a lad yet in his teens and younger than yourself, we have
nothing to say against it. Still, you should remember that it would not
be to his discredit if he were to change his mind when he became a man
and knew his own mind and character. But in this special case it may
be otherwise. You have our best wishes, and we thank you for your kind
letter.

PRINCESS LOUISE.—No, the lines are not poetry, but rhymed prose, and
not very good as that.

AGATE.—The case you name is indeed a very sad one; but within our own
experience we have known two or three exactly such. They were persons
of undoubted piety. Yet God’s ways are often inscrutable and “past
finding out,” and why He permits His people to be visited with such
a terrible affliction, terminating thus their usefulness to others,
we cannot explain. Possibly it may be for the trial of the faith and
submission of others. “When one member suffers, all the other members
suffer with it.” Those that have been deprived of reason are no longer
responsible for their words or acts; those that retain their reason are
fully responsible for rebellion against the calamity laid upon them,
and for any consequent shipwreck of faith. Your afflicted relative is
now, without doubt, at peace, and enjoying the presence of the Saviour
whom she loved and served so long as He preserved her senses.

HOPE.—Pronounce Mendelssohn as “Mendle-soan”; Gluck, as spelt; “Bach,”
guttural “ch”; Gounod, as “Goo-no”; Schubert, as “Shoo-bert”; Franz
Liszt as “Frantz List”; and Maupréty as “Mo-pray-te.”

GRACIE.—The schoolroom-maid cleans the schoolroom and the grate,
attends to the fire, lays the table, brings up the meals, and waits and
attends to the bell, making herself generally useful to the governess.

SARA.—You might obtain information about a home of rest near the
sea during vacation, at about 10s. weekly, if you applied to the
Governesses’ Benevolent Institution; secretary, Charles W. Klugh,
Esq., 32, Sackville-street, London, W. Inquire about a home of rest at
Ramsgate. We have heard of one there which might suit you. There is
also a home of rest at Sunninghill, Staines, about which inquire also.

[Illustration: WE TOOK SWEET COUNSEL TOGETHER & WALKED INTO THE HOUSE
OF GOD IN COMPANY. Ps. LV. 14.]

INQUISITIVE GIRL.—Your quotation is not correct. It is, “One touch
of nature makes the whole world kin,” which places the spectator
in sympathy with the actor, since we all have the same feelings,
weaknesses, and emotions, one as the other, in greater or less degrees.
If you saw a mother parting in great grief with a child, you, as a
mother, would experience a kindred feeling. 1. The great composer, Karl
Maria Baron von Weber, did not die in prison; he was found dead in his
bed when on a visit to Sir George Smart, who had entertained him during
his stay in England, June 3rd, 1826.

SYDNEY.—The Early English style in architecture dates from 1190 to
1245; the Perpendicular from 1360 to 1550. There are three varieties
under the name Romanesque, and four known as Gothic. The former
comprises the Saxon, Norman, and Transition; the latter comprises the
Early English, Geometrical, Decorated, and Perpendicular. All churches
subsequently built are true or debased imitations of these, excepting
in cases where Byzantine or Greek models have been adopted.

WINNIE.—An apology should be received graciously, and there should be
no reference thereafter made to the quarrel; but everything must depend
on the cause which produced it, so far as your future relations with
each other are concerned. The character of the offender might have
been exhibited in a new and unsatisfactory light, rendering confidence
misplaced and dangerous. Thus, your relations one with the other
might be very materially and wisely changed, notwithstanding the full
forgiveness accorded and the apology rendered.

EVELYN wants to know how to make the whites of her eyes white. They
become yellow in cases of jaundice, or bilious disturbance, and they
become red from a cold or blast in them, or from crying, over-work,
or intemperance in drink. She must be the best judge as to which of
these causes her yellow or red eyes owe their colour, and deal with the
trouble accordingly. If from a cold in the eye, hold it in an eggcup of
as hot water as can be borne without scalding, and this will force back
the red particles in the blood vessels, which should not be present in
the eyeballs. If Evelyn be a girl of colour, of course, the balls of
the eyes, that should be of a blue-white in white people, are naturally
yellow, and nothing will change it.

BUTTERCUP.—You should have mentioned the book you were reading, as we
think the word is a manufactured one, _alma_ being “soul,” and _cinere_
“ashes,” in Italian. Perhaps it has something to do with Ash Wednesday
and Lent. There seems no other clue.

E. B. B. should read Sir John Lubbock’s recent account of teaching his
dog to read cards, with certain words on them indicating “out,” “food,”
etc. 2. Lilith is fabled by the Talmudist as having been the first wife
of Adam, but, refusing to obey him, she left Paradise for the regions
of the air.

ISOLDE.—The meaning of the word _nehustan_ (2 Kings xviii. 4) is given
by Bishop Hall as “a piece of brass,” and by Dr. Hales as “a brazen
bauble,” designed to be a term of contempt. The brazen serpent was
made an idol, and was worshipped, and Hezekiah spoke of it in its real
character as a mere piece of metal. We acknowledge your kind letter
with many thanks.

MISS MALAPROP, FIVE TOES, X. Y. Z.—At sixteen you should be attending
to your lessons. If wise, you would not be in such a hurry to begin the
troubles and anxieties of life.

MAY.—Even if the brigade of artillery had been moved from Bellary, all
letters and papers would be forwarded to the troops, wherever they
were. We can find no mention of anything recent.

M. L. W. A.—The great diamond called the Koh-i-noor, or “mountain of
light,” was found in the Mines of Golconda in 1550, and is said to
have belonged in turn to Shah Jehan Aurungzebe, the Afghan rulers, and
afterwards to the Sikh Chief Runjeet Singh. Upon the abdication of
Dhuleep Singh, the last ruler of the Punjab, and the annexation of his
dominions in 1849, the Koh-i-noor was surrendered to the Queen, and was
brought over and presented to her, July 3rd, 1850. Its original weight
was nearly 800 carats, but it was reduced, by the unskilfulness of the
artist, to 279 carats. Its shape and size was like the pointed end of
a small hen’s egg. The value is hardly to be computed, but appraising
it at two millions has been considered reasonable, if calculated on a
trade scale. It was re-cut in 1852, and was reduced to 102½ carats. It
is worn by Her Majesty as a brooch on all State occasions.

LAURA.—Of course, your pale semi-opaque amber will turn darker and lose
its beauty if exposed to light and heat. Whenever taken off, wipe your
necklace and earrings carefully with a soft handkerchief to remove any
greasiness, and put them by in a cool, dark place.

R. E. F.—A woman married after the 1st of January, 1883, is qualified
to dispose by will of all property belonging to her at the time of her
marriage, and of all property acquired thereafter, in all respects
as if she were an unmarried woman. If married previously to the date
above named, she must obtain her husband’s consent to any will she may
desire to make, and all property accruing to her after marriage, unless
by settlement, becomes his to surrender to her or to retain, as his
perceptions of honour or feeling of generosity may dictate.

AWKWARD SIXTEEN would make a very awkward mistake if she burned her
face with aquafortis on account of a few moles! Methylated spirits
should not be packed into a trunk. Better to place it in a basket; and
still wiser to buy what is required on arrival.

HELEN ADA.—The game of tennis, as all others with a ball, is of very
remote origin. The Greeks played such. Tennis seems to have originated
in or before 1300 in France, and in Charles II.’s reign it was very
fashionable. The game of lawn tennis has been evolved out of the old
game. A statue was erected to Aristonicus, in commemoration of his
superior skill in playing with a ball.

ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, and WALES.—St. Mary Magdalene was not the sinner you
name, but one afflicted with devil possession, seven of which were cast
out of her by our Lord.

FATHER’S PRIDE AND MOTHER’S JOY.—You cannot show your dislike to anyone
in a more innocent and godly manner, especially if they be proved
enemies to you, than by kindness and love. If you can do any kindness
towards them, you must look for and seize the occasion to do it. This
is Christ’s way, and would be your way and all our ways if we were only
like Him.

GERTRUDE’S question is too wide for our space. There are dozens of
pretty watering-places in England. But where does she live, and what
does she require in a watering-place—quiet or noise? It would be
impossible even to suggest a residence unless we had more data to guide
us.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 195: ununwonted to unwonted—“unwonted sight”.

suceeeds to succeeds—“succeeds in being”.

Page 206: be to he—“he began”.]




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