[Illustration: AN ANTIQUE FÊTE.

_From the Painting in the Salon by P. L. VAGNIER._]




[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 993.]      JANUARY 7, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.


[Illustration: ASPIRATION.]

_All rights reserved._]


PART I.

There is, perhaps, no word in the present day which has been more
frequently used and abused than “culture.” It has come so readily to
the lips of modern prophets, that it has acquired a secondary and
ironical significance. Some of our readers may have seen a clever
University parody (on the _Heathen Chinee_) describing the encounter of
two undergraduates in the streets of Oxford. One, in faultless attire,
replies proudly to the other’s inquiry where he is going—

“I am bound for some tea and tall culture.”

He is, in fact, on the way to a meeting of the Browning Society, and
when a Don hurries up to tell him the society has suddenly collapsed,
great is the lamentation!

Probably the society in question deserved no satire at all; but there
is a sort of “culture for culture’s sake” which does deserve to be held
up to ridicule.

We find nothing to laugh at, however, but a very real pathos, in the
letters that are reaching us literally from all quarters of the globe;
and we long to help the writers, as well as those who have similar
needs and longings unexpressed. “How can I attain self-culture?” is the
question asked in varying terms, but with the same refrain.

Girls, after schooldays are past, wake up to find themselves in a
region of vast, dimly-perceived possibilities:

“Moving about in worlds not realised.”

More to be pitied is the lot of those who have not had any schooldays
at all worth speaking of, and who are awaking to their own mental
poverty—poverty, while there is wealth all about them which they
cannot make their own. Their case is like that of the heir to some vast
estates, who cannot enjoy them, because he cannot prove his title.

What, then, is this much talked-of culture?

There are several things which it is _not_.

To begin with, it is not a superficial smattering of certain
accomplishments.

It is not a general readiness to talk about the reviews one has read of
new books.

It is not the varnish acquired from associating day by day with
well-educated and urbane people.

It is not development to an enormous extent in one direction only.

It is not attending one course of University Extension Lectures.

It is not the knack of cramming for examinations, and of passing them
with _éclat_.

All these elements may enter into culture, but they are not culture
itself.

It is a harder matter to define culture than to say what it is not.
As we write these words, our eye falls on the saying of a well-known
prelate, reported in the _Times_ of the day: “General culture—another
name for sympathetic interest in the world of human intelligence.”
This sounds rather highflown and difficult, but we may add three more
definitions—

“Culture is a study of perfection.”—_Matthew Arnold._

“Culture is the passion for sweetness and light, and (what is more) the
passion for making them prevail.”—_Matthew Arnold._

“Culture is the process by which a man becomes all that he was created
capable of being.”—_Carlyle._

The third of these is, perhaps, the best working definition of culture,
for it shows its real importance and significance, and also makes it
simpler to understand.

Look at a neglected garden. The grass is long and rank; the beds are a
mere tangle of weeds and of straggling flowers that have run to seed,
or deteriorated in size and sweetness until they can hardly be called
flowers at all. It is a wilderness.

The garden is taken in hand and cultivated, not by a mechanical
ignorant gardener, but by someone who understands the capacities of
the soil, and knows what will do well and repay his care. See the
transformation in time to come! There is everything by turn that is
beautiful in its season; the lovely herbaceous border, the standard
rose-trees, the sheltered bed of lilies of the valley, the peaches
on the warm southern wall, the ferns waving in feathery profusion
in the cool corner near the well—all that the garden can produce
for delight to the eye or for food is there. The ground is not given
over exclusively to one flower, one vegetable; it is not stocked
mechanically for the summer with geraniums and calceolarias; but it is,
as we say in homely parlance, “made the most of” in every particular,
and is a delight to behold.

This may seem a simple illustration, and we are writing not for the
erudite, but for the simple reader. The man or woman of culture is
the man or woman whose nature has been cultivated in such a way as to
develop all its capabilities in the best possible direction; whose
education has been adapted skilfully to taste and capacity, and who has
been taught the art of self-instruction.

It is hardly necessary to urge the value of this “cultivation.”
“Cultivation is as necessary to the mind as food to the body,” said
a wise man, and this is gradually coming to be believed. Culture is
something more by far than mere instruction, though instruction is a
means by which it may be attained. Bearing in mind our simile of the
garden, we are led on from one thought to another.

It was a very wise man indeed who pointed out that, even as ground will
produce something, “herbs or weeds,” the mind will not remain empty
if it is not cultivated; it tends to become full of silly or ignorant
thoughts like “an unweeded garden.”

Again, in a well-ordered, cultivated plot of ground we have what is
useful as well as what is lovely. In culture, not only the acquirement
of “useful knowledge” plays a part, but the storing of the mind with
what is beautiful, the development of taste in all directions.

In brief, a woman of real culture is the woman who makes you
instinctively feel, when in her company, that she is just what she was
meant to be; harmoniously developed in accordance with her natural
capacity. There is nothing startling about her paraded attainments.
The extreme simplicity of a person of true culture is one of the most
marked traits, and the chief point that distinguishes spurious from
real culture is that the former is inclined to “tall talk” and the
latter is not.

Charles Dickens can still make us smile at his caricature of an
American L. L. (literary lady) and her remarks on her introduction to
some great personage. She immediately begins—

“Mind and matter glide swift into the vortex of Immensity. Howls the
sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal in the whispering chambers
of Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then outlaughs the stern
philosopher and saith to the Grotesque: ‘What ho; arrest for me that
Agency! Go, bring it here!’ And so the vision fadeth.”

The woman of culture does not attempt fine talking, and it is only
gradually that her power and charm dawn upon her companion. “It is
proof of a high culture to say the greatest matters in the simplest
way.”

In the same manner simplicity is a proof of high breeding. The people
who are “somebody” are, as a rule, easy to “get on” with. It is the
rich “parvenue” who is disconcerting, and who tries to drag into her
conversation the names of great people or great doings that will
impress her companion.

When we observe this sort of thing in a woman, we always know she is
not “to the manner born.” So when we hear people declare, “I am afraid
of So-and-so because she is so clever,” we feel that, if there is
ground for their fear, there is something defective in the clever one’s
culture.


WHY SHOULD CULTURE BE DESIRED?

It opens the eye and ear to the beauty and greatness of the world,
revealing wonders that could not otherwise be understood, and bringing
with it a wealth of happiness; and more, it gives an understanding
of life in its due proportion. The woman of culture is not the woman
who objects to perform necessary tasks at a pinch because they are
“menial,” or takes offence at imaginary slights, or is for ever
fussing about her domestic duties and her servants, or gets up little
quarrels and “storms in a teacup” generally, or delights in ill-natured
gossip. She sees how ineffably small such things are, and she sees them
in this light because she has the width of vision which enables her to
discern the meaning of life as a whole. Those whose eyes have once been
opened to the beauty and pathos that lie around their path, even in the
common round of daily duty, do not notice the dust that clings to their
shoes.

Sympathy is an accompaniment of true culture; the sympathy that comes
of understanding. Ignorant people are very often hard just because of
ignorance. They cannot in the least enter into the feelings of others,
nor do they understand that there is a world beyond their own miserable
little enclosure.

For instance, what a puzzle a clever, sensitive, imaginative child is
to people of contented matter-of-fact stupidity! One need not think of
Maggie and Mrs. Tulliver, or Aurora Leigh and her aunt, to illustrate
this—there are plenty of examples from real life.

The girl does not take to sewing and the baking of bread and puddings;
she is always wanting to get hold of a book—never so happy as when
she is reading. Or the boy is always poring over the mysteries of
fern and flower—never so happy as when he is afoot to secure some
fresh specimen. People of culture would foresee that the one may be a
student, the other a botanist, in days to come, and, while of course
insisting that practical duty is not selfishly overlooked, they would
try to give scope for the individual taste. People without culture
would set the whole thing down as laziness and vagabond trifling and
“shirking,” to be severely repressed. Sympathetic insight is one of
the most valuable attributes of culture; valuable all through life,
especially when dealing with others.

But we can imagine that the reader may be thinking rather hopelessly,
“It is not necessary to preach to me on the advantages of culture; I
am fully convinced of them; but all you say makes me hopeless of ever
attaining such a degree of perfection. In fact, I can see culture is
not for me at all, and I must just go on as I am.”

The dictionary definition of culture is “the application of labour,
or other means, to improve good qualities, or growth.” This does not
sound quite like the other definitions, and a great deal of confusion
has been caused by people forgetting that the word “culture” is used
for two things—the “process” of cultivation, and the “result” of that
process. Now it is quite true that “culture,” in the last and highest
sense, is not within the reach of all our readers; but surely there is
no reader who would say she cannot “apply labour or other means” to
improve her intelligence, be it in ever so small a degree. It is better
to cultivate a garden ever so little than to leave it a wilderness.

Culture, looked upon as a process, may begin and go on almost
indefinitely. Goethe well says—

“Woe to every sort of culture which destroys the most effectual means
of all true culture, and directs us to the end, instead of rendering us
happy on the way.”

In other words, it is foolish to strain miserably after “culture for
culture’s sake,” endeavouring to reach an impossible goal, and feeling
discontented and wretched because it is too remote. The wise way is to
do the best one can with the opportunities that lie within reach. Every
girl who reads these pages can do something to render herself a little
nearer her ideal of “culture,” and in the subsequent papers we shall
try to show her how she can best succeed.

    LILY WATSON.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

BY MARGARET INNES.


CHAPTER IV.

     OUR CHOICE OF LAND FOR LEMONS—THE PLANTING OF THE TREES—OUR
                         REMOVAL TO THE BARN.

Meanwhile we were furiously busy at the old search again. We were
able to get more and fresh details about the whole business from a
source which we knew to be perfectly reliable; and as these facts
were encouraging, we picked up heart again. The whole surrounding
neighbourhood was driven over, generally with a pick and shovel in the
buggy with which to make careful examination of the depth and kind of
soil.

There were plenty of ready-made ranches for sale, but they were never
just what we wanted. So we resolved that if we bought anything, it
should be untouched, uncleared land, on some of the foothills where
we could get a broad and sweeping view of the splendid ranges of
mountains. We would make our own ranch, planned after our own tastes,
and, above all, we would build our own house.

We had determined to plant lemons. They seemed to us to have many
advantages over other fruits. The land which will produce fine lemons
must necessarily be limited in area; it must be high enough to escape
the frost. Lemons do not need the great heat which is needed to ripen
oranges. They are gathered all the year round and will keep. Deciduous
fruit ripens all at one time, and has to be gathered and sold at once,
which makes it necessary to engage outside labour. As all wages are
very high, this is a heavy expense. Even if the fruit is dried, as
in the case of peaches, pears, prunes, apples, etc., for winter use,
considerable work is involved, and as far as we can learn, yields only
a small profit for this extra trouble. Lemons too, in America, are a
daily necessity, not a luxury. Everyone uses them, and the drinking
saloons alone require a constant supply.

These were the principal reasons which decided our choice, and at last,
after a whole year’s uncertainty, we found land in a position that we
liked—good rich land, lying high, and in a most beautiful position,
with a splendid view of the distant mountains, the tops of five ranges
standing up, one behind the other, and the different distances marked
with exquisite softness of colouring.

It was situated about fourteen miles from San Miguel, not out of reach
of the cool breeze which blows from the sea all day and every day
during the summer.

We went many times to examine it, and finally the great decision was
taken to buy thirty acres. At that time we found we could buy in this
neighbourhood first-class citrus land, with water, at about one hundred
dollars the acre. We knew there was no good land to be had for less. As
a matter of fact, however, the first cost of land and water bears but
a small proportion to the whole cost of the ranch up to the point of
yielding returns.

After our long time of anxious indecision, it was a relief to have
something settled about the future, and to plan and work for the new
home, although I must confess that, as long as no definite steps had
been taken, I was conscious of a hope buried deep down out of sight,
that it might be proved wisest for us to return to the dear old
country. The home-sickness was such a hunger and pain.

It was the month of June when we bought our land, and we were anxious
to plant as many trees as possible without delay, for the later the
summer, the drier the ground. Spring is, of course, the best time for
planting, when the earth is in beautiful condition after the winter
rains. But to wait till next spring seemed too great a loss of time.
We were very proud of ourselves that we managed to get five hundred
beautiful little lemon-trees planted before the end of July.

Considering that the ground had to be cleared of brush and sumac and
sage, then ploughed, and the water-pipes laid from the main in such a
manner as to reach all over the ranch, and the position of the trees
carefully measured (this last all the more difficult in our case,
because the ground is up and down hill)—considering all this hard
work, we had a right to some self-satisfaction.

We were able to find a competent ranchman who lived quite conveniently
near, for, until we had time to build, there was nowhere for him to
sleep on the ranch, although, in some cases, the conveniences for these
men are of the roughest. We heard from one man that, when he arrived at
a new place and asked where he was to sleep, the “boss” stared at him
a moment, then, giving a comprehensive glance round his enormous tract
of land, said, “Well, if you can’t find a place to suit you in seven
thousand acres, I guess I can’t help you!” However, I do not vouch for
the truth of this, although sleeping out-of-doors in the summer months
in this beautiful climate is no hardship.

During this busy time, my husband and eldest boy drove out constantly
to the ranch for a stay of three or four days at a time, returning home
for a short rest at the little house in San Miguel, then back again
to the hard work of planting, etc. On these expeditions they started
always very early in the morning, and took with them provisions and
various odds and ends to give them some comfort in the tent in which
they slept.

We were feeling the urgent necessity for carrying through some plan
that would enable us to settle at the ranch altogether with as little
delay as possible. So we decided to have our barn built first and to
live in this till the house should be finished. This we carried out,
and it saved us much loss of time and vexation, both in building the
house and in working the ranch.

It was an exciting moment when the day arrived for us to move from our
little house at San Miguel to the barn at the ranch. A removal is a
very different matter in this far-away corner from the same thing in
any more settled part of the world. Looking back to the old life in
the beloved old country, I find I have an almost sentimental regard for
the strong, well-trained men who come and help so splendidly at such
times. Here, where the rule of life is to help yourself in everything,
one has to be thankful for the most casual, untrained assistance—very
little of that too, and at a price that would make one open one’s eyes
at home.

We had two large waggons coupled together, the one behind being called
a trailer, with six horses to pull the load; and our luggage, which
included a large iron cooking-stove and a grand piano, was packed into
these in a most casual fashion. They looked very top heavy when ready
to start, and we knew the road to be terribly rough, full of “chuck
holes” and sudden lumps. However, we waved the men a cheery farewell
as they lumbered off, and then turned to gather up the numberless
forgotten odds and ends and to pack them into the “Surrey,” which stood
waiting for us.

It looked like part of a gipsy procession when we had finished, and
we rejoiced that our boys had gone with the waggons, for there seemed
absolutely no room for anybody inside the “Surrey.” Nevertheless, we
wedged ourselves in somehow, my husband and I and the “coloured lady”
whom I was taking out as cook, also two small dogs that had been added
to the family. Then we also lumbered off, leaving with rather mixed
feelings the little house where we had done our first housekeeping in
California.

About a month before this, after many experiments with horses we had
bought a pair of greys, and now drove them out to the ranch, where
they were to plough and cultivate and to serve as carriage horses when
needed.

The ordinary ranch horse is of a lighter build than his cousin the
English farm horse, having a strong dash of broncho mixed with his
peasant blood, which makes him rather lively and very tough.

Ours were called Dan and Joe. Joe was very gentle and willing, and
Dan, who for some years had worked constantly with him, traded on his
goodness and left always the greatest strain of everything to him.
However, generally they ran along together at a good pace and gave no
trouble.

This day we were obliged to go more slowly, as the “Surrey” was so
heavily laden, and the rough country roads bumped and lurched us
about so violently that it was difficult to keep ourselves and our
bundles from being shot into the air. With all our care, a large and
tempting piece of cheese, which had been added to the provisions as an
afterthought, disappeared, and we spent some valuable time in turning
back to hunt for it.

We were anxious to reach the ranch as long before sunset as possible,
for we knew it would not be easy work to get our little family settled
in the barn.

(_To be continued._)




ART IN THE HOUSE.


PART III.

HOW TO STENCIL IN OIL COLOURS.

Ordinary tube colours should be used for stencilling on your furniture
mixed with a little copal varnish and slightly thinned with turps.
Driers are put up in tubes under the names of _sacrum_ or sugar of
lead, and it is as well to mix a little with your colours as it makes
them dry off quickly. The white should be mixed up in a batch with the
varnish, driers and turps, and be of the consistency of thick cream.
Your tinting colours should be squeezed out on your palette so that you
can readily mix up your tones.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.—_Panel of corner cupboard decorated in
stencilling. The centre panel is founded on the iris, with the daisy at
base._]

Stencil brushes are round and short in the hair, so that they present
a flat surface on the stencil. You require three or four, two about an
inch in diameter, one five-eighths and one three-eighths or a quarter
of an inch. Two or three small flat hog brushes for touching in ties
and putting in particular parts of a stencil should be handy. We will
begin with the stiles of the door of chiffonier, which is decorated
with the ornamental stencil B, Fig. 1 in first article. We put the
corners in first and this corner I cut separately as I could not fit in
the stencil I was using. Having done this see how your other stencil
will work out, for it does not look workmanlike to start at the top
and find that you have to end it with a different spacing to what you
started with. If you begin in the centre of each stile and work to the
corners you will obtain a symmetrical result. Always remember to space
out any part of your work which is conspicuous, so that the stencil
seems to just fit in the space as though it were cut specially for
it. I find it a good plan to have some pins handy, and just tap in a
couple, one at each end of the stencil, to keep it from shifting while
you rub on the colour. Both your hands are then at liberty. Or you can
get a friend to hold the plate down on the wood, but the pinning does
almost better. If you shift the stencil before you have knocked out the
impression you will not get a sharp result.

Having tinted your white to the desired tone spread a little of the
colour on to your palette and knock your stencil brush on to this
colour a few times, so that the brush takes up some of the colour, then
begin by gently knocking the brush on to the wood over the cut-out
portions until you have completely covered them with colour. Don’t
try to do this too quickly. Proceed gently, getting the colour out of
your brush by degrees, and take up the colour from the palette in the
same gentle manner. The reason for this caution is that if you take
up too much colour at a time in your brush and knock it violently on
the stencil plate, you will find when you lift up the same that the
impression, instead of being sharp will be blobby at the edges through
the colour having worked under the stencil.

The art of stencilling is in getting sharp, clean impressions, and this
can only come of care and taking time. On no account get the colour
too thin. It should be of such a consistency as will enable you to
knock it out of the brush with slight exertion. If too stodgy thin it
with a drop or two of turps and linseed oil, and then mix with palette
knife, but on no account get turps into the stencil brush or you will
get very bad impressions, for the colour is sure then to run under the
stencil. Therefore again I say, don’t hurry.

I have said nothing yet as to the tones of colour to be used. This is
a matter of taste, and is a most difficult subject to write about.
Two artists will use the same colours, and yet one with an eye for
colour will give us beautiful harmonies, and the other one wanting
this delicacy of perception will give us crudity. Form in your mind
some tone of colour suggested, say, by the warm mellow colours of
autumn, the soberer russet and greys of the winter, or the light,
fresh, delicate tints of spring, and carry these suggestions out in
your decoration. The corner cupboard, Fig. 1, we might tint in the
russet tones, and you will find that such colours as raw sienna, raw
umber, yellow ochre, _terra verte_, burnt sienna, chromes Nos. 1 and 2,
Prussian blue, French ultramarine, and light red will supply you with
a very varied palette. White tinted with yellow ochre, raw sienna or
raw umber are all good tones for stencilling in, and each of them can
be mixed or toned with one of the others. The addition of _terra verte_
or Prussian blue will give you soft tones of green. By using such a
yellow as ochre to make greens you obtain softer, quieter tones than if
you used chromes. Suppose you have small quantities of the above three
tints mixed on your palette, you can take a little of one in your brush
and knock that out on the stencil, and then a little of the next tint
and knock that out, and so on with the third. In this way you get a
variety of tints in the stencilled border and yet a certain “tone” will
run all through, which gives one a sense of harmony, and at the same
time variety, and so lessens the hard mechanical look which stencilling
in just one colour is apt to give. Then, too, when you have knocked out
one impression before lifting off the stencil, you can take one of the
hog hair brushes or the smallest stencil brush and put in the body and
the portion of the wings around it of the butterflies B in the corner
cupboard, Fig. 1, in a little darker colour, say more raw umber or
sienna. It is very little more trouble and greatly adds to the general
effect to give these accents. The idea is to make the butterflies come
off the web, so keep the web lighter and the insects darker. In the
border B, Fig. 1, in first article the flowers might be touched in to
bring them off the lines of the background.

The pattern on the spaces surrounding the door A, Fig. 1, can still
be in the same tones, varied as I have suggested, but the panels of
the doors being themselves more naturalesque, might be a little more
positive in colouring, _i.e._, the leaves and grass can be put in,
in quiet, soft tones of green, while the flowers could be in lemon
chrome and white or bluish purple made of rose madder and French blue
or Indian red and Prussian blue lightened with white, but don’t make
the colouring too bright, so that it is in too strong contrast to the
stiles. Greens made of blue and chrome are much cruder than if you use
yellow ochre or raw sienna. Going back now to the colouring of the
chiffonier Fig. 1 (p. 13) in first article. The plinth or bottom D can
be in low-toned greens, not too dark but darker than the leaves in the
panels, while the daisies can be in grey made of white, raw umber, and
a touch of blue, with centres in yellow. Stencil the flowers first and
then with a small brush put in the yellow centres. A slight touch of
pink at the edges of the daisies might look well, effected by using a
small hog brush and a little rose madder. The leaves around the column
keep in the quiet greens used in plinth D. The back of the upper part
of chiffonier, Fig. 2, with its shelf can be treated like the panels
in colouring, and the festoon above the shelf can have the flowers in
the grey and the leaves in russet not too dark, and the ribbon in pale
blue. As you have a white surface to decorate, be careful not to get
your colouring too strong. Use plenty of white with all your colours,
for you will find that delicate tones are much pleasanter to live with
than heavy ones. A little of the pure colours from the tubes will tint
a lot of white, so the colours will not be a great expense. Buy the
flake white in half-pound tubes for cheapness.

In arranging stencils act somewhat on the plan I have observed, which
is to keep the more naturalesque stencils for such places as panels
or other flat, broad surfaces, and as a framing to them the more
ornamental patterns, to contrast with the natural ones. The butterfly
border on the stiles of the corner cupboard B, Fig. 1, is a good foil
to the iris panel, just as the border B, Fig. 1, is a good foil to the
daisy panel in the chiffonier.

The conventional grass seemed a suitable pattern for the plinth, and
such a purely ornamental design as a festoon not inappropriate to the
shaped top.

I have mentioned before that great variety can be obtained by combining
portions of different stencils. The plinth D, Fig. 1, of chiffonier,
for instance, is a combination of two, the flowers being from one and
the grass itself from another. The butterfly and sprig running border,
Fig. 1, in second article, I have shown in variation, and the border in
corner cupboard, A, Fig. 1, is made by taking the sprig portion only
and putting the root in between each impression. When you want only a
portion of a stencil cover over the rest with paper, so that you do not
get an impression of a part you do _not_ require.

Some colours are very fugitive such as indigo, crimson lake, yellow
lake, etc.; but the colours I have mentioned may be relied upon for
permanency.

When the stencilling is thoroughly dry it will preserve the work to
give it a coat of white hard varnish. Apply this freely with a flat hog
brush (or regular varnish brush), seeing that you miss no portion of
the surface. Keep it from the dust until dry and you will have a pretty
and useful article of furniture. Of course you may have some other
article to do up than the chiffonier I have sketched, which I took
simply because it was to my hand, but you can easily apply these hints
to your own necessities.

When your stencils are done with you wash them thoroughly in
turpentine, both back and front, and dry them and put them away,
keeping them flat.

While you are using your stencils wipe the back after each impression,
so that if any colour has worked there you can remove it. Have an old
board and some newspaper to lay the stencil on when you clean it.

With the batch of stencils given with these articles endless variations
and combinations are possible. Many of the patterns too could be easily
adapted for needlework; in fact, you have only to lightly stencil your
material in water colour and work over the impressions. Use Chinese
white if a dark textile, and lamp black and Chinese white if a light
one.

Though I have advised white paint for these two articles of furniture,
there is no reason why you shouldn’t try dark ones. Stencilling is
very effective on dark paint, and a cabinet or cupboard painted a dark
brownish green would look well with stencilling in shades of old gold.
To get a rich colour the final coat must have very little white with
it. For a brownish green use burnt sienna, black, deep chrome, and
touch of Prussian blue, with only enough white to make it light enough.

    FRED MILLER.




VARIETIES.


HOW TO GET ON.

When Lord Esher took leave of the Bench and Bar recently, he made a
noteworthy utterance, which has an interest for all young people, even
though they are not lawyers or ever likely to be.

This eminent judge, who has sat on the judicial bench with great
distinction for twenty-nine years, told his hearers that resoluteness
of purpose had been the secret of his success.

“What I will say to all of you,” he remarked, “is this. I became a
judge because I had made up my mind and will, from the beginning, that
I would be a judge. Do not suppose I had no checks, and that there were
not occasional times when it appeared that one was being passed over. I
said, ‘Never mind the checks; I will go on, and I will get to the top,
if it is possible to do it!’ I recommend that to you all.”


SUCH IS FAME.

The great Napoleon, more than a year after he had become Emperor, tried
to find out if there was anyone in France who had never heard of him.

It was not long before he discovered a wood-cutter at Montmartre within
the walls of Paris, to whom the name of Napoleon was quite unknown,
and, more than that, the man was ignorant of the Revolution and had no
knowledge of the fact that Louis XVI. was dead.

Another anecdote showing equally well that the trumpet of fame does
not reach the ears of everybody was told by Mr. Roebuck in the course
of a speech made at Salisbury in 1852. He told his audience that when
he mentioned the recent death of the Duke of Wellington to a “shrewd
Hampshire labourer,” the man replied—

“I be very sorry for he. But who was he?”


KINDNESS AND COURAGE.

    Life is mostly froth and bubble,
      Two things stand like stone:
    Kindness in another’s trouble,
      Courage in your own.


A REAL FRIEND.—Account her your real friend who desires your good
rather than your good-will.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANSWER TO TRIPLE ACROSTIC (p. 63).

(_Extra Christmas Part._)

  1.  E ver G ree N
  2.  L     E     A
  3.  I st  H mi  A
  4.  S o l A nu  M
  5.  H u   Z z   A
  6.  A nd  I ro  N

  Elisha—Gehazi—Naaman.




“OUR HERO.”

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


CHAPTER XV.

FROM OVER THE WATER.

Lucille, turning to go, made a little sign to Roy to follow her. Ivor
opened the door, moving mechanically, as if his mind were far away; and
Roy, with a show of reluctance, went in her rear.

“But, Mademoiselle, I want to know about them all at home. Molly most!
And Den can tell me.”

“Yes; soon. But would you not leave Monsieur to read his letter in
peace? Would not that be kind?”

“Are you more sorry for Den than for the rest of us?” demanded Roy,
his frank grey eyes looking Lucille in the face somewhat laughingly.
The question took her by surprise; and afterwards she recurred to it,
wondering at the boy’s unconscious penetration. At the moment she met
his glance readily enough.

“I do not know. I am sorry for you all. But Captain Ivor—yes, perhaps
most. I am not sure. He is more changed by his imprisonment than any.
Cannot you perceive? _Mais non_—you are a boy—you do not look.”

“I do, though,” protested the injured Roy. “That was why I wouldn’t go
on playing chess. And then for you to say that I don’t _look_. But I
can’t see that Den is changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He’s the
best old fellow that ever lived—just as he always was, you know.”

“Old!” repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows.

“O, that’s only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him
better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn’t old really, of
course—he was twenty-five his last birthday.” Roy laughed to himself.

“Something that you find amusing, Roy!”

“It’s only the letter. Do you know, that’s from the girl he is going to
marry some day. It’s from Polly.”

“Oui.” Lucille had already conjectured as much. “Mademoiselle Pol-ly.
C’est un peu drôle, ce nom-là.”

“But ’tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. ’Tis just Polly. You do say names so
drolly—so French! Den says I’m not to cure you of talking as you do,
because ’tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn’t Polly. She is
Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary.”

“Mademoiselle Marie Keene—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene
pretty—gentille?”

“I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was,”
declared Roy. “Though I like Molly best, you know, and she’s not
pretty. But Polly’s nice, too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of
time.”

“I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for
monsieur.”

Roy murmured one impatient “Bother! Plague take it!” and then his
face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to
Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.

He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it in
possession. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals,
did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened,
and sight became more clear. If Polly only wrote to say that she was
growing tired of waiting and could not promise to wait indefinitely,
still even that would be better than not hearing at all—even to know
the worst at once would be better than absolute uncertainty. And
meanwhile it was her own handwriting.

There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly’s letter
came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not
trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read
through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.

The early part of Polly’s effusion, which bore a date many weeks old,
was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in
those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a
little peep into Polly’s heart was permitted. She had apparently just
received one of Ivor’s many epistles, the greater number of which never
reached their destination.

            Bath. November 7, 1803.

    “MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—So you consider that I have been too slow
    in writing to you, and you make complaint that I leave you too long
    without Letters. But how know you that I have not sent at least
    _one_ for every single one of yours to me? In truth, I cannot boast
    of any vast correspondence on _your_ side, my dear Sir, since the
    letter which is now arriv’d is but the second in——O in quite
    an interminable length of time. And were it not that I have an
    exceeding Aversion to the writing of Letters, as indeed you ought
    to be aware, since I am sure I have told you as much, I _might_
    feel Regrets at hearing so seldom—but that it means the less toil
    on _my_ part, you understand. If it were not that in your last you
    give a delicate hint that Silence on my part might be construed to
    mean something of the Nature of Indifference, why even now I should
    be greatly disposed to indulge my Dislike to driving the Quill, and
    wait till another day.

    “But since doubtless you will expect to hear, and since we never
    may know which letters have gone astray, I will so far overcome my
    inclinations—or my _dis_inclinations—as to sit down and endeavour
    to entertain you with the best of Bath News.

    “My letter which was writ from Sandgate you have, I trust, already
    received, and thus you know all about the scare which took place,
    when the French fleet was descried by somebody of not very good
    sight—or so I suppose!—and when signals went wrong, and the
    Soldiers and Sea-fencibles and Volunteers were all called out, and
    when General Moore galloped the whole distance from Dungeness
    Point to be in time, and when Mrs. Bryce’s heart failed her. But
    not _Polly’s_, Captain Ivor—of that you may be sure! For _Polly_
    is to be one day the wife of a soldier! And also Polly knew that,
    if she were to be taken prisoner, as Mrs. Bryce dolefully foretold,
    why—why—that might mean that she could hope to be sent to where
    Somebody is, whom she would not be greatly sorry to see once again.

    “Mrs. Bryce insisted on coming hither in hot haste, lest Napoleon
    should please to land at Sandgate, where General Moore waited to
    receive him; and now she is in doubt what to do next, since some
    think London is the safer place to be in. But General Moore does
    not now think that Napoleon will make any effort till spring, since
    any day winter storms in the Channel may begin; and Jack scorns
    the notion that, when he does come, he will ever advance beyond
    the sea-beach. ’Tis said that, if Mr. Pitt comes into power again,
    he will speedily _start_ some new ideas for our Preservation; and
    my Grandmamma says, therefore, that we may not _start_ any new
    expenses till we know to what length Taxation will allow us to run.
    But for which I wanted much a new frock.

    “Last week I was in Bristol for three days, with our Grandmother’s
    old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. I was asked to a dance with them,
    and I went, but without the smallest idea of dancing, having been
    assured that beaux were scarce, and strangers seldom asked. So I
    determined to enjoy seeing others more fortunate, and to pass a
    quiet stupid evening, meditating on an absent Somebody—can you by
    any possibility guess Whom, my dear Sir?

    “But matters turned out otherwise. I had entered the room only a
    few minutes, when a most genteel handsome young Man advanced, and
    with such sort of speeches as you all make solicited the honour of
    my hand. To tell you the honest and plain truth, I had seen him
    before, and I therefore graciously assented. I left the ladies that
    accompanied me—Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Graham’s sister—to look out
    for themselves; and I began thereupon to enjoy myself. Now, if you
    want to know his name, you must wait till I choose to tell you. He
    contributed to my passing a very agreeable evening; and so far I
    am obliged to him, for he knew many who were present, and he took
    good care that I should be in no lack of partners; but whether I
    ever see him again does not seem to be of any sort of consequence.
    Everyone was astonished at my great good luck in dancing, for
    the Gentlemen were, as usual, idle. There were some sad Coxcombs
    present, I regret to say, who found it too much exertion even
    to come forward and shawl a lady, when she was departing. But I
    forget—I am writing to one who knows not the meaning of the word
    ‘trouble,’ and who would never leave any woman, not if she were
    the _least_ Bewitching of her Sex, to stand neglected, if he could
    put matters right. So you see, my dear Sir, what my opinion of you
    is.

    “Having related thus much, I really am bound to go farther, and
    to inform you that the young man’s name was Albert Peirce, that
    he is a nephew of the good Admiral, that he is an officer in His
    Majesty’s Army, and that I saw him at Sandgate, the evening before
    our great scare about the Invasion. After all his civilities in the
    way of getting me Partners, he also handed me down to the vastly
    elegant Supper, which was provided; and by that time, there’s no
    doubt, I needed it.

    “You may perhaps be thinking that I do very well without you, on
    the whole; yet I cannot say that I do not miss my absent friend.
    Indeed I do, and my Spirits are lower since you went away. ’Tis
    said too that my Roses are much diminished, and that I must e’en
    take to the use of Painting and Cosmetics, if I would preserve
    my charms; but this, I confess, I am loath to do. So come home
    again, my dear Denham, I entreat of you, as soon as ever you may,
    for in truth I am longing to see you again. Is there no Exchange
    of Prisoners ever to be brought about by the two Governments? The
    present state of things is sad and dolorous for so many. I think
    of sending this letter to your old address in Paris, in a cover
    addressed to M. de Bertrand, who so kindly took in Roy, when he
    had the Small-pox. It appears that few letters which are posted,
    arrive safely; and ’tis at least worth while to try this mode. And
    now I must write no more, for my Grandmother craves a part of the
    sheet for a letter on her own behalf, that she may give suitable
    particulars about Molly, who begs me to send her Duty to her
    Parents, and her Love to Roy. I have begged only that the Letter
    may be writ to yourself, that so the whole sheet may be yours.

    “So at present no more, from
      “Yours faithfully and Till Death,
        “POLLY KEENE.”

Denham held the signature to his lips. Would he ever again be tempted
to doubt sweet Polly’s constancy?

The letter following, on the last page, was much shorter and different
in style. Mrs. Fairbank wrote—

    “MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—I am desirous to let Colonel Baron and his
    wife know that Molly is in good health, and Behaves herself as she
    ought. I have therefore requested the use of one page in Polly’s
    letter, since she assures me that she has nought else to say that
    is of great Importance. You will doutless kindly give my message to
    Colonel and Mrs. Baron.

    “I am greatly Indebted to Coonel Baron for the money which has
    been sent to me by his Bankers regularly, in conformity with his
    orders given many months ago. Expenses are increasingly heavy,
    as Prices continue steadily to arise, in consequence of the
    long-continued Wars; and I shou’d find it tru’ly difficult to
    manage, as things are now, but for his Seasonable and generous
    Help. I am thankful to have it in my power to do all that is needed
    for Molly, and the help to myself is not small. Bread and every
    necessary are rising.

    “Molly has a Governess who comes in every day; and I am pleased
    to be able to report that she makes good advance in her Study’s,
    as much as one cou’d expect. The young Governess is of French
    Extraction, her father having lost his life in the French
    Revolution, and her mother having fled with this daughter to
    England. She will therefore be able to impart to Molly the correct
    Pronunciation of French terms, which few Britishers manage to
    Acquire. Molly is growing fast, and though she will never be
    handsome, she is gaining a Pleasing expression of countenance; her
    manners are Genteel; and she behaves with Candour and Propriety.

    “Serious fears have been Entertain’d of a French Invasion of this
    Country, but I trust, thro’ the Mercy of God, that the danger is
    averted for this autumn. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce have fled to Bath for
    greater Safety, in accordance with my Advice; and indeed I was
    heartily glad when Polly had left Sandgate. If the french Army
    shou’d land, and shou’d advance to Lon^{n}, God forbid they shou’d
    molest the good Citizens, who I hope will be enabled to drive the
    french by thousands into old Thames.[1] People seem now, however,
    greatly to relax in their fears.

    “You will dou’tless be glad to hear that Polly is well, though she
    has not quite her usual bloom. Indeed, I am convinc’d that she has
    suffered greatly from your prolonged Absence, although, having a
    high Spirit, she does not readily betray her feelings.

    “Believe me, my dear Sir,
      “Yours sincerely,
        “C. FAIRBANK.”

“Den, is it from Polly?” cried Roy, bursting into the room.

“Yes. And Molly is quite well, and sends you her love. Come, we must
tell your mother that I have heard.”

“I’ve done your unpacking. Mademoiselle wouldn’t let me stay. She said
I ought to leave you to read your letter in peace.”

“Rather hard upon you, eh?” suggested Ivor. “Come along!” and Roy,
forgetting all else, sent a shout in advance to prepare his mother for
what was coming.

They had to make the most of this letter. None could guess how long a
time might pass before they would hear again. Every detail was eagerly
dwelt upon, and on the whole Polly’s report was counted satisfactory.
Naturally it awoke fresh memories, fresh regrets, fresh longings; yet
Denham at least seemed the better for his “medicine.” The look of
weight and strain was gone from his face next morning, and he appeared
to be in much his usual spirits, when he proposed a walk with Roy to
explore the neighbourhood. He and the Colonel had just returned from
_appel_; all détenus and prisoners having at stated intervals to report
themselves at the _maison de ville_.

“Will you have to sign your names every day?” Mrs. Baron asked, on
hearing particulars.

“At present, no. Den and I and a few others are excused from doing
so more often than once in five days. But the greater number have to
show themselves every day—unless they can send a medical certificate,
forbidding them to go out, on account of illness.”

“Remedy worse than disease,” murmured Ivor.

“And if one stays away, without sending such a certificate, the
gendarmes promptly make their appearance, expecting a fee for the
trouble.”

“How much?”

“Three francs—so I am told.”

“What a shame!”

“General Roussel does not seem to be a bad sort of fellow. Civil
enough. But they mean to be strict.”

“Good many escapes of late, sir.”

“Why, Den—escapes when they’ve given their parole!” cried Roy.

“No; only when they have not given their parole. That makes all the
difference.”

“And may you and papa go wherever you like?”

“Within stiff limits. Five miles from the town—no more without leave.”

“I foresee that we shall have to pay pretty liberally for that leave,”
added the Colonel.

“Did you see many friends there, George?”

“A good many coming and going. All of course who were at Fontainebleau
are here, and numbers from Valenciennes and Brussels. We came across
Mr. Kinsland, and General Cunningham and Welby, Greville, Franklyn and
others.”

“Den, I say, do come along,” urged Roy, who had already been for a run,
but who greatly preferred a companion.

“All right—if you don’t mind paying a call by the way.”

Roy declared himself ready for anything, and they went first toward
the lower part of the town, on a level with the river. Roy, full as
usual of ideas and talk, poured out for his companion’s edification
some items of information, which he had gained from Mademoiselle de St.
Roques.

“She says Verdun is an awfully old place—goes back to almost the days
of Charlemagne. When _did_ Charlemagne live? And only a little while
ago it was a French border town—frontier town, I mean—but it isn’t
now, because Napoleon has conquered such a lot of Europe. And do you
know, the Prussians took it from France only just a few years ago,
after quite a short siege. And the French Governor killed himself.”

“Saved Napoleon the trouble, I suppose.”

“Does Napoleon kill his generals when they are beaten? Oh, let’s go
up on the ramparts! Look, there are trees all along, just like a
boulevard. Mademoiselle says the ramparts are three miles long. Are
they, do you think? What is the business you have to do on the way? Are
you going to see somebody?”

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See footnote, p. 162.




[Illustration: THE LESSON.]




SONG.

BY L. G. MOBERLY.


    If only I might hear the larks again
        Upon the downs in spring,
    And linger in the copses, as of yore,
        To hear the thrushes sing,

    If I might see again the wide clear sky
        That stoops to meet the hills,
    And catch the golden gleam of sun that lies
        Upon the daffodils,

    And watch, just once again, the shadows pass
        Across the uplands sweet,
    And feel the springy sweetness of the grass
        Growing beneath my feet;

    I think that I could learn at last to bear
        My life in this great town;
    If I might feel Spring’s breath again—and hear
        The larks—upon the down!

[Illustration]




THE RULING PASSION.


CHAPTER I.

Among the crowd in the top gallery at St. James’s Hall was one very
remarkable figure who was an object of speculation to most of his
fellow-listeners at the Monday Popular Concerts. He was a regular and
unfailing attendant for many, many years, but not very long ago he
disappeared suddenly in the middle of the season, and his place knew
him no more.

He was an old man, apparently between seventy and eighty, very tall,
thin almost to emaciation, with a magnificent head, white hair that
was still thick and rather long, a short white beard and moustache, a
fine straight nose, and very sad, kindly grey eyes. His hands, though
old and shrunken, with their veins standing out in relief, were well
shaped, and still had the trained, capable look that only those people
possess who, having been taught to use and develop the muscles of their
hands while young, keep them in constant use and practice afterwards.

That he was very poor was certain, for year by year he appeared in
the same clothes. A very old, threadbare, but well-brushed Inverness
cape, a white woollen comforter, and a soft felt hat that had once been
black, but was now of the indescribable greenish-brown tint that black
hats assume in their last stages of existence. He also wore grey cloth
gloves and carried a thick blackthorn walking-stick with a knob handle.

He came alone to the concerts and sat on the extreme right-hand of
the gallery, close against the wall, in the third row from the front.
Sometimes he was joined by a young man, who was the only person he was
ever seen to converse with at length, though he would answer politely
any chance question about the music or the artists, on both of which
subjects he appeared to have considerable knowledge.

His English was perfect and fluent, but the impression prevailed in the
gallery that he was foreign.

One Monday evening a few years ago he came to the gallery at seven
o’clock and took his usual place. It happened to be the first
appearance of Joachim that season, and it was not unreasonable to
suppose that there might be a crowd. The old gentleman looked round
anxiously as each new-comer opened the door, fearing evidently that
some stranger would take the seat next him. His fears, however, were
vain ones on that night, and at about twenty minutes before eight,
looking round as the door opened, his face lighted up with joy as his
friend, a rather good-looking, dark young man, pushed his way across
the gallery to his side.

“Dear Professor Crowitzski,” he said affectionately, “I am sorry to be
so late. I knew you would be anxious, but I have come straight from
Grignoletti’s house in the Avenue Road.”

“My dear boy—my dear boy,” returned the old man tremulously, “I
have been anxious about you for several reasons. I have thought much
about your interview with Grignoletti and its possible result, and I
also began to fear you would not get here in time to hear the Brahms
Sextett, which is placed first upon the programme to-night. I would not
have you miss it if you could possibly help it; you should hear Brahms
as often as you can. Do not neglect the other masters of course. Hear
and study the works of all; but especially those of that great trinity,
Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. Now, however, tell me about yourself. Did
Grignoletti hold out any hope to you?”

“Indeed he did,” said the young man, “almost too much, for I do not
quite see how the hope is to be realised. He spoke in high terms of
my voice, said I had a career before me, and advised my entering the
Royal Academy at once, saying he should not let me study with anyone
but himself.”

“That is a high compliment,” said the Professor. “Grignoletti is the
finest teacher of singing in London. Moreover, he is a true artist and
an honest man. He will say nothing to you he does not mean. But tell me
what difficulties stand in your way.”

Herbert Maxwell sighed. It was so hard to see the bright pathway of his
highest wishes shining in the distance, and to realise that between him
and the beginning of it lay a dark stream that could only be crossed by
means of golden stepping-stones.

“I’m afraid money is the chief difficulty,” he said rather sadly. “The
Academy fees are ten pounds a term. The half-term examination is next
Monday, and I have not the means of raising five pounds. You know my
mother and I depend entirely on my weekly wage, and it is not a very
large one.”

“I know—I know,” replied the old man; “but supposing this amount could
be found, how would you support your mother and yourself when you give
up your present work? If you mean to adopt singing as your profession,
you must give your whole time to the study of music.”

“It was in that matter that Grignoletti showed himself so very kind,”
said Herbert. “He asked me how I lived, and promised, if I were
admitted to the Academy, he would find work for me by which I could
earn at least as much as I do now, and which would also increase my
musical knowledge. He——”

A sudden storm of applause interrupted him, in which he joined
vigorously, as Joachim, followed by the other artists, emerged from
the curious little well at the end of the platform, where those of the
players and singers who are not performing assemble to listen to those
who are, sitting on the stairs or on the settee just inside.

Nothing more was said by the old Professor or Herbert himself on the
subject of his musical education. The concert absorbed them both
entirely, and in the intervals between each item on the programme no
other subject was discussed by them but the music and the performers.

It was a shorter concert than usual, and as they were slowly making
for the door with the rest of the crowd, the old man said to his young
friend, “Can you come home with me to-night, my dear boy? I have
something more to say to you, and I cannot say it here. I do not think
it will make you very late.”

“I shall be very glad to,” replied Herbert, “and very glad to hear
anything from you. You are the only person in the world to whom I can
go for advice about music. It is very good of you to take so much
interest in me.”

At Piccadilly Circus they got into that red omnibus which is
affectionately called by those who use it constantly “The Kennington
Lobster,” and travelled over Westminster Bridge some little distance
down the wide Kennington Road.

“Green Street,” said the Professor after a time, and the conductor
stopped the omnibus almost immediately.

They got down and turned into a little street on the right-hand of the
main road; one of those streets still to be found here and there in
some of the older parts of London, though they are fast being swept
away by the remorseless builder to make room for the huge piles of
model dwellings that are springing up on every side.

It was a narrow street of small but still respectable-looking houses,
not detached. Each had a tiny square of garden in front of its one
window, and a path of flagstones led from the gate to the front door.

The old man stopped at No. 9, opened the door with a latch-key, and led
the way up a narrow staircase to the second floor.

“Wait a moment till we have a light,” he said; “you may fall over
something in my tiny room.”

It was a tiny room indeed that Herbert found himself in when the
Professor had lighted the lamp, and, as might have been expected, not
a luxurious one; but it was as neatly arranged as a ship’s cabin, and
everything was scrupulously clean.

On one side of the room stood a very narrow bed covered with a
patchwork quilt, at its foot a tiny square washstand of painted deal.
An old-fashioned mahogany chest of drawers piled high with books, a
small deal table in the middle of the room, an old stuffed chair by the
fireplace, and a low wooden one by the head of the bed completed the
tale of furniture, with the exception of—a piano!

It was of the small, old-fashioned, cottage kind, with a square lid and
faded green silk fluting for its front. It looked thin and worn like
its master; but there it was. It proved, too, that its owner must be a
musician, for there was nothing on the top of it. There was not much
room anywhere, save on the little table, to put anything down; but the
Professor would have been horrified at the idea of using the piano as a
resting-place for anything. He would not even let Herbert put his hat
on it.

“I should like to hear you sing,” he said, going to a large square pile
of something by the piano covered with an old cloth. “Do you know the
‘Elijah’?” He lifted the cloth as he spoke and disclosed a quantity
of music; sheet music, loose and bound, and scores of many famous
works—all old, all worn, but still his treasures. He picked out a
vocal score of the “Elijah” and put it on the piano desk.

“Yes,” said Herbert. “Shall I try ‘If with all your hearts’?”

The old man nodded with a smile, and, sitting down on the crazy music
stool, laid his aged hands upon the aged keys.

It needed but two bars to show Herbert that his old friend was a real
artist. The piano’s tone was like a tone ghost; but it was in perfect
tune. The Professor saw to that himself. And his touch seemed so to
caress the yellow keys that they gave him the very best they still had
in them.

As the song proceeded, the old gentleman smiled and nodded gently to
himself, as if he, too, were pleased and satisfied with what he heard.
He had good reason. Herbert’s voice was of that rare delicious quality
given perhaps to one singer in a generation. Full, rich, intensely
sympathetic, without a trace of that metallic hardness in the upper
notes so often found in tenor voices. He sang the great solo with the
utmost simplicity, but with a beauty of expression that would have gone
straight to the heart of any audience, musical or unmusical.

“My boy, you have a gift—a great gift,” said the Professor solemnly
at the end. “See that you use it well. You may, if you choose, be one
of the singers of the world; but it will mean more than three years at
the Academy, and then to sing at ballad concerts. Aim at the highest,
and make up your mind that it must be your life work. You must let me
help you put your foot on the lowest rung of the ladder. You can climb
yourself afterwards.”

He went to the bed and drew from underneath it a small old-fashioned
box covered with skin with the hair on and studded with brass nails.
This he unlocked, and took from it a small yellow canvas bag.

“I have here,” he said, “a kind of nest egg which I have managed to put
by from time to time out of my little income. It is the exact sum you
need just now, and you must pay your first fees with it.”

“My dear Professor,” stammered Herbert, completely taken aback,
“indeed, I cannot! I should never forgive myself for taking money that
you might possibly want for all sorts of things before I had a chance
of paying it back again!”

“Nonsense!” replied the old man, rather sternly. “You must take it!
I will have it so. I should never forgive _myself_ if I allowed your
young life and precious talent to be wasted because you were in want of
what I had lying idle! You can repay me some day when you can spare it.”

“But what will you do in the meantime?” asked the young man rather
diffidently, for he felt a delicacy about inquiring too closely into
the old man’s circumstances.

“My dividend falls due to-morrow,” was the reply. “There is not the
smallest reason for your refusing to take this. Go home to your mother,
tell her everything is decided, and take care of your voice for the
next week. Shall you be at the concert next Monday? Perhaps not, if you
are kept late at your work. If I do not see you there, will you come
here the next day and tell me about it all?”

His young friend promised this gladly; and in order to cut short his
expressions of thanks, the Professor took up the lamp and lighted him
downstairs, giving him a last warning against taking cold or overtiring
his throat as he let him out.

“He is a good boy,” he said to himself as he went back to his little
room. “I am very glad I was able to do it. It is for the young ones to
carry on the world. We old ones who have served our time must stand by
and encourage the others.”

He set about preparing his frugal supper—a small loaf and a pennyworth
of milk, which he took from a cupboard in one corner of the room. He
put the milk into a tiny tin saucepan, and, as of course there was no
fire in the grate, he lighted a little spirit lamp, set the saucepan
over the flame, and sat down to watch till it boiled.

His mind was still running on Herbert Maxwell and his probable career,
and from that it wandered back to his own young days. Gradually he
seemed to live through the whole of his past life. He recalled the
early home life in the comfortable house at Clapham; his kind Polish
parents who had been driven like so many others from their own
country; his childish passion for music which had caused him so often
to be laughed at by his English schoolfellows, and the decision of
his parents that he should adopt it as a profession. Then came those
happy student days at Leipzig, with the growing consciousness of his
own powers and the encouragement of his teachers and fellow students,
his _début_ at the Gewandhaus, with the applause and laurel wreaths,
succeeded by his first concert tour in Germany. He remembered his
return home, to his parents’ joy, and his success in London as a player
and teacher, with constant tours on the Continent, during one of which
he met that lovely girl he afterwards wooed and won, to spend those few
happy years with him till her sudden death abroad.

Then followed a ghastly blank, with isolated memories of being in some
great building with many other people, who were all waited on by kindly
men and sweet-faced women, and he could remember the feeling of having
been ill and not knowing how. Till one day, when he had grown stronger,
the knowledge came to him that, for a time, his mind had left him.

He vividly recalled his return to England, to find himself forgotten
and eclipsed by others who had sprung to fame during his long absence,
his failure to obtain either engagements or pupils, and, finally, the
collapse of the bank in which almost all his savings had been placed.

At this point, as if in sympathy with his thoughts, the spirit-lamp
went out with a little “fuff,” and the milk, which was on the verge of
boiling over, collapsed too.

This recalled him from his sad memories, and he tried, as he ate
his bread and milk, to put them out of his mind and to think of the
pleasanter events of the evening—of the fine concert, how splendidly
Joachim played, and of his young friend, whose mother would be so glad
at her boy’s good fortune.

But he could not rid himself of them, and even through the night his
broken sleep was haunted by harassing dreams and vague feelings of some
impending evil.

(_To be concluded._)




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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


CHAPTER XIV.

Robert did not make his appearance next morning, and his absence seemed
to give fresh ground for the expectation that Lady Darcy would drive
over with him in the afternoon and pay a call at the vicarage.

Mrs. Asplin gathered what branches of russet leaves still remained in
the garden and placed them in bowls in the drawing-room, with a few
precious chrysanthemums peeping out here and there; laid out her very
best tea cloth and d’Oyleys, and sent the girls upstairs to change
their well-worn school dresses for something fresher and smarter.

“And you, Peggy dear—you will put on your pretty red, of course!”
she said, standing still, with a bundle of branches in her arms, and
looking with a kindly glance at the pale face which had somehow lost
its sunny expression during the last two days.

Peggy hesitated and pursed up her lips.

“Why ‘of course,’ Mrs. Asplin? I never change my dress until evening.
Why need I do it to-day just because some strangers may call whom I
have never seen before?”

It was the first time that the girl had objected to do what she was
told, and Mrs. Asplin was both surprised and hurt by her tone in
which she spoke—a good deal puzzled too, for Peggy was by no means
indifferent to pretty frocks, and as a rule fond of inventing excuses
to wear her best clothes. Why, then, should she choose this afternoon
of all others to refuse so simple a request? Just for a moment she
felt tempted to make a sharp reply, and then tenderness for the girl
whose mother was so far away took the place of the passing irritation,
and she determined to try a gentler method.

“There is not the slightest necessity, dear,” she said quietly. “I
asked only because the red dress suits you so well, and it would have
been a pleasure to me to see you looking your best. But you are very
nice and neat as you are. You need not change unless you like.”

She turned to leave the room as she finished speaking; but before she
had reached the door, Peggy was by her side, holding out her hands to
take possession of twigs and branches.

“Let me take them to the kitchen, please! Do let me help you!” she said
quickly, and just for a moment a little hand rested on her arm with a
spasmodic pressure. That was all, but it was enough. There was no need
of a formal apology. Mrs. Asplin understood all the unspoken love and
penitence which was expressed in that simple action, and beamed with
her brightest smile.

“Thank you, my lassie, please do! I’m glad to avoid going near the
kitchen again, for when cook once gets hold of me, I can never get
away. She tells me the family history of all her relations, and indeed
it’s very depressing, it is” (with a relapse into her merry Irish
accent), “for they are subject to the most terrible afflictions! I’ve
had one dose of it to-day, and I don’t want another!”

Peggy laughed and carried off her bundle, lingered in the kitchen
just long enough to remind the cook that “Apple Charlotte served with
cream” was a seasonable pudding at the fall of the year, and then went
upstairs to put on the red dress, and relieve her feelings by making
grimaces at herself in the glass as she fastened the buttons.

At four o’clock the patter of horses’ feet came from below, doors
opened and shut, and there was a sound of voices in the hall. The
visitors had arrived!

Peggy pressed her lips together and bent doggedly over her writing. She
had not progressed with her work as well as she had hoped during Rob’s
absence, for her thoughts had been running on other subjects, and she
had made mistake after mistake. She must try to finish one batch at
least to show him on his return. Unless she was especially sent for she
would not go downstairs; but before ten minutes had passed, Mellicent
was tapping at the door and whispering eager sentences through the
keyhole.

“Peggy, quick! They’ve come! Rosalind’s here! You’re to come down!
Quick! Hurry up!”

“All right, my dear, keep calm! You will have a fit if you excite
yourself like this!” said Peggy coolly.

The summons had come and could not be disregarded, and on the whole she
was not sorry. The meeting was bound to take place sooner or later,
and, in spite of her affectation of indifference, she was really
consumed with curiosity to know what Rosalind was like. She had no
intention of hurrying, however, but lingered over the arrangement of
her papers until Mellicent had trotted downstairs again and the coast
was clear. Then she sauntered after her with leisurely dignity, opened
the drawing-room door, and gave a swift glance round.

Lady Darcy sat talking to Mrs. Asplin a few yards away in such a
position that she faced the doorway. She looked up as Peggy entered and
swept her eyes curiously over the girl’s figure. She looked older than
she had done from across the church the day before, and her face had a
bored expression, but, if possible, she was even more elegant in her
attire. It seemed quite extraordinary to see such a fine lady sitting
on that well-worn sofa, instead of the sober figure of the Vicar’s wife.

Peggy flashed a look from one to the other—from the silk dress to the
serge, from the beautiful weary face to the cheery loving smile—and
came to the conclusion that, for some mysterious reason, Mrs. Asplin
was a happier woman than the wife of the great Lord Darcy.

The two ladies stopped talking and looked expectantly towards her.

“Come in, dear! This is our new pupil, Lady Darcy, for whom you were
asking. You have heard of her——”

“From Robert. Oh, yes, frequently! I was especially anxious to see
Robert’s little friend. How do you do, dear? Let me see! What is your
funny little name? Molly—Dolly—something like that I think—I forget
for the moment!”

“Mariquita Saville!” quoth Peggy blandly. She was consumed with regret
that she had no second name to add to the number of syllables, but she
did her best with those she possessed, rolling them out in her very
best manner and with a stately condescension which made Lady Darcy
smile for the first time since she entered the room.

“Oh—h!” The lips parted to show a gleam of regular white teeth.
“That’s it, is it? Well, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,
Mariquita. I hope we shall see a great deal of you while we are here.
You must go and make friends with Rosalind—my daughter. She is longing
to know you.”

“Yes, go and make friends with Rosalind, Peggy dear! She was asking
for you,” said Mrs. Asplin kindly, and as the girl walked away the two
ladies exchanged smiling glances.

“Amusing! Such grand little manners! Evidently a character.”

“Oh, quite! Peggy is nothing if not original. She is a dear, good girl,
but quite too funny in her ways. She is really the incarnation of
mischief, and keeps me on tenter-hooks from morning until night, but
from her manner you would think she was a model of propriety. Nothing
delights her so much as to get hold of a new word or a high-sounding
phrase.”

“But what a relief to have someone out of the ordinary run! There are
so many bores in the world, it is quite refreshing to meet with a
little originality. Dear Mrs. Asplin, you really must tell me how you
manage to look so happy and cheerful in this dead-alive place? I am
desolate at the idea of staying here all winter. What in the world do
you find to do?”

Mrs. Asplin laughed.

“Indeed, that’s not the trouble at all; the question is how to find
time to get through the day’s duties! It’s a rush from morning till
night, and when evening comes I am delighted to settle down in an
easy-chair with a nice book to read. One has no chance of feeling dull
in a house full of young people.”

“Ah, you are so good and clever, you get through so much. I want to
ask your help in half-a-dozen ways. If we are to settle down here for
some months there are so many arrangements to make. Now tell me, what
would you do in this case?” The two ladies settled down to a discussion
on domestic matters, while Peggy crossed the room to the corner
where Rosalind Darcy sat in state, holding her court with Esther and
Mellicent as attendant slaves. She wore the same grey dress in which
she had appeared in church the day before, but the jacket was thrown
open and displayed a distractingly dainty blouse, all pink chiffon,
and frills, and ruffles of lace. Her gloves lay in her lap, and the
celebrated diamond ring flashed in the firelight as she held out her
hand to meet Peggy’s.

“How do you do? So glad to see you! I’ve heard of you often. You are
the little girl who is my bwothar’s fwiend.” She pronounced the letter
“r” as if it had been “w,” and the “er” in brother as if it had been
“ah,” and spoke with a languid society drawl, more befitting a woman of
thirty than a schoolgirl of fifteen.

Peggy stood motionless and looked her over, from the crown of her
hat to the tip of the little trim shoe, with an expression of icy
displeasure.

“Oh dear me, no,” she said quietly, “you mistake the situation. You
put it the wrong way about. Your brother is the big boy whom I have
allowed to become a friend of mine!”

Esther and Mellicent gasped with amazement, while Rosalind gave a trill
of laughter, and threw up her pretty white hands.

“She’s wexed!” she cried. “She’s wexed, because I called her little!
I’m wewwy sowwy, but I weally can’t help it, don’t you know. It’s the
twuth! You are a whole head smaller than I am.” She threw back her
chin, and looked over Peggy’s head with a smile of triumph. “There,
look at that, and I’m not a year older. I call you wewwy small indeed
for your age.”

“I’m thankful to hear it! I admire small women,” said Peggy promptly,
seating herself on a corner of the window seat, and staring critically
at the tall figure of the visitor. She would have been delighted if
she could have persuaded herself that her height was awkward and
ungainly, but such an effort was beyond imagination. Rosalind was
startlingly and wonderfully pretty; she had never seen anyone in real
life who was in the least like her. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue,
with curling dark lashes, her face was a delicate oval, and the pink
and white colouring, and flowing golden locks gave her the appearance
of a princess in a fairy tale, rather than an ordinary flesh and blood
maiden. Peggy looked from her to Mellicent who was considered quite a
beauty among her companions, and oh dear me! how plain, and fat, and
prosaic she appeared when viewed side by side with this radiant vision!
Esther stood the comparison better, for though her long face had no
pretensions to beauty, it was thoughtful and interesting in expression.
There was no question which was most charming to look at; but if it
had come to a choice of a companion, an intelligent observer would
certainly have decided in favour of the Vicar’s daughter. Esther’s
face was particularly grave at this moment, and her eyes met Peggy’s
with a reproachful glance. What was the matter with the girl this
afternoon? Why did she take up everything that Rosalind said in that
hasty, cantankerous manner? Here was an annoying thing—to have just
given an enthusiastic account of the brightness and amicability of a
new companion, and then to have that companion come into the room only
to make snappish remarks, and look as cross and ill-natured as a bear!
She turned in an apologetic fashion to Rosalind, and tried to resume
the conversation at the point where it had been interrupted by Peggy’s
entrance.

“And I was saying, we have ever so many new things to show
you—presents, you know, and things of that kind. The last is the
nicest of all; a really good, big camera with which we can take proper
photographs. Mrs. Saville—Peggy’s mother—gave it to us before she
left. It was a present to the schoolroom, so it belongs equally to us
all, and we have such fun with it. We are beginning to do some good
things now, but at first they were too funny for anything. There is
one of father where his boots are twice as large as his head, and
another of mother where her face has run, and is about a yard long, and
yet it is so like her! We laughed till we cried over it, and father has
locked it away in his desk. He says he will keep it to look at when he
is low-spirited.”

Rosalind gave a shrug to her shapely shoulders.

“It would not cheer me up to see a cawicature of myself! I don’t think
I shall sit to you for my portrait, if that is the sort of thing you
do, but you shall show me all your failures. It will amuse me. You will
have to come up and see me vewwy often this winter, for I shall be so
dull. We have been abroad for the last four years, and England seems so
dark and dweawy. Last winter we were at Cairo. We lived in a big hotel,
and there was something going on almost every night. I was not out, of
course, but I was allowed to go into the room for an hour after dinner,
and to dance with the gentlemen in mother’s set. And we went up the
Nile in a steamer, and dwove about every afternoon, paying calls, and
shopping in the bazaars. It never rains in Cairo and the sun is always
shining. It seems so wonderful! Just like a place in a fairy tale.” She
looked at Peggy as she spoke, and that young person smiled with an air
of elegant condescension.

“It would do so to you. Naturally it would. When one has been born in
the East, and lived there the greater part of one’s life, it seems
natural enough, but the trippers from England who just come out for a
few months’ visit are always astonished. It used to amuse us so much to
hear their remarks!”

Rosalind stared and flushed with displeasure. She was accustomed to
have her remarks treated with respect, and the tone of superiority was
a new and unpleasing experience.

“You were born in the East?”

“Certainly I was!”

“Where, may I ask?”

“In India—in Calcutta, where my father’s regiment was stationed.”

“You lived there till you were quite big? You can remember all about
it?”

“All I want to remember. There was a great deal that I choose to
forget. I don’t care for India. England is more congenial to my
feelings.”

“And can you speak the language? Did you learn Hindostanee while you
were there?”

“Naturally. Of course I did.”

A gasp of amazement came from the two girls in the window, for a
knowledge of Hindostanee had never been included in the list of Peggy’s
accomplishments, and she was not accustomed to hide her light under
a bushel. They gazed at her with widened eyes, and Rosalind scented
scepticism in the air, and cried quickly—

“Say something then. If you can speak, say something now, and let us
hear you.”

“Pardon me!” said Peggy simpering. “As a matter of fact I was sent home
because I was learning to speak too well. The language of the natives
is not considered suitable for English children of tender age. I must
ask you to be so kind as to excuse me. I should be sorry to shock your
sensibilities.”

Rosalind drew her brows together and stared steadily in the speaker’s
face. Like many beautiful people she was not over gifted with a sense
of humour, and therefore Peggy’s grandiose manner and high-sounding
words failed to amuse her as they did most strangers. She felt only
annoyed and puzzled, dimly conscious that she was being laughed at, and
that this girl with the small face and the peaked eyebrows was trying
to patronise her—Rosalind Darcy—instead of following the Vicar’s
daughters in adoring her from a respectful distance, as of course it
was her duty to do. She had been anxious to meet the Peggy Saville of
whom her brother had spoken so enthusiastically, for it was a new thing
to hear Rob praise a girl, but it was evident that Peggy on her side
was by no means eager to make her acquaintance. It was an extraordinary
discovery, and most disconcerting to the feelings of one who was
accustomed to be treated as a person of supreme importance. Rosalind
could hardly speak for mortification, and it was an immense relief when
the door opened and Max and Oswald hurried forward to greet her. Then
indeed she was in her element, beaming with smiles, and indulging a
dozen pretty little tricks of manner for the benefit of their admiring
eyes. Max took possession of the chair by her side, his face lighted up
with pleasure and admiration. He was too thoroughly natural and healthy
a lad to be much troubled with sentiment, but ever since one winter
morning five years before, when Rosalind had first appeared in the
little country church, she had been his ideal of all that was womanly
and beautiful. At every meeting he discovered fresh charms, and to-day
was no exception to the rule. She was taller, fairer, more elegant. In
some mysterious manner she seemed to have grown older than he, so that
though he was in reality three years her senior, he was still a boy,
while she was almost a young lady.

Mrs. Asplin looked across the room, and a little anxious furrow showed
in her forehead. Maxwell’s admiration for Rosalind was already an old
story, and as she saw his eager face and sparkling eyes, a pang of fear
came into his mother’s heart. If the Darcys were constantly coming down
to the Larches, it was only natural to suppose that this admiration
would increase, and it would never do for Max to fall in love with
Rosalind! The Vicar’s son would be no match for Lord Darcy’s daughter;
it would only mean a heart-ache for the poor lad, a clouded horizon
just when life should be the brightest. For a moment a prevision of
trouble filled her heart, then she waved it away in her cheery, hopeful
fashion—

“Why, what a goose I am! They are only children. Time enough to worry
my head about love affairs in half-a-dozen years to come. The lad would
be a Stoic if he didn’t admire her. I don’t see how he could help it!”

“Rosalind is lovelier than ever, Lady Darcy, if that is possible!” she
said aloud, and her companion’s face brightened with pleasure.

“Oh, do you think so?” she cried eagerly. “I am so glad to hear it,
for this growing stage is so trying. I was afraid she might outgrow
her strength and lose her complexion, but so far I don’t think it has
suffered. I am very careful of her diet, and my maid understands all
the new skin treatments. So much depends on a girl’s complexion. I
notice your youngest daughter has a very good colour. May I ask what
you use?”

“Soap and water, fresh air, good plain food—those are the only
cosmetics we use in this house,” said Mrs. Asplin, laughing outright
at the idea of Mellicent’s healthy bloom being the result of “skin
treatment.” “I am afraid I have too much to do looking after the
necessities of life for my girls, Lady Darcy, to worry myself about
their complexions.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I’m sure they both look charming; but Rosalind will go
much into society, and of course——” She checked herself before the
sentence was finished, but Mrs. Asplin was quick enough to understand
the imputation that the complexions of a Vicar’s daughters were but
of small account, but that it was a very different matter when the
Honourable Rosalind Darcy was concerned. She understood, but she was
neither hurt nor annoyed by the inferences, only a little sad and
very, very pitiful. She knew the story of the speaker’s life, and the
reason why she looked forward to Rosalind’s entrance into society with
such ambition. Lady Darcy had been the daughter of poor but well-born
parents, and had married the widower, Lord Darcy, not because she loved
him or had any motherly feeling for his two orphan boys, but simply
and solely for a title and establishment, and a purse full of money.
Given these, she had fondly imagined that she was going to be perfectly
happy. No more screwing and scraping to keep up appearances; no more
living in dulness and obscurity; she would be Lady Darcy, the beautiful
young wife of a famous man. So, with no thought in her heart but for
her own worldly advancement, Beatrice Fairfax stood before God’s altar
and vowed to love, honour, and obey a man for whom she had no scrap
of affection, and whom she would have laughed to scorn if he had been
poor and friendless. She married him, but the life which followed was
not by any means all that she had expected. Lord Darcy had heavy money
losses, which obliged him to curtail expenses almost immediately after
his wedding; her own health broke down, and it was a knife in her heart
to know that her boy was only the third son, and that the two big,
handsome lads at Eton would inherit the lion’s share of their father’s
property. Hector, the lifeguardsman, and Oscar, the dragoon, were for
ever running into debt and making fresh demands on her husband’s purse.
She and her children had to suffer for their extravagances, while
Robert, her only son, was growing up a shy, awkward lad, who hated
society, and asked nothing better than to be left in the country alone
with his frogs and his beetles. Ambition after ambition had failed
her, until now all her hopes were centred in Rosalind, the beautiful
daughter, in whom she saw a reproduction of herself in the days of her
girlhood. She had had a dull and obscure youth; Rosalind should be the
belle of society. Her own marriage had been a disappointment; Rosalind
should make a brilliant alliance. She had failed to gain the prize for
which she had worked; she would live again in Rosalind’s triumphs, and
in them find fullest satisfaction.

So Lady Darcy gloated over every detail of her daughter’s beauty,
and thought day and night of her hair, her complexion, her figure,
striving still to satisfy her poor, tired soul with promises of future
success, and never dreaming for a moment that the prize which seemed
to elude her grasp had been gained long ago by the Vicar’s wife, with
her old-fashioned dress and work-worn hands. But Mrs. Asplin knew, and
thanked God in her heart for, the sweetness and peace of her dear,
shabby home; for the husband who loved her, and the children whom they
were training to be good servants for Him in the world. Yes, and for
that other child too, who had been taken away at the very dawn of his
manhood, and who, they believed, was doing still better work in the
unseen world.

Until Lady Darcy discovered that the only true happiness rose from
something deeper than worldly success, there was nothing in store for
her but fresh disappointments and heart-hunger, while as for Rosalind,
the unfortunate child of such a mother—— Mrs. Asplin looked at the
girl as she sat leaning back in her chair, craning her throat, and
showing off all her little airs and graces for the benefit of the two
admiring schoolboys, gratified vanity and self love showing on every
line of her face.

“It seems almost cruel to say so,” she sighed to herself, “but it
would be the best thing that could happen to the child if she were to
lose some of her beauty before she grew up. Such a face as that is a
terrible temptation to vanity.” But Mrs. Asplin did not guess how soon
these unspoken words would come back to her memory, or what bitter
cause she would have to regret their fulfilment.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




ALL ABOUT OATMEAL.

BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.


The native land of the common oat seems to be absolutely unknown, but
as in many other cases, the best authorities have given it an origin in
Central Asia. The wild oat from which it descends is found in Europe,
in North Africa, Siberia, Japan, and the North-West Provinces of India;
and it was well known to the Greeks and Romans, though it is not one
of the cereals that are mentioned in the Bible. But the common oat, as
we know it, is an improved form (says Professor Buckman) derived by a
continued and selective cultivation from the aboriginal wild oat, of
which I have been speaking. The word oat or oats is from an old English
word _ata_, from the verb _etau_, to eat; and it means anything in
the way of food which can be eaten. The botanical name of the genus
is _avena_, and there are upwards of forty species in it, which are
generally natives of cold or temperate climes. It can be grown in a
wider range of climatical differences than wheat, but in a less range
than barley, while in every temperate region it has become recognised
as a food for horses. In the more northerly parts, where less wheat is
grown, it has formed the staple food for man, under the two well-known
forms, _i.e._, of porridge and oatcake.

A drug has been distilled from it under the name of _Avena Sattisa_,
which is supposed to give the qualities of cheerfulness and spirit; the
same qualities, in short, which the oat is considered to give to horses.

In the returns of 1894, for the United Kingdom, we find that oats are
more cultivated than wheat, but it is much to be regretted that the use
of oatmeal as food is becoming unfashionable amongst the poorer classes
in England, who consider that wheat is a more refined food, and who
leave off oatmeal when possible. The Highlanders of Scotland are an
example of muscular vigour, and also of the clear intellects which are
fostered under its regimen; one of the old Edinburgh reviewers says,
“We cultivate literature on a little oatmeal,” and, at some time of the
day, in Scotland, the native consumes oatmeal under some form or other.
Porridge for breakfast is known in other lands as well as in Scotland,
and is quite as well liked, particularly when a generous larder affords
cream in thickness and plenty. But to be a true son of Scotland you
must be above such frivolous additions. The kernels or grain of the
oat, deprived of the husks, are called groats, or grits; and in old
days they were used entire in broths and soups, like hot barley. When
bruised you will recognise them very well, as forming part of a sick
folk dietary. _Sowans_, known also as seeds or _flummery_, is made from
the thin pellicles or inner scales which adhere to the groats in the
process of shelling. These are steeped in water for a few days, till
they ferment and become sourish. They are then skimmed and the liquid
boiled down so much, that when cold it will become of the thickness of
gruel. In Wales this is known as _Sucan Budrum_, and is prepared in the
same manner; but it is boiled down even more, to become, when cold, a
firm jelly, like blanc-mange. It has a high reputation as a nutritious,
light food, for weak stomachs. Chemically speaking, in this change,
the starch has been converted into dextrin and sugar, the latter
passing at once into acetic fermentation.

Sowans is used as a light supper dish, with milk, cream, or butter, and
sweetened with sugar to taste.

Bread is made of oatmeal mixed with pea-flour in parts of Lancashire,
as well as in Scotland. A peck of oatmeal and another of peameal may
be mixed thoroughly together, and sifted through a sieve to which add
three or four ounces of salt, and make into dough with warm water.
Then roll into thin cakes or flat rolls, and bake on a hot plate or in
the oven. This, of course, is unfermented bread. In Scotland the thick
cakes of oatmeal are called bannock, and the thin ones cakes, and in
the farm-houses a great number are made at once and stored on a rack
close to the ceiling, where they will keep for a long time if quite
dry. When needed, they are crisped before the fire and slightly browned.

Bread is also made of oatmeal and wheat flour; also oatmeal and rice.
Take a peck each of flour and oatmeal and half a peck of potatoes,
peeled and washed and boiled. Knead into a dough with yeast, salt, and
warm milk. Make into loaves and bake as usual. Rice is made in the same
manner.

In the early centuries oatmeal was eaten almost altogether raw by the
Scot, as indeed was the flour of wheat, and I daresay every other kind.
In Mrs. Stone’s delightful book, _Teneriffe and its Seven Satellites_,
she gives an account of the food of the population of the islands,
and says that it was undoubtedly a primeval usage derived from the
mysterious Guanches, the first inhabitants of the Isles, a civilised
people who embalmed their dead, but have long since ceased to exist
as a separate people. This flour is prepared by first roasting the
wheat itself, then grinding it, and afterwards storing it in bags for
carriage. It is eaten simply mixed with cold water, and is not only
palatable, but delicious, with a sweet and nutty flavour, caused by the
previous wasting of the grain. Even now, in many parts of Scotland,
oatmeal is eaten uncooked and stirred simply into hot or cold water,
with salt, mixed together in a basin. This is called brose, a word
derived from the Anglo-Saxon, and the same as breuis and broth, the
word meaning the liquor in which meat or anything else is boiled and
macerated. Kail brose is made of green vegetable, mixed with the
oatmeal, and it may have meal or broth as well. Plain brose is called
often “sojer’s brose,” as it was made in haste, and “crowdy” is also
a Scotch word, used to describe any food of the porridge kind, or a
mixture of oatmeal and any liquid at hand, which might be milk, or even
something far stronger.

The cooking of oatmeal marks an advance in civilisation, I suppose.
Even the very word porridge is more recent, and marks an epoch when the
Scotch received some instructions from one of the Latin nations; the
original word being either from the Latin _porrus_, a leek, or the old
French _porree_, or a pottage, made of beets with other pot herbs, a
kind of food made by boiling vegetables in water with or without meat.

The person who taught me to make the best of porridge was an
Irishwoman, and her method was to stir the oatmeal into the pot
containing the boiling water, which must be bubbling fiercely, and must
also have been salted. The oatmeal she sprinkled in with her left hand
(having the oatmeal close to her) and stirring all the time busily with
her right hand. Long experience will tell you how thick to make it,
and it wants at least half an hour’s boiling to cook it properly.

But the most delightful form of gruel is that made by a Scotchwoman
with milk and not water; and this needs well boiling too. Many people,
however, prefer the gruel made by steeping the oatmeal in water for
some hours, and pouring off the water and boiling that. The best gruel,
I consider, is to be obtained on an Atlantic steamer; especially if
it should happen to be of Scotch extraction, and to have a Scotch
stewardess. There is some consolation in your sorrows at sea, if you
can get some of the chicken broth they make on the Cunard steamers,
which is quite too good to be forgotten. They put barley into it, I
think, or perhaps rice; but whatever the flavour is, I have never
succeeded in obtaining the same on shore, and I am inclined to think it
is the long boiling that is the secret. When cold it forms a solid and
nearly clear jelly.

There is plenty of oatmeal, too, in haggis, that essentially Scottish
dish, which Robert Burns called “The great chieftain of the pudding
race.” The component parts of a haggis are a sheep’s head and liver,
boiled, minced, mixed with suet, onions, oatmeal and seasoning,
moistened with beef gravy, and put into a haggis bag and boiled. A
haggis will keep for some time, as it is quite firm, and may be packed
for a journey. But in that last event the onions must be omitted in the
making of it. Both black and white puddings are indebted to oatmeal
for some of their filling, but few people, unless educated up to it,
appreciate either of these delicacies.

Cock-a-leekie is a Scotch name for a very ancient English dish, that
was known as long ago as the 14th century by the name of Malachi. “Ma”
is the old name for a fowl, and Malachi means sliced fowl. So, though
the modern rendering seems to promise that the leeks in it would be
too prominent for most people, it is a mistake. The fowl is first half
roasted, then boiled in broth, then cut up, and served with a quantity
of vegetables, mostly onions. Spices were added, and the broth was
thickened with fine oatmeal.

There are some English recipes in which oatmeal plays a part, and the
first that I remember is what is called tharfe cake, in Yorkshire,
which is baked for the fifth of November. I give a very old family
recipe for it. Take four pounds of fresh oatmeal and rub into it one
pound of butter, one pound of brown sugar, a quarter of a pound of
candied lemon peel, and two ounces of caraway seeds well bruised. Mix
the whole with three pounds and a half of treacle. When the cake is
baked, which should be in a slow oven, pour over it a little flavouring
while hot.

Parkin is also a Yorkshire cake, which resembles tharfe cake, but is
not so good. The following is also an old recipe for it, and both of
these cakes will be found very good for children’s use. Rub half a
pound of butter into three pounds of fine oatmeal, add one ounce of
ginger, and as much stiff treacle as will make it into a stiff paste.
Roll it out in cakes of about half an inch thick, lay these on buttered
tins and bake in a slow oven. The tops may be washed over with milk,
if you prefer it, as it has a more appetising effect perhaps. All the
modern recipes for parkin contain baking powder and sugar, but for the
first there is no need at all, as all these Yorkshire cakes are not
at all of the light order, and are both heavy and stiff, nor are they
intended to be very sweet.

One of the dishes in which oatmeal plays a part, is in the savoury
or sweet porridge seen in Derbyshire and the north of England. It is
made as follows: Oatmeal two or three tablespoons, onions two or three
ounces, milk one pint, butter a quarter of a pound, pepper and salt
one teaspoonful. Boil the onions in two waters; when tender shred them
finely, and add them to the boiling milk, sprinkle in the oatmeal, add
the butter, pepper and salt, boil during from ten to fifteen minutes,
pour into soup plates and serve with sippets. Instead of onions, grated
cheese may be stirred in with the oatmeal.

To make sweet porridge proceed in the same manner. Take the same
quantity of oatmeal, but instead of onions and pepper put in two or
three ounces each of sugar, sultanas and currants, and candied peel if
you like it, and serve in the same manner. This is a very excellent
porridge for children’s suppers.

In America, the coarse oatmeal is used for frying oysters. They are
rolled in it—instead of either in flour or crackers—before frying,
and a very good addition it makes. The oatmeal may also be used for
chops or cutlets, if you have no crumbs.

I had nearly omitted a Persian dish, of oatmeal and honey, which is a
kind of porridge made by beating up a tablespoonful of oatmeal and the
same quantity of honey with the yolk of an egg, and then pouring on it
a pint of boiling water and boiling the mixture for a few minutes.

The following is an oatmeal pudding. Take of oatmeal one pint, of
boiling milk two pints, of eggs two and of salt a little. Pour the
boiling milk over the oatmeal and let it soak all night. Add the eggs,
well beaten; butter a basin that will just hold it, cover it tightly
with a floured cloth and boil it an hour and a half. Eat it with cold
butter and salt. When cool it may be sliced and toasted and eaten as
oat-cake buttered.

A porridge of rice and oatmeal was once very popular amongst
vegetarians. It was made by boiling eight ounces of rice in a pint of
water, and as the water was absorbed, gradually adding two quarts more,
also add half a tablespoon of sugar and some salt, and lastly stir in
eight ounces of oatmeal, and let the whole boil for twenty minutes. If
it be liked sweet, add two ounces of sugar, but if savoury add pepper,
salt and some onions boiled and chopped.

Our forefathers were very fond of oatmeal flummery, but it has quite
gone out of fashion, though an excellent dish. Put a pound and a half
of fine white oatmeal to steep for a day and a night in cold water,
and pour it off clear, adding as much more water, and let it stand for
the same time; then strain it through a fine hair sieve, and boil it
till as thick as hasty pudding, stirring it slowly all the time, and
being most careful to prevent its burning. When you first strain the
water off, put to it one large tablespoonful of white sugar and two
tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water; then pour it into a bowl and
serve. It is eaten cold, and with new milk, or cream, and sugar. I am
sure my readers will have heard very often of “flummery,” and perhaps
may like to try it for themselves.

An oatmeal hasty pudding also comes from Yorkshire. Beat the yolks of
two eggs with half a pint of new milk, cold, and a little salt. Thicken
this with fine oatmeal, and beat to a very smooth batter. Set a pint
and a half of new milk on the fire, and when it is scalding hot pour in
the batter, stirring it well that it may be smooth and not burn. Let it
be over the fire till it thickens, but do not permit it to boil, and
the moment you take it from the fire pour it into a dish. It is eaten
with cold butter and sugar, and either a little lemon juice or vinegar.

In that delightful book, _The Chemistry of Cookery_, by Mr. W. Mathieu
Williams, the well-known scientist and lecturer, a book that ought to
be studied by every housekeeper, I find that he advocates the idea of
porridge being made for some days before it is required, then stored in
a closed jar, and brought out and warmed for use. The change effected
in it is just that which may theoretically be expected, _i.e._, a
softening of the fibrous material, and a sweetening, due to the
formation of sugar. This may be called an application of the principle
of ensilage to human food; for ensilage is a process of slow vegetable
cookery, a digesting or maceration of fibrous vegetables in their own
juices, which loosens the fibre, renders it softer and more digestible;
and not only does this, but, to some extent, converts it into dextrine
and sugar.

“Although in many respects,” says a recent writer, “oatmeal and flour
are very similar, the effect produced by them upon the system is very
different. Oatmeal is richer in oily, fatty matter than any other
cultivated grain, and its proportion of proteine compounds exceeds
that of the finest wheaten flour. Although so nutritious, it cannot be
used as a substitute for flour; the peculiar character of its gluten
preventing the meal being made into fermented bread. But in other
forms it may be made into very pleasant food, such as biscuits, gruel,
oatcake and porridge. Oats are a natural grain in England, and are
cultivated at less expense than wheat. This last is better adapted for
making good fermented bread, and so is more in request. But perhaps the
time may come when we shall return to the use of unfermented bread,
and shall think that bread made from other grains, and unfermented,
is quite as good, or even better, than the fermented bread of flour.
At the present time, however, wheat is more consumed than any other
grain,” and with this long quotation I will conclude.




[Illustration: G.O.P. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS]


STUDY AND STUDIO.

H. M. I.—1. Your hymn tune shows the need of instruction in harmony.
There are several consecutive fifths in it, and other faults which
study would enable you to avoid. We should advise you to take
lessons.—2. Dr. Lemmi’s Italian Grammar is published at 5s. by Messrs.
Oliver & Boyd, Edinburgh, and by Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall & Co.,
London.

WHEELBARROW.—If you write to the office of _The Boy’s Own Paper_,
56, Paternoster Row, we believe you will find that a chart of the
colours peculiar to the different colleges of each University has been
published. At all events, we refer you to the Editor.

TOPSY.—We should prefer the Senior Cambridge and the Cambridge Higher
Local out of the four examinations you mention.

IN our September part we informed RUBY that the couplet

    “Crabbed age and youth
      Cannot live together.”

was from “The Passionate Pilgrim,” by Shakespeare. In so saying
we handed on the information of three recognised authorities on
“quotations,” and observed that “The Passionate Pilgrim” appears
without note or comment in numerous editions of Shakespeare’s works.
“The Passionate Pilgrim,” a miscellany of twenty “Songs and Sonnets,”
was first published in 1599, and the words “By W. Shakespeare” are
on the title pages of the 1599 and 1612 editions; but of the twenty
poems only five are certainly by Shakespeare, and the poem in question
(No. xii. of the series) is not one of these. Its author, in fact, is
unknown, although it appears now, and appeared three centuries ago,
under Shakespeare’s name.

WILD ROSE.—1. In bar seven of your composition you have the second
inversion of a chord, which should not be followed by the first
inversion of another chord. It is, however, an interesting attempt, and
we should urge you to persevere.—2. Your writing is rather too small
and crabbed, and seems to us as though in childhood you had not learned
to “turn” your letters well. Copy any model you admire, and you will
soon improve.

DONOVAN and TILLY WHIM.—We can direct you to three amateur reading
societies, mentioned in this column during the past year or so, but
can take no responsibility whatever with regard to them. Address—The
Half Hour Reading Society, 2, Headingley Terrace, Headingley, Leeds;
The Queen Reading Society, secretary, Miss Isabel G. Kent, Lay Rectory,
Little Abington, Cambridge; Miss E. L. Tangye, The Elms, Redruth,
Cornwall. The National Home Reading Union, Surrey House, Victoria
Embankment, is being continually recommended by us.

SISTER HARRIET.—Your most satisfactory plan is to write to the
publisher of the books you name, asking your questions, and enclosing
a stamped envelope for reply. Unless the authoress objects to the
particulars being known, you are sure to receive an answer.

ANONYMOUS.—You give no name nor pseudonym in your inquiry about the
Civil Service.


OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

A. MARTIN wishes to find a poem called “Voices at the Throne,” beginning

    “A little child—
    A little meek-eyed child,
    Sitting at a cottage door.”

“SWEET MARIE” is informed that her quotation,

    “Laugh and the world laughs with you,
      Weep and you weep alone,”

is from one of Ella Wheeler’s poems of Passion—“Solitude.” We thank
our masculine correspondent for his help and his very kind letter.

ETHEL RIMMER has more replies from SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER, ALICE NIMON,
and C. PERKINS, whom we thank. KLONDYKE, in answering Ethel Rimmer,
requests a recipe for “the American Harlequin Cake,” and inquires the
name of the English agent, Gold Coast. These queries are scarcely
literary; but as they occur in a letter concerning a literary subject,
we print them here.

CAN anyone direct “DOUBTFUL” to the verses beginning

    “The woman was old, and ragged, and gray,
    And bent with the chill of a winter’s day”?

MABEL ENTWISTLE sends a reply to La Marguerite’s question concerning
painting on panel, which we copy verbatim:—

    “Surely she refers to chrystoleum painting. Chrystoleums are
    photographs taken from Academy pictures and then painted on. It
    is possible to affix these (whether painted on convex or flat
    glass) on to a panel. If this is what La Marguerite means, if she
    will write to me, I shall be pleased to send full particulars and
    give her any help I can, as I have had considerable experience in
    chrystoleum painting. But if she refers to the painting on the
    surface of photographs in water-colours, that is something I have
    wanted to learn for some time, and shall be equally glad to obtain
    information upon. This art requires a special medium and treatment
    of photo, I know, but I cannot get to know exactly. Trusting this
    may be of some use,

        “I remain,
          “Sincerely yours,
            “MABEL ENTWISTLE.”

    1, William Street,
        Darwen.


MEDICAL.

A. Z.—Mussels form a food of considerable value, but they are by
no means free from danger. As a food they are fairly nutritious and
digestible, though far inferior in both these points to oysters. The
dangers of eating mussels are very real, although they have been
grossly exaggerated. They depend in part upon whether the mussels have
been feeding upon sewage. Mussels taken from the mouths of rivers or
elsewhere where they can come into contact with sewage matter should
never be eaten. The danger is much greater when the mussels are eaten
raw. If they are boiled first the likelihood of harm resulting is
considerably less. Practically all germs are destroyed by boiling, so
that there is little fear of contracting typhoid from eating boiled
mussels. Indeed the danger of catching typhoid is far less from eating
mussels than it is from eating oysters, because the latter are nearly
always eaten raw, whereas the former are usually cooked. But besides
the dangers of contamination with sewage, there is another danger
in eating mussels, that is, that mussels are very liable to quickly
decompose, and in their decomposition to set free animal poisons of
the most virulent description. This is the chief cause of the numerous
deaths which occur from partaking of mussels. But when we consider the
vast number of mussels eaten in England, especially in the North, it is
no wonder deaths should now and then occur.

ARIEL.—If you wish your daughter to become a physician you must send
her to a hospital where lady students are taken. She cannot by any
possibility learn medicine without clinical instruction. The medicine
which can be learnt from books is of no value without practical
instruction. There is not such a thing as an amateur medical man or
woman. A person is either a qualified and registered medical man, or
else he is a quack, or a “medicine man” if you like. The law has lately
shown its objection to such persons in very strong terms.

ANXIOUS ONE.—There are two causes of double chins, age and obesity,
and they usually operate together. We cannot, alas! mitigate the
effects of advancing years. We cannot prevent Father Time from
meddling with us. The treatment of obesity we have over and over again
described. The chief points to attend to are to reduce the amounts of
starchy or sugary food taken; to take liquids only in great moderation;
to forego alcohol in any form, and to take plenty of exercise daily.
Tight lacing and wearing tight collars are also said to produce double
chins.

VIOLET.—In an article called “Diet in Health and Sickness,” published
in this magazine the year before last, you will find information about
the treatment of obesity. The chief points to attend to are:—reduce
the quantity of farinaceous and sweet food; avoid alcohol in all
forms, and only take liquids of any kind in moderation; take plenty of
exercise and avoid all drugs and nostrums.

LADICE.—1. One attack of eczema does predispose to others; but it
is quite possible, indeed it is probable, that you will completely
overcome the disease in time. The application that you are using is
good, but the following is better, viz.:—lime water, olive oil and
oxide of zinc, equal parts of each, shaken up into a cream. This forms
a very soothing application. Is your hair free from scurf? Eczema of
the face often follows from seborrhœa.—2. April 8, 1868, was a Sunday.

“AN OLD READER.”—We are sorry to say that we can give you but little
help. The description of your illness is not sufficiently lucid for
us to come to any conclusion as to what is wrong with you. And your
account of the present trouble with your legs is also so incomplete
that we can make nothing out of it. It may be due to flat-foot or
sciatica, or one of a vast host of conditions. You had far better see
the doctor who attended you during your last illness, as what you have
now may be only a sequel to that disease.

CAT TONY.—Eustachian obstruction sometimes ends in complete deafness.
More often partial deafness ensues. It is a very difficult complaint to
treat. Complete cure is the exception rather than the rule; but some
improvement is usually gained by medicinal measures. Sometimes it gets
better of its own accord; but it is foolish to rely upon its doing so.
Though certainly dangerous to hearing, it is not of itself of any vital
danger.

SYBIL.—You tell us that you weigh 9 st. 12 lb., but you neglect to
state your height. How is it possible for us to know whether you are
stout or not? 9 st. 12 lb. is certainly rather heavy for a girl of
seventeen; but then everything depends upon your height. The weight
is nothing extraordinary; and as you say that your health is perfect
you had far better take no notice of your condition. Unless really
necessary, it is better for stout persons to remain as they are than to
attempt to reduce their weight by means which must of themselves injure
the health.

A SUBSCRIBER TO THE “G. O. P.”—Obviously you must be careful not to
overtire yourself or get wet, since these bring on the attacks of
neuralgia. During the attacks cover the course of the nerve with cotton
wool, and take ten grains of citrate of caffeine. A small blister or
other form of counter-irritation may give you relief; but it must not
be used when the attack is acute.


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

WOOD VIOLET (_Civil Service_).—A well-educated girl, such as the one
you describe, is wise to try to enter the Civil Service at the age of
sixteen. Under the new rule she is eligible from sixteen to eighteen
for one of the posts of girl clerks. These girl clerks receive a salary
of £35 the first year, £37 10s. the second and £40 the third. They can
afterwards be promoted to the rank of Female Clerks, if they have shown
themselves to be possessed of superior intelligence, otherwise they
become sorters. The advantage of entering the Service young is, that
a girl understands the routine of office work by the time she is old
enough to hold a clerkship, whereas women entering for a clerkship as
outsiders have their duties to learn. A Female Clerk begins at a salary
of £55, and may eventually obtain a maximum of £100, and further may be
promoted. A Female Sorter, in London, receives 12s. to £1 a week, and
in the provinces 10s. to 21s. 6d. a week. There are also prospects of
promotion for sorters. The examination is held in the ordinary English
subjects, together with French and German. Edinburgh would be the
nearest examination centre for you. The examinations are advertised in
the principal papers on a Thursday some weeks before the date fixed.
You would doubtless see the announcement by watching the pages of
_The Scotsman_. Having seen the advertisement, write at once to the
Secretary, Civil Service Commission, London, S.W., asking for a form
of application. This you return, with the necessary details respecting
yourself filled up, and you will then be informed the precise address
of the place of examination and the other particulars you require to
know. We think we have now told you all that is necessary. We have
only to add that a girl who intends entering this examination should
now occupy herself more particularly in acquiring a neat clerical
handwriting, in studying English composition, and in perfecting herself
in arithmetic and geography.

LA COMTESSE (_Dairy Work_).—You would expend £5 very wisely, it seems
to us, in taking a month’s course of training at the Reading Dairy
Institute. You had better wait till the spring, as you suggest, and
then devote your attention as closely as possible to the practical
dairy work and cheese-making. From renewed inquiry which we have made
on the subject we still learn that women licensed at such schools as
this obtain excellent posts as dairy-maids and managers of dairies, and
receive salaries of about £25 with board and lodging. You should try on
the completion of the course to get an appointment in the dairy of some
large landed proprietor, and you might be willing to forego something
in wages at first in order to work under a competent superintendent.
The Principal of the Dairy Institute, we imagine, must constantly be
asked to recommend trained pupils. In any case you should consult him
as to the whole question of your suitability and prospects before
engaging to take the course of tuition.

ANXIOUS (_Suggestions_).—If the sight of your one eye is thoroughly
strong and satisfactory, you had better learn dressmaking. But if
the eye is at all weak, it would be unwise to try it, and in this
event cookery or laundry-work would be better. In the end we believe
you will not be sorry that you have been considered ineligible as a
shop-assistant. It is only in youth that a shop-assistant can be sure
of obtaining employment; whereas the skilled worker at any trade can
always earn her living.

LAUNDRESS (_Superintendentship or Opening for Laundry_).—If you have
received a thorough training in laundry work, by which we mean not
less than a year spent in learning the business, then by all means
advertise for a post as superintendent or manageress. The National
Laundry Association has lately fully corroborated all that has been
said on the subject in the “G. O. P.” by drawing the special attention
of educated women to the prospects that this business now offers under
the steam laundry system. We hear continually of places where a laundry
is required. Harringay, in the north of London, is one of those most
recently mentioned to us. Requests have reached us also from Lichfield,
Elstree and Richmond-on-Thames to recommend laundresses to establish
themselves in those localities.

H. A. T. (_Training in a Children’s Hospital_).—At nineteen you are
too young to be admitted as a probationer to any London children’s
hospital. But when you are twenty you would be eligible, so far as
age is concerned, for the East London Hospital for Children, Glamis
Road, Shadwell, E. The vacancies there, however, are extremely few in
proportion to the number of applications. No premium is required, and
a salary of £10 is given the first year, £12 the second, and £20 the
third, with laundry and uniform.

TEACHER.—We infer from your letter that the school in which you taught
two years ago was a National School. It ought not then to be difficult
for you to obtain employment of the same kind again. _The Guardian_,
_The Church Times_ and _The Schoolmistress_, are the most likely papers
in which to find advertisements of vacancies.

A “G. O. P.” READER (_Hospital Nursing_).—You can certainly apply to
the matron of any of the chief London hospitals for admission as a
probationer. You should enclose a stamp in order that the matron may
reply to you.


MISCELLANEOUS.

E. SAUNDERS.—The receipt you name is legal, and we think you need feel
no uneasiness. If properly stamped, dated, and signed, no names of
witnesses are required.

PETITE.—Your letter does you much credit. The secret of preserving
the colour of the flowers is to change the sheets of blotting-paper
frequently; between which you lay them for the pressing. Your writing
is very legible, but you reverse the rule for making light and heavy
strokes. The copperplate copies employed for teaching to write would
show you what we mean.

ORTHODOX.—The mistake of the so-called “Peculiar People” consists in
their overlooking the divine injunction to “obey them that have the
rule over you.” They are guilty of a breach of the law in not sending
for a medical man to give an opinion of the case, and offer his advice
and assistance, whether they avail themselves of his skill or not. We
are speaking of adults. In the case of infants and children, of course,
parents are bound to give them the benefit of medical aid; and in both
cases a true and undoubting faith in the promises—in connexion with
prayer—may be exercised _with_ the use of means nowhere forbidden in
the Bible. The danger of the spread of any disease has to be provided
against by the law—an act of mercy, not of cruel persecution, as these
well-meaning but misguided people imagine it to be.

DELTA.—To preserve peas, fill some wide-necked, dry bottles with good
corks, place them in a pan of cold water, with a little hay at the
bottom, and set it on the fire, raising the temperature very gradually
to 160°. Keep it at this point for twenty or thirty minutes. As the
peas will shrink, fill each bottle, as far as the commencement of the
neck, with peas from another bottle, taking care not to bruise them.
When all the bottles are filled, remove the pan from the fire, take
out each bottle separately, fill it to within an inch of the cork with
boiling water; cork immediately, avoid shaking, and tie down the cork.
Cover well with wax, and replace the bottles in the pan, where they
should be left to cool gradually till cold. Then place the bottles in a
dry, cool place, lying on their sides, turn them partially round twice
a week during the first couple of months, and once or twice a month
afterwards.

MOTHER.—Your question is one often raised. Should you desire to add
a name to those already registered for your child (born in England),
you must make application to the registrar who entered its name within
seven days of its baptism. We mean to say—supposing that, six months
after its registration, you wished to add a name at its baptism, go to
the same registrar and state your wish within a week after the baptism.
Procure the certificate of the latter from the clergyman (for a fee
of one shilling), take it to the registrar, and pay a second fee of a
shilling for the insertion of the name in the original registration.

MARGOT.—The honour of having been the first navigator who sailed round
the world was earned by a Portuguese—_i.e._, Sebastien del Cano,
who accomplished the voyage in the ship _Vittoria_. The unfortunate
leader of the expedition was Ferdinand Magellan, who passed through the
Straits November 28th, 1520, and was killed on one of the Philippine
Islands the next year. The first attempt to discover the North-west
passage was made by Corte Real in about 1500; also a Portuguese.
But the first expedition correctly so-called was made by Sir Hugh
Willoughby in 1553, who wished to discover a North-west passage to
China. But he was blocked up by ice and frozen to death on the coast of
Lapland.

A. CROSS.—There are “Y.W.C.A.” Homes in London. Amongst them,
Cloudesley Home, 34, Barnsbury Street, Islington, 17, Aubert Park,
Highbury, Seymour House, Portland Place, Lower Clapton, Ealing House,
Uxbridge Road, Ealing, Kent House, 89, Great Portland Street, Princess
House, Brompton Road, besides restaurants. Probably a communication
of your arrangements in regard to letting rooms to young women at
a reduced rate during the summer months, board as well as lodging
supplied, at from 14s. a week, would bring your visitors from town. We
are not acquainted with Corrymore, near Warminster, Wiltshire; but from
what we have seen of Wiltshire, we can imagine the country to be pretty
and the downs attractive.

E. DE M.—All girls who take our paper, and look to us for advice and
instruction, we consider to be “our” girls. You are quite right in
saying that you have more blessings than crosses. Sometimes the eyes of
people are blind to this great truth. The great love of our heavenly
Father towards us and His unerring wisdom in the trial of our faith and
patience is but little realised. We hope your marriage will be for your
happiness.

ETHELINDA.—Your hand is formed, and well formed. The French phrase,
“_Au revoir_,” is an abbreviated one. In full it should be, “_Au
plaisir de vous revoir_”—“to the pleasure of seeing you again.” As we
have so often told our readers, French pronunciation cannot be given by
English letters—at least, not often. The first word “_au_” (“to”) is
an exception, for the sound is that of the letter “_o_.”

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[Transcriber’s note: the following corrections have been made to this
text.

Page 238: Yorkskire changed to Yorkshire—these Yorkshire cakes.

Page 239: crakers changed to crackers—flour or crackers.]