[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]

VOL. VIII.—NO. 377.      MARCH 19, 1887.      PRICE ONE PENNY.




THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.

BY SYDNEY GREY.

[Illustration]

_All rights reserved._]


    Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus),
    But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us.
    For if of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will,
    He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrow still.
    This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun,
    Ere with small pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run,
    The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is here!”
    And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near.
    I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,
    A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among,
    In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch,
    And all my soul with rapture filled; yet when I said as much,
    The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!”
    To them, perhaps, it might be so; but ah! if folks are blind,
    They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark—
    The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden voice to mark.
    Therefore when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay,
    Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day,
    Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mould,
    Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold;
    Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed
    The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing shade,
    Nor the great sun’s far reaching rays which crown the day with light,
    Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night;
    She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and plain,
    Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again.
    And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we go,
    The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow;
    Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet,
    And through the lengthening meadow grass run murmurs soft and sweet.
    Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me,
    For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see.




MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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


CHAPTER XXII.

UNCLE KEITH.

I had been obliged to defer my visit to Aunt Agatha for more than a
fortnight, and it was not until an early day in October that I could
find a leisure afternoon. I believe that only very busy and hard worked
people really enjoy a holiday—listless and half occupied lives know
nothing of the real holiday feeling and the joyousness of putting one’s
work aside for a few hours of complete idleness.

I felt almost as buoyant and light-hearted as a child when I caught
sight of the old bridge and the grey towers of All Saints. The river
looked blue and clear in the October sunshine; there were barges
floating idly down the stream; a small steamer had just started from
the tiny pier; two or three clumsy-looking boats with heavy brown
sails were moored to the shore; there was a man in a red cap in one of
the boats; two or three bare-legged urchins were wading in the water.
There was a line of purple shadow in the distance, little sparkles of
sunlight everywhere, yellow and red leaves streaming, a little skiff
with a man in white flannel coming rapidly into sight, omnibuses, cabs,
heavy waggons clattering over the bridge. Beyond the white arches of
the new bridge the busy hum of workers, the heaving of great cranes,
the toil and strain of human activity.

The sight always fascinated me, and I stood aside with others to watch
until a well-known figure in the distance recalled me with a start.
Surely that was Aunt Agatha crossing the road by the bridge; no one
else walked in that way—that quick, straightforward walk, that never
seemed to linger or hesitate, that could only belong to her. Yes, it
was she, for there was the dear woman holding out her hands to me, with
the old kind smile breaking over her face.

“I came to meet you, Merle; I did not want to lose one minute of your
company, but I was a little late after all, dear child. What a stranger
you are, all these months that we have not met!”

“It has seemed a long time to me, Aunt Agatha, so much seems to have
happened since I was last here.”

“You may well say so,” she returned, gravely; “we have both much for
which to be thankful. Your accident, Merle, which might have had such
grave results, and——” here she checked herself, but something in her
manner seemed strange to me.

“We need not walk quite so fast, surely,” I remonstrated. “How these
people jostle one, and I want to talk to you so.”

“And I to you. Never mind, we shall find a quiet corner under the
shadow of St. Mary’s.” And as she spoke we turned into the narrow
flagged path skirting the church, with the tombs and grey old
headstones gleaming here and there. There were fewer people here.

“Are you sure you are quite well?” I began, rather anxiously. “You are
looking paler than usual, Aunt Agatha, and, if it be not my fancy, a
little thinner.”

“Yes, and older, and perhaps a trifle graver,” she returned, rather
briskly; but I thought her cheerfulness a little forced. “We have not
yet learnt how to grow younger, child. Well, if you must know, and
this is why I came to meet you, that we might have our little talk
together. I have not been without my troubles; your uncle has been very
ill, Merle, so ill that, at one time, I feared I might lose him; but
Providence has been good to me and spared my dear husband.” And here
Aunt Agatha’s voice trembled and her eyes grew misty.

I was almost too shocked to answer, but my first words were to reproach
her for keeping me in ignorance.

“You must not blame me, Merle,” she replied, gently. “I wanted you
dreadfully; I felt quite sore with the longing to see you, but I knew
you could not come to me. Mrs. Morton was in Scotland; you were in sole
charge of those children. Unless things grew worse I knew I had no
right to summon you. Thank God I was spared that necessity; the danger
only lasted forty-eight hours; after that he only required all the
nursing I could give him.”

“Aunt Agatha, it was not right; you ought to have told me.”

“I thought differently, Merle; I put myself in your place—you could
not desert your post, and you would only have grown restless with the
longing to come and help me—the same feeling that made you hide your
accident from me led me to suppress my trouble. I should only have
burthened your kind heart, Merle, and spoiled your present enjoyment.
I said to myself, ‘Let the child be happy; she will only fret herself
into a fever to help me, and she must do her duty to her employers.’ If
Ezra had got worse I must have written; when he grew better I preferred
telling you nothing until we met.”

“I shall never trust you again,” I burst out, for this reticence
wounded me sorely. “How am I to know if things are well with you if you
are always keeping me in the dark?”

“It will not happen again, Merle; indeed, my dear, I can promise you
that it shall never happen. If you had been at Prince’s Gate I should
have summoned you at once, but, in your position, how could I ask
you to desert your post, Merle, when those who placed you there were
hundreds of miles away?”

I saw what she meant, and I could not deny that she had kept me in
ignorance for my own peace of mind. It was just her unselfishness,
for I knew how she must have longed for me; we were so much to each
other, we were so sure of mutual sympathy and help. Aunt Agatha cried
a little when she saw how hurt I was, and then, of course, I tried to
comfort her, and I very soon succeeded. I never could bear to see her
unhappy, and I knew it was only her goodness to me.

I begged her to tell me about Uncle Keith’s illness, and she soon put
me in possession of the salient points. He had worked a little too
hard, and then had got wet in a thunderstorm, and a sharp attack of
inflammation had been the result.

“He considers himself well now,” she continued, “but he is still very
weak, and will not be able to resume work for another week or two. His
employers have been very kind; they seem to value him highly. Oh! he
has been so patient, Merle, it has been quite a privilege to nurse him;
not a complaint, not an irritable word. I always knew he was a good
man, but illness is such a test of character.”

“But you have worn yourself out,” I grumbled; “you do not look well.”
But she interrupted me.

“Do not notice my looks before your uncle,” she said, pleadingly; “he
is so anxious about me; but indeed, I am only a little tired; I shall
be better now I have told you and got it over. You have been on my
mind, Merle, and then that horrid accident.” But I would not let her
dwell upon that. We had reached the cottage by this time, and Patience
was watching for us; she looked prettier and rosier than ever.

I found Uncle Keith sitting pillowed up in an armchair by the
drawing-room fire. I thought he looked shrunken, and there was a
pinched look about his features. He had not grown younger and handsomer
to my eyes, but as he turned his prominent brown eyes on me with a kind
look of welcome, and held out his thin hand, I kissed him with real
affection, and my eyes were a little wet.

“Hir-rumph, my dear, I am pleased to see you—there, there, never mind
my stupid illness; I am quite a giant now, eh, Agatha? It is worth
being ill, Merle, to be nursed by your aunt; oh, quite a luxury I
assure you! Hir-rumph.” And here Uncle Keith cleared his throat in his
usual fashion, and stirred the fire rather loudly, though he looked a
little paler after the exercise.

“But I am so dreadfully sorry, Uncle Keith,” I said, when Aunt Agatha
had taken the poker from him and bustled out of the room to fetch him
some jelly, “to think I never knew how ill you were.”

“That was all the better, child,” he returned, cheerfully. “Agatha was
a wise woman not to tell you; but there are not many people in the
world, Merle, who would come up to your aunt, not many,” rubbing his
hands together.

“No indeed, Uncle Keith.”

“How do you think she looks?” he continued, turning round rather
sharply. “Have I tired her out, eh?”

“She looks a little tired certainly.”

“Hir-rumph, I thought so. Agatha, my dear,” as she re-entered with
the jelly, “I do not want all this waiting on now; it is my turn to
wait on you! I must not wear out such a good wife, must I, Merle?” And
though we both laughed at that, and Aunt Agatha pretended that he was
only in fun, it was almost pathetic to see how he watched her busy
movements about the room, and how he begged her again and again to sit
down and not tire herself, and yet she loved to do it. I think we both
of us knew that. I was not disposed to pity Aunt Agatha as I had done
in former years. Perhaps I had grown older and more womanly in those
eight months of service, and less disposed to be critical on quiet,
matter-of-fact lives. On the contrary, I began to understand in a vague
sort of way that Aunt Agatha was garnering in much happiness in her
useful middle age, in her honest, single-eyed service. Love had come
to her in a sober guise, and without pretension, but it was the right
sort of love after all, no doubt. To youthful eyes, Uncle Keith was not
much of a hero; but a plain honest man, even though he has fewer inches
than his fellows, may have merit enough to fill one woman’s heart, and
I ceased to wonder at Aunt Agatha’s infatuation in believing herself a
happy woman.

We had not much talk apart that day. Aunt Agatha could not leave Uncle
Keith, but I never felt him less in the way. I talked quite openly
about things; he was as much interested as Aunt Agatha in listening
to my description of Marshlands and Wheeler’s Farm, and had not a
dissenting word when I praised Gay Cheriton in my old enthusiastic way,
and only a soft “hir-rumph” interrupted my account of Reggie’s accident.

It was Aunt Agatha who walked back with me over the bridge in the soft
October twilight. Tired as she was, she refused to part with me until
the last minute.

“You must come again soon, Merle,” she said, as we parted; “Ezra and I
are not young people now, and a bright face does us both good, and your
face has grown a very bright one, Merle.”

Was Aunt Agatha right, I wondered? Had I really grown happier
outwardly? Had the inward peace of satisfied conscience and a heart
at rest cast its reflection of brightness? I was certainly very happy
just then; my life was growing wider, friends were coming round me,
interests were thickening, there was meaning and purpose in each
opening day. I no longer thought so much of myself and my own feelings;
the activities of life, the needs and joys of others seemed to press
and crush out all morbid ideas. I had so many to love and so many who
seemed to need me and care for me.

I went more than once to Putney during the next two or three weeks. My
mistress was far too sympathising and unselfish to keep me from my own
people when they needed me; on the contrary, she was always full of
contrivances that I should be spared.

November passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Morton was recovering strength
slowly but surely; she was no longer a prisoner to her dressing-room,
but could spend the greater part of the day in the drawing-room or in
her husband’s library.

But she still continued her invalid habits and saw few people. I still
sat with her in the afternoon, and either Joyce or Reggie played about
the room. When Mr. Morton was absent I came down to her in the evening,
and read or talked to her. I prized these hours, for in them I learned
to know my sweet mistress more intimately and to love her more dearly.

At the beginning of December Gay came to us. I was looking forward to
her visit with some eagerness, though I knew my evenings would then
be spent in the nursery, as Mrs. Morton would only need her sister’s
society; but, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the drawing-room
on the evening of her arrival. She had come just in time to dress for
dinner, and we had not yet seen her. I could scarcely credit Travers’
message when she delivered it.

“Will you please go down to the little drawing-room, Miss Fenton? Miss
Gay wants to see you, and my mistress does not care to be left alone.”

She started up and came to meet me with outstretched hands. She looked
prettier than ever, and her eyes were shining with happiness.

“I am so glad to see you, Merle. I wanted to come up to the nursery,
but this spoiled woman—how you have all spoilt her!—refused to be left.
She said Hannah would be there, and that we could not talk comfortably.”

“Yes, but there was another reason,” returned my mistress, smiling; and
Gay blushed and cast down her eyes.

“I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be
interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has
happened.”

I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told
me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own
tales.

“Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest who
came oftenest to Marshlands?”

“There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking steadily
into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I do not
need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and kissed me in
her impulsive way.

I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it.

“I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly.
“Do you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was
afraid of poverty?”

“Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook her
head at that.

“I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible
person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with
me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take
‘No’ for an answer.”

“I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have
despised him for giving it up.”

“He would never have done that,” replied Gay, with decision, “until
I had married somebody else, and there was no chance of that. You
are grave, Merle; do you mean to forbid the banns? Why do you not
congratulate me?”

“I do congratulate you with all my heart; will that content you?”

“To be sure; but what then, Merle?”

“I ought not to say, perhaps, if you have made up your mind. I like Mr.
Rossiter. He is young, but he seems very good. But do you remember what
I said to you that evening, Miss Gay, when we were watching the moon
rise over Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, that your environment just suited
you; I can’t realise Marshlands without you.”

I saw the sisters exchange a meaning look, and then Gay said, in a low
voice, “What should you say, Merle, if I am not to leave Marshlands—if
my father refuses to part with me?”

“I do not think that would answer. Mrs. Markham would be mistress, and
you have told me so often that she does not like Mr. Rossiter.”

“There are to be changes at Marshlands, Merle,” broke in my mistress;
she had been listening to us with much interest, and I wished Mr.
Morton could have seen her with that bright animated look on her
face. “Adelaide will be mistress there no longer. A young cousin of
ours, Mrs. Austin, who was with Adelaide in Calcutta, has just lost
her husband. She is an invalid, is very rich, and very helpless, and
has no one except ourselves belonging to her. She is very fond of
Adelaide, and she has begged her to live with her, and superintend her
establishment. She has a large house at Chislehurst, and so Adelaide
and Rolf and Judson are to take up their abode with her.”

“Things have not been very pleasant lately, Merle,” observed Gay,
gravely. “Adelaide has set her face against my marrying Walter, and she
has worried father and tormented me, and made things rather difficult
for all of us. It is quite true, as she says, that Walter is poor,
and has no present prospects,” continued Gay, “and she has dinned his
poverty so incessantly into father’s ear that he has got frightened
about it, and has made up his mind that he will not part with me at
all—that Walter must make his home with us. There was a terrible scene
when Adelaide heard this; she declared she would not stop in the house
under these conditions. And then Amy’s letter came, and she announced
her resolution of living at Chislehurst. I do not like the idea of
driving Addie away, but,” finished Gay, with an odd little laugh, “I
think father and I will manage very well without her.”

We talked a little more on the subject until I was dismissed, and I had
plenty of food for my thoughts when I went back to the quiet nursery.

(_To be continued._)




[Illustration: EASTER TIDE


A PRAYER.

    _Lord, by the stripes which wounded Thee,
    From death’s dread sting Thy servants free,
    That we may live and sing to Thee Alleluia!_]


EASTER EGGS.

The origin of the practice of connecting eggs with our Easter festival
is, I believe, lost in antiquity; but they are said to have been used
by the Jews at the Feast of Passover. In some Eastern countries there
is a very old custom, which still prevails, of presenting eggs at this
season of the year—some say because the egg is an emblem of creation,
or recreation, there being a tradition that the world was created in
the spring. In parts of Russia people present eggs to one another on
Easter day, saying, “Jesus Christ is risen,” being answered, “It is so
of a truth,” or “Yes, He is risen.” The Russians also serve red eggs on
that day, symbolising at the same time the resurrection and the blood
of the Saviour.

At the time of Edward the First the eggs to be given to the members of
the royal household on Easter day formed an item in the expenses. Over
four hundred eggs, which cost about one shilling and sixpence, were, we
learn, distributed on that day. Eggs used to be blessed by the Pope for
allotment throughout the Christian world, and the service of Pope Paul
the Fifth contains the following curious form of consecration:—

“Bless, Lord, we beseech Thee, this Thy creature of eggs that it may
become a wholesome sustenance to Thy faithful servants, eating it in
thankfulness to Thee, on account of the resurrection of our Lord.”

In some parts of the north of England, particularly parts of
Cumberland, decorated Pasch or Pace eggs are still sent to children,
so that the present fancy for ornamenting eggs is but the revival of
a very old custom. Some young readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER may be
disposed to try what they can do in this way. I will, therefore, tell
them some of the methods employed; but first let me mention that all
eggs to be decorated must be perfectly clean, for the least spot of
grease where it was not wanted would spoil the effect aimed at; and
they should be boiled hard.

To simply colour the eggs they need only be dipped in water, then
placed in a decoction of logwood for the various shades of purple;
of cochineal for red, or boiled with onion peelings, or in an onion,
for amber, or coloured with spinach juice for green. But superior to
these simple colourings are Judson’s dyes, which may be obtained of any
colour, and can be used as paints on the shells as well as dyes.

The eggs are dipped in water before being put in the dye, to make
them take the colour evenly. If it is desired to keep part of the
shell white—for instance, to have a name or motto in white on a red
ground—proceed thus: When the egg is warm after boiling take a small
piece of mutton suet, which, being hard, you can cut to a point almost
like a pencil. With this draw or write what you wish on the warm egg,
which you can then place in the dye. The part greased will not take the
colour, but when dry the fat is easily removed, and the white design
can be left or filled in with another colour, or with a little gold
or silver paint. A pretty way is to grease a delicate piece of moss,
a fine fern leaf, or a skeleton leaf, to roll either round a warm egg
so as to leave a greasy print on it, and then put it in the colour;
but great care must be taken in handling the work not to blur the
design. An egg spotted with grease then put in a yellow dye, the grease
removed, and then a pale blue dye used, produces an effect that would
puzzle a naturalist. Brown and blue dyes answer, used in the same way.

Eggs may be also simply treated by having small leaves or little bits
of moss bound on to them with various coloured wools, or ribbons (not
fast-coloured ones), before they are boiled, the wool or ribbons being
removed when they are dry again; the effect is often very good, but
there is great doubt about the results in this way of colouring.

A neater and much better way than greasing the design, for those who do
not mind the trouble, is to dye the egg all over, and then to scratch
out the motto, or whatever is required white, with a penknife. This is,
of course, a much more difficult process, and requires great care.

Eggs dyed pale blue, and a little cloud and sea with a tiny boat
painted on them, or dyed yellow and turned into a little sunset
picture, with a tree added, are very pretty. They can be done in oil or
water colours.

I have seen cupids and like subjects painted on them, but they are
quite unsuited for Easter eggs, which are not, and should not be used
as, adjuncts of Valentine’s day.

For more elaborate work, the eggs, having been boiled hard, can be
painted over with gold size, and then covered with gold, or any metal
leaf, which maybe again painted on with oil paints, or by using a
medium and body colours, with water colours.

A gilt egg, with a white lily on it, or a silvered one with a daffodil,
looks very pretty; violets and primroses, emblems of spring, are also
appropriate, while eggs with butterflies or small birds bearing mottoes
painted on them, are much appreciated by children. When painted in
water colours, the eggs can easily be varnished. On Easter day I once
saw the breakfast eggs which the cook had boiled, some with red and
some with blue dye in the water, sent to table in a nest of green moss
lined with a little white wool; the eggs were only cooked the usual
time, and were greatly relished by the younger members of the family.

I would recommend the use of Easter eggs to those girls who take
Sunday-school classes; they are very good mediums for giving precepts
or words of advice; a judiciously chosen motto or text may often do a
great deal in helping a child or person to correct a fault, and a motto
is more attractive on an ornamental egg than in a book.

I remember a little German book called “Ostereier” (Easter eggs), in
which a charming account is given of an Easter festival, when motto
eggs were distributed to a number of children. Some of the rhymes given
are very pretty; they lose in translation, but are such as “Goodness,
not gold, wins love and trust,” “For meat and drink the giver thank,”
“A good conscience makes a soft pillow.”

Such sentences as these do for quite small children, but a short verse
from a hymn or a text can easily be written on an egg. They look very
well coloured pale blue or mottled green and blue, as directed above,
and the words written on after with red, or blue ink of a darker
colour, and a little ornamentation round. For school-children water
colours should not be used in painting the eggs, for the warm and often
moist hands of the recipients of these little gifts would smear the
paint.

We must now come to another kind of egg I have found much appreciated,
as it is eatable, though imitation only. It is prepared thus: Procure
some half egg shells which you can colour or not, as you please, but
you must cut the edges as smooth as you can with a pair of small, sharp
scissors; next take one pound of ground almonds (they can be bought
ready prepared), mix with the beaten whites of three, or if small, four
eggs, add a teaspoonful of orange flower water, or a little more, if
needed, make into a paste, and stir in one pound of fine sifted loaf
sugar, and work with a wooden spoon into a smooth paste; next shake a
little icing sugar into the half shells, and fill them with the almond
paste, scoop a piece out of the centre of each half, and as you put the
two halves together insert a preserved apricot (dried) without a stone;
if the apricots are too large use half ones, but whether large or small
they must be pressed into suitable shapes before they are used, as they
have to represent the yolks of the eggs.

When the parts are joined together, a strip of tissue paper should be
fastened round the junction with white of egg, and then a ribbon or
ornamental paper put round and the shells decorated with a little water
colour paint. If preferred, the shells can be used as moulds only, and
removed as soon as the paste is dry, but if this is to be done the two
edges of the almond paste must be moistened with white of egg before
they are put together, or they would come apart when the shells were
removed.

The almond eggs must be put in a warm, dry place as soon as made; a
very cool oven will do to dry them.

If you remove the shells, cover the almond paste with icing sugar that
has been well worked with a little white of egg and lemon juice; this
is not an easy operation, but if the sugar is well worked before using,
it will cover the paste more neatly than if used quickly; if sufficient
smoothness is attained the sugar can be decorated afterwards with some
harmless colouring, such as saffron or cochineal.

To make sugar eggs, mix one ounce of raw arrowroot with one pound of
icing sugar, add the beaten whites of three or four eggs, according to
size, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice; work the mixture well; use the
egg shells as moulds and proceed as with almond paste, putting anything
that is liked in the centre, and joining the halves together with white
of egg; dry thoroughly, in some place not warm enough to melt the
sugar, before you remove the shells. It is easier to take the halves
off if they are slightly oiled before the sugar is sifted into them.




NOTES FOR APRIL.


It is very interesting in the spring to watch the gradual development
of a frog from the egg, through the tadpole stage of its existence,
till at last it assumes its final form.

The old frogs emerge from their winter hiding places in the mud, early
in the spring, and during March their eggs may be found floating on
almost every stagnant pond. A group of these eggs in their early stages
of development looks like a mass of clear white jelly, containing
numbers of black specks, each of which is really the germ of the future
tadpole.

In order to watch the development, a group of the eggs should be taken
and put in a shallow vessel of water, which, if kept in the house,
should have a bell-glass, or some other covering over it, to keep out
the dust.

The jelly-like mass which envelopes the future tadpole is so clear
that all its changes can be easily watched. First the head appears,
then a flat tail, and in course of time the nostrils, mouth, and large
eyes, till at length the completed tadpole bursts open its gelatinous
covering, and apparently not in the least embarrassed by its new
surroundings, begins swimming briskly about, looking for something
to eat. The time occupied in hatching varies in different countries,
according to the climate, from four days to a month. In England the
tadpole does not often appear till towards the end of April.

The following stages are even more interesting, especially for those
who can take advantage of the transparency of the parts to watch the
circulation of the blood through a microscope.

The body of the tadpole gradually gets broader, while the tail gets
thinner and thinner, till it finally disappears altogether; but before
that happens its place has been taken by two hind legs, which first
appear under the skin and then gradually push their way through. The
fore legs next appear, and so on through all the stages of development,
till in a longer or shorter time, according to the amount of warmth,
light, and food it can obtain, the complete frog appears.

But woe betide the unfortunate tadpole which, first of the shoal,
attains to the dignity of possessing limbs, for so ferocious are the
later ones, and so jealous of their precocious little brother, that
they almost always fall upon him, and, not content with killing, never
rest till every morsel of him is eaten. And unless several of the
tadpoles assume their final change about the same time, this proceeding
is repeated till their numbers are very considerably diminished, or,
as sometimes happens, till only one survivor is left, who, having
helped to eat all his brethren, instead of meeting with his deserts, is
allowed to live on in peace, till some day in the course of his walks
abroad, he, in his turn, is snapped up as a delicate morsel by some
hungry snake or waterfowl.

Insects and flowers are much more closely connected with one another
than we sometimes think.

Not only do many insects depend upon flowers for their food, but many
flowers also depend upon the visits of insects to carry their pollen
from one flower to another and so continue the life of their species.

There are some flowers, however, whose pollen is carried by the wind
instead of by insects, and which are therefore an exception to this
general rule. These, not needing to attract insects, are small and
insignificant, with neither scent nor honey, but with a very large
quantity of pollen. They generally flower early in spring, before the
leaves are out, as these would catch the pollen as it is blown along by
the wind, and prevent it reaching the flowers for which it is intended.
Notice, for example, the flower of the oak, elm, ash, and Scotch fir.

April is a busy month in the garden. Auriculas and polyanthuses in
bloom should be watered often, and shaded if the sun is very bright,
and sheltered when the weather is cold; tulips also must be sheltered
from severe cold, though they may safely be encouraged to grow now.

Seeds of perennials and biennials for flowering next year should be
sown now, such as wallflowers, carnations, and pinks. Heartsease for
autumn flowering should also be sown, and cuttings taken from old
plants. Hardy annuals should be sown not later than the middle of
April. Give them good soil, and do not cover the seeds too deeply with
earth (some of the smallest kinds should only be sprinkled on the top),
and when they begin to shoot up thin out the young plants vigorously;
amateur gardeners almost always leave them too close together, but the
more room they have the better and stronger they will grow.

If there is no greenhouse, or “heat,” half hardy annuals may be sown
out in the open garden towards the end of April, and if diligently
cared for they will grow well and thrive.

After a warm day, evergreens are benefited by syringing. Ivy that is
wished to grow close should be clipped all over; and grass should be
cut about once a week, and often rolled. It should not be allowed to
get long before cutting the first time, or it will be troublesome to
get into order again.

April is the month in which we welcome most of our spring bird
visitors. The nightingale and cuckoo have already come and begun their
song; the swallow and house-martin will arrive about the middle of the
month, and are soon busy making new nests, or patching up old ones. The
whitethroat appears towards the end of the month.

During the April showers the whole air seems full of song. Walking
through woods ringing with bird music, we are once more reminded of
the problem which so puzzled Daines Barrington. “Do the birds all
sing in one key? And if not, why do the songs harmonise instead of
producing unpleasant discords?” Perhaps it is the distance which lends
enchantment and softens the discords. No doubt if all the songsters
were in one room, the result would not be quite so happy.

Many eggs, larvæ and cocoons of butterflies and moths may be found this
month among heaps of dry leaves, on low bushes, or trunks of trees.
Grasses and rushes shelter several of the early species, which are
already flying about, and some rare insects may be found now which
cannot be obtained later in the season.




THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

BY EMMA BREWER.


CHAPTER VI.

It is a true saying, that when mothers begin to talk of their children
they never know when to stop; and the children, who might otherwise
have found favour, are thereby made to appear as uninteresting and
vexatious bores.

I will try to avoid falling into this error, and only tell you enough
to enable you to understand the peculiarities of mine.

You may have noticed how great a variety exists in the characters and
dispositions of the members of every large family, and will not be
surprised to hear that the same individuality of character shows itself
in the family of Funds and Stocks.

In introducing you to the steadiest and most reliable of my children, I
feel that I am putting you in the way of deriving real advantage. If,
however, you prefer the less worthy, the more daring and speculative, I
shall feel that no blame attaches to me.

Have you ever remarked, in your round of visits among your friends,
that it is almost possible to tell the character of host and hostess
by the people you meet there, and even by the servants who wait upon
you—all seem to take the tone of the house? I notice this specially
among my children. For example, my “Three per Cent. Consols” and my
“New Three’s,” whom I select as specially suited to be your friends,
have the most courteous, kindly, sober and religious class of
visitors; on the faces of all, old and young, clergy and laity, there
is an expression of repose and security and “well-to-doism” which is
charming; while, on the other hand, the faces and manners of those who
visit some of my other children are so wild, so haggard, so restless,
that you cannot help wishing that some good fairy would give them a
soothing syrup, or else insist on their choosing safer friends; but if
you ever pay me a visit, and use your eyes, you will see more of this
than, as a mother, I can tell you.

Against one thing, however, I am, as your friend, bound to warn you.
Listen to no one who proposes to let you have money at a very cheap
rate, while at the same time he offers to pay you large interest on it.
More I cannot say at present.

Closely connected with me, and in my neighbourhood, stands a most
mysterious building, known as the Stock Exchange. Its chief entrance is
in Capel-court, Bartholomew-lane.

None may pass within its portals but those specially privileged, still
I may tell you something about it without breaking through any of the
barriers which the inhabitants have set up between the public and
themselves.

This Stock Exchange is an association of about two thousand persons,
all men, of course, who meet together in Capel-court, and who agree to
be governed by a committee of thirty, chosen from among themselves.

To the outside world, all the members are known by the name of
“stockbrokers,” but inside the mysterious building they divide
themselves into two classes—“stockjobbers” and “stockbrokers.”

Whether they be one or the other, their lives, occupations, fortunes
and reputations are bound up with the Stocks and Funds. They live for
them and they live on them. They determine their value, they study
every shade of temper exhibited by the family, they decide their rise
and fall, they are their interpreters and mouthpieces, they act also as
their bodyguard: none can approach but through them.

These two classes, jobbers and brokers, have a distinct work, which I
will try to make clear to you.

To start with, the stockjobber does not deal with the public, but the
stockbroker does.

You see stocks and shares are marketable commodities; you can buy
them, sell them, or transfer them, and the stockjobber is, as it were,
the wholesale merchant, and the stockbroker the retail dealer. Let me
explain. If you required twenty yards of black silk, you would probably
go to Marshall and Snelgrove or to Peter Robinson for it. You certainly
would not think of going to a wholesale house in the City for it; and
if you did, the article would not be supplied to you in this way—it is
contrary to the etiquette of trade.

Just in the same manner, if you wanted to buy some stock, you would
go to a stockbroker for it, and not to a stockjobber—the stockbroker
occupying the same position as Marshall and Snelgrove, while the
stockjobber stands in the place of the wholesale house in the City.

The stockjobber, or wholesale merchant, is always ready both to buy
and sell with the broker. If you give an order to the latter, he darts
into the Stock Exchange, and without disclosing the nature of his order
to the jobber, inquires of him the price of the particular stock which
you wish to deal in. The jobber names two prices: one at which he is
prepared to buy (the lowest price, of course), the other at which he is
willing to sell (the highest price).

Thus, if the price of Consols was given by him as 100¼ to 100½, it
would mean that if you wanted him to take some stock of you he would
give you £100 5s. for each £100 of stock; and that if you desired to
buy some stock of him, you must pay him £100 10s. for each £100.

These prices are the limits which the jobber sets himself. He is often
ready to give more or to sell for less than the prices he at first
names, according to what is known as the state of the market.

The profits of the jobber and the broker are not of the same kind; the
jobber makes his money out of the difference between the price at which
he buys the stock of you and sells it to someone else.

The broker charges you a small percentage on the cost of the stock by
way of commission for his services in the matter; this does not include
stamp duty or fee, but otherwise he undertakes any incidental service
which may be necessary to give you the full proprietorship of the stock.

Stockjobbers, or wholesale stock merchants, are, as you see, very
necessary, for brokers could not at all times accommodate their
customers; it might be that one would want to sell at a moment when
there was no one to buy; as it is, however, all is made easy by the
jobbers, who are at all times ready both to buy and sell, and to almost
any amount.

It does sometimes happen that they promise to sell more than they
possess, and then they have to borrow and pay for the use of it on
their clearing day, which takes place once a month for Consols and
similar securities, and once a fortnight for other stocks within the
Exchange. It would never do for members of the Stock Exchange to fall
short of their obligations.

The mystery that has always hung about this building has greatly
increased since it has been in combination with the Exchange Telegraph
Company of London, with all its scientific developments and its
electric currents. Between this bureau and the Stock Exchange ghostly,
silent messages pass the livelong day concerning the health, the value,
the rise and the fall of the various stocks and funds, and in a few
seconds these mysterious messages are wafted through the length and
breadth of the land.

I am a curious, inquisitive old lady, and as there were many points
in these mysterious proceedings I could not understand, I went to the
bureau a short time back, and begged Mr. Wilfred King, the courteous
and clever secretary of the company, to make them clear to me.

I was very interested in what he said about the rapidity with which the
messages are transmitted. He assured me that the result of the last
Derby was known all over London before the horses had had time to stop
after they had passed the winning-post; and, again, that during the
last Parliamentary session the debates, by means of this company, were
known at the Crystal Palace before they reached the smoking-room of the
House of Commons.

As I stood watching the clever instrument pouring out silently and
persistently its yards of tape messages, I asked as a favour that Mr.
King would cut off a piece, that I might show it to you. You will see
that the language is conveyed by means of simple lines, over which he
was so kind as to write the letters so represented—

        12                11             1
       ---- --  ---- -- -- -- - ---- -  - --
             C           a       l       e
       ---- -- ---- -  - --  - ---- - -  --
      d           o           n        i    a
    ---- - -  ---- ---- --  ---- --  - -   - --
      n        R         l              y
    ---- -  - ---- -  - ---- - - ---- - ---- ----
              C            o          s
       ---- - ---- -  ---- ---- --  - - -
     T        r        a       f           f
    ----  - ---- -  - --  - - ---- -  - - ---- -
     i        c             f             o
    - -  ---- - ---- -  - - ---- -  ---- ---- ----
       r           w       e   e       k
    - ---- -  - ---- ----  --  --  ---- - --
    e    n        d       i     n           g
    -- ---- -  ---- - -  - -  ---- -  ---- ---- -
        t        h        i         r
       ----   -- - - -   - -    - ---- -
      t        y             f         i
     ----  ---- - ----  -- -- ---- -   - -
      r       s      t     u        l
    - --- -  - - -  ---  - - --  - ---- - -
      t       2          2           5
    ----  -- - ----  -- - ----  -- -- -- - -
      0      d       e          c            r
    ----  ---- - --  --  ---- -- ---- -  - ---- -
            e     a      s    e
           --  - ----  - - -  --[1]

The following little sketch will give you some idea of the instrument
and its working:—

I should like you to know more of this wonderful place; but it belongs
to my life only inasmuch as it carries my messages so silently and
rapidly that people hundreds of miles away can do business with me in
the same hour, and the result is that many thousands of pounds pass
through my hands in a day, which might otherwise have remained idle.

You will possibly feel surprised to hear that on an average six
millions of pounds[2] are daily passed in London, without a single coin
being used, and without any inconvenience or fatigue; whereas such a
sum as this, if paid in gold or silver, would necessitate the carrying
backward and forward over many miles some hundred tons weight.

Like many other gigantic transactions, it is brought about in an
insignificant building in a court leading out of Lombard-street, and
therefore close to my residence.

It is not a mysterious place like the Stock Exchange, but its power of
working is so wonderful as to be quite beyond the power of woman to
take in.

It transfers more money in one week than the whole quantity of gold
coin in the kingdom amounts to; and not the least wonderful thing about
it is that the entire work is performed by about thirty well trained
clerks, in the most exact, regular, and simple manner.

The place I am speaking of is the Bankers’ Clearing House—not to be
confounded with that in the Stock Exchange. It was established in 1775
by bankers who desired a central place where they might conduct their
clearing, or balancing, and their needs led them to the invention of a
simple and ingenious method of economising the use of money. Almost all
their payments are in the form of cheques upon bankers.

The system of clearing is quite as important in money matters as
division of labour is in manufactures, and deserves a much more
thorough explanation than I can give here; and my only excuse for
mentioning it at all is to show you how wonderfully different my
position is now, strengthened as it is by the development of science,
knowledge, and experience, from what it was in my early days.

While my transactions have increased a thousandfold, money, labour, and
time have in an equal degree been economised.

I thought myself very rich formerly with a fortune of £1,200,000, and
I considered that I and my household had a great deal to do in the
management of it, and the work which fell to my lot. Dear me! I can
call back the picture of even a hundred and twenty years ago. My own
house was so small that passers-by could scarcely recognise it; the
population of London was only half a million, and there was but one
bridge over the Thames connecting my side of the City with Southwark;
and as to that mysterious building, the Stock Exchange, it did not
exist. You know, also, for I have told you, that my directors only
employed fifty-four secretaries and clerks, and that their united
salaries did not exceed £4,350. The contrast between then and now is
marvellous even to me.

Only look at it. The proprietors’ capital is now fourteen millions
and a half instead of £1,200,000; I am the Banker of the Government;
I receive the Public Revenue; I pay the National Debt; I receive and
register transfers of stock from one public creditor to another, and
I make the quarterly payment of the dividends. I have undertaken also
the management of the Indian Debt, as well as the Funded Debt of the
Metropolitan Board of Works. What do you think of that for a woman old
as I am in years? You must own that, notwithstanding my age, I am young
and vigorous in thought, in action, and in organisation, otherwise how
could I get through my work as I do?

[Illustration: “GHOSTLY, SILENT MESSAGES.”]

My profits, too, are, when compared with those in my young days,
enormous. You wanted to know, if I remember rightly, how I lived, and
how I obtained the money to pay you your dividends; and whether, in
this respect, I was worthy of your trust.

Well, I will tell you a few of the ways in which I make money. I obtain
large sums by discounting Exchequer Bills; then there is the interest
upon the capital stock in the hands of the Government; I receive, also,
an allowance for managing the Public Debt. Up to 1786 I used to get
£562 10s. for every million; it was then reduced to £450 a million;
and since 1808 I get £300 per million up to 600 millions, and £150 per
million beyond—a nice little sum for you to work out.

A further source of income is interest on loans, on mortgages, profit
on purchase of bullion, and many other small matters. I am careful, you
see, not to have all my eggs in one basket.

For help in all this work I employ between eight and nine hundred
officers and servants, whose salaries exceed £210,000 a year.

I think I am a good mistress. I am sure I do my best to take care of
all my people, and I am acquainted with every one of them, even with
those who perform what is called menial service (I don’t like that
word; every service is honourable, if well performed); but I do confess
that I am extremely strict and particular and I am intolerant of
mistakes, from whatever cause they arise, because they dim the lustre
of my honour.

I think on the whole I have reason to be proud of my servants. Indeed,
I have a firm belief that no lady in the land is served better or more
faithfully.

I think you will like to hear a little about the way I manage my people.

First of all, I make every increase of salary to depend upon
punctuality in the morning, knowing as I do its importance. I am
equally particular that those living within the house shall keep good
hours at night.

Then I do not mind giving occasional leave of absence, if urgently
required; but I don’t allow anyone to take what is called “French
leave” without paying a fine for each day’s absence.

When my people get too old for service, I like to feel that they will
not suffer want; so I give them a pension in proportion to the salary
they are receiving at the time they retire. I spend about £40,000 in
this way—a spending which has nothing but pleasure in it for me.

I started a library some time ago for the younger members of my
household, by giving them a large room and £500 for books. It has
since been kept going by themselves, each subscriber paying eight
shillings a year. Between three and eight on certain days in the week
you may see numbers of them making their way thither for reading and
recreation. Those who prefer it may have books to take home. One of my
representatives is always present during these hours, just to show our
interest in their recreation.

The kind feeling, however, is not at all one-sided, as I have had
frequent opportunities of judging. Times of trouble, panic, and
sickness never fail to show me the love and devotion of my people, and
that they have not hesitated to sacrifice their lives for my safety is
a matter of history.

During the hours of the night, when I take my well-earned sleep, I
am watched over by my faithful servants, who take it in turn, two at
the time, to keep watch, in which loving duty they are assisted by a
company of Foot Guards.

So you see on the whole I am a happy woman, a very busy one, and I
think a safe one for you to trust.

(_To be continued._)


FOOTNOTES:

[1]            12-11-1.

Caledonian Railway.—Traffic for week ending 31st ultimo, £2,250
decrease.

[2] There passes through the Clearing House annually the incomprehensible
sum of £6,000,000,000 a year in the shape of cheques.




OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.

BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.

[Illustration: ST. GIORGIO, MAGGIORE.]


Our longing expectations were fulfilled, and we were vouchsafed a
lovely evening for our entrance into Venice. By the time the train
reached Mæstre all traces of the storm had disappeared, the sky was
dark blue, and glittered with innumerable stars and a full moon—just
such an ideal night as one would choose for getting one’s first
impressions of the most poetical city in the world.

From Padua to Mæstre there is nothing remarkable; the same seemingly
eternal plain has to be traversed; but as the train draws near to the
last-named city one begins to realise that one is really approaching
the Queen of the Adriatic.

At Mæstre we began to feel the sea breezes, and as the train rushed
on to St. Giuliana we caught glimpses of the far-off lights of Venice
reflected in the water. And now commences the vast bridge which takes
the train over the lagune. This bridge is between three and four miles
in length, and contains 222 arches.

Our excitement was great when we reached the lagune, and the train
seemed actually rushing through the water.

At first the buildings of the distant city looked like huge black
rocks, though the hundreds of lights reflected in the water told one
of the approach to habitation. But as we drew near, the churches,
towers, campanili, and palaces became almost distinguishable, telling
out black against the starlit sky, and seemingly rising from the middle
of the sea—an exquisitely poetical scene, with which no one could be
disappointed.

Of course, we can understand that approaching Venice by day is quite
another matter. Then the shallowness of the lagune (the water is
sometimes not more than three feet deep) is realised; then all the
ruin, shabby detail, bad restoration, and bizarre Gothic work of the
city are seen at a glance. The beautiful moonlight night, however, told
us of none of these defects, but emphasised the strange poetry of this
singular city, with its wonderful history and associations, built in
the middle of the sea.

The approach to Venice by gondola in former times must have been even
more romantic, as the puffing and the screeching of a steam-engine
brings one’s mind back to the nineteenth century. Though, at the same
time, rushing across the lagune in a railway-train at night produces a
somewhat remarkable sensation.

The train took about nine minutes to cross the bridge, and then glided
quietly into the railway station at Venice. There were only about half
a dozen passengers besides ourselves, and there was none of that noise
and bustle which is usually so great a nuisance in terminal stations.
On alighting from our railway carriage a porter, with true Italian
politeness, asked us the name of our hotel, and, conducting us to the
side of the canal, handed us over to a gondolier.

Everything helped to make the scene as poetical as possible. The night
kept glorious, and there was not a sound to be heard. Our gondolier, a
tall, dark man with a thick black beard, was a beau ideal of his class,
and the hearse-like gondola being drawn up to the landing-stage, the
bachelors determined to see a little of Venice by moonlight before
going to their hotel.

[Illustration: THE BRONZE HORSES—ST. MARK’S.]

In a few minutes we found ourselves in the Grand Canal—the great
marble palaces rising on either bank, brilliantly illuminated here and
there by the beams of a full moon, and the lights from the graceful
Gothic windows reflected in the still water in long streams of light;
the domes and campanili of the almost innumerable churches piercing
the sky, and looking gigantic, from their details being shrouded in
the deep shadows of night; while their outlines were made still more
prominent and more distinctly defined by the clear, sharp moonlight.

One of these great campanili had an almost startling effect as the
gondola passed it. It seemed to interpose itself between the moon and
ourselves. We never saw any building which, for the moment, seemed so
gigantic. On we went—past the opening of many a narrow canal, looking
on one side into impenetrable gloom, and on the other into almost
magical light. Here and there was some exquisitely traceried window,
illuminated like burnished silver. The plash of the oar and the ripple
of the water against the gondola added to the charm of the scene, and
before long the strains of distant music enhanced the poetry of that
most lovely night.

A huge arch soon came in sight, spanning the great canal. Need we say
that this was the Rialto? The gondola shot beneath it, and wound its
way along past a sharp curve in the canal through another bridge, and
on our right the Church of the Salute came in sight, and we soon
emerged on to the broad and lake-like water of the Giudecca. To our
left was a garden, and a little behind it rose the group of domes and
the lofty isolated campanili of St. Mark. We knew it was St. Mark’s,
and were therefore not surprised at its exquisite beauty, though,
owing to the intervening buildings, we could only see its domes and
campanile. The Ducal Palace, strange to say, did not present so
striking an appearance by moonlight, owing to its somewhat box-like
outline. But still the deep gloom of its arcades somewhat repaid the
mind for the disappointment experienced in its general aspect.

Of course, we looked out for the Bridge of Sighs, which was buried, as
it should be, in profound gloom. It was appropriate that this tragic
structure should be hidden in the deepest shadow of our first view
of Venice, just as we recollect the dome of the Salute forming its
greatest light. On the one side was typified human suffering, human
woe, tyranny, cruelty, and oppression, and on the other the salvation
which came to us through the Healer, whose purity is rightly symbolled
in the clear white dome of the church.

These two buildings, so typical of human life, are rightly placed.
The one at the junction of the two great canals, where they expand
almost into a lake, lifts its marble dome, soaring up to the skies, and
everyone asks as they come in sight of it, “What is that?” The answer
is, “That is the Salute” (Salvation). Happy omen for a city where
such a sign is always visible amidst the surrounding gloom! The other
building, half concealed, and skulking away over a gloomy canal, like
secret sin deep buried in the human heart. We know it is there, and
that its loathsome presence will be found when sought for, and though
the gloom of night may for a time conceal it, yet with the daylight it
will be visible, carrying with it condemnation.

More mundane thoughts, however, filled our minds, and we began to
realise the fact that in ordering our gondolier to take us a “bit of
a round of Venice” before landing us at our hotel, we were running
serious risk of going to bed supperless, if not of being shut out
altogether. So we directed him to retrace—we can’t say his steps, but
let us say his course—and, after passing down one or two narrow canals,
we found ourselves at the steps of our hotel.

It was not, however, without a sigh and a kind of feeling almost
approaching to dread that we left the bright moonlight of the Grand
Canal to penetrate the dark, silent, and gloomy little streams that
run between the high walls of the houses. Gloomy they are at all
times, these narrow quayless canals, but how infinitely more so in the
night, and how their lugubrious aspect impresses itself upon one after
emerging from the beautiful scenes which we have just attempted to
describe.

The first thing we did on arriving at our hotel was to see whether any
of our friends had written to us, and we were pleased to find quite a
goodly pile of letters awaiting us. How pleasant it is to hear from our
friends when abroad, and how doubly dear those friends seem to us when
hundreds of miles separate us from them.

A rather doubtful compliment this. But is it not always true that
“distance lends enchantment?” When absent from those we like, we are
inclined to think over their good qualities and those characteristics
that we admire, and to forget all those differences of opinion and
little waywardnesses that are so irritating to us when we are with
them. Of course, it is different with those we really love; even
then, however, absence intensifies the affection, but from a different
reason, arising from an almost nervous anxiety for their health,
happiness, and prosperity.

After reading our letters, we began to discuss our first sight of
Venice, and we both agreed that, up to the present, our fondest
expectations had been more than realised. Little did we think that
the morrow would bring its disappointments—that in the short space
of twenty-four hours we should underrate Venice, as much as we now
exaggerated its beauties—and that we should not gain a correct and
“lasting” impression of its peculiar and unique character, until
many days had passed away. In fact, one does not entirely form one’s
impression of Venice until it has been left, thought over, and compared
with other places.

From the city itself we called to our memory the wonderful history of
Venice, at one time the first maritime power in Europe, and so like our
own country in many ways.

Our girls may remember the importance of Milan and Verona during the
periods that the Viscontis and Sforzas ruled the former city, and the
Scaligers the latter. The history of these two cities, however, is
simply insignificant when compared with that of the great republic of
the Doges.

Venice is said to have been founded about the year A.D. 450, by the
inhabitants of Aquileia, Padua, Altinum, &c., who were driven out of
their cities, and their homes utterly destroyed by the cruel Attila,
who was at this time overrunning Italy. The persecuted inhabitants
flying before the barbarians, as a last resource crossed the lagune and
built a town on the islets which had formed in the Adriatic.

Goethe says, “It was no idle fancy their colonists fled to these
islands; it was no mere whim which impelled those who followed to
combine with them; necessity taught them to look for security in
a highly disadvantageous situation, which afterwards became most
advantageous, enduing them with talent, when the whole of the Northern
world was immersed in gloom. Their increase and their wealth were the
necessary consequence. New dwellings arose close against dwellings,
rocks took the place of sand and marsh, houses sought the sky, being
forced, like trees enclosed in a narrow compass, to seek in height what
was denied to them in breadth. Being niggard of every inch of ground,
as having been from the outset compressed into a narrow compass, they
allowed no more room for the streets than was absolutely necessary
for separating one row of houses from another, and affording a narrow
way for passengers. Moreover, water was at once street, square, and
promenade. The Venetian was forced to become a new creature, and Venice
can only be compared with itself.”

The colonists, under the protection of the Byzantine Empire, must have
grown in importance and prosperity, though their early history is very
obscure, and it was not until the commencement of the ninth century
that Venice became a really important city.

The exact date of the election of the first Dux or Doge (Paulucius
Anafestus) is not known, but it must have been either at the end of the
sixth or the commencement of the seventh century. The year A.D. 809 was
important for Venice, as the colonists in that year defended themselves
against Pepin, the son of Charlemagne, and throwing over all foreign
influence, they commenced their career of independence.

The next important event was the bringing of the body of St. Mark to
Venice in A.D. 828. The evangelist was thenceforth made the patron
saint of the city, and his emblem, the lion, became the arms of the
republic. The Venetians had not as yet made foreign conquests, but the
great Doge, Enrico Dandolo, who went to the Fourth Crusade, conquered
Constantinople in 1204, and commenced the grand era of Venice. The
breaking up of the Byzantine Empire was a great opportunity for Venice,
the republic gaining possession of several islands in the Greek
Archipelago, together with numerous cities on the Adriatic.

As can well be imagined, the growing power of the republic was watched
with jealous eyes by the other Italian States, especially by Genoa, at
this time very powerful. The rivalry between the last-named city and
Venice caused innumerable wars and misery to both combatants. At first
Genoa was successful, but the Doge Andrea Dandolo completely defeated
the Genoese in 1352, an event which made Venice the most powerful city
in Northern Italy.

The successor to Doge Andrea Dandolo, Marino Falieri, by secret means
endeavoured to upset the government of Venice and make himself king.
His plot was discovered, however, and he was beheaded on the Giants’
Stairs in the Palace of the Doges.

The Genoese were at war again with the republic in 1379; but a lasting
peace was concluded in 1381. From this year until about 1450 Venice
carried everything before it; Verona, Padua, Vicenza, and numerous
other North Italian cities, were added to the republic, and by the year
1420 the whole of the east coast of Italy surrendered to the power of
Venice. But perhaps the grandest victories were those gained over the
Turks, as in these wars Venice undoubtedly saved Italy the calamity of
a Mohammedan invasion.

It was during the years 1370 and 1450 that Venice was building up
her commercial prosperity, which at the latter date had made her the
greatest maritime and commercial city in the world.

But as in individuals, so in countries. We go on increasing in health
and strength up to a certain age, after which comes the inevitable
decline. “First from age to age we ripe and ripe, and then from age to
age we rot and rot.” The decline of Venice is soon told. The capture
of Constantinople by the Turks in 1453, and the discovery of the new
Indian sea-routes were terrible blows to the republic, from which,
indeed, it never recovered. The Turks, with whom the Venetians were
always at war, proved in the end victorious, and took possession of the
eastern colonies of the republic.

And then came the great shame of Venice’s history—the alliance with
the Turk against the Christian powers, the sacrifice of Rhodes, and
the selfish abandonment of that great Christian hero, Lisle Adam;
while, as a modern writer says, “the Venetians and other merchants
were trafficking their goods and their souls at the same time with the
enemies of the Church, and dishonouring their Christian calling.” A sad
Nemesis was, however, in store for Venice, and, notwithstanding her
crimes, we cannot read unmoved of the last Doge embracing the banner
of St. Mark and then flinging it into a grave over which a solemn
funeral ceremony was performed. Napoleon, who regarded neither art,
poetry, nor history, when they stood in the way of his ambition, was
approaching Venice. Resistance was impossible, and the banner which had
led the Venetians to so many victories must not fall into the hands of
the invader, so, with tears and sighs, it was reverently placed in the
grave.

(_To be continued._)




UNCLE JASPER.

BY ALICE KING.


CHAPTER III.

I made my way forward as quickly as I could, endeavouring, as I went,
to make believe in my own mind that I was not much frightened, and did
not very much dislike the whole situation—in fact, that it was rather
an amusing and interesting one. But, after all, it was an extremely
poor, thin make-belief indeed. The darkness grew thicker and thicker,
the outlines of surrounding objects more and more indistinct; the wind
rose higher and higher, and went sweeping by with a wild, dreary wail;
the rain began to stream down as if a couple of rivers or more were
being emptied from the sky on to the earth. I had brought no waterproof
with me, I had only on a mantle of light summer cloth, and, as well may
be supposed, I was soon enjoying the comfortable certainty that I was
getting wet through as rapidly as I could. Yes, there was no denying
it; it would decidedly be better to be in bed than here, even if I was
expecting next morning the arrival of the ugliest ogre uncle that ever
appeared in a fairy tale.

I felt a most real and lively inclination to sit down and cry; but as
there were some small shreds of heroism still hanging about me, I did
not do it—I persevered onward, instead. Things were, however, becoming
most uncompromisingly worse and worse. Hitherto there had been at the
side of the road fences of some kind, the dim outlines of which had
been, in a certain degree, a guide to me; but now I had got out on to
an open common, where there was nothing round me save an expanse of
what seemed immeasurable darkness, and where the wind and the rain beat
upon me more violently and pitilessly than ever. I soon became aware,
too, of another very unpleasant fact: I had evidently got off the road,
for I could feel the damp, spongy-ground of the common underneath my
feet. I tried to find my way back to it, but all in vain; I seemed only
to get into wetter and less solid ground.

It was so dark now, I was so completely enveloped in thickest
blackness, that I could not have seen even a stone wall had it been in
front of me; but it would have been some consolation, some reassurance,
only to have felt it when I stretched out my hand before me; instead of
that, however, when I extended my arm it went groping about helplessly
in illimitable space. The storm appeared to be finding a cruel
pleasure in playing me all sorts of unkind tricks, for now it flung
the folds of my mantle over my head, and now it poured a waterspout
down my back. The ground under my feet was growing every minute more
swampy, and sometimes I sank in ankle deep; two or three times I found
that, by way of a little change, I had stepped into a gutter, which
caused a refreshing shower of muddy water to come splashing upward to
meet and mingle in friendly amity with the raindrops that pelted down
from above. The sprites of earth and air may possibly have found much
satisfaction in this meeting, but most decidedly I did not, nor did my
luckless petticoats and stockings.

All at once I found myself making a most undignified descent from an
upright position; I had stumbled over some object which was lying in
my way. There was no saving my untrustworthy feet; the next instant
I was lying prostrate on the dripping grass, with my head in what
seemed to be a shallow puddle. I was going to try to pick myself up
again as quickly as I could, when there rose around me a series of
long-drawn-out, horrid, incomprehensible sounds, each of which appeared
to strike a rough note in a discordant gamut, while in among them there
was a tumultuous, confused jangle of bells, as if a hundred tambourines
were ringing together. Then there came a sensation of having my face
swept with a drenched mop that was composed of very long, shaggy hair,
and was passed and re-passed over my cheeks and forehead, and used my
eyes and mouth in a most unpleasantly free-and-easy fashion, and after
that I was trampled upon by a succession of small, but by no means
airy feet—a process which it is far more agreeable to describe than to
feel. This over, there followed a noise of scampering and rushing and
hurrying across the common, until footsteps and bells all died away in
the far distance, mingling with the chorus of the storm.

My head was so dizzy and bewildered after this adventure that I lay
still for two or three minutes, utterly oblivious of all Miss Dolly’s
well-instilled principles with regard to damp ground and rheumatism.
When, however, I had recovered myself sufficiently slowly to rise to my
feet, I began to realise what had happened. I had fallen in with one
of the numerous herds of goats which we had often seen in our drives,
and which, no doubt, frequented the common. I must have stumbled over
one member of the flock as they lay huddled together, and this must
have startled and aroused the whole band. Yes, it was all plain enough
now. It was a horribly prosaic, unromantic incident, and a horribly
uncomfortable one at the same time.

If ever a young lady made vows never again to run away from any of
her relations—no, not even from a forty-seventh cousin—it was I,
Beatrice Warmington, that night. On I went, wading through the heavy,
marshy ground, shivering with external cold, yet at intervals hot with
inward fear. There seemed no possible way out of my self-incurred
difficulties. The darkness was as dense as ever, the storm as
unrelenting. I had completely broken down, and was sobbing bitterly.
What was to become of me? And the wind answered mockingly, “What?”

My situation appeared to me, in truth, to be growing one of real
danger. I was becoming so weary that I did not think I could drag my
tired limbs much further; a half-stupor was creeping over my brain, and
my senses were beginning to be partially numbed and blunted with terror
and fatigue. It seemed to me that I must soon sink down and glide into
unconsciousness. I heard in the wind the voice of Lily calling me,
half sadly, half reproachfully; and with the thought of Lily came the
thought of prayer. But prayer had never been to me what it was to Lily;
I could not lean on it as she would have done in my situation. I strove
to get hold of words which would tell of my sorrow for my rebellious
wilfulness, which would be a cry to my Father above; but they slipped
away from my lips, and would not come when I wanted them, as they would
have come like helpful angels to Lily.

I was now evidently beginning to descend a slope of some sort; I could
tell that from the feeling of the ground as I trod it. The earth I
was walking upon appeared to be less swampy than it had hitherto
been, but it was more slippery. Before long this slipperiness became
something that there was no contending against; my feet lost all power
of stopping themselves; I was sliding swiftly downward, as if I was
upon ice. Whither was I going? The question flashed confusedly through
my bewildered brain in the midst of the storm and the darkness, and
still I flew forward at always increasing speed. All my senses began to
float into a dim whirlpool, and I could scarcely take firm hold of any
distinct idea.

Suddenly there was a sensation of extreme coldness up as high as
my waist, and at the same time a consciousness that my involuntary
downward flight had ceased; I was standing still again at last, but
where was I standing? I stretched out my hand, and bent forward; I
could feel water round me. Now that I was at last still, I could
collect in some measure my shattered intelligence; I reflected for some
moments, and came to the conclusion that I must have slid down the
sloping side of the common, rendered especially slippery by the rain,
and must have landed in some stream which ran at the bottom of the
declivity.

I was wet up to my waist, but at least I was off the common at last; I
groped about cautiously with my hands, keeping my feet firm where they
stood. I soon found the bank of the stream, which must, I felt certain,
be but a shallow and a narrow one; I made a spring in the direction
in which my hands had gone, and was quickly, with a great feeling of
thankfulness which thrilled from heart to brain, standing once more on
solid ground that was neither swampy nor slippery.

I had apparently now reached again some road; it was still too dark
for me to distinguish anything, but the wind and the rain were less
violent here than they had been on the open common. This made a small
improvement in my condition, but still there seemed no more hope than
there had been before, of my getting out of my difficulties. I moved
onward, it is true, but it was quite without there being any distinct
notion in my mind of any end or object in my proceeding forward.
However, anything was better than standing shivering there by the
stream; movement would, at least, keep me warm.

[Illustration: ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE.]

I had advanced thus some little distance, when my further course was
impeded by some object in front of me. I extended my hand, and what it
touched was a cold iron bar; I moved my arm from side to side, and
still it was iron bars with which my inquiring fingers came in contact.
It must be an iron paling of some kind, I thought, and then began,
while I lent wearily against the bars, to ask myself vaguely what kind
of places are generally enclosed within such a fence.

While these questions passed through my mind, the bars suddenly
began to give way before the pressure of my whole weight, which I
was supporting upon them; the circumstance nearly caused me another
fall, but I saved myself just in time. Then I made a discovery that
sent a gleam of indistinct hope flashing through me; what I had been
leaning against was an iron gate, I could feel its fastening now quite
clearly, and hear the little click it made as I moved it up and down
with my finger. Did not the existence of such a gate warrant the notion
that some house must be near at hand? The gates into fields are not
generally like this gate, I argued.

I advanced some steps, and then I became aware of another fact; I was
certainly standing underneath trees; I could hear the wind in their
branches, could feel the raindrops that dripped from them. I was
pausing in doubt and new uncertainty, considering what I might infer
from this, when, borne on the wind, there reached me a sound which was
like the sound of voices. My heart gave a great leap, all my senses
went into the sense of hearing; I listened as eagerly as if I had been
catching the rarest notes of music; yes, voices were decidedly drawing
nearer and nearer to me, and with the voices there approached a glimmer
of light.

“If we can’t get in by the glass door, we shall by the store-room
window.”

Such were the words that reached my ears, spoken in a man’s voice in
French.

“We’ll get in quick enough if we can only reach the house,” said
another man’s voice, in the same language, and a very rough, harsh
voice it was this time, too.

“We must be very quiet and silent in our movements,” rejoined the first
speaker.

“Not even the old dog shall catch a sound of us—no, not even if he is
sleeping with one eye open,” replied the other.

“There must be a house, then, close in this neighbourhood,” I thought,
“and this must be the way up to it, and surely, surely,” and now a
great terror seized me, “these must be burglars who are going to break
into it.”

An agony of fear, worse than any by far that I had experienced on the
lonely common, now took possession of me, as I heard the steps of the
two men drawing nearer and nearer. I went on one side and held my
breath, hoping that, in the darkness, they would pass me unnoticed; but
I must have made some sound that betrayed me, for the next instant a
hand was on my arm, and I heard a voice in my ear.

(_To be concluded._)




“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.


Two very happy events happened in Ella’s household at the beginning of
this month; her father came to see her, and her aunt came downstairs
for the first time.

Mrs. Hastings had been feeling rather anxious about her daughter for
some time. The young housekeeper had had a good deal of worry and
anxiety, and her letters had quite unconsciously betrayed the fact that
she felt in low spirits. Her depression soon disappeared, however,
when her father came, and his strong common sense and masculine way of
ignoring the little trials of housekeeping were as good a tonic to her
mind as the sharp walks he took her were invigorating to her body.

Thinking her looking pale and languid, Mr. Hastings inquired as to her
daily exercise, and found that on many days she did not go out at all,
except to feed the fowls, or gather a few flowers from the garden, as
her household duties took her so long that she felt she had no time for
walks. Mr. Hastings considered that this quite explained her want of
colour and appetite, and insisted that it must be altered. In vain Ella
pleaded that it was impossible for her to go out always, and would be
still more so when the nurse left. Mr. Hastings was quite unmoved by
all her arguments, and insisted on her promising to take some open air
exercise every day, even if it were only a quarter of an hour’s run up
and down the quiet lane behind the house.

He also planned in his own mind to send Ella’s two brothers, Robin and
Norman, to Hapsleigh for their Easter holidays. They were good boys,
who would not make unnecessary noise in the house, and they would
supply a complete change of thought for their sister.

Nor was this the only alteration Mr. Hastings urged in Ella’s daily
routine. In her restless anxiety about her aunt and the housekeeping,
she had entirely omitted all her own studies. The piano was rarely
opened, and all the useful books her mother had packed up for her
still lay untouched at the bottom of her trunk. Mr. Hastings strongly
disapproved of this, and pointed out to Ella that not only was it a
great pity for her to lose the knowledge she had spent so many years
in acquiring, but that it was very bad for her health, both bodily
and mental, to give up all interests in life, save the cares of a
household; nor would she be an agreeable companion for her aunt or
their visitors if she had no topics of conversation more interesting
than the difficulties of servants, or the best food for fowls; it was
quite imperative, therefore, that she should set apart a certain time
every day for reading and music.

Mr. Hastings was quite ready to acknowledge that Ella would find
it difficult to manage, especially at first, for her inexperience
in household matters made her twice as long over them as she would
otherwise have been; but she felt she could do it if she made effort,
and a little conversation with her father soon convinced her that it
was well worth exerting herself for.

In order to make her studies as easy as possible to her, before leaving
Hapsleigh Mr. Hastings went through the library with Ella and chose out
a selection of books which he thought she would find interesting as
well as instructive, for he held very strongly the theory that unless
a book interests us, it is waste of time to read it, for though we
may imagine ourselves to be getting a great deal of information, if
the facts do not take sufficient hold upon the mind to interest it,
the knowledge is as soon forgotten as acquired. He was very careful,
therefore, in advising a course of reading for Ella, to consult her
taste, and to select only those books which she would really enjoy
reading.

Nor was this the end of Mr. Hastings’s suggestions, for Kate had
commissioned her father to explain a new enterprise of her own. She had
joined a water-colour sketching club, and, without waiting to consult
her, had proposed her sister’s name also as a member. Each member was
expected to send in an original sketch once a month, the subject being
proposed by each in turn. The sketches having all been sent in to the
secretary, they were then submitted to a professional artist, who put
his initials on the back of the one he considered the best, and wrote a
short criticism on each. The portfolio was then sent the round of the
members, who each in the same way marked the one they liked best.

Kate had sent a supply of all the necessary materials by her father,
with an injunction to Ella to be sure to send in a trial sketch in time
for the next month.

Mr. Hastings’s visit came to an end all too soon, but not till his
loving counsel had done Ella good in every way. His experience
smoothed over all her difficulties with an ease which seemed to her
almost marvellous, while she was encouraged to fresh exertions by the
unstinted praise he gave her for the manner in which she fulfilled the
duties of hostess.

To Ella’s surprise, when her aunt heard of these new schemes for study
she took a deep interest in them, and suggested that Ella should read
her instructive books aloud to her. The fresh subjects of interest
quite roused the invalid, and Ella had the great satisfaction of
finding that the little mental stimulus they produced not only helped
to soothe the irritability and restlessness which troubled her, but
that as the mind naturally re-acts upon the body, she was actually
better in health for it; while, for her own part, Ella found that her
aunt’s sharp intelligent remarks often cleared up points which would
otherwise have been a difficulty to her.

In the sketching, too, her aunt took a great interest, and once, when
Ella was lamenting over an effect she could not catch, abruptly asked
why she did not get Mr. Dudley to help her.

Ella felt shy of asking him; but shyness had no chance of thriving
in her aunt’s presence, and Sarah was despatched to ask if he would
have half an hour to spare that afternoon. He soon showed Ella where
she was wrong, and henceforward was always ready to give her just the
advice she needed; and as the weather grew warmer, and made outdoor
occupations possible, she was surprised at the many charming “bits” he
found for her to sketch in the flat, uninteresting country in which
Hapsleigh was situated.

Soon after Mrs. Wilson’s new servants arrived, Mrs. Moore, the widow
woman whom Ella had engaged as cook, asked her if she might “make so
bold as to say, could she not have family prayers for them in the
morning; for, not being a very good scholar herself, she could never
manage to read her Bible, and Sarah, though a nice steady girl, was not
so fond of her Bible as to care to sit and read it to her.”

Ella was a good deal dismayed at this suggestion, but promised to think
it over and consult her aunt. This was a mere matter of form, for she
was sure that her aunt would approve of the suggestion, so that the
decision really rested with herself. She felt sure it was the right
thing to do; but she was really very bashful, though she dared not say
much about it at Hapsleigh, and this seemed to her taking so much upon
herself. And what should she read? and when?

A very short reflection decided her that it must be done somehow, and
for the rest she had no choice but to consult her aunt.

Mrs. Wilson warmly approved of the idea, but seriously added to Ellen’s
discomfiture by remarking—

“You had better begin to-morrow, my dear. I wonder we none of us had
the sense to think of it before; and, nurse, if you will begin from
to-morrow to give me my breakfast punctually, we will have prayers here
in my bedroom directly afterwards. Yes, my dear,” she went on, in reply
to an exclamation of dismay which Ella could not altogether repress,
“it is so long since I have attended a service I feel a perfect
heathen, and need to be read to quite as much as Mrs. Moore.”

And having once taken the idea into her head, nothing would induce Mrs.
Wilson to give it up; though, on nurse’s advice, she agreed that they
should meet in the evening instead of the morning, as being a more
convenient time for an invalid.

Mrs. Wilson had one or two books of prayers in the house, but as they
were old and most of them rather too long, she told Ella to look
through the books beforehand, and select a prayer each day, marking
with a pencil which portions to omit. At the same time she talked over
with her the most suitable portions of the Bible to select for reading.

“You know, Ella, that, as St. Paul tells us, the whole Bible is given
us for our instruction, yet some portions are not easily understood
unless a rather long passage is read at a time, and as that cannot be
managed at daily prayers, it needs care to choose a portion which
gives a complete thought in a small compass, so that those who, like
Mrs. Moore, get no other reading during the day, have something
definite to carry away with them.”

It was with considerable inward trepidation and a trembling of voice
she could not altogether control that Ella made her first attempt at
conducting the family prayers the next evening; but she struggled to
forget herself, and as she went on her voice grew steadier, till, when
they all repeated the Lord’s Prayer together in closing, she was able
to join in the spirit of the prayer as simply as anyone present.

It was with sincere pleasure that, a few days afterwards, Ella helped
her aunt downstairs for the first time; but her delight that her
patient had advanced so far towards recovery was mingled with a certain
amount of nervousness lest she should find anything to disapprove of
in the rooms, which she had not seen since she was first taken ill.
For several days the servants had been expending a good deal of hard
work on polishing the furniture and rearranging all the ornaments of
the sitting-rooms, and Ella had exercised all her skill in arranging
flowers to make the rooms look bright to welcome the invalid, so that
Mrs. Wilson could not but be pleased, and she expressed her approval
with a warmth which greatly gratified Ella, and which sent Sarah into
the kitchen with a beaming face to tell Mrs. Moore that—

“Missis do seem pleased like, and she says to me, ‘Sarah,’ she says, ‘I
never saw that bookcase look so bright before; why, you must have got a
patent polisher.’”

This well-earned praise was very gratifying to all the household, and
spurred them on to fresh exertions.

Ella’s interests just now were chiefly centred in the fowls. She took
the greatest care of the sitting hens, and brought her aunt each day
a minute report of their welfare. When the time drew near for the
chickens to appear, her eagerness became so great that she would have
disturbed them a dozen times in the day to see how they were getting on
but for the exhortations of her aunt.

The hens were allowed to remain on the nests the whole of the day
before the chickens were due, but were well fed, and had a plentiful
supply of water given them. When the day for hatching came, Mrs. Moore
refused to go near the nests till late in the afternoon, but at last
when she and Ella approached them very quietly, so as not to disturb
the hens, a gentle peeping sound announced that some chickens had
already broken their way into the outer world. They found, indeed, that
one hen had hatched all her chickens, but the other had still two eggs
unbroken. Mrs. Moore removed the hen which had finished her work, and
while Ella went into ecstasies over the fluffy round balls, she made
the mother dust herself well with the ashes sprinkled about, and then
escort her lively children to a clean new nest, while the old one was
burnt and the box which had contained it was put into the open air to
sweeten.

The mother hen was given a good meal of barley and plenty of water, but
no food was given to the chickens.

In answer to Ella’s remonstrances, Mrs. Moore explained that chickens
need no food for from twelve to twenty-four hours after they are
hatched, and, indeed, are much better without anything.

Mrs. Moore then brought a basin of warm water (heated to 105 degrees),
and placing it near the other nest, deftly removed the two still
unhatched eggs without disturbing the hen, and put them in the water.
In a few minutes one of the eggs began to bob about in a curious
manner, whereupon Mrs. Moore took it out and returned it to the hen.
The other one remaining still, she held it close to Ella’s ear, and
shook it for her to hear the fluid contents shaking about, proving that
the egg was useless.

The shells of the hatched eggs were then removed, and Ella was much
interested in noticing that the two ends of each shell had been laid
one inside the other, so as to take up the least possible space; but
Mrs. Moore could not answer her questions as to whether it is the
chicken or the hen who does this, whether it is done deliberately, or
as the result of the chicken’s struggles to free itself from the shell.

The next morning the last egg was hatched, and the two “hen-wives”
congratulated each other on having fifteen eggs hatched out of sixteen
set.

For the first day or two the chickens were fed on hard-boiled eggs,
chopped up and mixed with breadcrumbs or oatmeal; and for a time they
needed such constant feeding that Ella’s generous mind was quite
satisfied, and the chickens soon knew her so well that when she
appeared they would come running to meet her, and flutter up all over
her dress and into her lap.

The hens were put into coops and brought into the garden, and as long
as they were too young to do mischief, the chickens were left loose to
run about where they liked near the mother’s coop.

It was in the midst of these cares and pleasures that Ella’s two
brothers, Robin and Norman, came for their ten days’ visit. Robin was
nearly sixteen, and Norman fourteen, and, considering their ages,
they were good, considerate boys. For the first night and day after
their arrival they were extremely subdued, and afraid of disturbing
their aunt, but this unnatural quietness soon wore off, and Ella found
her powers of mind and body fully exercised in supplying them with
amusements which would not excite or tire her aunt too much.

Happily the weather was fine, and the boys delighted in long excursions
into the country after mythical rare ferns, herons’ nests, or other
treasures. Frequently Ella went with them, and she told Mrs. Mobberly,
much to that lady’s amusement, that they made her feel like a child
again.

Mrs. Mobberly, being very anxious to encourage the feeling in Ella,
that although she had reached the mature age of eighteen her youth was
not quite a thing of the past, came in several time to spend a few
hours with Mrs. Wilson, so that Ella was set free for a long day’s
excursion with her brothers.

(_To be continued._)




VARIETIES.


HINTS FOR TRAVELLERS.

Take one-fourth more money than your estimated expenses, and have a
good supply of small change.

Acquaint yourself with the geography of the route and region of travel.

Arrange, if possible, to have but a single article of luggage to look
after.

Dress substantially. Better be too hot for two or three hours at noon
than be cold for the remainder of the twenty-four.

Arrange, under all circumstances, to be at the place of starting
fifteen or twenty minutes before the time, thus allowing for
unavoidable or unanticipated detention by the way.

Do not commence a day’s travel before breakfast, even if it has to be
eaten at daybreak. Dinner or supper, or both, can be more healthily
dispensed with than a good warm breakfast.

A sandwich eaten leisurely in the carriage is better than a whole
dinner bolted at a railway station.

Take with you a month’s supply of patience, and always think thirteen
times before you reply once to any supposed rudeness, insult, or
inattention.

Do not suppose yourself specially and designedly neglected if waiters
at hotels do not bring what you call for in double-quick time. Nothing
so distinctly marks the well-bred as waiting on such occasions.

Comply cheerfully and gracefully with the customs of the conveyances in
which you travel, and of the places where you stop.

Respect yourself by exhibiting the manners of a lady, if you wish to be
treated as such, and then you will receive the respect of others.

Travel is a great leveller; take the position which others assign you
from your conduct rather than your pretensions.


GOOD REASONS FOR LEARNING SINGING.

The following eight reasons why everyone should learn to sing are given
by Byrd in his “Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs,” etc., published in 1588:—

1. It is a knowledge easily taught and quickly learned, where there is
a good master and an apt scholar.

2. The exercise of singing is delightful to nature, and good to
preserve the health of man.

3. It doth strengthen all parts of the breast, and doth open the pipes.

4. It is a singularly good remedy for a stuttering and stammering in
the speech.

5. It is the best means to procure a perfect pronunciation and to make
a good orator.

6. It is the only way to know where nature has bestowed a good voice
... and in many that excellent gift is lost because they want art to
express nature.

7. There is not any music of instruments whatsoever comparable to that
which is made of the voices of men, where the voices are good, and the
same well sorted and ordered.

8. The better the voice is, the meeter it is to honour and serve God
therewith; and the voice of man is chiefly to be employed to that end.

    “Since singing is so good a thing,
    I wish all men would learn to sing.”


AN ANTIPATHY TO CATS.—People who have a strong antipathy to cats detect
their presence by the odour, in circumstances which would be thought
impossible. A lady in my study, one day, suddenly remarked, “There is a
cat in the room.” On my assuring her there was none, she replied, “Then
there is one in the passage.” I went out, to satisfy her. There was
no cat in the passage, but on the first landing, looking through the
railings, there, sure enough, was the cat.—_G. H. Lewes._




DR. ZIMMERMAN’S DAUGHTER.


The name of Zimmerman has been familiar to me almost from my first
being able to read. In catalogues of libraries, or of books for sale,
the last entry is usually “Zimmerman on Solitude.” I do not like
solitude, and I always fancied that a book about it must be very dull;
so I never knew anything about Zimmerman and his book beyond the title.

But I have lately found, in an old book published at York in 1810, an
account of Zimmerman’s daughter, which I have read with much interest.
The title of this book is “True Stories and Anecdotes of Young Persons;
Designed, through the Medium of Example, to Inculcate Principles of
Virtue and Piety.” In fact, it is a little book of Christian biography,
and among the examples of virtuous and pious young persons is the
daughter of Dr. Zimmerman. The page is headed, “A Tribute of Paternal
Affection,” and this tribute proves that, whatever else Dr. Zimmerman
may have been, he was a most fond and devoted father. It seems that he
lost this only and beloved daughter, a very amiable, accomplished girl,
in the summer of 1781, when she was twenty-five years of age. Here is
what her father says of her, a record well worth reproducing for the
benefit of others, even now after more than a century has passed.

“May I be permitted,” says the sorrowing father, “to give a short
account of one whose memory I am anxious to preserve? The world was
unacquainted with her excellence; she was known to those only whom she
has left behind to bewail her loss. Her sole pleasures were those which
a retired and virtuous life affords. She was active, always gentle, and
compassionate to the miseries of others. Diffident of her own powers,
she relied with perfect confidence on the goodness of God, and listened
attentively to the precepts of her fond parent. Though naturally timid
and reserved, she disclosed the feelings of her soul with all the
warmth of filial tenderness. For me she entertained the most ardent
affection, and convinced me, not by her professions, but by actions, of
her sincerity. Willingly would I have resigned my life to save hers,
and I am satisfied she would as willingly have given up her own to
preserve mine. One of my greatest pleasures was to please her, and my
endeavours for that purpose were most gratefully returned.

“From her early childhood she had been the victim of ill-health; but,
though of weak frame of body, and deeply afflicted, she bore her
sufferings with steady fortitude and pious resignation to her heavenly
Father’s will. Soon after our leaving Switzerland for Hanover she fell
into a deep decline, which too soon deprived me of the comfort of
this beloved child. From the knowledge I had of her constitution, I
apprehended that the disorder would prove mortal. How frequently did my
wounded, bleeding heart bend me on my knees before God to supplicate
for her recovery! But I concealed my anxiety from her observation.

“Although sensible of her danger, she never discovered the least
apprehension. Smiles played around her pallid cheeks whenever I
entered the room. Even when worn by the fatal disease, and under most
afflicting pains, she made no complaint. Her decay became evident to
the eye, but to the last hours of her life she preserved a serenity
correspondent to the purity and composure of her mind. Thus I beheld
my dear, my only daughter, at the age of twenty-five, after a tedious
suffering of nine long months, expire in my arms.

“During our short residence in Hanover, where she was much respected
and beloved, she composed some religious pieces, which were afterwards
found among her papers. About the same period she also wrote many
letters, which were always affecting, and frequently sublime in the
expressions of her feelings. The last words that my dear excellent
child uttered were these: ‘To-day I shall taste the joys of heaven!’”

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is the memorial tribute. The love of a father and daughter is
always beautiful, and in this case is unusually touching. The perusal
of what the good man wrote has made me think of him with softened
feeling. I know nothing about his life or history, save what appears in
this account of his daughter, after reading which I could even look at
his book on solitude with complacency!




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

B. IGNORAMUS.—You cannot say, “No one knew I was here but her,”
because you are speaking in the nominative case, which answers to the
question “who”—viz., “Who was there?” “She was;” not “her was.” In the
accusative case the personal pronoun “her” is employed—viz., “Of whom
did you borrow it?” “Of her;” not “of she;” the accusative answering
the word “whom.”

A. R. B.—A visitor requested us some time since to draw attention to
the Training Home for Governesses, 81, Mildmay-grove, N., at which the
fee for board, lodging, and laundry for three months is only £6. We
think this might suit you, especially as the foundress undertakes to
find situations for the students. The Kindergarten system is included
in the course of training. Address the directress.

MOLLY M.—Friendless and homeless girls and others needing a short
training in the ordinary work of a general servant are received at a
payment of 5s. a week, at Breydon House, North Quay, Great Yarmouth.
Address the lady superintendent, Mrs. H. E. Buxton. Every effort
is made to place the girls in suitable situations on leaving the
institution. They cannot remain there after the training is over.

DOROTHY.—We fear there is nothing to be done, if you cannot spell, but
to purchase a little dictionary, and always look out every word of
which you have the least doubt. We are glad you find our dress articles
so useful.

BEEAHUDHU AND INNISTORE.—The action of the rays of the sun does put
out a fire by rarefying the air, and so causing it to flow more slowly
towards the fire. The air which really does reach the fire at the time
also affords no nourishment, because rarefied air contains less oxygen
than the same quantity of condensed air. We should imagine the steel
chain would have no effect unless you were struck by lightning.

PURPLE CLEMATIS should write to the secretary of the College of
Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C.

A COUNTRY LASSIE.—The 12th February, 1886, was a Friday. We do not know
the school you mention. It is probably a private one. Why not write
yourself direct?

ANXIOUS.—Perhaps a Kindergarten school would suit you better.

GLAN MENAI.—1. _Kinder_ is one word in German, and _garten_ is another,
so the word is “Kindergarten.” 2. Tancredi is an Italian name. The
most famous bearer of it was Tancred, son of Marquis Odo the Good, of
Sicily, born 1078. He assumed the cross in the First Crusade, 1098, was
created Prince of Galilee, and died of a wound at Antioch, 1112. He was
“a very perfect, gentle knight,” and in him was embodied the chivalrous
spirit of the Crusades.

F. E. N. (Bishop’s Stortford).—There is a good arithmetic society,
including algebra, for particulars of which write to Miss Frances
Mason, hon. secretary, care of Mr. Horwood, 62, Green Lanes, London,
N. French and English correspondence is likewise undertaken by this
society. We thank F. E. N. for information respecting her Pledgdon
Bible-class Society, to which we gladly draw the attention of our
readers.


HOUSEKEEPING.

VIOLET and ROSE.—Put a little turpentine on the spots of paint; or if
that be not successful, try benzine colas.

SIDNEY R.—We can only advise you to hang curtains between the pillars
in your drawing-room. With some flowing draperies they will look less
stiff.

BLUE-EYED BURKIE.—Hominy porridge would be quite as nutritious as any
other, and would provide a change from oatmeal. You could also try
polenta, made from Indian meal or maize in the same manner as oatmeal
porridge.

IRENE.—It is still the fashion to hang curtains over looking-glasses,
as you describe. The curtains should match those in the windows or the
trimmings of the dressing-table.

MADGE.—To take rust from steel ornaments we should advise you to
cover them with sweet oil, well rubbed in, and after 48 hours to use
finely-powdered unslacked lime. Rub in until the rust disappears.

F. O. writes to us to say that spots of mildew on the leather covers of
books that have been kept in a damp room may be removed by rubbing them
with dry crusts of bread.

DEVONIA has only to set the milk in clean pans for the cream to rise.
Once a week is the usual time for churning, and every two or three days
the pans are skimmed. The cream need not be sour to churn into butter.


MISCELLANEOUS.

JIM’S DARLING.—Your mother should see that the two children obey you,
and if they need punishment she should inflict it, not you. Your
spelling and writing are both very defective.

RED BERRIE.—“Genius” appears to us to mean originality and creative
power; talent does not imply originality. We generally apply the word
to those who ably interpret the ideas and carry out the discoveries of
others.

JANET MORETON.—Stopped teeth sometimes last for years if well done. If
the stopping should come out, it ought to be at once replaced.

DAISY NAOMI seems to need a tonic. We advise her to read the articles
by “Medicus.” Cod-liver oil would probably be of service to her. Naomi
needs a doctor’s advice as to her digestion.

ALYS and MABELLE.—“Nigel” is pronounced as it is spelt; the last
syllable as the first in “gelatine.”

K. M. W. is anxious that others who, like herself, have lost their
voices, should know how much she has benefited from the treatment by
the electric battery, which she obtained at St. Thomas’s Hospital. She
hopes not only to recover her voice completely for speaking, but also
for singing.

MONA.—The lines, “Break, break, break! On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!”
are by Lord Tennyson. They have been several times set to music, and
you can obtain the songs at any music-seller’s.

FAIR ROSAMOND.—When you first observed that the strange man made a
habit of occupying the same seat as yourself, you should have gone
elsewhere. Now you have habitually sanctioned the liberty he took,
seeing you without a chaperon or companion, and this has made your
case difficult. You can only say that you acted indiscreetly in the
first instance in allowing yourself to be drawn into conversing with
a perfect stranger, and that you regret that you must withdraw from
further intercourse, unless properly introduced and suitable references
be given. Even were he thoroughly respectable, he may be in no position
to pay his addresses to you in point of fortune.

FOUR MAIDENS.—Young ladies in England have their names put on their
mothers’ visiting cards, unless under peculiar circumstances. If
they have no mother, their names would appear together—_i.e._, Miss
Smith—Miss Belinda Smith.

[Illustration]

SARNIA.—Your school children, whom you train to sing in the choir of
your church, would be rendered more efficient were they to sing through
a few ordinary scales for a few minutes previously to practising the
chants and hymns. It would only extend the time some five or ten
minutes beyond the hour hitherto devoted to the lesson once weekly.
There would be no necessity for consulting them on the subject, nor
even drawing attention to the brief prolongation of the time. Were you
to propose an extra day for practising, they might grumble or find
difficulty in attending.

MIGNONETTE.—The 20th of April, 1868, was a Monday. Many thanks for your
nice letter.

D. E. S.—Messrs. Cassell publish a “Guide to Female Employment in
Government Offices.”

MAUDE must make inquiries, and try to find some writing, copying, or
needlework. She gives us no indications of what she can do, so is
evidently not a practical young person.

ALICE ROCKHAMPTON.—1. The words, _Ricordo di Napoli_, mean “a
remembrance, or memento, of Naples.” 2. We should think lemonade a very
good summer drink.

H. S. G. H.—The 28th August, 1852, was a Saturday, and the 5th January,
1864, was a Tuesday.

SCOTCH LASSIE.—We should advise you to take a situation as
cook-housekeeper. Your writing does not seem good enough for a clerk.

NATALIE METZ.—In writing such articles, a doctor makes use of his
acquired knowledge, of course. How do you suppose a doctor could
prescribe with success if he did not know about every portion of the
human organism and its use and functions?

PHYLLIS H.—You may use the tweezers, but we do not think you should try
anything else.

THISTLE sends us a letter of inquiry as to how she can earn her own
living. She says, “I have no special talent for anything; I am no
musician, I have no accomplishments, I am a bad writer, I dislike
teaching, also nursing, and I cannot learn languages.” We see nothing
left but domestic service or matrimony, and Thistle had better begin
to learn cooking and housekeeping, so as to be prepared for either
position.

AN ANXIOUS ONE would do well to try the Dental Hospital and have advice
about her teeth.

MAUDE C.—Felt hats, if good enough, can be re-dyed and blocked without
much expense. The 4th Feb., 1869, was a Thursday.

NESTA.—The 15th March, 1871, was a Wednesday; and the 28th February,
1874, was a Saturday.

AUDREY GALLOP.—The German _Auf Wiedersehn_ means the same as the French
_au revoir_. We have no similar idiom in English, the meaning being, “a
wish for our next meeting.”

A JUNE ROSE.—Most young girls if short-sighted prefer eyeglasses to
spectacles, but it is quite a matter of individual preference.

BUSY BEE must go through the usual course of submitting her story to
the various publishers. There is no royal road to literary success.

MAKIE.—We could not give space for such a quantity of statistics. Buy a
“Whitaker’s Almanack.” The story you mention about the Queen has been
recently contradicted, we believe.

EMMELINE KENNEDY.—1. The distance from Rydal to Ambleside is given
differently in guides and gazetteers—viz., as two miles, a mile and
a quarter, and a mile and a half. You say it is a “short mile,” but
you will allow it is not a matter of very vital importance. A quarter
of a mile from the shores of any lake may be very truly described as
being on or near the banks of that lake. You will understand that we
are not called upon to visit each locality and test the correctness
of gazetteers and guides, so we are quite willing to believe your
statement correct. 2. The poet Wordsworth had, as you say, an only
daughter, Dora; married to Mr. Quillinan. She died in 1847, leaving no
family. Mr. Quillinan had, however, two daughters by his first wife,
who was a daughter of Sir Egerton Bridges. This poor lady was burnt to
death. Mr. Quillinan himself died suddenly in 1857.

CECIL.—The lines you quote are from a short poem by Lord Byron.

CONSTANT READER.—Colour-blindness is, unfortunately, very common,
and more especially among men. It is rare among women. Red and green
are the colours which, through some defect in the eyes, are the more
generally confounded. Sailors and soldiers have to be carefully
examined to ascertain their ability to distinguish signals, and
engine-drivers likewise.

NORA, THE ANXIOUS.—You had better apply to Mrs. Houston Smith
respecting situations as mother’s help; office, 409, Oxford-street, W.

A. M. B.—We quite understand your difficulty in understanding our
Lord’s statement (St. Mark xiii. 30, and St. Luke xxi. 32). It may
be explained in more than one way. If He referred to His Second
Advent, you must remember that the term “generation” is sometimes
employed to denote the nation as a whole, and in this sense this is
true, as we see in reference to the Jewish people, who exist to this
day, notwithstanding the cruel exterminating persecutions to which,
through all the subsequent centuries, they have been subjected. If
the statement referred to the destruction of Jerusalem, the term
“generation” bore the signification which we put on that term, for
those standing by (very many of them) lived to see that prophecy
fulfilled. Our Lord’s discourse referred to both events, although the
two prophecies are rather unaccountably run together by the evangelists
in their record of them.

MARROW BONES repeats an old query, which we have ceased to answer. Read
“The Art of Letter-writing,” vol. i, page 237.

SANDOWN.—The few holidays accorded to the banks include Christmas
Day and Good Friday, and though national, they are properly called
bank holidays also. Christmas Day was a great festival of the ancient
Romans, but the day was observed by Christians to commemorate a very
different event.

SARAH.—The man who made use of such an expression as that to which
you refer is certainly very profane, and wanting in the feelings of a
gentleman towards those in whose presence he spoke. It is a species of
swearing of a very low class and horrible kind. If these girls allowed
such language to be used without denouncing its gross profanity and the
personal insult to themselves, as listeners, they showed want of common
self-respect, not to speak of reverent feeling.

ELLENNETTE.—Perhaps it would be of some service to have the old boards
planed, then well saturated with turpentine, and, when dry, painted
thickly with two or three coats of paint. The vermin will scarcely
be able to penetrate this, if any survive the turpentine bath. We
have not tried this plan, but should do so under the same distressing
circumstances. Some have found the use of a kettle of boiling water
very effectual. We should use this first, then the turpentine, and then
the paint.

INCOGNITO.—The _Ides_ in the Ancient Roman Calendar were eight days
in each month. The first, denominated the _Idus_, fell on the 15th of
March, May, July, and October, and on the 13th of the other months. The
_Ides_ came between the _Calends_ and the _Nones_, and were reckoned
backwards. Thus, the 14th of March, May, July, and October, and the
12th of the other months, was called “the day before the _Ides_.” In
the calendar of the “Breviary,” and in the Chancery of Rome, this
needlessly complicated mode of reckoning is still retained.

A CHESHIRE CAT.—When the reflecting surface is concave the contiguous
reflected rays themselves intersect, and as we pass along any line
on the surface—say the line of intersection, by a given plane—the
reflected rays by their ultimate intersections form a plane curve.
By varying the plane of section an indefinite number of such curves
result, and these all lie upon the surface known as the caustic,
to which every reflected ray is a tangent. A concave lens must of
necessity render originally parallel rays divergent. The principal
focus of the convex lens is the point at which the rays which pass
through it, near and parallel to its axis, converge. The science of
optics is one that needs to be taught.

BUNCH OF GRAPES.—1. We do not hold ourselves bound to inform our
readers of the why and wherefore respecting our plan of conducting our
paper. 2. If the terra-cotta be very dirty, sponge with turpentine, and
then with soap and water.

M. S. O.—No further continuation of the article on “Paper Boxes” was
given in the G. O. P. “My Work Basket” is continued at intervals as
space will permit.

PARTICULAR.—From Angus’s “Handbook of the English Tongue,” we
quote the following with reference to your query:—“In old writers,
and occasionally in modern print, ‘an’ is sometimes erroneously
placed before semi-vowels or vocal ‘h,’ as ‘an usurpation,’ ‘an
historical account.’” Thus, you see that “a historical account” was
right. You should get the book in question; it is published at 56,
Paternoster-row, E.C.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 394: duplicate word “sight” removed—“sight, and we”.

Page 395: he to the—“of the storm.”

Page 396: Dandalo to Dandolo—“Dandolo, who went”.

Page 400: Weidersehn to Wiedersehn—“Auf Wiedersehn”.]