The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 979,
October 1, 1898, by Various

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 979, October 1, 1898

Author: Various

Editor: Charles Peters

Release Date: June 9, 2015 [EBook #49179]

Language: English

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Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
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The Girl's Own Paper.

Vol. XX.—No. 979.]OCTOBER 1, 1898.[Price One Penny.

[Transcriber's Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]




By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.


All rights reserved.]




"You don't mean to say it, my dear sir! You're absolutely jesting. I'm compelled to believe that you are pleased to talk nonsense. To take the boy! Impossible!"

"I never was more sober in my life, I do assure you, ma'am."

"The thing is incredible. No, sir, I cannot believe it. 'Tis bad enough that you should be going abroad at all at this time, you and your wife. But to place an innocent babe of eleven years in the power of that wicked Corsican——Close upon thirteen, say you? Well, well, twelve years old! 'tis much the same. My dear sir, war is a certainty. We shall be embroiled with France before six weeks are ended."

"That is as may be. We intend to be at home again long before six weeks are gone by. A fortnight in Paris; nothing more. The opportunity is not to be lost; and as you know, all the world is going to France just now. So pray be easy in your mind."

Colonel Baron adjusted his rigid stock, and held his square chin aloft, looking over it with a benevolent though combative air towards the lady opposite. Mrs. Bryce was a family friend of long standing, and she might say what she chose; but nothing was farther from his intentions than to alter his plans, merely because Mrs. Bryce or Mrs. Anybody-Else chose to volunteer unasked advice. There was a spice of obstinacy in the gallant Colonel's composition.

Despite civilian dress—swallow-tailed coat, brass buttons, long flapped waistcoat, white frilled shirt-front, and velvet knee-breeches, with silk stockings, the Colonel was a thorough soldier in appearance. He had not yet left middle age behind, and he was still spare in figure, and upright as a dart.

Mrs. Bryce, a lively woman, in age perhaps between thirty and thirty-six, had bright twinkling eyes. She was dressed much a la mode, in the then fashionable figured muslin, made long and clinging, her white stockings and velvet shoes showing through it in front. The bonnet was of bright blue; and a silk spencer, of the same colour, was cut low, a large handkerchief covering her shoulders. A short veil descended below her eyes. She used her hands a good deal, flirting them about expressively as she talked.

Upon an old-fashioned sofa, with prim high back and arms and a long "sofa-table" in front, sat the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Baron, a very graceful figure, young still, and in manner slightly languishing. Though it was early in the afternoon, she wore a low-necked frock, with a scarf over it; and her hands toyed with a handsome fan. A white crape turban was wound about her head. Beside her was Mr. Bryce, a short man, clothed in blue swallow-tailed coat and brass buttons—frock-coats being then unknown. His face was deeply scored and corrugated with small-pox.

The wide low room, with its large centre-table and ponderous furniture, had one other inmate; and this was a lovely young girl, in a short-waisted and short-sleeved frock of white muslin. A pink scarf was round her neck; dainty pink sandalled shoes were on her small high-instepped feet; long kid gloves covered the slender round arms; a fur-trimmed pink pelisse lay on a chair near; and from the huge pink bonnet on her head tall white ostrich-feathers pointed skyward. Polly Keene was on a visit to the Barons, and she had just come in from a stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Bryce. Young ladies, ninety years ago, did not commonly venture alone beyond the garden, but waited for proper protection. Polly had the softest brown velvet eyes imaginable, a delicate blush-rose complexion, and a pretty arch manner.

Upon a side table stood cake and wine, together with a piled-up pyramid of fruit, for the benefit of callers. Afternoon tea was an unknown institution; and the fashionable dinner-hour varied between four and half-past five o'clock.

"A fortnight in Paris! And what of Nap meanwhile?" vivaciously demanded Mrs. Bryce. "What of old Boney? That is the question, my dear sir. What may not that wicked tyrant be after next?"

In those days even old friends and relatives used the terms "sir" and "madam" very often one to another.

"Buonaparte has a good deal to answer for, ma'am, but really I do not imagine that he will have the responsibility of hindering this little scheme of ours," Colonel Baron replied.

Mrs. Bryce turned herself briskly towards the sofa.

"If I were you, Harriette, I'd refuse to go. Then, at least, you wouldn't have it on your conscience if everything gets into a muddle."

Mrs. Baron's large languid grey eyes opened rather more widely than their wont.

"My dear Harriette, wake up, I entreat of you. Pray listen to me. Doubtless all the world is going to France. Nothing more likely, since half the world consists of idiots, and another half of madmen. That is small reason why you two need comport yourselves like either."

"Do you really suppose there will be war again so soon?" asked Mrs. Baron incredulously.

"Do I suppose? Why, everybody knows it. Jim knows it. Your husband knows it. There can't be any reasonable doubt about the matter. The treaty of Amiens is practically at an end already. Nap has broken his pledges again and again. And this last demand of his—why, nothing could be more iniquitous."

"Dear me; has he made any fresh demand?" Mrs. Baron's eyes went in appeal to her husband, for she had no very great faith in Mrs. Bryce's judgment. The Colonel had no chance of responding.

"Even you can't surely have forgot that, my dear Harriette. He desires that we should give over to his tender mercies the unfortunate Bourbon Princes, who have fled to us for refuge: and no doubt in the end he would demand all the refugees of the Revolution. He might as well demand England herself. And he will demand that, in no long time. 'Tis an open secret that he is already making preparations for the invasion of our country."

"Boney doesn't believe that England, single-handed, will dare to oppose him," remarked Mr. Bryce. "He thinks a nation of seventeen million inhabitants is certain to go down before a nation of forty millions."

"Let him come, and he'll soon learn his mistake," declared Mr. Bryce's valiant better half. "But you, Harriette—with public affairs in this state—you positively intend to let your crazy husband drag you across the Channel?"

"But I do not think my husband crazy, and I wish very much to go," she said, slightly pouting. "I have never been out of England. The wars have always hindered me."

"And you absolutely mean to take the young ones too!"

"We intend to take Roy," the Colonel said, as his wife's eyes once more appealed to him. Children in those days seldom travelled, unless as a matter of necessity; therefore the Colonel's voice was proportionately determined.

"I never heard such a scheme in my life. To take the boy away from his schooling——"

"No; his school has just broken up for some weeks. Several cases of small-pox; so it is considered best. Roy has not been in the way of any who have sickened; therefore he is all right. We mean to have him with us."

"And Molly? Not Molly too?"

"No, not Molly. One will be enough."

Colonel Baron did not wish to betray that he had strenuously opposed the plan, and had given in with reluctance to his wife's entreaties.

"I thought the two never had been parted?"

"That has been folly. It is time such fantasies should be broken through. Roy must go to a boarding-school in the autumn; and this will pave the way."

Mrs. Baron lifted a lace handkerchief to her eyes.

"My dear heart—a school five miles off. You will think nothing of it when the time arrives," urged the Colonel, who till then had gone against his own better judgment, keeping the boy at home and allowing him to attend a day-school. He had won his wife's consent to the boarding-school in the autumn only that morning, by yielding to her wish that Roy should go to Paris. The Colonel's graceful wife was something of a spoilt child in her ways; and resolute as he could show himself in other directions, he seldom had the will to oppose her seriously.

"Indeed, I should say so too," struck in Mrs. Bryce. "You don't desire to turn him into a nincompoop; and between you and Molly, my dear Harriette,{3} he hasn't a chance. School will make a man of him. And what's to become of Molly?"

Mrs. Baron was still gently dabbing her eyes with the square of lace, and the Colonel answered—

"My wife's step-mother wishes to have Molly in Bath for a visit. She will travel thither with Polly early next week."

"Too much gadding about. Not the sort of way I was brought up, nor you either. But everything is turned upside-down in these days. And you've persuaded Captain Ivor to go too?"

"He will go with us to Paris."

"And you're quite content to put yourselves into the clutches of that miserable Boney!"

"My dear madam, the First Consul does not wage war on unoffending travellers. Even supposing that hostilities should break out sooner than may reasonably be expected, we have then but to hasten home."

"Boney doesn't care what he does, so long as he can get his own way."

"He will, at least, act in accordance with the laws of civilised nations."

"Not he! Boney makes his own laws to suit himself."

"Well, well, my dear madam, we view these things differently. And since I have fully made up my mind, all this discussion is a waste of good breath. My wife has never been into France, and I desire that she should go. We may not have another opportunity for many years to come."

"Likely enough—while the Corsican lives!" muttered Mrs. Bryce.

The end window opened upon a kind of verandah, and just outside this window, which had been thrown wide open—for it was an unusually hot spring day—a boy lay flat upon the ground, shaping a small wooden boat with his penknife. At the first mention of his name, a fair curly head popped up and popped down again. A recurrence of the word "Roy" brought up the head a second time, and two wide grey eyes stared eagerly over the low sill into the room. He might have been seen easily enough, but that people were too busy to look that way. Then again the head vanished, and its owner lay motionless, apparently listening for two or three minutes, after which he rolled away to a short distance, jumped up, and scampered off to the schoolroom at the back of the house.

It was a good-sized house, with a nice garden, in the then outskirts of London—a much more limited London than the great metropolis of the present day, though even then Englishmen were wont to describe it as "vast." Where Colonel Baron's house stood, with fields and hedges near at hand, miles of streets now extend in all directions. Trafalgar Square and Regent Street were unbuilt; Pimlico and Moorfields alike consisted mainly of bare rough ground; and the City was still a fashionable place of residence. These facts serve to show how small a London existed in those days.

Roy Baron was a handsome well-set-up lad of about twelve, and he had on a blue cloth jacket, with trousers and waistcoat of the same material. Knickerbockers were unknown. Children and bigger boys wore loose trousers, while tights and uncovered stockings were reserved for grown-up gentlemen. In a few weeks Roy would exchange his cloth waistcoat and trousers for linen ditto, either white or striped. Boys' hair was not cropped so closely in the year 1803 as in the Nineties, and a mass of close little curls grew all over Roy's head.

The year 1803. Think what that means.

Napoleon Buonaparte was alive—not only alive, but in full vigour; and he had entered on his career of conquest, and the world was in terror of his name. Nelson was alive, and five years earlier he had won the great battle of the Nile; two years earlier the great battle of Copenhagen; though his crowning victory of Trafalgar had not yet finally established British supremacy over the ocean. Wellington was alive, but his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley had not yet become widely famous, and no one could guess that one day he would be the Iron Duke of world-wide celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future Hero of Coruña, was alive, and, though not yet knighted, was already "the most renowned military character of his age."[A]

Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the French. He was only climbing towards that goal, and thus far he had not advanced beyond being First Consul in the Republic. By English people generally he was viewed with a mingling of detestation and disgust, dread and disdain, varied in some quarters by a certain amount of admiration.

The peace between England and France, lasting somewhat over twelve months, had been hardly more than an armed and uncertain truce, a mere slight break in long years of intermittent warfare. As the old king, George III., remarked at the time, it was "an experimental peace," and few had hopes of its long continuance. For the Firebrand was still in Europe, and barrels of gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before the peace began, and also while it continued, Napoleon indulged in many speculative threats of a future invasion of England, and preparations were at this date said to be actually begun.

England alone of all the nations stood upright, and fearlessly looked the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had then but a small army, no volunteers, and few fortifications, while her chief defence, the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed, compared with the mighty armament which she now possesses.

Whether the peace should last, or whether it should speedily end, depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English widows might break their hearts, so long only as he could indulge to the full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he called "glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found for the commodity in question.

Yet it is impossible not to accord admiration to this man's transcendent genius, and even Napoleon was not altogether bad. Perhaps, in the bitterness of incessant war, even he sometimes was more harshly judged than he fully deserved. But if so, he brought the evil upon himself.

(To be continued.)


(See Coloured Frontispiece.)

This "ladie fayre" ascending the stairway of the old Castle of Blois in France gives us a glimpse of the prevailing fashion of towering head-dress worn in the fifteenth century. Addison satirically remarks that, "Women in all ages have taken more pains than men to adorn the outside of their heads." This adornment surely reached its culmination when ladies adopted these wonderful erections called fontanges, which, we are told by an ancient writer, were "like pointed steeples, with loose kerchiefs atop hanging down sometimes as low as the ground."

As we look at the cooing doves in the castle window, we see an indication of a weighty matter which rests upon the lady's mind. She is gazing out over the distant woods to catch a glimpse of her lover returning from the chase. She would fain believe that her true knight cares for no one but herself, but how can she be sure?

In the castle garden she has culled a bunch of marguerites, and now she is on her way to her own secret bower there to try her fortune. As she pulls to pieces the fateful flowers she will murmur softly, "He loves me a little, he loves me much, he loves me passionately, he loves me not."

Let us hope the message will be propitious, and that when she descends the stairs it will be to receive her lover with a smiling trustful face, and that he will prove worthy of one so fair and sweet.

GIRL'S OWN PAPER. Orford Smith, Ld. St. Albans. LONDON.

The message of the Marguerites.

From the Painting by COMTE.




Soft grey days, with rolling misty clouds, southerly winds crooning pathetic farewells to the departing summer; such is October in Normandy, alternated with brilliant days, flashing golden glory over the myriad tinted orchards, such a strange mixture of grey and gold, of fading pasture and scarlet leaves, early mornings calm and still with every blade of grass heavy with dew, while the burning mid-day glows with summer splendour, and days like these in autumn have a brilliancy and a power of touching one's heart that no summer day possesses; and in Normandy Nature seems to paint her beauties with more lavish hand than in our northern climes. Scarlet and amber, crimson and madder deck each tree and hedge, and even if there are grey days they only seem to bring out more vividly the autumnal glories. October is a busy month for farmer and dairy-man here, because one of the chief industries, that of soft cheese-making, can only be sparingly carried on during the hot summer months; and in October the manufacture of Camemberts especially is at its height.


I should strongly advise any one who is interested in dairy-work to make a trip to Normandy during this month, for they could pass a delightful time studying the various methods of soft cheese-making.

This is an industry I have long wished to see carried to greater perfection in England. It is work so eminently suited for women, and could be undertaken by any one with a dairy, of even eight or ten cows, with very little expense. I have lately been making a very careful study of this work, and visiting many of the largest dairies round Lisieux, which is the centre of the Camembert and Pont Evêque cheese factories, and I have been much struck by the simplicity of the process and the slight expense that the plant would cost for the production of these and kindred cheeses.

There are great difficulties in the way of thoroughly mastering the subject, because as a rule the whole process is carried on by "rule of thumb." There are no thermometers, and they boast that they never use one. The very important subject of the heat of the milk at various stages of manufacture, the temperature of the rooms for ripening the cheeses, are carried out by guess-work and feeling, and I think that this is one cause that these cheeses vary so much in different localities. I should strongly urge that any one desirous of becoming an adept at this work should endeavour to get herself taken as a pupil at one of the smaller farms. They will not take pupils at the large manufactories, as it is not worth their while, but at some of the smaller places, I think, if a pupil was willing to pay a premium, she might get taken on. I spoke to one farmer who makes about four hundred to six hundred Camemberts daily in his small dairy, and he thought it was quite a possible plan. An intending pupil should provide herself with two thermometers, one to hang up in the dairy and one to test the heat of the milk. My own feeling inclines me to advise the taking up of the Pont Evêque cheeses more than the Camembert; they are not so difficult to ripen, and I think are more suitable to English taste, and should command a ready sale.

Now if any one feels fired by a spirit of enterprise to take up this interesting work, I could promise her that much pleasure could be derived from such a trip, and if such a one is a cyclist, it could be carried out at a very small cost. The roads in Normandy are splendid, with a surface that even after heavy rains dries quickly, and one can always find little country inns or auberges, where good food and cleanliness can be insured, if not luxury. And I think the most agreeable way of making a cycling tour is not to make any very hard-and-fast rule as to stopping-places, but let it depend on the weather and one's own feelings, as some days a run of forty miles is easily accomplished, and yet on another, with a hot sun and many long côtes to climb, one is sufficiently tired after twenty-five miles to greet with pleasure the little brick-floored cool parlour of the wayside inn, and relish the excellent coffee, even without milk, and the rolls and lovely butter that are always provided.


To reach Lisieux, which I warmly advise as headquarters, a very delightful route for a cyclist is the following:—

Go over to Dieppe by the day boat, reaching about 4 P.M. At the Hotel de Paris prices are very reasonable (which is more than can be said for some of the hotels). Next morning start early, before the heat of the day, and take the road which leads by the station up a long hill and then through a very pleasant country of green fields and high hedges and running streams, past the villages of Longueville, Auffay and Clères, which is twenty-five miles from Dieppe, and where there is a nice little inn. This is the Rouen Road, and if a forty-mile journey is not too long, then Rouen can be reached without difficulty, as the roads are good and there are no long hills, but if a very small village inn is not objected to, I should advise my cyclist to stop at Malaunay (twenty-three miles) at the Hotel de la Poste, where, though one has to pass through the kitchen to one's brick-floored little bedroom, I think the sight of the charming methods carried on in even such a modest French kitchen is quite enough to give one an appetite for dinner, and a desire to possess just such a stove and such shining pots and pans and delightful brown earthenware "marmites." We will then suppose our cyclist elects to rest at Malaunay. Next day again start early, as there is little to see there except a sight which filled me with horror, namely, a "margarine{5} fabrique," specially for export to England; that wide mouth which seems ready to take all that other countries will send, bad or good.

From Malaunay, take the road for Maremme, turn to the right up a long steep hill, and then a pleasant road through woods and valleys brings one to the Seine at Duclair (sixteen miles). Along this district, one first makes acquaintance with the charming black and white cottages thatched with straw, with the top of the roof bound firm by iris planted all along the ridge. When I was there in May, these purple-roofed cottages were most picturesque. I should advise any one who has the time to turn off the main road two miles to Jumièges and visit those grand old ruins which stand in one of the promontories made by the winding Seine. From Duclair a flat road leads to pretty Caudebec (nine miles); here the Hotel de la Marine offers inexpensive comfort.

Make an evening visit to the great cathedral, which seems so out of proportion to the size of the small riverside town, and you will be fortunate if you come in for such a sweet, solemn service as I did this year. There were only a few scattered lamps here and there hung in the great arches, the light barely illuminating the central aisle, but a brilliant light just outside the altar rails brought into full relief a group of maidens, who were pouring forth the sweetest cantique of love and devotion to "Marie, notre Mère;" while far away in the half gloom shone out the never dying lamp opposite the tabernacle, and then, as the hymn died away, the priests' voices rose and fell, and the bell rang at the sanctus, and on the whole congregation came the wonderful peace and quiet of the hour of benediction. And later, as I passed out into the dim silence of the spring evening, I noted how there were rough men from the boats on the river, and gipsy women from a little encampment close by, and white-capped mothers with their children and the wooden sabots clattered down the dark streets, and all was quiet.


If the next day should be the market day, the picturesque confusion of the great square under the shadow of the cathedral, makes a scene not easily forgotten—white tents and big blue umbrellas sheltering piles of red carrots and cartloads of green cabbages, while the stalls are decorated with huge bunches of pale-blue forget-me-nots and sweet white pinks. Here you will make your first acquaintance with a Normandy cheese stall, and I must confess the cheeses one meets at the country markets are not inviting, but to the intending cheese-maker they are most interesting.

There are two routes to choose from by which to reach Lisieux from Caudebec. The shortest is to cross the river by the ferry, and it is only nineteen miles to Pont Audemer, but the prettiest road is by Lillebonne and Quillebœuf, where one takes the ferry, and through a rich pasture country one reaches Pont Audemer, about twenty-two miles. Here the tourist had better rest for refreshment. The remainder of the road to Lisieux, another twenty-two miles, is through rather a hilly country, but there are no very steep hills, and one finishes by a two-mile run down into Lisieux, which lies in a deep valley.

There are several good hotels here, but I can name Hotel d'Espagne as comfortable and reasonable in prices, while the landlord is always ready to give advice as to the best farms to visit and the nearest roads.

When arrived at Lisieux, I advise that all the larger farms and dairies should be visited. I met with the greatest courtesy, and I found none of the extreme reluctance to tell one the secrets which I had been led to expect. On the contrary, I was able to see each step of the various processes of the making of Camembert, Pont Evêque and Livarot. The simplicity of the work of making these soft cheeses is such, that I can only attribute the great difficulty experienced in England to produce Camemberts in perfection to the herbage and the difference of atmosphere. One of the largest makers and exporters of all the various kinds of these cheeses is Monsieur Brière, at Mesnil Guillaume, some four miles from Lisieux. Here, if he will be good enough to show his manufactory, as he did to me, the work can be seen to its greatest perfection—from the first turning of the milk, through the various stages of the drying of the cheeses, to the final business of packing for export. Monsieur Brière in the month of May, which is accounted as la saison morte for Camembert, was sending away one thousand five hundred daily.

He makes also Pont Evêque and every variety of these French cheeses. I should, however, recommend that a visit be paid to one of the farms nearer Pont Evêque, where this is made a speciality.

Pont Evêque lies about thirteen miles from Lisieux. A large quantity of these cheeses are made on small farms and sent en blanc, that is after three or four days, to some of the larger factories, where they are finally salted and dried and packed for export.

A very excellent variety of Camembert is made by Monsieur Chiffeman, but his dairies are not near Lisieux, although he is one of the largest buyers and exporters, and a most kind and courteous adviser I found him as to the best dairies to visit.


The whole neighbourhood of Lisieux is full of interest not only to the would-be cheese-maker but to the lover of architecture. Its quaint, narrow streets and houses, enriched with carving up every beam, and its fine churches, make it one of the gems of Normandy towns, while within easy distance on almost every side may be found delightful specimens of old chateaux and of Manoir-Fermes surrounded by a whole array of picturesque half timbered farm buildings, all so arranged that the master's eye can be upon everything, the whole nestling in rich orchards which are one of the greatest sources of wealth to these proprietors, while herds of the handsome Cotentin cows graze knee-deep in the rich grass—these cows are a breed of which the farmers are justly proud, somewhat resembling large Ayrshires but stronger in make and bone—they consider them better than the Channel Islands breeds for their purposes. I must not omit to mention among other cheeses the Livarot, which really haunts one in market, hotel, and factory, the strong pungent smell being very disagreeable to our English ideas. Livarot is made from skimmed milk, mostly in the smaller dairies, and is eaten by the poorer people. It is not a cheese{6} which could ever find a sale in England. The little town of Livarot lies about twelve miles from Lisieux, and is worth a visit for the sake of its curious old houses.

Charming excursions can also be made from Lisieux to Falaise (27 miles), with its grand castle, the birthplace of William the Conqueror, Caen (28 miles) with its magnificent abbeys, Bayeux (18 miles further) with its fine cathedral and interesting tapestry.

If a longer excursion than I have named can be taken, I should strongly recommend my cyclist to take a run into Brittany, and visit the farms round Rennes, where the Port du Salut cheeses are made. I could not visit these manufactories myself, and I can give little advice on the subject, but I know the roads round Rennes and they are good and it is not very hilly, while the Port du Salut is a cheese which is always sought after in England. It is one of the cheeses known as "Fromages cuits," and for all these the plant required is costly. Another cheese, almost similar, is known as La Providence, or Bricquebec, because it is made at a convent of that name near Cherbourg. I do not know whether the sisters at the convent could be induced to show their "fabrique."

I must not lengthen this article further, except to conduct my intending cyclist home! And I think any one would find the road from Lisieux by Bernay, 20 miles, and on to Evreux, 36 miles, visiting there the celebrated cathedral, and then up straight north to the Seine, one of the prettiest roads. Vernon, 25 miles, is easily reached from Evreux, and few or many days can be happily spent along the ever changing and delightful scenery of the silvery Seine, while here and there one comes upon high chalk cliffs, honey-combed with caves, which are fitted with doors and windows, and which form the dwellings of many families.

From Vernon by le Petit Andelys and Pont de l'Arche to Rouen is about 40 miles, but I would suggest breaking the journey at Pont de l'Arche, where there is a comfortable little inn close to the bridge and an interesting church.

I think no tour in Normandy can be more appropriately finished than by a sojourn at Rouen, that home of all that is most fascinating, in rich, if somewhat over ornate architecture.

I have not, in this article, touched upon the question of Normandy butter, which has become such a formidable competitor with English markets, but to diversify the road to Dieppe, let our cyclist take the road by Gournay through Neuchâtel-en-Bray, and visit on a Tuesday the butter-market. I think when one sees the uniformity of the splendid quality of butter in that market, and the severe scrutiny to which it is subjected by the merchants, one realises partly why Normandy butter has such a high character. Some thousands of pounds of butter change hands there in a day.

Gournay is not only the centre of the butter market, but here also are made the well-known Pommel and Gervais cheeses, of which the process is well taught in some of our own English Dairy Schools—so at the British Dairy School at Reading.

No stranger is allowed to enter any of the factories at Gournay, and the greatest secrecy is observed, but I think that possibly, armed with introductions, one might obtain an entrance, and then I am sure many valuable hints could be got.

I hope anyone who undertakes the little trip I have described will enjoy both the country and the dairies as thoroughly as I did, and come home feeling that they have gained a considerable amount of knowledge and of interest in all dairy matters, besides having their memories stored with happy recollections of many sunny days spent amongst courteous Normandy folk.





It has been stated in the papers lately that the Amsterdam physician to the poor, late Empress of Austria did much by his prescriptions to maintain the beauty of that most beautiful and accomplished lady. And yet the Empress was by no means a vain woman, and this is proved by the fact that, now she is gone, there has been no photograph of her taken these twenty years.

I thought that I might state as an axiom that beauty is impossible without a fair amount of health. That for instance, a beautiful complexion was incompatible with a very serious disease. But I find that here I am mistaken. "I want a complexion like a girl in a decline," a woman said to me the other day. I wonder if she had ever seen a girl in "a decline." To me the dull purple cheeks and lips of advanced consumption are most ghastly. Other women strive after a dead white face, and poison themselves with arsenic to try to obtain it.

The beautiful shades of red and white which are admired by most persons are, however, impossible without good health. Late hours, indigestion, lack of exercise and the use of cosmetics will destroy a good complexion, and when once it has gone it is by no means easy to regain.

Of course I do not know, but I strongly suspect that every girl who has a good complexion is too careful of her appearance to need any of the crude hints that I can give to her less favoured sisters about improving their complexions.

The best complexions to be found are not in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair but in the slums of Whitechapel. Many dirty little ragamuffins have far finer complexions than any of the leaders of fashion. This is sufficient proof that soap and water are not the causes of a fine cheek. Rather is it the outdoor life, the not too liberal diet, the absence of stimulants, the early hours and the loose clothing of the urchin that give her her good complexion.

All soap used for washing the face should be of fine quality. You should never wash your face in very hot water. You should not go out in a wind without a veil, and you should never lace tightly if you wish to have a good complexion. When the face gets rough, as it is apt to do after a walk in the wind, a very little glycerine and rosewater or glycerine and cucumber will help to keep the face clear and soft. Cosmetics are undoubtedly a fertile cause of the bad complexions so common among the upper middle classes, and though by no means all cosmetics are harmful, you should be very careful what you put on your face.

Freckles are very annoying to some girls. They are caused, as you doubtless know, by the sun. It is not the heat, but the light of the sun that causes freckles, and it is the violet of the light that causes them. The colour red absorbs the violet rays of the sun, and therefore a red veil or a red parasol should be used by women who are very prone to become freckled. I am not going to say that a red parasol will entirely prevent freckling, but it does very materially lessen it.

Many persons, who would otherwise have a good complexion, are marred by what are called "birth-marks." These are of three kinds—moles, port wine stains and "spider nævi."

A mole that is small and not very disfiguring should be left severely alone. You can do great harm by meddling with it, and not uncommonly it is made very much worse by caustic or poisonous applications. If you have a large and really disfiguring mole on your face have it removed by a surgeon. The younger you are the better will be the result of the operation. A minute scar will be left where the cut was made, but if the mole was removed early in life the scar will be a small linear mark often quite unnoticeable. These big moles are, in themselves, somewhat dangerous, for in elderly people they occasionally develop into cancers.

Moles not removed are to be left alone. But to this there is one exception. If hairs grow upon the moles, they must be removed if possible. The only safe way (excluding electrolysis which is rarely called for) to treat the hairs on moles is to cut them short. You should never irritate a mole by pulling hairs out. The soft, downy hair so common on small moles may be bleached with peroxide of hydrogen if very noticeable.

Can anything reasonable be done for port wine stains? Yes, if they are small. Tattooing with the electro-cautery is a fairly efficacious method of treating these disfiguring marks. Electrolysis is quite useless for this purpose. No other treatment is satisfactory except removal, where this is practicable.

The "spider" nævus is a small dilated vein, usually situated on a very conspicuous part of the nose. It looks just like a little red spider, and can be readily removed by plunging a tiny electro-needle into the body of the "spider."

Wounds on the face, as elsewhere on the body, do not leave a scar unless they go right through the skin. Serious wounds of the face always leave scars, and the scars will be prominent in inverse ratio to the skill with which the original cut was treated. All considerable wounds of the face should be stitched up with horsehair and treated on rigid antiseptic principles so as to obtain rapid healing. The more rapidly a wound heals the less disfiguring will be the resulting scar.

Many women complain very bitterly of a dark ring round their necks. It is natural for the skin round the neck to be darker in colour than that on the face or chest. If the ring is really very dark and conspicuous, carefully applying a little peroxide of hydrogen will often make it less noticeable.

I will not say much about face powders save that those containing any colouring matter, lead or arsenic, should never be used by any one. Where there is a tendency to acne, powder must only be used with extreme caution. Unquestionably powder of any kind is a mistake.

(To be continued.)



By the Author of "How to be Happy Though Married," etc.

A minister of one of the many denominations once began an extempore marriage service with these words, "My friends, marriage is a blessing to a few, a curse to many, and a great uncertainty to all. Do ye venture?" When no reply was forthcoming he said, "Let's proceed." Now I think that it is only those who are wickedly careless, or so stupid that they are without anxiety, who make this venture without due preparation, and this preparation should begin, as it seems to me, with our earliest years. Not, of course, that little boys and girls should be always thinking of and planning for marriage, but that their parents and guardians should remember that this is a fate in store for them, and that one day these children will have homes of their own which they will either curse or bless.

That some preparation is required for marriage was authoritatively recognised by the ancient state of Belgium, as I gather from a picture which I once saw in the Historical Society's collection of paintings in New York. The scene is the inside of a peasant's house in Belgium. On an easy chair sits a fatherly old priest who is catechising a shy, awkward-looking country bumpkin. Near him is his lady-love. She would gladly prompt him only the priest is keeping a sharp eye upon her. In the background is the girl's mother preparing a wedding repast in case the young people pass their qualifying examination. Underneath is the name of the picture—"Catechism before marriage according to the ancient State of Belgium as necessary for state and matrimonial security." Now we think that this was a very good rule, which provided that before young people should take upon themselves the great responsibilities of marriage, they should have learned at least this much of the catechism, how to do their duty to their neighbour. Of course husband and wife are more to each other than mere neighbours, but they are that at least, and if they do not do their duty towards each other, homes will be wretched, and where homes are miserable the state cannot but be weak, so we see that it was a matter for state control.

Suppose a man spends his youth not in settling his habits, which is what we ought to do when young, but in sowing wild oats, do you not think that he will reap a crop of wild oats in his domestic life?

"Who is the happy husband? He who scanning his unwedded life
Thanks Heaven with a conscience free 'twas faithful to his future wife."

Who, on the other hand, is a miserable husband? He who cannot bring to his marriage a clean bill of moral health, who cannot make upon his wife the best of all marriage settlements, the settlement of habits in the right direction. And even young ladies require some preparation for marriage. If they are frivolous and flirty and have no higher notion of worship than to burn incense to vanity, they will not be happy themselves in married life and assuredly they will not make their husbands happy.

Then there is physical or bodily health to be considered. Mr. Herbert Spencer says that the foundation of all success in life is to be a good animal. If a young man is always ailing (sometimes the consequence of ale-ing) he will not be capable of supporting his wife and children, and if a woman have a chronic sofa complaint, she may be a very good woman, but she has mistaken her vocation when she became a wife. The doctor's bills too have to be considered, and the effect upon children of hereditary complaints. On one occasion as Dr. Johnson and a young man were waiting in Mr. Thrale's drawing-room before dinner, the young man asked the doctor if he would advise him to marry. Nettled at the interruption the doctor replied, "Sir, I would advise no man to marry who is not likely to propagate understanding." This was a wise answer, for people should not marry if they are likely to have children who will be diseased in soul, mind or body. It is said that money is a root of evil, but it is not a bad thing to have a little bit of this root with us when we go shopping, and some of it is also required when we go marrying, unless we are to think that mortality is one of the effects of matrimony as a certain servant girl seems to have thought. The mistress with whom she last lived meeting her one day asked, "Well, Mary, where are you living now?" "Please, m'am, I'm not living anywhere now I'm married." Some of us who are married find that we have survived the operation and also that we require a certain amount of money to live upon, and therefore we can sympathise with the sensible girl who, having tried a rigorous love-in-a-cottage dietary gave it as her experience that a kiss and a cup of cold water make a poor breakfast.

At the same time it is quite possible to exaggerate the amount of money necessary for marriage. Show me a couple who are miserable on account of straitened circumstances, and I will show you a dozen couples who are unhappy on account of other circumstances. I suppose we all know old bachelors who have plenty of money for marriage but they have not enough courage, and they make, "I can't afford it" a mere excuse. This was the case with Pitt. When he was Prime Minister of England and had from all sources an income of about £30,000 a year he used to say that he could not afford to marry, and then some one calculated that in his household about sixty pounds of meat was allowed for each man and woman. For the more economical arrangement of his domestic affairs, if for no other reason, he ought to have married. I sometimes say to young officers who are inclined to be extravagant, "I wonder how you can afford not to be married, I could not." Certainly if a young man will smoke the best cigars and will give expensive drinks to every one who claps him upon the back and calls him "Old Man" he cannot afford to marry—why? Because he will not deny himself small and not very elevating luxuries for the sake of obtaining the great luxury of a good wife. Then if a man has a small income he must choose for a wife a girl with a slender waste, not one, that is to say, who has made her waist small by health-destroying corsets, but one who can manage her husband's income with the least amount of waste.

"Why don't the men propose?" is a question which is often asked. One reason why some of them do not do so is because they are afraid of the possible extravagance of wives. I gather this from a question which was lately overheard in a ball-room. A lady of a not very retiring disposition asked a middle-aged gentleman with whom she was dancing, "Why don't you marry, can't you afford to support a wife?" "My innocent young thing," was the reply, "I can afford to keep ten wives, but I can't afford to pay the milliner's bills of one." This matter is more in the hands of the ladies than they seem to think, and things would be greatly helped if mothers, instead of seeking only to marry their daughters to rich men, would educate these young ladies in such a way that men who are not wealthy could afford the luxury of marrying them. I know a mother who got a large family of daughters off her hands by telling prudent young men in confidence that the puddings they tasted at her house were all concocted by her daughters, and that the dear girls made their own dresses and hats.

At what age should men marry? I have heard of them doing so as young as twenty, but it is useless to argue with people like this who may be said not to have come to years of discretion. A man who lived to a very advanced age accounted for his doing so by saying that he had never stood when he might have sat, that he married late, and was soon left a widower.

When two very young people marry, it is as if one sweet pea should be put as a prop to another. Of course much depends upon the young man. Some men are better fitted to take upon themselves the duties of marriage at twenty-five than are others at thirty-five. Between these two ages is the usual time, and if men put off much after the last-mentioned age they are likely to get into the habit of celibacy which, like all other bad habits, is difficult to break away from. In this habit they will continue till they are about sixty years of age, when a terrible desire to know for themselves what matrimony is like will seize them and they will propose right and left to every eligible lady, until at last they are picked up, not for themselves but for their money or their position, or because some one is tired of being a Miss and wants the novel sensation of putting "Mrs." before her name. It is not natural for a young woman to wish to marry an old man. "When it is time for you to marry," said a father to his daughter, "I shall not allow you to throw yourself away upon one of the frivolous young fellows I see about. I shall select for you a staid, sensible, middle-aged person; what do you say of one about fifty years of age?" "Well, father," was the reply, "if it is just the same to you, I would prefer two of twenty-five."

As to the age women should marry—I don't like to burn my fingers with that question. All I shall say is that if there are some of them—as it is said there are—not worth looking at after thirty years of age, there are quite as many not worth speaking to before that. Please yourself then, young man, only do not choose one who is either a child or an old woman.



Radiant sunsets garnered
Through the bygone year
From the earth's deep bosom,
Slowly now appear.
Rainbow glories flooding
Forest, hill, and vale,
With a ruby lustre
And an amber pale.
Now the forest minster
Trembles as each chord
Swells the rocking pine trees
On the wind's keyboard.
Till the music endeth
In an accent drear
Wailing out a requiem
To the dying year.
Earth her treasures gathered
From the seasons past.
Heapeth them an off'ring
On an altar vast!
Till the fires of Heaven
Catch the ascending glow.
And the heart of Heaven
Into earth doth flow.
Where is now the glory?
Where is Autumn's glow?
Passed into a furnace
Working deep below.
Forging through the darkness
Gems surpassing fair,
That the coming springtime
In her crown shall wear!


Garner—heart—the sunsets
Of thy passing years.
Bygone strains of music,
Remembered but in tears.
Till thy sorrow's—silent,
Alchemy transmute.
And each broken reed of song
Grows into a flute.

V. R.



"Wherever in this world I am,
In whatsoe'er estate;
I have a fellowship with hearts,
To keep and cultivate;
And a work of lowly love to do
For the Lord on whom I wait."

A. L. Waring.

"Now then, jump in, Lil! Hurry up, young woman! What is the matter with the girl! Has not the guard just told us that the train is crowded, and that there is not another seat?" and Ralph Moore took hold of his sister's arm rather impatiently. Lilian had her foot on the step; but she still hesitated, and there was a decided frown on her pretty face.

"It is quite full too," she said, rather crossly, "and it is so hot and stuffy;" and indeed, a crowded third-class compartment on a sultry August day is not a desirable locality; and Lilian's distaste and reluctance were only natural under the circumstances.

"There's no help for it—in you go!" muttered Ralph, in a gruff voice, and a pair of muscular arms lifted the girl in; and the next moment the guard gave the signal, and the train moved slowly away. Ralph grinned triumphantly, as he lifted his straw hat a little derisively to his sister. Sheer muscular force of argument had prevailed over a girl's contumacy.

"Little stupid!" he said to himself, as he whistled to his dogs. "I do believe she would rather have lost the train than put up with a little discomfort on the way."

Lilian stood helplessly for a moment with her small Yorkshire terrier under her arm. No one moved or made room for her, until a cheery voice from the end of the compartment broke the silence.

"There is lots of room, miss, between those two ladies. Let me hold your basket, ma'am, until the young lady is settled," and then, with a discontented expression, Lilian wedged herself into the fraction of space assigned for her use.

"It is too bad of Ralph," she thought. "I shall get out at the next station; it is like the Black Hole in Calcutta; it is worse than a cattle-pen." On one side of her was the inevitable fat woman with a basket; on the other a shabby, red-faced widow, with a fretful baby; then came a couple of loutish-looking lads. On the seat opposite her there was a surly-looking man, and an old labourer in corduroy; two young market-women, with bundles of vegetables, and then the owner of the voice. Lilian regarded him with youthful arrogance and distrust. He looked like a shopman; he was a small, undersized young man, with a round boyish face. He had a thick crop of red hair, and looked as spruce as though he was out for a holiday; his red silk tie and the scarlet geranium in his buttonhole seemed to make a flaming spot of colour in the carriage.

"The sun is in your eyes, miss," he observed the next moment; "the curtain has got wrong somehow; but if one of you ladies could oblige me with a pin, I will soon fix it," and he regarded Lilian with an affable smile.


[From photo: Photographic Union, Munich.



"It is of no consequence," she returned stiffly, drawing herself up. "Please do not trouble." In her present temper she would have rather endured any amount of discomfort than be indebted to that very officious, vulgar young man.

"Oh, it is no trouble"—with beaming good nature. "Thank you, ma'am"—as the widow gloomily produced a pin—"I will soon have things ship-shape. There, miss, you are more comfortable now."

But though Lilian thanked him with some outward show of civility, she was inwardly chafing under what she chose to consider his impertinent freedom of address. She had done her duty and thanked him, and now she meant to ignore his existence; but she had reckoned without her host.

"Beg your pardon, miss," the brisk voice began again, "is your little dog a Yorkshire terrier? I never saw such a small one before."

"Yes." Just this monosyllable and nothing more. She would keep him in his place; she was determined on that.

"He's a real beauty, if I may make so bold. May I ask his name? I am a dog-lover, miss, and always was."

"Her name is Musüme."

"Eh, what?" A pair of bright blue eyes regarded her and the dog with some perplexity.

"Musüme," dropped from Lilian's lips, but she frowned again.

"Is that Latin, miss? It ain't a word I know."

Then Lilian turned almost fiercely on her tormentor.

"No; it is Japanese." But her manner was so repressive; it said so plainly, "How dare you address me in this familiar way?" that the young man flushed and looked a little disconcerted. This pretty young creature in the white dress had a decided temper.

"Beg pardon," she heard him mutter. "No offence, I hope." But the next moment he was on his feet again. The dust was dreadful; he must close the window. They were coming to Layton tunnel; he hoped the ladies would not be nervous, for he had discovered there was no light. Here Lilian glanced furtively at the gas-lamp overhead. Even when they had entered the tunnel the voice was still audible at intervals. "Beg pardon, ma'am." He had evidently trodden on the fat woman's toes. "Great Scott!" as a shrill whistle nearly deafened them, and one of the young market-women called out: "Bless your heart, ma'am, they are only a-clearing the way. There is no call to be frightened. Makes you feel a bit jumpy in the dark, so it does. Here we are in the light again, and we are slackening for the station. Shall I put down the window for a moment, miss, just to give us an airing?" But Lilian took no notice, and the next moment the train stopped.

The carriage seemed emptying. First the loutish lads and the surly man got out, then the labourer and the red-faced widow, the fat woman and the two young market-women followed, and yes—oh, the joy of it!—her red-headed tormentor was getting out too.

Lilian put down Musüme that she might stretch her little legs, then she established herself in the fat woman's corner, and pulled the curtain across the dusty window—the heat would be more bearable now. Then Musüme uttered a shrill little bark and fled growling to her mistress as some one entered with a flying leap. It was the red-headed young man. Lilian nearly gasped, but there was no time to leave the carriage, for the whistle had already sounded.

"Just saved myself by the skin of my teeth," observed the young fellow, in his chirpy voice. He had a Graphic and a bag of greengages, and seemed more cheerful than ever.

"Like to see the Graphic, miss?" holding out the paper with an ingratiating smile that seemed to say, "Let's be sociable."

"Thanks very much, but I've seen it"—distinctly a white lie.

"Dear, what a bad job"—in a disappointed tone. "I could easily have got Black and White or the Sketch."

"Thank you"—in a freezing tone. "I do not care to read."

"Ah, you prefer to look at the scenery; know every yard of it myself between Layton and Brocklebank. My old mother lives at Brocklebank." (Lilian had a mother, too, at Brocklebank, but she kept this fact to herself.) "Beg pardon, may I offer you some greengages? They are very sweet and juicy."

"No, thank you," and then Lilian attempted a yawn and closed her eyes. Sleep was never farther from her, but she saw no other way of reducing him to silence, absurd and officious as he was; she had no wish to quarrel with him; it was evident the poor creature knew no better, she said to herself, with a superb tolerance.

Once when the silence had lasted a long time, she peeped through her fingers at him.

He was in a high state of enjoyment; he had the Graphic on his knee, and the open bag stood at his elbow; his hat was off, and his red crop gleamed in the sunshine, his round face and wide open blue eyes made him look like a radiant infant.

"I don't believe there's any harm in him; he can't help being vulgar," thought Lilian. "It was really very good-natured of him to offer to share his fruit with me; there goes another stone. Mr. Redhead evidently has a fancy for greengages."

Lilian's sense of humour, always her strong point, was overcoming her moodiness. She was just then thinking how she would dramatise the situation for Ralph's benefit, when a sudden shock hurled her to the other end of the carriage.

"Beg pardon—hold on, miss—I believe we are in for a scrimmage, as sure as my name's Tom Hunter," but before the words were out of his mouth, there was a second shock; then darkness, a crash, terrified screams, and then Lilian heard no more.

"Beg pardon, miss, but if you are alive——" These were the first words that greeted Lilian on her return to consciousness. Where was she? Where had she heard that voice? Why was it dark? had she fainted? What was that heaving substance under her?

"Beg pardon, but if you could move a little, miss. I am a bit crushed and numb-like."

Then recollection returned to the girl. There had been a railway accident. They were in it. That poor fellow was under her. If she could only raise herself; if she could reach the window. What was it over her head? Then as the light of a friendly lantern flashed across the carriage she screamed loudly,

"Help—help, for mercy's sake!"

"Shift that lantern, Jones, there is some poor body here," exclaimed a voice near them. Then the door was wrenched open and strong hands grasped the girl and lifted her out. "There's another down there. I am afraid he is badly hurt. You had better hail the chap who says he is a doctor."

"Come along with me, miss," said a second voice; "we are just at the mouth of the tunnel, but you will have to clamber a bit over the wreckage. Can you walk—all right, we'll be out in a minute."

But it looked longer than that before Lilian saw the blessed sunshine again.

"Then you can sit on the grass," continued the friendly porter, "while we bring the young man round. You are not much hurt, miss; that's a blessing." And then he hurried off, and Lilian, shaken and miserable, and bruised all over, sank down on a patch of long grass.

She remembered afterwards how gay the poppies looked, then she hid her eyes and sobbed, as a broken inert form was carried past her.

"In the midst of life we are in death." The words came to her, and she said them over and over again. "In the midst of life we are in death." Slow, stumbling footsteps approaching, but she dare not look up. How could she know what ghastly burden they were carrying.

"Steady, you fellows. Lay him down and put something under his head. No, there is nothing to be done; but, poor chap, he will not suffer. I must see to that broken leg now."

"Perhaps this young lady will stop a bit," observed the friendly porter. "Help me a moment, mate, while I shift this 'ere jacket under his head. If we had only a drop of something—not that it would be any good."

Surely they were not leaving her alone with a dying man. Lilian started up in sudden terror; then a feeble voice arrested her.

"Don't go, miss—please don't leave me; you heard what that chap said"—and here a pair of boyish blue eyes looked pitifully at her; then a great wave of womanly sympathy made Lilian forget her bruises and nervous fears.

Could that rigid-looking figure—that colourless face with the grey shade of death already stealing over the features—be her light-hearted and officious fellow-traveller? A sob broke from Lilian's lips.


"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry!"

"Don't take on, miss—I ain't in pain—only numb and curious-like; but it seems hard, don't it"—his dry lips twitching as he spoke—"that a fellow's holiday should end like this."

"Yes, yes, terribly hard! Is there anything I can do for you?" And Lilian knelt beside him, and the tears were running down her face—some of the warm drops fell on the motionless hand.

"Beg pardon, miss, but there's my old mother and Susie—Susie is my girl, you know—she is stopping along of mother just now"—here the panting voice grew fainter.

"Tell me your mother's name. I will go and see her."

"Will you now"—rousing up—"I call that real kind. Mrs. Hunter; she keeps the sweet-shop in Market Street, Brocklebank. I am her only son, miss," and then almost inaudibly, "she is a widow."

"Yes—yes—I will find her. I live at Brocklebank. Give me your message please?"

"Tom's love. And do you think, miss, you could put your hand in my pocket, there's the Testament mother gave me when I went up to London"—and then with some difficulty Lilian extracted a little red book. "Tom's love, and tell mother, please, that I minded her words and read a few verses every day, and that it helped me to keep straight."

"I will tell her, Tom—every word."

"And there's Susie, miss—I bought a bit of a brooch for her; it is in my waistcoat pocket—tell her not to fret; for I loved her true—aye, I loved her true! How dark it is getting, miss! Perhaps you could say a prayer for me?"

"My poor fellow—yes—shall we say the Lord's Prayer together." But after the first petition Lilian said it alone, the blue eyes were growing filmy, the hand she held felt cold to her touch. The porters had come back and were standing near, cap in hand; one of them had tears in his eyes. "Poor chap, he is going fast, mate," he whispered. Lilian heard them, and her voice shook with intense emotion. "Oh, Saviour of the world," she prayed, "who by Thy cross and precious blood has redeemed us, save him and help him, we humbly beseech Thee, O Lord."

"That is all; every word, Mrs. Hunter. Does it not make you happy to know that he read his Bible and kept straight?" And Lilian looked anxiously into the mother's wrinkled face. Tom had got his blue eyes from his mother.

"Aye, the Lord be praised for that; but I never feared for Tom. He was always straight. It seems to me that he was better than other boys. Never was there a sweeter-tempered lad," murmured Mrs. Hunter. "Susie there will tell you the same. He was never happy unless he was doing kind things. Even as a baby he would give me his crust if I asked for it. It did not seem as though he could keep anything to himself." And here the widow sobbed and put her apron to her eyes. "And to think that my boy, my Tom, was to have his dear life crushed out of him in a railway accident! That is what Susie and I have been saying. If he had only died in his bed."

"It seems hard, Mrs. Hunter, almost cruel, does it not?"—and here there was a lump in Lilian's throat. "It was his holiday, and he was going home to his mother and sweetheart, but God called him and he went straight to his Father's house instead. Perhaps there was work for him to do up there. Oh, we cannot tell, but God knows best, and he will be waiting there for you and Susie. You believe that, do you not, dear Mrs. Hunter?" And then she added solemnly, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."


Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—One pound of shin of beef, one pint of water, a little salt, a few drops of lemon juice.

Method.—Take away all skin and fat from the beef, and shred it finely, putting it as you do so into a jar with the water, lemon juice, and salt; put on the lid and let it stand half an hour; stand the jar on a dripping tin with cold water, and put it in the oven for two hours. Stir up, pour off against the lid and remove any fat with kitchen paper.

Quick Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—Same as preceding.

Method.—Cut the meat up small and let it stand in the water twenty minutes; put in a saucepan and let it just heat through, pressing the pieces against the side with a wooden spoon.

Raw Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—Same as preceding.

Method.—Prepare as in the first recipe for beef tea; cover closely and let it stand for two hours; stir up and pour off. This must be made fresh often as it soon turns sour.

Strengthening Broth.

Method.—Take equal quantities of beef, mutton, and veal, and prepare in the same way as ordinary beef tea.

Mutton Broth.

Ingredients.—One pound of scrag of mutton, one pint of water, two ounces of pearl barley, salt, a blade of mace, a little chopped parsley.

Method.—Cut as much fat as possible from the meat; cut the meat up small and chop the bones; put the meat and bones in a saucepan with the water, mace, salt and barley, which should be blanched (see "Odds and Ends"). Put on the lid and simmer very gently for two hours. Stir up and pour off against the lid into a basin; stand in cold water in a larger basin for the fat to rise, skim well, re-heat and add a little chopped and blanched parsley.

Essence of Beef.

Ingredients.—One pound of shin of beef, two tablespoonfuls of water, a little salt, a few drops of lemon juice.

Method.—Scrape the meat, put it in a jar with the water, salt, and lemon juice; put on the lid and stand the jar in a saucepan of boiling water; let the water boil round it four hours. Stir up and pour off.

Raw Meat Sandwiches.

Method.—Scrape a little raw beef finely and put a little piece in the middle of some tiny squares of thin bread, cover with other squares and press the edges tightly together with a knife so that the meat may not show.

Meat Custard.

Ingredients.—One large egg, half a gill of beef tea.

Method.—Beat the egg and beef tea together and steam in a buttered teacup for twenty minutes.

A Cup of Arrowroot.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, one ounce of arrowroot, one ounce of castor-sugar.

Method.—Mix the arrowroot smoothly with a little cold milk; boil the rest of the milk and stir in the arrowroot; stir and boil well, taking care it does not burn.

Cornflour Soufflée.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, one egg, one ounce of cornflour, one ounce and a half of castor sugar, one bay leaf.

Method.—Mix the cornflour smoothly with a little cold milk; boil the rest with the bay leaf and sugar; stir in the cornflour and let it thicken in the milk; separate the white and yolk of the egg and beat in the yolk when the cornflour has cooled a little; beat the white very stiffly and stir it in very lightly. Pour into a buttered pie-dish, and bake in a good oven until well thrown up and a good light brown colour.

Custard Shape.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, two eggs, quarter of an ounce of gelatine, two ounces of castor sugar, vanilla.

Method.—Beat up the eggs with the sugar and milk; pour into a jug, stand in a saucepan of boiling water and stir with the handle of a wooden spoon until it thickens; dissolve the gelatine in it, flavoured with vanilla, pour into a wetted mould and turn out when set.

Sponge Cake Pudding.

Ingredients.—Two stale sponge cakes, three eggs, half a pint of milk, two ounces of castor sugar, a piece of thin lemon rind.

Method.—Boil the milk with the rind and the sugar; let it cool a little and add the eggs well beaten; cut the sponge cakes in pieces and lay them in a buttered tin, pour the custard over and bake gently until set. Turn out and set cold.


Ingredients.—Two large lemons, one quart of water, a quarter of a pound of castor sugar.

Method.—Pare the lemons very thinly, so that the rind is yellow both sides, put the rind with the sugar and the lemon-juice in a jug, pour boiling water on it, and let it stand till cold, strain and use.

Barley Water.

Ingredients.—Two ounces of pearl barley, one quart of water, a small piece of lemon rind, one ounce and a half of castor sugar.

Method.—Blanch the barley; put it in a saucepan with the lemon-rind and sugar, and simmer gently one hour. Strain and use.

Toast and Water.

Method.—Toast a piece of bread until nearly black. Put it in a jug and pour cold water on it.





Doing up old Furniture.

I want to make these articles entirely practical and within the scope of the readers of The Girl's Own Paper, so I take a girl's room—a bed sitting-room, because I feel sure that I shall appeal to a wider circle than if I merely dealt with the decoration of a sitting-room only, and I shall hope to show her how much the girl owner may do herself in the beautifying of her "den." I want to avoid launching into expense, so I shall first of all deal with the doing up of old furniture, for in every house one finds what may be called derelicts, articles of furniture which have outwardly at least had their day, and yet like many an old weather-beaten craft there is a lot of good work still in them if one takes a little trouble and spends a little time in putting on a coat or two of paint and a little varnish.

I had myself three such derelicts, one a chiffonier which had originally been grained in imitation of mahogany, but which had got chipped and worn until it looked worth nothing more than firing. Yet as a piece of woodwork it was in good condition, for I daresay it was fifty years old, when furniture was much better made than it is now. The first thing was to clean it thoroughly, and to this end I got some soft soap and an old painter's brush (a good scrubbing brush will do), and with some boiling hot water gave it a thorough cleansing. It took some time to do this, for the dirt had collected in the corners, and the grease from two generations of dirty fingers had to be removed. It is most important where you are going to paint to have every vestige of grease removed; otherwise your paint will not dry. While you are washing it have a piece of pumice-stone (procurable at a good oil shop or decorator's colourman), and thoroughly rub down all the old paint so as to remove any roughnesses, blisters or other blemishes, and obtain a nice smooth surface. Don't hurry this part of the work, as much of the after success depends upon your preliminary efforts. Give the furniture a rinse in clean hot water and then wipe it dry with an old towel. The next day or within an hour or two it is ready for the first coat of paint.

FIG. 1.Chiffonier painted white and decorated with stencilling.


Plain Painting.

I like white painted furniture, so I shall assume here that you will also paint your furniture white or cream, and I shall reserve my remarks on painting in darker tones of colour for another occasion. White goes with anything and is easily decorated, as I shall hope to show. For a girl's room it looks cool, clean and dainty. White paint can be bought ready mixed, either in tins or by the pound, and if you know a reliable decorator you might purchase some off him ready for use, but of course you have to pay him for his trouble, and what you buy in tins is not only much more expensive than if you mix it up yourself, but is often adulterated. It is very little trouble to mix it yourself, and about half the price, so I will tell you how to set about this. Buy at some good oil shop or decorators say a couple of pounds of white lead ground in oil, a pint of best linseed oil, a pennyworth of patent driers and a pint of turpentine. The whole lot will cost you about 1s. 1d. A patent tobacco tin with a lid is a useful thing to keep your paint in, as when not in use the lid will keep it air-tight, and your paint will keep for a long time if not exposed to the air. Cover the lead with oil and if it is in a pound tin the oil should be an inch or more above the lead. Stir up with a palette knife to allow the oil to mix with the white, and add a tablespoonful or so of turps, and in a few hours the white will become the consistency of cream. If you find it too thick add more oil and a little turps and the driers, and proceed to strain through a piece of muslin. If you have another empty tin strain your paint into it by putting the muslin loosely over the empty tin, pouring some colour into the muslin and working it through by brushing it every now and again with a hog hair brush. The paint will gradually pass through the muslin, leaving any sediment or bits behind, and you then pour out a little more colour and work through, and so on until all is strained. You can finally squeeze the muslin with your palette knife against the side of the tin, but be careful not to allow any of the bits to pass through into your strained paint. The proportion of turps to oil should be one of former to three of latter, and of driers a piece the size of a walnut to the pound, but the tradesman of whom you buy your colour will tell you this. The paint for use should be the consistency of cream (not clotted or thickened) and should be put on evenly with a good brush, so you put enough oil and turps to make it this consistency. The brush is a very important item, and this is why amateur painters so often fail; they haven't a decent brush to work with. A good house painter's brush which has been in use some time is the ideal tool, and if you can borrow or hire such a one do. A wide, flat hog, say three inches wide will do, but it will not hold the colour that a house painter's brush will, and the constant filling of it adds to the labour of painting. Your brush should carry its colour so that you only have to use force enough to work the colour out on to your surface. You don't try to load the furniture with colour, but get on so much as easily passes from the brush to the wood. In filling your brush only dip the end into the paint, and then knock it against the side of pot or tin so as to distribute it through the hair and then it will not drop about when you use it. So many amateurs try to get a lot of colour on at once, and so get it on too thickly in places. Remember that you can only get a good surface by applying some three or four coats. Your first coat, as the under colour is dark, will look very dirty and thin, but this first coat is only a grounding one. The second coat, which must be applied when the first is quite dry, say in two days, will look much better, while the fourth coat ought to look nice and white. A painter to get a good surface keeps his paint the way of the grain of the wood. Thus the panel of the door would be vertical in grain, the drawer front horizontal. Take the panel for instance. You will get your colour on using your brush up and down. When it is covered "stroke" the paint evenly from left to right, and then "stroke" it again up and down. This will distribute the colour evenly, and if you do this carefully you will obtain a good surface.

Allow plenty of time between each coat, as to paint over a surface not quite hard will cause your paint to crack. If you find after your first coat that there are any cracks or holes in the old paint take a little of the stiff white lead, and with a little driers added to it use it as putty and stop up any places, levelling it over smoothly with a knife. By the time your last coat is on such defects ought not to show. If you decide not to decorate your furniture, as I have shown in illustration, then instead of using paint for the last coat buy a tin of white, ivory or cream enamel and use to finish. The enamel is not so easy to get on as paint owing to its sticky nature. You must apply it freely, but don't load it on, for the more evenly you apply it the better will it look. One coat will suffice if you have three good coats of paint underneath. When your brushes are not in use put them into a gallipot or other vessel half filled with water.

(To be continued.)

FIG. 2.Top of chiffonier decorated with stencilling. The two plants used are the dandelion and cyclamen.





Our Own School of Interesting Information.

Let every girl who wishes for the next three months to have something pleasant to think about, and something sensible with which to occupy her leisure, read the following

*     *     *     *

We now start a New Competition of remarkable interest, and likely, we believe, to be of great profit to all who take part in it.

The Subject of it is to be

A Series of Questions and Answers,

the questions being proposed by the Editor of The Girl's Own Paper and the answers being furnished by our Readers themselves.

The Competition will extend over three months, during which time twelve questions will appear in The Girl's Own Paper every other week. This will give one question to be answered for every working day, which should not, we think, prove much of an exertion for anybody.

*     *     *     *

Prizes and Certificates of Merit will be awarded to successful competitors.

The Prizes will be worth struggling for. There will be fifteen of them in all. Every girl will have a fair chance, and we have tried to plan so that no one will have to compete against others who in age—and for that reason possibly in information—are greatly superior to herself.

The Value and Distribution of the Prizes are here shown—

For Girls of the
Age of
1st Prize2nd Prize3rd Prize

The Certificates of Merit will be given to girls of any age who gain the necessary number of marks. They will be first, second and third class. The total number of marks being reckoned at fifty, all who gain over forty will be first class; between thirty and forty, second class; and between twenty-five and thirty, third class.

These certificates are an important feature. A girl who gains one of them—even though she may fail to win a prize—will have many reasons for feeling pleased. It will be something she can take a pride both in showing and preserving. And when she goes out into the world, it may be useful as a proof that she is painstaking and persevering—essential qualities for all who would succeed in life.

*     *     *     *

Aim then, girls, first at taking a prize, and, failing that, a Certificate of Merit.

But even if you obtain neither, your work will not be lost. Prizes and Certificates are of secondary importance compared with the mental benefit which will fall to the share of every competitor, no matter who she may be or what abilities she may possess.

You will in any case add to your stock of information; your life will be richer because of the something you have stored away in your "knowledge-box;" you will be brighter because your mind has been active; and you will get some laughing into the bargain, because we must go cheerfully and happily about everything.

Are not these reasons enough why girls should enter upon this competition with energy and enthusiasm?

*     *     *     *

All our readers are cordially invited to take part. It makes no matter whether they are regular subscribers or only occasional readers—all are welcome.

*     *     *     *

The queries will be of the most varied kind, and no one need hold aloof on the ground that the competition will contain nothing of special interest to herself. She may count on its containing something, no matter whether her tastes run on housekeeping, history, biography, literature, music, art, or anything else.

*     *     *     *

For information on which to base their answers competitors may go to any sources they please. All we are particular about is that they put the answers in their own words and in their own way.

When it is possible competitors will, at the foot of each answer, give the source from which their information is derived.

No; girls are not forbidden to ask their friends. In fact, the Competition may supply subjects for much useful and entertaining talk, and in this way be a real boon in many a friendly circle.

*     *     *     *

A girl may not be able satisfactorily to answer all the questions—we shall be surprised if any one is able to do that. But if a Competitor cannot answer all let her answer as many as she can, remembering that to do a little well is much better than to do a great deal in a slipshod manner.

*     *     *     *

In judging of the Answers we shall take note, first of all, of the sense. First, then, girls, see that the sense is all right. Next, we shall observe whether the sense is well expressed. Be sure you look to that too. Lastly, the neatness with which the papers are written will count. It is a matter of some importance, so don't forget that either.

*     *     *     *

The length of the Answers. The answers are not in length to exceed one hundred and sixty words, but, if they only observe this restriction, competitors may, in the matter of length, please themselves. We do not, however, want too brief replies, say a mere name or date, a yes or a no. Economy of speech is good sometimes, but not always.

*     *     *     *

For Example, supposing the question to be—"Are waves ever really 'Mountains high?'" It would be truthful enough, by way of answer, to write an emphatic "No," but it would hardly be a satisfying reply or one of much value to anybody.

We should all think it much better if the answer ran, say—


"Waves never roll 'mountains high,' except by poetic license. As a matter of fact, it is very rare for waves at sea, even in furious weather, to exceed thirty feet in height.

"At Wick, in the far north of Scotland, where the sea sometimes displays wonderful energy, waves of about forty feet in height have been seen to strike the breakwater.

"The highest waves, however, which have been accurately measured, had their dimensions taken by Dr. William Scoresby, the well known Arctic explorer and physicist, who made some valuable observations on the subject in the Atlantic. He found that they reached the height of forty-three feet above the hollow.

"A foreign writer quotes the observations of others to the effect that waves have been seen from sixty to a hundred and eight feet high, but the evidence may not be trustworthy, at any{15} rate he does not say how the heights were ascertained."

*     *     *     *

A number will be prefixed to each question—the numbers will run from 1 onwards—and each answer must be preceded by a corresponding number. After giving the number competitors must also quote the subject of the query.

*     *     *     *

Every query must be answered on a separate sheet or sheets of paper—the writing being on one side of the paper only—and the sheets when sent in must be fastened together at the left hand top corner.

*     *     *     *

About sending in the Answers. During the course of the competition answers are to be sent in three times; the first time the answers from Nos. 1 to 24; the second time those from Nos. 25 to 48; and the last time those from No. 49 to the end.

*     *     *     *

When a Competitor sends in her second instalment of answers she will kindly place at the head of the first page—"Answers 1 to 24 sent" (giving the date), and on sending the third instalment she will write "Answers 25 to 48 sent" (giving the date).

*     *     *     *

The Time when papers are to be sent in. Answers to queries are to be forwarded on or before the last day of each month during the currency of the competition. The date however will be found given at the foot of each set of queries so that competitors need have no uncertainty on this point.

As a general rule, subscribers to the monthly parts will find they have one clear month for answering each set of 24 queries, and those who take in our weekly numbers will find they have longer.

*     *     *     *

The full name, age, and address of the competitor must be put on the back of the last page of each instalment. Should the competitor not wish her name, age, and address to be printed, she should add the name of her favourite flower instead, and this alone would be published in the pass lists.

*     *     *     *

The papers must be sent by post, addressed to The Editor, The Girl's Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.

*     *     *     *

At the left hand top corner of the envelope or wrapper must be clearly written the words "Questions Competition."

*     *     *     *

No papers can in any case be returned.

Here are the first twelve Questions:—

The Girl's Own Questions and Answers.

Questions 1-12.

1. Did a queen ever voluntarily lay down the sceptre and retire into private life?

*     *     *     *

2. What stone is said to endow whoever kisses it with wonderful powers of speech?

*     *     *     *

3. How is it that, though the moon turns round on its axis, we never see its other side?

*     *     *     *

4. Why is hard water very unsuitable for cooking and washing?

*     *     *     *

5. What celebrated work was written in a week to defray the cost of the funeral of the author's mother?

*     *     *     *

6. How did the thistle come to be the emblem of Scotland?

*     *     *     *

7. What sea has water so thick that you can move in it with difficulty?

*     *     *     *

8. What are the characteristics of the music of Chopin?

*     *     *     *

9. Who is the greatest poetess the world has ever seen?

*     *     *     *

10. How is a rainbow a sign of bad weather in the morning and a sign of good weather in the evening?

*     *     *     *

11. Has a besieged town ever been saved by a pig?

*     *     *     *

12. How fast can an expert penman write?

The Answers to these Questions, Nos. 1-12, together with the Answers to Questions, Nos. 13-24, which have yet to appear, must be sent in on or before the 30th of December.


A great Characteristic of the Bible.

Writing of the poetry and allusions of the Bible, Dr. Cunningham Geikie points out one of the great characteristics of the sacred volume.

"It is not," he says, "the production of cloistered ascetics, but breathes in every page a joyous or meditative intercourse with nature or mankind. The fields, the hills, the highway, the valleys, the varying details of country scenes and occupations are interspersed among pictures of life from the crowded haunts of men.

"The sower and the seed; the birds of the air; the foxes; the hen and its brood; the lilies and the roses; the voice of the turtle; the fragrance of the orchard; the blossom of the almond or the vine; the swift deer; the strong eagle ... the hiring of labourers; the toil of the fisherman; the playing of children; the sound of the mill; the lord and his servants; the courtier in silken robes, and a thousand other notices of life and nature, utilised to teach the highest lessons, give the sacred writings a perennial freshness and universal interest."

Delight in Praising.

"There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the praised far off him, far above."

Walter S. Landor.

A Greek Opinion on Women.

The Greek philosopher, Aristippus, was once asked by a friend what sort of a woman he ought to choose for a wife.

His answer was, "I cannot recommend any sort, for if she is fair she will deceive you; if plain, you will dislike her. If she is poor she will ruin you; if rich, you will be her slave. If she is clever, she will despise you; if ignorant, she will bore you; and if she is spiteful, she will torment you."

Perhaps this opinion of the Greek sage should be taken with a grain of salt, as the great thinkers of Greece entertained such perverse notions of woman's character that the question was actually raised among them whether women had souls!

Tall Men.

"Exceedingly tall men have ever very empty heads," writes Lord Bacon.

Thomas Fuller writes more warily. "Often the cockloft is empty in those whom Nature hath built many storeys high," a metaphor seemingly borrowed from Bacon's "Nature did never put her precious jewels into a garret four storeys high."

Compare Fuller's moderate "often" with Bacon's sweeping "ever" and "never" which surely smack of some personal ill-will. Can it be that the "wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind" was dealing a side-thrust at Elizabeth's tall favourite, my Lord of Leicester?

The Best Sauce

A prince, overtaken in his walk by a shower, sought refuge in a wayside cottage. The children happened to be sitting at table with a great dish full of oatmeal-porridge placed before them. They were all eating with a right good appetite, and looked, moreover, as fresh and ruddy as roses.

"How is it possible," asked the prince of the mother, "that they can eat such coarse food with such evident pleasure, and look so healthy and blooming withal?"

The mother answered, "It is on account of three kinds of sauces which I put into the food. First, I let the children earn their dinner by work; secondly, I give them nothing to eat out of meal-time that they may bring an appetite with them to table, and thirdly, I bring them up in the habit of contentment, as I keep dainties and sweetmeats out of their way. 'Seek far and wide, no better sauce you'll find than hunger, work and a contented mind.'"

A Plain-looking Poetess.—"Mrs. Browning," says a friend who knew her in Florence, "was the tiniest of women. There was something elfish in her bird-like face and masses of black hair. But she had probably in her childhood bidden good-bye to the hope of beauty and had forgotten all about it. Hence, when her soul looked directly through the pinched features into yours, what did you care how plain they were?"





I. No charge is made for answering questions.

II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym.

III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any of the questions.

IV. No direct answers can be sent by the Editor through the post.

V. No more than two questions may be asked in one letter, which must be addressed to the Editor of "The Girl's Own Paper," 56, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.

VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter of the nature of an advertisement will be inserted.


Lily W.—What you describe is a typical case of severe anæmia, and though it is possible that your heart may be diseased, we strongly believe that all your symptoms are due to anæmia alone. You say that you have been treated for anæmia, and it is necessary for you to continue that treatment. It is very common, in the more severe grades of anæmia, for the sight to get dim after a few minutes' work—it is only a temporary inconvenience and gets well again when the health improves. Green spectacles would be of no help to you.

M. A.—It is only a theory—and an exceedingly improbable one—that the benefits of sea air are due to ozone. Usually there is more ozone at the seaside than elsewhere, but the quantity present is very minute. Ozone is a poisonous, irrespirable gas of great interest scientifically, but it is not of any medicinal value.

A. E. M.—The seriousness of the complaint that you mention varies with its cause. It is very seldom indeed that it is dangerous. It may be caused by anæmia. The second matter that you describe is not very uncommon. A large number of people when they go to the seaside are affected as you are. The freckles are undoubtedly caused by the sun, but it is uncertain what caused the "peeling." Possibly this is only partly due to the sun and partly due to wind. The best thing you could do for the condition is to apply a little glycerine and rose-water, or a little cold cream to the face and hands. Always wear a veil and gloves when you go out. We should very much doubt if erysipelas, which you say you had some years ago, has anything to do with your present troubles. It is not our experience that erysipelas leaves anything behind it, or affects the subsequent health in any way. The prescription that you mention is well known to us, but is only really useful in some cases.

Virgo.—The question "is cancer hereditary?" has exercised the minds of many great physicians and surgeons for a long period, and it is not yet fully answered. At the present time the general opinion seems to be that cancer is occasionally hereditary. When all sources of error are removed, as far as possible, it appears that it is very rarely hereditary, but that it is a disease that runs in one or two families—chiefly Jewish, which is strange, for cancer is uncommon among Jews as a race. Cancer rarely develops before the fortieth year. Unfortunately it is only too true that the disease is on the increase in England.

Edith Hoppner.—The preparation that you mention contains either carbonate or subnitrate of bismuth, sodium carbonate, mucilage of tragacanth, and either compound infusion of gentian or some simple diluent. It is not a pharmocopœial preparation, but it is exceedingly useful and frequently prescribed for indigestion or diarrhœa.

Troubled.—Wash your head with warm water and borax, dry it well and then apply a little sulphur ointment to the roots of the hair. The complaint is rather difficult to remedy and often lasts many years.

Ellie.—Acne spots do get worse from exposure to the sun. We have frequently noticed this, but cannot say for certain why it should be so. Wearing a veil will keep the effects of the sun from injuring the face.

Teeth.—Have your teeth scaled if they are very thickly covered with tartar. Scaling improves and does not injure the teeth. Use the following tooth-powder:—Precipitated chalk, 50 parts; carbonate of magnesia, 50 parts; powdered cuttlefish, 5 parts; powdered orris-root, 5 parts; powdered hard soap, 5 parts; oil of cloves, 1 part.

Lady Joan.—No, we cannot approve of girls' smoking. You are quite right, it is a dirty and disgusting sight.


Mary.—1. For the London B.A. degree, three successive examinations are necessary; matriculation, the intermediate B.A., and the final B.A. It would take you three years, under favourable conditions, to pass them.—2. As to whether a girl, just eighteen, could prepare for these examinations at home, working four hours a day, much depends on the ability and the previous education of the student; but she would have to be an unusually clever girl to accomplish it. Coaching, if only by correspondence, is most desirable. Two questions are all we can answer at one time.


"The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were dead,"

is the first verse of a song by Thomas Moore. You will find it in any collection of his poems.

Dovu (Fiji).—The author of Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family and The Diary of Mrs. Kitty Trevylyan, is Mrs. Rundle Charles.

Miss Adamson, formerly of Tunbridge Wells, desires to inform the readers of The Girl's Own Paper that her Amateur Literary Guild has ceased to exist. She recommends an excellent pseudonym club with a printed magazine: address, Miss Cornwall, 10, Princeton Mansions, Red Lion Square, London. We accept no responsibility whatever with regard to this, or any amateur society.

A. H. Richards.—In Christina Rossetti's poem "Uphill" the "inn" may be taken as meaning "death" or "the grave." The poem is a sombre allegorical description of life's journey and its inevitable close.

"Of labour you shall find the sum,"

we understand as signifying, "You shall have labour enough and to spare," a stern reply to the inquiry, "Shall I find comfort?" This fine poem is written in Miss Rossetti's austerest strain.

Zara Keith.—Your poems are above the average of those we receive for criticism. They are so good, that it would be worth your while to try to make them better. "Soar the skies" is an incorrect expression, and "boons" is an inadmissible verb. The close of "aspiration" is too abrupt. We like the poem "Communion" best. We see no reason why you should not, with careful study and practice, write what will find acceptance some day.


Gertie.—Our sentiments are absolutely at variance with those of the sect to which you refer. At the root of the whole procedure of these people we find the design to shake confidence in the divine teachings of the Holy Scriptures. There are many who, while praising them, and the God-man, whose doctrines are therein made known, nevertheless preach a so-called "gospel, which is not the gospel," and "entering not in by the door of the sheep-fold," "climb up another way." The teachers they follow are not those which they, themselves, imagine them to be. These are our sentiments.

Modest Violet.—It is a matter of common honesty to restore to the owner what you have lost or broken. At the same time it is only fair to give due warning to a servant, and a thorough understanding should be arrived at on the question when a servant is engaged. This is not usually done, but it is a very desirable precaution. A careless servant may destroy things which, though not costly to buy, no money could replace to the owner. It seems that you have broken several things, and your mistress cannot afford to pay for so much carelessness and destruction of her property. Put yourself in her place. This breakage by rough handling has become a wide-spread trial and grievance amongst those who keep domestic servants.

Industry.—You can obtain all information respecting the Mission to the "Deep Sea Fishermen" from the Secretary, Francis H. Hood, Esq., Office of the R. National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, 181, Queen Victoria Street, E.C. A monthly magazine is published by the society, called The Toilers of The Deep, which is well illustrated and very interesting, price 3d. We recommend you to order it. The No. for May is out. Her Majesty the Queen is the Patron. Messrs. Jevons and Mellor, Corporation Street, Birmingham, supply the materials used in working for the Mission, taking off a special discount on all materials in aid of the Mission. Patterns and prices would be forwarded to workers on application.

Emily.—The 20th of June, 1874, was a Saturday, and the 5th of February, 1870, a Saturday also.

Olive.—We think you could obtain the "crinkled paper" for flower-making at any fancy-work shop, or by order through the proprietors. Perhaps you might obtain some advice from Miss Younghusband, 70, Lower Belgrave Street, S.W. Apologise for so doing, and send a certificate of respectability from your clergyman, giving your real name and address. This lady occupies herself specially on the subject of "women's work in all branches."

Cape Coast (no name given).—As no revelation has been made to us in Holy Scripture as to the language of the blessed, when "in the Kingdom of their Father," how can you expect us to know anything about it? see St. Luke, ix., 30, 31, and 35 and 36. The Apostles heard and understood what was said; but we do not know in what language the words were spoken. There will be no stagnation, nor idleness in Heaven, and that there will be work of some kind unaccompanied by fatigue, or wear and tear; but certainly, no "doctors" will be needed, and no "engineers," nor teachers of "languages." If you study your Bible a little more carefully you will not send us such questions.

Biblio.—You do not say whether your old Bible be an illustrated one, nor do you give any particulars respecting it—even of its dimensions. A volume of the Authorised Version, London, by R. Barker, of 1611, folio, the value would be from £10 to £15. The Royal Version (by same publisher), of 1616, is valued only at a few shillings. The Genevan and Tomson (same publisher), London, of 1615, is valued at about 17s. There is another by Barker, of this date, worth only 12s.


[A] Sir W. Napier.


The following changes have been made to the original text:

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No.
979, October 1, 1898, by Various


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