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THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.--NO. 353.
OCTOBER 2, 1886.
Price One Penny.
MERLE'S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.
[Illustration: "'WHAT A PITY YOU STOPPED ME JUST THEN.'"]
CHAPTER I.
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.
"Merle, I may be a little old-fashioned in my notions; middle-aged
people never adjust their ideas quite in harmony with you young folk,
but in my day we never paused to count fifty at a full stop."
Aunt Agatha's voice startled me with its reproachful irritability. Well,
I had deserved that little sarcasm for I must confess that I had been
reading very carelessly. My favourite motto was ringing in my ears,
"_Laborare est orare_."
Somehow the words had set themselves to resonant music in my brain; it
seemed as though I were chanting them inwardly all the time I was
climbing down the steep hill with Christiana and her boys. _Laborare est
orare._ And this is what I was reading on that still, snowy Sunday
afternoon: "But we will come again to this Valley of Humiliation. It is
the best and most fruitful piece of ground in all these parts. It is a
fat ground, and, as you see, consisteth much in meadows, and if a man
was to come here in the summertime as we do now, if he knew not anything
before thereof, and if he delighted himself in the sight of his eyes, he
might see that which would be delightful to him. Behold how green this
valley is, also how beautiful with lilies! I have known many labouring
men that have got good estates in this Valley of Humiliation."
"Merle," observed Aunt Agatha, a little dryly, "we may as well leave off
there, for it seems that you and I are to have our estate among the
labouring men in this very valley."
Aunt Agatha was a clever woman, and could say shrewd things sometimes,
but she never spoke a truer word than this; but my wits were no longer
wool-gathering.
"What a pity you stopped me just then," I remarked, somewhat
sententiously; "we have missed the purest gem of the allegory. 'He that
is down need fear no fall; he that is low no pride.'" But here a hand
was lifted in protesting fashion.
"Put the marker in the page, child, and spare me the rest; that is in
favour of your argument, not mine," for a weary discussion had been
waged between us for two whole hours--a discussion that had driven Aunt
Agatha exhausted to the couch, but which had only given me a tingling
feeling of excitement, such as a raw recruit might experience at the
sight of a battlefield. Aunt Agatha's ladylike ideas lay dead and
wounded round her while I had made that last impetuous charge.
"I am of age, a free Englishwoman, living in a free country, and not all
the nineteenth century prejudices, though they are thick as dragons'
teeth, shall prevent me, Merle Fenton, of sane mind and healthy body,
from doing what I believe to be my duty."
"Humph, I am rather doubtful of the sanity; I always told you that you
were too independent and strong-minded for a girl; but what is the use
of preaching to deaf ears?" continued Aunt Agatha, in a decidedly cross
voice, as she arranged the cushions comfortably.
It was true that I was getting the best of the argument, and yet I was
sorry for Aunt Agatha. I felt how I was shocking all her notions of
decorum and propriety, and giving pain to the kindest and gentlest heart
in the world; but one cannot lead a new crusade without trampling on
some prejudices. I knew all my little world would shriek "fie," and "for
shame" into my ears, and all because I was bent on working out a new
theory. The argument had grown out of such a little thing. I had shown
Aunt Agatha an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, and announced my
intention of answering it in person the following morning.
"NURSE.--Can any lady recommend a thoroughly conscientious superior
person to take charge of two children, baby eighteen months old?
Assistance given in the nursery. Must be a good, plain needlewoman.
Prince's Gate, S.W."
To the last day of my life I do not think that I shall ever forget Aunt
Agatha's face when she read that advertisement.
"You intend to offer yourself for this situation, Merle--to lose caste,
and take your place among menials? It is enough to make my poor brother
rise in his grave, and your poor, dear mother too, to think of a Fenton
stooping to such degradation." But I will forbear to transcribe all the
wordy avalanche of lady-like invective that was hurled at me,
accompanied by much wringing of hands.
And yet the whole thing lay in a nut-shell. I, Merle Fenton, sound,
healthy, and aged two-and-twenty, being orphaned, penniless, and only
possessing one near relative in the world--Aunt Agatha--declined utterly
to be dependent for my daily bread and the clothes I wore on the
goodwill of her husband and my uncle by marriage, Ezra Keith.
No, I was not good. I daresay I was self-willed, contradictory, and as
obstinate as a mule that will go every way but the right way, but, all
the same, I loved Aunt Agatha, my dead father's only sister, and I
detested Uncle Keith with a perfectly unreasonable detestation.
Aunt Agatha had been a governess all her life. Certainly the Fenton
family had not much to boast of in the way of wealth. Pedigree and
poverty are not altogether pleasant yoke fellows. It may be comfortable
to one's feelings to know that a certain progenitor of ours made boots
at the time of the Conquest, though I am never quite sure in my mind
that they had bootmakers then; but my historical knowledge was always
defective. But a little money is also pleasant; indeed, if the pedigree
and the money came wooing to me, and I had to choose between them--well,
perhaps I had better hold my tongue on that subject; for what is the
good of shocking people unless one has a very good reason for doing so?
My father's pedigree did not help him into good practice, and he died
young--a grave mistake, people tell me, for a professional man to
commit. My mother was very pretty and very helpless, but then she had a
pedigree, too, and, probably, that forbade her to soil her white hands.
She was a fine lady, with more heart than head, which she had lost most
unwisely to the handsome young doctor. After his death, she made futile
efforts for her child's sake, but the grinding wheel of poverty caught
the poor butterfly and crushed her to death.
My poor, tender-hearted, unhappy mother! Well, the world is a cruel
place to these soft, unprotected natures.
I should have fared badly but for Aunt Agatha; her hardly-earned savings
were all spent on my education. She was a clever, highly-educated woman,
and commanded good salaries, and out of this she contrived to board and
maintain me at a school until she married, and Uncle Keith promised that
I should share their home.
I never could understand why Aunt Agatha married him. Perhaps she was
tired of the drudgery of teaching; at forty-five one may grow a little
weary of one's work. Perhaps she wanted a home for her old age, and was
tired of warming herself at other people's fires, and preferred a
chimney corner of her own; but, strange to say, she always scouted these
two notions with the utmost indignation.
"I married your uncle, Merle," she would say, with great dignity,
"because he convinced me that he was the right person for me to marry. I
have no more idea than you how he contrived to instil this notion into
my head, for though I am a plain body and never had any beauty, I must
own I liked tall, good-looking men. But there, my dear, I lived
forty-five years in the world without three things very common in
women's lives--without beauty, without love, and without discontent."
And in this last clause she was certainly right. Aunt Agatha was the
most contented creature in the world.
If Uncle Keith--for never, never would I call him Uncle Ezra, even had
he asked me as a personal favour to do so--if Uncle Keith had been rich
I could have understood the marriage better, being rather a mercenary
and far-sighted young person, but he had only a very small income. He
was managing clerk in some mercantile house, and, being a thrifty soul,
invested all his spare cash instead of spending it.
Aunt Agatha had lived in grand houses all her life, but she was quite
content with the little cottage at Putney to which her husband took her.
They only kept one servant; but Aunt Agatha proved herself to be a
notable housekeeper. She arranged and rearranged the old-fashioned
furniture that had belonged to Uncle Keith's mother until she had made
quite a charming drawing-room; but that was just her way; she had clever
brains, and clever fingers, and to manipulate old materials into new
fashions was just play work to her.
But for me, I am perfectly convinced that Aunt Agatha would have called
herself the happiest woman in the world, but my discontent leavened the
household. If three people elect to live together, the success of the
scheme demands that one of the three should not smile sourly on all
occasions.
For two whole years I tried to be amiable when Uncle Keith was in the
room, and at last gave up the attempt in despair, baffled by my own evil
tempers, and yet I will say I was not a bad-tempered girl. I must have
had good in me or Aunt Agatha would not have been so fond of me. I call
that a real crucial test--other people's fondness for us.
Why is it so difficult to get on with some folk, very worthy people in
their way?
Why do some people invariably rub up one's fur until it bristles with
discomfort? Why do these same thoroughly estimable creatures bring a
sort of moral east wind with them, scarifying one's nerves? Surely it is
beneath the dignity of a human being to be rasped by a harsh, drawling
voice, or offended by trifling mannerisms. Uncle Keith was just like one
of my sums--you might add him up, subtract from him, divide or multiply
him, but he would never come right in the end; one always reckoned that
he was more or less than he was. He was a little, pale, washed-out
looking man, with sandy hair and prominent brown eyes. Being an old
bachelor when he married Aunt Agatha, he had very precise, formal ways,
and was methodical and punctual to a fault. Next to Uncle Keith, I hated
that white-faced watch of his. I hated the slow, ponderous way in which
he drew it from his pocket, and produced it for my special benefit.
I have said that my detestation of Uncle Keith was somewhat
unreasonable. I must own I had no grave reasons for my dislike. Uncle
Keith had a good moral character; he was a steady church-goer, was
painstaking and abstemious; never put himself in a passion, or, indeed,
lost his temper for a minute; but how was a girl to tolerate a man who
spent five minutes scraping his boots before he entered his own door,
whatever the weather might be; who said, "Hir-rumph" (humph was what he
meant) before every sentence, booming at one like a great bee; who
always prefaced a lecture with a "my dear;" who would not read a paper
until it was warmed; who would burn every cinder before fresh coals were
allowed on the fire; who looked reproachfully at my crumbs (I crumbled
my bread purposely at last), and scooped them carefully in his hand for
the benefit of the birds, with the invariable remark, "Waste not, want
not," a saying I learnt to detest?
I suppose if we are ever admitted into heaven we shall find very odd
people there; but perhaps they will have dropped their trying ways and
peculiarities, as the chrysalis drops its case, and may develop all
sorts of new prismatic glories. I once heard a lady say that she was
afraid the society there would be rather mixed; she was a very exclusive
person; but Solomon tells us that there is nothing new under the sun, so
I suppose we shall never be without our modern Pharisees and Sadducees.
The grand idea to me is that there will be room for all. I do not know
when the idea first came to me that it was a mean thing to live under a
man's roof, eating his bread and warming oneself at his fire, and all
the time despising him in one's heart. I only know that one day the idea
took possession of me, and, like an Eastern mustard seed, grew and
flourished. Soon after that Uncle Keith had rather a serious loss--some
mercantile venture in which he was interested had come to grief. I began
to notice small retrenchments in the household; certain little luxuries
were given up. Now and then Aunt Agatha grew a little grave as she
balanced her weekly accounts. One night I took myself to task.
"What business have you, a strong, healthy, young woman," I observed to
myself, severely, "to be a burthen on these good folk? What is enough
for two may be a tight fit for three; it was that new mantle of yours,
Miss Merle, that has put out the drawing-room fire for three weeks, and
has shut up the sherry in the sideboard. Is it fair or right that Aunt
Agatha and Uncle Keith should forego their little comforts just because
an idle girl is on their hands?"
I pondered this question heavily before I summoned courage to speak to
Aunt Agatha. To my surprise she listened to me very quietly, though her
soft brown eyes grew a little misty--I did so love Aunt Agatha's eyes.
"Dear," she said, very gently, "I wish this could have been prevented;
but, for my husband's sake, I dare not throw cold water on your plan. I
cannot deny that he has had a heavy loss, and that we have to be very
careful. I would keep you with me if I could, Merle, for you are just
like my own child, but Ezra is not young;" and here Aunt Agatha's
forehead grew puckered with anxiety.
"Oh, Aunt Agatha," I exclaimed, quite forgetting the gravity of my
proposition in sudden, childish annoyance, "how can you call Uncle
Keith, Ezra? It is such a hideous name."
"Not to my ears," she answered, quite calmly; "a wife never thinks her
husband's name hideous. He loves to hear me say it, and I love to please
him, for though you may not believe it, Merle, I think there are very
few men to compare with your uncle."
She could actually say this to my face, looking at me all the time with
those honest eyes! I could not forbear a little shrug at this, but she
turned the subject, placidly, but with much dignity.
"I have been a working bee all my life, and have been quite contented
with my lot; if you could only follow my example, I should be perfectly
willing to let you go. I have thought once or twice lately that if
anything were to happen to me, you and your uncle would hardly be
comfortable together; you do not study him sufficiently; you have no
idea what he really is."
I thought it better to remain silent.
Aunt Agatha sighed a little as she went on.
"I am not afraid of work for you, Merle, there is no life without
activity. 'The idle man,' as someone observes, 'spins on his own axis in
the dark.' 'A man of mere capacity undeveloped,' as Emerson says, 'is
only an organised daydream with a skin on it.' Just listen to this,"
opening a book that lay near her. "'Action and enjoyment are contingent
upon each other. When we are unfit for work we are always incapable of
pleasure; work is the wooing by which happiness is won.'"
"Yes, yes," I returned, rather impatiently, for Aunt Agatha, with all
her perfections, was too much given to proverbial and discursive
philosophy; "but to reduce this to practice, what work can I do in this
weary world?"
"You cannot be a governess, not even a nursery governess, Merle," and
here Aunt Agatha looked at me very gently, as though she knew her words
must give me pain, and suddenly my cheeks grew hot and my eyelids
drooped. Alas! I knew too well what Aunt Agatha meant; this was a sore
point, the great difficulty and stumbling block of my young life.
I had been well taught in a good school; I had had unusual advantages,
for Aunt Agatha was an accomplished and clever woman, and spared no
pains with me in her leisure hours; but by some freak of Nature, not
such an unusual thing as people would have us believe, from some want of
power in the brain--at least, so a clever man has since told me--I was
unable to master more than the rudiments of spelling.
I know some people would laugh incredulously at this, but the fact will
remain.
As a child I have lain sobbing on my bed, beaten down by a very anguish
of humiliation at being unable to commit the column of double syllables
to memory, and have only been comforted by Aunt Agatha's patience and
gentleness.
At school I had a severer ordeal. For a long time my teachers refused to
admit my incapacity; they preferred attributing it to idleness,
stubbornness, and want of attention; even Aunt Agatha was puzzled by it,
for I was a quick child in other things, could draw very well for my
age, and could accomplish wonders in needlework, was a fair scholar in
history and geography, soon acquired a good French accent, and did some
of my lessons most creditably.
But the construction of words baffle me to this day. I should be
unwilling to write the simplest letter without a dictionary lying
snugly near my hand. I have learned to look my misfortune in the face,
and to bear it with tolerable grace. With my acquaintances it is a
standing joke, with my nearest and dearest friends it is merely an
opportunity for kindly service and offers to write from my dictation,
but when I was growing into womanhood it was a bitter and most shameful
trial to me, one secretly lamented with hot tears and with a most
grievous sense of humiliation.
"No," Aunt Agatha repeated, in the old pitying voice I knew so well,
"you cannot be even a nursery governess, Merle."
"Nor a companion either," I exclaimed bitterly. "Old ladies want letters
written for them."
"That is very true," she replied, shaking her head.
"I could be a nurse in a hospital--in fact, that is what I should like,
but the training could not be afforded, it would be a pound a week, Aunt
Agatha, and there would be my uniform and other expenses, and I should
not get the smallest salary for at least two or three years."
"I am afraid we must not think of that, Merle," and then I relapsed into
silence from sheer sadness of heart. I had always so longed to be
trained in a hospital, and then I could nurse wounded soldiers or little
children. I always loved little children.
But this idea must be given up, and yet it would not have mattered in a
hospital if I had spelt "all-right" with one "l." I am quite sure my
bandages would have been considered perfect, and that would have been
more to the point.
(_To be continued._)
THE AMATEUR CHURCH ORGANIST.
BY THE HON. VICTORIA GROSVENOR.
We believe that young people generally have a desire to be useful.
Sometimes not an actually formulated desire, but a vague intention which
they mean some day shall have a practical issue, when and how they do
not quite know, or in what way. It is proposed in this article to point
out one means of eminent usefulness--_i.e._, that of amateur organ
playing in our churches. It is scarcely necessary to show what a large
field of good useful work is open to amateurs in this direction. We all
know that on the one hand parishes wholly agricultural--the other
suburban parishes in large towns--are utterly unable to pay for the
services of a professional player; while there is nothing so calculated
to lift up the heart of the congregations such as these are likely to
obtain, as good music. Would it not therefore be a pleasant duty for
anyone gifted with musical talent and leisure to qualify in the best
manner possible for this ennobling and helpful occupation?
The intending organ-player must ascertain that he or she has a gift for
music, and this need not be of the highest order, as even a small
portion of the gift can be improved with care, and fostered into
usefulness. A first rate ear can be a snare to those who trust to it too
much--although it is undoubtedly the best of servants, if kept in its
proper sphere of work. A very ordinary measure of talent, supplemented
by calm and good sense, clear power of thought, and determined
perseverance, will be a good foundation to start with. Good sense and
attention have more to do with the good music of ordinary persons (as
opposed, we mean, to remarkably clever ones) than people are apt to
think. It was said of Mendelssohn that music was the _accident_ of his
being; and there are many of whom the same could be said, with this
meaning--_i.e._, that the powers which make them succeed in music would
enable them to succeed in other great things if attempted.
We will therefore suppose the case of a young lady possessing a moderate
gift for music, desiring to improve it and herself, and to take up
organ playing with a view to real usefulness. She should first find out
whether her playing on the piano is perfectly correct, taking the
easiest possible music to exercise herself upon, and trying whether her
musical ear is competent to be her teacher in the matter of correctness.
If neither steady attention nor ear enable her to discover mistakes, she
had better consider that music is not the talent God has given her to
use to His glory. A musical ear may, however, be much improved by its
possessor. With even the smallest of voices she should join a choir or
madrigal society and learn to sing at sight. She should, when listening
to a musical performance, try to guess its key. She should endeavour to
know, without seeing, the sound and name of single notes on the piano,
practising herself with her eyes shut. It is good practice, also, to
take an easy chant or hymn tune, hitherto unknown, and try to get some
idea of its melody and harmony without playing it. When all this is
done, one of the most important tasks remains: that of mastering time in
all its branches. Slovenliness in this particular is fatal to all music,
above all to that for the organ, which is meant to guide and control. A
feeling for rhythm and a quick-sighted accurate knowledge of time, may
be much improved by playing with others, either duets on the piano, or
accompaniments to voice or instrument. The player should compel herself
to account for the time reason of every passage slowly, until she is
able to do so with rapidity and precision at sight. At this point it may
be well to begin lessons on the organ, taking great pains to become
familiar with the technical part of the instrument, the names of stops
and meaning of these names, mechanism and its use. Then will come the
careful practice of pedals, which are at first so absolutely bewildering
that amateurs are filled with despair at the apparent impossibilities
they are asked to face with hope.
Into the teacher's work it is not our province to go; but we would ask
the learner to be armed with courage and perseverance, and to practise
patiently. Success is more than likely.
We now proceed with advice to one possessed of some knowledge of
organ-playing and some acquaintance with its technical capabilities.
First, we should say--Play on all available instruments, as no two are
alike, and the stops are called by many different names, which must be
identified quickly as emergencies arise. Then acquire a knowledge of
harmony, specially useful in accompanying church music with dignity, and
enabling the player to fill in chords which the vocal score (or voice
parts) have left thin and ineffective. Volumes might be written on
accompaniments; but on this subject we would advise amateurs to consult
heart, head, and common sense, and we would recommend them to read Dr.
Bridge's "Organ Accompaniment," one of Novello's music primers, which
will open out to them many possibilities, on the use of which they must
decide for themselves according to their technical ability and the
effect they aim at. It may be they can only try to pull a few weak
voices through the singing allotted to them--in which case a strong,
steady accompaniment of the simplest description is the best.
One word on voluntaries. These should be chosen with great care and the
deepest respect for the church and the instrument, and kept well within
the powers of the player. Amateurs do not as a rule obtain much control
of their nerves, and the greatest help in the world is given by the
knowledge that there is not a "difficult bit" coming. Voluntary books
are not quite to be trusted, as their selection often contains operatic
music very unfit for organ or church; but they generally contain some
pieces of a sacred and dignified character, which may be useful. It is
also dangerous for the inexperienced to plunge into easy arrangements of
unknown music, taking perhaps wrong views of the time, and sometimes
making the more experienced listener smile, if nothing worse, at the
curious rendering of some well-known air, jumbled up with its obbligato
accompaniment, the existence of which was entirely unknown to the poor
player. Every organist should possess a metronome, and carefully
ascertain with it the correct time of any music intended for use in
public.
Finally, if every small action is to be done to the glory of God, how
much more the playing in His church! Let none take this noble work in
hand without a desire to give, in its degree, the best work that can be
given in absolute self-renunciation, humility, and reverence.
[Illustration]
EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.
A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.
BY JAMES MASON.