CYRIL’S WOOING.
“Then, mother, you think I can depend upon my father’s doing something
handsome for me if I were to get her?”
“Yes, my boy. I had a long talk with him last evening after you had
spoken with me about it. He has taken a great fancy to May Lawrence,
and he was very pleased indeed with her visit to the works the other
day, and her promise to come and sing at the club some evening. He
seemed just a little surprised when I spoke of your hope of winning her
for a wife; but he said there was nobody he should prefer more for a
daughter-in-law, and I am sure he spoke the truth.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very well; but what sort of establishment would
he give me? She has a little fortune of her own. I know that, and, of
course, she will come in for more when her father dies; but that may be
years off still. I can’t ask a woman to marry me without having a home
to offer her!”
“No, and your father will give you that. He said he would establish you
comfortably in London, and allow you six hundred a year, and that, with
your own earnings at the Bar, since you have now finally decided upon
the law as your profession, will enable you to get along nicely. You
have great talents, you know, Cyril, and we expect great things of you!”
Cyril kissed his mother, but looked a little doubtful.
“Six hundred is not a large income in London; but I think May has two
or three on her marriage. We might get along in a flat. Of course I
shall do all I can, but it’s precious slow work at the Bar in these
days. Some clever fellows never make their way at all. I’m not sure I
sha’n’t take to literature instead. If one can get into the swim it
pays better.”
“With your talents and with your education and presence you are sure to
get on,” said his mother, with serene confidence, and for once in his
life Cyril found this complaisant admiration a little trying. He knew
that money was a hard commodity to make, and he did not like it to be
assumed that he would soon be making a fine income for himself and his
wife.
“Well, at any rate, I can tell the old boy that I am in a position to
marry; that is, if he doesn’t look for great beginnings,” remarked
Cyril, after a pause; “and the Lawrences have come down in the world
themselves, and have no very grand ideas, which is a comfort. May is a
bit of a Radical herself, but she’ll mend of that in time. It does all
very well when you’re young to be enthusiastic and sentimental over the
working classes; but one grows out of that fast enough, except fellows
like North, who never have an idea beyond the shop all their lives!”
“North is a very good son, and a great help to his father. It is not
his fault that he has not your talents, Cyril, dear.”
“No, we can’t all be alike! I say, mater, I’m awfully hard up for loose
cash just now. This London business costs more than one fancies, and
I don’t like always asking the governor. A man can’t go wooing with
empty pockets. Can’t you give me a little just to go on with, from the
housekeeping or something?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do this time; but you’ve had all I have had
to spare for some time, Cyril. Your father was rather vexed at my not
getting a new winter mantle, but I managed to pacify him. You mustn’t
keep me too short or there will be a fuss.”
“Oh, no, it’s only for a few trifles for May; there will be the ring,
you know, and flowers, and that sort of thing. Thanks awfully, mother,
you are real good sort! I daresay the governor will stump up handsome
when I tell him the news, and then I’ll pay you back.”
Cyril went away well pleased with himself, and resolved to lose no more
time in his wooing. It had occurred to him that it was about time he
had an independent home of his own. Something in the home atmosphere
had become uncongenial to him. North was cool, and rather avoided his
society, and Cyril had very uneasy moments sometimes when his brother
occasionally came to him with certain rather pointed questions, the
drift of which he seldom altogether understood. Ray had been rather
off-hand with him ever since that luckless fire, the memory of which
still made his cheeks tingle, and he often fancied that his prestige
in his native place had considerably gone down. Oscar’s face was a
continual reproach to him. He was tired of his life in Isingford,
anxious for a sphere of his own.
But a sphere implied a centre and a home, and a home meant a wife.
Cyril turned matters over in his mind a few times whether or not to go
out to Madeira and propose to Effie with her rich dowry, or to content
himself with the much more attractive May and her smaller fortune.
In the end he decided upon the latter course. Effie’s money was certain
to be tied up very tight. He had more hopes of getting things more
to his liking in dealing with May’s parents. They were not business
people. They would probably have easier ideas, and May was out and away
a more attractive girl than Effie; besides, a delicate ailing wife
would be a nuisance. Cyril wanted to be the centre of attraction in his
own home, not to have to spend his time fussing after his wife.
So dressing himself very carefully in a riding suit which he greatly
fancied, he ordered the best horse to be obtained at the livery
stables, and rode gaily off towards Monckton Manor.
May was in the garden. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds were
singing with that kind of eager rapture which is only heard in the
spring. February was waning, and though the March winds were still to
come, the present warmth was all the more welcome. Celandines lifted
their golden cups to the caress of the sunshine, and primroses were to
be found gemming the banks, whilst in garden borders crocuses made a
joyous blaze, and the daffodils began to push up their bloom buds as
though eager to show that they would not be much behind.
A servant came out to her from her house.
“Mr. Cossart has called and would like to see you, miss.”
May’s eyes lighted and a little flush stole into her cheek. It was not
Saturday, so there must be something special in this visit. Perhaps the
very fact that it was unusual helped to induce that wave of subdued
excitement. Something special must have occurred. He must be wanting
something from her. May turned at once and went eagerly towards the
house.
A tall figure came out into the sunshine of the terrace, and suddenly
all the light faded out of May’s face. She turned to the servant almost
sharply.
“You said it was Mr. Cossart,” she said.
“That is the name the gentleman gave,” answered the footman, who was
new to the place.
“That is Mr. Cyril Cossart. You must remember the difference in
future,” said May, trying to control the irritation she felt. “I don’t
believe I’d have gone in for him,” she muttered to herself. “He had no
business to ask for me with mother out. But he has seen me now, so I
suppose I must go for a little while. I hope he won’t stay long. I’ve
such lots of things I want to do.”
Cyril came down the steps to meet her, too much self-engrossed to
observe the coolness of her greeting.
“Don’t let us go in this lovely day, Miss Lawrence. These sweet spring
days are too precious to lose! May I not join you in your ramble?”
“I was not rambling, I was gardening,” answered May, but she could not
exactly refuse his request, though she did not altogether approve the
suggestion. She thought he was taking too much the airs of an intimate
friend, and of late he had not been encouraged to intimacy at the Manor.
“I am sorry my mother is not at home,” she said, as they walked down
the wide nut avenue, where she had so often paced with North, asking
eager questions about his work, and forgetting everything in her
interest at his replies.
“Well, it is you that I came especially to see, May,” he answered; and
as she started at the sound of her name spoken thus for the first time
by him, and flashed an indignant glance at him, Cyril plunged into the
carefully-prepared speech he had made, faltering a little at first,
but getting the thread quickly, and then going rapidly forward with
gathering courage and assurance.
For the first few minutes May was simply too much astonished to speak
a single word, and then a wave of hot indignation surged over her, and
she was afraid to speak lest she should say something she might regret
afterwards. After all, when a man proposed to a girl, he was supposed
to be paying her the highest honour in his power to offer. She sought
to remember this, and to curb her angry impulses; and during this time
Cyril had got a long way in his speech, so that there could be no
possible doubt as to his meaning.
“Oh, please stop! Please do not say any more!” cried May at length,
when she felt that she could master her emotions and speak quietly.
“What you want is quite out of the question! Please say no more. We had
better say good-bye”—and she stopped, facing him, and held out her hand.
Cyril stood dumfoundered. He simply could not believe his ears. This
was probably some girlish wile to lead him on to more impassioned
declarations. He was quite ready for that, and, taking her hand in his,
recommenced his protestations, but May pulled it from him, and her eyes
flashed.
“Mr. Cossart, please to understand me, once and for all. What you wish
is quite impossible!”
“Impossible that you should be my wife, May?”
“Quite impossible, and please not to call me that again! You have no
right to do so.”
“May—Miss Lawrence—what does all this mean? Why cannot you be my wife?”
She looked him steadily in the face; her composure was coming back to
her. The desire to speak the truth was upon her.
“We have always been friends,” he urged, desiring this thing the more
urgently from the unexpected opposition. His pride and vanity were
working hard on the same side as his affections. May looked very
handsome standing there confronting him, a flush on her cheek, a light
in her eyes. It was impossible for Cyril to believe her indifferent to
him. He had always regarded himself as irresistible.
Once again he began to plead; once again she let him have a certain
licence, and then she cut him short.
“Mr. Cossart, you have said a great deal now, let me say a very little.
Perhaps you do not know what a woman most desires in the man she makes
her husband. One thing is, I think, a perfect trust in him—his love,
his courage, his honour!”
She spoke the last words very distinctly; Cyril’s glance wavered for a
moment, then he broke out—
“I love you with all my heart, May!”
“I do not think so,” she answered, “though, perhaps, you think it
yourself. Forgive me if I pain you, but you want to know the truth,
you say. A woman would not like to feel that in a moment of danger
her husband would lose his head, leave her, and think only of saving
himself!”
“You are ungenerous,” said Cyril, with a dark flush; “I have refuted
that charge once. I shall not repeat my defence.”
“No, don’t,” said May quietly; “not to someone who was there and saw
and heard all!”
In the deep silence which followed, his quick angry breathing could be
heard; then May spoke again in the same calm way.
“A woman wants also perfect confidence in her husband’s honour. It
would not be pleasant to hear searching inquiries as to how bank-notes,
for instance, which he had passed on to other people had come into his
possession.”
The flush on Cyril’s face faded, and a grey pallor took its place. He
took a backward step and almost gasped out—
“Miss Lawrence, what do you mean?”
“Nothing very much. Of course, no man of honour would mind such
inquiries. But it seems that there is a hue and cry of some sort over a
bank-note which my brother cashed some time ago. That note he changed
for a friend of his who happened to be short of gold one day and asked
him for it. It is rather wonderful he remembered the circumstance, but
he did. As he said to me, that sort of thing was not quite pleasant,
though no doubt everything could be satisfactorily explained.”
Cyril’s face was livid.
“I never asked your brother for change.”
“Did I say that you did?”
“It was implied in your speech.”
“I will not imply any more then. I tell you in plain words that it was
you who asked Frank for change for the note and got it. You may have
forgotten, but he has not.”
“And who has been making inquiries?” asked Cyril, with stiff pale lips.
“Never mind. It is really no affair of mine. If it is anything to you,
you will hear all in good time. I think I must be going now. I have a
number of things to do. Good-bye, Mr. Cossart. I will tell them to
bring your horse to the door.”
She turned and left him—left him standing like a man half-stunned. That
was a pretty outcome of his day’s wooing. Fear and rage wrestled for
mastery in his heart as he rode away from the house, resolved never to
cross that threshold again.
He had been so confident that all the trouble had blown over by this
time, that nobody, not even Oscar, had been much the worse, that no
strict inquiry had ever been set on foot. His face was still pale, and
he felt shaken and nervous as he walked from the livery stables home.
He was half afraid to enter the drawing-room lest his appearance should
excite comment.
But as it happened there was another excitement on foot which quite
shielded him from notice. Voices were speaking in rapid eager tones.
“What can it be? How very strange!”
“Alone too, or she would not want meeting.”
“Oscar must go, of course, but it is all very odd.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Cyril, in as easy a tone as he could master.
“Why, look there,” cried Ray, putting a telegram into his hand, “that
has just come from Uncle Cossart in Madeira.”
The message ran as follows—
“Sheila returns by _Dunraven Castle_. Have her met.”
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
WILL SHE GROW OUT OF IT?
BY DR. GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N. (“MEDICUS”).
The first part of this paper at all events may be supposed to be
addressed to young mothers, rather than to young girls, but I have no
doubt that the latter will have a peep at it just to see if there is
anything in it which concerns them. I shall not tell them whether there
is or not. Let them read on and see.
My main difficulty in writing it I feel will be one of condensation.
The subject of inherited ailments and congenital malformation is one of
such importance that it is a book thereon I should publish, and not a
single paper. However, if it leads young parents to think, thinking is
sure to lead to action, and with the hints I shall give, and of course
the help of their family doctor, many a young life may not only be
saved, but children may grow up strong and bonnie, who through neglect
or ignorance might have anything but happy futures, and lives so weary
that their brevity might well be looked upon as a blessing.
I must say a few words at the outset on the terrible scourge of these
islands, which most people call consumption, and the medical profession
phthisis. The question “Is it hereditary?” stares us in the face at
once whenever we think of it, and it is a somewhat difficult one to
answer. I myself do not believe in heredity in the ordinary sense of
the word as applied to disease. A beautiful young shoot of wood may
spring from a fast-decaying tree, and if this be transplanted into
good soil, it will grow as well as any other. What holds good as
regards vegetable life cannot of course be shown to be quite true as
regards animal, nevertheless there is a certain analogy. Consumption
we believe to be infectious; if so, it is caused by a disease germ.
Now your old-school hereditists would tell us that this germ descends
from mother to child. In some cases it does or may, but the child very
soon succumbs to _tabes mesenterica_, or some other terrible infantile
disease. A germ will do one of two things: it will either assert itself
very speedily, or be killed in the system. Nature sets about at once
getting rid of these disease germs, supposing them to exist at the time
of birth. She brings, among other organs of relief, the absorbents
and glands into play; there is a struggle for life, in which nature
often fails, because those very glands become overladen and diseased,
tubercle being formed and multiplied within them. Nature does her
best, but she is beaten—another proof of the struggle betwixt what we
call evil and good, which is constantly going on in this world.
Well, on the other hand, if the child is born of delicate parents,
but free from germs, it has, if carefully fed, nursed, and tended, a
very excellent chance of growing up well. It is difficult to conceive
of a child having germs of, say, consumption in its system and these
lying latent or dormant until she is a certain age, and then springing
suddenly into life after she has suffered from some exposure and caught
cold in the chest. There are easier theories than this by far and
away to account for the children of consumptive parents dying of the
same disease in their later teens. Besides, that word “latent” may be
convenient, but it is a shockingly unmeaning one. I remember my father
buying for a good round sum a few grains of wheat that were said to
have been in the grasp of a mummy for a thousand years. The wheat when
sown grew most certainly. It may never have been in the hands of a
mummy at all, but it _may_ have been. If so, it was surrounded by dead
matter, it was hermetically sealed against any influence that could
cause it to germinate. Life was latent or asleep. But in the human body
germs have no chance of dorminating, for so constant are the changes,
that everything is constantly getting shifted, and by the time a man or
woman is fifty he or she may have used up a score of bodies.
However, there is this to be said concerning the children of
consumptive parents: they are born delicate, and therefore far more
likely to fall victims to the scourge than others.
May they grow out of this delicacy of constitution? Yes, and that is
the question I am going to consider, but I must answer another one,
and it is one, too, that strikes at the very root of sociality: should
consumptive people, or those suffering from other so-called hereditary
ailments, marry? I say, “No.” They are, if they do so, guilty of as
great a crime as many a felon who leaves the dock with the dread
sentence of the judge ringing in his ears. It is sad to have to answer
the question in such seemingly cruel words, but nevertheless I believe
I am doing my duty in giving that reply.
There are two ways in which a young woman can give herself to God
in this world, and both are honourable. One is by marrying the man
she loves if he be healthy in body and pure in mind—not else—and
thus becoming Heaven’s own servant for the happy propagation of
healthful species and the progress of the world; the other is by—if
weakly—remaining celibate and devoting her time, her talents and
energies to doing good to her fellow beings without hope of reward in
this world. There is a charm about a woman like this (though foolish
people may sneer at her as an old maid) that it is difficult to
describe.
I have met many such, and seem to have seen a halo already around
their heads. I am a physician, naturalist, scientist, if you will, and
something of an astronomer, and being so of course—to some extent—a
_doubter_, but I do most sincerely believe that the good in this weary
wicked world will ultimately prevail, and those who help it onwards
will not go unrewarded in a future life whatever that life may be.
Now to lay down a few simple rules for the treatment of weakly children
whether born of delicate parents or not. Will she grow out of it? The
answer to this question is a hopeful one or the reverse just as you
choose to make it, young mother.
There is one stumbling-block of which I bid you beware at the very
outset of your girl-child’s life. It is the bogey “cold.” That young
children need warmth is very true. They are for the time being little
hot-house plants, but the sooner you recognise the truth that they are
not intended to remain so, the better it will be for yourself, and for
the child as well. Those wee things have to be hardened off because the
world isn’t a hot-house, and they have got to live hardy, healthy, and
therefore happy lives, in spite of the many and daily changes of this
changeable climate of ours.
If you desire the wee lassie to grow up as tender as a mushroom and
perhaps die just as soon, comparatively, then all you’ve got to do is
to permit her to sleep night after night in a badly-ventilated stuffy
room and to _plot her_. The verb “to plot” is essentially Scotch, but
as applied to over-coddled children or young canaries or pigeons in a
nest that the nervous mother is sweating to death, it is exceedingly
expressive. Many of the Scotch words are derived from the French as,
in olden times, the two nations were great allies. It would be going
a little out of the way perhaps to seek its derivation from _sur le
plat_, on the plate, as an egg when poached. A pig is plotted when
boiling water is poured over it in order to get off the bristles
easily, the cook plots herself when she gets a splash of hot water
over her hands, a boy or man is said to be plotting himself when he
wears more clothes than is wanted as a guard against the weather, and
babies are all too often plotted in bed or bassinette. The single word
“plotted” means sweated, blanched (_faire pâlir_), poached, all in one.
Well, however nice a poached egg may be, poached baby looked at from a
doctor’s point of view is very unsatisfactory.
Now just think of the folly, not to say the iniquity, of treating a
tender infant as many do. Here lies the mite at the mercy of a mother
who may be wise, but who may be otherwise. It is already struggling
with the arch-enemy, death. Pray do not misunderstand me: I do not mean
to say it is dying, only from the very day we begin to live we begin to
die, as it were, at least, to struggle against all that is inimical to
life. And life is change, you know, merely that. “I live, therefore I
must die.” But we want to keep the spark in this little body, and what
is more we want to fan it into health that shall fill every vein and
nerve in its body, and produce future health, happiness, and strength.
In order to do this, in order to give the child a chance to grow out
of its inherited weakness (I do not say “disease,” for that is an ugly
word, and quite unnecessary), we must place it under conditions most
favourable to existence.
I think this is the proper place in which to mention a very injurious
fallacy as regards what are called infantile ailments. It is a fact
that children of tender years are more likely to be attacked by certain
ailments, of which measles is as good an illustration as any, simply
because they are weak, and these, in certain states of the atmosphere,
especially in villages where sanitation is utterly neglected, are
apt to become epidemic, carrying away to their little graves victims
that are not strong enough to fight against the trouble, for Nature’s
law that the fittest shall survive is fixed and immutable. But it is
a great mistake to believe that children _must_ have such ailments,
and the sooner such an error of belief is written down and eradicated
the better. Scarlatina is another ailment which often breaks out in
villages, especially in Board schools; and remembering the utter want
of fresh air and cleanliness which prevails in these seminaries, one
cannot wonder. During an epidemic of this sort the school is closed,
and the children, sick or well, go to their squalid dens and unhealthy
huts to live or die, as the case may be, for they “break up” at school
only to hatch out the seeds of illness already sown in their systems.
But your well-fed, well-cared-for children, and such as sleep at night
in fresh air without more than sufficient bed-clothing, do not succumb
to these disorders, be they ever so rife.
Surely, then, prevention is better than cure. I shall now mention one
or two of these so-called infantile troubles that some young mothers
who read this brief paper may know a little more about them and their
causes. I advise everyone who has the care of children to keep in the
house in its little case a clinical thermometer. The family doctor will
be very pleased, I am sure, to show parents how to use it, and whenever
the temperature mounts over a hundred the physician should be called in.
_Measles._—The ailment is ushered in somewhat similarly to a bad cold,
and often passes at first for a touch of influenza. But the girl is
feverish with loss of appetite, and no heart for play. Then about the
third day come out the rose-coloured spots, first on the brow. They
are so close together as to almost coalesce. The fever now gets worse,
and the case is one for the doctor to superintend; but the parents
ask the question: “Will she get over it?” I am glad to answer in the
affirmative, only that nasty wee word “if” comes in—_if_ the case does
not become complicated, for bronchitis may ensue, or inflammation of
the lungs itself, and then there is great danger. And bear this in
mind; the child that has been treated while in health in a common-sense
way, not “plotted,” over-coddled, or over-crammed as to food, has
by far and away the greatest chance of getting over this ailment or
scarlatina either.
_Scarlatina._—When this becomes epidemic in small towns and
badly-drained villages, the Angel of Death has indeed spread his wings
on the blast.
If there is scarlet fever or scarlatina (the milder sort) about, and
your little girl begins to ail from no apparent cause, suffering from
loss of appetite and cheerfulness, if she has chills alternating
with flushing, hot skin and uneasy sleep, with a little headache and
maybe sore throat, with a high temperature and furred tongue, having
little red papillæ showing through—the “strawberry tongue”—then in all
probability she has an attack of scarlatina. We shall hope it is to be
a simple one. Cure it you can’t; but the little patient may be guided
through it.
The doctor is the man to trust. But there is one thing you can assist
him in most materially, and that is in seeing that the patient is
completely isolated from the rest of the house, for the simplest cases
in one child may generate the worst in others. It is a more dangerous
disorder than measles, and mind that, until the doctor gives a clean
bill of health, and the skin has entirely peeled, no other child
should be allowed into the room. Indeed, the success in any one case
depends on careful nursing, and isolation will prevent it spreading.
Disinfectants must of course be used—but the doctor will tell you all
this—and food taken from the room must not even be given to the cat or
dog. She will pull through if scientifically treated, and soon grow out
of any little weaknesses that may remain.
_St. Vitus’s Dance._—Will she grow out of this? I do really think
that the medical profession has a good deal to learn even yet
concerning this strange ailment. But its symptoms are unmistakable.
The uncontrollable, fidgety movements may be slight or very great;
they may be on one side of the body or both. She will grow out of
it, however, if the treatment is most skilful. The health must be
properly attended to, and all rules obeyed which the doctor shall lay
down. The digestion and the teeth must be seen to, with abundance of
fresh air and non-exciting exercise and recreation. The bath often
does wonders—tepid, of course—given in a warm room. There are certain
kinds of methodical drill which, moreover, do good, and many kinds of
tonics. But cod-liver oil or marrol is perhaps one of the best, as it
is a food. The doctor will for each case prescribe the necessary tonic.
Dear me! what thousands of thousands of lives might be saved if we
could only act up to the physician’s instructions. I must bid the young
mother beware of quack medicines, and of all such dangerous drugs as
chloral, bromides, and phenaticin, etc. In the hands of the physician
these are useful; in those of the uninitiated they are verily like
razors grasped by infant fingers.
There are three ailments or more which I hope to treat of in papers
succeeding this. One is incipient consumption and its fresh air cure,
another rickets and bandy legs, and a third scrofula, a disease of the
glands, but, of course, from constitutional causes. Scrofula used to be
called King’s Evil; and, although one suffering therefrom may do much
good by strict adherence to the laws of health, medical advice should
in all cases be sought for.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
ROSEMARY.—1. We have sent your quotation to “Our Open Letter Box.”—2.
For icing, consult the February number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, p.
264. You will find many receipts for cakes there and elsewhere in our
magazine. This is not literary! but we cannot divide a letter. It is
better, if possible, for our correspondents to send separate letters
for questions on cookery, health, toilet, etc.
A. DAWSON.—We should think _Twenty Minutes_, by Harriet L.
Childe-Pemberton might suit you, or _The Witch’s Curse, and Other
Plays_, by Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy (Miss Alcott). French’s catalogue
(Covent Garden, Strand, London) contains all sorts of plays for young
and old, and might prove a help.
IDA.—We should advise you to get _Chambers’s Book-keeping by Single and
Double Entry_, published at 1s. 6d. You might also take correspondence
lessons in the subject. Apply to King’s College, London (Ladies’
Department), the University Correspondence College, 32, Red Lion
Square, W.C., or to one of the private addresses occasionally given
here.
BLACKBERRY.—Your lines in their beginning recall the hymn—
“There’s a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky”;
but they are not written in any metre, and do not rhyme, so they can
scarcely be called verse. The writing of lines of different lengths
below each other does not constitute metrical composition.
SOFIE ABELSBERG.—You write a good English letter. You should not say
“Since three years I study,” but “I have studied for three years”;
and you use “yet” wrongly. You should say “I still make mistakes.”
These are common errors for a foreigner, and we congratulate you on
expressing yourself so well. We insert your request.
NIL DESPERANDUM.—We are very sorry for you, as it is quite true that
the profession of teaching music is overstocked in London. We are
sure it is far wiser to go into the provinces, but we cannot tell
you of any special town where you would find an opening. It is best
to inquire among friends if possible, or your late teachers might be
able to suggest something. Perhaps some reader may help you. We should
think that in a case like yours the Teachers’ Guild, 74, Gower Street,
might be useful. The High Schools all over England employ visiting
music-mistresses.
JECKO (Constantinople).—We are sorry we do not recognise your
quotation, but we have placed it in “Our Open Letter Box.” In any case,
you could not have received a reply in our next number. The magazine
goes to press long before it reaches the hands of our readers.
I. F. N.—We are willing to ask our readers at your wish if they can
suggest four suitable mottoes for embroidering on a bed-spread. We
should recommend Coleridge’s couplet, divided as you like—
“O sleep! it is a gentle thing
Beloved from pole to pole.”
_Ancient Mariner._
MIGNONETTE.—Many thanks for your kind and appreciative verses—“As Sweet
as Spring”—about THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.
BALLOCHMYLE.—1. Unless we are mistaken, a full account of “The House of
Education” at Ambleside appeared in this magazine a year or two ago.
Write to the Secretary for details of the training if you would like
to undergo it. Your age would be all right.—2. Chromo-lithography is a
process of reproducing paintings in colours.
SE SAREN ROSE.—The poem “Divided” is by Jean Ingelow, the well-known
poetess who died not long ago. You will find it in the first volume of
her poems, which you should be able to procure from any good library.
You are quite justified in your admiration. The title of the book is,
_Poems: Jean Ingelow_: Longmans, Green, & Co.
OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.
⁂ We are greatly impressed by the kindness and courtesy of our readers
who, for the sake of absolute strangers, copy out and forward to us
long pieces of poetry. It is, however, only right for us to warn
them that it is most uncertain whether these copies ever reach the
persons for whom they are intended. We keep no register of addresses,
and cannot undertake to forward MSS., while, even if we did so, the
numbers of each copy would probably be far in excess of the demand.
If no address, or request for a copy, is given by the inquirer in
this column, it is quite sufficient to answer the question by simply
mentioning the book or magazine where the desired extract can be
found. We say this with full appreciation of the goodwill shown by our
subscribers in the matter.
“WINTON” has answers (in some cases copies) from OLD BOURNEMOUTHIAN,
MISS EDITH WILLIAMSON, C. A. H., R. E. M. JAMES, M. M., G. SHAW,
M. J. P. M., “AZZIE,” DOROTHY SHOVE, LOUIE FRANCIS, LAVINIA METCALFE,
ELLEN, BERTHA L. WRIGHT, MISS JAMES, D. MORRISH, A. G., ANNIE NICHOLLS,
EDITH H., B. MOUNTIFIELD, MISS HANLY, and DAISY. The hymn is referred
to Sankey’s _Songs and Solos_ (732), the _Christian Endeavour Hymnal_,
the _Union Mission Hymnal_, and the _Hymnal Companion_ (No. 597).
“DOUBTFUL” has answers, and in some cases copies, from M. M. HARRIS,
MRS. E. BÜRCK, SOPHIA, EVELYN CLARE, ANNIE S. HARDY, BERTHA PARKS, MISS
KNEESHAW, referring “The Noble Boy,” _alias_ “Somebody’s Mother,” to
Blackie’s _Fourth Reader_, Chambers’s _Expressive Reader_ (price 9d.),
and Nelson’s _Royal Reader_, No. 2.
HOPE has replies from M. L. SPACKMAN, “A LOVER OF MUSIC,” “MIDGET,”
and “PANSY.” “Trouble in Amen Corner” is by T. C. Harbaugh, and may be
found in the _Thousand Best Poems in the World_ (Hutchinson & Co.), and
Chambers’s _Elocution_, new edition.
ROSEMARY wishes for the words of a song beginning—
“Mary and John, down in the distant old village.”
“GOWAN” has a copy of “The Women of Mumbles Head,” sent by M. J. P. M.
The poem is by Clement Scott, and may be found in Forsyth’s _Practical
Elocutionist_ (Blackie & Son).
Can anyone tell “JECKO” (Constantinople) the source of the following
quotation?—
“In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld with clearer vision
Justice the Avenger rise.”
OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.
[Illustration]
⁂ PRIZES to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved
for competitors living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of
the above Puzzle Poem. The following conditions must be observed:—
1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.
2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.
3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.
4. Send by post to Editor, GIRL’S OWN PAPER, 56, Paternoster Row,
London. “Puzzle Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the
envelope.
5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland
will be September 16, 1899; from Abroad, November 16, 1899.
The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or
age.
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 692: he to be—“have to be content”.
be to he—“when he is back”.
Cappucini to Cappuccini—“Cappuccini at Amalfi”.
Page 701: primoses to primroses—“primroses were to be found”.]