A CATASTROPHE.
About three weeks after my mistress’s visit something very terrible
happened. I wish the history of that day would get itself told without
the pain of telling it. My life has been a happy one, thank God! I have
been “led by paths that I have not known,” but even now I never look
back upon that day without a shudder. Oh, Reggie, my darling! But God
was good to us, and the danger passed; still, it will be only in heaven
that we may bear to look back on past perils without dimness of eyes
and failing of heart!
I had never left Rolf alone with the children for a moment since Judson
had told me of his mischievous propensities. I had grown fond of Rolf,
and he was certainly very much improved; but I always felt he was not
to be trusted, and either Hannah or I kept a strict guard over him. He
was never permitted to enter the nursery in the morning; if we went
out, he joined us, as a matter of course; but more than once when he
begged for admittance I had refused it decidedly. Hannah was always
busy in the morning, and the children slept for an hour, and if there
were time I liked to take Joyce to her lessons, or to set her some
baby-task of needlework, and Rolf always made her so rough.
On a rainy afternoon or in the evening she would be allowed to romp
with Rolf, and they always played together on the beach. Rolf was more
in his element out of doors. Judson had been very unwell for some days;
she was a sickly sort of body, and was often ailing; but just then she
had a threatening of quinsy, and seemed very feverish and suffering.
Her room was close to the nursery, and it was only sheer humanity for
Hannah or myself to go in now and then and see what we could do for
her. I had got it into my head that she was somewhat neglected by the
other servants. I know Gay thought so, for she asked me to do what I
could for her.
She had been ordered some linseed poultices that morning, and Mrs.
Markham had come up to the nursery and asked me very civilly if I would
apply them, as the upper housemaid was away, and Susan was very clumsy
and helpless.
“I will stay with the children,” she said, quite graciously, for her;
“and Hannah is here.” And as I knew Rolf was in the garden with his
aunt, I could not find a loophole for excuse. I do not think I was
wrong now, for how could I have refused such a request? But the fates
were against me. That is a foolish and untrue expression, but I will
let it stand.
The poultices were far from hot, and poor Judson, who seemed in great
pain and very nervous about herself, begged me to go down to the
housekeeper’s room and make some more. “It is no use Susan making them,
and Mrs. Rumble is always so busy,” she whispered; “do go yourself,
Miss Fenton, and then I shall be more sure of hot ones.”
The housekeeper’s room lay at the end of a long passage leading from
the hall, shut in with red baize doors. These swing doors deadened
sound, and that was why I did not hear Rolf come in from the garden and
scamper upstairs.
The front-door bell rang immediately afterwards, and some visitors
were asked into the drawing-room. I knew Gay was about the premises,
and the idea never crossed my mind that Mrs. Markham would desert her
post and leave the three children alone in the nursery; but I heard
afterwards that this was the case. An old Indian friend had called, and
Mrs. Markham had desired Rolf to summon Hannah from the night nursery;
but Rolf, who was seldom obedient to his mother, had simply ignored the
order.
I was some little time in the housekeeper’s room. The kettle did not
boil, and I was compelled to wait. I was rather impatient at the delay.
As I stood talking to Mrs. Rumble, I saw Mr. Hawtry ride up to the
front door.
I succeeded at last in making the poultices. Judson was very grateful
to me, and thanked me warmly as I put them on. I had just covered her
over comfortably and taken from her the red woollen shawl in which she
had wrapped herself, when a sudden report, as though from a toy cannon,
and then a piercing scream from the nursery, made me start as though I
had been shot, for the scream was from Joyce.
The next instant I was in the nursery, but, oh, merciful heavens! the
sight that met my eyes. Hannah had just opened the door. Rolf and
Joyce were huddled together on the window seat, beside themselves with
terror, and there stood Reggie in the middle of the room with his
pinafore and white frock in flames! I must have uttered a scream that
roused the house, and then it seemed to me as though I knew nothing,
and felt nothing except the smarting pains in my arm and shoulder. I
had thrown the child on the floor and covered him with my body, and the
woollen shawl was between us, and I was crushing the dear life almost
out of him with that terrible pressure.
I seemed to know instinctively that nothing else could save him.
Happily, I wore a stuff dress, for there was no rug or carpet in the
nursery, and, with the open door and windows, another moment would
have been too late. I could hear Reggie’s piteous cries, but I dare
not release him; I must crush and smother the flames. There was the
terrible smell of burning, the singeing of stuff, a sudden uproar round
me, confused voices and exclamations. I seemed to hear Gay’s voice
crying, “Oh, Merle! you will smother the child!” And then strong arms
lifted me off Reggie. I knew it was Mr. Hawtry; no one else could have
done it. His grasp gave me intense agony, and I tried to free myself.
“Let me go; I must see if he is hurt.” But Gay had him already in her
lap, and I knelt down beside her and examined him carefully.
His frock and pinafore were hanging in blackened shreds around him, but
there was only a large hole burnt in his flannel petticoat, and one of
his dear little legs was scorched; not a curl of his hair was singed,
and only one hand had sustained a slight injury. They said there were
bruises on him that I had caused by my violence, but that was all, Mrs.
Markham assured me; there were tears in her eyes, and her face was as
white as death as she said it.
“The little fellow will soon be all right,” observed Mr. Hawtry,
kindly; “he has been frightened and hurt that makes him cry so. But now
it is time your wounds should be dressed, Miss Fenton.”
I looked at him as though I failed to comprehend his meaning, but he
pointed to my arms with such a pitying expression on his face, that I
looked too. My sleeves were hanging in shreds like Reggie’s frock, and
there were large burns on each arm; my right shoulder felt painful,
too; a faint sickening sensation seemed creeping over me. I must have
got my arms under him or I should not have been so badly burnt, and
some of my hair was singed. When Gay touched me gently I shuddered with
pain, and they all looked at me very gravely.
“We must have Dr. Staples, Roger,” observed Mrs. Markham; “her arms
must be properly dressed.”
“I will go for him at once,” returned Mr. Hawtry, “but I advise you to
give her a little wine or brandy; she looks faint with pain.” And then
he went away, and we could hear him galloping down the avenue and along
the road.
I drank what they gave me, but I refused to lie down until Reggie had
been undressed. I would not be persuaded without the evidence of my own
eyes that he had sustained no serious injury. I suppose his scorched
leg pained him, for he still cried incessantly and beat us off in his
usual fashion, but when Hannah had dressed him in his nice clean frock,
he grew pacified at the sight of his blue ribbons, and only said,
‘Poor, poor,’ as he pointed to me. He wanted to come on my lap, but
when I tried to take him I turned so faint, that Gay looked frightened
and snatched him away.
I wanted to know what had become of Rolf, but Mrs. Markham said,
sternly, and her lips were still very pale, that she had sent him to
his room. “Tell me how it happened, Joyce,” she continued, drawing the
child to her. “I told Rolf to fetch Hannah; did she not come to you?”
“Rolf didn’t fetch her, Aunt Adda; he said he was a big boy, and would
take care of us. Poor Rolf did not mean to be naughty, did he, nurse?”
“Rolf must be severely punished for his disobedience; he has nearly
killed your little brother, Joyce. Tell me what Rolf did after that.”
“He asked me if I would not like to see his dear little cannon that
went pop when he told it,” went on Joyce, looking extremely frightened.
“I did not know cannons were wicked things, and I said yes, and Rolf
showed us the cannon, and told us to get out of the way, for it would
kill us dead, and I runned, and baby clapped his hands and runned
the wrong way, and Rolf had fire in his hand, like Hannah lights the
candles with, and baby’s pinafore got on fire, and I screamed as hard
as I could for nurse.”
It must have been just as Joyce said, for the toy cannon was on the
floor, and a box of matches beside it. Probably Rolf had not seen
Reggie beside him, and had thrown the lighted match aside in his
excitement. Mrs. Markham sighed deeply as she listened. She had
sustained a severe shock; her face looked very dark and rigid as she
left the room. I was afraid she meant to punish Rolf severely, and
begged Gay to follow her and plead for mercy.
“Rolf has had a fright that will last him for life; his terror has been
punishment enough.” But Gay shook her head.
“It is no use interfering with Adelaide; she will take her own way. I
am sorry for Rolf; but he deserves any punishment he gets. Reggie would
have been burnt to death but for your presence of mind, Merle; none of
us could have reached the nursery in time. Mr. Hawtry said so at once.”
Reggie burnt to death! and then my mistress would have died, too;
she could not have survived the horror of that shock. I begged Gay
faintly not to say such things; the bare mention of it turned me sick.
I suppose she was alarmed by my ghastly look, for she kissed me, and
said, soothingly, that I must not distress myself so; we could only be
thankful that Reggie was safe.
Dr. Staples came soon after that. He was a benevolent-looking old man,
and was very kind and gentle. He said one of my arms, the left one,
was severely burnt, and that it would be some little time before it
was healed. “These things depend a great deal on constitution; but you
seem strong and healthy, Miss Fenton, so I hope you will soon be right
again; but you must not expect to lose the scars.”
I was sorry to hear that, for I knew the scars would remind me of a
terrible hour in my life. The dressing was very painful, and when it
was finished I was compelled to follow Dr. Staples’s advice and go
to bed. I was suffering from the shock, and I knew my arms would be
useless to me for a week to come. I felt shaken and sick, and unable to
bear the childish voices.
Gay followed me into the night nursery and gave me all the help
she could, and she did not leave me until my head was on the
lavender-scented pillow. In spite of pain and dizziness, it was nice to
lie there and hear the birds twittering under the eaves and the bees
humming about the flowers, and to look out on the sunshine and feel a
great mercy had been vouchsafed to me, that I had not been suffered to
fail in the hour of peril.
Gay hung up her cage of canaries in the window to divert my mind, and
laid a bunch of dark clove carnations, with a late rose or two among
them, on the quilt.
“Mr. Hawtry is still here, Merle; he is very anxious to know if you are
in less pain, and whether there is anything he can do for you. He seems
quite grieved because Dr. Staples says your arm is badly burnt.”
I sent a civil message of thanks to Mr. Hawtry, and then I detained Gay
a moment.
“Miss Gay, you must write to Mr. Morton yourself. I have promised your
sister to tell her everything; but it will shock her too much, and I
think Mr. Morton should know first.”
Gay looked distressed.
“Need we tell them, Merle? Violet is not at all well; Alick said so in
his letter this morning. Scotland does not seem to suit her, and he
thinks they will soon come home.”
“And they have not been away a month yet,” I observed, regretfully;
“not more than three weeks and two days, and Mr. Morton is so fond of
Scotland.”
“Alick thinks more of Vi than deer-stalking. If she be not well he will
bring her home without a word of grumbling. In some respects Alick is a
very good husband. Why need we say anything about the accident, Merle?
Reggie is scarcely hurt at all; his scorched leg will soon get right.”
“It is not fair to keep anything from them. I promised I would tell
everything, and my mistress must know I am invalided and cannot do my
duty.”
“You need not fret about that,” she returned, cheerfully. “Susan shall
help Hannah, and I will be here as much as possible. I am a famous
nurse. We will make Mrs. Rumble wait on Judson. Very well, Merle, I
will write to Alick; but I would much rather not.”
I had forgotten poor Judson, but I did not forget Rolf; I asked several
times after him, but Gay had not seen him. Rolf was in disgrace, and a
close prisoner to his room. He had had his dinner sent up to him; but
Adelaide was lying down in her own room all the afternoon with a bad
headache, and, as Rolf’s communicated with hers, no one could visit him
unperceived.
I wondered if Mrs. Markham’s eyes were at last opened to the danger of
Rolf’s disobedience and her own faulty management. She was to blame
as much as the child. She had given me her word to remain in the
nursery, and no visitors should have tempted her from her post. It was
no surprise to me to hear she was ill with worry; her conscience must
have reproached her for her breach of trust. If Reggie had been killed,
his death would have been owing to her carelessness. Later on in the
evening, just as it was getting dusk, Gay came to me for a minute with
a plate of fine fruit in her hand. They had tempted me all day long
with delicacies, but I had felt too ill to eat. The fruit just suited
me, for I was feverish with pain.
“Adelaide has just come downstairs,” she said, with a droll little
laugh. “Mr. Rossiter had heard of the accident, and had dropped in
to inquire, so father kept him to dinner. When Adelaide heard that,
she came down as soon as possible, and there she sits, looking like a
ghost, until Mr. Rossiter takes his departure.”
“And Rolf?”
“Oh, I suppose Rolf is asleep,” she returned, carelessly; and as she
was evidently in a hurry to return to the drawing-room, I would not
keep her; but as soon as she had closed the door a sudden idea came
into my head. I would go and see Rolf myself; I was not easy about
him. I knew his mother could be too severe even with her idolised boy
on occasions, but I never could bear a child to be long unhappy. I
rose very quietly, so as not to disturb the children, and threw on my
dressing-gown. I was rather afraid my white face and bandaged arms
would frighten Rolf, until I remembered it was dusk, and he could not
see me distinctly.
Mrs. Markham’s suite of rooms lay in the west corridor. I knew no
one would be about; poor Judson was in bed, so I reached Rolf’s room
without interruption. I thought I heard him sobbing softly to himself
as I opened the door. When I spoke to him, making my way through the
summer twilight to his little bed, he started up and held out his arms.
“Oh, Fenny, is that really you, dear Fenny? Do come close and let me
feel you. I have been thinking of such horrid things.”
I told him gently that I was in great pain, and that he must not touch
me, but that I would sit down for a little while beside him and talk to
him.
“But I may hold your hand,” he pleaded. “Is your hand burnt too, Fenny,
or don’t you like to touch me because I am such a wicked boy, as mother
says, and very nearly killed poor little Reggie?”
My heart melted at his pitiful tone, and I stooped over him and kissed
his hot face.
“You may hold my hand, Rolf, dear, if you like; it is only my arms that
are hurt; there, we are comfortable now. Tell me, have you had a very
miserable day?”
“Oh, so miserable!” and there were tears in Rolf’s voice. “Mother has
been so angry; she shut me up in this room though it was such a fine
day, and would not let anyone speak to me, and I could not get her to
answer although I said over and over again that I was sorry and would
not have hurt Reggie for the world, he is such a dear little fellow,
you know. Oh! I am so fond of him. But mother said no, she would not
listen; I had disobeyed her, and nearly killed Reggie, and that Aunt
Violet would never speak to me again.”
“Oh, yes she will, Rolf.”
“But if Reggie had been really burnt, you know,” and here Rolf
shivered; his hand was quite cold though his face was burning. He was a
nervous, excitable child, and no doubt this long summer’s day had been
a martyrdom to him. He had conjured up all sorts of horrible fancies to
haunt his dreams. Yes, he had been sufficiently punished, I was sure of
that.
“Tell me how it happened, dear,” I said, quietly.
“I was firing my cannon to please Joyce. I know mother told me never
to take it in the nursery, and that she did not like my lighting it
unless Judson had the matchbox, but I forgot.”
“Did you really forget, Rolf?”
“Yes, really I did; I never do remember things, you know. I was only
thinking how Joyce would scream when the cannon popped. I told them to
get out of the way, only Reggie, poor little fellow, ran against me
and knocked the match out of my hand—it was alight, you know—and then
Joyce did scream, and,” but here Rolf buried his head in the pillow;
the recollection was evidently too painful. “You will all hate me,” he
sobbed, “because I nearly killed Reggie—you and Aunt Violet, and I do
love Aunt Violet, because she is so pretty.”
“No one will hate you, my poor child; we are only sorry that the son
of a brave soldier like Colonel Markham should be such a coward as
to disobey his mother. Your mother told you to fetch Hannah. Did you
forget that too, Rolf?”
“No,” in a conscience-stricken voice, “I did not forget, Fenny, but I
thought it would be fun to take care of the children.”
“But it was disobedience, Rolf, just as much as your coming into the
nursery at that time you took advantage of my absence first, and then
of your mother’s. I think a brave soldier like your father would call
that cowardly. Now, I want you to listen to a story about the bravest
boy of whom I ever heard.” And as I stroked his rough head I told him
the story of Casabianca and the burning ship.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
[Illustration: New Music]
NOVELLO, EWER AND CO.
_Concone’s Lessons._ Fifty Lessons for the Medium Part of the Voice,
and Forty Lessons for Contralto, or for Bass and Baritone.—It is
needless for us to recommend sterling works like these, the value of
which has been acknowledged for so long a time; but we may call special
attention to this admirable new edition, containing, as it does, a
completed system of phrasing and expression marks, a correction of the
breathing points, and a careful revision at the hands of Mr. Randegger,
the well-known professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music.
STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.
_The Return of May_, a choral trio for female voices, is a very
clever piece of three-part writing, with an interesting independent
accompaniment. It is by Amy Elise Horrocks, and the words are those of
Mrs. Hemans.
_Fly, little Song, to my Love._—A most charming ballad by Alfred
Cellier, whose writings are always graceful in melody and uncommon in
harmony. The constant repetition of the initial phrase becomes a little
tiring, beautiful though the phrase undoubtedly is.
_Violets._—A sweet, simple song addressed to some flowers plucked to
cheer a poor invalid in the “great, dim, smoky city.” Poetry by Ellis
Walton. Music by R. B. Addison.
_Four Songs for Tenor._ Composed by Whewall Bowling.—A good present
for tenors who sing something greater and better than the drawing-room
ditty of commerce. The accompaniments are beautiful, and need good
playing.
(a) _Four Sonnets by Shakespeare._ The German version by Bodenstedt.
(b) _English Lyrics._ Second set. Words by Shakespeare. Composed
by C. Hubert H. Parry.—Of these, the sonnets will be above the
comprehension of the average singer. They are very fine and wonderfully
thought out and wedded to the sentiment and expression of Shakespeare’s
powerfully expressive words. The lyrics from Shakespeare’s plays are
more easily grasped, and cannot fail to give enjoyment. In No. 5, “When
icicles hang by the wall,” there is a funny introduction of the song
“We won’t go home till morning” in the accompaniment!
_Characteristic Tunes of the British Isles._ (Books 1, 2.) Selected
and arranged for four hands by C. Hubert H. Parry.—Very original duet
arrangements of our well-known national songs. “Three Blind Mice” is
treated in a very droll manner. For perfect beauty we think you will
agree that “The Pearl of the White Breast,” an Irish air, bears the
palm. The Scotch tune, “The Flowers of the Forest,” is not the form of
that song best known to modern singers.
_Larghetto and Allegro._ For violin and piano. By John Christian
Mantel, who in 1730 was organist of South Benfleet, in Essex, and who
appears by his writing to be an admirer of Handel’s.—The edition is by
Otto Peiniger, at whose recitals these old English violin pieces have
been played.
J. B. CRAMER AND CO.
_The Silent City_, by Cotsford Dick, may be recommended as a Sunday
song. Effective and easy, and of moderate compass.
_O Loved and Lost._ Song. Written and composed by Lord Henry
Somerset. Published in F and A. The former key suitable for basses
and contraltos, and the latter key for sopranos and tenors.—Full of
delicate sentiment and graceful treatment of what are sometimes rather
trite expressions in melody.
_At the Concert._ Humorous song. By Henry Pontet.—Will amuse, if it
does not point an obvious moral to concert-goers, who attend those
entertainments in the body, but in spirit (and conversation, alas!) are
far, far away.
_A June Song_, by Mary Carmichael, is, what it should be, suggestive of
the “odour of hay:” “full of the scent and the glow and the passion of
June,” as the pretty words tell us.
HUTCHINGS AND CO.
_The Wreck of the Hesperus_ is set by C. H. Lewis as a cantata for
female voices, and merits the attention of ladies’ choirs.
_The Long White Seam._ Song by Jean Ingelow. Set to music by Wilfred
Bendall.—A song of more than average excellence by this rising composer.
_The Evening Farewell._ A four-part song. Composed by Sir G. A.
Macfarren, to words by his father.—Presenting nothing uncommon about
it, this little part-song runs smoothly, and may be easily performed.
Singers will enjoy the soft effect of the minor common chord on B flat,
immediately following and, as it were, qualifying the major chord upon
the same root. If proof were needed as to which should be in reality
the relative minor to any major scale, the scale possessing the same
signature to start with, but contradicting that signature in practice,
or the scale having the same dominant and the same leading note, this
little passage alone would decide us in favour of the latter.
_Broken Heart_, _An Old Tale_, and _May Song_.—Piano pieces, good in
their form, songs without words, but very suggestive of their titles,
and carefully written, by John Urich.
_Alla Tarantella._ Caprice for piano. By Joseph L.
Roeckel.—Characteristic and well worked up to the necessary pitch of
mad fury.
_Danses Sclave._ Pianoforte duets. By J. C. Bridge, M.A.,
Mus.Doc.—Rather a mild notion of the impetuous Slavonic dance, with
its strange accents and brusque uncouthness, combined with its many
charming and sad quaintnesses. You should learn these duets, though;
for even if they prove that a man writes best in accordance with his
environment, they will also prove themselves interesting, pleasant
tasks for young pianists.
In _Elementary Music_, Book I. of a complete school, by Alfred Gilbert,
M.R.A.M., it seems to us that the arrangement made is likely to
prove rather confusing than otherwise. Too much is said. One of the
statements, at least, will be a source of trouble, viz., that “the
white keys of the pianoforte are called naturals.” What will the little
student do about E♯, F×, G×, C♭, B♯, E♭♭, etc., etc.? The contradiction
of the above statement occurs naturally enough in the music
provided later on, but only in the music. [Transcriber’s note—the
multiplication sign, x, has been used in the paragraph above in place
of the double sharp symbol and two flat symbols in place of the double
flat symbol.]
J. AND J. HOPKINSON.
_In Dreamland City._ By Theo. Bonheur.—A pretty song, with a graceful,
taking refrain.
_Bonnie Face._ Words by the late Hugh Conway. Music by A. H.
Behrend.—Another sad invitation from either a grannie, or an auntie,
or an unclie to a little childie to keep its spirits up, and, if
possible, remain a little child for ever, as the opportunities for
enjoyment, or, at any rate, for laughter, become limited when we learn
to read and write. Enough to damp the ardour of any healthy, growing
child.
EDWIN ASHDOWN.
_La Zingara_, for piano, by Michael Watson, is named by him “Morceau
alla Tarantella.”—The bite of the tarantula seems in this case to be
rather pleasant than otherwise; it would be better styled “A Gipsy
Dance.”
MARRIOTT AND WILLIAMS.
_Mirage._—An expressive, powerfully-written song, by Edith Marriott,
who shows great progress in her various compositions.
_There’s a Bower of Roses._—A charmingly simple setting of these
lovely words of Thomas Moore.
F. PITMAN.
The Christmas double number of the _Violin Soloist_ is a marvellous
twopennyworth, containing twelve well-known pieces. They are fingered
and bowed thoroughly, and the whole number is well printed and got up.
W. J. WILLCOCKS AND CO.
_Verviers_ is the name of a bright, sparkling _air de ballet_, written
for the piano by Ivan Caryll.
_Three Sketches_, by Edward L. Hopkins, are quiet Sunday scenes
expressed on the pianoforte.
T. H. BARNETT.
_Saltarello_ in A minor. By R. J. Thompson.—A bright little movement
for players of moderate capacity and ready fingers.
A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.
CHAPTER IV.
LAST DAYS.
It might have seemed now that Marie Thérèse of France had endured
enough of sorrow, and that her days might be allowed to flow on
evenly—not, indeed, joyfully, but in a calm content. For a year or
two it seemed as if this would be the case, but there were still other
storms to be encountered before the life history was to be complete.
Five years after the second Restoration the Duc de Berri was
assassinated at the Opéra. The Duchess of Angoulême was one of those
immediately summoned to the ante-room of the Opera House, where her
brother-in-law lay dying. Her husband, fearing some danger, would
have restrained her from accompanying him, but she felt her place was
there. “What,” exclaims Châteaubriand, “were dangers to her, who was
accustomed to look revolution in the face!” Herself overcome with
grief, she paid a noble tribute to the fortitude of the Duchesse de
Berri. “She is sublime,” she said more than once; and, bending over the
dying man, she said, “Courage, brother; and if God calls you hence, ask
my father there to pray for France and for us.”
When, six months after his father’s death, the only son of the Duc and
Duchesse de Berri was born, it was the Duchess of Angoulême, to whom
the blessing of children had been denied, who showed the infant to the
people assembled before the palace windows with every sign of joy and
delight.
The death of Louis XVIII. in 1824 made the Duchess of Angoulême
Dauphine of France. But her life continued as retired as ever, and she
spent much of her time in watching over the early years of her little
nephew, the Duc de Bordeaux. After six comparatively uneventful years
the storm broke which doomed her to a final exile. The duchess was at
Dijon when a hostile reception at the theatre announced to her that
there was once more a revolution. Travelling all night with one or two
attendants to Versailles, she made her way in the disguise of a peasant
to St. Cloud, only to find that the King was at Rambouillet. “Can you
forgive me?” cried Charles X. as he met his niece. Her answer was an
embrace. “I trust,” she said, “we are now united for ever.” The King
abdicated, and the Duc d’Angoulême surrendered his claims in favour of
the little Duc de Bordeaux, while Louis Philippe of Orleans was to be
Lieutenant-General during the prince’s minority. But the Chamber of
Deputies declared for Louis Philippe. After some little hesitation, he
consented to become “King of the French,” and there was nothing left
for Charles X. but to depart. Escorted by the commissioners sent by the
new king for the purpose, the royal family passed with slow stateliness
on their way to the sea coast, taking a fortnight in reaching
Cherbourg. The last pageant of the departing dynasty was witnessed
for the most part with silent respect. The little Duc de Bordeaux and
his sister, ignorant of the meaning of it all, stood at the carriage
windows, bowing and kissing their hands in their childish way to the
people, and the sight of the children made the tears start to many
eyes. The Duchess of Angoulême sat in one of the carriages, silent and
alone, save for a lady-in-waiting. It seemed a hard fate that condemned
her once more to exile. It was the 16th of August, 1830, when they
embarked for England, and it was characteristic of the duchess that she
lingered longest on the deck, watching the shores of France as they
receded for the last time from her sight.
The exiles landed at Weymouth, and spent two months under the
hospitable roof of Cardinal Weld at Lulworth Castle. Thence they
repaired to Edinburgh, where they occupied the palace of Holyrood.
Thence, in the end of the year 1832, they returned to the Continent,
and took up their residence in the old Hradschin palace at Prague. From
Prague they removed to Goritz, and here, in the winter of 1836, Charles
X. died. Eight years later the Duchess of Angoulême was left a widow.
The last years of her life were spent at Frohsdorf, a plain, somewhat
uninteresting house near Neustadt, commanding a prospect over the
plain which extends to the borders of Styria, which had been purchased
for her from Caroline Murat, the ex-Queen of Naples, and to which she
retired after her husband’s death. The Duc de Bordeaux (better known
to modern readers as the Comte de Chambord) and his sister, afterwards
Duchess of Parma, resided with her, and old and faithful courtiers and
servants—all of whom were French—formed her household. Distinguished
Frenchmen often visited Frohsdorf, and were always received graciously
and kindly. In 1848 the news was brought to the duchess of the fall of
Louis Philippe. “It is enough,” she said, as the story brought vividly
before her the memory of another fall eighteen years before, “I dare
not listen any more; we are too completely avenged.”
It was a sorrow to her that her nephew seemed content to let
opportunities slip past him, and she had at last to acknowledge that
he was unlikely to regain the throne of his ancestors. His training
had been of a narrowing character, and he lacked the energy and the
decision which, if exercised at the right time, might have led to great
results.
The end came to the Duchess of Angoulême at Frohsdorf, in the autumn
of 1851. Her illness lasted only two days, and she died on the 16th
of October, the fifty-eighth anniversary of her mother’s execution.
We may not doubt that the happiest day of her long, eventful life
was that which marked its close, and re-united her at last to all
those she loved. “I do not fear death,” she wrote, in her last will,
“and, lacking merit of my own, I place all my trust in the mercy of
God.... After the example of my parents, I pardon with my entire soul,
and without exception, all those who have injured or offended me;
sincerely praying God to extend to them His mercy, and to me also for
the pardon of my sins. I pray God to shower down His blessings upon
France—France, that I have never ceased to love under my bitterest
affliction.”
She was buried, in accordance with her expressed wish, in the vault of
the Franciscan Convent at Goritz, between her husband and the King,
her father-in-law. In the same vault there now rest the two children
over whose early years she had watched with tender care—Henri Duc de
Bordeaux and Comte de Chambord, and Louise Marie Thérèse Duchess of
Parma.
A few words which form the close of an article on the Duchess of
Angoulême, which appeared in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ at the time of
her death, sum up her life history so concisely, that I append them
here by way of conclusion:—
“Of the seventy-three years of her life, she passed eight (the best of
her youth) in restraint or in a dungeon, and thirty-eight in exile, and
yet she died acknowledging the mercies and the glory of God. Let us who
have not known affliction, or who have been but lightly visited, derive
wisdom from the instruction offered us by the pious daughter of Louis
Seize and Marie Antoinette.”
R. W. R.
[THE END.]
A GERMAN NUPTIAL EVE.
BY ONE WHO WAS PRESENT.
It is an old custom in Germany, and one which we may hope will never
die out, to have a gathering of friends on the nuptial eve, either at
the house of the bride elect, or, when this is too small, in a hotel.
Most of the guests are expected to appear in some character, and give
a recitation or song, if possible, composed for the occasion, and
referring in some way to the bride and bridegroom. It is a cheerful,
pleasant custom, and helps to make the last evening in the old home
a happy and joyous one, by surrounding the bride with the friends of
her youth who come to wish her God speed in the new life about to open
up. It seems in many ways much better than having a party after the
wedding, when the bride and bridegroom are no longer among the guests,
and it is pleasanter to remember that the last festivities in the old
home were brightened by their company.
Let me give a sketch of a nuptial eve, or, as our German cousins call
it, a “Polter Abend” gathering, at which I was present, held at the
house of the bride, and for that reason more homelike than if it had
been held in a hotel. In former times it was common among all classes,
but now chiefly among the poorer, for the guests to bring old crockery
and smash it before the door of the house, so that next morning, if it
had been a large party, the unfortunate father had to employ a man and
cart to carry away the fragments. I was unable to discover the origin
of this, but it seems like our throwing an old shoe after the bride as
she leaves home. Has it anything to do with the German custom of giving
the baby a shilling when he breaks his first plate? Most people appear
to be not altogether sorry that this marriage custom is dying out.
Without any crockery, but with a little inward fear and trembling,
owing to my slender knowledge of the language, I stood, one evening
last September, at the house of my friend, waiting for the door to open
to introduce me into the midst of the excitement. Glad I was to find
several who could speak English, and I was tempted to talk more English
than German.
The programme of the evening commenced by Fräulein and a young medical
student singing a very humorous duet together, containing some warnings
to the bride and bridegroom, who, however, seemed to enjoy it as much
as anyone. In accordance with a time-honoured custom, which is also
observed when moving into a new house, a little girl went up to the
bride, and, after reciting a poem, gave her a stand containing salt and
a bread-basket, in order that the newly married couple, on commencing
housekeeping, might have something with which to begin and keep them
from starvation. Perhaps the salt may also be meant for a warning
against ever letting any bitter words pass between the two who are now
so loving to each other, and the bread may also signify contentment
with the simpler things of life, coupled with the rich delicacy of love.
After the bride had received this present, a dwarf with a long white
beard, described by Scheffer, the German poet, as Perkeo, dwarf of
Heidelberg Castle, came forth, and sang a song of his own composition.
It narrated several events in the lives of the bride and bridegroom in
a very amusing manner. The dwarf was personated by the medical student,
a younger brother of the bridegroom, and he told how, in the earlier
days of courtship, they used to send him away to play with other boys,
in order to be alone together, and how, having wisely learnt English,
they would tease him by speaking in that language, which he, poor
fellow! did not understand. But now that is all forgotten, and he is
quite ready to forgive them for all their misdeeds in the past, ending
by wishing them a very happy and joyous future.
While we were having some refreshments, a peasant girl from Southern
Germany appeared, dressed in the pretty costume peculiar to the
district, and with a basket upon her back such as is seen in all
pictures of German market-women. It contained crockery. Addressing
the bride, and after praising up her wares, and saying how impossible
they were to break, she carelessly let fall an already broken cup,
but in such a manner as to make it appear as if it broke in falling.
She quickly atoned for her stupidity by presenting the bride with a
beautiful china tea and coffee set painted by her mother, and which she
was very careful _not_ to break. Very heartily she was received, and
continued to receive the congratulations of her friends until no less a
person than the self-appointed ambassador of her most gracious Majesty
Queen Victoria and of the President of the United States is announced.
He came as a joint ambassador of the two nations, partly because he
had himself lived some years in England, and partly because the bride
had lived in America, so that it was fitting that someone should
represent these nations. The manner in which he was received showed
the cordial relationship existing between Germany and these countries.
He finished, after mentioning the recent marriage of the President, by
conveying united congratulations to the bride, who was delighted with
the voice from the old country, and who, by the way, had placed a small
American flag above a large German one.
The young Englishman having finished, a lady decorated the bride with
the bridal wreath, reciting a poem composed by herself. A pretty custom
usually takes place at this moment. All the young people present form a
circle round the bride, who stands blindfolded in the centre and places
the wreath upon someone’s head, showing who will be the next to be
married. Unfortunately, it was omitted on this evening, so we did not
know on whom the lot would fall, much as we should have liked to, and
the question remains unanswered.
When the bride had received the wreath, the bridegroom’s father recited
a poem, and gave the bride a box containing the rare meerschaum powder,
brought from Ruhla, a great seat of the meerschaum pipe trade in the
Thuringer Wald. The German wives are noted for being good _hausfraus_
(housekeepers), and frequently a girl will go into a _pension_ to
learn housekeeping before she is married. This powder is for cleaning
purposes, and serves as a reminder of what is expected from the bride.
The evening finished by one more very clever speech from the student,
who made some capital jokes about the partnership of the two names,
which were, both in German and in English, names of very common
businesses, without which we could not live, and certainly, if they did
not go hand in hand with each other, a general failure would be the
result. And with everyone in good humour, we bid adieu at half-past
eleven, we English almost thinking that we might take a lesson from
the Germans, and very much increase the pleasures of a wedding by
instituting a “Polter Abend” in England.
W. A. H. LEGG.
Arnstadt, Nov., 1886.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
EDUCATIONAL.
BEATTIE.—You do not say where you reside. You should write for all
such information to the special college under whose training you will
find it the most convenient to place yourself. Address the secretary.
G. M. H. should read all our answers to correspondents under the above
heading, as her questions have been answered over and over again in our
volumes. In one of the early volumes there was an article entitled “How
to Earn One’s Living.”
A. MC.—You should write to the secretary of the Holloway College for
Women direct, and obtain their prospectus, stating your wishes and all
the particulars of the case.
E. T. G.—The Latin motto, _Virtus semper viridis_, is that of three
families—_i.e._, Corry, Green, and Lowry, and means, “Virtue is always
flourishing.”
C. M. should write direct to the secretary of the College of
Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C. 2. We give you the same
advice; you had better read and judge for yourself.
POLLIE.—Write to the secretary of the Civil Service Commissioners,
Cannon-row, S.W., and obtain the printed prospectus of rules respecting
the clerkships of the telegraph department. If you look through our
answers under the above heading, you will see scores of replies to this
question.
C. KERSHAW.—There is a training home for domestic servants, The Guild
of Aid, at Zeals, near Bath, Somerset, and one at 19, Romney-place,
Maidstone; matron, Miss Kemp. Also St. John’s Training School for
Girls, Westbourne-park, W.; matron, Miss McEwen.
ART.
ZILLAH.—If the medium known as Florentine is used when painting upon
silk, it is not necessary to prepare the foundation.
MARS.—In mirror painting it is necessary to use one of the many
mediums advertised, or the oil paints are easily removable with
turpentine or a penknife.
THE LADY OF AROOSTOCK.—It is extremely difficult to sell original
drawings, and much more so to sell mere copies. So we fear that we
could not help you. Shew’s mounting medium for photographs is the best
to employ.
IVY.—The safest manner of cleaning photographs is to immerse them in
pure clean tepid water, and then wipe them dry with a soft silk rag.
WORK.
A MOTHER is thanked for the recipe she kindly gives for a description
of embroidery, especially her own:—For the foundation, prepare as
proposed for crazy work in our part for November, 1886. Get artificial
flowers of velvet, old or new, the brighter the better, and of all
varieties. Tack them on the sprays, large or small, or grouped; then
use buttonhole-stitch to fasten down every flower in coarse crewel
silk, of the respective colours required by the flowers, finishing
round the larger flowers and leaves with gold tinsel cord, and using
small yellow beads for flower seeds. The stems should be made in shaded
greens with crewel-stitch, and the whole effect is very brilliant.
TEETEE.—With reference to your helping to support your mother and
yourselves by dressmaking, no friends worth keeping would cast you
off on that account. No disgrace is attached to honest work, but
you would show consideration for the feelings of others by working
under Christian names, a common practice amongst dressmakers and
milliners; and this little act of delicacy for your relatives’ sake
will be appreciated by them, supposing the family name be one of any
distinction—a common one would not matter. We advise you to get some
lessons in fitting from a good tailor, as women dressmakers fail
signally on this point, as a general and almost universal rule.
[Illustration: SPRING
“MARCH WINDS,
APRIL SHOWERS,
BRING FORTH
MAY FLOWERS.”]
LOVER OF THE G.O.P.—On no account take any notice of such a note. It
was a most intrusive and impertinent act on the part of a strange man
to drop it into your lap in the railway carriage. It showed that he
mistook you for a girl lacking grievously in self-respect and in any
knowledge of propriety.
FIDELIS.—We have advised our correspondents very many times against
such advertisements, which are almost all catchpennies, and intended to
delude and swindle the foolish and unwary. We have no knowledge of each
separate advertisement, and we speak only as a general rule, of course.
E. H. E. K.—The best cotton to use for knitting a quilt is No. 6,
with No. 12 needles. In asking how much cotton you would require, you
never mention the size of the quilt which you mean to make, but after
knitting one of the diamonds you will know how much you have used, and
also the number of diamonds you will require, and you can calculate
from that. If you keep to one maker you can always match the cotton
exactly.
AN IRISH DOCTOR’S WIFE.—To make a stitch, put the thread before the
needle. A slipped stitch means one that is passed from one needle to
the other without knitting it. We think you would find it easier to
induce some experienced knitter to give you a few instructions.
KASCHEU.—1. The cracker nightdress case may be made in plush. This
case resembles a cracker in shape, the two ends being secured with
drawstrings about four inches from the edge, and this frilled part is
lined with satin. The nightdress is placed in the centre, where the
bonbon of a real cracker is secured. 2. For plush embroidery, coarse
silks are used, and the patterns are worked in outlines. The material
presents such difficulties that the embroidery is never very elaborate.
The watch pockets to match the cracker nightdress case are shaped like
half a cracker, and are placed upon the foundation upright. The watch
pockets are hung up by a ribbon, and are gathered at the top.
MISCELLANEOUS.
VIDA.—It is only in convents that women take vows of celebacy.
Remember also that there is a Divine rule for guidance in reference to
sacred vows, which must include every description outside the simple
and imperative obligation to serve God humbly and faithfully in your
ordinary daily life and conversation, and in the inner sanctuary of
your own heart, for which Divine rule see Numbers xxx. 3, 4, 5.
SRIXO.—In no case should a hostess go in first to her own dining-room;
every guest should precede her, excepting the guest that escorts
herself, or _vice versa_. If a cake be presented to a girl on her
birthday (which is by no means _de rigueur_, and like the ever-provided
wedding cake) it may be placed either at the top, bottom, or side of
the table, as the mistress of the house may please.
CONSTANT READER.—We are very glad that you see your past errors, and
are endeavouring to act as shall be pleasing to your Heavenly Master
in your daily life, and as ever in His sight. Ask for the help of the
Holy Spirit so to do. The Odd Minutes Society might meet your wishes in
trying to do some little extra work for Him in His poor. Write to Miss
J. Powel, Luctons, Buckhurst-hill, Essex, for her prospectus. You might
get some fingering wool, and crochet or knit for them in odd minutes.
LICHEN.—You should pay a visit to a florist’s, and ask for the species
you name and examine for yourself. If anything be worth knowing it is
worth taking a little trouble to obtain information. Our girls are too
lazy and continually ask us to hunt through the indexes supplied for
their own use. When you have made a full inspection of the flowers for
yourself, you can get direct special information from the florist.
DUCHESS.—The verse you quote is not taken from any of the canonical
books. It is apocryphal.
INQUIRER does not appear to be at all acquainted with the Holy Gospel
according to St. John, or she would know where to find the text quoted.
She ought to feel ashamed of such ignorance, and we recommend her to
read that Gospel through, and commit some of our Lord’s discourses to
memory. We also advise her and all our girls to obtain a concordance of
the Holy Bible at our office, as soon as they can afford to buy one.
NIL DESPERANDUM should obtain medical advice. We can only make general
statements, which may or may not be correctly applied to individual
cases.
BATTY.—If the glaze be produced by the wearing-away of the nap of
the cloth, there is no cure for it. Perhaps you could turn it with
advantage.
APE and DONKEY (New South Wales).—Lads of nineteen are certainly
too young to choose partners for life, and no girl would be wise in
binding herself to marry a young fellow who could not know his own
mind. A man should be at least twenty-five before he asks any girl to
risk her happiness in giving him a promise of marriage. If an escort
from church on a Sunday evening be desirable, you should make due
arrangement for it before venturing to go. Impromptu accidental offers
of escort are very inexpedient. In such cases you should have another
girl with you likewise.
SPHINX.—Accept our thanks for your kind letter. We cannot decipher it
all, but see no question to be answered.
BUSINESS WOMAN.—We have given a long series of articles on the subject
of Good Breeding, and also of Etiquette, of an exhaustive character.
Some are entitled “Duties,” etc. Look for them in the indexes, and you
will learn all you require to know under any circumstance in which you
may be placed.
BROWNY.—To become talkative would be most objectionable. Read our two
articles on “The Art of Conversing Agreeably.” We thank you for your
prescription against sea sickness, viz.—2 grains of bromide of sodium
taken three times a day, two days before going on board, and night and
morning while on board. But we have not tried it, and so must advise
anyone wishing to experiment on the dose, to consult her own doctor
before so doing.
A DUBLIN LASSIE.—The 18th December, 1871, was a Monday. In reply to
your second question, see our answer to “Browny.”
SUSIE M.—Our blessed Lord was tempted in all points, like as we all
are. Read the other passages in connection with this distinct and
positive statement.
A PARLOUR-MAID writes, “What will remove black spots from silver?” and
she goes on in the next sentence to say, “when the plate is cleaned
they go away.” What more does she wish to know? Clean, the plate, and
do so frequently and regularly.
POPSEY.—September 5th, 1856, fell on a Friday. Conversion to God may
be sudden, but is more generally a gradual and growing conviction of
sin and apprehension of the way of salvation, a gentle process of
drawing to Christ by feelings of gratitude for mercies received, and
through hearing and reading of His love. This appears to be a more
reliable and satisfactory process than sudden convictions with an
assurance of faith. Still, such conversions as the latter do occur.
There are many godly people, also, who have never known any change
since their early childhood, but who always feared God and trusted in
His atonement.
A. PAYNE.—You are doing a very rash thing in trying to thin yourself
by taking carbonate of soda in daily doses. You will thus thin your
blood, and thinness of blood often results in dropsy, spots, and boils,
etc. Your being stout is a great advantage, if not excessive. You have
some substance to waste safely in case of illness. Do you wish to
look like the poor scarecrows with pipe-stopper waists? Your hand is
scarcely formed, and you should use a softer pen.
HELIOTROPE (New Zealand).—1. We read your letter with interest,
although the answer to it be so late. You are very right in the views
you express about marriage. Young girls are too apt to take its
responsibilities upon themselves without counting the cost, or their
own suitability. 2. Changing the key of a song seldom improves it. But,
at all events, if the key were unsuitable for your voice, your singing
would be more agreeable than it would have been in the original key.
Accept our thanks and best wishes.
M. WRIGHT (New South Wales).—We thank you for so kind a letter, and
assure you, as we did “Heliotrope,” that such as you have both written,
have encouraged us in our work. We may also add that, if you have not
had the benefit of a good education, you have profited by what you
had far better than many girls who had that advantage. We wish you
God-speed.
THE VICAR’S DAUGHTER (Victoria).—We cannot answer your question exactly
in the form you wish, but may, at least, say that you might procure
what you want through the Messrs Trübner, Ludgate-hill, London, E.C.
Accept our best thanks and good wishes.
MINNEHAHA.—Dr. Samuel Johnson died on the 13th of December, 1784.
The name Helena ought to be pronounced with the accent on the first
syllable, _i.e._, Hel-e-na, although the island of that name is
pronounced otherwise, the accent being placed on the second syllable,
and divided thus, St. He-le-na.
PERPLEXITY.—We recommend any unbeliever to read the Rev. Joseph Cook’s
“Monday Lectures,” first and second series, “God and the Conscience,”
and “Life and the Soul,” sold by Messrs. Ward and Lock, Dorset
Buildings, Salisbury-square, London, E.C.
WELL-WISHER ELSIE.—Your hand is rather a poor one, but it is legible,
and is at any rate preferable to the coarse Stonehenge type affected by
so many girls. We suppose the phrenologist meant to say that you could
if you tried so to do, pass a good examination in the science and art
of music.
EVELYN B.—The papers written by Miss Caulfeild on etiquette, good
manners, and duties have extended through most of our volumes,
beginning with vol. i. and ii., and one and all are valuable authority
on all such points.
EVER HOPEFUL.—The best way to get the information would be to write to
the vicar, enclosing a stamped envelope, and ask whether he can supply
it from the registers of his church, and if so, what the fees will be.
Then, on his answer, you can remit the fees asked.