[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.—NO. 370. JANUARY 29, 1887. PRICE ONE PENNY.]
THE QUEEN’S JUBILEE PRIZE COMPETITION.
NOTABLE WOMEN OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN VICTORIA.
[Illustration: HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.]
_All rights reserved._]
THE SUBJECT OF OUR NEXT COMPETITION IS TO BE
=The Notable Women of the reign of Queen Victoria.=
Of these, each competitor will make out a list for herself, and
regarding those whom she selects, she will be required to state,
briefly and clearly, who they were, when and where they were born, and
when and where they died—if they be dead—and to give such particulars
about what they have done as will prove their right to the title of
notable women.
ELEVEN PRIZES will be given, one to the most successful competitor
of every age from thirteen to twenty-three, inclusive. Thus, a girl
thirteen years old has a chance of obtaining the prize awarded to girls
between thirteen and fourteen; a girl of fourteen may prove the winner
of the prize given to those between fourteen and fifteen: and so on, up
to the age of twenty-three.
EACH PRIZE will consist of
=A Gold Medal-Brooch=
To be especially struck by the Editor in honour of Her Majesty’s
Jubilee. These medals will be cast in the form of brooches, with a pin
at the back for more convenient use. They have been specially designed
for THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, and will bear on the reverse of the medal the
name of the owner. The front side of the medal will bear the design,
conventionally treated, of the heading to every weekly number of this
magazine.
CERTIFICATES OF MERIT will also be given—first, second, and third
class—and these will be awarded to girls of any age who gain the
necessary number of marks.
A SPECIAL PRIZE of a Gold Medal-Brooch will be given—for the first time
in our series of competitions—to
=Foreign and Colonial Competitors of All Ages.=
We have long recognised the fact that those who live abroad labour,
as a rule, under considerable disadvantages in competing with the
majority of girls who stay at home, and we are glad to show, by the
offer of this special prize, our appreciation of the painstaking
efforts of many readers in distant places.
FOREIGN AND COLONIAL COMPETITORS will on this occasion have longer time
allowed them for sending in their papers.
ALL READERS, EVERYWHERE, are invited to enter for this competition,
which,
=in view of the approaching Jubilee of Her Majesty,=
has a special interest. The testimony of many who have taken part
in previous competitions is that they proved sources not only of
considerable enjoyment, but of great intellectual profit. The present
one has features as valuable as any competition that has ever been
started. To engage in it can hardly fail to widen our sympathies and
increase our interest in the world around us and in the age in which we
live.
EVEN THOSE WHO FAIL to obtain either a prize or a certificate will not
have spent their time uselessly. Let them keep in mind that:
“No endeavour is in vain,
Its reward is in the doing;
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain.”
THE NOTABLE WOMEN DEALT WITH must all be British subjects: foreigners
will not count. It is not necessary that they should have been born
after Queen Victoria came to the throne. All may be included who have
lived _any part of their lives_ in the reign of Her Majesty.
THEY MUST BE DISTINGUISHED on account of some worthy quality. They
may be famous for learning; noted as authors, musicians, or painters;
remarkable as philanthropists and public benefactors—in fact, no one
will come amiss who can be said to have in any considerable degree
attracted attention by either her virtues or her abilities.
THE NUMBER TREATED of may be what every competitor finds time and
inclination for. The more comprehensive the paper, of course the better
chance there will be of a prize or a certificate: in everything, as is
well-known, “if little labour little are our gains.” The most important
thing, however, is quality, not quantity.
THE NOTICE OF EACH NOTABLE WOMAN is in no case to exceed one hundred
and twenty words, exclusive of the name and the place and date of birth
and death.
THE ARRANGEMENT OF THEIR PAPERS to be followed by competitors is the
order of birth, not the order of death.
WHAT WE INTEND SHOULD BE SENT IN will be readily understood, perhaps,
by the following examples, in which we have given two characters
who, as they are purely imaginary, need not be looked for in any
Biographical Dictionary.
ARABELLA G. CUNNINGHAM,
_Born at Edinburgh, 20th May, 1812._
_Died at Tunbridge Wells, 7th December, 1856._
Of an old Scotch family. First attracted attention in 1835 by the
publication of her “Turns of Fortune,” a tale of which seventy thousand
copies were sold within three days. Encouraged by this success she
gave herself up to the pursuit of literature. Her most popular works,
besides that just named, are “At the Sign of the Spread Eagle,” “The
Court of Lions,” “Hammer and Tongs,” “Lady Bettina,” and “The Hero of
the White Shield.” Inherited a large fortune from her father, and being
herself the best paid authoress of her time, and of an exceedingly
saving turn, she died worth an immense sum.
GERTRUDE WILLIAMS.
_Born at Harlech (North Wales), 12th July, 1855._
_Still living._
Began the study of the violin at the age of six. Appeared as a
musical prodigy at Chester in 1864. Studied from 1865-1868 at the
Conservatorium at Leipzig. Made her _début_ in London in April, 1870,
when the beauty of her playing at once ensured her a brilliant success.
Has now for many years been recognised as the greatest of British
violinists, and is much respected for her devotion to the higher forms
of musical art. Exhibits a marked tendency towards a wandering life,
and has visited professionally not only all the European capitals, but
the chief towns of the American Continent. Is a small lively person
with dark brown hair and extraordinarily bright eyes.
COMPETITORS MUST WRITE on one side of the paper only, and, before
sending in their papers, they must number the leaves and stitch them
together at the left-hand top corner.
ON THE BACK OF THE LAST LEAF each paper must bear the full name, age,
and address of the competitor, and underneath the following must be
written by father, mother, minister, or teacher:—
“I hereby certify that this paper is the sole work and in the
handwriting of (_competitor’s full name is again to be written_), and
that her age and address are correctly stated.” (_Signature and address
of the parent, minister, or teacher._)
THE LAST DAY FOR RECEIVING PAPERS connected with this competition will
be Monday, April 25.
EXCEPT IN THE CASE OF COLONIAL COMPETITORS, who will be allowed till
Saturday, June 25.
EACH PAPER MUST BE SENT by book post—and without a letter—addressed to
the Editor, THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, 56, Paternoster-row, London, E.C.,
and the words “Queen’s Jubilee Competition” must be clearly written in
the left-hand corner.
THE RESULT OF THE COMPETITION, so far as home readers are concerned,
will be published in the Summer Number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.
[Illustration]
THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.
BY LOUISA MENZIES.
CHAPTER IV.
TOWN OR COUNTRY.
“A letter with the London post mark, mamma,” said Eveline, “and not
from Mark.”
“I hope Mark is well,” said Mrs. Fenner, taking the letter with some
trepidation. “It is Mr. Echlin’s writing. What a long letter!”
As Mrs. Fenner’s eyes ran along the lines traced by the firm hand of
her cousin, her colour rose, a smile broke on her lips, and as she laid
down the letter the tears stood in her eyes.
“Nothing is wrong with Mark, mamma?” said Eveline, inquiringly.
“Nothing, dear; quite the contrary. But you had better read the letter;
it concerns you quite as much as me.” And Mrs. Fenner held the letter
to her daughter.
“Oh, mamma, how nice of him!” exclaimed Eveline, with sparkling eyes.
“I knew he must love Mark. How could he help it? But to think of his
wanting us to go and live in London with him and Mark—to make his house
like home, he says! What will you do, mother? What will you do?”
“What do you say, Eveline? What do you wish?”
“I? Of course I like to do what you like.”
“It is very kind of Miles.”
“I should think it was. And he puts it so prettily; as if all the
favour were on our side.”
“But, dear, I don’t know how you would like to live in a great
city, you who have always been used to open air and country life;
Manchester-square has no Sunbridge Woods within reach.”
“But it has Mark, mother; and Mark is better than Sunbridge
Woods—better than Blyfield Park. Why, mother, you know that we’d both
of us rather be with him where he is, than in the Gardens of the
Hesperides! I suppose we couldn’t keep the cottage, and just run down
to it now and then, could we?”
“I don’t think we ought to propose such an arrangement; it would be
a half-hearted acceptance of my cousin’s offer; we must either go or
stay. But I will take the letter up to the rectory; I must know what
your aunt and uncle think of it. Don’t say anything to Elga, just for a
little.”
“As you think best, mother,” said Eveline, and went out, as one in
a dream, to perform her morning household duties. No sooner did she
appear in the yard with her apron full of grain, than the fowls came
running, flying, flustering to her feet; the pigeons, who were on the
watch on the low roof of the tool-house, spread their blue wings and
dropped down among them; while Eveline’s body-guardsman, the snow-white
fox-terrier, Boz, stood gravely on the watch to preserve order, himself
the very personification of cleanliness and decorum—his bushy tail
curling over his back, every hair of his coat erect and in its proper
place, glancing with his brown eyes from his mistress to her noisy
pensioners, and keeping his little black nose well raised, with a
slight suggestion of superiority.
“Ah, Boz,” said Eveline, when the edge was a little taken off the
appetite of her feathered guests, “you little think what is hanging
over you! I wonder how you’ll like it! Who will keep old Bulbo in
order, if you go away, old dog?”
Old Bulbo was a rather aggressive Poland cock, who had been handsome,
but whose digestion had become impaired, his top-knot floppy, and his
tail-feathers ragged, while he was easily exasperated at the frivolous
impertinence of the younger generations, who stole choice morsels
under his very bill, and generally managed to escape his vengeance,
when he, like an old bully as he was, would turn to vent his spite on
the faithful partner of his roost; on which occasions Boz started into
activity, and compelled the old tyrant to keep the peace.
Boz wagged his tail in answer to his mistress’s tone rather than to
her words, and waited attentively while she gathered the pretty brown
or white eggs, swept the hen-house, making it sweet and fresh with
sprinkled lime, and ended by filling the large brown pan with clear
water which the fowls immediately muddied.
The poultry-yard settled, Boz conducted his mistress to the vegetable
garden, where Eveline gathered a basket of peas for dinner, some
currants and raspberries for dessert, quietly wondering who would
gather the fruit from those bushes next year. As she stood among the
raspberry bushes her mother came out and went down the garden to the
rectory gate. A sharp pain shot through Eveline’s heart.
“What will Uncle James say and Aunt Elgitha? Will they persuade mother
not to go? I’m sure Uncle James will miss us, and poor Githa!” and the
ready tears welled into Eveline’s eyes. “But Mark—to live with Mark, to
see him every day—to live in London, to hear beautiful music, to see
beautiful pictures, to go to Westminster Abbey, to the Temple, to St.
Paul’s!”
Eveline sat down among the roses, fairly dazed with the thick-coming
thoughts, while the bees hummed, the grasshoppers chirped, and the
roses slowly swayed in the west wind that came to them charged with the
fragrance of the mignonette.
The earth was so fair, the sky so blue, the wind so sweet, what need
was there to think of anything but the beauty and the colour and the
perfume?
Just then a chill wind blew from the north, the leaves shivered, the
murmur of the grasshoppers died away under the grass as over the church
a huge black cloud came sweeping, while another, jagged and angry, met
it from the south, and there came a sound of rolling thunder. Eveline
looked in wonder from her bower, the storm had burst so suddenly. Was
it an answer to her thought, a warning not to trust in the perishable,
not to make pleasure the law of life, but to aim at the imperishable,
the eternal? It shot through Eveline’s mind that she might at least
take such teaching from it, that if she could grasp the blessings of
family love and sisterhood it would be worse than folly to magnify the
blessings she must give up for them; but she was glad that the burden
of the choice did not lie with her, and making her way into the house,
she occupied herself in her usual studies.
Mrs. Fenner meanwhile had laid Miles Echlin’s letter before the rector
and his wife, not without certain misgivings as to how the contents
would strike them. Lady Elgitha at once saw the importance of the
question, and quickly set herself to consider how it might affect her
own household. She was personally attached to Margaret, as far at least
as she could be attached to anyone unconnected with the great house
of Manners, and she had always felt that it was respectable to have
her husband’s widowed sister living, as it were, under the shelter
of the rectory, especially as she was the widow of a man who must
have been a general and a K.C.B. at the very least, if he had lived.
Mark, too, had by a certain natural joyousness of temper unconsciously
maintained himself in her good graces, but Eveline was already rather
a difficulty to Lady Elgitha. She was decidedly so much prettier than
Elgitha that it had sometimes struck the rector’s wife of late that it
was unfortunate to have to introduce as her niece a girl who must be
more attractive than her own daughter; it would be well at least that
Eveline should be withdrawn before Elgitha came out. These thoughts
shot through Lady Elgitha’s brain while the rector was taking in the
idea that a great piece of good fortune had befallen his sister, which
must entail nothing but loss and bereavement on him.
“We shall miss you, Margaret,” he said, while the tears rose to his
eyes.
“We shall miss each other, James,” replied his sister, softly. “But
what do you and Elgitha think? It is very kind of Miles, and the
prettiest compliment he could have paid dear Mark; but we need not
accept it, you know, if you think——”
“Of course you must accept it, Margaret,” said Lady Elgitha, and there
was a touch of east wind in her voice which made the brother and sister
shrink and feel ashamed; “it would be flying in the face of Providence
not to accept such an offer. What is to become of Eveline if you die?
You can’t depend even on a pretty girl’s marrying nowadays, if she has
no fortune.”
“Yes, I think it would certainly be good for Eveline, and it would be
so nice for Mark. I am sure Miles deserves all we can do for him.”
“Of course; and when you’re tired of London, you can always run down
here, and I daresay Eveline will be glad to have Elgitha up for a week
or two in the season. It would be a good opportunity for her to have
some lessons. I’m sure, Margaret, you have much to be thankful for—Mark
so well provided for, and such an opening for you and Eveline.”
And Lady Elgitha sighed, for she caught sight of her son coming up the
path with his hat at the back of his head and his hands in the pocket
of his loose shooting-coat, looking the picture of idleness.
The poor rector had much ado to congratulate his sister. Fortunately,
he had a way of looking at events as they affected other people rather
than himself; so that the pleasure he felt in the honour done to his
sister’s son, and in the advantages which would accrue to her and her
daughter, occupied him more than the loss and desolation to himself.
When Elgitha heard the news, she was in blank despair. Rosenhurst would
be unendurable without Aunt Margaret and Eveline. No one else should
live in the cottage. She would go to school; she would be trained for a
nurse, and go to a hospital; she must do something, or she should die
of dulness, with only father and mother, and Gilbert always loafing
about.
But the end of it was that Margaret wrote to Mr. Echlin, thanking him,
and promising to spend the winter in Manchester-square, that they
might see how they liked each other, and to come at the beginning of
October. Mr. Echlin replied that he was perfectly satisfied with the
arrangement, but begged as a favour that they would say nothing about
the matter to Mark.
This was a hard condition to keep when Mark came down for his summer
holiday, and led to some amusing complications. Mark was full of the
goodness and generosity of his cousin. He did not believe he had a
single fault; and though he had had great sorrows, he was so cheerful
that you forgot he was old. “I suppose cheerfulness runs in the
family,” said the lad, with a loving look at his mother. “What paragons
grandmamma and grandpapa must have been!”
“There is much to be thankful for in the inheritance of a cheerful
temper, no doubt,” said his mother; “and I think all the Echlins I have
known have been disposed to look on the bright side of things.”
“You yourself, mother,” said Eveline, admiringly, “who have had trouble
enough to break a woman’s heart, Aunt Elgitha says.”
“But it seemed God’s own hand, Eva,” replied Mrs. Fenner, softly; “and
who was I that I should murmur? Did He not know best?”
“And very narrow means, mother.”
“And two good children, who never fretted for what they could not have.
Your cousin Miles has had more grievous sorrow than I; he has lost his
wife and lost his son, who, everyone says, was all a father could wish,
and he has no child left him.”
“Do you know, mother,” said Mark, very confidentially, “I have a notion
that he has found someone whom he thinks of bringing home? You have no
notion how the house is being brisked up. He has said nothing to me. Of
course, I could not expect to be always in such comfortable quarters.”
“Of course not, my dear. And you would be sorry to have to leave
Manchester-square?”
“Naturally. Why, I am lodged like a prince. I suppose Mr. Echlin must
be nearly sixty; but many men of fifty look older. There is no reason
why he shouldn’t—is there, mother?”
“Shouldn’t what, Mark?”
“Marry again, mother. Of course second marriages are not like first
marriages; but when a man has a big house, and is all alone. He hasn’t
said a word to me; but the best bedroom is to be done up—for he asked
me to help him choose the paper—and one of the drawing-rooms, Mrs.
Cotton said, is to be refurnished as a morning room.”
“That looks suspicious, doesn’t it, mother?” said Eveline, with saucy
gravity.
“I hope,” said Mark, following out the train of his own thoughts, “it
will not be too young a lady. It doesn’t look nice to see a man with a
bald head with a girl who might be his daughter for a wife.”
“It would be a pity,” assented Mrs. Fenner. “I wonder why men always
consider themselves so young when they marry. I remember John
Brattlebury, a cousin of your father’s, as nice a man as ever lived,
to whom it never occurred to marry until he was well past forty.
Your father innocently suggested to him the name of a lady of about
five-and-thirty, who we knew liked him, and to whom the position he
was able to offer her would have been a decided gain. You’d hardly
believe it, but he was almost offended, went down into Cumberland, and
came home with a wife of eighteen, who knew no more of his tastes and
occupations than he of hers.”
“But, mother,” said Eveline, “what was the girl thinking of?”
“Of getting a change, my dear—being mistress in a house instead of
number two or three in a string of daughters. Time is apt to seem long
at eighteen, and a middle-aged bachelor, when he comes to woo, has
many advantages. If she cannot admire the brightness of his eyes or
the elegance of his figure, she may esteem him for his experience and
intelligence, and diamonds and knicknacks are powerful persuasors to
some natures.”
“And really, mamma, if you think of it, it may not be so bad, after
all. Shakespeare says—
‘Let still woman take
An elder than herself, so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart.’
Don’t you remember? we read it last night.”
“I remember that Shakespeare makes Duke Orsino say so. Perhaps, as
Shakespeare had married a woman older than himself, he might set
value on the opposite qualification; but it is not fair to make him
answerable for the opinions of his characters. But now, Eva, you must
go and dress, or Aunt Elgitha will not be able to start her tennis.”
And so the pleasant August days went by, and Mark visited his old
friends, the farmers, enjoying the gathering-in of the harvest, the
golden lights of the sun, the heavy whispering of the trees, and all
the harmonies of country life, a thousand times the more for the
contrast with the city life he had been leading for the last nine
months. There was but one thing in which he was disappointed—he wanted
to spend a large part of his handsome salary in the decoration of his
mother’s cottage; but both his mother and Eveline were unaccountably
indifferent to it, and Mrs. Fenner at last put him past the idea by
saying that if there should be changes in Manchester-square, it might
be desirable, for Eveline’s sake, that she should go to town for a few
months, and then he could come and stay with them.
So Mark went back to town refreshed and happy. He was too much
engrossed with his work to note all that was being done at
Manchester-square, and too modest to ask questions; but the conviction
of impending change grew on him.
So September passed, and October, with its bracing days and shortened
evenings, was come. It was already the fifth, and Mark, after a rather
hasty breakfast, was about to start for town, when Mr. Echlin said—
“Mark, you’ll be sure to be home in time to dress for dinner. I expect
some friends—ladies.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Mark, and went his way, thinking that now it was
coming, and wondering that he had not heard from his mother for nearly
a week.
Business, which had been slack in August and September, was very
brisk again. Mark’s work was increasing in interest and importance;
he had several important proofs to read and a long journey to take
in the afternoon. It was already a quarter to six as he let himself
in at Manchester-square. He glanced into the dining-room; all looked
bright and cosy, and a crisp fire sent out a rosy, joyous, frolicsome
radiance, that was very pleasant to see. The table was laid for
four. Mark was hungry enough to regard even the dinner rolls with
satisfaction, and to eye the mats with a vague wonder as to what
dishes were to be set on them—a warm odour of roasting meat rose from
the culinary region.
“Is Mr. Echlin in, Martin?” he inquired of the butler, who was putting
a finishing touch to his table.
“Yes, sir, dinner at six sharp. The ladies are dressing.”
“Oh, indeed; they have come then?”
“Yes, sir, we druv to meet ’em at four o’clock; the train was five
minutes late.”
“Hullo! Mark, only just in,” called Mr. Echlin over the banisters.
“Make haste, lad, we’re as hungry as hunters.” And Mark ran up three
stairs at a time and plunged into the work of the toilette, too busy to
wonder who the ladies might be.
The clock struck six as he left his room. As he ran downstairs the
unwonted sound of music struck his ear; someone was playing a _Lied
ohne Worte_, one that Eveline often played in the twilight at home.
Mark was glad that one of the ladies played, and played softly, but
Martin’s inexorable gong began to boom, and he must go in.
Miles Echlin had never used the drawing-room, and when Mark opened the
door, and the great chandeliers were reflected from mirror to mirror,
he started back dazzled. Two ladies rose at his entrance and came
towards him; both called him by his name. What did it mean? Were they
in very truth his own mother and sister, the ladies dearest in the
world to his loyal heart?
The wonder of it almost took away his breath, and he gave a great gasp
as he uttered their names.
“Mother! Eveline!”
“Forgive me, Mark,” said Mr. Echlin, taking his hand, “it was selfish
of me to take you so by surprise, I ought to have told you.”
“Oh, sir, are they come to stay?” asked Mark, looking from one to the
other, still incredulous.
“To stay, to live with us if we can make the old house homelike enough
for them, or rather if they will make it homelike for me and my adopted
son.”
“Oh, sir, how good you are to me.”
“And are you not good to me? Ever since you came to me, have you not
thought, worked, and cared for me? My own dear son was taken from me,
he who must ever be first in my heart, but do not think that I cannot
love and honour loyalty and worth, that I cannot thank God for cheering
me with such a friend as you! But there is old Martin pounding away
at his gong! You all know what I would say. Come, Margaret, Mark will
bring his sister.”
He led Mrs. Fenner down with old-fashioned courtesy, and placed her in
the seat which his wife had once filled, then motioned to Eveline to
sit at his right while Mark took his customary seat on his left. There
were many larger parties in the square that night, but not one where
there were more grateful hearts, and of the silent covenant made that
night no one of the four ever repented.
With the presence of those good women, all that was happy and homelike
came back to the big house. Music and soft laughter filled its
chambers—Mr. Echlin loved to have it so. The portraits of his wife and
of his son hang where they used to hang, and some beautiful landscapes
now adorn the walls, and in Mrs. Echlin’s pretty sitting-room the
grave, sweet face of Michael Fenner looks down on the children to whom
he bequeathed the best possession, THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.
[THE END.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: “HE STARTED BACK, DAZZLED.”]
HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.
SKETCH III.—CANTATAS AND CHURCH MUSIC.
BY MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital.
CANTATA.
A form belonging equally to sacred and secular music, viz., the
cantata, in all probability first emanated from desire to possess in
chamber music the recitative, invented by Peri and others, and supposed
by themselves and their admirers to be a revival of Greek art. You
will best judge of the primitive nature of the earliest cantatas, and
understand the difference between them and the compositions which
have since appeared under the same title, when I tell you that they
were short dramatic stories, declaimed or recited by one voice to the
accompaniment of a single instrument. In the seventeenth century this
simple form was extended, by the insertion, at various intervals,
of an air, the repetition of which gave the cantata the appearance
of a rondo. The Italian school of that period, already mentioned
in connection with the opera, did much to perfect this style of
composition. Foremost amongst these masters stands Carissimi, who is
credited with first adapting the cantata to church purposes. Amongst
his secular cantatas there is one written to commemorate the death of
Mary Queen of Scots. About the same time, Marcello, Cesti, and Lotti
wrote in this form, and Alessandro Scarlatti contributed very many
specimens, in which the accompaniments were elaborate and difficult.
Some of Marcello’s are published for soprano and contralto, with
clavecin accompaniment.
In the early part of the next century Domenico Scarlatti, the son
of the Alessandro above named, considerably extended the form by
making use of various movements in the one work. Pergolesi (1710-36)
also wrote several cantatas, introducing important developments. A
well-known one of his was _Orfeo ed Euridice_, written shortly before
his death. Handel wrote several for the single voice, either with
clavier or orchestral accompaniment, mostly for oboes and stringed
instruments. In the life of Handel, published soon after his death
(in 1760), the number is put down as two hundred; but this total will
include his Church cantatas, a much more advanced form of composition,
although composed when he was quite a young man.
The modern name for the primitive form of cantata is undoubtedly
“Concert aria,” or “Scena,” into which it has merged. Under the latter
titles we have splendid examples by Mozart, such as “Misero, O sogno?”
“Bella mia fiamma,” “Misera dove son!” and “Non temer,” and single
specimens by Beethoven, “Ah, perfido,” and by Mendelssohn, “Infelice.”
The most important and valuable Church cantatas are those composed by
John Sebastian Bach, consisting of five sets for every Sunday and holy
day in the year, besides many single ones, such as “God’s time is the
best,” and a sort of requiem ode for the Electress of Saxony. These
Church cantatas are for four voices and full orchestra, and have from
four to seven various movements. Bach wrote many secular cantatas as
well, two of them being comic ones. His works abound in contrapuntal
skill, and contain great beauties.
It remains to be said that in our times the word cantata is used as a
title to choral works which, if sacred and written in oratorio style,
are too short for that title or have no _dramatis personæ_; or, if
secular, such as lyric dramas set to music, are not intended to be
acted. Sir Sterndale Bennett’s _May Queen_ is a good specimen of the
latter, which may be said to bear the same relationship to opera that
the sacred cantata of the present day does to oratorio.
MOTETT AND ANTHEM.
Winterfeld, a German writer on musical matters, derives the word motett
from “mot,” the French for “a word,” referring to the verse of Holy
Scripture which constitutes a motett; whilst other learned men connect
it with the Latin verb “movere,” indicative of the livelier motion and
the briskness it possesses, when compared with the Cantus Fermus; and
there is yet a third derivation from “mutare,” to change—a reference to
the changing sentiments and emotional characteristics of these musical
settings, a noticeable feature in such stiff and formal times.
At one time the motett was made up of a theme and its treatment in
different variations, after the manner of the Spanish “moto” in poetry.
Motetts were also set to profane words in the early periods of their
history, and they were forbidden to be used in church in the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries.
Dr. Stainer, in his “Dictionary of Musical Terms,” mentions the term
“motett” as being synonymous with “pulpitre” in the fifteenth century,
but for the last three hundred years the term has meant a piece of
sacred music adapted to Latin words, and to be sung at high mass in
the Roman Catholic Church, either instead of or as an addition to
the offertory, which was to be set to the music of the plainsong.
Motetts by Philip of Vitrisco date back as far as the year 1300. At
the commencement of that century the motett became a much more living
form, when represented by such composers as our English John Dunstable,
the Flemish Du Fay, and others. Following these composers came the
Netherlanders of Okenheim’s school, in the latter half of the fifteenth
century, and they more definitely separated their motetts from the
style of the masses in vogue.
In the latter there is a painful striving apparent, consequent on the
feeling, almost of duty, that severe contrapuntal exhibitions must be
displayed, whereas in the former there is breadth of style and general
fitness of things, untrammelled by this artificiality.
In the sixteenth century the Flemish writers, headed by Josquin
des Prés, made great moves onward, and gained the leading position
in musical Europe by earnest work and pure and noble endeavours.
They chose passages from the Gospels and the Book of Canticles for
their motetts, and imbued them with characteristic individuality.
At the same period the Lamentations of Jeremiah were largely drawn
upon for subjects. In this and the fifteenth centuries we find a
large collection of funeral motetts, named nœniæ, very reverent and
beautiful. One by Josquin des Prés, founded on plain chant, and written
in memory of his friend Okenheim (who was also his master), is very
fine.
Petrucci, the father of type music printing, gave most of the earliest
nœniæ to the world, many of which may be seen in the British Museum. In
the middle of the sixteenth century motetts were, perhaps, influenced
for good by the wonderful progress of the madrigal, but each part was
written with a different text, and this confusion became an abuse.
However, towards the latter part of the century that bright genius,
Palestrina, proved himself to be as great a writer of motetts as he was
of masses. He composed over three hundred to our knowledge, and in all
probability there are more than that which have been lost. Cotemporary
with this great light we find, in Italy, Morales, Anesio, Luca
Marenzio, and, above all, Vittoria, who was almost as great a motett
composer as Palestrina himself; in the Netherlands, Orlando di Lasso;
in Venice, Willaert, and, later, Croce and the two Gabrielis.
Our English writers, Tallis and Byrd, whom we shall refer to again
immediately, wrote as fine motetts as any produced by the foreign
schools, under the title, “Cantiones Sacræ.” Dr. Tye, Dr. Fairfax, and
others also added specimens to the English list. These motetts, as we
shall see, became (after the Reformation) full anthems, which were in
musical form motetts, but were set to English words. In some cases the
English words are translations from the Latin. It is curious to find
that Orlando Gibbons, in the seventeenth century, writing anthems for
the church, christened his secular part-music “Madrigals and Motets,”
thereby reverting to the old use of the term in connection with secular
words only.
In the seventeenth century the motett still flourished in the Roman
Church, but not for long, according to its old form. Mr. Rockstro
attributes the downfall of the old motett to the invention, by
Monteverde, of dominant unprepared dissonances, which “sapped the
foundation of the Polyphonic School.”
Thus, after 1660 the motett was a composition in modern tonality and
with orchestral accompaniments. Amongst composers in this style we find
Scarlatti, Pergolesi, Durante, and others, followed later on by Keiser
in Germany and Sebastian Bach, and then Graun, Hasse, and Hiller.
Handel wrote motetts in his earlier years. In modern times, as I have
had reason to point out to you in other forms, titles are appended to
works which are, to say the least, inappropriate, and the only claim
these have to the name motett is that they were originally intended
to be sung at High Mass. Such are the “Insanæ et vanæ curæ” of Haydn,
“Splendente te Deus” of Mozart, and the “O Salutaris” of Cherubini.
The term “motetus,” given in early times to the medius or middle voice
part, is probably in no way connected with the derivation of the word
motett.
The motett form appears in Church music of Queen Elizabeth’s time, and
although the anthem was gradually substituted, some of the earliest
anthems after the Reformation were in motett style, especially those of
Tallis and Byrd.
About the derivation of “anthem” there is as much dispute as there is
over the word “motett.” Some consider it to be derived from “ant-hymn,”
a kind of antiphony, though the very ancient custom of choir responding
to choir, or choir to priest, has entirely disappeared in the modern
form of anthem. This responsive or antiphonal singing may, in a
highly-developed form, yet become the anthem of the future, at any rate
in churches and cathedrals where the voices at disposal are good and in
large numbers. By some writers “anthem” is derived from ανατιθημι, to
set up (as an offering), and by some from ανθημα, a flower, the anthem
being considered the flower of the service. It is regrettable to find
that the idea of attending service for the sake of the anthem alone is
not yet extinct.
The anthem is thoroughly English; it supplied the attraction to our
Reformed Church, which the church cantatas and passion music did for
the Lutheran Church. Nearly all our eminent musicians have written
numbers of them, many examples containing the finest of English
composition. From early in the sixteenth century the anthem was
permitted as a part of Divine service, but it is not until the revision
of the Prayer Book in 1662 that we find the rubric, “In choirs and
places where they sing, here followeth the anthem,” which retains its
place to this day.
The first writers of note were Dr. Christopher Tye, who appears as a
verse-writer also, having translated the Acts of the Apostles “into
Englyshe meter”; Thomas Tallis, to whom our Church owes so much; and
William Byrd, joint organist with Tallis of the Chapels Royal. By this
period, that is, near the end of the sixteenth century, Church music
was beginning to free itself from the fetters of vague tonality and
old modes, and was gradually being clothed in clear and expressive
harmonies, and this improvement becomes most marked in the works of our
“English Palestrina,” as Orlando Gibbons has been appropriately named.
He was born in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, but most of his grand Church
compositions date from the commencement of the next century and the
reign of James I. Though some of his anthems are “verse” and have solos
in them, we may well classify this early period as that of the “full
anthem.” Viols were used as accompaniments to the verse parts, and the
organ was only added for the full choruses. I must remind you that the
organ was a very different affair to our modern instrument. It had one
advantage in its smallness, viz., that it could be carried about, being
known as the _portative_ organ, as opposed to the fixed or _positive_,
and could therefore be placed close to wherever the singers were, to
support their voices.
Passing to the latter half of the seventeenth century, we have come
through the strongest period of the history of English music. The
great madrigal school has flourished for nearly a century, and now we
find Pelham Humphrey or Humfrey, born 1647, studying in Paris under
Lulli, and under his influence helping to create a new era in anthem
composition. He died very young. Then there was Michael Wise, and Dr.
John Blow, private musician to King James II.; Dr. William Croft, his
pupil, whose anthems are so grand and solemn, and to whom, we may
mention in passing, we owe the introduction of music engraving on
pewter plates. We must also name Jeremiah Clarke, another pupil of
Blow’s, and Weldon. Anthems by all these men are still sung in our
churches.
Towering above them all stands Henry Purcell, whose earnest, devotional
Church music puts to shame much of the frivolous composition which
is nowadays devoted to that high purpose. In this age which follows
the period of the early “full anthem” writers, we have the “solo”
and “verse” anthem brought to the front. Purcell’s knowledge of the
singer’s requirements and his gift of beautiful melody enabled him to
perfect the solo anthem.
Instrumental accompaniments became more important at the hands of these
composers, and at the end of the seventeenth century the organ was
becoming a more perfect instrument, through the workmanship of Father
Schmidt and Renatus Harris, and others.
The anthems written by Handel, such as the Chandos Anthems, were
scored for larger orchestras, and were more like a combination of the
German church cantata and motett than the anthem strictly so called.
But this increase in the size of the church orchestra led to a full
band in Attwood’s Anthem for the Coronation of George IV., who, as
Prince of Wales, had been his warm-hearted patron.
In the latter half of the eighteenth century we have a few good
anthem-writers, such as Dr. Greene, who wrote over forty anthems; Dr.
Boyce, his articled pupil, whose “Cathedral Music” is a most valuable
collection of church compositions. There were also Jonathan Battishill,
Dr. William Hayes, his son Dr. Philip Hayes, the two Walmisleys, and
Attwood. Dr. T. F. Walmisley only died in 1866, and therefore some of
these compositions almost belong to our own times.
This fragmentary sketch brings us to the present form of anthem; but
before we speak of this we must mention in passing the masterly double
psalms and anthems by Mendelssohn, several of them being composed to
English words.
The country that owns such anthem-writers as Dr. S. S. Wesley, Sir John
Goss, Sir G. Elvey, Dr. Hopkins, Dr. Stainer, and Rev. Sir F. Gore
Ouseley has just reason to be proud. Many other names could be added to
this list, and the outlook seems to be most hopeful.
We are bound to notice an excrescence, going by the name of anthem,
which has been largely introduced into our cathedral services. We
allude to those arrangements of portions of masses, etc., coupled to
words totally different in sentiment to those for which the music was
originally composed, and which are strung together, like so many beads
on a string, as Dr. Monk aptly says (in Sir George Grove’s Dictionary),
“for the sake of pretty phrases or showy passages.”
Such adaptations would almost point to a scarceness of the genuine
anthem; and yet how opposite to this is the fact, and how few of the
really fine anthems of the best period of our great English school
receive the amount of hearing to which they are justly entitled! To
verify this, you have but to peruse Novello’s Catalogue of Sacred Music
with English words.
MASS. CATHEDRAL SERVICE.
The mass, or missa (“missa est,” the congregation is dismissed), has
been used, in part, at any rate, from the very earliest times, and
has been sung to most impressive and solemn music. St. Ambrose and
St. Gregory appear as the earliest compilators of the mass music.
When counterpoint was invented, Church composers clothed the early
plain-song tunes with its artistic embroideries, and polyphonic masses
arose, gradually brought by the great schools of the sixteenth century
to such a pitch of excellence that they have never since been equalled.
The mass then consisted, as it does now, of six movements, viz., the
Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei. The masses
were named after the plain-song melody upon which they were developed;
but occasionally the melody used was a profane one, so that a mass
would be named after its secular melody, as, for instance, “L’homme
armée,” an old French lovesong! and the masses founded upon an original
theme were rare, and known as “Missa _sine nomine_.” The tenor Du Fay,
already named in connection with the motett, wrote many of a very
devotional but unmelodious character. At the end of the fifteenth
century Josquin des Prés, also mentioned previously, wrote many masses,
in which, strange to say, a great want of reverence is most evident
from time to time. A purer style will be found later on in the masses
of Goudimel, Morales, and notably in those of Festa. But about this
period the abuse spoken of in treating of the motett had crept into
the mass, and the device was to give different sets of words to each
singer! Even Morales is guilty of this, mixing up, as he does, the text
of the Liturgy and an Ave Maria. Devotional feeling was sacrificed to a
desire to puzzle, and masses were esteemed according to the difficulty
of the solution of the canons employed in them.
At the Council of Trent (1562) these abuses were condemned, and
polyphonic music would have been forbidden a place in the Church,
but for one great, earnest man, and that man was Palestrina. His now
celebrated “Missa Papæ Marcelli” decided the fate and fixed the style
of Church music. In it he demonstrated that these intricacies and
learned forms might be well and devotionally used as a means to the
highest end, but not as a substitute for that great end itself. He
wrote nearly a hundred masses, and greatly influenced the future of
Church music.
William Byrd wrote a mass for five voices of great interest. Vittoria,
Orlando di Lasso, Gabrieli—each represented their different schools and
advanced their Church music on Palestrina’s great model.
After Allegri, at the end of the seventeenth century, the old mediæval
style died out, and Durante, Scarlatti, and others of that school
appear as a link between the old and new. After them, with their strong
tendencies towards elaboration of the instrumental accompaniment,
comes Bach, whose mass in B minor, now familiar to us, thanks to Mr.
Goldschmidt and the Bach Choir, stands alone. It is not only free from
ancient ecclesiastical tradition, but it is actually prophetic in its
marvellous harmonic changes and combinations. It is also in style
almost an oratorio. Later on we have magnificent masses by Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven, but more like sacred cantatas than masses. To
quote Mr. Rockstro, he rightly says, “Their style has steadily kept
pace, step by step, with the progress of modern music, borrowing
elasticity from the freedom of its melodies, and richness from the
variety of its instrumentation; clothing itself in new and unexpected
forms of beauty at every turn; yet _never aiming at the expression
of a higher kind of beauty than that pertaining to earthly things,
or venturing to utter the language of devotion in preference to that
of passion_.” The italics are my own, and I suppose that it is owing
to the fact that this individuality and frequent dramatic realism of
the composer usurped the abstract sense of the words used, and the
devotional idealism of the old schools, that not one note of any of
them has ever been heard within the Sistine Chapel at Rome.
The general distribution of the movements of the mass are, strange to
say, the same to-day that it was in Palestrina’s time. A mass for the
dead, called Requiem, is composed of different numbers, viz., “Requiem
æternam dona eis,” “Kyrie,” the grand hymn, “Dies iræ,” “Domini Jesu
Christo,” Sanctus and Benedictus, Agnus, and “Lux æterna.”
Of the more modern specimens, those of Cherubini and Mozart, and of the
most modern, that by Verdi, are all fine examples, the work by Mozart
standing high above all the others. It was, as you will remember,
mostly written on his deathbed. At the Reformation the mass disappeared
from the English Church, and from then until 1840 no choral communions
were written. Since the latter date, however, the English versions of
the Sanctus, Kyrie, Creed, and Gloria have been used and set to music
by most of the writers of Church music already named in connection with
the anthem.
[Illustration: A SERIOUS DISCUSSION.]
DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.
BY A LADY DRESSMAKER.
As a rule there are not many changes of dress or cut to be chronicled
this month. Everyone is thinking of the sales, and the truly wise and
economical (of which there are a great many in these days) are more
occupied in making the fashions subservient to their purchases, to
either inventing or thinking of new designs in dress. We were never
so rich in the way of materials as we are this year, though the most
popular of all effects in woollen is the serge-weaving, which is mixed
with everything—crossbars, and lines of velvet, silk cording, fancy
braids, and borders which resemble patchwork in monotone, or inlaid
wood flooring, or parqueterie. The serge with velvet crossbars and
lines on black serge are very effective and handsome. Indeed, serge
seems to have taken the place of cashmere, and is infinitely more
becoming in wear.
Ladies’ cloth is also much worn in both dark and light colours. On
these a selvedge of a different colour is left, which is sometimes
pinked-out, or edged with a cord. These are trimmed with facings,
cuffs, and collars of velvet, plush, and moiré, which is now much used
for trimmings. Besides this, there are vicuna and camels’ hair, and
a large selection of Darlington serges, and others in plain and in
stripes, which are at once cheap, ladylike, and extremely durable in
wear.
Nun’s cloth is still used with velvet trimmings, and a material
called “wool _crépon_” is used as well for evening frocks for girls,
and is trimmed profusely with woollen lace. Velveteen is not seen as
composing entire dresses, though so largely mixed with woollens of all
descriptions.
In colours worn by well-dressed people, heliotrope is still in great
favour, and is really lovely in silks, satins, and the handsome cut
velvets and _frisés_—dark sapphire blues, carbuncle, red brown, and a
mossy green, with an earthy brown and a stone-colour, which are both
useful, well-wearing colours.
Now that people are beginning to wear more colour than they formerly
did, it is needful to consider harmony in colour more than we did. For
young people this is everything. In wearing brown, for instance, it
should be harmonised by a little yellow or a lighter shade of brown.
In the same way dark-red must be harmonised with pink, and both shades
must be seen together, so as to be quite sure that they will not “swear
at each other,” as the French funnily express it. With grey a little
pale blue must be put in somewhere in the bonnet. Stone-colour will
harmonise with a pink, and heliotrope with a paler shade of itself.
With grey, blue, and slate silver ornaments look best; but with brown,
red, and green shades gold ornaments give the required harmony in
colouring.
All very bright hues should be kept away from the face, as only the
best of complexions can stand them near the skin. A portrait-painter
once told me that the colour of the hair or the hue of the eyes
should always be repeated in some part of the dress. But I fancy it may
answer for painting, but not to be exemplified in everyday life and
habiliments.
[Illustration: AN AFTERNOON VISIT.]
Now that belts are coming in again, or rather have come in, it is well
to remember that when the waist exceeds twenty-five inches round bands
are not becoming, and pointed bodices should be resorted to, and if
the front darts be cut very much bowed-in, an effect of slenderness
is given to the waist which does not really belong to it. Frills at
the neck and wrists are most becoming to thin people with long necks.
Short-necked and stout people look best with plain bands of muslin or
lace. High shoulders do not consort well with fur capes nor wide fur
collars at the neck. The long paletôts or pelisses are very suitable
to short people, as the straight lines add to their apparent height.
But even in giving these few directions towards helping my readers to
becoming and tasteful dress, I fully realise the fact that very few
people take the trouble to ascertain what they look like, and perhaps
would be grievously offended if they were to be told where the faults
of their appearance really lay.
[Illustration: NEW BLOUSE POLONAISE.]
Mantles, as I have frequently said, are all short, none of them coming
more than a few inches below the waist at the back, though all are
long in front. They are, many of them, much trimmed, though not too
much. There are braces to the shoulders, or a kind of yoke of beading,
or flat bands of beaded _passementerie_, laid on. Plush seems to be
the great material for these mantles, and will be worn not only in
the winter, but late in the spring. Some of these plush mantles are
coloured, but very few. Sapphire blue, carbuncle red, and a dark mossy
green are the most popular colours. They are trimmed with black jet—not
a very satisfactory trimming, nor very elegant.
Hoods are seen on jackets and pelisses more than on small mantles. The
new shape of sling mantelette is called “Pelerine,” and is nearly a
cape in being all round of the same length; but the edges are turned
under all round, and in front the linings show, which are of some
pale, contrasting colour. The fronts are quite of the sling shape,
and if a hood be worn with them it is lined to match. The newest
hoods are square, and of the monk order—not gathered up in any way,
to make them bunchy at the back. The newest shape of paletôt we now
call a “pelisse,” but it is really nothing but a long paletôt, or
tight-fitting jacket lengthened to the edge of the skirt. The newest
cloaks of this kind brought out this winter have hanging sleeves, and
a hood or fur facing, which wraps across at the waist, one end of the
fur crossing the other end. The side of the skirt is often opened and
then laced together with thick cords, but it may be also edged with
fur. Very long cloaks are worn as wraps for carriage use, but only in
that way; and for travelling, small mantles are much more fashionable
at present.
Jackets are worn as much as ever by young ladies, and are universally
plain and rather severe in cut. They are of two kinds, the first with a
fur trimming, wide round the neck and shoulders and on the chest, but
pointed at the waist, and tight-fitting both at the back and front.
The other jacket has a tight back and loose-fitting front, and is
either simply stitched round with the machine or bound with galloon or
leather—the last the newest and most _recherché_ of bindings. Pilot
cloth is used for jackets, as well as Cheviot homespuns, also corduroy,
Melton of various kinds, and numbers of fancy cloths under different
names. The Irish Claddagh cloth, introduced by Mrs. Ernest Hart, and
to be obtained in all colours at the depôt of the Donegal Industrial
Fund, is becoming more popular for large wrap-cloaks, little children’s
ulsters, and babies’ pelisses. Plush has been adopted as a lining for
thin mantles of silk and wool, instead of wadded silk. It is far less
clumsy, and quite as warm. In this way many ladies have made use of
their handsome summer mantles, and made them warm enough for winter. On
mild days no jacket nor mantle is used, but the long boa, or Victorine,
or else one of the new large handkerchiefs, knotted on the chest and
spread out over the shoulders. These large handkerchiefs are even to be
seen worn on the outside of the small tight-fitting jackets.
I have mentioned leather bindings on jackets. They are also used
for trimming dresses by the first ladies’ tailors. The colour of
the bands or bindings is usually of the lightest shade of the cloth
used. Polonaises are growing in popularity every day, and the spring
will probably see them well established in favour. The idea of
blouse-jackets has produced the blouse-polonaise, which I have selected
for the paper pattern of the month. It is draped at the side, but some
of the new polonaises are draped at both sides. The edges may be lined
with a light harmonising colour which will show when the wearer moves
about. Thus a pale grey vicuna would have pale rose-pink linings.
Polonaises are becoming fashionable for evening and dinner dress, and
have high Marie Stuart collars and long angel sleeves. The neck-bands
of dresses are as wide and fit as tightly as ever. They are generally
of velvet, and the cuffs also, the latter being only as wide as the
collar.
The bodices of ordinary gowns show no change in shape. The favourite
front-trimming which has taken the place of waistcoats is a long
_revers_ front, the point of the waist to the neck. In fur-trimmed
dresses this _revers_ is of fur; also the cuffs, neck band, and a band
round the skirt. Many dresses for wear in the house have ruches round
the hem; but they are not suitable for wear out of doors, as they are
perfect traps for dust. A new style is to put a _dépassant_ (the
modern name for a _balayeuse_ frill) round the edge of the dress. This
is about an inch and a-half in width, and is pleated in small single
box-pleats, and is generally of silk of the same colour as the dress.
The sketch, under the name of “An Afternoon Visit,” shows one of the
new polonaises, which buttons across the front. It is of grey cloth,
over a petticoat of very dark crimson. The young lady in the hat wears
a walking-gown, trimmed with fur, which is put on with plain bands;
the material is “ladies’ cloth.” Of the two figures in indoor costume
one shows the method of making-up striped materials, and also the new
“catogan knot,” with a puff of hair and a curled front. The other dress
has a tucked bodice, with a draped front, which simulates a polonaise;
the collar and cuffs being of velvet.
In “The Serious Discussion” we have several dresses, one for
out-of-doors, trimmed with fur, and showing the method of trimming
a short jacket which I have before described. The other dresses are
plaids, and show the way in which plain materials are mixed with them.
The bodice is of plain material, with a waistcoat-front, and cords and
buttons. The figure at the back is an illustration of this month’s
paper pattern, the new “blouse polonaise,” which is a very charming
adaptation of the “Norfolk” or pleated blouse, now so much worn; it
is both easily made and cut out, and is a very useful garment. It may
be cut long enough to reach to the edge of the underskirt, and thus
follows the fashions of the long lines now in vogue. In this way it is
more graceful, but it may be cut shorter, and in this case the skirt
must have the box-pleated frill at the edge, which is now called a
_dépassant_. The material of which our illustration is made is one of
the rough, hairy “vicuna serges,” of a light grey tone, with a darker
grey stripe. The bands of the shoulders, front, waist, and collar and
cuffs are of this dark grey, in velvet or plush; the first being the
most becoming. The ribbon-bow is of the same hue of silk and velvet
reversible ribbon. The hem of the polonaise is quite plain, and is
machine-hemmed. The paper pattern consists of nine pieces, _i.e._,
two sleeve pieces, back, front, cuffs, collar, shoulder-piece, and
front-strap. The polonaise will require about ten yards of thirty inch
material, and about half a yard of velvet and three yards of ribbon.
All paper patterns supplied by “The Lady Dressmaker” are of medium
size—viz., 36 inches round the chest—and only one size is prepared for
sale. No turnings are allowed in any of them. Each pattern may be had
of “The Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G. Davis, 73, Ludgate-hill,
E.C., price 1s. each. It is requested that the addresses be clearly
given, and that postal notes may be crossed “& Co.,” to go through a
bank, as so many losses have recently occurred. The patterns already
issued are always kept in stock, as “The Lady Dressmaker” only issues
patterns likely to be of constant use in home-dressmaking and altering;
and she is particularly careful to give all the new patterns of
hygienic underclothing, both for children and old and young ladies, so
that no reader of the “G.O.P.” may be ignorant of the best methods of
dressing.
The following is a list of the patterns already issued, price 1s. each.
April, 1885, braided loose-fronted jacket; May, velvet bodice; June,
Swiss belt and full bodice with plain sleeves; July, mantle; Aug.,
Norfolk or pleated jacket; September, housemaid’s or plain skirt;
October, combination-garment (under-linen), with long sleeves;
November, double-breasted jacket; December, Zouave jacket and bodice;
January, 1886, Princess under-dress (under-linen, under-bodice and
underskirt combined); February, polonaise, with waterfall back;
March, new spring bodice; April, divided skirt and Bernhardt mantle,
with sling sleeves; May, Early English bodice and yoke bodice for
summer dress; June, dressing jacket and Princess frock, with Normandy
bonnet for a child of four years old; July, Princess of Wales’s
jacket, bodice, and waistcoat, for tailor-made gown; August, bodice
with guimpe; September, mantle with stole ends; October, Pyjama, or
night-dress combination, with full back; November, new winter bodice;
December, patterns of Norfolk blouses, one with a yoke, and one with
pleats only; January, 1887, blouse-polonaise, with pleats at back and
front.
THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.
BY THE REV. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”