MOLLY.
One afternoon, much to Hannah’s delight, I took the children to
Wheeler’s Farm. Rolf did not accompany us; Mrs. Markham had sent up
word to the nursery that morning that he was to drive with her into
Orton. He had complied with this order rather sulkily, after extracting
from me a promise that I would play soldiers with him in the evening.
It was rather a hot July afternoon, but we put Joyce in the
perambulator, and Hannah and I carried Reggie by turns, and in spite
of the heat we all enjoyed the walk, for there was a lark singing so
deliciously above the cornfields, and the hedgerows of Cherry-tree-lane
were gay with wild flowers, and every few minutes we came to a peep of
the sea.
I recognised Hannah’s description when we came in sight of the old
black-timbered house; there was the pear tree in the courtyard, and the
mossy trough; a turkey cock Gobbler, of course, was strutting about in
the sunny road, and from the farmyard came the cackling of ducks and
the hissing of snow-white geese. Just then a little side gate opened,
and a robust-looking woman in a sun-bonnet came out, balancing two
pails of water with her strong bare arms. Hannah exclaimed, “Well,
Molly!” and Molly set down her pails and came to meet us.
She kissed Hannah heartily with, “Glad to see thee, lass,” and then
shook hands with me.
“Come in, come in, and bring the children out of the sun,” she said,
in a kind, cheerful voice. “Father is smoking his pipe in the kitchen,
and will be fine and glad to see you all. Eh, but I am pleased to have
you at Wheeler’s Farm, Miss Fenton. Hannah says she has a deal to be
grateful to you for, and so have we all for being good to our girl.”
I disclaimed this, and sang Hannah’s praises all the time we were
crossing the courtyard to the porch.
Molly shook her head, and said, “Nay, she is none too clever,” but
looked gratified all the same.
She was a plain, homely-looking woman, as Hannah said, with high cheek
bones and reddish hair, but she looked kindly at the children and me,
and I think we all liked her directly.
“Look whom I am bringing, father,” she exclaimed, proudly, and Michael
Sowerby put down his pipe and stared at us.
He was a blue-eyed, ruddy old man, with beautiful snow-white hair, much
handsomer than his daughter, and I was not surprised to see Hannah, in
her love and reverence, take the white head between her hands and kiss
it.
“You will excuse our bad manners, I hope,” he said, pushing Hannah
gently away, and getting up from his elbow chair. “So these are Squire
Cheriton’s grandchildren. He is fine and proud of them, is the squire.
Deary me, I remember as if it were yesterday the squire (he was a young
man then) bringing in their mother, Miss Violet, to see me when she
wasn’t bigger than little miss there, and Molly (mother I mean) said
she was as beautiful as an angel.”
“Mother is beautifuller now,” struck in Joyce, who had been listening
to this.
The old farmer chuckled and rubbed his hands.
“Beautifuller, is she? Well, she was always like a picture to look at,
was Miss Violet, a deal handsomer and sweeter than Madam, as we call
her. Eh, what do you say, my woman?” for Molly was nudging him at this
point. “Well, sit ye down, all of you, and Molly will brew us some tea.”
“There is Luke crossing the farmyard,” observed Molly, in a peculiar
tone, and Hannah took the hint and vanished.
I sat quietly by the window with Reggie on my lap, talking to Michael
Sowerby and glancing between the pots of fuchsias and geraniums at a
brood of young turkeys that had found their way into the courtyard.
Joyce was making friends with a tabby cat and her kittens, while Molly,
still in her white sun-bonnet and tucked up sleeves, set out the
tea-table and opened the oven door, from which proceeded a delicious
smell of hot bread. She buttered a pile of smoking cakes presently,
talking to us by snatches, and then went off to the dairy, returning
with a great yellow jug of milk thick with cream, and some new laid
eggs for the children.
I did not wonder at Hannah’s love for her home when I looked round
the old kitchen. It was low, and the rafters were smoke-dried and
discoloured, but it looked so bright and cheery this hot July
afternoon, with its red tiles and well-scrubbed tables, and rocking
chairs black with age and polish. The sunshine stole in at the open
door, and the fire threw ruddy reflections on the brass utensils and
bright-coloured china. A sick chicken in a straw basket occupied the
hearth with the tabby cat; a large shaggy dog stretched himself across
the doorway, and regarded us from between his paws.
“It is Luke’s dog, Rover; he is as sensible as a human being,” observed
Molly, and before we commenced tea she fetched him a plate of broken
meat from the larder, her hospitality extending even to the dumb
creatures.
A wooden screen shut us off from the fire. From my place at the table
I had a good view of the inner kitchen and a smaller courtyard with a
well in it; a pleasant breeze came through the open door.
As soon as the children were helped, Hannah came back looking rather
shamefaced but extremely happy, and followed by Luke Armstrong. He
greeted us rather shyly, but seated himself at Molly’s bidding. He was
a short, sturdy-looking young fellow, with crisp, curling hair and an
honest, good-tempered face. He seemed intelligent and well-mannered,
and I was disposed to be pleased with Hannah’s sweetheart.
I found afterwards from Molly when she took me into the dairy that
Michael Sowerby had consented to recognise the engagement, and that it
was looked upon as a settled thing in the household.
“Hannah is the youngest of us girls, and a bit spoiled,” observed
Molly, apologetically. “I told father it was all nonsense, and Hannah
was only a chit, but it seemed he had no mind to cross her. The folks
at Scroggin’s Mill is not much to our taste, but Luke is the best of
the bunch, and a good, steady lad with a head on his shoulders. He was
for going to London to seek his fortune,” continued Molly, “for Miller
Armstrong is a poor sort of father to him, and Martin elbows him out of
all chances of getting any of the money; but Squire Hawtry, of the Red
Farm, where Lydia lives as dairymaid, has just lost his head man, and
he offered Luke the place. That is what he has been telling Hannah this
afternoon in the farmyard; so if Hannah is a good girl, as I tell her,
and saves her bit of money, and Luke works his best, Squire Hawtry will
be letting them have one of the new cottages he has built for the farm
servants, and a year or two may see them settled in it to begin life
together.” And here Molly drew a hard work-roughened hand across her
eyes as though her own words touched her.
“I am very glad for Hannah’s sake,” I returned. “She is a good girl,
and deserves to be happy.”
“Ah, they are all good girls,” replied Molly. “Hannah is no better
than the rest, though we have a bit spoiled her, being the youngest,
and mother dead. There’s Martin at Scroggin’s Mill wants Lydia, but
Lyddy is too sensible to be listening to the likes of him. ‘No, no,
Lyddy,’ I say, ‘whatever you do, never marry a man who makes an idol
of his money; he will love his guineas more than his wife; better be
doing work all your life and die single as I shall, than be mistress of
Scroggin’s Mill if Martin is to be master.’”
“You give your sisters very good advice,” I returned.
“I have not much else to give them,” was the abrupt answer; “but they
are good girls, and know I mean well. The boys are rather a handful,
especially Dan, who is always bird-catching on Sunday, and won’t see
the sin of it. But there, one must take boys as one finds them, and
not put ourselves in the place of Providence. They want a deal of
patience, and patience is not in my nature, and if Dan comes to a bad
end with his lame leg and bird-traps, nobody must blame me, who has
always a scolding ready for him if he will take it.”
I saw Dan presently under rather disadvantageous circumstances, for as
we came out of the dairy who should come riding under the great pear
tree but Mr. Hawtry, with a red-headed boy sitting behind him, with a
pair of dirty hands grasping his coat. I never saw such a freckled face
nor such red hair in my life, and he looked at Molly so roguishly from
under Mr. Hawtry’s shoulder, there was no mistaking that this was the
family scapegrace.
“Good-evening, Molly,” called out Mr. Hawtry, cheerfully; “I am
carrying home Dan in pillion fashion, because the rogue has dropped
his crutch into the mill dam, and he could not manage with the other.
I found him in difficulties, sitting under the mill hedge, very tired
and hungry. You will let him have his tea, Molly, as it was accident
and not mischief. I forgot to say the other crutch is lying in the
road broken; it broke itself—didn’t it, Dan?—in its attempt to get
him home?” and here Mr. Hawtry’s eyes twinkled, but he could not be
induced, neither could Dan, to explain the mystery of the broken crutch.
“You will come to a bad end, Dan,” remarked Molly, severely, as she
lifted down the boy, not over gently; but she forbore to shake him, as
he was wholly in her power—a piece of magnanimity on Molly’s part.
Mr. Hawtry dismounted, perhaps to see that Dan had merciful treatment;
but he need not have been afraid, Molly had too large a heart to be
hard on a crippled boy, and one who was her special torment and pet.
Molly could not have starved a dog, and certainly not red-headed Dan.
He was soon established in his special chair, with a thick wedge of
cold buttered cake in his hand. Scolding did not hurt as long as Molly
saw to his comforts, and Dan looked as happy as a king in spite of his
lost crutches.
Mr. Hawtry came into the kitchen, and when he saw us I thought he
started a little as though he were surprised, and he came up to me at
once.
“Good-evening, Miss Fenton; I did not expect to see you here, and my
little friend, too,” as Joyce as usual ran up to him. “What a lovely
evening you have for your walk home! You did not bring Miss Cheriton
with you?”
“No; she has visitors this afternoon; the children and I have had our
tea here, and now it is Reggie’s bed-time.”
“Shall I call Hannah?” he returned, hastily, for I was putting Reggie
in his perambulator. “I saw her walking down the orchard with Luke
Armstrong and Matthew.” And as I thanked him he bade Molly good-bye,
and, putting his arm through his horse’s bridle, in another moment we
could hear a clear whistle.
Hannah came at once; she looked happy and rosy, and whispered to
Molly as we went down the courtyard together. Mr. Hawtry was at the
horse-block; as he mounted he called me by name, and asked if the
little girl would like a ride.
I knew he would be careful, but all the same I longed to refuse, only
Joyce looked disappointed and ready to cry.
“Oh, nurse, do let me,” she implored, in such a coaxing voice.
“My horse is as quiet as a lamb. You may safely trust her, Miss
Fenton,” he said so persuasively I let myself be over-ruled. It was
very pretty to see Joyce as he held her before him and rode down
the lane. She had such a nice colour, and her eyes were bright and
sparkling as she laughed back at me.
It was very kind of Mr. Hawtry. It seemed to me he never lost any
opportunity of giving children pleasure. But I was glad when the ride
ended, and I lifted Joyce to the ground.
She clasped me tightly in her glee. “It was so nice, so werry nice,
nursey dear,” she exclaimed.
As I looked up and thanked Mr. Hawtry, I found that he was watching us,
smiling.
“I am afraid your faith was not equal to Joyce’s,” he said, rather
mischievously. “I would not let Peter canter, out of pity for your
fears.”
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, rather distressed by this, “but
I cannot help being afraid of everything. You see the children are
entrusted to me.”
“I was only joking,” he returned, and he spoke so gently. “You are
quite right, and one cannot be too careful over children; but I knew I
could trust old Peter,” and then he lifted his hat and cantered down
the lane. He could not have spoken more courteously; his manner pleased
me.
It caused me a little revulsion when Mrs. Markham met us at the gate
with a displeased countenance. She motioned to Hannah to take the
children on to the house, and detained me with a haughty gesture.
“Nurse,” she said, harshly, “I am extremely surprised at the liberty
you take in my sister’s absence. I am quite sure she would be
excessively angry at your taking the children to Wheeler’s Farm without
even informing me of your intention.”
“I mentioned it to Miss Cheriton,” I returned, somewhat nettled at
this, for Gay had warmly approved of our little excursion.
“Miss Cheriton is not the mistress of the house,” she replied, in the
same galling tone. “If you had consulted me, I should certainly not
have given my consent. I think a servant’s relatives are not proper
companions for my little niece, and, indeed, I rather wonder at your
choosing to associate with them yourself,” with a concealed sneer
hidden under a polished manner.
“Mrs. Markham,” I returned, speaking as quietly as I could, “I should
certainly not have taken the children to Wheeler’s Farm without my
mistress’s sanction. I had her free permission to do so; she knew the
Sowerbys were highly respectable, and, for my own part, I wished to
give pleasure to Hannah, as I take a great interest in her.”
“I shall certainly write to my sister on the subject,” was her answer
to this. “You must have entirely mistaken her meaning, and I owe it to
her to watch over her children.”
My temper was decidedly rising.
“You need not trouble yourself,” I replied, coldly, “my mistress knows
everything I do. I should have written to her myself to-night; she has
perfect confidence in me, and I have never acted against her wishes; my
conscience is quite clear about this afternoon, but I should not have
taken Rolf without your permission.”
“I should hope not,” still more haughtily, but I would not listen to
any more; I was not her servant—I could not have served that hard
mistress. I found nothing to reverence in her cold, self-absorbed
nature, and without reverence, service would be bitter drudgery.
As I passed down the avenue a little sadly, I came upon a pretty scene;
a tea-table had been set under one of the elms, and Gay had evidently
been presiding over it, but the feast had been long over. She was
standing by the table now, crumbling sweet cake for the peacock. Lion
was sitting on his haunches watching her, and Fidgets was barking
furiously, and a little behind her stood Mr. Rossiter.
Mrs. Markham swept up to them, and I could hear her say in a frosty
voice that showed evident ill-temper, “Why has not Benson removed the
things? It is nearly seven, and we must go in to dress for dinner; you
know Mr. Hawtry is coming.”
“I was not aware of it, Adelaide”—how well I knew that careless
voice!—“but it is of no consequence, that I can see; Mr. Hawtry is
always here.”
“He cannot come too often,” in a pointed manner. “We all think highly
of Mr. Hawtry, I know.”
“Oh, are you going, Mr. Rossiter? Well, perhaps it is rather late.”
“What are you doing, Gay?” so sharply that though I had reached the
house I heard her, and turned my head to look.
Benson and the under-footman were coming out of the side door, but Mrs.
Markham stood alone under the trees. Gay was sauntering down the avenue
with the young curate still at her side, and Lion was following them,
and I wondered if Mrs. Markham saw her stop and pick that rose.
I went up to the nursery rather thoughtfully after that. I knew girls
were odd and contrary sometimes. Mr. Rossiter was very nice; he was a
good, earnest young man, and I liked his sermons; but was it possible
that Gay could seriously prefer him to Mr. Hawtry, or was she just
flirting with him _pour passer le temps_, after that odious custom of
some girls? But I could not believe it somehow of Gay Cheriton; she
was so simple, so unselfish, so free from vanity. It needed a coarser
nature than hers to play this sort of unfeeling game. “We shall see,” I
said to myself, as I put Reggie into his cot, and then I sat down and
wrote to Mrs. Morton.
(_To be continued._)
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
EDUCATIONAL.
DAUGHTER OF GENTLEMAN FARMER.—The book for which you inquire is “The
Englishwoman’s Year-Book,” published by Hatchard, Piccadilly, London,
W. We believe it may be had in parts. The yearly volume is about
half-a-crown.
JOSIE.—We advise you to write to the London School of Medicine,
30, Henrietta-street, Brunswick-square, London, W.C., for all
information you require on the subject of your letter. You should
state the fact of your having passed the College of Preceptors, the
senior local Cambridge and Oxford examinations, and the science
subjects (elementary) set by the South Kensington authorities; also
name your age, and address the dean of the school, Mrs. Elizabeth
Garrett-Anderson, M.D. This school is in connection with the Royal Free
Hospital, Gray’s Inn-road, W.C.
SPOTTED CRASH.—We think you are mistaken as to the origin of the name
Billingsgate. The name “Billing” belongs to an old Teutonic tribe or
clan, whose traditions are old enough to be mythical. It is probable
that some of its members may have been amongst those Low German
adventurers who conquered Britain and made it England. This conjecture
explains many names beginning with Billing in this country, besides
Billingsgate.
HEATHER BELL.—We regret that we cannot help you in your quest in any
way.
CINDERELLA.—It would depend upon what examination you went in for, of
course. Girton College is at Cambridge. It is for women over eighteen
years of age. The entrance examinations are in March and June. The
address of the secretary is 22, Gloucester-place, Hyde Park, London, W.
MIZPAH.—We should advise you, as you are so young, to go in for
teaching as a profession, and to study at a training college, or at
the College of the Home and Colonial School Society, Gray’s Inn-road,
W.C., or else at the Teachers’ Training Society, Training College,
Fitzroy-street, W. Governesses’ situations are yearly more and more
difficult to obtain, and it is better to be trained so as to command
school situations of a high class.
K. B.—1. The ancient name of Constantinople was Byzantium. The present
city occupies its site, but was named after Constantine the Great, who
built it. 2. Cardinal Wolsey erected Christ Church College, Oxford,
Ipswich, and also Hampton Court. A Life of King Robert “the Bruce” was
written by the Scottish poet, Barbour, in a poem called the “Brus.”
ART.
A TOMATO.—See article in _Silver Sails_ (Summer Number for 1881) on
crystoleum painting. The 12th of April, 1873, was a Saturday.
JANE.—If you really wish to learn drawing and painting, buy a shilling
manual on perspective and study from natural objects. Begin with some
simple object, such as a village pump or wayside stile, but do not
attempt such composite subjects as that sent for our opinion until you
can accomplish the former subjects fairly well.
CLOE.—As a rule, if a girl shows any taste for using her pencil, in
however trivial a way, she imagines that she could make money by it;
but she forgets, like the swarms of verse-writers, that ideality to a
very considerable degree is requisite for both the poet and painter.
If you have a gift for designing, as well as the practical skill, you
might find an opening amongst the lace manufacturers of Nottingham and
other places, amongst the cotton printers at Manchester, or the silk
manufactories at Macclesfield. It could be available for wall-paper
printers, for carpet weaving, and for pottery. Turn your attention to
one of these openings.
MISS FIENNES, of Castle-hill, Reading, Berkshire, conducts a girls’
club, called the Daub Society, to which members (amateur beginners)
send an original painting or drawing every month. The annual
subscription is one shilling, and the members adopt fancy names.
MISCELLANEOUS.
J. W. must accept our best thanks for her kind letter and the assurance
that the “girls’ own mothers” take as much delight in our paper as the
girls themselves.
KARTOFFEL.—“What is the best thing to do if anything is seen in a
haunted house?” Shut your eyes, and don’t see it.
SWETSCHE.—To invent “a cure for sleeplessness” would be to become a
millionaire. If we were so fortunate we could not promise to take you
into partnership, but would advertise our decoction widely.
COUSIN.—You have fallen into a careless and injurious mode of walking.
You should plant your feet straight on the ground, and might also have
a little brass or iron heel put on those of your shoes. If your blue
serge dress be so soiled with dust, you had better get it re-dipped by
a dyer. They can do so without your unpicking the dress.
FIREFLY.—You seem to have overtaxed your brain-power during these
examinations, and you need rest; change of air, good diet, early
retirement to bed at night, and late rising (say at 8 a.m.) might in
time restore the powers of memory. At the same time, you should obtain
the advice of an experienced physician.
MILLICENT THORNTON.—The quotation commencing—
“Absence of occupation is not rest,”
is taken from Cowper’s poem “Retirement,” line 623. You will probably
find the other poem in some popular reciter. You write well for your
age.
E. M. SEARLE.—The Latin words, _Nocturna versate manu, versate diurno_,
mean, “Turn (them) over with nightly hand, turn (them) over by day.”
The words are from Horace. The word “them,” which is understood, refers
to examples of Grecian style.
[Illustration: TEMPTATION.]
POTTS.—Your brother’s “eating dinner enough for two” does not thereby
give evidence of a fine constitution. Some lean folks eat enormously,
but, as the Scotch express it, “put their food into an ill skin;” they
do not assimilate it, and it does them but little good, and so they are
always craving for more. There are other reasons for voracious eating,
for which a doctor’s advice would be most desirable. It is a disgusting
sight, in any case, to see anyone eating double what others do, and
it should be checked, not gratified, in youth, if not attributable to
disease, in which case recourse should be had to medicine.
MOSES.—The Psalms, as given in the Book of Common Prayer, were not
_altered_, but only a different version from the translation used
in our Bibles was employed, called the Vulgate or Latin version,
attributed to St. Jerome, about 384. There was an older version of
the Holy Scriptures called the Italic, said to have been made in the
beginning of the second century, little more than one hundred years
after Christ. Gutenberg and Fust were the first who printed the Vulgate
translation, probably about 1455, and that by Fust and Schœffer in 1462.
MARY ELIZABETH T.—The evil thoughts that seem forced into your mind
against your will, of which you are ashamed, over which you grieve, and
against the recurrence of which you pray, are temptations of the devil
and his wicked ministers. They are clearly not your own; they are, as
it were, whispered in your ears. So long as you pray to be delivered
from them, and heartily strive to drive them away, their guilt does not
lie at your door. Ask for deliverance, and humbly claim it in the name
of the Lord Jesus, and “He is faithful that promised.” See St. John
xiv. 12, 13, 14, and xvi. 23, 24.
A GARDENER.—Sow the hardy annual’s seeds in February, and in March all
the perennials and biennials, and the half hardy annuals in a hot-bed.
There are several varieties of honeysuckle, and all of them may be
propagated by cuttings.
BLANK had better write for the directory to the matron, London National
Training School for Cookery, Exhibition-road, South Kensington,
S.W. The fee for the training for the post of cookery instructor is
twenty-one guineas for the full course of twenty weeks; plain cookery,
eight guineas for fourteen weeks. The Edinburgh School of Cookery,
6, Sandwick-place; hon. secretary, Miss Guthrie Wright; also trains
teachers in cookery for a fee of fifteen guineas the course, from
November to April.
AN ANXIOUS ONE.—You do not give sufficient information for us to judge
what you are fit for, and you had better read the series of articles in
vol. v., entitled “Work for All.”
TARENTELLE.—Twopenny-piece, 1797 (weighing 2 oz. av.), worth 1s. to
5s.; penny, same date (1 oz. av.), 1s. to 2s. 6d. The other coins are
worth from 6d. to 2s.
POMPEY.—The “Heaven-sent Minister” was William Pitt, 1759-1806.
CATHERINE A. M.—We think the tale about the tramcar tickets, and the
getting of a deaf and dumb child into an asylum or home by means of a
collection of 10,000 of them, must be placed by the side of many other
such figments of the imagination. The pity is that sensible people like
yourself should be misled by them. Tramcar tickets can be made over,
and there is a special machine for performing the nefarious work.
DUNEDIN.—Many thanks for your kind letter. There does not seem to be
anything to answer in it, however, so we merely acknowledge its kindly
expressions.
C. S. L.—The idea is a good one, but we fear we could not impose such a
weight on our own over-burdened shoulders. As a rule, you may depend on
the catalogues of the Religious Tract Society, the Christian Knowledge
Society, and others of the kind. Would they not help you if you wrote
for them?
RAY.—If she have asked to have you taken to see her, waive all
ceremony and go. Mutual family interchanges of visiting will follow.
It would be in better taste on your part to call yourself Mrs. John
B——, rather than cause a jealous feeling or one of injury on the part
of a mother-in-law. Do all things “that make for peace,” “in honour
preferring one another.” You write fairly well.
GUILDA.—The second “h” is mute in the word “height,” but not in the
word “width.” We congratulate you on gaining a certificate.
RUBY.—Sometimes old copies of bound magazines may be had at secondhand
or reduced prices at booksellers’ stalls. You should study the rules of
metrical composition before you attempt to write verses.
A TROUBLED MOTHER.—It is a difficult matter upon which to advise you,
and you do not say where you live. The first thing to do is to give
the girl a good education, and also to include music and singing. As
she grows older she may forget her youthful ideas. You might write for
advice to Mr. C. E. Todd, Macready Mission House, Henrietta-street,
Covent Garden; or, if in London, you might go and see him, perhaps.
A SUFFERER might try mustard oil to rub on for her rheumatism. It
sometimes does wonders for it, and is to be got at any chemist’s, and
is sold by the ounce. Rub on with the palm of the hand, round and round.
DAISY.—Dandriff may be cured by using a wash of one pint of water and
half an ounce of glycerine. Rub well into the skin of the head twice
a day (this can be done with a sponge), without wetting the head too
much. Another wash is composed of one pint of water and one ounce of
borax, used in the same manner. Dandriff is considered to be caused
by digestive troubles, especially when accompanied by watering of the
eyes, nose, or mouth.
SWYGS.—We thank you for the kind feeling that prompted the giving of
your advice for the benefit of sufferers. But for certain reasons, into
which we cannot enter, we must decline to make our paper a means of
advocating mesmerism. You write a good hand.
* * * * *
⁂ _The Editor regrets to say that the poem entitled “The Beggar’s
Christmas,” which appeared in_ Feathery Flakes, _was copied from_
Little Folks _for January, 1886, and sent to him by J. H. A. Hicks, as
his own original composition. The copyright belongs to Messrs. Cassell
and Co., and to them apologies for this unwarrantable reproduction are
due._
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 276: miror to mirror—“mirror to mirror”.
Page 279: aud to and—“and this improvement”.
Page 288: Gutenburg to Gutenberg—“Gutenberg and Fust”.
Schœfer to Schœffer—“Fust and Schœffer”.]