[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.—NO. 366. JANUARY 1, 1887. PRICE ONE PENNY.]
NEW YEAR’S GIFTS.
BY MARY ROWLES.
“Oh, bonny New Year, pray tell me true,
While your birthday bells are ringing,
What beautiful work have you come to do?
How much of joy shall we find in you?
In your wallet of blessings, all fresh and new,
What fairy gifts are you bringing?”
“For field and garden, asleep in the cold,
A wonderful store I carry,
Fresh robes for the snowdrops, first to unfold,
Pink ruffs for the daisies, fair to behold,
New cups for the crocuses, yellow as gold,
Wherein shall the sunbeams tarry.
“The woods I will clothe in vestures bright,
Whose work shall be mine own doing,
Anemones there shall be found in white,
And bluebells ring by day and by night,
And girlies warble with new delight,
Old songs of loving and wooing!”
“But what do you bring, oh blithe New Year,
To human sorrow and sadness?”
“For shrouded lives, an horizon clear,
For hearts that are desolate, friendship dear,
For midnight sufferers, starlight cheer,
And morrows of peace and gladness.
“To those who have climbed when barely shod,
New guerdons for brave endeavour,
New flowers to bloom on the graveyard sod,
New visions of heavenly heights untrod,
Yea, the gifts I bring are the gifts of God,
And of love that shall last for ever!”
[Illustration: “OLD SONGS.”]
_All rights reserved._]
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.
CHAPTER XII.
GAY CHERITON.
I was afraid Mrs. Markham did not understand children. Nothing would
induce Reggie to let her kiss him; he beat her off in his usual
fashion, with a sulky “go, go,” and hid his face on my shoulder. I
could see this vexed her immensely, for she had praised his beauty in
most extravagant terms.
Joyce listened with a perplexed expression on her face.
“Have you ever seed an angel, Aunt Adda?” this being her childish
abbreviation of Adelaide.
“Dear me, nurse! how badly the child speaks. She is more than six
years old, you say. Why my Rolf is only seven, and speaks beautifully!
What did you say, Joyce?”—very sharply—“seen an angel? What unhealthy
nonsense to put into a child’s head! This comes of new-fangled ideas
on your mother’s part”—with a glance in my direction. “No, child! of
course not. No one has seen an angel.”
Joyce looked so shocked at this that I hastened to interpret Mrs.
Markham’s speech.
“No one sees angels now, Joyce; not as the good people in the Bible
used to see them; perhaps we are not good enough. But what put angels
into your head, my dear?”
“Only Aunt Adda said Reggie was like an angel, and I thought she had
seed one. What is a cherub, nurse, dear? Something good to eat?”
I saw a smile hovering on Mrs. Markham’s thin lips. Evidently she
found Joyce amusing, but just then a loud peevish voice was distinctly
audible in the passage.
“Mother, mother, I say! Go away, Juddy, I tell you. You are a nasty
disagreeable old cat—and I will go to mother”—this accompanied by
ominous kicks.
I signed to Hannah to take the children into the adjoining room. It was
Reggie’s bedtime, and Joyce was tired with her journey. The door was
scarcely closed upon them before the same violent kicking was heard
against the nursery door.
“It is only Rolf. I am afraid he is very cross,” observed Mrs. Markham,
placidly, shivering a little after the fashion of people who have lived
in India, as she moved away from the open window, and drew a lace scarf
round her. “Judson is such a bad manager. She never does contrive to
amuse him, or keep him quiet.”
“He will frighten Reggie,” I remonstrated, for she did not offer to
stop the noise, and I went quickly to the door.
There was a regular scuffle going on in the passage. A little boy in
Highland dress was endeavouring to escape from a young woman, who was
holding him back from the door with some difficulty.
“Master Rolf—Master Rolf, what will your mamma say? You will make her
head ache, and then you will be sorry.”
“I shan’t be a bit sorry, Juddy, I tell you! I will go in, and——” Here
he stopped and stared up in my face. He was a pale, sickly-looking
child, rather plain, as Miss Cheriton had said, but he had beautiful
grey eyes, only they were sparkling with anger. The young woman who
held him by the arm had a thin, careworn face—probably her post was a
harassing one, with an exacting mistress and that spoilt boy.
“Who are you?” demanded the boy, rudely.
“I am Miss Fenton, the nurse,” I returned. “Your little cousins are
just going to bed, and I cannot have that noise to disturb them.”
“I shall kick again, unless you let me come in and see them.”
“For shame, Master Rolf. Whatever makes you so naughty to-night?”
“I mean to be naughty. Hold your stupid old tongue, Juddy. You are a
silly woman. That is what mother calls you. I am a gentleman, and shall
be naughty if I like. Now then, Mrs. Nurse, may I come in?”
“Not to-night, Master Rolf. To-morrow, if you are good.”
“Nurse,” interrupted Mrs. Markham’s voice, behind me, “I do not
know what right you have to exclude my boy. Let him come in and bid
good-night to his cousins. You will behave prettily, Rolf, will you
not?”
One look at the surly face before me made me incredulous of any pretty
behaviour on Rolf’s part. I knew Joyce was a nervous child, and easily
frightened, and already the loud voices were upsetting Reggie. I could
hear him crying, in spite of Hannah’s coaxing. I felt I must be firm.
The nursery was my private domain. I was determined Rolf should not
cross the threshold to-night.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I returned quickly, “I cannot have the
children disturbed at bedtime; it is against Mrs. Morton’s rules.
Master Rolf may pay us a visit to-morrow, if he be good”—laying a
stress on _good_—“but I cannot admit him to-night.”
She looked at me with haughty incredulity.
“I consider this very impertinent,” she muttered, half to herself. But
Judson must have heard her.
“Come with me, Rolf darling. Never mind about your cousins. I daresay
we shall find something nice downstairs,” and she held out her hand to
him, but he pushed it away.
“Bring him to the drawing-room, Judson,” she said, coolly, not at all
discomposed by his rudeness; but I could see my firmness had offended
her. She would not soon forgive my excluding Rolf.
Rolf waited till she was out of sight, and then he recommenced his
kicks. I exchanged a glance with Judson; her harassed face seemed to
appeal to me for help.
“Master Rolf,” I said, indignantly, “you call yourself a gentleman, but
you are acting like an ill-tempered baby, and I shall treat you like
one,” and to his intense astonishment I lifted him off the ground, and,
being pretty strong, managed to carry him, in spite of his kicks and
pinches, down to the hall, followed by Judson. Probably he had never
been so summarily dealt with, for his kicks diminished as we descended
the stairs; and I left him on the hall mat, looking rather subdued and
ashamed of himself.
I had gained my point, but I felt out of heart as I went back to the
nursery. I had entered the house prejudiced against Mrs. Markham, and
our first interview had ended badly. My conscience justified me in my
refusal to admit Rolf; but all the same, I felt I had made Mrs. Markham
my enemy. Her cold eyes had measured me superciliously from the first
moment. Very probably she disapproved of my appearance. With women of
this calibre—cold, critical, and domineering—poor gentlewomen would
have a chance of being sent to the wall.
When the children were asleep I seated myself rather disconsolately by
the low nursery window. Hannah had been summoned to the housekeeper’s
room to see her sister Molly, and had left me alone.
I felt too tired and dispirited to settle to my work or book; besides,
it was a shame to shut out the moonlight. The garden seemed transformed
into a fairy scene. A broad silvery pathway stretched across the park;
curious shadows lurked under the elms; an indescribable stillness and
peace seemed to pervade everything; the flowers and birds were asleep;
nothing stirred but a night moth, stretching its dusky wings in the
scented air, and in the distance the soft wash of waves against the
shore.
I laid my head against the window frame, and let the summer breeze
blow over my face, and soon forgot my worries in a long, delicious
day-dream. Were my thoughts foolish, I wonder!—mere cobwebs of girls’
fancies woven together with moonbeams and rose scents!
“A girl’s imagination,” as Aunt Agatha once said, “resembles an
unbroken colt, that must be disciplined and trained, or it will run
away with her.” I have a notion that my Pegasus soared pretty high and
far that night. I imagined myself an old woman with wrinkles and grey
hair, and cap border that seemed to touch my face, and I was sitting
alone by a fire reviewing my past life. “It has not been so long, after
all,” I thought; “with the day’s work came the day’s strength. The
manna pot was never empty, and never overflowed. Who is it said, ‘Life
is just a patchwork?’ I have read it somewhere. I like that idea. ‘How
badly the children sew in their little bits—a square here and a star
there. We work better as we go on.’ Yes, that queer comparison is true.
The beauty and intricacy of the pattern seem to engross our interest as
the years go on. When rest-time comes we fold up our work. Well done or
badly done, there will be no time for unpicking false stitches then.
Shall I be satisfied with my life’s work, I wonder? Will death be to me
only the merciful nurse that call us to rest?”
“Why, Miss Fenton, are you asleep? I have knocked and knocked until I
was tired.”
I started up in some confusion. Had I fallen asleep, I wonder? for
there was Miss Cheriton standing near me, with an oddly-shaped Roman
lamp in her hand, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes, as though
she were pleased to catch me napping.
“You must have been tired,” she said, smiling. “The room looked quite
eerie as I entered it, with streaks of moonlight everywhere. Dinner
is just over, and I slipped away to see if you are comfortable. I am
afraid you are rather dull.”
But I would not allow that, for what business has a nurse to be subject
to moods like idle people? but I could not deny that it was very
pleasant to see Miss Cheriton. She was certainly very pretty—a good
type of a fresh, healthy, happy English girl, and there is nothing
in the world to equal that. The creamy Indian muslin gown suited her
perfectly, and so did the knot of crimson roses and maidenhair, against
the full white throat; and the small head, with its coil of dark shiny
hair, was almost classical in its simplicity. A curious idea came to me
as I looked at her. She reminded me of a picture I had seen of one of
the ten virgins—ready or unready, I wonder which! The bright-speaking
face, the festive garb, the quaint lamp, recalled to me the figure in
the foreground, but in a moment the vague image faded away.
“How I wonder what you do with yourself in the evening, when the
children are asleep!” observed Gay, glancing at me curiously. Then, as
I looked surprised at that, she continued, sitting down beside me in
the window-seat, in the most friendly way imaginable:
“Oh, Violet has told me all about you. I am quite interested, I assure
you. I know you are not just an ordinary nurse, but have taken up the
work from terribly good motives. Now I like that; it interests me
dreadfully to see people in earnest, and yet I am never in earnest
myself.”
“I shall find it difficult to believe that, Miss Cheriton.”
“Oh, please don’t call me Miss Cheriton; I am Miss Gay to everyone.
People never think me quite grown-up, in spite of my nineteen years.
Adelaide treats me like a child, and father makes a pet of me. By the
bye, you have contrived to offend Adelaide. Now, don’t look shocked—I
think you were quite right. Rolf is insufferable; but you see no one
has mastered him before.”
“I was very sorry to contradict Mrs. Markham, but I am obliged to be
so careful of Joyce—she is so nervous and excitable; I should not have
liked her to see Rolf in that passion.”
“Of course you were quite right; I am glad you acted as you did; but
you see Rolf is his mother’s idol—her ‘golden image,’ and she expects
us all to bow down to him. Rolf can be a nice little fellow when he is
not in his tantrums; but he is fearfully mismanaged, and so he is more
of a plague than a pleasure to us.”
“What a pity!” I observed; but Gay broke into a laugh at my grave face.
“Yes, but it cannot be helped, and his mother will have to answer for
it. He will be a horribly disagreeable man when he grows up, as I tell
Adelaide when I want to make her cross. Don’t trouble yourself about
Rolf, Miss Fenton; we shall all forgive you if you do box his ears.”
“But I should not forgive myself,” I returned, smiling; “the blow
would do Rolf more harm than good.” But she shrugged her shoulders and
changed the subject, chattering to me a little while about the house
and the garden, and her several pets, treating me just as though she
felt I was a girl of her own age.
“It is nice to have someone in the house to whom one can talk,” she
said at last, very frankly; “Adelaide is so much older, and our
tastes do not agree. Now, though you are so dreadfully sensible and
matter-of-fact, I like what I have heard of you from Violet, and I mean
to come and talk to you very often. I told Adelaide that it was an
awfully plucky thing of you to do; for of course we can see in a moment
you have not been used to this sort of thing.”
“All dependent positions have their peculiar trials,” I replied.
“I am beginning to think that in some ways my lot is superior to
many governesses. Perhaps I am more isolated, but I gain largely in
independence. I live alone, perhaps, but then no one interferes with
me.”
“Don’t be too sure of that when Adelaide is in the house.”
“The work is full of interest,” I continued, warming to my subject, as
Gay’s face wore an expression of intelligent curiosity and sympathy.
“The children grow, and one’s love grows also. It is beautiful to watch
the baby natures developing, like seedlings, in the early summer; it
is not only ministering to their physical wants, a nurse has higher
work than that. Forgive me if I am wearying you,” breaking off from my
subject with manifest effort, “one must not ride a hobby to death, and
this is my hobby.”
“You are a strange girl,” she said, slowly, looking at me with large
puzzled eyes. “I did not know before that girls could be so dreadfully
in earnest, but I like to listen to you. I am afraid my life will shock
you, Miss Fenton; not that I do any harm—oh, no harm at all—only I am
always amusing myself. Life is such a delicious thing, you see, and we
cannot be young for ever.”
“Surely it is not wrong to amuse yourself.”
“Not wrong, perhaps,” with a little laugh; “but I lead a butterfly
existence, and yet I am always busy, too. How is one to find time for
reading and improving oneself or working for the poor, when there are
all my pets to feed, and the flower vases to fill, and the bees and
the garden; and in the afternoon I ride with father; and there is
tennis, or archery or boating; and in the evening if I did not sing to
him—well, he would be so dull, for Adelaide always reads to herself;
and if I do not sing I talk to him, or play at chess; and then there is
no time for anything; and so the days go on.”
“Miss Gay, I do not consider you are leading a perfectly useless life,”
I observed, when she had finished.
“Not useless; but look at Violet’s life beside mine.”
“In my opinion your sister works too much; she is using up health and
energy most recklessly. Perhaps you might do more with your time, but
it cannot be a useless life if you are your father’s companion. By your
own account you ride with him, sing to him, and talk to him. This may
be your work as much as being a nurse is mine.”
“You are very merciful in your judgment,” she said, with a crisp laugh,
as she rose from the window-seat. “What a strange conversation we have
had! What would Adelaide have thought of it! She is always scolding me
for being irresponsible and wasting time, and even father calls me his
‘humming bird.’ You have comforted me a little, though I must confess
my conscience endorses their opinion. Good night, Miss Fenton. Violet
calls you Merle, does she not? and it is such a pretty name. The other
sounds dreadfully stiff.” And she took up her lamp and left the room,
humming a Scotch ballad as she went, leaving me to take up my neglected
work, and ponder over our conversation.
“Were they right in condemning her as a frivolous idler?” I wondered;
but I knew too little of Gay Cheriton to answer that question. Only in
creation one sees beautiful butterflies and humming birds as well as
working bees. All are not called upon to labour. A happy few live in
the sunshine, like gauzy-winged insects in the ambient air. Surely to
cultivate cheerfulness; to be happy with innocent happiness; to love
and minister to those we love, may be work of another grade. We must be
careful not to point out our own narrow groove as the general footway.
The All-Father has diversity of work for us to do, and all is not of
the same pattern.
(_To be continued._)
HERALDRY, HISTORICALLY AND PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED.
The world-wide existence and remote antiquity of heraldic
insignia—before heraldry emerged from its infancy, and developed into
a science—is an established fact. To enter exhaustively into this
branch of my subject, its historic and artistic interest, and valuable
practical uses; its institution by Divine ordinance; together with its
various accessories—comprising war-cries, badges, mottoes, seals, and
devices—would demand far more space than could be allocated in a weekly
magazine.
Some of my readers, it may be, will inquire, “What is Heraldry?” and
lest this should be the case, I must commence by stating that it is the
practice, art, or science of recording genealogies, the blazoning of
arms or ensigns armorial, and all that relates to the marshalling of
state ceremonies, processions, and cavalcades; the devising, also, of
suitable arms and badges for families, guilds, cities, and regiments.
This brief explanation supplied to the uninitiated, we may enter at
once on the historical department.
The antiquity of distinctive badges and ensigns dates back, as I
have premised, to long-ago ages of the world. No exact period can be
assigned to their first adoption by Eastern nations; from whence the
custom spread to the West. It would appear that in the first instance
only nations, or tribes of one and the same people, distinguished
themselves by special emblems displayed on their banners; although
certain princes and warriors adopted personal devices. In later times,
such distinctions were granted to families likewise, as hereditary
honours, in reward for chivalrous service rendered to their country.
Such rewards were more esteemed by many than gifts of money or lands,
as they sacrificed life or limb as patriots, and needed no pecuniary
compensation.
And here I must draw attention to the fact that the granting of such
rewards for distinguished service as should commemorate that service
for all generations, and confer hereditary honour on the hero’s
descendants, was, in its character, in accordance with the just and
liberal dispensations of the All-wise Himself. He is “a rewarder of
them that do well;” and while visiting the sins of the fathers upon the
children, unto the third and fourth generation, He “shows mercy unto
thousands in them that love Him.” To such He says: “The promises are to
you, and to your children” (Acts ii. 39), because “they are the seed
of the blessed of the Lord; and their offspring with them” (Isa. lxv.
23)—a clear case of hereditary blessing; for, “as touching election,”
we are told “they are beloved for the fathers’ sakes.” Duly considering
the Divine example, it seems to me that ample precedent exists for the
reward of well-doing in a man’s descendants; more especially as, in
most cases, those commemorative rewards exist in a title only, or an
escutcheon on his seal.
[Illustration: A TOURNAMENT.]
We return now to our historical data, in reference to the infancy of
the art in question. Those who are acquainted with the classics will
find many references to the use of heraldic emblems before that use was
reduced to a complete and perfect science. According to Herodotus, the
Carians were the first who put crests upon their helmets and sculptured
devices on their shields. These Carians inhabited a country in the
south-west angle of Asia Minor, of which Halicarnassus was the capital
and Miletus its rival—both famous cities of antiquity. The princes of
Caria reigned under Persian protection, but the kingdom was annexed to
Rome about 129 years before Christ. Herodotus further observes that
Sophanes “bare on his shield, as a device, an anchor,” and Tacitus
speaks of the standard, eagles, and other ensigns in use of the Romans.
Xenophon, also, says that the Median kings bore on their shields the
representation of a golden eagle. The Greeks adopted crests from the
Carians, and had flags adorned with images of animals, or other devices
bearing a peculiar and distinctive relation to the cities to which
they belonged. For instance, the Athenians chose an owl, that bird
being sacred to the goddess Minerva, the patron and protector of their
city, while the Thebans were represented by a sphinx, in memory of the
monster overcome by Œdipus. The emblem of Persia was the sun, of the
Romans an eagle; the Teutonic invaders of England bore a horse on their
standards, and the Norsemen a raven.
The figure-heads on the prows of our own ships owe their origin to
the times of the Phœnicians and Bœtians, who distinguished theirs by
a figure of one of their gods, being thenceforth the tutelar god and
protector of the vessel. Thebes was the principal city of Bœtia; and
their tutelar divinity, Cadmus, having been the founder of that city,
was represented on their flags, having a dragon in his hand. They also
used flags to distinguish one ship from another, which were placed in
the prow or stern; and these were sometimes painted to represent a
flower, tree, or mountain; and the names of the vessels were taken from
the devices respectively portrayed upon them.
Before our system of heraldry was organised, even in a yet imperfect
degree, we read that the ancient British kings, Brute, Lud, Bladud,
and others, all assumed their respective insignia. Brute bore on a
golden shield a “Lion rampant gules, charged on the neck and shoulder
with three crowns in pale.” Camber, another British monarch, bore on a
silver shield two lions passant gardant, gules.
Even to this day, the descendants of the British Prince Cadogan-ap-Elystan
bear the arms of their warrior ancestors—“gules, a lion rampant
regardant or,” and combined with them the badge of the three Saxon
chiefs (brothers), _i.e._ “three boars’ heads couped sable, on a silver
field”—which chiefs he slew in battle with his own hand.
In the same way, the Saxons, who succeeded, and partially exterminated
our ancient British ancestors, are still memorialised by the badges of
their thanes; and later on, the Normans—so reputed in the annals of
chivalry—were all individually distinguished by their armorial bearings.
As time went on, ripening all arts and sciences—or is supposed to do
so—heraldry began to develop, and to be regulated by certain rules
under State control, and the spirit of chivalry, that grew with the
institution of the crusades, jousts, and tournaments, may be credited
with that development. The English knights under Cœur de Lion, and
the French under Philip Augustus, wore emblazoned shields; and such
of my readers who may visit the Museum at Versailles may see a fine
collection of those worn by the crusaders, arranged in proper order.
There are (or were some thirty years ago) no less than 74 of these
“_écussons_,” which belonged to “_seigneurs les plus illustrés et les
plus puissants_,” including those of our lion-hearted king, and Philip
Augustus, before named. These all date from the first Crusade, in
1095, down to the time of Philip “le Hardi,” 1270. But, over and above
these emblazoned shields, once used by the grandest examples of Middle
Age chivalry, the visitor to this museum will find some 240 others,
bearing heraldic insignia worn by crusaders of less exalted rank than
the illustrious personages better known to fame comprised in the
seventy-four first-named. The better to appreciate such an exhibition,
the student should previously acquaint herself with the curious and
charming “Chronicles of Froissart,” than which no romance could ever
prove half as interesting, and certainly not as desirable for study,
being a faithful and graphic history of those warlike times.
To obtain an appreciable idea of a field prepared for a tournament, we
refer the reader to the eighth chapter of Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe.”
The picture he gives of the scene is worth notice. Imagine the gay
pavilions ranged side by side, and the arms of the several knights,
emblazoned on their shields, suspended before the entrance of each and
guarded by their squires, the latter being curiously attired, according
to his lord’s particular fancy. Then picture to yourselves the knights,
armed _cap-à-pie_, mounted on splendidly caparisoned chargers, and
riding up and down the lines, and the whole field glittering with arms
and bright with gorgeous banners.
But perhaps some reader may say, “_Cui bono?_ What a vain exhibition
and useless expenditure of money!” Nay, such condemnation is scarcely
just. In those half-civilised, warlike times danger threatened the
country on every side, at home and abroad, and at any unexpected
moment; and such practice in the science of arms and reviews of the
efficiency of the knights and leaders of our armies were absolutely
essential. Even in our own day it is a thoroughly well recognised fact
that such a terrible service as that of arms needs all the external
attraction with which it can possibly be invested to induce volunteers
to enter its ranks. Were there no band, no uniform, no decorations nor
rewards for gallantry in prospect, thousands who, when face to face
with the enemy, would give their lives for their country without a
moment’s hesitation, would be revolted if, in the first instance and
in cold blood, they were invited to dress in a butcher’s apron, and
were presented with a mallet or cleaver. But these few reflections may
suffice in reply to objectors, and we will return to the history under
review.
It was not until the latter end of the twelfth century, about the time
of Philip le Hardi, that the science of mediæval armory developed into
a system. In the thirteenth century it had gained in growth and in
favour, the uses of the art being more fully recognised. Thus, under
the reign of Henry III. a regular system, classification, and technical
language of its own were devised and organised.
The earliest heraldic roll of arms actually still existing is dated at
the time of Henry III. It is a copy, of which the original was compiled
(according to Sir Harris Nicholas) between the years 1240 and 1249, and
the regular armorial bearings of the king, princes of the blood, chief
barons, and knights of England were correctly blazoned. Moreover, most
of the principal terms in use in the present perfected state of the
art are to be found on this roll. A second of the same period still
exists, comprising nearly seven hundred coats of arms, besides other
and similar heraldic records, which are likewise preserved to this
day, belonging to the several reigns of the first, second, and third
Edwards and of Richard II. It appears that the right to bear arms was
inaugurated at some time in or about the reign of Henry II.
In the reign of Henry V. a registry of armorial bearings was
inaugurated, rendered essential for the avoidance of confusion and the
just settlement of disputations; but the incorporation of the officers
of this College of Arms by royal charter was granted in 1483 by Richard
III. The several titles and duties of these officers shall be duly
recorded in another part of this series; for to the apparent origin and
antiquity of heraldic insignia, and the gradual development of their
use into a science, I must for the present confine my attention.
Cold Harbour was the name of the mansion allocated to the heralds
as soon as incorporated into a college. It was erected between
Blackfriars and St. Paul’s Wharf by Sir John Poulteney, who was four
times elected Lord Mayor of London. This mansion was successively known
as York Inn, Poulteney’s Inn, and thirdly as Cold Harbour. In the reign
of Mary I. she removed the college to Derby House, previously the
palace of the Stanleys, and bestowed it on them by charter, Dethick
being Garter King-of-Arms at that time. This ancient building stood
on St. Benet’s Hill, and was destroyed in the Great Fire of London,
A.D. 1666; but the valuable records were all saved and conveyed to
Whitehall, Charles II. sending his private carriages for the purpose.
Thither also the heralds removed and continued to reside until upon
the original site the present college was erected. Of this building
Sir Christopher Wren was the architect, the north-western portion
having been built at his own expense by Dugdale. It was constructed
in the form of a quadrangle, but the formation of a new street caused
the removal of the southern side, and the form was changed. To obtain
further particulars respecting this interesting institution and all
its treasures we recommend a visit to the college, if the means of
admission can be procured through acquaintance with some one of the
officers connected with it.
So far I have given a brief account of the remote origin and growth of
heraldry. I now proceed to name a few of the leading uses claimed for
armorial insignia, and still further for the institution of a regularly
organised system in connection with them under the authority of the
State.
In the first place, when a knight was encased in armour and wore (as
the hand-to-hand warfare of the times necessitated) a visor to protect
the face, it became equally essential that some external sign should
identify him as a friend or foe and distinguish him as a leader and the
lord of his special retainers and squires. Thus the rewards granted
in the form of heraldic escutcheons emblazoned on his shield, and the
crest that surmounted his helmet identified him, and even in the thick
of a close encounter, when the shield might be hidden from view, the
crest could be seen and his identity recognised.
Thus, likewise, the standards used by the conflicting hosts served to
distinguish at a distant point of view the friendly or hostile forces
one from the other, whence the shields and crests would have been
indistinguishable. To those individually engaged in mortal combat,
and to the countries whose woe or weal hung on the issue of a battle,
the usefulness of employing emblazoned standards and shields and the
wearing of crests was sufficiently self-evident.
Again, amongst the uses of heraldry, as at present existing and
developed into a science, I may name the service rendered to private
families by the records preserved, the investigation of claims to
property, the identification of relationships, and finding of next of
kin; the distinguishing between one branch of a family from another,
proved by some trifling differences in the arms they respectively
bear, or in the crests or mottoes; usurpation of arms and titles, and
unjust pretensions to the privileges due only to legitimacy, to the
injury of real heirs—all these are rights or evils which the College of
Heralds alone is in a position to investigate, prove and maintain, or
expose and frustrate, respectively. Such public services as these, not
confined to the titled or untitled aristocracy, nor even to the upper
commoners of the country, but available to all classes when seeking
relationships, and through relationships property, or when searching
for registries of births, deaths, or marriages—such public services as
these, I say, ought surely to be duly recognised by all.
Lastly, so long as public pageants and processions continue to
exist—no less interesting and attractive to the poorer spectator than
to the great personages that are fêted—so long as there are royal
presentations, investitures with orders of knighthood, coronations, and
grand State ceremonies to be conducted, and processions marshalled in
suitable order—just so long the offices of the College of Heralds will
be essential to the requirements of the State and country.
And now I have reached the last part of my subject with which this, my
first chapter, has to deal, _i.e._, that in its broad features heraldry
is supported by the highest possible authority. The formation of
pedigrees, the use of emblematic signs and figures, and of emblazoned
standards, as distinctive badges, was not merely permitted, but was
Divinely ordained. To many customs of the world around them the “elect
people of God” were forbidden to conform. In the case in question it
was otherwise.
In proof of this assertion, let me refer the reader to the Book of
Numbers, chap. i., 2, 18, 52. There we read as follows: “Take ye the
sum of all the congregations of the children of Israel, after their
families, by the house of their father, with the number of their
names.” “And they declared their pedigrees, after their families, by
the house of their fathers, according to the number of the names.”
“And the children of Israel shall pitch their tents, every man by his
own camp, and every man by his own standard, throughout their hosts.”
Again, in the same book, chap. ii., 2, 34, we read thus: “Every man of
the children of Israel shall pitch by his own standard, with the ensign
of their father’s house.” “And the children of Israel did according to
all that the Lord commanded Moses; so they pitched by their standards,
and so they set forward; everyone after their families, according to
the house of their fathers.”
What some of these several standards represented, so as to distinguish
one tribe from another, we have not far to seek, although we have no
data whereby to determine the devices of the several families they
each comprised. Jacob, the patriarch and father of these elect tribes,
allocates to each its fitting symbol. To ascertain what these were
I refer the reader to the blessing he gave them when his pilgrimage
was rapidly drawing to its close. (See Gen. xlix. 10, 13, 14, 17,
19, 20, 21, 22, 27.) Some of the tribes had two emblems, as in the
case of Judah—a lion and a sceptre (or kingly crown)—and Joseph—a
bunch of grapes and a bow—these two sons of the patriarch inheriting
respectively the birthright and the blessing. Other emblems of a
representative character were attributed to these Hebrew tribes by
Moses also, for which I refer the reader to Deut. xxxiii.
In my next chapter I propose to enter on what is designated the
“grammar of heraldry,” and without further taxing the reader’s
patience, I now take my leave.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
THE BRIDE’S FIRST DINNER PARTY.
BY PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of “The Girl’s Own Cookery Book.”
A certain young lady, a member of The Girl’s Own Cookery Class (in
other words, an individual who has educated herself in cookery, with
the assistance of articles published in this journal), was married a
few weeks ago. Her husband is an exceedingly good fellow, and holds
a salaried position in a mercantile establishment. He has plenty of
common sense and energy, and, if all goes well, he will make his way;
but at the present moment he is not very well off. He has, however,
managed to save enough to furnish the small home very prettily and very
well, while his wife has received from her father a handsome trousseau,
a good supply of house linen of every sort and kind, and a good many
odds and ends of things. Besides this, the young couple, having a large
circle of friends, have been presented with a considerable number of
wedding presents.
Young beginners in these days are really very fortunate; for they get
so much friendly help in starting life. It very much simplifies matters
if, just as one has arrived at the conclusion that a dinner service is
imperatively required, but that the money for purchasing the same is
not immediately forthcoming, a knock is heard at the door, and a box is
brought in containing a handsome dinner service of the newest pattern
and latest fashion, as a small proof of the affection of a friend. The
young people now referred to have been most lucky in this way. They
must have received scores of presents, all useful, all judiciously
chosen, and with only two duplicates, which were speedily exchanged
for something else. That delightful Parcel Post has been a messenger
of good fortune to them. Pretty things for the table have arrived in
profusion; ornaments, pictures, silver, glass, china, cutlery have
appeared upon the scene as if by magic; and the result of it all is
that the home of this newly-wedded pair is as thoroughly well appointed
all the way through as anyone need wish a home to be.
The routine of married life in these days is first the wedding day,
then the honeymoon, and then any amount of visiting—dinner parties and
supper parties without limit. Old-fashioned individuals may disapprove
of this, and say that it would be better for the newly-wedded to
settle down quietly, look at life from a serious standpoint, read
improving books aloud to each other in the evenings, and save up
every available halfpenny for a future rainy day. Without doubt, the
old-fashioned individuals are right; but, unfortunately, few young
married people see as they do. Experience is the great teacher, and
its lessons can never be learnt by proxy. These young people have not
yet been to that school. They have their charming home, their many
friends, their limited income, and their pretty table appliances; and
the question has now arisen—How shall they entertain their friends?
They plume themselves on being prudent; they have no wish to run into
extravagance, and they have no thought of entertaining everyone whom
they know; but they are hospitably inclined, and they have deliberately
arrived at the conclusion that there are one or two special friends
whom they must invite, and whom they must make a little fuss over. The
result of it all has been the bride’s first dinner party.
When first the subject of an entertainment was mooted, the young bride,
whom we will call Mabel, was much exercised as to whether it would be
wiser to have high tea or dinner. There was much to be said in favour
of both. With high tea it was possible to have everything cold, and
put on the table all at once, and this would enable the mistress to see
the table laid, and be sure that everything was right before the guests
arrived, a consideration not to be disregarded where there was only one
little maid, and that one only eighteen, though clever for her age.
The bride thought of the anxiety which she would have to go through
if there were to be an awful pause between the courses, and then Emma
were to come to her side and say, “Please, mum, the pudding won’t turn
out!” What should she do? Then too, high tea was quieter, and less
pretentious, and the young housekeeper had no desire to make a display
beyond her means. On the other hand, dinner would be pleasanter; and,
best of all, it would furnish an occasion for bringing out all the
pretty presents, the bright silver, the exquisite glass, the artistic
table ornaments, the elegant dinner and dessert services. Where was
the good of being possessed of all these treasures if they were always
to be kept locked up in a cupboard? With these presents a dinner-table
could be laid out so effectively that the food would be quite a minor
detail. Besides, “the master” preferred dinner. In his bachelor days
he had been accustomed to dine on leaving business, and had learnt to
regard high tea as a nondescript sort of meal, only to be accepted as
a painful discipline when it could not well be avoided. Of course, the
master’s likes and dislikes counted for a good deal with the mistress,
and dinner was almost decided upon. But then came the question, “Which
meal would be the more expensive of the two?” Expense was the chief
consideration after all. Everything had to be paid for with ready
money, and a committee of two of ways and means had decided that a
sovereign must cover all expenses apart from beverages. There were to
be six guests, eight in all with master and mistress; could the thing
be done for £1 sterling? The young lady was doubtful.
At this stage of the cogitation, a double knock was heard, and in a
minute or two the maid, young but clever for her age, came up and
announced that Mrs. Jones had called to see Mrs. Smith. Amy Jones!
exactly the person to consult. Amy was an old school-mate of the
bride’s, had been married a couple of years ago, enjoyed almost the
same yearly income, and deserved the reputation of having arrived at
Dora Greenwell’s idea of perfection; that is, she had, up to this
point, not merely made both ends meet, but made them tie over in a
handsome bow. Yet she had been hospitable, too. A person of such
abundant experience would be sure to know what was best.
“Amy, if you were in my place, which should you decide upon, a high tea
or a small dinner?”
“You have begun to consider the claims of hospitality, have you, Mabel!
What is your maid like?”
“She is a very good little girl, and she does her best, but she is very
slow. If all goes on quietly, she manages excellently, but if she were
to be flurried, I do not know what would happen.”
“That’s bad,” remarked experienced Amy Jones.
“Yet she means well, and really does her best,” continued the young
mistress, anxiously eager to defend her first domestic. “She can cook
plain dishes fairly, and is interested in her work. If I tell her a
thing, she never forgets.”
“That’s good; almost good enough to make up for the slowness. Can she
wait?”
“Not properly. She can bring dishes and plates into the room and take
them out again quickly, but that is almost the extent of her power; she
could not hand round dishes or remain in the room during a dinner to be
a credit or help. If we were to decide on dinner, don’t you think you
would hire a waitress if you were me?”
“If you want my advice, dear, I should say, decidedly, do nothing of
the kind. It would be an exhibition of effort which would involve
pretence, and the slightest pretence would be a mistake. Whatever you
do, don’t go beyond the resources of your own modest establishment. At
present, all your friends know exactly what your position is; they will
respect you if you make the best of it, but if you seem to wish to go
beyond it they will begin to criticise, while the people you care for
most will blame you.”
“Then you would give up all thought of dinner?”
“I don’t say so. Why should you not have a small dinner? Prepare
everything yourself, altogether dispense with regular waiting, show
Emma exactly what she has to do, and let her do her best. Supposing
there should be a little _contretemps_, never mind; laugh at it, and
your friends will laugh with you. They will only say that you are
inexperienced. If all should go well, how pleased your husband will be!
You are sure you don’t mind the trouble?”
“Mind the trouble! I like it. I think it is fun. I am only uneasy about
the expense.”
“Well, dear, I should say that high tea, though less troublesome,
is quite as expensive as dinner. We can easily ascertain the truth,
however. Let us take paper and pencil, and draw up a statement of the
cost of both. We will begin with the high tea. I suppose we are to take
it for granted that you must have something extra? It would not do to
have a thoroughly simple meal.”
“Oh, no. If we ask six people on such an occasion, we must make a sort
of feast. Let me think. You put the items down as I decide on them. We
might have a lobster salad, a couple of boiled fowls with egg sauce,
a beefsteak and oyster pie, a strawberry cream, a jelly of some sort,
a few tarts and cheesecakes, some fruit and fancy biscuits. Then, of
course, tea and coffee and thin bread and butter, brown and white. That
would do well enough. We could not well have less.”
“A very excellent menu, indeed,” said Amy, while a rather amused look
passed over her face. “What do you suppose it will cost?”
“I don’t know,” said Mabel. “You cast it out and see. You understand
prices better than I do.”
For a while there was silence, and nothing was heard but the scratching
of a pencil. Then Amy read aloud:—“Lobster salad, 3s. 3d.; boiled fowls
and egg sauce, 7s. 11d.”
“Oh, dear!” said Mabel.
“Well, you see, it is spring, and fowls are dear in the spring. I do
not suppose you could get a fine pair for less than 3s. 6d. each.
Beefsteak and oyster pie, 5s.; strawberry cream (made with your own
jam), 1s. 8d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.; tarts and cheesecakes we will
calculate roughly at 1s. 4d.; a little fruit, 2s.; tea and coffee (say
2d. per person), 1s. 4d.; bread and butter, 2s. Altogether say £1 5s.
10d.”
“That will never do,” said Mabel. “We must take something away.”
“For one thing, you might take the tarts and cheesecakes. Surely they
are not necessary.”
“One wants a little trifle of the sort to conclude the meal,” said
Mabel.
“Then make jam sandwich. I can give you a simple recipe, by following
which you can produce a dishful for less than sixpence.”
“Thanks. But that will not make matters right. We must reduce much more
than that.”
“Suppose that before doing so we draw up a dinner, and see what we can
make of that. I will furnish the menu this time.”
“Very good. Only remember to take into consideration Emma’s limited
capacity,” said Mabel.
Again there was silence. After a few minutes Amy read aloud once more:—
MENU.
Potato Soup.
Tomatoes Farcies.
Rolled Loin of Mutton and Sour Plums.
Mashed Potatoes, with Brown Potatoes round.
Stewed Celery.
Ready-made Pudding. Orange Jelly.
Macaroni Cheese.
Dessert.
Coffee.
ESTIMATE.
Potato soup, 11d.; tomatoes farcies, 1s.; mutton, forcemeat, gravy,
&c., 6s. 9d.; potatoes and celery, 6d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.;
ready-made pudding, 1s. 3d.; macaroni cheese, 9d.; dessert, 3s.;
coffee, 10d. Altogether, 16s. 4d.
Mabel was silent for a moment from amazement. Then she said—
“That is very extraordinary. I would not have believed it.”
“Yes, dear. But you must take into account that you drew up rather a
luxurious tea; and my dinner is a very simple and homely one. Therefore
you were scarcely fair to yourself.”
“I only described the sort of high tea we should have had at home
before I was married.”
“And you forgot that your mother did not need to make a sovereign cover
all expenses.”
“And yet your dinner sounds more satisfactory than my tea, and I am
sure it would look more. I wonder if Emma could manage a dinner like
that; she is not entirely ignorant. She can roast a joint, and boil
potatoes very well, and she can bake a pudding——”
“Then I am sure she could manage, for everything else you could
yourself prepare beforehand. Of course, if she were more of a cook, you
might have a little fish, or perhaps a trifle of game after the mutton,
and still keep within the sovereign.”
“I feel that I should be wiser to experiment first in a small way,”
said Mabel.
“Very well. The potato soup you know well. It is good, and cheap; you
can get it ready beforehand, so that Emma will only have to make it
hot. The mutton you can get the butcher to bone, and then stuff it with
veal forcemeat, and roll it early in the day, leaving Emma to roast
it. The gravy, also, you can make ready, and put, nicely seasoned and
free from fat, in a cup, so that Emma will need only to put it in a
saucepan to get hot when she begins to dish the meat. The tomatoes you
can prepare. The celery and potatoes you may leave with her, I should
think.”
“Decidedly; she boils vegetables very well, and she can mash potatoes,
and put browned potatoes round quite easily. I had better make the
sauce for the celery, though.”
“You might make it, and put it in a gallipot in a saucepan with boiling
water round, to keep hot. Then surely if you make the soup, if you
prepare the meat, and make the gravy, make the sauce, get the tomatoes
ready, make the jelly, mix the pudding, three parts cook the macaroni,
dish the dessert, and altogether make the coffee, there can be no
danger.”
“I shall be rather tired by the time our friends arrive,” said Amy,
looking a little grave as she realised the responsibilities which she
was proposing to take upon herself.
“Oh, yes; you will have to be very quick, and to do all the head-work.
But you said you did not mind the trouble. And besides, remember this,
if once you can succeed in your attempt you will find that you are not
at all more tired with providing dinner than you are with providing
high tea. But there are just two things you would do well to try for,
in my opinion.”
“What are they?”
“One is to make Emma well acquainted with every dish beforehand. Let
her understand how things ought to be and to look when properly cooked;
on no account let the final touches be the product of her imagination
as exercised in carrying out your descriptive order.”
“No, that would scarcely do,” said Mabel, laughing.
“Well, the only way to prevent it is to make the most of the time
between now and the important day. Have potato soup one day, rolled
mutton another, tomatoes farcies, and ready-made pudding a third, and
macaroni cheese a fourth, and so make her familiar with what is coming.”
“And the second point?”
“I was going to suggest that if you have anything served in a style
superior to your ordinary mode, you should try to keep Emma up to the
better way as a regular thing. This will really be a great kindness to
her. It will make her more skilful, and fit her for taking a better
situation afterwards, and, strange to say, she will be all the happier
for it. Right-minded girls (and I should quite think Emma is one)
are glad to be shown refined ways, and they respect a mistress who
understands and insists upon the best modes of doing things far more
than they respect a mistress who lets things go, and puts up with
slipshod fashions just for the sake of peace and quiet. And really you
will find that when Emma knows what ought to be, all you will need to
impress upon her is the time required for the various dishes.”
“That is it precisely,” said Mabel, who had been listening very quietly
to her friend’s remarks, but who was evidently giving all her thoughts
to the subject in hand. “I can see now exactly what I shall have to do.
I shall make out a list of every ingredient, and have everything where
it will be close to my hand, the day but one before the dinner. The
day before I shall make the jelly and, with Emma’s help, brighten all
the glass and silver, and look out any pretty ornaments and services.
Then quite early on the eventful morning I shall make the soup, and put
it ready for making hot; yes, I shall even fry and dish the sippets
and chop the parsley, which will have to be sprinkled in at the last
moment. I shall stuff and roll the mutton, dish the sour plums (those
delightful sour plums! they were there without needing to be in the
estimate; how good it was of Frau Bergmann to give them to me). I shall
stuff the tomatoes, turn out the jelly, dish the dessert, arrange the
coffee cups and saucers—but, oh, the coffee, what shall I do for that?
Emma never makes it properly.”
“Few servants do; and if I were you I should look after it yourself
in this case. The coffee is so very important. Really good coffee,
served at the close even of an unsuccessful dinner, almost atones for
disaster, while inferior coffee spoils the most _recherché_ repast. Why
should you not steal away for a minute or two when your friends leave
the dining-room, make the coffee, and send Emma in with it. Then all
is sure to be right.”
“Yes, that will be best. Well, as I was saying, I must be as busy as
possible before luncheon. Then, after luncheon——”
“After luncheon I should lie down for an hour,” said Amy.
“Oh!” said Mabel, dubiously.
“Yes. It would be unfortunate if the dinner were a success, and the
hostess laid up next day through fatigue.”
“May be. Yes, I will certainly rest awhile after luncheon. Then, while
Emma prepares her vegetables, tidies the kitchen, and attends to the
roast, I will lay the table; and I know I can make it beautiful.”
“What shall you do for flowers? We did not allow for them in our
estimate.”
“I planted some corn a week ago in a large fancy bowl, and it will be
lovely. Have you never done that? You get a few ears of corn, pack
them in a bowl full of water, so that the ears are close together and
are partially covered with the water. Put the bowl in a warm room,
and in about a fortnight the delicate blades will peep out and grow
to be very pretty. There could not be anything more effective for the
middle of the table, and the grass lasts five or six weeks, and it is a
most convenient decoration when flowers are scarce. We always used to
provide ourselves with corn in harvest time for this purpose.”
“I will remember to do the same,” said Amy. “I never heard of growing
corn in a bowl.”
“I can give you a little meanwhile to experiment with. Then, when the
table is laid, I will dress, and when I come down will present Emma
first with a written menu, giving a list of what is to go in with each
course, and a few notes of reminder—something of this sort:—
“REMEMBER—
“To put the pudding and tomatoes in the oven, also to pour the sauce
over the macaroni and set it to brown, as soon as the last guest
arrives.
“To put the plates for soup, meat, tomatoes, ready-made pudding, and
cheese to heat half an hour before the dinner hour.
“To make the milk boil before stirring it into the boiling soup, and to
sprinkle in the chopped parsley at the last moment.
“To shut the dining-room door after taking in or removing dishes, &c.,
and to move about as quietly as possible.
“To begin to dish the meat and vegetables and make the gravy hot the
moment soup is in, so that everything may be quite ready when the bell
rings.
“To put the coffee (left ready ground on the dresser) into the oven, to
get hot, as soon as dessert is in, and at the same time to set a jug of
milk in a saucepan of boiling water.”
“What is that for?” said Amy.
“It is to scald the milk. Coffee tastes so much more delicious when
the milk is scalded, not boiled. There, I think that is all. I will
write the notes early, and then, if anything else occurs to me, I can
put it down. But, Amy, for safety’s sake would you mind giving me the
recipes for the dishes in your menu. I have one or two, but they may be
mislaid, and I should not like there to be a mistake.”
“There is not much fear of a mistake, if you take all that trouble. But
I will give you the recipes with pleasure. In return, will you give me
the recipe for the sour plums? I should like to have it, for I intend
to make some when plums are in season.”
The arrangements thus laid down were implicitly carried out, and the
“Bride’s First Dinner Party” was a great success—so much so that every
guest remarked, when the evening was over, “What a clever little
woman Mrs. Smith is! How fortunate her husband is to have a wife thus
domesticated.” Then, in a moment, “What lovely wedding presents!”
For the benefit of those who may care to have them, I subjoin a copy of
the recipes which were exchanged between Amy and Mabel.
_Potato Soup._—Melt a piece of butter the size of an egg in a stewpan.
Throw in two pounds of potatoes, weighed after they have been peeled,
the white parts of two leeks, and a stick of celery, all cut up.
Sweat for a few minutes without browning. Pour on a quart of cold
stock or water; boil gently till the vegetables are tender, and pass
through a sieve. When wanted, make hot in a clean stewpan, and add
salt and pepper. Boil separately half a pint of milk; stir this into
the boiling soup. At the last moment sprinkle on the top of the soup a
dessertspoonful of chopped parsley. If cream is allowed, the soup will
be greatly improved.
_Tomatoes Farcies._—Take eight smooth red tomatoes; cut the stalks off
evenly, and slice off the part that adheres to them; scoop out the
seeds from the centre without breaking the sides. Melt an ounce of
butter in a stewpan. Put in two tablespoonfuls of cooked ham chopped,
two tablespoonfuls of chopped mushrooms, two shalots, two teaspoonfuls
of chopped parsley, pepper and salt, and two ounces of grated Parmesan.
Mix thoroughly over the fire, fill the tomatoes with the mixture, and
bake on a greased baking tin in a moderate oven for ten or fifteen
minutes. The tomatoes should be tender, but not broken. If the
ingredients for this forcemeat are not at hand, a little ordinary veal
forcemeat may be used, but the taste will be inferior.
_Rolled Loin of Mutton._—Get the butcher from whom the meat is bought
to bone the loin; spread veal stuffing inside, roll it up, bind it
with tape, and bake in the usual way. Thick, smooth gravy should be
served with it. This may be made of the bones.
_Mashed and Browned Potatoes._—Mash potatoes in the usual way. Prepare
beforehand six or eight good sized potatoes of uniform size. Parboil
them, then put them into the dripping-tin round the meat for about
three-quarters of an hour—less, if small—and baste them every now and
then till brown. Pile the mashed potatoes in the middle of the tureen,
put browned potatoes round, and sprinkle chopped parsley on the white
centre.
_Stewed Celery._—Wash the celery carefully, and boil it till tender in
milk and water, to which salt and a little butter have been added. The
time required will depend on the quality. Young, tender portions will
be ready in half an hour or less; the coarse outer stalks will need to
boil a long time. Drain thoroughly, dish on toast, and pour white sauce
over.
_Sour Plums_ (a substitute for red currant jelly served with meat; to
be made in the autumn).—Take three pounds of the long, blue autumn
plums, almost the last to come into the market, called in Germany
zwetschen. Rub off the bloom and prick each one with a needle. Boil
a pint of vinegar for a quarter of an hour with a pound and a-half
of sugar, a teaspoonful of cloves, three blades of mace, and half an
ounce of cinnamon. Pour the vinegar through a strainer over the plums,
and let them stand for twenty-four hours. Next day boil the vinegar,
and again pour it over the fruit. Put all over the fire together to
simmer for a few minutes until the plums are tender and cracked without
falling to pieces. Tie down while hot.
_Ready-Made Pudding._—Mix two tablespoonfuls of flour, an ounce of
sugar, and a very little grated nutmeg, with a spoonful of cold milk
to make a smooth paste, then add boiling milk to make a pint. When
cold, beat two eggs with a glass of sherry, mix and bake in a buttered
dish for half an hour.
_Orange Jelly._—Soak an ounce of gelatine in water to cover it for an
hour, and put with the gelatine the very thin rind of three oranges.
Squeeze the juice from some sweet oranges to make half a pint, then add
the juice of two lemons, and strain to get out all pips, etc. Take as
much water as there is fruit juice, put this into a stewpan with the
gelatine, and a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar, and simmer for a few
minutes till the gelatine is entirely dissolved. Remove any scum that
may rise, then add the juice; boil up once, and strain into a damp
mould. This jelly has a delicious taste, and is not supposed to be
clear.
_Macaroni Cheese._—Wash half a pound of Naples macaroni, break it up
and throw it into boiling water with a lump of butter in it, and boil
it for about half an hour, till the macaroni is tender. Drain it well.
Melt an ounce of butter in a stewpan, stir in one ounce of flour, and,
when smooth, half a pint of cold milk. Stir the sauce till it boils,
add salt and pepper, an ounce of grated Parmesan, and the macaroni
drained dry. Pour all upon a dish, sprinkle an ounce of macaroni over,
and brown in the oven or before the fire.
_Simple Jam Sandwich._—Beat three eggs, and add a breakfastcupful of
flour, to which has been added a teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Beat
the mixture till it bubbles. Add a scant breakfastcupful of sifted
sugar. Beat again, and add half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda.
Turn into a shallow baking tin, greased, and bake for a few minutes in
a quick oven. With the oven ready, this cake can be made and baked in
half an hour.
GIRTON GIRL.
BY CATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.
“Why, sir, should you seem so startled
When you chance to come on me
Talking silly baby-language
To the child upon my knee—
To this happy, crowing urchin,
While his peasant mother stands
Watching us, while she is wiping
Thick-flaked soapsuds from her hands?
“When you met me first, at dinner,
At the Hall the other night,
You were seated on my left hand,
The professor on my right;
And you saw I cared to listen—
Saw it with a scornful mirth—
To the facts that he was telling
Of the strata of the earth.
“And again, when of the Iliad
My companion chanced to speak,
You were less pleased than astounded
That I quoted Homer’s Greek.
And beneath my half-closed eyelids
I observed your covert smile,
When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,
And I answered with Carlyle.
“Then you thought you read me fully—
‘Woman in her latest phase,
Following with feebler footsteps
In far-reaching manhood’s ways.
A half-taught, conceited creature,
Something neither wise nor good;
Losing for a vain chimera
All the grace of womanhood.
“‘Failing in her mad endeavour,
Though in every languid vein
Love-warmed heart-blood she replaces
With cold ichor from the brain.
Woman striving to be manlike,
Making him her enemy,
Fighting where she best had yielded’—
This was what you saw in me.
“Sir, I claim to be a woman:
Nothing less and nothing more;
Laughing when my heart is joyful,
Weeping when my heart is sore;
Loving all things good and tender,
Nor so coldly over-wise
As to scorn a lover’s kisses,
Or the light of children’s eyes.
“Over-wise! Nay, it were folly
If I cherished in my mind
One poor fancy, one ambition
That could part me from my kind—
From the maiden’s hopes and longings,
From the mother’s joy and care,
From the gladness, labour, sorrow,
That is every woman’s share.
“Not for all life’s garb of duty
In the self-same tint is dyed;
I must walk alone, another
Shelters at a husband’s side.
Yet I claim her for my sister,
While—though I must stand apart—
All her hopes, her fears, her wishes
Find an echo in my heart.
[Illustration: A GIRTON GIRL.]
“True it is I love to study
Every page of nature’s lore.
Must that make my soul less gentle?
Nay, it softens me the more.
True it is I love the story
Of the old heroic age,
True I love the aspirations
Of the poet and the sage;
“But if poet, artist, thinker,
Lend me some inspiring thought,
Must it follow that the duty
Of the woman is forgot?
No; ’tis you who err, believe me,
Thinking, as perchance you do,
That because her brain is empty,
Woman’s heart must beat more true.
“’Tis not learning that unsexes,
’Tis not thought will make us cold,
Nor at sight of heavy volumes
Love on us relax his hold.
Woman is for ever woman;
O’er her life love rules supreme,
Though his kingdom be but fancy,
And the bliss he gives a dream.
“Nought besides, however worthy,
In her heart can take his place—
But enough! The child is frightened
At the graveness of my face.
I must bring him back to laughter.
Pray you, leave us for a time,
Or you’ll hear a Girton student
Teaching him a nursery rhyme.”
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.