A FRENCH CONSCRIPT.
Roy did not soon lose sight of those words of Ivor--"Why, Roy, don't
you know that you are the one bit of cheer left to us?"
He had not perhaps hitherto been more disposed to put himself into the
place of another than most boys of thirteen; but the events of the last
few months had tended to make him thoughtful; and close intercourse
with Ivor could hardly fail to pull him mentally upwards.
Denham was not only considerably better educated and better read than
the average young officer of his day--a matter for congratulation in
respect of Roy's present education--but also his intellectual gifts
were well above the average level. The main force of the man lay,
however, rather in the direction of character than of pure intellect.
There was about him a soldierly directness and simplicity, and a
thoroughness which often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might
befall, he would do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences
to himself, but in the most direct and complete mode possible.
He was a good man as well as a most gallant soldier, and that in the
best sense of the word. He was one who might say little, but who would
at all costs do what he believed to be right. He was honourable, true,
pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender towards little children,
reverent and faithful towards his God. He was indomitable in courage,
when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting ceased he would be the
first to succour a wounded enemy. All this means largely, as has been
earlier stated, that Denham Ivor had taken shape under the influence
and the example of John Moore. Ivor was the pupil, Moore the master.
The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France were a
terrible trial to him; not only because he was cut off indefinitely
from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion, but because
also he was cut off in his young full vigour from every hope of
promotion and honour, and debarred from serving under the Commander
whom he loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted. Yet he seldom
spoke about the greatness of the trouble. It seemed as if his spirit of
soldierly obedience had taught him submission to the Divine Will.
It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to be
good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, for there
were advantages on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad, in
the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was an
opposite view of the matter. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his
spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the
weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.
Thus far Roy had done it, not knowing. Now the fact had dawned upon
him, as a novel idea, that he might be some little help to Ivor. He was
delighted; yet almost immediately he found the task less easy than when
he had carried it out unconsciously.
The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, a matter of one hundred
and seventy miles or more, would be no great matter in these days of
steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow
travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything
had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding
what he really felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past; her
relief at not being forced to leave her husband or to part yet with Roy
tending to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was
the same himself. Roy as usual was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared
to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of
depression, but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned
gaze wandered often in his direction.
No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly
Keene, which floated before his eyes, through all those miles of
driving, driving, ever farther away from where he craved to be.
He might respond readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence
recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft
velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would
hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did
like Captain Ivor--well, just a little! and that she might perhaps be
willing to marry him--well, some day!
Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding
country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest
itself--how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever
be? He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment before
he should see Polly again. Why not?
In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch, for
such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.
Would Polly be content to wait for him?
This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to
call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse
possibility. The idea that she might _not_ be willing to wait came
freshly; but having once come, it did not soon depart.
He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene
around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one
thought.
They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small
town, where fresh horses would be in waiting. Ivor was listening to
Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street,
when, without prelude or warning, that query burst upon him.
Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was
very young; hardly more than a child in age. If he were to be years
away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between
them, could he expect--would it even be fair and reasonable to
expect--that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she
would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few
weeks, though their acquaintance extended farther back; and impressions
made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always deep
or lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually
charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such
constancy on her part, as to wait through long years for her absent
lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What
would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a
portionless maiden.
The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as
they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention
than commonly on such occasions. With his bodily eyes he saw little,
yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he
heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.
"I don't in the least know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a
halt before the inn.
"Den, look! What a lot of people outside the _maison de ville_! What's
it all about? And don't some of them look miserable? What are they
after?"
"I have not the slightest idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to
find out."
The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for
drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town
hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows
who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their
faces.
One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in
appearance, with grey hair, though very likely not beyond middle age;
and she wore a short, very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and
big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her
face waited with a consuming eagerness for news, the lips working, the
eyes staring.
"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken,"
exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside?"
"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the
neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably;
and then those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy are made
to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."
"O look--they are coming out. And something is being said--what is it?"
"Hush--the names of those who are drawn."
All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands,
leant forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.
"Jean Paulet----" sounded clearly.
A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed.
She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and
dropped senseless to the ground.
"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, in distress. "The poor
creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so
cruel as to take him away!"
"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute--and not much hope
of that."
"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."
Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by
his shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely
style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her, and Ivor,
always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries
of a respectable man, perhaps a small shopkeeper, standing by. The
man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. It had to be, he said, not
unkindly but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the
conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no
remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute, and Marie
Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly
estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was
to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would
have them! Another expressive shrug.
How much would be required for a substitute? _Eh bien_--one hundred
livres would doubtless suffice. Mme. Paulet, foreseeing this day, had
toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her
utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to
get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained
for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go,
and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon?
_Sans doute_ he would be marched away at once--immediately--to the
nearest depôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no
remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to
feed the Army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to
till the soil.
Was Mme. Paulet a widow? asked Denham.
"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come.
Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was
Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her
subsistence upon an only son, then _vraiment_ her case would have been
easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked
more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a
second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in
truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to
go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being
urgently required by the First Consul.
Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother,
saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight
past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being
loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.
"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the
purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help."
Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two
Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching affairs from the coach,
while Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze.
Marie Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.
"About fifteen livres seems to be the outside, sir. They are poor here.
It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am
ready to give fifteen livres."
Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "More than you can afford, I should
have imagined, but you know your own business best. Well, tell them
that if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will
give that, and I will give another fifteen. Of course, we can't wait
now to see the end of the affair. Tell them we promise it on the
word of an English gentleman--that's understood everywhere. Give
our Verdun address to the Curé yonder--he looks an honest man. For
my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the
country has been so severe of late. But they may succeed. Anyhow, it
will soften matters a little to the poor woman. One rather grudges
letting the money go into French pockets, but I defy anyone with proper
sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."
Denham listened with his air of half-military, half-courtly, attention
to this somewhat prolonged exposition of the Colonel's views. Then
he explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to
make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power
to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in
its _abandon_ of joy. One of the young men present, who was eligible
but who had not been drawn--had not _tombé_, as the saying was--came
forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as
the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without
hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named,
Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no
attention.
Whereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with
whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval;
while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed
out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's
discomfiture.
"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to
them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit
a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that
you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you
think right, and then come along."
A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further
explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he
had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which his
Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them, with a certain reticent
indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A
slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes, bent upon
poor old Mme. Paulet, were infinitely kind.
Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one
moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his
unexpected escape.
"Bon jour, monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going
to fight against the English just yet."
Jean muttered broken words--something of a faltering hope and prayer
that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps--who
could tell?--to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for
Monsieur le Colonel's friend.
It seemed very unlikely--most unlikely--that he and these passing
English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be
able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in
this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.
As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie
Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such
a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in
the region of his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward
emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what
such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham--nobody
managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.
Then once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy
declaiming with boyish vehemence against Napoleon, and wondering
whether Jean Paulet would ever again be drawn, and would have after all
to go. They found a good deal to say on the question, and for a while
the interest of the subject kept them going.
But Denham's mind, like a spring slowly released, went back before long
to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into
the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him--no matter how long his
imprisonment might last? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his
love and some day become the wife of another?
He could not look that possibility in the face with any sort of inward
composure. It held him in thrall, both day and night, through the
remainder of this wearisome journey.
Roy was perplexed, during the last two or three days of their progress
towards Verdun, at Ivor's absorption of mind. For the first time in
his experience, his remarks failed repeatedly to reach the other's
understanding. So new a phase of matters was bewildering. Not, however,
till they were within three hours of Verdun did he note his friend's
face with sufficient care to exclaim--
"I say, Den, I do believe you're tired! Are you?"
"Been a dull companion to-day--have I?"
"Why--but, Den!" Roy spoke in accents of amazement. "You never used to
be anything of that sort! You never usen't to have anything at all the
matter with you."
"Didn't I? All right--what do you want me to look at now?"
"Is it because you're a prisoner? Do you know, I couldn't get to sleep
last night for ever so long--not till past eleven--thinking about it
all. I say--don't you hate old Boney? I do. He makes everybody unhappy.
Just think of that poor Marie and her son; if you and papa hadn't been
there, she would have lost Jean, and perhaps she'd never have seen him
again. Wasn't it horrid? And I don't see how men can fight properly,
when they don't want to fight at all. Our soldiers fight, because they
choose, not because they're made to whether they want it or not. I'm
sure Jean didn't want to be a soldier, or he wouldn't have been so glad
to get off."
Mrs. Baron leant across to say softly, "Roy, do leave Denham in peace
for a little while."
"Why, ma'am, he likes me to talk. He always says so."
Mrs. Baron looked again towards Ivor, with a dubious expression.
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
"WILLIE ONLY TOOK A HORSE."
Horse-stealers in our time are a good deal handicapped by a change that
has come over public opinion. The Government used to hang them, but the
populace were by no means horrified at the crime.
Here is a story indicating considerable former leniency in popular
thought. A horse-coper "took" a horse and was discovered and convicted,
but owing to some assistance he had given the police, he received a
light sentence.
He settled in a Norfolk village, turned an honest stock-breeder, and
prospered greatly; but there was always a rumour that he had been
convicted of some sort of stealing.
A farmer's daughter, however, fell in love with him and he asked her
from her father.
"No," said the old yeoman; "I've nothing against you, but no child of
mine shall wed a man who has been in trouble for stealing."
The daughter cried and implored, and at last sobbed out, "Willie only
took a horse."
"Why," exclaimed the farmer, "didn't ye say so before! Here have I been
treating a respectable man as if he had been a thief!"
THE DEAD DEFUNCT.
A learned weaver, in stating his case before the provost of Irvine in
Ayrshire, in the days when hand-loom weaving was a leading industry
in that town, having had occasion to speak of a party who was dead,
repeatedly described him as the defunct.
Irritated by the iteration of a word which he did not understand, the
provost exclaimed--
"What's the use o' talking so much about this child you call the
defunct? Cannot ye bring the man here and let him speak for himsel'?"
"The defunct's dead, my lord!" replied the weaver.
"Oh, that alters the case," gravely observed the wise provost.
THE ART OF CONVERSATION.
"Tell me," pleaded the artless maid, "wherein lies the secret of the
art of conversation."
The sage struck the attitude he was wont to assume when in the act of
imparting wisdom and said--
"My child, listen!"
"I am listening!" breathlessly she answered.
"Well, my child," he rejoined, "that is all there is in the art of
conversation."
HOW TO BE FREE FROM DISCONTENT.
A philosopher offered sacrifice every day in the temple of Jupiter and
made always the same prayer.
At last Jupiter grew tired of hearing over and over again the one
request and said, "What would you have?"
"I crave to become a contented man," replied the philosopher. "Never
yet have I enjoyed a really peaceful day, for I have never been
entirely contented. Even now, aged as I am, there is always something
that I long for."
"Consider well what you ask," said the god sternly; "there is but one
way in which you can secure the boon you seek."
"And what is that?" asked the philosopher eagerly.
"I must strike you dead; for in death only can man be free from
discontent."
"Upon consideration," replied the philosopher, "I think I should be
better contented to remain discontented."
And so saying he put on his hat and hastily withdrew from the temple.
DON'T BE DISCOURAGED.
"Trust yourself to God who calls you,
Then no harm can e'er befall you;
Don't be discouraged. Do the right,
And day will chase away your night."
HOW SHE SHOWED HER GRATITUDE.
The present Bishop of Gibraltar, Dr. Sandford, tells the following
story. When a young man, and a shy, very shy curate, he called to see
an old woman among his parishioners, who complained to him that all
she had to live on was half-a-crown a week which she received from the
parish.
"And out of that, sir," she went on, "I have to pay two shillings for
rent, a shilling for firing, sixpence for bread, fourpence for----"
"Stop, stop, my good woman," said the young curate, "you can't pay all
that out of half-a-crown."
"Yes, sir, but I do," she persisted, "I pay----" and she ran through
her accounts again.
Finding she was not to be convinced of her arithmetical errors, and
that she was both poverty-stricken and deserving, Mr. Sandford promised
to send her an extra half-crown on his own account each week.
"For this she rewarded me," says the bishop, "by coming much more
regularly to church, but to my horror she never caught my eye while
I was in the reading desk or pulpit without promptly jumping up and
bobbing me a little curtsey to show her gratitude. Imagine my feelings
as a shy young curate."
HOW THE DUCKS WERE TAUGHT.--An officer in the British navy tells us
that on one of his voyages, he saw a Chinaman, who kept ducks for a
living, practise an odd piece of ingenuity. In the daytime the ducks
were permitted to float about on the river, but at nightfall they were
carefully collected. The keeper, when it began to grow dark, gave a
whistle, when the ducks always flew towards him with violent speed, so
they were all invariably safe at home in less than a minute. How do you
suppose he had educated his flock so effectually? He always beat the
last duck.
"DINNA FORGET": A NEW YEAR'S SERMON.
BY "MEDICUS" (DR. GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N.).
"Her air, her manners, all who saw admired;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though refined.
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,
And ease of heart her every look conveyed."
This well-known magazine of ours, the dear old "G. O. P.," is read
wherever in this wide world the English language is understood, and it
is this very fact that puzzles and worries me a good deal when I am
commencing to write a paper for my readers. You see it is like this:
things I may say, and advice I may give, may not suit everyone, as the
"G. O. P." finds its way into cottage as well as mansion-house. I have
seen its welcome face while travelling in my caravan, in many a stately
home in England and in many a feudal castle in bonnie Scotland; and I
know too it is read by the farmer's fireside in this country and by the
ingle-side in the far north, when the snow-wind goes howthering round
the house and mourns in the chimney like the sound of sea and wind on a
surf-beaten shore.
And I "dinna forget" either that I have many thousands of lassies in
the city, who have but little time to open it till eventide or even
till Sunday itself.
Nor do I forget that the things I tell girls at home here to do, may
not altogether apply to those in Australia or Africa. Never mind, I try
to do my best. Who can do more?
And now, first and foremost, I must wish you all a very healthy New
Year. This is from my heart. Dinna forget that. For, if you have
health, you are bound to have happiness, so long as shocks of grief
and real sorrow keep aloof. Even then, if you are strong, you will be
better able to withstand these, than if you were chicken-hearted and
weakly.
There is one symptom of weakness, by the way, that is often
over-looked. A girl may be as fresh and bonnie as a thistle or a rose,
yet if she is too sensitive and too sentimental she cannot be really
well. Over-sensitiveness may be caused in a good many ways, but it is
very apt to lead on to hysteria, and this is a very serious ailment.
NOT GOING TO REPEAT.
I am not going to repeat to you all the various rules of health I have
already, in these columns, laid down scores of times, for the very best
of dishes may be served up once too often.
Just one thing, however, I must mention, and you may consider me
talking figuratively or not, as you please.
I have a pet swift--the biggest kind of swallow that visits this
country--but, being a pet, he never leaves me more than twelve hours at
a time, and in that brief space he may have flown one thousand miles,
and perhaps visited the rooms of more than one hundred of my girl
readers. He can speak various languages almost as well as Rougemont,
and a little nearer to the truth, and I sit up to listen to him
sometimes till long past twelve at night.
Dinna forget to look out for my birdie. He can see you when you little
know of it. But one thing which he has recently told me is that a very
large number of you have given up your bath, to which I fondly fancied
I had inured you. This vexed me a deal; but you will promise to begin
it again very soon, won't you? It is the greatest invigorator of the
muscles and nervous system in the world. So "dinna forget."
COLDS AND COUGHS.
Dinna forget that colds and coughs are rampant about this time of the
year. I am writing these lines long before Christmas, and I have been
prophesying for England an open winter. But dinna forget that a green
Yule makes a fat kirkyard, and colds are more easily caught from the
green cold earth and the damp cold winds than even from frost and
snow. The more you are out-of-doors in snow-time--which ought to be
glow-time--the better you will be, provided you are not too warmly and
heavily clad and do not wear india-rubber clothing in any shape or form.
When a cold comes on, take a warm drink or posset of some kind at
bed-time and eight to ten grains of Dover's powder. Get thus a good
sweat and a good sleep. Then take an aperient (apenta water) next
morning, but I advise you to remain in bed till eventide. This is one
of the best ways of cutting short a cold that I know of.
But if coughing continues, you must see a doctor. Coughs may be far
more dangerous than you think, and may lead to mischief. Dinna forget
that death respects neither beauty nor sex. Indeed, it is often the
sweetest flowers of earth that leave us first.
NEURALGIA.
A great many young ladies from seven to seventy complain about this
terrible trouble in some form or another. If it is what we call
hemi-crania, engaging, if I may use the term, the whole half of the
face and head, it may proceed from a bad tooth, or from what is the
worst sort of a tooth anyone could be plagued with--a tooth with one
small hole in the side. Have this seen to as soon as the first attack
has gone. Probably a clever dentist may be able to fill it for you.
Some girls go hurrying away to the dentist at once, have gas, and have
it out. Such a pity, for as you get older what a blessing you will find
your own teeth!
Thank Heaven, I have never worn a false tooth, but it strikes me the
sensation can be far from agreeable. If one uses the toothbrush, with
a good disinfectant powder, such as borax or charcoal, followed by a
rinse of water tinged red with permanganate of potash (and this is
usually sold as Condy's fluid), she will have teeth that will last as
long as they're wanted.
But what I wish to tell you here is this: apart from actual decay of a
tooth and consequent irritation of the nerve, a girl need never have
facial neuralgia, nor sciatica, nor any other "algia" if she but lives
in such a way as to make herself hardy as a heather stem. Dinna forget
that.
CURATIVES.
Dinna forget that medicines are, as a rule, but palliative, and to call
them curatives is, in nine cases out of ten, a very great misnomer.
All doctors will tell you the same; but they are exceedingly useful
and even most necessary at times. Only dinna forget that they do not
repair, nor rebuild the framework of our bodies. Only good, well-chosen
food can do that. But, as it does not do to eat when you are not
hungry, because then the stomach and other organs are too delicate to
digest, you must get up an appetite by exercise, recreation and fresh
air.
I don't want you to go about as if you were an invalid. That will make
you worse, and your friends will pretend to pity you, and this acting
on your mind will soon make you an invalid in earnest. No, keep up
bravely and do not complain. Fate will then say--
"Oh, there is no frightening that girl to death! She doesn't scare
worth sixpence. Look at her now, on her bit of a bike, with her lips
like a half-cut cherry, and the rose tint upon her cheek. Bah, I'll go
and try to frighten someone else!"
Then your nerves are re-strung, muscles get hard, you grow a biceps,
and every ache and pain flies away to the Back o' Bell-Fuff.
AT THIS TIME OF YEAR.
At this time of year many girls whose nerves are finely strung suffer
from hypochondriasis, or lowness of spirits, more especially if the
ground is soft and the sky grey and ugly.
The real hypochondriac is more or less verging on lunacy, because she
has delusions. Nothing seems to go right with her, nothing ever will
be right again. There is no beauty anywhere in life, which, taken on
the whole, is a great big fraud. Why was she ever sent into this world
at all, at all, against her will? She is sure she didn't wish to be
born, and she wishes she were well out of it. She is sad, melancholy,
abstracted, and does nothing with any will.
Well, what shall we do with a girl of this kind? What say you, mother?
Medicine? Was that what you suggested? Well, medicine, even if she
could swallow the whole pharmacopœia, would do her no more good than
a pinch of snuff; in fact, not so much, for the snuff would make her
sneeze, and that would help her for a time. She must have a change.
"A change, a change, and many a change,
Faces and footsteps and all things strange."
Dinna forget that. If she cannot get away, she must get a new fad of
some kind. Only there is one thing, mother, which pray dinna forget.
You must never let her think that you think she is ill. You've got to
draw her away from her imaginary miseries, and all will soon be well.
"What would you prescribe for my daughter?" a lady once asked me. "She
must eat."
"Then let her have a Shetland pony," I replied abstractedly.
"What!"
"A Shetland pony, and a young one. Oh, not to eat, to ride on, and make
a general favourite of. For a time the pony will manage her; then with
love and a tiny switch she will learn to manage the pony. After that
the fun will begin, and her imaginary troubles will all fly away."
In a month or two the cure was complete, and I used to see the
girl--she was young--careering across the common, her bonnie yellow
hair and the pony's mane streaming out in the wind and her face as
merry as a May morning.
DOES WINTER DAMAGE BEAUTY?
It need not, if beauty is only looked well after. But how shall it be?
Not by powders and paint, dear young readers--dinna forget that. Leave
rouge and the rest of it to Miss So-and-so and all the other "quite old
things" whom you know. Be ye natural; unless, indeed, you have some
real blemish. Dinna forgot you have youth on your side, and youth and
beauty are almost synonymous terms. You like Miss So-and-so very well
indeed, and my swift has just told me she heard you make the following
remark the other day to a companion--
"Know Miss S.? Oh, yes; have known her for ages. Poor, dear, old thing,
how well she makes up!"
Well, hug the happiness you possess in being young, to your heart
of hearts; but a little tinge of sadness must mar it at times, when
you remember that you too must get older and be fain to assume the
attractions you shall then no longer possess.
But beauty in winter? Well, it must be kept up, and can only be kept
up by rational means. If you expose yourself to high cold winds while
biking or driving, you may spoil your complexion for weeks to come. I
declare I should hardly like to enter the breakfast-room with such a
cold as your own folly has brought you, accompanied by watery eyes that
blink at the sunshine, and that wicked, wee red nose. Well, exposure is
unnecessary, so we shall leave that alone.
Next comes ablution and clothing. If you care a French penny for the
beauty you possess, you will be careful as to both. If you won't, can't
or sha'n't take your bath, dinna forget to have very frequent changes
of underclothing. But in some form or other thorough ablution is
imperative.
Food comes next. Never touch stimulants. I know some young ladies
do, but it is the biggest mistake in the world, quite an elephantine
error. Dinna forget that. As regards solid food, the more solid it is
the better; and you should now--unless stout--have plenty of sugar and
fatty food. Potatoes and other starchy foods should be taken also. You
want to keep up the strength? Sugar is power! Dinna you forget that.
Dinna forget this either: that pudding after dinner helps to spoil the
complexion. Have fruit instead. A little vaseline--cold cream at night
will preserve the skin. You need nothing else. Good-bye! Dinna forget!
[Illustration]
"SISTER WARWICK": A STORY OF INFLUENCE.
BY H. MARY WILSON, Author of "In Warwick Ward," "In Monmouth Ward,"
"Miss Elsie," etc.