[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]
VOL. VIII.—NO. 373.] FEBRUARY 19, 1887. [PRICE ONE PENNY.
SPRING: ITS TROUBLES AND DANGERS.
BY MEDICUS.
[Illustration: A TREACHEROUS SPRING DAY.]
_All rights reserved._]
Although the subject I have chosen for this month’s paper might seem to
some an uninteresting one, I feel I should be casting a slur upon the
good sense of the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN if I doubted for a moment
their willingness to hear what I have to say.
I confess to you, however, that I would far rather discourse to
you in pleasant language of perfumes distilled from flowers, of
health-giving rambles by moorland, mount, or sea, of the ozone-laden
air that gladdens the heart, or the sweet sunshine that warms and
thickens the blood, than of rheums and aches and pains. But, was it
not Solomon himself who said there is a time for all things? Yes, and
the spring months in this country are fraught with a deal of little
disagreeablenesses, which prudence and a modicum of care might enable
us to avoid.
Perhaps the state of the weather to-day may have something to do with
the production of this article. My minimum thermometer has been down
to 31° during the night, and winter not yet ended. As I write a wild
east wind is roaring through the trees, bending the poplars as if they
were fishing-rods, tearing the brown leaves from the elms, and whirling
them high over the chimneys. Determined not to have fires in my study,
I am fain, nevertheless, to envelop myself in my ulster, and thus I
sit defiant; the surging, sea-like roar of the storm cannot disturb my
equanimity, nor eke the swaying creepers that tap at the windows like
dead men’s fingers.
Winter will last with us far into April, and on the wings of east winds
are borne along many of the seeds of illnesses we would do well to be
prepared for.
I was looking at a lime or linden tree last autumn, when the sun was
shining brightly, and ere the leaves had commenced to turn from green
to yellow. All know the graceful and beautiful linden tree, with its
wealth of heart-shaped leaves, so close and thick that if a man climbs
but half-way up, he is hidden in a cloudland of verdure, and might
consider himself a hundred miles from the earth for all he can see of
it. And the linden is a spreading tree, its lower branches stretch
far outwards, and their tips almost touch the ground, so that once
beneath it you are in a kind of fairy alcove or bower, into which
even rain cannot find its way. The tree I was looking at was covered
with myriads of its strange, wee flowers, the perfume from which had
attracted bees in countless thousands. As I stood beneath its shade I
was delighted with the fragrance of the wee flowerets, and charmed with
the drowsy music of the little artisans, that were so busy gathering
honey therefrom—the sweetest and best honey in the world, by the way;
but I could not help wondering when I thought of the tens of millions
of seeds, which, in a few weeks, would be scattered broadcast upon the
earth, not one of which from this particular tree I have ever known
to take root and grow. And why not? Listen, because the answer to the
question has a bearing upon the subject I have under consideration.
The reason why the seeds do not germinate, lies in the fact that the
ground on which they fall resists their efforts to take root and grow.
As the air is full after a time of the seeds of the linden tree,
when the south wind blows, and, as the earth beneath is bedded with
them, so, when the chill, cold breezes of spring are blowing, is the
sky filled with seeds of illness, which fall on the lungs of those
breathing them, and it depends upon the state of one’s blood and
constitution, whether those seeds shall take root and develop coughs
and colds, and aches and pains and rheums of every kind, or be repelled
and do nought of harm.
From this we may learn a lesson. For it is strange but true enough,
that so great is the struggle for existence in this world—I do not
mean among human beings, but among the living though invisible germs
which—everywhere and at all times surround us in clouds, that no sooner
does the health of anyone of the higher forms of animal life fall below
par, than it is attacked by these, and if the weakness is extreme he
falls a victim, and severe illness, that may even end fatally, is the
result.
It is a well-known fact, established long, long ago, that all such
plagues as cholera, for instance, or typhoid fever, are caused by germs
of disease afloat in the air, or in the water, and through these media
introduced into the human system. These germs are ferments so strong,
poisons so powerful, that if they once succeed in gaining ingress to
the blood, hardly can all the skill of medicine destroy them or render
them innocuous. Yet we daily hear of medical men and nurses walking
about in the midst of plague and pestilence, but coming through the
outbreak all unscathed. We can only account for this by believing
that these individuals have well-kept up systems, that the lungs are
constantly so healthy, and the surface of their bronchial tubes so
smooth and pure, that the disease germs can find neither food nor
foothold therein or thereon.
Now the two great enemies to the health of the delicate during the
spring months are cold and damp, and just as often as not they both
attack one at the same time. Nor is it the delicate in constitution
alone who have to fear the evil influence of these foes to life and
comfort, for strong men and women, too, must be careful.
If I were to ask any of my older readers what she considered the cold
and damp of spring were most likely to give rise to in the shape of
illnesses, the answer would almost certainly be, “Colds and coughs.” So
far she would be right, but there is another ailment very prevalent at
this time, and too often the result of exposure to the weather, namely,
fits of indigestion. The sufferer feels chilly and not over well in
the evening; perhaps she retires early, has a restless night, and
awakens in the morning with disagreeable headache and complete loss of
appetite. There may even be nausea and sickness.
These symptoms are generally put down to a chill caught, or to a
bilious attack, and the patient—for patient she must be now for a few
days at all events—tries to think back what she has been eating. This
kind of self-examination is usually somewhat unsatisfactory, and it
would be better were she to ask herself, “Where and when did I expose
myself to cold and damp _on an empty stomach_?” You notice I have
italicised the last words, because I want you to get a firm grasp of
the fact that when the system is, for the time being, weak and below
par, with no food pouring into the blood, it is ten times more liable
just then to become the victim of unhealthful influences.
A little attack like that which I have mentioned is best got rid of
by confinement for a day or two to the house, on a sofa, in an easy
chair, but not in bed if possible, by diet of an easily-digested and
nourishing kind, by a mild aperient and warm bath at bedtime, with, if
it be deemed needful, about ten grains of Dover’s powder, while before
being again exposed to this weather, a warmer woollen garment should be
worn next to the skin.
In the spring months the delicate, who would avoid aches and rheums,
must be careful to keep the body well-nourished.
Beware, however, I pray you, of that deluding sentence, which is the
cause of so much human misery, “Keep up the strength.” To do this
some people resort to the madness and folly of constantly cramming—I
can use no milder verb—the body with all kinds of nourishing food
and drink, till the liver and other internal organs are gorged with
blood, and this blood itself is poisoned with bile and acid, and the
stomach is utterly prostrated with the efforts it has to make, and the
unusual strain put upon it. In this heated, half-fevered condition
of system, if a person be exposed to cold wind or to damp, can she
wonder that illness is the result? And this illness will take the form
of rheumatism in the joints in one, muscular pains and stiffness in
another, chest complaint in a third, and so on through every scale of
trouble.
The corollary from the above may be summed up in these words: in spring
time get up soon in the morning, and after a pleasant bath and a breath
or two of fresh air, sit down to a quiet breakfast of a palatable, but
not over rich nature. Ring the changes, day after day, on eggs, cold
fowl or game, fish (white), mild bacon, etc., and toast—invariably
toast—with sweetest of butter, and either good tea, coffee, or
cocoatina. Fruit should be eaten before breakfast, or the juice of
oranges in sugar and water may be drank. Be moderate in eating, and if
hungry at midday take a biscuit with a cup of cocoatina. Let luncheon
and dinner be all partaken of under the same restrictions, and exclude
stimulants and cordials as you value your health. At bedtime, if a bad
sleeper, a tumblerful of sodawater may be drank with ten grains of
bicarbonate of soda dissolved therein.
This system of living is the only true way to keep up the system in
spring, and to guard against its cold winds and the troubles that fly
on the wings thereof.
But there are other rules to be attended to if one would have perfect
health at this season.
Exercise must not be forgotten, to keep the skin acting freely; nor
recreation, to keep the mind from becoming dulled and low.
Depend upon it that exercise and real healthful recreation go very far
to keep sickness at bay.
Older people often suffer from cold in spring. They will not do so if
they take the following advice. Sleep in a comfortable, well-ventilated
room. Very great pains must be taken with the ventilation; it must be
scientifically done by door and windows, and probably by chimney. I may
dwell at some length another day about this; meanwhile, remember that
a draught is not to be tolerated, and that this can easily be avoided
by using perforated zinc, which can be painted most ornamentally, the
little holes being afterwards freed with a long needle.
Too heavy or too hot bedclothing should not be used, and if a fire is
lit it should be so banked before retiring that it will smoulder away
all night. All kind of stimulating cordials should be avoided, but
cod-liver oil should be taken.
About clothing for spring I have spoken before, and always do speak
in favour of wool for young or old. I have also many times raised a
warning voice against the dangers from wearing mackintoshes.
The following is from a medical contemporary, and although it refers to
topcoats, it is equally _àpropos_ of any extra over-garment.
“The general effect is well enough while the overcoat is kept on,
but the moment it is removed evaporation recommences, and the body
is placed in a ‘cooler,’ constructed on the principle adopted when
a damp cloth is wrapped round a butter-dish—the vapour passing
off, abstracting the heat, and leaving the contents of the cooler
refrigerated. The point to make clear is that the overcoat, let
it be fashioned and ventilated as it may, does not prevent the
underclothing from being saturated with moisture, but actually tends
to make the moisture accumulate therein. This is proved by the sense
of genial warmth felt while the overcoat is worn, and the evidences of
perspiration easily perceived, under the arms and at the sides of the
chest particularly, after the overcoat has been removed. Moreover,
we take off the coat when we enter a warm house, and precisely at the
moment when muscular activity is suspended. A very little consideration
will suffice to convince the common-sense thinker that nothing can well
be worse managed than this process, both as regards its nature and the
time and condition of its operation. It is opposed to all the canons
of health to allow the clothing to become saturated with perspiration,
and then to take off the external covering and suffer rapid cooling by
evaporation; while if it were designed to do this at the worst possible
time, probably none worse could be found than when muscular exercise
has been discontinued. The suggestion we (_Lancet_) have to offer is
that it would be far better policy to wear only one coat at a time, and
to make whatever change may be necessary by removing a thin coat and
replacing it by a thicker one when going out of doors, and the reverse
when coming in. If, instead of wearing overcoats, people would wear
coats of different thicknesses, according to the weather and conditions
generally, they would avoid the danger of cooling by evaporation; the
garments saturated with moisture would be removed, and dry off the
body instead of on it. We believe no inconsiderable portion of the
‘colds,’ attacks of lumbago, and even more formidable results of what
are popularly called ‘chills,’ may be traced to the practice of wearing
overcoats, which arrest the ordinary process of evaporation, cause the
clothing within to be saturated with accumulated perspiration, and
are then removed, when rapid cooling takes place. The avoidance of
this peril is to be attained by such change of coats as the conditions
require.”
A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.
CHAPTER III.
EXILE AND RESTORATION.
It was midnight on the 19th of December, her seventeenth birthday,
when Madame Royale left the Temple. M. Benezech, the Minister of the
Interior, escorted her to the Porte St. Martin, where the travelling
carriage provided for her journey to Vienna was in waiting. There
went with her the Marchioness de Soucy, sub-governess to the children
of France, an officer of the gendarmerie, and M. Gomin, one of the
commissaries of the Temple. Hué joined her at Huningen, which she
reached on Christmas Eve. Although all precautions were taken to
prevent her being known, the princess was frequently recognised, and
greeted with silent respect, in the course of her journey. She stayed
over the 25th at the sign of the “Crow” at Huningen, and set out for
Basle on the next day. As she left her room the innkeeper fell at her
feet and asked her blessing. Tears stood in her eyes as she entered
the carriage. “I leave France with regret,” she said, “and shall never
cease to regard it as my country.”
At Basle the exchange was effected, and Madame Royale left on the
night of the 26th, accompanied by Madame de Soucy and escorted by the
Prince de Gavres, who had been appointed by the Austrian Emperor for
the purpose. At Lauffenbourg she stayed a day to celebrate a service in
memory of her parents, and at Innspruck she remained two days to visit
her aunt, the Archduchess Elizabeth. She arrived in Vienna on the 9th
of January, 1796.
Warmly received by the Emperor and Empress, with a household appointed
for her in accordance with her rank, Madame Royale took her place at
the Austrian Court, and here she spent the next four years. But amid
the glitter of the Court of Vienna she was, perhaps, more truly lonely
than she had been in the Tower of the Temple. Her heart was in the
graves of those she loved, and the mourning garments which she wore
told truly that she lived in the past. The Archduke Charles sought her
hand, and the Emperor and Empress urged, and even insisted, that she
should accept him. But Madame Royale steadily declined. She had no
heart to give a lover; but the wish of her father and mother pointed
out the path she was to take, and if she must wed it could only be her
cousin, the Duc d’Angoulême. Her refusal drew down on her the Imperial
displeasure, which was augmented by her careful avoidance of various
political schemes into which it was sought to entangle her.
It was a great relief, therefore, to the princess when this anomalous
position was put an end to in the spring of 1799 by a demand on the
part of the Emperor of Russia, made at the request of Louis XVIII., in
terms which allowed no refusal, that Madame Royale should be permitted
to join her uncle and the other members of her father’s family at
Mittau, in Courland, where they were then residing.
The princess gladly set out from Vienna in May, and on the 4th of June
she was met at the gates of Mittau by Louis XVIII., his wife, and
the Duc d’Angoulême. It was a touching meeting, memories of the past
crowding up and dimming the happiness of the present, while rendering
it more sacred. Not only her relatives, but loyal nobles of France
and faithful servants of her father received Madame Royale at Mittau.
Of these the most notable was the Abbé Edgeworth, who had attended
Louis XVI. on the scaffold. The princess was, at her own request, left
alone with the abbé, that she might learn from him the details of her
father’s last moments. She ever cherished for the good man the warmest
regard, and when, some years after, a dangerous fever broke out at
Mittau and numbered him among its victims, it was Madame Royale who
took her place by his bedside, closed his dying eyes, and followed his
remains to the grave.
The thought that lay uppermost in the minds of all when the first
emotions of meeting were over, was the permanent union of Madame
Royale to her family by her marriage with the Duc d’Angoulême. Where
the wishes of all parties were at one, there was no need for delay. On
the 10th of June, six days after the princess’s arrival, the marriage
ceremony took place in the gallery of the ducal castle. Loving hands
had decked the altar with branches of lilac and summer flowers, and
here, in a strange land, in the presence of the little court of Louis
XVIII., the prince and princess plighted their troth. It was the
fulfilment of a vow rather than the consummation of a love match, and
the faith was plighted to the dead as much as to the living.
We have lingered so long over Madame Royale’s early life that we have
no space to do more than glance at the years which immediately followed
her marriage. In 1801 the exiles were obliged, through the caprice of
the Czar, to quit Mittau in the depth of a severe winter. They appealed
to the King of Prussia for a refuge, and he appointed Warsaw, where
they remained some years. In 1805 they were again at Mittau. In 1808
they came to England. Here for two years they resided at Gosfield Hall,
a seat of the Marquis of Buckingham in Essex, and here, in November,
1810, Louis XVIII. lost his Queen.
They then removed to Hartwell Hall, a fine Elizabethan house between
Oxford and Aylesbury, which they occupied until the year 1814.
Some memories of the Duchess of Angoulême at Hartwell have been
preserved. She is described as reserved and sad, and averse to the
notice or attention of strangers. But she would often be seen standing
in the porch of the little church a silent spectator of the Protestant
service, and she expressed to the minister her pleasure at the
reverence and fitness which characterised the English mode of worship.
When the events of 1814 drove Napoleon into exile, and brought back
Louis XVIII. to the throne, the Duchess of Angoulême was at Hartwell
with her uncle. It was on the 25th of March that the news reached them
of the proclamation of Louis XVIII. at Bordeaux. A month later they
set out on their return to France. The Prince Regent accompanied them
to Dover, the Duke of Clarence escorted them across the Channel. From
Calais to Paris their progress was one long triumphal procession.
The state entry of the King into Paris took place on the 3rd of May.
Seated in an open carriage drawn by eight white horses, Louis XVIII.
had on his left hand the “daughter of the last King.” It was on her
that all eyes were turned, and to her that the warmest tribute of
welcome was paid. Dressed wholly in white, there was on her countenance
a kind of grave joy which struck all beholders. What strangely mingled
thoughts were passing through her mind may well be imagined. Tears
which she could not restrain fell frequently from her eyes. When she
reached the Tuileries, which she had not seen since the fatal day when
her parents had left it to take refuge in the Assembly twenty-two years
before, the thronging memories of the past were too much for nature to
bear, and she was carried into the palace in a swoon.
There had reached Madame Royale, year by year during her exile, a bunch
of flowers gathered from her mother’s grave. A faithful old Royalist,
M. Descloseaux, had bought the ground in which the King and Queen,
amongst many other victims of the Reign of Terror, had been interred,
and to keep it sacred had converted it into an orchard and planted it
with flowers. To this sacred spot the Duchess of Angoulême bent her
steps the day after her entry into Paris, and there, as she thanked M.
Descloseaux in a voice broken by emotion, the loyal old man made over
to her the ground he had been preserving for her for the past seventeen
years.
Public rejoicings followed the restoration in abundance. At the opera
“Edipus at Colonos” was presented, and at the passage where Edipus
recounts the tender care of Antigone, Louis XVIII. turned to the
Duchess of Angoulême and kissed her hand.
Crowds came to the Tuileries to be presented to the duchess. She
received twelve at a time, and the ladies so presented all wore
white, with coronets of fleur-de-lys. The likeness which the duchess
bore to her mother was much remarked; but it has been called “the
resemblance of cold marble to animated flesh and blood,” and young
_débutantes_ were apt to look upon the reserve and self-repression of
the princess as austerity or want of sympathy. The terrible past was
too deeply impressed on her mind for her to shake it off. The blessing
of children, whose care and training might have brought her new hopes
and new associations, had been denied her, and her thoughts went back
constantly to the days of her youth and to the loved ones who had been
so cruelly torn from her.
Within the year of the Restoration the Duchess of Angoulême found new
work to her hand. Ten months after Louis XVIII.’s entry into Paris
came the tidings that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and once more
landed on French soil. The hearts of the French people, never aroused
to enthusiasm for Louis XVIII., turned instinctively to the Emperor.
The Duchess of Angoulême was at Bordeaux when the news reached her. The
men of the city were loyal to the monarchy, but the soldiers of the
line awaited the course of events in silence. It was to win these that
the duchess bent all her energy. Mounted on horseback, she reviewed the
troops day after day, and sought earnestly to make them declare for
the King. She met with little or no support, and when, on the 1st of
April, the Imperial forces, under General Clauzel, arrived before the
city, it was evident that all their sympathies were with the Emperor.
Perceiving this, the duchess addressed herself to the National Guard
and the citizen volunteers. These, regardless of personal danger, she
reviewed in face of the enemy, whose loaded guns on the other side of
the river commanded the position. General Clauzel, in the true spirit
of chivalry, kept his men from firing. His first duty, he said, was
to respect the courage of the duchess. He could not order her to be
fired upon when she was providing material for the noblest page in her
history. The Duchess of Angoulême did not forget General Clauzel’s
chivalrous conduct. When he afterwards fell a prisoner into the hands
of the Royalists, she interceded with the King and saved his life.
But it was too evident that the duchess’s efforts were in vain. With
tears in her eyes she thanked the National Guard for what they had
done, and begged them, as a last favour, to lay down their arms and
so avoid bloodshed. Then, with a sad heart, she set out for Pouillac,
where she embarked for Spain. As she once more quitted the shore of
France as an exile, she turned to the people who were assembled to
witness her departure, and distributed amongst them the plume of white
feathers which she wore in her hair. “Bring them back to me with better
days,” she said, “and Marie Thérèse will show you she has a good
memory, and has not forgotten her friends at Bordeaux.”
The King had fled already, and the Duc d’Angoulême was temporarily a
prisoner. But who does not know the story of the Hundred Days? It was
on the 3rd of April that the Duchess of Angoulême left France; on the
18th of June Napoleon staked and lost all on the field of Waterloo.
Five weeks later the duchess was once more on her way to Paris, her
path strewn with flowers and the air rent with shouts of welcome.
Louis XVIII. was already there, and as she rejoined her uncle at the
Tuileries, it might have seemed that the cries of the populace were but
the echoes of those of the year before, which time had not yet allowed
to die away.
But the orphan of the Temple—the _filia dolorosa_ of France—had had
bitter experience of the fickle, easily-swayed French people. Was it
matter for wonder if she withdrew more than ever into herself, and
appeared more than ever cold and austere? Taking as little part as
possible in Court festivities, she led a simple, retired life. Rising
early in the morning, she lit her fire and made her early breakfast
with her own hands. At seven o’clock she went to mass in the chapel of
the palace. The day passed in simple routine; no sumptuous dinners or
late hours were known in her household. But her charity flowed forth
freely to all who were in need, although it was wisely administered
so as to reach only the really deserving. The anniversaries of her
parents’ deaths were always kept by her in strictest seclusion, and it
was noticed that in her daily drives her carriage always made a wide
detour, rather than pass the fatal spot where they had perished on the
scaffold.
(_To be concluded._)
VARIETIES.
A BROAD HINT.
A prudent and parsimonious old lady, who lived in one of the Western
Isles of Scotland, took the following method to get rid of the visitors
and strangers who came to her house. Having set before her guests an
ample Highland breakfast, she said, towards the conclusion of the meal:—
“Pray, take a good breakfast; there is no saying where you may get your
dinner.”
A FAITHFUL DOG.—The following instance of canine fidelity has seldom if
ever been surpassed. When nearing Montreal the engine-driver of a train
quite recently saw a dog standing on the track and barking furiously.
The driver blew his whistle; yet the hound did not budge, but crouching
low was struck by the locomotive and killed. Some pieces of white
muslin on the engine attracted the driver’s notice; he stopped the
train and went back. Beside the dead dog was a dead child, which it is
supposed had wandered on the track and gone to sleep. The poor watchful
guardian had given its signal for the train to stop; but unheeded had
died at its post, a victim to duty.
AVARICE.—Extreme avarice almost always makes mistakes. There is no
passion that oftener misses its aim; nor on which the present has so
much influence, in prejudice of the future.—_Rochefoucauld._
A GOOD BEGINNING.
When children first leave their mother’s room they must, according
to an old superstition, “go _upstairs_ before they go _downstairs_,
otherwise they will never rise in the world.”
Of course it frequently happens that there is no “upstairs,” that the
mother’s room is the highest in the house. In this case the difficulty
is met by the nurse setting a _chair_ and stepping upon that with the
child in her arms as she leaves the room.
HOW TO PLAY AT SIGHT.—To play at sight the following conditions are
necessary: First, a good grounding in technical execution; secondly, a
regular and systematic knowledge of fingering; thirdly, a cheerful and
ready disposition; and fourthly, undivided attention and concentration
of the mind on the work in hand.—_Ernst Pauer._
GOOD COUNSEL THROWN AWAY.—A draught of milk to serpents does nothing
but increase their poison. Good counsel bestowed upon fools does rather
provoke than satisfy them.—_From the Sanskrit._
IN PERIL.—Women are safer in perilous situations and emergencies
than men, and might be still more so if they trusted themselves more
confidingly to the chivalry of manhood.—_Hawthorne._
DEGREES OF LIGHTNESS.
Pray, what is lighter than a feather?
Dust, my friend, in driest weather.
What’s lighter than that dust, I pray?
The wind that sweeps it far away.
Then what is lighter than the wind?
The lightness of a woman’s mind.
And what is lighter than the last?
Now, now, good friend, you have me fast.
ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT.—An insane author, once placed in confinement,
employed most of his time in writing. One night, being thus engaged by
the aid of a bright moon, a slight cloud passed over the luminary. In
an impetuous manner the author called out—“Arise, Jupiter, and snuff
the moon!” The cloud became thicker, and he exclaimed, “The stupid! he
has snuffed it out.”
BE SATISFIED.—I say to thee, be thou satisfied. It is recorded of the
hares that with a general consent they went to drown themselves, out of
a feeling of their misery; but when they saw a company of frogs more
fearful than they were, they began to take courage and comfort again.
Compare thine estate with that of others.—_Robert Burton._
UNDESERVED PRAISE.—The shame that arises from praise which we do
not deserve often makes us do things we should never otherwise have
attempted.—_Rochefoucauld._
ADVERTISING SWINDLES.
BY THE HOME PHILOSOPHER.
Now, girls, I want you to take the Home Philosopher very much into
your confidence, though I am going to begin by warning you to be very
careful whom you trust. I have lived a good many years longer than any
of you, and I have suffered in many ways that I am anxious to show you
how to avoid, by not acting rashly on the spur of the moment, as, alas!
I have so often done.
Many of you would, no doubt, be glad to earn a little additional pocket
money, even if you are in no way obliged to get your own living. In
our day, nobody seems to be ashamed to make a little money; on the
contrary, they show a great deal of honest pride if they are fortunate
enough to be able to do so; and in my experience—and depend upon it,
girls, it will be yours too, no money is so sweet in the spending as
that which is earned.
But few things that are very good, or very pleasant, are to be procured
without trouble. Competition is so keen now, that it is no easy matter
to make a few pounds, or even a few shillings, without some special
talent, or, better still, some special training. Moreover, caution is
necessary, or the unwary and inexperienced fall an easy prey to the
rogues, ever on the alert to make their want his or her opportunity;
for, worse luck, there are female as well as male rogues. One of their
most successful modes of proceeding is the insertion of specious
advertisements in newspapers.
When one’s eyes are open it is easy to wonder how other folks can be so
readily taken in—this, by-the-bye, generally after we ourselves have
suffered.
Years ago the writer of the following advertisement made quite a large
sum, and I daresay you and I think his victims must have been very
gullible.
[Illustration: READING THE ADVERTISEMENTS.]
“Music.—An extra opportunity for being instructed in music, either
in town or country. The advertiser has found out a method by which
he teaches to play on either the piano, violin, or guitar, in the
completest manner, by only the practice of one single lesson, which he
does on the most reasonable terms.”
Imagine anyone thinking they could learn the use of an instrument in a
lesson! Yet it is not one whit more absurd than the many employments
offered and advertised, “without any previous knowledge being
necessary,” even if it be merely colouring photographs. I have seen
such an announcement with regard to painting on china, a palpable
absurdity, for the very nature of the work demands a certain facility
in manipulating colours and mediums, even if no skill in drawing be
needed, and without this it must be very rudimentary painting indeed.
As a rule, the more tempting such advertisements are, the more likely
they are to be catchpennies, though, of course, among the many there
are a few that are _bonâ fide_. I was myself a victim to a well-known
fraud, which is a good example of many others. Lucrative employment in
the form of lace, church work, etc., was offered to ladies in their own
houses. Like hundreds of others, I applied by letter to M. D., Fern
House, West Croydon, and in reply received a printed letter, in which
constant employment was offered, all work to be paid for on delivery,
if properly executed, and materials would be sent on receipt of one
guinea. I rashly sent a guinea I could ill afford, and duly received
materials and instructions for making lace for washing dresses. The
lace I returned when the work was done, and was sent an acknowledgment
for the same, but no money. While I was meditating what steps to take
to regain my guinea, M. D., who proved to be a Mrs. Margaret Dellair,
was brought up at the Surrey Sessions, “for obtaining divers sums of
money and certain valuable securities by means of false pretences, with
intent to cheat and defraud.” She had received over 200 post office
orders for a guinea, but none of the many ladies who appeared against
her had had payment of any sort. She was sentenced to five years’ penal
servitude, her husband at the time undergoing a like sentence for the
same class of offence. It was proved that the woman had no connection
with any leading firms from whom she told her dupes she had constant
orders; and I tell you this because I would advise you, whenever it
is possible, to go to the fountain-head yourself. There are many good
firms who will give orders for articles which girls could do at their
own homes, if—but the _if_ is all important—the work is done in the
best possible manner, and the whole transaction carried out on business
principles and with business exactness. Punctuality is a most necessary
part of the agreement. Work must be done to time if you wish to have
the orders renewed.
It is a pretty safe rule that whenever a demand is made for money over
and above the value of goods sent, there is a necessity for being
on the alert. A rascal used to take in a number of poor women by
advertising for ladies to copy sermons at twopence per hundred words.
Applicants were, as a preliminary, required to deposit half-a-crown,
which was said to be returned if no work was sent, but before that
could be done another seven and sixpence was demanded “to avoid any
possibility of unscrupulous persons obtaining valuable sermons on
pretence of copying.” Neither the half-crown nor seven and sixpence
were ever returned, and in time the advertiser paid for his ingenuity
by twelve months’ imprisonment with hard labour.
There is no doubt many women have answered the advertisements which
offer to teach a system of dressmaking, or give employment in
painting lace, or painting Christmas cards, or turning the use of a
knitting-machine to account, and have profited thereby; but you may be
quite sure that if these lead to any good results the proceedings did
not begin by the applicants being mulcted of shillings, half-crowns,
half-sovereigns, or larger sums. Girls, if you want to earn money, draw
your purse-strings tight.
I have made many inquiries respecting societies and associations
professing to be established with the benevolent object of
assisting ladies to dispose of their handiwork, either artistic or
needlework, and I have come to the conclusion that, however well such
advertisements may read, they are to be accepted with caution. I should
advise none of you to send any article or to put down any annual
subscription to any such societies unless they have a working committee
of people whose names carry weight and issue a properly-audited
balance-sheet annually. Many of these sort of things are stated,
perhaps without any intention of fraud, but without the power of
commanding a sale or sufficient means in the background to find the
rent and other expenses, or perhaps lacking the necessary business
aptitude on the part of the promoters. They go on for a while, and then
too often suddenly collapse. The goods, if returned at all, are mostly
much the worse for wear, and, as a matter of course, the entrance fee
is sacrificed.
But perhaps some of you girls have literary talents, and desire to
publish tales or essays, poems, or whatever else you are able to
produce. If so, send them to well-established periodicals or country
newspapers. Do not be discouraged by failure. Many a good article
rejected over and over again has appeared in print and laid the
foundation for a literary career. Let your copy be clear, carefully
written on one side of the paper only, and the matter something
about which you have some specific knowledge. Few well-established
publications need to advertise for contributors, and it certainly is
not necessary for you, a tyro in the art, to subscribe towards the
publishing of a magazine in which your productions are to appear. Few
such publications would have the faintest chance of success under such
auspices.
It might, under exceptional circumstances, when needlework is ordered,
be necessary to deposit a few shillings as a guarantee that the
materials sent to you will be duly returned or paid for; but if your
writings require a deposit of any kind to get them read or published,
the waste-paper basket is the best place for them, however highly you
may yourself value them. Literature, after all, is a very open market,
and fresh blood is always needed, though it may be a difficult matter
to get your first step on the ladder. “Try, and if you don’t succeed,
try, try, try again,” is the very best advice, but don’t subscribe to
any association which offers even the most tempting terms to publish
in any magazine issued by the joint subscriptions of amateur authors.
Nor do not be tempted by offers of introductions to publishers
for a consideration. Attack the publishers yourself, without any
intermediary. No paid one will help you. I was asked to subscribe
to something of the kind not long ago, and among the advantages the
subscription was to give me was the power to try for the acrostic and
other prizes offered by a well-known weekly paper, which was open to
everybody.
If as much ingenuity were employed in securing honest work as we
find in these bogus advertisements, the perpetrators, I think, would
be much better off. The addresses change so frequently, applicants
are so deluged with printed testimonials, that they are the more
easily gulled. Sometimes the advertisers are obliged at last to send
something in return for the money. One Everett May, for example, who
for eighteenpence undertook to teach how to earn four guineas a week.
For a time he would declare that the packet was posted, and must have
been lost in transit, but after a long correspondence and constant
demands for more money, if very hard pressed, something arrived, as,
in one case, a last, a small boot for a child, and a few pieces of
leather, from which it would be impossible to make a fellow boot, and
a note concluding with, “As soon as we receive from you a specimen
equal to pattern we shall be glad to afford you constant employment.”
Another advertisement offered to gentlemen in a respectable circle of
acquaintance the means of increasing their incomes, and on receipt of
thirty stamps advised the purchase of a cwt. of potatoes for 4s., a
basket, and 2s. worth of flannel, to have half the quantity of potatoes
baked nightly, put them in the basket well wrapped in flannel, sell
them at a 1d. each, and so earn £2 a week.
Perhaps some of you girls may be attracted by the advertisements which
seek for a depôt where some everyday article may be sold, and if you
are in a position in which such a sale at home is possible you may,
perhaps with a good deal of trouble, make a little money in that way.
Such advertisements are far more _bonâ fide_, I expect, than £2 and
upwards offered by certain firms to persons of either sex without
hindrance to present occupation. To any girls about to have recourse to
these, my advice would be like that of Albert Smith to those about to
marry—“Don’t.”
Just now the word competitions occupy many advertisements in the
newspapers. I counted fourteen different addresses in one number. The
amount offered in prizes is tempting, and those of my friends who have
competed have found the promoters apparently fair dealing. But it is
not easy to obtain a prize, and the shilling paid by each competitor
is, I expect, the most important point to the advertiser.
One other class of advertisement I am about to touch upon, viz.,
the fortune-telling ones. Seeing the penalties the advertisers lay
themselves open to, it is wonderful that they appear at all. If any
of you send your shilling in the hope of obtaining your horoscope or
any revelation as to your future life, based on the information you
furnish as to your height, colour of hair, eyes, and date of birth,
even supposing you receive any reply at all, you will very surely have
wasted your money. None of these folks know any more of your future
than The Home Philosopher, and if I could tell the future, I should
know what stocks were going to rise, and what horse will win the next
Derby, and thereby make more money in a week than the fortune-tellers,
if they had ten lives. Depend on it, if they could they would do the
same.
ARDERN HOLT.
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.
BY EMMA BREWER.