IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE.
“As prodigious an admirer as ever of Sir John Moore, Jack?”
“’Tis not my mode, Molly, to admire a man one week, and to cast him
overboard the next!”
“And if ever so be that Sir John hies him to the Indies, sure you would
be set on going too?”
Jack was not so quick in response as Molly expected. Would he, or would
he not? He could not feel quite sure either way. Wherever Sir John
might be, there no doubt Jack would wish to be also; yet it lay within
the limits of possibility that he might still more strongly desire to
be somewhere else. India in those days lay very far distant. Miles
are miles in these days as in those, but actual distance is greatly
diminished. A man writing from India to his friends in England may now
look for a reply in six or seven weeks; but then he could not look for
a reply in less than as many months.
Jack felt that such a separation from people at home—from Molly in
particular—would be serious. He had not thus far gauged his state of
mind critically. He was not in love with anybody; he had no particular
wish to marry anybody—so he would have said. Jack still counted
himself exclusively in love with his profession. He looked upon Molly
as his particular friend—as the being beyond all others upon whose
interest and sympathy he might most surely rely. She was not his
sister—he quite scouted that notion—neither was he her lover. They
were simply friends—_bons camarades_ in the more modern phraseology.
Where Molly happened to be, there Jack gravitated as naturally as a
stone gravitates earthward; and whatever Jack had in his mind, that he
told to Molly as naturally as water pours out of a tilted jug. He cared
a good deal for Molly’s opinion. If Molly disapproved of aught that he
did, he was discomfited; and if Molly put anyone before himself, he was
conscious of jealous sensations. That was about all.
It seemed to him this evening that Molly was looking particularly nice
and ladylike—or, in the language of the day, “pleasing and genteel.”
She was not pretty; Jack would have said that he did not wish her to be
pretty. He liked her better as she was. But she was not without her own
measure of attractiveness.
“Of course you would wish it,” Molly added decisively. “In your place I
would do so. And if—if I could be a soldier, Jack, I would feel as you
do. I would wish to go where Sir John goes. ’Tis a thousand pities I am
a girl and cannot be a soldier.”
“You would wish to go to the Indies, if I were to stay at home?”
Molly smiled at the conceit, as it seemed to her.
“’Tis vastly more likely that you may be the one to go and I to be
the stay-at-home.” She did not speak as if it were in any sense a
distressing question, though as a secondary consideration she remarked
placidly, “And I should miss you, Jack.”
“As much as ever you profess to miss Roy?”
Molly laughed outright this time.
“Jack—why, Jack, what a question to ask! Roy is my twin. He is more
to me than all the whole world beside. He always will be more. If I
did not see Roy for fifteen years—for fifty years!—it would make
no difference! Oh, none whatever! Never in my life shall I care for
another as I care for Roy!”
Jack laughed in his turn derisively.
“Never, never, never!” repeated Molly. “I love my father and my mother
dearly, and I love Polly, and I like you too, Jack. But Roy—Roy is
more to me than all. If I could see Roy——”
“That is vastly well, Molly! But wait—wait till your time shall
come—till somebody will be more to you than even Roy.”
“Never!” reiterated Molly. “You mean that one day I shall have a
particular preference for—for some gallant gentleman, Jack. Nay, but
I shall never marry, for I could not care for any beyond my caring for
Roy. And so that matter is for ever settled!”
Jack was silent—perhaps a degree nettled by Molly’s assured
indifference. He did not count himself in love with Molly; but he
wanted her to love him.
“’Tis no more my mode than yours to change and change about. Some
people sometimes would seem to forget.” That slight pucker came again
to her smooth brow.
For one instant Jack imagined the words to be a possible reflection
on himself, despite what went before, and his lips opened in ready
protest. Then he saw where Molly was gazing; and as his glance followed
her lead, his forehead drew into, not a mere pucker, but a frown.
Polly did look uncommonly lovely; there was no denying that fact. Jack
and Molly both gazed hard at her, and then their eyes met.
“She is wondrous pretty!” Molly said softly.
“But Peirce? What business has Peirce?” Jack paused, frowning still.
“He knows, sure, as to Ivor?”
“Why, Jack, all the world knows! Captain Peirce has known it pretty
near from the beginning.”
“And Polly permits——”
“Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it?” asked Molly. “I in her place
would help it; but I am not fair like Polly, and that makes so great a
difference. For her, with all the world looking and loving, ’tis not
easy. If she holds aloof and seeks to check them, why, they do but come
after her the more—and Polly cannot be sharp with folks. She is so
sweet, and ’tis not her way. And Mrs. Bryce, too, ever talking”—Molly
breathed this very low—“ever seeking to persuade Polly that Denham
will forget and will care no more for her.”
Jack muttered something to himself.
“Then, ’tis her wish?”
“Mrs. Bryce’s?” Molly’s face took an arch set. “Ay, since Captain
Peirce came in for a great sum of money on the death of his
grandfather. He will be a richer man than Denham—by a matter of ten
pounds to one pound.”
“Phew!” muttered Jack, in disgust. “Ivor will have enough. But as to
Polly—I cannot verily believe that her affections are engaged in any
other direction.”
“Nor do I believe it, Jack. Yet—I am not always sure.”
“If she casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it, all her life
long. She will lose one of the best men living.”
“Second only to Sir John Moore!”
“’Tis easy to jeer! If you knew Sir John as I do——”
“Nay, but Jack—nay, you need not be vexed with me,” protested Molly.
“I did not jeer truly. And ’tis a fact that when last I saw and spoke
with Sir John, he brought to my mind the thought of Denham. Not that
the two have the same face or the same way, but that both are soldierly
and tall, and each holds his head as stately as a prince. And for the
matter of Sir John Moore—why, I am proud of him as ever you can be.”
Jack nodded slightly, mollified at once by her apologetic tone. His
gaze returned to Polly.
“And for the matter of Denham,” Molly continued, dropping her voice
once more, “he has been always as a brother to me; and it would go hard
with me to believe any ill of him. Yet—I wonder often that no letter
comes from him to Polly. And Polly watches and grieves, I know, though
she says little, and will not talk of him. Sure, if he had writ to her
often, one letter now and again would find its way hither.”
“Who can say? But I would distrust the post and Boney a thousand times,
before ever I would doubt Ivor,” Jack answered firmly. “And Polly, if
indeed she knows him, sure would feel the same. He is no man to change.”
“Nor, I think, is Polly the girl to change—either!”
* * * * *
“In this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by
the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me
but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade
into insignificance.”
So spoke Captain Albert Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene; and he felt
that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in
those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these;
and such speeches did not necessarily mean much.
Ninety years later the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce
would merely drag his moustache, and mutter, “Awfully pretty girl!” But
the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and
imply much the same in the end.
Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache—partly because it was not
the fashion to do so, but yet more for the sufficient reason that he
had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the
moment when Jack’s glance followed Molly’s in their direction.
Polly did not appear to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to
turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing! One flowery
speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been
for the persistent pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would
not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant or could mean anything
seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with
a large fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her
round fair arms.
“Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may
be, sweet Polly?”
This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in
consequence.
It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly,
almost amounting to a shiver. She too was instantaneously carried back,
as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long
slow years.
“Sweet Polly, may I speak?” Captain Ivor had said.
The voices were different. Ivor’s was deep and quiet, with clear
enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in
key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.
The other face too came up before Polly’s mind—a face generally of
still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men
straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when
they did frown there was no mistake about the matter, and a smile as
quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make,
and his features, as well as his tones, underwent much more rapid
changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a
certain fascination of manner too, when he chose to exert it. Polly was
not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his
unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him.
But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle
connection between her mind and Molly’s?—brought with it a totally
different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face.
Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression
was due to his own words.
“Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair, who——”
This was going too far. Polly woke from her dream. She withdrew one
step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.
“Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware.”
“Ah! adored one! so hard-hearted to your humble slave!”
“My word, Albert!” And the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell
with a smart slap upon the Captain’s shoulder. “So you do not fail to
make hay while the sun shines! But there’s such a thing as poaching in
another’s preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from
abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?”
Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this
interruption, which he dared not openly resent, not only because young
men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but
because, also, had he aroused the Admiral’s ire, he would have drawn
upon themselves the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was
known to be hasty and prompt in speech, and not slow to speak out his
mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the
battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.
“Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them;
and ’tis but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds.
Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose.”
“Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He’ll not help forward the post. Well,
well, every lane in time has its turning; and Boney will come to his
turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already, at the
glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?”
“And on land too, sir; in time our brave soldiers will have the best of
it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour,” suggested
Polly.
Captain Peirce’s opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear
to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking
on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral
acted accidentally or on purpose? And was Polly glad or sorry? Neither
question received an answer.
In the small hours of the morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce
drove home, with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was
considered to be a suitable “equipage” for one in her position. Mr.
Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to
their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had
she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof
if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and
tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few
words passed between them, before they crept into bed.
Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep, when
it aroused her. She listened carefully.
“Polly!” No answer. “Polly—are you awake?”
A pause, and then—
“You must go to sleep, Molly!”
“You are not crying, Polly?”
Polly’s hand gently pressed hers, but Polly’s face was turned away, and
another short break took place before she replied in a tone of strained
cheerfulness—
“’Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream.
No, not one little word more.”
Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny
smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long, listening. Was
Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain
Peirce?
* * * * *
This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of
stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens
love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the
lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of
existence do not cease, though the whole world should be at loggerheads.
The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Great
Britain was supreme upon the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible
upon land. Of all the nations, England still alone withstood him; and
at this date she fearlessly faced a Europe in arms. For the Continent
as a whole had crouched beneath the heel of the tyrant and was tamely
ranged on his side.
In the year 1807 Britain had not one ally. Sweden, the last remaining,
had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon’s
was king of Holland; another brother was king of Westphalia; a third
brother was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the
congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the
vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.
Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off
the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas,
attacking sea-board forts, fighting vessels double their own size and
tonnage, capturing prizes, making prisoners, in all directions. At this
date there were some thirty thousand French prisoners in England; and
before the close of the Peninsular War their number had risen to ninety
thousand.
In 1807 Britain had as yet been less successful on land than at
sea. Many a battle indeed had been gained, many a deed of splendid
valour had been done; but while one expedition after another had been
despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the
enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to administer any
serious check to his advances. At that date England seems to have
had an army inadequate to her needs, if not in numbers, at least in
military equipment; and the expeditions sent were usually far too small
for the work they were intended to do.
All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were
heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed, yet the spirit of the
people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of
courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In
a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of
liberty would prevail.
Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers.
There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their
patriotism; and there are commonly a few also who will sentimentally
put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart
from questions of character. This they did with Napoleon, adoring
his genius, worshipping his success, ignoring his selfishness and the
darker shades which belong to his history. But though such people
made a good deal of noise with their opinions, after the fashion of
excitable minorities, they were in numbers small. The mass of the
people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight
Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last warm drop of blood
in its body.
One more tragic story had yet to be told! One more apparent failure,
which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet
to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the
very moment of a success, which at the moment could only be read as a
defeat. Then the ebb of the tide would have begun.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: “‘YOUR PARDON, SIR. MY NAME IS MISS KEENE, AS YOU ARE
AWARE.’”]
EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.
BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”
There is a temptation to all to eat too much and take too little
exercise. Many of us have from childhood learned to suppress this
temptation; but we fear that there are many more who are constantly
fighting the battle against laziness and over-eating, and not a few who
give up the struggle altogether.
Of all earthly gifts we look upon good health as the greatest. We
should doubt if anyone would choose gold in preference to health. And
yet why is it that most persons strive so much harder for the former
than for the latter. Perhaps it is that a healthy person has an idea
that her health can take care of itself; whereas she knows full well
that wealth cannot be acquired without working for it. Or perhaps it is
that people do not know how to take care of their health.
It is all very well to talk about Nature being able to look after
herself (or rather ourselves), that she is an infallible guide for us
to follow, and that she tells us what to eat, when to sleep and how
to be generally happy and healthy. But does Nature do this for man?
Perhaps she would be so obliging if man were a natural animal.
But a civilised man is not a servant of Nature, and though he is unable
to rebel against her, still he has the power to question her promptings
and the will whereby to alter or nullify them. And if we think ever so
shallowly we cannot escape from the knowledge that Nature very often
prompts us to do what our higher understanding tells us is wrong, and
if we do our duty we set aside the dictates of Nature in favour of our
own consciousness. Even in cases dealing with the lowest vital points,
such as eating, dressing, or sleeping, Nature by no means always
directs us aright. When you have been running on a warm day and have
got very hot, what does Nature tell you to do? To sit in a draught and
get cold. And yet if you value your health, this would be the very last
thing that you would dare to attempt.
Since we have no natural instinct to tell us how to keep healthy, we
have founded upon our experience a code of laws to regulate our bodily
functions. These laws of health, which we should all observe have been
gradually evolved from the observations of generation after generation
of physicians and others, and though they may have differed in detail
at different times and in different countries, in the main they may be
considered as absolute.
Everybody must have heard of these laws of health, but there is a very
large number of persons who do not know what they are or how to carry
them out.
There are six chief laws of health. The first deals with the sanitation
of our homes and dwellings; the disposal of sewage; the draining of
the soil; the laws of ventilation; the supply of sufficient quantities
of pure water, and the general hygiene of the community. We support
governors and committees to look after this part of the business, so we
need not worry ourselves about it.
The second law of health concerns itself with personal hygiene. It
tells us how we should wash and clothe ourselves; how we should
ventilate our rooms; how to cool ourselves in hot weather, and the
means by which the animal heat is maintained in winter.
The third law tells us about our food; how we should eat; what is the
best food for man in health and sickness; what we should drink; and
other matters connected with the supply of fuel to our bodies.
The fourth law deals with sleep. It tells us its nature; why we sleep.
It insists on the necessity of sufficient sleep, and sleep at the right
time.
The sixth law deals with the proper education of the mind. How to
educate our children. The absolute necessity of mental study for the
physical health of our bodies as well as its more important functions.
We have omitted the fifth law, but will now refer to it, and we will
devote the rest of this article to its consideration. This law deals
with the question of physical exercise.
Physical exercise is as essential to health as is food or sleep; but,
because the need of it is not brought home to us so forcibly as these
two other necessities, it rarely receives that attention which it
deserves. Everyone knows full well that we may eat too little or too
much, that we may eat at improper times, that everything that we can
put into our interiors is not equally wholesome, that much that we can
eat is positively injurious, and that we must eat every day, be the
weather fine or rainy. But how few there are who know that the laws of
exercise are in every way comparable with these! Most people are aware
that we can take too little exercise; some moderate persons likewise
know that we can overdo exercise, and that exercise is not equally good
at all times. We have met people who know that all forms of exercise
are not equally good, and a few who are aware that some forms of
exercise are positively injurious; but we have seldom spoken to anyone
who would admit that exercise is essential every day in all weathers.
The first question that we will discuss is, how much exercise is needed
every day, how much will give the greatest benefit, and how much is
positively injurious?
And on the threshold we are met with the greatest difficulty of the
whole subject; for persons vary extremely in their endurance of
exercise, and a walk which would be insufficient for one person may be
infinitely beyond the powers of a second to endure. We cannot lay down
a rule in this particular. Every person must find out for herself what
amount of exercise she must indulge in daily. For a perfectly healthy
girl of sixteen to twenty, three to five miles’ walk daily, or an
hour’s bicycling, or, if outdoor exercise is not permissible, half an
hour’s gymnastic exercise is the minimum amount of exercise which she
should take daily.
Ever so many people have an idea that you can lay in a stock of
exercise, as you can fill a coal-cellar, and draw on the reserve when
you are too lazy to renew the supply. These persons will tell you, “I
do all my walking on one day, so that there is no necessity for me to
go out any other day in the week. I walk twenty-one miles on that day,
that is three miles for each day in the week, so I am all right on this
score.” Now just consider one moment what you are doing, and you will
agree with us that your method is not only fallacious, but exceedingly
harmful.
Suppose that you eat on an average two pounds’ weight of food a day.
Do you think that it would be equally beneficial to take the fourteen
pounds of food on one day and then have six days’ starvation? Some
animals can do this, but man is not fitted for living in this way. With
the usual logic evinced by most people when they are contradicted, we
are at once answered, “Oh, if what I do is no good, as I cannot take
exercise when I like, I shall not go out at all!” Evidently concluding
that she takes care of her own health out of consideration for our
feelings!
You must be a physician to hear this form of argument without smiling.
Perhaps you would feel inclined to answer this lady, “Well, it does
not matter to me what you do. It is your health, not ours, that is at
stake.” So, indeed, would we like to answer; but if we did, what would
be the good of us? No, we will not offend this lady; we will wait till
to-morrow, when she will have come to the same way of thinking as
ourselves.
You must never walk so as to over-tire yourself. We are not going to
say that an occasional long walk is injurious. It is not, but it is not
the proper way to take exercise.
All forms of exercise are not equally good. Some are very beneficial,
others are doubtfully healthy, others again are downright noxious.
Walking is so infinitely the best form of exercise, that to compare any
other with it is ridiculous. Walking is essential to health, and no
other form of exercise can be substituted for it.
Boating, riding, and bicycling are fairly good forms of exercise, but
none of these possesses the value of walking. Driving in a carriage is
simply not exercise at all. You get a little fresh air and change of
scene in driving; but as there is no exertion required in the process,
there is no exercise.
Many of our outdoor games are good exercise, many are a little hard
and excessive perhaps, but on the whole they are very healthy, unless
carried to excess. These games are good because walking or running
is an essential part of them. Golf is by far the most healthy of all
games. As far as outsiders can tell, it seems to us to be walking with
a little skill and excitement added to render the walking pleasant to
those who will not walk for walking’s sake alone.
Of the forms of exercise that can be carried on indoors, we will say
but little. A little dumb-bell or Indian-club exercise in the morning
after the bath is very beneficial to healthy people. The dumb-bells
should be made of wood, should not weigh more than two pounds, and
should be used for a few minutes only. The heavy iron dumb-bells so
often used to “improve the figure” are exceedingly injurious and should
never be used.
Of gymnastics we would rather be silent altogether; but, since this
form of exercise is very popular and largely on the increase, we must
say a word or two about it. In our opinion gymnastics of any kind
are poor forms of exercise, and the severer kinds and “strong man
exercises” are exceedingly injurious to everyone.
We have been accustomed, when we look at a man whose muscles are
enormously developed to consider him a strong man. But if you were to
question him on his health or powers of endurance, you would probably
discover that he was a very sickly specimen. We have seen a “strong
man,” a rather famous one too, sit down in a corner and cry for half
an hour because a boy threw a cherry stone into his eye—an injury at
which a healthy person would laugh. Does this denote strength? Another
strong man whom we knew was always shivering with the cold both in
summer and winter. And once, when he happened to catch a cough, he was
completely prostrate for weeks.
Another strong man told us that he was careful never to read or use
his brain in any way because it interfered with the development of
his muscles! Yet another who prided himself on the enormous expansion
of his chest—we forget how many inches’ difference there was in
the diameter of his chest in inspiration and expiration, but it was
something sensational—caught cold, contracted consumption, and died
six weeks later! Yet the exercises for expanding the chest are said to
prevent phthisis!
The man with great muscles is not the strong man, but a sickly monster.
What good can it do to anyone to lift a horse and cart, or break iron
bars? Develop his muscles as far as he can, no man will ever excel a
steam-hammer or an engine in force or weight.
Give us the thin wiry person who has cultivated his mind and body to do
that work for which he was made. He is the man who can brave disease,
and who, if he by any misfortune happens to be injured, can bear the
suffering like a man, and whose body is well capable of recovery from
the many vicissitudes to which it is liable.
Exercise is essential in all weathers. Because to-day is wet, are
you going to forego your walk? In England about one day in three is
rainy. Are you going to suppress one-third of your necessary exercise
from this cause? Oh, you are afraid of catching cold! Now English
people talk a lot about catching cold, for they of all nations suffer
most from this cause. But very few persons indeed really understand
what catching cold means or how it is produced. We hope to give an
article on this subject shortly. At present we will merely state that,
unless the day is very cold or windy, walking in the rain, if you are
sufficiently protected, will not cause you to take cold. We would not,
however, advise any invalid to go out on rainy days; but still they
must not abandon exercise altogether. Half an hour’s dumb-bell exercise
or mild gymnastics may be substituted for the day’s walk.
Exercise is best if taken in the morning. For very strong people it
is preferable to take a walk before breakfast; but people who are not
feeling up to the mark should not attempt to walk before having had
some food.
You should never take exercise immediately after a meal, and conversely
you should never eat till half an hour after a long walk, and you
should never go to bed immediately you come home from a walk, but sit
down quietly for at least half an hour before retiring.
THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.
FEBRUARY.
BY LA MÉNAGÈRE.
It might seem a superfluity to be at the trouble of compiling and
writing a menu for the small home dinner-table. If anyone thinks this,
let them first give the experiment a trial before pronouncing upon it;
they will, I venture to think, be gratified by the result.
In every household the dinner, be it early or late, is the important
meal of the day, and it merits whatever dignity can be given to it by
such accessories as service, care in laying the table, decoration,
etc., and not the least of these will be found the menu written for
every day. Especially if there be a guest at table is this little mark
of attention appreciated.
We must remember that imagination plays a very important part in the
human organisation; a good name goes a long way towards bringing a dish
into favour, and I have found that the very fact of a name being given
to a dish has its influence with the cook, who feels in a way bound to
see that its character is “lived up to.” Then again it is a help to the
caterer if the menus are kept, and those which have been particularly
liked marked for future repetition. Much racking of brains is spared,
and precious minutes are saved that else would have been spent in
answering the puzzling question, “What shall we have for dinner to-day?”
Our market list in February varies little if at all from the previous
month in the main things, but as the game season is practically drawing
to an end, we find our resources fewer than they were. Guinea-fowl
however are excellent, so are woodcock and snipe, also ptarmigan.
Turkeys are still to be had, but they are very dear, as all poultry is.
Hares and rabbits are very good.
Our supply of vegetables will be apt to run short if the weather is at
all severe; savoys will not have suffered so much, and about this time
we usually receive large consignments of cauliflowers from Italy. The
South sends us also fresh lettuce, chicory, forced beans, and other
“primeurs,” but their price is often beyond what a slender purse can
afford. Anyone with a garden may at this time have corn-salad growing
therein, which will be getting tender and eatable. Celery should still
be good, and we ought to have an abundance of Jerusalem artichokes,
Swede turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions and suchlike root vegetables.
In fruits we have imported apples and pears, oranges—getting to their
best—lemons, citrons, and all dried fruits.
This month, by the way, is the time for making our yearly supply of
orange marmalade; if we delay any longer the true Seville oranges will
be gone, although bitter oranges are procurable up to April. After we
have studied our menu we will consider the subject of marmalade making,
for that toothsome sweet has now become one of our necessities of life.
MENU FOR FEBRUARY.
Purée of Haricot Beans.
Fried Smelts.
Boiled Beef, with a “Plat de Carottes.”
Roast Ptarmigan. Bread Sauce.
Apple Fritters.
Cheese. Biscuits. Coffee.
_Purée of Haricot Beans._—A pint of beans will make a large quantity,
say two quarts, of soup, therefore half-a-pint would suffice for
one dish of soup for an ordinary family. These beans should always
be soaked overnight in cold water; they will dissolve so much more
readily. Place them in a stewpan with rather more than sufficient
water to cover them, let them simmer for three hours, then rub through
a tamis. While the rubbing goes on, cook a finely-minced onion in a
little butter, add the bean purée to this, some salt and pepper, and
then sufficient hot milk and water to make up the requisite quantity.
This might simmer a while longer, and then just before serving a
spoonful of cornflour wet with a little milk should be stirred in, and
all brought up to the boiling point once more.
_Smelts_ should be wiped with a clean cloth, coated with beaten egg,
rolled in bread raspings, and fried in butter. Serve fresh lemon cut in
slices and thin brown bread and butter with them.
A dish of carrots for eating with boiled beef is nice done in the
Flemish mode:
Pare the carrots and cut them in strips lengthwise, and then cut them
up precisely as you would kidney beans; put them in a stewpan with
well-fitting lid, add to them a good spoonful of beef dripping and a
little pepper and salt. Cover closely and let them cook in their own
steam for an hour or more, seeing that they do not catch on the bottom.
Pour the fat off and add a few drops of vinegar just before dishing up.
_Ptarmigan_ are rather dry birds and they require a thin piece of bacon
wrapping round them before roasting, also to be frequently basted. Let
them do rather quickly, so as to be nicely browned, but they will take
rather less than an hour. Serve good gravy and bread sauce with them.
_Apple Fritters._—For frying these a good depth of boiling lard is
necessary if they are to be done successfully. Take the cores out of
large apples, and pare them thinly. Cut across in slices not too thin.
Dip each slice in batter made from the whisked whites of two eggs,
a spoonful of flour, a pinch of salt, and enough salad oil to make
it like thick cream. When fried drain each ring on kitchen paper and
sprinkle with castor sugar. Pile high on a paper doyley.
And now as to the directions for the making of orange marmalade. The
following plan is one I have pursued for several years and it has
always produced excellent marmalade:
To every twelve Seville oranges allow two lemons; slice them across,
rind and pulp, as thinly as ever it is possible to do with the sharpest
of knives. Pick out the pips as you go along, but put these in a basin
instead of throwing them away, for it is surprising what amount of
gluten clings to the pips, which is lost if they are not saved. When
all the fruit has been cut up into lined earthenware pans, cover it
with water until the vessels have as much as they will hold. Set these
aside out of the way of dust, and let them stand so for twenty-four
hours. After this boil fruit and water together for perhaps two hours,
but gently so that it does not burn; then turn it back again into the
vessels and let it stand for another twenty-four hours. After this
it should be stirred up and weighed, and to every pound of fruit and
liquor allow a pound of lump sugar; when the pulp has boiled for about
an hour the second time, the sugar may be put in, and then constant
stirring will be necessary and faster boiling. From the time the sugar
is added half-an-hour’s boiling ought to suffice. Put it into hot jars,
but do not tie down until it is cold.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”
Now that the sales are proceeding, there is always a lull in the
production of novelties; and the shopkeepers set themselves to the work
of disposing of their heaped-up stock, which, however, does not appear
to me to be as plentiful as usual. This fact tends to prove that the
past season, with its sunshine and brightness, was a good one, so far
as they were concerned. While wending my way through several of the
crowded shops, I gathered together, however, a few notes for my dress
article, which show how ideas may trend in the coming days of early
spring.
[Illustration: TWO WARM GOWNS.]
I am inclined to think that the reign of the shaped flounce is perhaps
nearly over. Never have its inconveniences been more shown than during
the present winter, when those who wore them cut long enough to be in
the fashion have been really encumbered by them, and wretched from the
impossibility of holding them up. Certainly there were many who never
even attempted to raise them and just simply let them drag in the dust
or mud, and one shudders to think of what their feet and undergarments
must have looked like, apart from the dress itself. Frenchwomen held
their dresses up in the style of long ago, taking a good grip one hand
on each side, the effect being most odd and funny.
Just as many blouses have been worn as ever this winter underneath the
ever-fashionable coat and skirt; and at the sales there has been quite
as great a rush for the remnants of silk, which are always prepared for
those occasions. Nothing can be more ornate than some of the blouses
and fancy tea-jackets; and there seems to be a very generally united
opinion that, having a proper skirt to wear with them, they are not an
extravagant purchase, as they perform so many parts and are suitable
for a variety of occasions.
There are two new basques which, however, remind one more of the
coat-tails of the ordinary dress-coat than of anything else. They go
by the name of the “swallow tail” basque, and lie extremely flat; by
no means could one wear any such thing as gathers beneath them on this
particular account. They may be very long, or they may only measure
about half a yard in length. The basques nearly meet in front, and are
cut in one with the swallow tails; but when it is so cut, it is called
by many people the “spoon-shaped basque.” However, I find in many of
the French papers, as well as the English ones, that both are called by
the all-covering name of _Directoire_—an epoch of time which describes
many articles of dress of late years. I should not be surprised if
these basques were much worn when the spring appears.
The fancy for wearing tan shoes has been very remarkable this winter.
Rather a dark wood-shade is worn—not too dark, but darker than was in
vogue last season. Both glacé kid and calf are used; and, in any case,
they should be of an extra good quality, as, otherwise, they will not
stand the winter’s hard wear.
I have not seen anyone “wearing the green” in walking shoes, and do
not think they would be popular. The shoes and boots most liked seem
to be of American make, which are said to be excellent in cut and fit,
and, what is better still, to wear well; at any rate, it is the smart
thing to wear them. I think the toes are smaller and sharper than ever;
and the more pointed, the more stylish. One never hardly sees a small
foot, for no one can wear anything but shoes far too long for them;
as they really cannot become like Chinese ladies and obliterate their
full-grown toes immediately!
So far as millinery is concerned, the favourite hat or toque seems
to be that turned up immediately in front over the forehead, and
ornamented with a rosette, and generally a paste or steel buckle,
or brooch. All the very smartest toques are trimmed with some kind
of fur—sable, of course, for those who can manage it, then mink,
and—perhaps the most fashionable of all—chinchilla, which, however,
is rather a perishable fur. All of them are trimmed in the same way,
with a big bunch of violets on one side, and some feathers. But I have
just seen a sable-trimmed toque with a huge spray of moss-roses or
buds, having their leaves mounted in front. This admixture of flowers
and fur is one of the things our grandmothers would have shivered at.
The fashionable flower of the season seems to be the violet as usual;
and, next to that, quantities of roses are worn, both most unwintry
flowers. The flame-coloured roses are very fine in their colouring,
but do not seem to me to be becoming; the colour, though so fine, is
a little hard. Very beautiful ostrich feathers are worn in the larger
hats, but are laid on in such a light and airy manner as to make one
feel they will be blown off in the first gale of wind.
I notice numbers of Eton and other similar jackets, which the fine
mild weather, so far, enables people to wear, and which look rather
chilly. White veils and white lace ties are all worn, and also give
the idea of summer rather than winter. However, it is as well to get
out of our rather gloomy ideas of clothing, for, as it is, we wear far
too much black; and the use of so much red this winter has been quite
refreshing.
The first illustration consists of a group of two seated figures. That
on the left side has a grey cloth gown, with an orange-velvet yoke,
much pointed in front and braided all over with ivory braid. Pointed
epaulettes on the shoulders to match, and orange-coloured tabs, turned
over at the collar. The dress is braided with grey braid of a darker
shade in long and narrow points. The figure on the right side wears a
gown of a very bright rose-crimson, with narrow astrachan edging on the
bodice and the skirt. The sleeves are much tucked, the pointed space in
front is filled in with white satin and ivory lace over it, points of
white satin at the collar, and a band of black satin ribbon at the neck.
[Illustration: A CRIMSON COAT.]
The group of two figures standing up in out-of-door apparel shows
one of the pretty bright-crimson jackets that have been so much worn
this winter. It is braided with black scrolls, and has revers of black
astrachan, and a collar of the same. The hat is crimson and black,
and the skirt is black, with a band of crimson heading the flounce.
On the right side the figure wears a straight-cut jacket, with the
ever-popular horizontal tucks, which compose the whole bodice of the
jacket, and appear again on the top of the sleeve, in rather narrower
form. The colour of this gown is the fashionable blue cloth, and the
collar and edging of the revers are of Caracul, while the centres are
of black velvet, braided with black. Several rows of tucks edge the
skirt, and the hat is of grey velvet, trimmed with grey feathers, and
turned up with blue velvet.
One of the new arrivals in the trimming line is fringes of different
widths and in colours to match the dresses for which they are required.
I have also seen some new ribbons which are fringed at both edges.
Although I say “fringes of different widths,” I must remark that I have
not seen any wide ones—they are mostly narrow.
Perhaps, before I conclude, I may say a few words about the dressing
of the hair, which never was more prettily done. It is waved in large
waves, and is dressed fairly high for the evening; but I have seen a
tendency to wear it lower in the day. At any rate, we have much more
liberty accorded to us just now, and we take the liberty of dressing
our hair very much as it is becoming to ourselves individually; and
this has led to its being much lowered.
For young people, I notice that the hair is no longer permitted to
stray wildly about, but it is tied at the back, at the nape of the
neck; and for the evening it is tied in a Catogan loop, the hair at the
top of the head being waved in large flutings. A very slight amount of
what the Americans call “bangs” are allowed for young girls.
Our third drawing presents one figure only, and it is dressed in a
tailor-made bodice and skirt, which make of dresses is rising in favour
day by day. The material of which it is made is a dark green cloth,
which is cut at the edges of the short coat and sleeves into rounded
scallops and machine-stitched, a green gimp being placed below; a white
lace ruff is round the neck, and the hat—or, rather, toque—is of dark
green velvet, with green feathers, and large posies of violets. The
machine stitching applied to gowns this year is singularly perfect, and
cannot be done at home. I am told that it is all accomplished by a
single expert hand at the large and fashionable ladies’ tailors, as no
inexpert person could be trusted with it.
The latest fashionable fancy about the long gold chain is to wear it
hanging down to its fullest length in front, and depending from it are
a pencil, pen, or any such useful articles that the wearer may like to
have at hand. The watered silk ribbons, with steel buckles or slides,
have been more used than metal chains this winter for the muff, and
they look far better and more ladylike.
[Illustration: DARK GREEN CLOTH GOWN.]
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.