CHAPTER XVIII.

One evening, in the middle of August, John and Charlie got home before

Mr. de Courcy had left. The epidemic among the sheep was nearly over

now, and consequently they were not detained so late as they had been

for the last month. Both the shepherd and his son were astonished to

see this grand French gentleman seated on a little wooden stool at

Fairy’s feet, quite at home, and apparently on intimate terms with her

and Mrs. Shelley, for they were all three laughing merrily at Mrs.

Shelley’s attempts at French when the shepherds arrived.

“Why, here is John! This is my friend, Mr. de Courcy—Mr. de Courcy,

this is John, and this is my foster-brother,” said Fairy, inwardly

feeling very much ashamed of the latter, who, to her annoyance, only

pulled his forelock, and was too shy to say a word.

Rex jumped up, no less astonished at the apparition of these two

shepherds in their smock frocks, with their crooks in their hands, than

they were at the sight of him, and then, having executed one or two of

his French bows, he entered into a conversation with John Shelley about

his sheep as easily as he would have discussed art or literature with

people in his own rank of life.

And if Fairy felt ashamed of Charlie with his clump shoes, his dirty

hands, his Sussex brogue, and his uncouth, clownish manners, she was

rather proud than otherwise of John Shelley, who, with his hat in his

hand, stood there with a gentle dignity all his own, talking simply of

his sheep, with an honest pride in his position as head shepherd of

the largest sheep-farmer in the district that was as naive as it was

touching.

But as Rex walked back to Oafham that evening it was with a weight

on his mind that he saw no chance of removing. Hitherto he had

only pictured to himself an ideal pastoral shepherd as Fairy’s

foster-father, and though John Shelley might have sat to an artist

as a patriarchal shepherd, there was nothing ideal or poetical about

Charlie: a more realistic clod-hopping youth it would be hard to meet

with, even in the South Downs. And this was Fairy’s foster-brother!

Just imagine his mother’s face or Lady Oafham’s if they were introduced

to Charlie as the foster-brother of Rex’s future wife. Such a thought

was so appalling that it actually prevented Rex from paying his

accustomed visit the next day, though he was miserable, and so afraid

he might have offended Fairy by his absence, that after a sleepless

night and a very impatient morning, he presented himself at the

shepherd’s house the next day as usual.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” were Fairy’s first words.

“My dear Fairy, we can’t expect Mr. de Courcy to honour us with a visit

every day,” said Mrs. Shelley, reprovingly.

“Did you miss me? If I only dared to think you did!” said Rex, in

French.

“Never mind that; I want to know why you did not come yesterday. Come,

confess my foster-brother frightened you away now, didn’t he?” said

Fairy, in the same language.

And Rex, bargaining first for absolution, made a full confession of

his fault, and, in spite of Mrs. Shelley’s presence, would have gone

on, under cover of a foreign language, to confess his love too, if

the arrival of John Shelley had not stopped him. The shepherd looked

grave when he saw Mr. de Courcy, but Rex made himself so pleasant and

agreeable that the frown vanished from his face, and it was only after

Rex had left that he resumed his grave look.

The shepherd was very silent during supper, and Mrs. Shelley was not

wrong in her conjecture that there was a marital lecture in store for

her when Fairy was gone to bed and they were alone.

“Polly,” said the shepherd, suddenly, as Fairy’s door closed, “how long

has this been going on?”

“Has what been going on?” returned Mrs. Shelley, knowing well enough

all the while what her husband meant.

“How long have you been deceiving me and allowing that young gentleman

to steal my poor little Fairy’s heart?” said John, sternly.

“I never deceived you in my life, John Shelley. How dare you say such a

thing?” retorted Mrs. Shelley, warmly.

“Polly, it is no use being angry about it; you have done wrong, and you

know it as well as I. From what I saw the other day and to-day it is

very clear this gentleman has been coming here pretty often, and you

kept it from me, knowing well enough I should have put a stop to it,

had I known it, long ago, as I shall do now, though I misdoubt me but

the mischief is done already, for I am afraid Fairy has lost her heart.”

“And pray why should you want to put a stop to it? Why should not Fairy

marry Mr. de Courcy if they care for each other?” asked Mrs. Shelley,

anxious to divert John’s attention from her offence.

“For two excellent reasons. First, we know nothing at all about him;

pleasant as he appears, he may be a scamp for aught we know; and in

the next place, supposing he is all he appears, it is quite certain

neither Lady Oafham nor his own parents would hear of his marrying the

foster-child of a poor shepherd.”

“Mr. de Courcy a scamp! I am as certain he is all he seems to be as

I am that you are an honest man, and for all we know Fairy may be as

well-born as he is; and as for your stopping it, you will have a hard

task to do that, I am sure.”

“Hard or not, I shall do it, and at once,” said John, decidedly,

and Mrs. Shelley saw he was too vexed to be persuaded not to take

the matter in his own hands, and, conscious as she was that he was

right and that she had acted foolishly, though she was too proud to

acknowledge it, she now thought it wiser to say no more about it,

though she was intensely curious to know what he would do.

The next morning, when Fairy came back from the rectory to dinner,

which these two generally ate alone, John and Charlie taking theirs

with them, for they went as far as five or six miles from home with

their flocks, Mrs. Shelley thought it better to warn Fairy of what

was in store for her before Mr. de Courcy made his appearance that

afternoon, as in the ordinary course of things he was sure to do;

so, waiting till Fairy had finished her dinner, lest her news should

destroy the girl’s appetite, small enough at all times in Mrs.

Shelley’s opinion, she said, “Fairy, John is very angry with me for

letting Mr. de Courcy come here so often. He told me of it last night

after you were gone to bed, and he has not opened his lips to me

since.”

“John angry! Why should he be angry, mother? I thought he liked Mr. de

Courcy. Perhaps some more sheep have died, and he is only grieving for

them. You have made a mistake; he can’t be angry about me.”

“But he is, though. What is more, he is going to put a stop to Mr. de

Courcy coming here.”

“Oh, but mother, he can’t do that. I shall tell Rex—I mean Mr. de

Courcy—I wish him to come, and he just won’t pay any attention to John.

He will come all the same, I am sure,” said Fairy, not at all alarmed

by John’s threat.

“I doubt it, Fairy. You have always done as you liked with John up

to now, but now he has taken it into his head it is his duty to stop

these visits, he will do it; even you won’t be able to stop him. And

if Mr. de Courcy should come this afternoon, you had better tell him

John won’t allow him to come to this house, because he is certain his

relations would not approve of it if they knew. And, Fairy, take my

advice, and tell him to-day, for I am half afraid it will be the last

time you will see him.”

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Fairy, turning so pale that Mrs. Shelley saw

at a glance the mischief was done, and that if John put his threat

into execution, and she was certain he would, it would go very near to

breaking poor little Fairy’s heart, except hearts, in Mrs. Shelley’s

opinion, were very hard things and took a deal of breaking.

“Well, well, child, tell Mr. de Courcy, and see what he says, but I am

as sure as I am standing here John will keep his word, if he has not

done so already.”

“Already! Oh, mother, Rex must come this afternoon; I am certain he

would never stop away without telling me, for all the Johns in the

world,” said Fairy; but in spite of her words she was terribly afraid

lest he should not come, and spent the afternoon till nearly four

o’clock, in watching alternately the road and the clock, until, at

last, to Mrs. Shelley’s delight no less than Fairy’s, Rex’s step was

heard.

It was a fortunate coincidence for Mr. de Courcy and Fairy that Mrs.

Shelley, who always spent the afternoon with them, was so occupied,

according to her own account, with some work indoors, which could not

possibly be postponed, that she had only time to come to the door

once or twice and peep out at them. The first time she came they were

sitting side by side on the bench. Mr. de Courcy had his back to Mrs.

Shelley, but, from the eager way in which he was bending towards Fairy,

who was looking on the ground with a happy smile on her bright little

face, Mrs. Shelley thought it would be a pity to interrupt them. The

next time she looked out, which was half an hour later, the bench was

empty, but, looking across the field, she saw the lovers sauntering

along arm-in-arm as happily as if the whole world was made for them,

and there were no such thing as angry parents or guardians to break in

and destroy their happiness.

“Poor young things! I have not the heart to call them back, though I

suppose John would say I ought. I’ll let them be; they may as well

be happy for one day at any rate; their game is almost played out, I

doubt,” said Mrs. Shelley, watching them as they strolled slowly along,

regardless of the hot afternoon sun, still high in the heavens.

The next time Mrs. Shelley looked it was past six, and time John and

Charlie were in to supper, though neither of them had yet appeared; and

when she went to the door to see if they were coming, there was no one

to be seen but Fairy leaning on the gate and straining her eyes and

waving one of her little hands in the direction of Oafham.

“Fairy, are John and Charlie coming? It is almost supper-time,” called

out Mrs. Shelley, who, truth to tell, was not a little curious as to

what had passed between Fairy and Mr. de Courcy, a curiosity which was

soon to be gratified, for Fairy came running towards her.

“Oh, mother, mother! I am so happy; Rex loves me, and I am going to be

his wife some day.”

And as she spoke, Fairy threw herself into Mrs. Shelley’s motherly arms.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]

DREAMING OF SPRING.

BY JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

[Illustration]

I have a dream—a child-like dream—of waking woods,

Of fragrant paths beset by opening flowers,

Of tender leaflets casting off their winter hoods,

Of song-birds thanking God for spring-tide hours.

Oh, for the wings to reach some quiet forest-nest!

The city’s tuneless clamour breaks my vision blest.

I have a dream of rill and ray that dance between

The ancient hills in verdant glory clad;

Of meadows putting on their robes of virgin green,

Of winds that heavenward bear earth’s anthem glad.

Oh, that a wand divine would lull my senses dim!

For human moanings drown sweet Nature’s Easter hymn.

I have a dream of ocean, whose familiar flow—

The echo of eternity’s calm voice—

Speaks of the springs renewed that, wave-like, come and go,

Chanting the resurrection song, “Rejoice!”

Oh, that my longing soul could float to yon far sea,

Forgetful of the crowded life that fetters me!

Oh, that an angel’s touch would bid my spirit rise

Above the din and dust, to wear once more

The emerald crown of youth, the light of vernal skies,

The rainbow and the flower from days of yore!

Oh, that my dreaming heart could thus for ever keep

Its May-time, born of Hope, within the realms of sleep!

CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.

BY THE REV. JOHN KELLY, Translator of “Hymns of the Present Century.”

PART II.

Shortly after the visit to Düsseldorf her mother was requested to bring

about a meeting between her daughter and the Prince of Roumania, Prince

Charles of Hohenzollern. The Princess Elizabeth was very anxious to

attend a concert to be given in Cologne in October, at which Clara

Schumann was to take part. It was arranged that they should go to

Cologne for the purpose, and that the meeting with the Prince, who

was then in Paris, should take place there. They put up at the Hotel

du Nord. Hours passed, and the Prince did not appear. The ladies

went into the flower garden to dine. The dinner came to an end, and

Princess Elizabeth had not noticed that she had been narrowly watched

for a considerable time by a group of gentlemen. One of them stepped

forward and introduced himself to her mother as the Prince of Roumania.

Princess Elizabeth, ignorant of the fact that the meeting had been

pre-arranged, stretched out both her hands to him with unfeigned

pleasure, and said, “I am so glad that we have met here accidentally.”

For several hours they remained together among the flowers, and in the

Zoological Gardens, in animated conversation.

On her return to the hotel she exclaimed enthusiastically, “What a

charming man he has become!” While she was dressing for the concert

the Prince spoke to her mother, and asked her consent to the marriage.

Princess Elizabeth, however, was only thinking of enjoying the music,

and was beside herself with impatience on account of the delay caused

by the Prince. When he left, the young Princess burst out of her room

into the saloon, exclaiming, “But, mamma!” As if terrified she stopped

at the threshold, when she saw the grave and agitated expression on the

countenance of her mother, who ran forward, and threw her arms round

her daughter’s neck, and said, “My child, the Prince of Roumania has

asked your hand.” The astonishment of the daughter was great, but it

became clear to her at once that, unconsciously to herself, her heart

had been quite won by him.

When her mother asked her whether she would like to take time for

consideration, she answered simply and decidedly, “Just let him come; I

shall love him very much.” And when the Prince came and saluted her as

his betrothed, she said to him in soft and winning tones, “It makes me

so proud, and at the same time so humble.” That same night the Prince

had to return to Paris. The entry in her diary on the 12th of October

is, “I am engaged, and a happy bride.”[1] The public betrothal took

place at Neuwied, on the 16th of October, and on the 15th of November

they were married.

Princess Elizabeth had, previously to the appearance of Prince Charles

as a suitor, rejected every proposal of marriage, but when, long before

her engagement to him, her friends made plans for her, and wished

that there might be a throne in store for her, she would jestingly

reply, “The only throne that could have any attractions for me is the

Roumanian, for there I should have something to do.” That this was

no mere idle expression of a passing feeling is proved by her whole

life and work in her new home. She has become in heart and life a

Roumanian, and devoted herself with all her powers to the well being of

her subjects. A wide and quite uncultivated field of work lay before

her. The first thing to do was to make herself acquainted with it. She

felt that for this purpose something more than crowded receptions was

necessary, and she arranged to receive the ladies who were announced

for presentation at Court singly. “It was too disagreeable,” she said,

“to say what I did not really feel at receptions. In order to avoid a

falsehood I took pains to feel the interest which I showed. Everyone

needs sympathy. Now everybody interests me, and I find them all to be

interesting. The receptions do not bore me any longer. On the contrary,

I delight in them. One must do thoroughly whatever one does, if it is

to succeed; one must be thorough if one would be anything.”

On the 8th of September, 1870, a daughter was born, who received the

name of Maria at her baptism. The child was enthusiastically welcomed

by the people, who said, “God bless the new citizen of Roumania! May

she grow and prosper in the joy of her parents, and the welfare of her

country!” Henceforth the infant daughter became the most important

personage in Roumania.

The Princess Elizabeth studied the language with zeal, and acquired a

perfect mastery of it. The Roumanians say, with a dash of pride, that

she speaks it better than they do themselves, for she constructs her

sentences with peculiar elegance.

[Illustration: “WAKING WOODS.”]

In the year 1871 a club for the poor was founded by her, and soon

after a society for the translation of children’s books. “There are

absolutely no Roumanian school books, nor any for the people,” she

wrote to her mother; “I will provide these. I have already distributed

my best French books among the young ladies, and also interested

several gentlemen in the work. The poet Alexandri will criticise

and correct: then they will be quickly and cheaply printed. The

language will in this way become in some measure fixed, and the young

people, who cannot speak their own language decently, will learn

it quite splendidly.” Her ideas were eagerly received by the people,

and interested them more even than politics. In 1871 the Prince and

Princess made a journey through Moldavia to Jassy, in order to become

acquainted with that part of their dominions. It was a triumphal

progress all the way. Their reception everywhere was alike brilliant

and hearty. At Jassy their time was filled up with receptions, visits

to churches and schools, etc.

Their summers are passed in the Carpathian Mountains, 2,900 feet above

the sea. Their first residence was an old monastery called Sinaia; now

it is Castle Pelesch, which the Prince has built. Distinguished people

of all sorts—_savans_, artists, musicians—are received in this retreat,

and are often entertained there for weeks together. Society of this

kind is the great enjoyment of the Prince and Princess. In order to

encourage native industry, the Court wears the native national costume

while resident in the mountains.

In the ladies of her Court the Princess takes a truly motherly

interest. She loves particularly to gather young people around her.

Several young women are invited to stay some weeks every year at

Sinaia, in order to share in the working life of the Princess.

In 1874 time of severe trial came to Prince Charles and his wife.

Their child, Princess Maria, who was as lovely and as marked in her

individuality as her mother, took ill of diphtheria, and died in the

lap of her English nurse. Her last words were in English: “All is

finished.” Up to the very last the Princess could not believe that the

end was so near; but when the certainty of the fact was realised with

overwhelming force, she bowed her head with humble submission to the

will of God. “God,” she said, “has loved my child more than I have,

therefore He has taken her to Himself. Thank God that He ever gave her

to me!”

To her mother she wrote:—

“I often say that a mother’s love is stronger than the grave, and I

rejoice in my child’s blessedness. But that earth appears darker to me

in consequence cannot be altered. It must be endured.”

Her poems furnish abundant evidence of her estimate of a mother’s love,

and of her love and grief for the loss of her child.

When she first went to Roumania, no one suspected that Princess

Elizabeth was a poetess. Once, when the poet Alexandri was in

attendance in Bucharest, she said to him with deep blushes, “I wish to

make a confession to you, but I have not the courage.” After a long

pause, she said bashfully, with a soft voice, “I, too, write poems.”

At Alexandri’s request, she showed him some of them. He saw at once

that she had poetical gifts, and encouraged her to go forward. He sent

her a thick volume of his manuscripts, and she began to translate

popular Roumanian legends into German. In the work of translation she

learnt practically much of the “art of poetry.” She had written poetry

hitherto just as a bird sings. Rhymes and verses came more readily

to her than prose. It was in her great sorrow for the death of her

daughter that she betook herself to translation. She needed to occupy

her mind by strenuous work. This she found in translation. She not

only translated Roumanian works into German, but also the treasures of

German literature into Roumanian. In this way she thought she could

render the greatest service to her subjects. The effect of such work

upon her mind she describes to her mother thus:—“When I am not actually

asleep, neither my head nor hands rest for a second; otherwise it fares

ill with me. Constant activity keeps the mind fresh, and sometimes only

am I overcome when I remember my beloved one.”

She naturally felt a great longing to see her mother once more. It was

arranged for them to meet at Cologne, and from thence to proceed to St.

Leonards for a few weeks. She was much impressed by London. They paid

a visit to Oxford, where they were Max Müller’s guests for two days.

It was here that she presented to her mother a book in missal form,

called “My Journey Through the World; containing Rhymes and Versicles

Confided to the Heart of My Mother.” Charles Kingsley was present when

she astonished her mother by handing this volume to her, and was much

touched by one of the poems pointed out to him, of which the following

is a rough but faithful rendering. It is called

ONLY ONE.

From need and misfortune preserve it secure;

From sin keep its little heart, keep it aye pure;

Lead Thou it Thyself all its journey below.

One only I have, as Thou, Father, dost know.

The book contained poems from the time of her confirmation till her

thirtieth year.

During the Russo-Turkish War in 1877 Roumania was drawn into the

conflict. One of the results was that the independence of Roumania

was declared. The principality became a kingdom, and Prince Charles

and Princess Elizabeth were crowned King and Queen. During the war

the Princess set a noble example of what her biographer describes as

“the inborn deaconess-calling of every woman.” The throne-room was

converted into a workroom, where, under her immediate superintendence,

linen and bandages were prepared. Women of all ranks and nationalities

went in and out, and vied with each other in providing things for

the army in the field. Out of her own means the Princess furnished a

barrack hospital of a hundred beds, which she looked after herself.

She extended her activity to all the other hospitals also that were

organised. She ministered to all the wounded that were brought from

the battle-field. Day and night she sought to comfort and encourage

them. To many a dying man she spoke the last words of consolation; many

received from her hand the pain-deadening chloroform. She induced many

to submit to have limbs amputated. The Roumanian soldier prefers death

to amputation. “Better die than be a beggar man,” he says. To one

young soldier she pointed out that he had a long life before him, and

ought to submit to the operation. “For love of you, Regina,” he sighed.

She exercised a great moral influence over the suffering. Among the

people she was called “The mother of the wounded.” Her strength seemed

to be doubled in times of danger, when the claims upon her services

were the greatest. She was always collected, and never lost her

presence of mind, whatever agitation and despondency prevailed around

her. When, in her anxiety about her husband and the army, she could

only sleep for two or three hours, she would seek to divert her mind

with music and poetry half the night, and at four in the morning she

would walk up and down, and mentally arrange the work of the ensuing

day. During the war she founded a sisterhood, defraying the expenses

out of her own pocket. At first there were only two sisters, but in

1884 the number had increased to twenty. In hospitals and private

houses they give their services for five francs a day, and are much in

demand. Rich people often pay more, and thus the sisters can attend

to the poor gratuitously. Other useful societies owe their origin to

the Queen. As might have been expected, the moral and physical strain

of the war time severely tried her. She has been subject to repeated

attacks of fever. At the beginning of 1883 she had a dangerous illness,

which excited the fears and sympathies of the whole Roumanian people.

Her patience, gentleness, and consideration for all around her were

very touching. She was saved by means of a successful operation. The

King took her to Italy, and from thence to Neuwied. When they returned

to Roumania, Castle Pelesch was near completion. In October, 1883, it

was solemnly dedicated, in presence of all the high officials of the

nation.

It is not many years ago since her poems became widely known. The Queen

herself would never have thought of publishing them, had not numberless

copies passed into various hands. Then she thought that “if they are

worth the tiresome labour of copying, so are they of being printed.”

One of her most important volumes of poetry, if not the most important,

of which a new edition has lately appeared, is called after the seat

of her family, which has several times been mentioned in the course of

this sketch, “Meine Ruh” (Mon Repos). It contains ballads and lyrical

poems.

Some of the deepest questions that can occupy the human mind have been

treated by her in other volumes.

Still in middle age, she carries forward her beneficent work, and we

may hope in due time (far distant may the day be!) that the public may

have the opportunity of reading the completed story of her life, which

has been so well told in the volume from which we have derived all our

information concerning her. The Baroness von Stachelberg is hardly

guilty of any exaggeration when she says that “as woman, as Princess,

as Queen, Carmen Sylva is one of the noblest and most remarkable of her

sex.”

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Bride means a betrothed one. German women cease to be brides when

they marry.

“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.

Ella was, unfortunately for herself, very timid at nights; and even

when at home had always been ready to imagine burglars and alarms of

fire; and Kate had often laughed at her, and asked what she would

do if, in her nightly searches round her bedroom, she should find a

burglar under the bed, or hidden amongst the dresses secreted in her

wardrobe.

As she had always been thus ready to take alarm on the smallest

provocation, it is not to be wondered at that the old gardener’s

mysterious warning filled her with anxiety; the more so that, in spite

of all her efforts to persuade him, he resolutely refused to say

anything more, and she was left in a state of hopeless bewilderment as

to what his strange hints could mean.

The only thing she could do was to be specially watchful, and she

determined that, in spite of her fears, she would sit up at night

till the servants had gone to bed, and make sure that everything was

properly secured.

It was very evident that they did not like it, and they did their

utmost to compel her to go to bed first, by sitting up till very late

themselves. But Ella had a determination of character which caused her,

when once she was sure it was her duty to do anything, to persist in

carrying out her intention in spite of all obstacles, and the servants’

objection to her sitting up last at night made her only the more

determined to do so.

One night they had tried her patience sorely by lingering about, but

when they had at last departed, Ella went her usual round, and found

they had carelessly left a side door unfastened.

Having locked the door she went up to bed, and, in spite of feeling

nervous and uneasy, she soon fell asleep, but only to be awakened a

short time after by a stealthy sound in the room below.

She sat up and listened; it was true at last—there was certainly

someone getting into the house.

What should she do? Should she cry for help, or follow her first

instinct to bury her head under the bed-clothes? But her better

judgment prevailed; and remembering that her aunt was often restless in

the night, and that it was probably only nurse who had gone downstairs

to get something for her, she slipped on her dressing-gown and the warm

slippers Kate had provided her with, and crept quietly out of the room

and down the stairs.

Her heart beat so fast that, to her ears, it drowned all other sounds,

and it seemed to her almost that it must alarm the thieves. When she

reached the hall she found her fears verified: a light gleamed under

the dining-room door, and she heard voices whispering inside.

She thought of calling the dogs, but dared not risk alarming her aunt;

so at last, summoning up all her resolution, she opened the door, and

to her amazement found the table laid for supper, and a party seated

round it, consisting of the two servants and two men.

The men instantly disappeared through the open window, without waiting

to see who had interrupted them, leaving Ella alone with the two angry

but frightened servants. The cellarette, which Ella was sure she had

locked before going to bed, was standing open, and the contents were

on the table. The cook’s face was flushed, and she had evidently been

drinking a good deal.

Ella was so startled that she was quite silent for a few minutes, and

the cook recovering herself first, began pouring out a torrent of

abuse; when, to Ella’s intense relief, the door again opened, and Nurse

entered, while at the same moment two dark figures appeared, clambering

in through the open window. Annie, the housemaid, thinking them the

same two who had just escaped, rushed towards them, but to her dismay

found herself seized by a stalwart policeman, and old Mr. Dudley came

to Ella’s side, begging her not to be frightened.

With this reinforcement Ella felt herself victorious, and soon regained

her self-possession sufficiently to consider what was to be done. The

policeman assured her that she had a perfect right to turn the two

maids out at once, but her own good sense, even without Nurse’s advice,

showed her that it would be wrong to turn out two young women late at

night, however badly they might have behaved. Accordingly, acting on

Mr. Dudley’s advice, she told them to go to their bedroom at once, and

prepare to leave first thing in the morning.

Mr. Dudley accounted for his unexpected appearance by explaining to

Ella that he had been sitting up late reading, and on looking out of

his window before going to bed, he had noticed the two men lurking

about, and having several times suspected that something was wrong, he

had gone for a policeman, hoping to be in time to catch the thieves.

To Ella’s great relief Mrs. Wilson was at last convinced that the

servants were untrustworthy, and made no objection when she heard that

they had both left the house, with their boxes, immediately after

breakfast next morning.

A respectable charwoman, recommended by Mrs. Mobberly, was engaged

to do the work temporarily; and Ella, very much dismayed at such an

unexpected responsibility, had to consider what steps must be taken to

engage new servants.

To begin with, Mrs. Mobberly advised her to mention the matter to the

tradespeople, who often hear of good servants, and at the same time

she would herself go for Ella to a registry office in the town, which

she knew to be thoroughly respectable. At the same time she gave Ella

a very solemn warning against ever going to any registry office about

which she knew nothing, as some so-called offices are places to be

scrupulously avoided, both by mistresses and servants.

The result of this vigorous action was that Ella was besieged and

overwhelmed by the number of applicants for the situations. Mrs.

Wilson’s was a well-known place, where the work was easy, and the rule

in most respects very light; and in addition to the respectable and

pleasant-looking young women who came, Ella had to run the gauntlet

of incompetent girls, impudent girls, girls who amazed her with the

elegance of their attire, and others who disgusted her with their dirty

slovenliness, not to mention all the middle-aged women in search of a

comfortable home, and mothers anxious to secure a good place for their

young daughters.

A good many of them were so evidently unsuitable that Ella soon

disposed of them, and easily reduced the number to three or four

applicants, who, however, all seemed equally suitable, and she felt so

incapable of deciding between these, that she dismissed them all for

the present, promising to write to each of the selected number the next

day.

So far the task, though rather overwhelming for so inexperienced a

housekeeper, had been comparatively simple, for Ella had been coached

up beforehand, both by her aunt and Mrs. Mobberly, as to the most

important questions to ask each applicant:—what had been her last

situation, and why she left it; what wages she asked, where her home

was, whether she belonged to any church, and whether she would be

obliging and willing to undertake the rather miscellaneous duties,

which included feeding the various animals, and occasionally helping to

water or weed the garden, in addition to waiting on Mrs. Wilson, and

the usual house-work. Ella was especially advised to explain the varied

nature of their duties to any likely applicants, that there might be no

misunderstanding about it afterwards. But the task of finally selecting

the two best was rather more than Ella felt equal to; so, as usual, she

consulted Mrs. Mobberly, who, feeling that Mrs. Wilson was not likely

ever to be very robust again, and that it would therefore not be wise

to have only young girls in the house, when Nurse should have left,

advised Ella, if her aunt consented, to engage as cook a middle-aged

widow, in whose son (a sailor) Mrs. Wilson took great interest, and

whom she had known for several years as a respectable woman.

“I liked her very much directly I saw her,” said Ella, “but I was

afraid she would not be so active and brisk about her work as a younger

woman.”

“Very likely not, but with such a small household she can easily manage

all she will have to do; and even if you should occasionally be obliged

to have a charwoman for extra cleaning, it would be quite worth your

while to do it, for the sake of the comfort of having an experienced

woman in the house, whom you could depend upon to take care of your

aunt, and who would know what to do in case of sudden illness.”

Then having, from Ella’s description, decided which of the young girls

seemed most likely to suit, Mrs. Mobberly directed her to write to the

girl who was still at her situation, and tell her to ask her mistress

if she would kindly appoint a time when it would be convenient for Ella

to call upon her about the girl’s character.

“Some ladies prefer to write direct to the mistress about a time to

call,” Mrs. Mobberly explained, “but I always think if the girl is

still in the situation it saves her mistress trouble if she can take a

message.”

Ella felt very nervous at this part of her task, but carefully

concealed her feelings from her aunt, from whom she knew she would get

no sympathy, but only sarcastic remarks as to how, in her young days,

people were more plainspoken, and called nervousness and shyness by

their proper names of conceit and affectation.

Ella found the visit, when the time came, less alarming than she had

expected, though in some respects less satisfactory; for she had never

doubted but that the mistress’s report would at once decide her either

for or against the maid, which did not prove to be the case. She told

Ella the girl was honest, and sober, and knew her work well, but that

on the other hand she was disobliging and pert in her manners.

These serious drawbacks would, of course, have decided Ella against

her, but that being naturally a shrewd observer, she could not help

being struck by the lady’s imperious manner, and very unpleasant,

dictatorial way of speaking, which so disagreeably impressed her that

she made up her mind there was probably a good deal of excuse for the

girl, and resolved, if Mrs. Mobberly consented, to give her a trial.

This lady not only agreed, but warmly commended Ella for being

observant, and added that she was sure servants had often a great

deal to put up with from unjust and unreasonable mistresses, who

would goad them into speaking rudely by their overbearing manners, or

make it almost impossible for them to get their work done properly by

constantly calling them off from it to attend to other things; and

then, having the poor girls’ characters entirely in their hands, ruin

their chances by blaming them for faults which they themselves had

caused.

Thus encouraged, Ella sent for the girl again, told her the whole truth

about the interview with her mistress, and asked how she came to have

a character of that sort; to which the girl replied at once, with a

straightforward manner which convinced Ella she was speaking the truth,

that she had stayed longer at the place than any other servant she knew

of, and that they all had the same character given them on leaving, the

fact being that the mistress kept nagging at them all day long, and

spoke in such a disagreeable way to them that she tried their tempers

almost beyond endurance, and she was afraid that sometimes it was true,

they were driven into answering her rudely.

So the matter was arranged, and very shortly afterwards the household

settled down again into quietness and peace, with Mrs. Moore, the

good widow, in charge of the house in general and the kitchen in

particular, and Sarah, the “pert and disobliging” girl, to act under

her supervision, as house and parlour maid. The very first day of their

arrival, Ella, prompted, of course, by her aunt, explained to them both

the rules of the house; that all windows and doors must be fastened by

ten o’clock every night, that they must ask permission before inviting

visitors to the kitchen, though leave would always be gladly given for

suitable friends and at suitable times; and the same applied to going

out. There were a few other matters Mrs. Wilson was particular about;

that breakages or accidents of any sort should be reported to her at

once, and not left to be found out accidentally; and that as good wages

were given, there should be no perquisites of any sort.

Mrs. Wilson had a very great objection to clandestine “followers,”

but saw no reason why servants should not be as openly engaged to be

married as their young mistresses; so as soon as she found that the new

maid, Sarah, had a “young man,” whom she ascertained to be a thoroughly

respectable young mechanic, she told her she might invite him to the

house once a fortnight, and to begin with, he might come to tea and go

to church with her the following Sunday, but she must invariably come

straight home after church, as Mrs. Wilson greatly disapproved of young

women being out after church time: “If they must have a walk,” she

said, “they could go before church, but all girls were better at home

late in the evening.”

Mrs. Moore turned out to be a great help among the poultry, and

relieved Ella’s mind greatly by her knowledge and cleverness with

them. Almost her first work among them was to “set” two of the hens.

She showed Ella how to make their nests in a secluded corner where the

other fowls would not disturb them, and to arrange them so that they

could not steal each other’s eggs. Then she selected the eggs, refusing

the extra large ones that Ella suggested, and taking only well-formed,

medium-sized ones.

“It is rather early in the year yet, miss, so we won’t give them too

many eggs. It is better to get all out of a small sitting, than a few

out of a large one. They are good-sized hens, though, so I think we

will give them eight eggs each.”

The nests were made of hay, from which the longest stalks had been

removed; and all round the nests Mrs. Moore scattered a thick layer of

ashes.

When all was ready she brought one of the hens and put her near the

nest. Directly the hen saw the eggs she went straight to them, and

with a contented chuckle settled herself on them, carefully arranging

them with her beak and legs. The other hen was not quite so quick,

and preferred taking a survey of the premises first, but after a time

she also settled herself, and they were left for their three weeks’

solitary confinement.

Every morning they were turned out to take their daily meal, and to

dust their feathers with the dry sand and ashes provided for them at

one corner of the run. In their anxiety about their precious eggs they

would sometimes have omitted this duty, but Mrs. Moore was firm, and

explained to Ella that it would be bad both for the hens and the eggs

if they never left their nests.

Ella soon took a great interest in the hens, and became quite clever

in lifting them from their nests (when gentle persuasion had not the

desired effect), and after a little practice learnt to accomplish it

without either pulling out the whole nest or jerking an egg or two out

with the hen.

(_To be continued._)

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE RED FARM.

I perceived a great change in Mrs. Markham after my mistress’s visit.

She took less notice of the children, sent fewer messages to the

nursery, ceased to interfere in the nursery arrangements, and often

ignored my presence if she chanced to meet me in the hall or garden.

Her manner convinced me that she was deeply offended by her sister’s

patronage of me. Very probably Mr. Morton had spoken a few forcible

words in my defence. They made her understand that they trusted me

implicitly, and that any interference in my department would be

displeasing to them. It was easy to read this from her averted looks.

Now and then I heard a word or two about “Violet,” “ridiculous

infatuation,” when I passed the open drawing-room door. Rolf once

asked me curiously why his mother disliked me so. “You aren’t so very

wicked, are you, Fenny? Is it very wicked to be stuck up? Mother is so

fond of using that word, you know.”

I tried not to listen to Rolf. I could afford to be magnanimous, for

I was very happy just then. Gay’s partiality for me was evident, and

I soon conceived the warmest attachment for her. She seized every

opportunity of running up to the nursery for a few minutes’ chat, and

she often joined us on the beach. One afternoon she asked to accompany

us in a country ramble. Hannah had gone to Wheeler’s Farm to have

tea with Molly, and Luke was to walk home with her in the evening. I

thought how they would enjoy that walk through the cornfields and down

the dim, scented lanes. Life would look as sweet to them as to richer

lovers; youth and health and love being the three-fold cord that cannot

lightly be broken. Gay made the excuse that she would be useful in

taking care of Joyce while I wheeled Reggie in his perambulator, I

overheard her saying to Mrs. Markham, but her speech only elicited a

scornful reply.

“If Miss Fenton encourages Hannah in gadding about, there is not the

slightest need for you to take her place, Gay; but, of course, you will

please yourself.”

“Oh, I always please myself, Addie,” returned Gay, cheerfully, “and I

shall enjoy a gambol among the lanes.”

And, indeed, we had a delightful afternoon gathering wild flowers, and

resting ourselves in any shady corner where a fallen tree or stile

invited us.

We were gathering some poppies that grew among the corn when Gay called

me. She looked a little anxious.

“Merle, I am really afraid there is a storm coming up. You were

noticing just now how close and sultry it felt; those clouds look

ominous, and we are a mile and a half from Marshlands.”

I felt conscience-stricken at her words. We had been talking and

laughing, and had not perceived how the sunshine had faded. Certainly,

the clouds had a lurid, thunderous look, and the birds were flying low,

and seemed fussy and uncertain in their movements. True, the storm

might not break on us for another half-hour; but we should never get

the children home in that time. I thought of Reggie with dismay.

“What shall we do, Miss Gay?” I returned, hurriedly. “It would be

nearer to Wheeler’s Farm. We might take refuge there.”

“Wait a moment,” was her answer; “we shall be drenched before we get

there. The Red Farm is not half a mile off. I think we had better

take the children there, and then Mr. Hawtry will send us home in his

waggonette. Come—come! Why do you hesitate, Merle? He is father’s old

friend; and even Adelaide would find no fault with us if we took refuge

at the Red Farm.”

I held my peace, for of course Miss Cheriton must know what her father

and sister would approve; but I did not like the notion at all, and I

followed her somewhat reluctantly down the field. I would much rather

have gone to Wheeler’s Farm and put ourselves under Molly’s protection.

Most likely they would have placed a covered cart or waggon at our

disposal, and we should all have enjoyed the fun. Gay was so simple and

unconventional, that she saw no harm at all in going to the Red Farm;

but I knew what Aunt Agatha would say, and I took all my notions of

propriety from her.

But the fates were against us, for just as we reached the stile there

was Squire Hawtry himself, mounted as usual on Brown Peter, trotting

quietly home. He checked Peter at once, and spoke in rather a concerned

voice.

“Miss Cheriton, this is very imprudent. There will be a storm directly.

Those children will never get home.”

He spoke to her, but I fancied he meant that reproachful look for me.

No doubt I was the one to blame.

“It was very wrong,” I stammered; “but we were talking, and did not

notice. I want Miss Cheriton to hurry to Wheeler’s Farm.”

“Oh, nonsense!” he said, abruptly; but it was such a pleasant

abruptness; “the Red Farm is a mile nearer. Give the little girl to me,

Miss Fenton, and then you can walk on quickly. I will soon have her

under shelter.”

There was no disputing this sensible advice, and as soon as Peter was

trotting on with his double burden I followed as quickly as possible

with Reggie. We were only just in time, after all. As I wheeled Reggie

under the porch of the Red Farm the first heavy drops pattered down.

I was in such haste, that I only stole a quick glance at the low red

house, with its curious mullioned windows and stone porch. I had

noticed, as we came up the gravel walk, a thick privet hedge, and a yew

walk, and a grand old walnut tree in the centre of the small lawn with

a circular seat. There were seats, too, in the porch, and a sweet smell

of jasmine and clematis. Then the door opened, and there stood Mr.

Hawtry, with a beaming face, and Joyce beside him, evidently pleased

to welcome us all to the Red Farm.

I lifted Reggie out of the perambulator and carried him into the hall.

It had some handsome oak furniture in it: heavy carved cabinets and

chairs, and a tall clock. There was a tiger skin lying before the

fireplace. An open glass door led into a charming old-fashioned garden,

with a bowling-green and a rustic arbour, and a long, straight walk,

bordered with standard rosetrees.

A tall, thin woman, with a placid face and grey hair, shook hands

with Gay. Mr. Hawtry introduced her to me as “Mrs. Cornish, my worthy

housekeeper,” and then bade her, with good-humoured peremptoriness, “to

get tea ready as soon as possible in the oak room.”

“I am afraid the drawing-room has rather a chilly aspect,” he

continued, throwing open a door. “Should you not prefer sitting in my

den, Miss Gay, until Mrs. Cornish tells us tea is ready?”

I was sorry when Miss Cheriton pronounced in favour of the den. I liked

the look of that drawing-room, with its three long, narrow windows

opening on to the bowling-green. It had faint, yellowish panelled walls

and an old-fashioned blue couch, and there was some beautiful china on

an Indian cabinet. No doubt that was where his mother and Miss Agnes

used to sit. Perhaps the room held sad memories for him, and he was

glad to close the door upon them.

Mr. Hawtry’s den was a small front room, with a view of the privet

hedge and the walnut tree, and was plainly furnished with a round

table and well-worn leather chairs, the walls lined with mahogany

bookshelves, his gun and a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols occupying

the place of honour over the mantelpiece. Joyce called it an ugly room,

but I thought it looked comfortable and home-like, with its pleasant

litter of magazines and papers, and Gay said at once—

“I do like this old den of yours, Mr. Hawtry; it is such a snug room,

especially in winter, when father and I have come in after a long, cold

ride.”

“You do not come as often now, Miss Gay,” he said, looking at her a

little keenly.

She coloured, as though the remark embarrassed her, and seemed bent on

excusing herself.

“I am such a busy person, you see, and now I spend all my leisure time

with the children. Am I not a devoted aunt, Merle?”

“You are very good to give us so much of your company,” I returned,

for I saw she wanted me to speak; but just then a flash of lightning

frightened Joyce away from the window, and she came to me for

protection. Reggie, too, began to cry, and I had some trouble in

pacifying him.

Gay good-naturedly came to my assistance.

“Supposing we take the children into the other room and show them the

shells; it would distract their attention from the storm. We will leave

you to read your paper in peace, Mr. Hawtry.” But he insisted on going

with us. The cabinet had a curious lock, he assured us, and no one

could open it but himself.

The children were delighted with the shells, and a little green Indian

idol perfectly fascinated Reggie. He kissed the grinning countenance

with intense affection, and murmured, “Pretty, pretty.” My attention

was attracted to a miniature in a velvet frame. It was a portrait of

a round-faced, happy-looking girl, with brown eyes, rather like Mr.

Hawtry’s.

“That was my sister Agnes,” he said, with a sigh, and for a moment his

face clouded over. “She died two years ago, after years of intense

suffering. That miniature was painted when she was eighteen. She was

a bright, healthy creature then. Look, that was her couch, where she

spent her days. There is a mystery in some lives, Miss Fenton. I never

understood why she was permitted to suffer all these years.”

“No, indeed,” observed Gay, who had heard this. “Violet and I were so

fond of her; she could be so merry in spite of her pain. I think some

of my pleasantest hours have been spent in this room. How pleased she

used to be when I had anything new to tell her or show her. I do not

wonder you miss her, Mr. Hawtry; I have always been so sorry for you.”

I thought he seemed sorry for himself, for I had never seen him look so

sad. I wished then that Gay had not brought us back to this room; it

was evidently full of relics of the past, when womanly hands had busied

themselves for the comfort of the dearly-loved son and brother.

The little round table beside the couch, with its inlaid workbox and

stand of favourite books, must have been Miss Agnes’s, but the netting

case and faded silk bag on the other side of the fireplace, with the

spectacles lying on the closed Bible, must have belonged to the mother.

How sorely must he have missed them! Few men would have cared to have

preserved these little homely treasures; they would have swept them

away with the dead past. But now and then a strong manly character has

this element of feminine tenderness.

I think my look must have expressed sympathy, for Mr. Hawtry came up to

me as I stood alone by the window (for Gay was still showing the shells

to the children) and said, a little abruptly—

“It is good of you to be sorry for me, but time heals all wounds,

and, in spite of pain and loneliness, one would not call them back to

suffer.” And then his voice changed to a lower key. “I wish Agnes could

have known you, Miss Fenton; how she would have sympathised with your

work. All good women are fond of little children, but she doated on

them. There were crowds of children in the churchyard on the day she

was buried.”

I was too much touched to answer, but he went on as though he did not

notice my silence.

“You seem very happy in your work?”

“Very happy.”

“One can see that; you have a most contented expression; it almost

makes one envy you. I wonder how you came to think such work was

possible.”

I do not know how it was, but I found myself telling Mr. Hawtry all

about Aunt Agatha and the cottage at Putney. I had even let fall a word

or two about my miserable deficiency. I am not sure what I said, but I

certainly saw him smile as though something amused him.

I was almost sorry when Mrs. Cornish called us into the oak room, and

yet a most pleasant hour followed. Mrs. Cornish poured out the tea, and

the children were very good; even Reggie behaved quite nicely. The room

was very dark and low, and furnished entirely with oak, but a cheery

little fire burnt on the hearth; and though the thunder rain beat

heavily against the window, it seemed only to add to our merriment. Mr.

Hawtry had promised to drive us home in the waggonette, but we dared

not venture until the storm was over.

When the children had finished their bread and honey they played about

the room, while we gathered round the window.

Mr. Hawtry spoke most to Gay, and I sat by and listened. He spoke about

Mr. Rossiter presently.

“I think him a capital fellow,” he said, in his hearty manner; “and

it quite puzzles me why Mrs. Markham dislikes him so; she is always

finding fault with him.”

“Oh, there is no accounting for Adelaide’s likes and dislikes,” replied

Gay, a little impatiently. “Sometimes I think she would have found

fault with St. Paul himself if she had known him.”

Mr. Hawtry laughed. “Rossiter is not a St. Paul, certainly, but he is a

downright honest fellow, and that is what I like. Perhaps he is not a

shining light in the pulpit, but he is so earnest and painstaking, that

we cannot blame his want of eloquence. He is just the companion that

suits me; always cheerful and always good-tempered, and ready to talk

on any subject. I must say I am rather partial to Walter Rossiter.”

Now I wonder what made Gay look so pleased, and why her eyes beamed so

softly on Mr. Hawtry. But she said nothing, and Mr. Rossiter’s name

soon dropped out of the conversation.

Very shortly after that the rain cleared and the waggonette was

ordered. While we were waiting for it, Gay asked me to come with her

into the dairy to see Lydia Sowerby. I was anxious to see Hannah’s

sister, but I own I was not prepossessed with her appearance. She had

red hair, like Molly—indeed, most of the Sowerbys had red hair—but she

was far plainer than Molly, and it struck me her face looked hard.

I was to own by-and-by, however, that first impressions may be wrong,

for a few moments afterwards, when Mrs. Cornish carried Reggie into

the dairy, Lydia’s hard-featured face softened in a wonderful manner,

and such a pleasant smile redeemed her plainness.

“Oh, do let me hold him a moment,” she said, eagerly; “he reminds me of

little Davie, our poor little brother who died. Hannah has talked so

much about him.” And when Mrs. Cornish relinquished him reluctantly,

she carried him about the dairy with such pride and joy, that Mrs.

Cornish nodded her head at her benignantly.

“You are a rare one for children, Lyddy; I never saw a woman to beat

you. She is always begging me to ask Dan,” she went on, turning to

us. “She spoils Dan hugely, and so does Molly; they are both of them

soft-hearted, though you would not believe it to look at them, but many

a soft fruit has a rough rind,” finished Mrs. Cornish.

Reggie was asleep all the way home, but Joyce prattled incessantly.

I took them into the house as quietly as I could, after bidding Mr.

Hawtry good-night. I thought it best to leave Gay to explain things to

Mrs. Markham.

But all that evening, until I slept, a sentence of Mr. Hawtry’s haunted

me. “I wish my sister Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton.” Why did

he wish that? And yet, and yet I should have been glad to have known

Agnes Hawtry, too.

(_To be continued._)

VARIETIES.

A GOOD OFFER.

“I will save you a thousand pounds,” said an Irishman to an old

gentleman, “if you don’t stand in your own light.”

“How?”

“You have a daughter, and you intend to give her ten thousand as a

marriage portion.”

“I do.”

“Sir, I will take her with nine thousand.”

IN SOLITUDE.—Those beings only are fit for solitude who like nobody,

are like nobody, and are liked by nobody.—_Zimmerman._

IN LASTING REMEMBRANCE.—Write your name with kindness, love, and mercy

on the hearts of the people you come in contact with year by year, and

you will never be forgotten.

A CURIOSITY IN WORDS.—The five vowels appear in alphabetical order in

“abstemious,” also in the word “facetious,” and “abstemiously” and

“facetiously” give us the _y_.

LOOKING AHEAD.—When we meet with the little vexatious incidents of

life, by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it will prevent many

painful sensations if we only consider—How insignificant this will

appear a twelvemonth hence.

HOW TO BE LEARNED.—A Persian philosopher being asked by what method he

had acquired so much knowledge, answered, “By not being prevented by

shame from asking questions when I was ignorant.”

LIBERTY.

’Tis liberty alone that gives the flower

Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume.

_Cowper._

WIDESPREAD SORROW.

Man’s inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.

—_Burns._

JEALOUSY.

Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmation strong

As proofs of holy writ.—_Shakespeare._

A BARGAIN HUNTER.—It is told of a gentleman that he had a passion for

the purchase of second-hand furniture at auctions, and that in making

“good bargains” he had filled his house with antiquated and almost

useless articles. Upon one occasion, his wife took the responsibility,

without consulting or apprising her husband, to have a portion of the

least useful removed to an auction-room. Great was her dismay when, on

the evening of the day of sale, the majority of the articles came back

to the house. The husband had stumbled into the auction-room, and, not

knowing his own furniture, had purchased it at better bargains than at

first.

CONSTANT COMPANIONS.—Hypocrisy and cunning travel together, and they

cannot get very far separately.

ADVICE TO A WIFE.—Try to make home necessary to a man’s happiness, and

you will almost always succeed.

ECHOES.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away o’er lawns and lakes

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e’er, beneath the moonlight’s star,

Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

’Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then—

The sigh that’s breathed for one to hear—

Is by that one, that only Dear,

Breathed back again.

—_Thomas Moore._

THE EDUCATION OF WOMAN.—Education is not that which smothers a woman

with accomplishments, but that which tends to consolidate a firm and

regular character—to form a friend, a companion, and a wife.—_Hannah

More._

ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY.—After shutting up her house for some time, a woman

used a weak tincture of iodine to stain herself and her children brown,

and then succeeded in convincing all the neighbours that she had been

to the sea-side.

TRUTH.—Truth comes home to the mind so naturally, that when we learn it

for the first time it seems as though we did no more than recall it to

our memory.—_Fontenelle._

AN INFIRM TRIBUNAL.[2]

The fact has been mentioned above of Camille Desmoulins’ stutter, which

indomitable perseverance and enthusiasm in his chosen cause so far

threw into the shade as that it proved no drawback to his attainment of

a pre-eminent position in those troublous times.

It must be acknowledged as a somewhat singular circumstance that

another of the revolutionary chiefs suffered from an affliction that

would appear a still more certain impediment to success in public life.

Couthon, while yet an obscure provincial advocate in Auvergne, was

stricken with paralysis, which deprived him of the use of his limbs.

Yet Couthon, thus laid past, as it might seem, once and for all, on

life’s most obscure and dismal shelf—Couthon was no longer in Auvergne,

but in Paris, in the forefront of the fiercest turmoil! Couthon, the

paralytic, formed the third of the famous Triumvirate which exercised

for above a year—an age in revolutionary times—the Dictatorship of

France.

It is another rather curious fact about this man that, in spite of

his grievous infirmity, he is represented as a person of engaging

aspect and noble presence. When any measures of peculiar severity were

to be proposed, he was always chosen by the committee to bring them

forward, and he was remarkable for uttering the most atrocious and

pitiless sentiments in a tone and with a manner the most affectionate

and tender. The details of those wholesale murders, the Fournées, or

Batches, as they were grimly termed, which marked the last and most

sanguinary month of the Reign of Terror, were left to the unflinching

hands of this pitiless, soft-seeming Couthon, and the suspicious,

ferocious St. Just.

PROUD AND UNGRATEFUL.—Never was any person remarkably ungrateful who

was not also insufferably proud, nor anyone proud who was not equally

ungrateful.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.—When two people disagree, each person tells her

own story as much to the disadvantage of the other as she possibly can.

The rule of the world on these occasions is to believe much of the evil

which each says of the other, and very little of the good which each

says of herself. Both, therefore, suffer.

MOTHERS-IN-LAW.—“Yes,” said a mother-in-law, “you can deceive your

guileless little wife, young man, but her father’s wife—never!”

THE OBEDIENT HUSBAND.

A clergyman, travelling through the village of Kettle, in Fifeshire,

was called into an inn to officiate at a marriage, instead of the

parish minister, who, from some accident, was unable to attend, and had

caused the company to wait for a considerable time.

While the reverend gentleman was pronouncing the admonition, and just

as he had told the bridegroom to love and honour his wife, the said

bridegroom interjected the words, “and obey,” which he thought had

been omitted from oversight, though that is part of the rule laid down

solely to the wife. The minister, surprised to find a husband willing

to be henpecked by anticipation, did not take advantage of the proposed

amendment; on which the bridegroom again reminded him of the omission.

“Ay, and obey, sir—love, honour, and obey, ye ken!” and he seemed

seriously discomposed at finding that his hint was not taken.

Some years after the same clergyman was riding through the village,

when the same man came out and stopped him, addressing him in the

following remarkable words: “D’ye mind, sir, yon day, when ye married

me, and when I wad insist upon vowing to obey my wife? Weel, ye may

now see that I was in the richt. Whether ye wad or no, I hae obeyed my

wife; and behold, I am now the only man that has a twa-storey house in

the hale toun!”

A NATURAL EXPLANATION.—The greater longevity of women as compared with

men appears to be well borne out by the statistics of every country

that has yet been examined. This shows that, after all, it is not

bright dresses, heavy skirts, and thin shoes that kill. It is the

paying for them that does it.

MUSICAL PERFORMERS.—“Three things,” said Mozart, “are necessary for

a good performer”; and he pointed significantly to his head, to his

heart, and to the tips of his fingers, as symbolical of understanding,

sympathy, and technical readiness.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

The maid whose manners are retired,

Who, patient, waits to be admired,

Though overlooked, perhaps, awhile

Her modest worth, her modest smile,

Oh, she will find, or soon or late,

A noble, fond, and faithful mate.

A COMFORTING THOUGHT.—When any calamity has been suffered, the first

thing to be remembered is how much has been escaped.—_Dr. Johnson._

A GIPSY TRICK.

The feat known by the gipsies as “the great secret,” is performed

by inducing some woman of largely magnified faith—say some decent

farmer’s wife—to believe that there is hidden in the house a magic

treasure, which can only be made to come to hand by depositing in the

cellar another treasure, to which it will come by natural affinity or

attraction.

“For gold, as you sees, my dearie, draws gold, and so if you ties up

all your money in a pockethandkerchief and leaves it, you’ll find it

doubled. And wasn’t there the squire’s lady, and didn’t she draw two

hundred gold guineas out of the ground when they’d laid in an old

grave—and only one guinea she gave me for all my trouble; and I hope

you’ll do better by the poor old gipsy, my dearie.”

The gold and all the spoons are tied up—for as the enchantress

observes, there may be silver, too—and she solemnly repeats over it

certain magical rhymes. The next day the gipsy comes to see how the

charm is working. Could anyone look under her cloak she might find

another bundle precisely resembling the one containing the treasure.

She looks at the precious deposit, repeats her rhyme again and departs,

after carefully charging the housewife that the bundle must not be

touched or spoken about for three weeks. “Every word you tell about it,

my dearie, will be a guinea gone away.” Sometimes she exacts an oath on

the Bible that nothing shall be said.

Back to the farmer’s wife never again. After three weeks another

extraordinary instance of gross incredulity appears in the country

papers, and is perhaps repeated in a colossal London daily, with a

reference to the absence of the schoolmaster. There is wailing and

shame in the house—perhaps great suffering, for it may be that the

savings of years have been swept away. The charm has worked.—_Leland._

THE PLEASURE OF GIVING.—She who gives for the sake of thanks knows not

the pleasure of giving.

A PARADOX.

Bread is the staff of life, they say;

And be it also spoken,

It won’t support a man a day

Unless it first be broken.

SLAVES TO PLEASURE.

The world’s a bubble; all the pleasures in it,

Like morning vapours, vanish in a minute,

The vapours vanish, and the bubble’s broke;

A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke.

_Francis Quarles._

FOOTNOTES:

[2] From Lord Brougham’s “Statesmen of the Time of George III.” Third

Series, page 91.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MUSIC.

ALLEGRO.—The madrigal (a pastoral song) and the glee are not the same.

The musical phrases in the former, complete in themselves, seldom

went together in the different voice parts. One phrase began before

the ending of the other, as it were over-lapping one another. It was

usually sung in chorus, whereas glees were sung in single voices. A

catch is of old English origin, as remote as the early days of the

Tudors. Several voices are engaged, one catching up the words of the

other in a whimsical and burlesque fashion.

CLAIRE ELLIOT.—We think we must refer you to our numberless valuable

articles on music, which run all through the seven volumes, “Evenings

with Our Great Living Composers,” in vol. iv., especially. The dress

you mention would not be too handsome and full dress to wear in London,

but we do not know for what kind of a concert you require it. There are

concerts and concerts, you know.

AN OLD MAID OF 24.—The verse you quote is from a song called “Rock

me to Sleep, Mother.” Of course, if young ladies call on other young

ladies and do not make acquaintance with the lady of the house, be

she mother or sister-in-law, there is no need of inviting them (the

visitors) to the house as guests. But a girl of any tact will avoid

this trouble by being very particular that her young friends be

introduced to the elders of her family. In England, few mothers like

their daughters to go out without them; if in society at all, they must

have a chaperon.

BROWNIE M. C. B.—The names of all the best of the new songs are given

in the reviews in the G.O.P., to which you must refer for information.

There is a valuable article by Miss Mary Davies in vol i. on “How to

Improve the Voice.” She thinks an egg beaten up with a little milk and

sugar and taken an hour before singing is good.

ART.

AN ART STUDENT.—Copies from old masters have a very limited sale, and

picture dealers are generally shy of buying them. The best exhibitions

for their display are the agricultural shows held during the summer

months in various country towns. These shows have a special exhibit of

art work, and a class to which copies are admitted. Should your own

promise as an artist be very decided, and your means permit, you would

do well to go to Rome, Dresden, or to Belgium, where copies of the old

masters can be made, which find a sale amongst English and American

visitors to the galleries, and a fair price is obtained. Standing for

long periods of time at an ordinary easel is very injurious to girls.

Easels are constructed so as to be raised or lowered at will, and

enable the artist to sit while at work.

A READER.—The materials mentioned in the articles upon photographine

are stated correctly, and can all be obtained in Regent-street.

MISCELLANEOUS.

A CONSTANT READER.—1. The whole account of the royal mummies recently

discovered in Egypt appeared, and with illustrations, in one of the

numbers for August of the _Illustrated London News_. Neither of these

was the Pharaoh who was drowned in the Red Sea. But even had it been

so, what insuperable obstacles would have necessarily existed to the

recovery of the king’s body, and its being embalmed and buried! 2.

We do not believe England to be the worst country in the world for

drunkenness.

SILVER THREAD should recommend her friends to read a recent article

of ours on the care of the hair; and should read that by Medicus on

“Lissom Hands and Pretty Feet,” besides continual answers to similar

questions in our correspondence.

NIL DESPERANDUM.—1. It would be cheaper and more satisfactory to buy

a sixpenny bottle of lemon kali, than attempt to make it yourself. 2.

An account of all the old castles in England could be obtained by your

bookseller.

HIGHLAND LASS.—1. To cover a bedroom mantelpiece, you can employ the

ordinary furniture brocade sold for that purpose. A yard and a half

will suffice. They have a woven flower design in the centre, and are

finished with a fringe of the same material. The colours are rich in

hue, and gold threads are usually run through the pattern. 2. Dec. 3rd,

1873, was a Wednesday.

PHŒBE.—1. The sect of the Epicureans (according to St. Gregory of

Nyssa) believed that all things moved on accidentally, without any

Providence. A very remarkable regularity, we must admit, of times and

seasons, causes and results, are for mere accidents! Such accidents

are as full of apparent method as there was in Hamlet’s madness. Alas!

there are many silly epicureans in the present day, only known by a

different name. 2. The name Shiloh means the peacemaker, and Messiah

the anointed. The word catechism is derived from the Greek, signifying

to instruct by oral teaching.

A SUBSCRIBER’S BROTHER.—You will spoil your gaselier if you attempt to

lacquer it yourself. Send it to a lamp shop.

NYMPHÆ ALBA.—You might procure botanists’ portable collecting presses

at Swiss wood-carving shops. For drying and preserving flowers refer to

vol. iii., page 80.

R. E. W.—You say that, when you pray, you seem to speak to the air, and

feel quite discouraged. You probably think of your Heavenly Father as

far away above the heavens, instead of close at your side and in your

chamber, knowing all your thoughts and desires before you utter them.

Try to realise this. See Psalm cxxxix., and all our Lord’s words as

to being in the midst of two or three praying in His name, etc. Then,

again, you pray amiss even when asking for such spiritual grace and

such temporal mercies as are agreeable to His will, because you do not

fulfil all the conditions He has imposed on you. “When ye pray, believe

that ye have the things, and ye shall have them.” “If ye shall ask

anything in My name, I will do it.” If you ask in His name, therefore,

and do not accept and believe in His promise, you cannot expect to

receive what you need with any degree of confidence. “All things are

possible to him that believeth.” “Ask and ye shall receive, that your

joy may be full.” “Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.”

MARY.—1. We regret that we cannot promise any special competitions.

The time they exact from an editor is far greater than our competitors

can realise. 2. It is very ungrammatical to divide the verb from the

preposition “to.” You should not say “to accordingly act,” but “to act

accordingly.” There is no such verb as “to accordingly.” The adverb

should end the sentence.

NEW ZEALAND, AN ENGLISH GIRL.—We think your friends should get on

anywhere. You do not give address; but you can write to the London

office of the United Englishwoman’s Emigration Association, Mrs.

Reeves, 13, Dorset-square, Baker-street, W., for information and advice

on all subjects connected with the emigration of women.

NATALIE and BEREA.—1. A kind of pancake feast preceding Lent was

observed in the Greek Church, from whom we may probably have borrowed

it, together with the Pasch-eggs, and other suchlike things, so we are

informed in Brand’s “Popular Antiquities.” 2. Anyone who exchanges any

kind of goods to receive old used postage stamps in exchange does so to

defraud the Government. Such stamps are submitted to a process which

makes them appear like new, and are privately issued. Thus, we warn you

of aiding and abetting swindlers. We are already provided with a very

full staff of writers, and regret we cannot invite you to write for us.

LITTLE BUTTERCUP.—Hot mineral springs boil up from volcanic action

under ground, and which become impregnated with mineral substances.

The hot springs at Bath were known to the Romans in the first century,

who had a station there called _Aquæ Solis_, or _Aquæ Calidæ_, and to

the English conquerors as Bathan. But the discovery of the healing

properties of the Bath waters dates back to the time of Bladud, the

father of King Lear, who consequently built the city, one of the wells

of which was called Bladud’s Well. Any little handbook of Bath will

give you the whole history of his discovery of them, and the cure of

the diseased swine from drinking and bathing in the waters.

[Illustration: RULES

_I. No charge is made for answering questions._

_II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym._

_III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any

of the questions._

_IV. No direct answers can be sent by the Editor through the

post._

_V. No more than two questions may be asked in one letter, which

must be addressed to the Editor of_ THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, _56,

Paternoster-row, London, E.C._

_VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter of the

nature of an advertisement will be inserted._]

J. NOEL.—The origin of the word “ostracism” is Greek, and the founder

of this arbitrary law was Clisthenes, the leader of an advanced

Democratic party in Athens. It provided for the banishment of any

individual, however innocent of crime, who was obnoxious to the

citizens, because too influential in their estimation, or disposed to

restrict their own liberty of action. Their votes for his exile were

recorded by the inscription of his name on the shells. The “biter

bitten” was demonstrated in the case of this demagogue, as Clisthenes

was himself the first on whom his own law was put in force.

PLURAL NOUN sent us the following riddle some time since, which is said

to have been written by the Hon. George Canning. Some of our readers

may like to try their skill on divining it:—

“A noun there is of plural number,

Foe to peace and tranquil slumber;

Now any noun that you may take

By adding _s_ you plural make;

But if you add an _s_ to this

Strange is the metamorphosis!

Plural is plural now no more,

And sweet what bitter was before.”

HAWTHORN.—We thank you for your recipe for a plain cake, and thank you

for your kind wishes. Poem mislaid. May yet find it.

INQUISITIVE.—The name Sevenoaks does not refer to trees, but to the

founder of the grammar school there, which was founded A.D. 1418 by Sir

William de Sevenoke, or Sennocke. In 1675 Lady Margaret Boswell founded

a school for poor children. It was at Sevenoaks that Sir Humphrey

Stafford was unhappily defeated by the rebel army under Jack Cade, and

fell in the action, June 27th, 1450, _temp._ Henry VI.

A. M. W.—1. You might perhaps repair your waterproof by making the

following solution:—Dissolve an ounce of isinglass in a pound of soft

water, and a quarter of an ounce of soap in one pound of water, all

separately. Strain the solutions, mix them, and let them simmer for

some time. Brush the preparation while hot over the worn spot, and when

dry brush it well and lay on a little more. In a day or two you may

wear the garment. 2. Yes, seals can hear very well, and, what is more,

they enjoy music, and they have been known to follow a ship for miles

to listen to the playing of a violin on board.

EMMA.—A list of nine prayer unions and Scripture-reading societies is

given in the little shilling manual of girls’ clubs just published by

Messrs Griffith and Farran, corner of St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C. The

most considerable is that of the Rev. T. Richardson. We recommend the

manual.

PATSY.—1. In calling on a newly-married couple for the first time, both

husband and wife should call in person. After that the wife may leave

her own card, should the lady be out, and two of her husband’s. As

“Patsy” is the diminutive of “Patrick,” we presume our correspondent to

be a man. 2. The harp is not a difficult instrument to play, provided

you have a good ear, as it has to be tuned continually. You should go

to a shop for musical instruments, and, if economy be essential, you

might procure a secondhand one.

A LOVER OF THE G. O. P.—1. At one time there was no intercourse between

the people of Coventry and the soldiers garrisoned there, and hence

arose the phrase being “sent to Coventry,” where the soldiers were

doomed to know nobody, and a woman seen speaking to one of them was

immediately tabooed. 2. Canaries are kept in wire cages. See that yours

be a large one, and keep the wooden perches well scraped.

YTTRIA LAVER.—Have you ever read the “Boston Monday Lectures,” by

the Rev. Joseph Cook (Ward and Lock, Warwick House, Salisbury-sq.,

E.C.)? The vols. “Life and the Soul” and “God and the Conscience”

are admirable, and well suited for the sceptical. A supreme divinity

could not be created, as then he would not be supreme. He must

be self-existent. The arguments you name are very feeble. Being

omnipresent, of course He is in every corner of His dominion. See the

139th Psalm, 8th verse.

A. J. B.—September 18, 1864, was a Sunday. Unless intimate, bow only.

* * * * *

The Editor offers his best thanks to the undermentioned correspondents

for their kindly sending him Christmas and New Year’s Cards.—“Old

School Girl,” “A Dumpling,” Snowdrop, A Delicate Country Lassie,

“Waitakerei” (Auckland, N.Z.), R. C. R., for Dora Hope; Viola Heath

(a cheque on the Bank of Providence for 365 days of health and

prosperity), Florence and Gertrude Farrier (Melbourne, Aus.), Violet,

A Brighton Seagull, Pecksy and Flopsy, A Reader, Bessie, A Lover of

the G.O.P.; Auntie Jessie, for “M.E.E.,” “Medicus,” and the Editor;

L. A. L., Hilda Mesnard, Anonymous, from Stockport; Emily Agnes C.,

for Medicus and the Editor; Alice E. Howes, R. Stephens, “A Midsummer

Daisy,” “Bee” and “Angels,” “Faust,” “Iris,” H. A. W. (Jamaica),

“Idalia,” One of the Editor’s Colonial Girls; “Topsy” (Jamaica), “Four

Jamaica Girls,” Gladys Maurice-Pendarves, C. E. Biggs, “Clericus,”

Dayfie, Rita, “Calcutta Lizzie,” Susan H. Hunter, Elodie, “Michaelmas

Goose,” M. T. W., Children of the Scholars’ News Club (Fairfield

Endowed Schools), Constance, for Editor and Medicus; Mary and Ada

Levestan (two Russian Girls), Emmie Buchanan, Julia Mary Pollock.