[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.--NO. 981.] OCTOBER 15, 1898. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.
[Illustration: COTTAGES AND MILL AT AMERSHAM.]
_All rights reserved._]
As our papers upon "The Characteristic Church Towers of English
Counties" appear to have interested our readers, it is possible they
may be willing to peruse these remarks upon the old dwellings, and some
other objects which surround country churches.
We fear there can be no doubt that our village architecture has
deteriorated, and that the cottage of to-day is scarcely, if ever, as
beautiful as that of former times.
Nor is this our only cause for regret, for, unfortunately, our
beautiful old village architecture is disappearing so rapidly, that it
is to be feared there will be nothing left to convey to the minds of
those who come after us any idea of its charm.
When one speaks of "English villages," it is advisable to point out
that those small country towns which are erected after the same manner
and method are included; that is to say, those which are contained
in one single parish, and which possess houses of small scale with
rustic adjuncts, gardens, orchards, farm-buildings, etc. There is
architecturally no difference between a village and a town of this
description. It makes no difference whether the houses are built in
rows or are detached. The beautiful village of Ayot St. Lawrence,
in Hertfordshire, has houses arranged in rows, and so had Eaton, in
Norfolk, before its rebuilding some years back. The notion that country
houses should always be detached, or semi-detached, has led to much
injudicious arrangement in suburban building estates. If there is land
to spare, isolate your houses, but if not, no good end is answered by
detaching them so as to leave wretched narrow passages between them,
which are always damp, gloomy, and too frequently become receptacles
for disused and broken articles, which would be far better put on the
fire or given to the dustman. If houses are detached, or semi-detached,
there should always be a space twelve or fifteen feet between them
(unless, of course, the houses are very low), otherwise the rooms
bordering upon the opening are damp and cold.
[Illustration: At Fordwich.]
English country towns differ completely from continental ones chiefly
for this reason. On the Continent, towns were nearly always fortified
and surrounded by walls, though often their population was that of
a mere village. These little fortified places are in Germany called
"dwarf cities," to distinguish them from the "dorf," or "village." In
England, however, small towns were rarely fortified or walled, except
when they were situated upon the sea-coast, where they had to be ready
to resist the landing of some foreign enemy. Lyme-Regis, Dorsetshire,
is an example of a small English fortified town, and it is quite
strange how much the place (of course we refer to the old portions of
it) impresses one with its continental aspect, because directly a town
is "circumvallated," every building within it has to be erected upon a
contracted space, and the houses are consequently developed in height,
so that they in no way differ from those of a city; in fact, the small
town might, architecturally, be a piece of some large city.
Such English towns as Amersham, Lavenham, Clare, Wheathamstead, etc.,
are, architecturally, large villages, and probably originated in the
same manner--_i.e._, they were dependencies upon some lordship or
monastery.
The English word "village" is derived from the Roman word "villa." The
villa was the castle or manorial house of the proprietor of the land
surrounded by a series of humble structures inhabited by his labourers
and "serfs." This was the "village" or dependency of the villa, and
hence its inhabitants were called "villains" (villani). Now we are
aware that some modern writers attempt to derive these words from the
German "wealh" (a welchman), yet the old and usually received idea
seems so obvious that we accept it.
How the meaning of the words "villa" and "villain" have been changed,
and yet how singularly the old word "village" has retained its meaning!
The modern stucco, semi-detached "desirable residence," with its four
or six rooms, with its "rustic porch" and gritty front garden, is a
strange parody upon the stately villa of old, and the good, honest
villager is neither a "villain" nor "a Welshman." He may sometimes be
the latter, and justly proud of his origin, but, in any case, he is
very unlike our conception of a villain. If recent newspaper reports
can be trusted, that character is rather personified by the London
"loafer" and his most modern representative "the Hooligan."
When the villages increased in size and became important, usually
in the 13th century, many of them claimed municipal privileges,
were called towns, and erected "town halls," which are often
highly-picturesque structures. That at Ledbury, Herefordshire, is an
interesting example which probably dates from the 16th century. They
are generally supported upon pillars so as to leave the ground-floor an
open, covered space which served as a market.
Very charming are these villages and small country towns with their
quaint old cottages and picturesque little houses bordering the wide
street. Great elms shade the foot-path, and sweet gardens are at
the side or back of each dwelling. Perhaps a clear river winds its
way amidst the ruddy buildings, its banks converted into diminutive
kitchen-gardens, and crossed here and there by bridges. The long low
building of a water-mill seems to block the way altogether, but in
reality it simply utilises the water to turn its wheels, and we shall
find the river on the opposite side with its waters banked up some
six or eight feet higher, changed in character, looking more still
and deep, reflecting the surrounding objects in a still, silent pool,
shaded by lofty trees, its banks clothed with deep grass plantains,
huge docks and marsh mallows, a spot where, on a sunny day, an
irresistible inclination seizes one to lie down on the cool earth. The
clinging foliage seems to second the invitation, and one throws oneself
down upon this sweet verdant couch to "dream with one's eyes open," for
who could close them in such an enchanting spot? But somehow or other,
whether it is the "whirr" of the water-wheel, the fragrant scents of
the plants we are crushing, or the peace surrounding one, time seems to
glide away, and, upon consulting our watch, we discover the mysterious
fact that the day has become two hours shorter! Of course we have not
been to sleep!
Such village scenes and sensations are to be witnessed at Amersham,
Cringleford, and many other spots in England which have still retained
their old village surroundings.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: TOWN HALL, LEDBURY.]
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
A GOOD black straw hat and bonnet, changed at the seasons with
suitable blossoms, is the most economical and ladylike fashion, but
the artificial flowers should be very good of their kind--those with
silk or velvet petals look the best and most natural, and can be used a
second season if carefully brushed and put away.
THOSE who have to wear spectacles and eyeglasses should be very careful
that the centre of the glass is exactly opposite the centre of the eye.
If not, they should be altered to make them so.
IF hair is washed with soap it is apt to make it brittle, so it should
be afterwards rinsed with a little borax in water.
A LITTLE ammonia in the water in which china is washed makes it
glossier and nicer in appearance.
A DRESS well made and of good material outlives several that are not,
and gives more satisfaction to the wearer, but it should be carefully
chosen as to colour, and not be too aggressive in pattern or tint.
[Illustration]
"OUR HERO."
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the
Dower House," etc.
CHAPTER III.
IN THE YEAR 1803.
"A letter from Paris! Grandmamma, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly, as
she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's Bath house, situated
not far from the renowned Pump-room. "Look! And it will be about Roy!
And it is in my papa's handwriting."
Polly followed close in rear of the eager child, hardly less eager
herself. She might at least hope for a message from Denham, perhaps to
say that a letter was coming.
Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady--in these days, with the
same weight of years, she would be no more than cheerfully
middle-aged--adjusted her horn spectacles, laid the letter on her knee,
tied her loosened cap-strings, and scrutinised Molly's excited face.
"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever may
befall, it is never worth while to discompose yourself."
Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand,
laid it down anew, and resumed her knitting. Molly's agony of suspense
and Polly's wistful eyes alike failed to touch her. Young folks, if
well brought up, were expected to submit without question to the
will of their elders, and Mrs. Fairbank had always been an excellent
disciplinarian. This was, in her eyes, much too good an opportunity for
a lesson in self-control to be neglected.
Molly stood, squeezing her hands together, wondering if the slow
moments would ever pass. Mrs. Fairbank serenely knitted, stopped to
count, and knitted again.
"I met Mrs. Peirce and Will in Milsom Street after breakfast," she
observed. "Mrs. Peirce informed me that the Admiral had a letter
yestere'en from his nephew, Mr. Albert Peirce."
Mrs. Fairbank's eyes wandered round the room in quest of something else
to remark upon.
"My dear Polly, you must surely have forgot! That piece of knitting
which was to have been done to-day----"
"I'll set to work upon it, ma'am. It won't take me but a very short
time. O Jack!"--and a note of relief could be heard.
"Jack!" gasped Molly, under her breath.
"My dear Jack!" and Mrs. Fairbank suspended her knitting to glance up
in pleased surprise.
The young man who walked in--he was hardly more than a boy in
years--bore small resemblance to Polly, though he was her brother. He
was of squarer build, slightly under medium height, and muscular in
make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue instead
of brown. Beyond those good-humoured blue eyes and a fresh complexion,
Jack Keene had no pretensions to good looks; but many people, beside
his grandmother, counted him a very pleasant young fellow. Mrs.
Fairbank, after the manner of old ladies, simply doted on her grandson.
In her view he could almost do no wrong.
"Jack, Jack, there's a letter," whispered Molly, clutching at him.
"And, oh! she won't open it. She won't tell us how they are!"
"All right," murmured Jack. He understood Molly's whisper and the look
in Polly's face; and as he kissed his grandmother he took up the letter
which reposed upon her knee. No human being except Jack might have
ventured on such a liberty, but he was a privileged being. "Ah, from
France!" quoth Jack, with composure. "Will you allow me to open it,
ma'am? You are busy, and news of any sort or kind from France in these
days is to be welcomed."
Mrs. Fairbank took the letter from him with as near an approach to
displeasure in her manner as she ever showed towards Jack.
"You are pleased to be impatient," she remarked, with a sound of
reproof.
"Exceedingly, ma'am." Jack was always extra polite when bent upon his
own way.
Mrs. Fairbank examined the foreign missive afresh, studied the stamp,
and at length broke the seal, taking out a tiny enclosure, which was
addressed to Molly.
"From Roy," she said. "I think"--and there was a dubious pause--"I
think I may permit you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your
mamma has already seen it."
Molly fled to the window-seat, curled herself up there, and plunged
into the delights of Roy's epistle, seeing and hearing nothing
else. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to reach her
perceptions, and a murmured consultation which took place might have
gone on in China for all the impression that it made upon Molly. Roy's
prim round handwriting spoke to her as follows:--
"MY DEAR MOLLY,--We got here yesterday all right, and it pours
with rain to-day, so I am going to write to you. It is great
fun being abroad, and all the children jabber away in French
lingo, and don't know one word of English. I tried to speak to
one man in French, but he didn't know what I meant any better
than when I talked English, so I think they must be rather
stupid, don't you?
"We had such a voyage. It took ten whole hours getting from
Dover to Calais, and I was dreadfully ill, and I haven't got
right yet. My back aches like anything, but I don't mean to
make a fuss, because that wouldn't be like a soldier.
"We had to stop a night in Calais; they do fidget so about
papers and things, there was no getting on sooner. And then
we had a _chaise de poste_, with three horses side by side,
and the horses were harnessed with ropes, not like our English
harness. The ropes broke twice, and the postillions jumped off,
just like monkeys, to put things right. They didn't seem to
mind the ropes breaking one bit, and Den says he supposes they
are used to it. But we hadn't got used to it.
"We slept one night at Montreuil, and another at Amiens, and
then we got to Chantilly. And the roads were most horribly bad,
and so they are here in Paris, and when it rains hard, like
to-day, the streets are flooded, and it smells so, and nobody
can walk along without wading, at least in some parts.
"We saw such a lot of ruined houses on our way to Paris,
called _chateaux_. They used to be so pretty, Den says, and
people lived in them, ladies and gentlemen, just as they do
in country houses in England. And then they had their heads
cut off in the Revolution, and the chateaux were left to go
to wrack and ruin. I heard a lady say so yesterday. She is
English, and she said it was very horrid, such a lot of people
being killed, only just because they belonged to the nobility.
Some of the chateaux that we saw had only poor people in them,
and the windows were broken and the roofs were gone from the
summer-houses, and the gardens were all wild and untidy. It is
thirteen or fourteen years since the Revolution began, and when
I get home I mean to read about it all with you.
"I do wish you were here too, for there are heaps of things
that I want to tell you. Everything is so different from
England. It is nice to see, but I don't want to live in France.
I like old England much much the best.
"I have not been out to-day yet. Mamma thinks I have caught a
bad cold. I wish people didn't take colds; they are such stupid
silly things. Perhaps I shall be all right to-morrow, and then
Den will take me all about everywhere. O dear me, I don't think
I can write any more; I feel so sea-sick and funny. And Papa
says----"
There was no ending to the letter, and Molly read it through a second
time. Then she hugged and kissed it tenderly, and at length carried it
across to the others.
"Roy has forgot to sign his name," she said. "I suppose he went out to
see the sights, and did not remember. My mamma thinks he has caught a
cold."
"Roy is far from well, my dear," Mrs. Fairbank observed solemnly. "He
was taken ill with a most unexpected disorder while writing to you, and
could not conclude. It is truly unfortunate."
"Roy--ill!"
"'Tis not good manners to repeat other people's words, Molly. Yes; Roy
has the small-pox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before
ever he left England. He must have caught the infection from one of his
school-fellows."
Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.
"But numbers and numbers of people have the small-pox, Molly," she
said. "'Tis truly but a few who altogether escape, you know. And many
get over the complaint. Doubtless Roy will soon be well again--in a
few weeks." This was lame comfort, but what better could Polly say, in
those days of the awful unchecked scourge.
"Will his face be all marked?" sadly asked Molly, thinking of the
innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he become
like to Mr. Bryce?"
"Oh, I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor
is not, yet he has had it." Polly's lips trembled, and she set them
firmly. "Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor a dear brave man? He has
taken Roy into another house, and he will not let your father or mother
go near to Roy, or anyone that has not had the disorder. They never
have, as you know. And they were never inoculated, so they might catch
it. And he is nursing Roy himself. The people in the hotel would not
keep Roy, so soon as they knew that he had the small-pox, but a room
has been found, and Captain Ivor is there with him. And they hope it
will not be a severe attack. So in a little while I do think we shall
hear that he is better."
Molly was hard to comfort, and what wonder? Polly would have liked to
keep the ill news from her for some days, till perhaps better accounts
should arrive, but Mrs. Fairbank viewed the matter differently. "Worse
news might come, instead of better," she said.
No doubt that was true. Still, Molly might have been spared many weary
days of suspense. All her spirit went out of her, and she seemed to
care for nothing, except clinging to Polly and being told over and over
again that Roy would probably soon be well. Letters then were not, as
now, an everyday affair. Posts were slow and uncertain, and postage
was expensive, and people thought twice before putting pen to paper.
Roy's father promised to write again speedily, yet he waited till there
should be something definite to tell.
So day passed after day, and no further tidings arrived. The suspense
was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly; harder, perhaps, in some
respects, only as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a friend
through it two years earlier without being affected, he might be
counted personally safe. Nursing in those days was not a science;
trained nurses were unknown; and Roy could hardly have been in better
hands than those of the young Grenadier officer. But Polly knew that
his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened. Weeks might pass
before Roy would be well enough to travel, and before it would be safe
for either of them to go freely among other people. Ideas as to the
nature and extent of infection were vague, but small-pox was the terror
of everybody, and while there was little system in avoidance of the
danger, there was any amount of scare.
In all probability Denham would spend the whole of his leave in
attendance upon the boy, and when he returned he would have no time
to spare for Bath. Polly would have no chance of showing off her
tall Grenadier among friends and acquaintances. At present her fears
extended no further.
Meanwhile public events marched on with strides, and that month of May,
1803, was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England
and France became daily more and more precarious. The feverish ambition
of Napoleon could know no rest, so long as he was fearlessly confronted
by a single nation in Europe.
One chief bone of contention was Malta. Napoleon had set his heart upon
getting Malta for himself, and England was equally bent on keeping
him out of Malta. By the treaty of the preceding year, England had
undertaken to evacuate the island, and to restore it to the knights of
St. John. But the withdrawal of English troops had been of necessity
delayed, until some means could be devised to save it from the grip of
Buonaparte; and the First Consul, by deliberately breaking some of his
own undertakings in the treaty, set England free as to her undertakings
also. Therefore Malta still remained in the hands of England, as did
Egypt and the Cape of Good Hope, each a source of jealous longing on
the part of the First Consul.
This state of tension steadily increased, until the breaking out of war
became merely a question of days. Large numbers of English had seized
the rare opportunity of a year free from fighting to travel in France;
and at this time there were something like eight or ten thousand
English, mainly of the upper classes, in that country.
It was unknown to them that, pending negotiations, the First Consul
caused careful returns to be sent to himself of the names and addresses
of all English people then within French borders. This bears a
suspicious look, when read in the light of his after act, and possibly
he already had in his mind the step which was soon to scandalise all
Christendom. The French papers heartily assured English travellers of
their absolute safety, even supposing that war should break out, and
doubtless the editors of those papers meant what they said. Few men, if
any, French or English, could have foreseen what was coming.
A homeward stampede took place, and the thousands were, by some
accounts, rapidly reduced to hundreds. A good many lingered, however,
not all detained, as were the Barons, by illness. War-clouds might
threaten, but that private travellers should be affected by a
declaration of war was a thing unheard of.
In May, suddenly at the last, though the step had been expected, the
English Ambassador was recalled from Paris, and immediately the French
Ambassador was recalled from London. Meanwhile, as a second step, the
English Government, issuing letters of marque, seized a number of
French vessels, which happened then to be lying in English ports. This,
it was said, actually took place before the Declaration of War could
reach Paris. If so, even though the deed was within English rights,
being sanctioned by previous centuries of custom, one must regret its
extreme haste. But no excuse can be found for Napoleon's illegal and
cruel act of reprisal, which indeed appeared to have been planned
beforehand.
Like a thundercrash came the order, before the close of May, arresting
all peaceable English travellers or residents in France, and rendering
them "Prisoners of War," or "Détenus," to be confined in France during
the pleasure of the First Consul.
Here is the shortened form of that direful order, as it was printed in
English newspapers, spreading dismay through hundreds of English homes,
and awakening a burst of anger against the man who had dealt the blow.
"The Government of the Republic, having heard read by the Minister
of Marines and Colonies a despatch from the Marine Prefect at Brest,
dated this day, announcing that two English frigates had taken two
French merchant vessels in the Bay of Audierne, without any previous
declaration of war, and in manifest violation of the laws of nations;
"First: It is prescribed to all commanders of squadrons or naval
divisions of the Republic, captains of its ships and other vessels of
war, to chase those of the King of England, as well as those vessels
belonging to his subjects, and to attack, capture, and conduct them
into the ports of the Republic;
"Secondly: Commissions will be delivered in course to those French
privateers for which they are demanded;
"Thirdly: All the English, from the age of eighteen to sixty, or
holding any commission from His Britannic Majesty, who are at present
in France, shall immediately be constituted Prisoners of War, to answer
for those citizens of the Republic who may have been arrested and made
prisoners by the vessels or subjects of His Britannic Majesty, previous
to any declaration of war.
"The First Consul,
"(Signed) BUONAPARTE."
(_To be continued._)
LESSONS FROM NATURE.
BY JEAN A. OWEN, Author of "Forest, Field and Fell," etc.