CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 995.] JANUARY 21, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters

Three,” etc.

[Illustration: “‘ARTHUR!--OH--ARTHUR!’ SHE GASPED.”]

_All rights reserved._]

CHAPTER XVI.

Lady Darcy left the young people by themselves after luncheon, and as

was only natural, conversation at once turned on the proposed visit to

London. Peggy was too much perturbed to speak, but Mellicent put the

very inquiry which she most wished answered, being never troubled with

bashfulness in asking questions.

“Has your mother’s tooth been hurting her very much, Rosalind?”

“Tooth! what tooth? Oh, I think she did have a little twinge one night;

but it’s not the dentist whom she is really going to see. That’s only

an excuse. She really wants to go to some parties,” said Rosalind

lightly, whereat her brother scowled at her under heavy brows.

“What business have you to say that? What can you know about it, pray?

If mother says she is in pain, it is not for you to contradict, and

make up your own explanations. Leave her to manage her own affairs----”

He spoke rapidly, but Rosalind only shrugged her shoulders, and

whispered something in Max’s ear at which he smiled and nodded his

head, evidently taking her part against her brother, to Peggy’s intense

indignation.

No words were exchanged between the partners on the subject of the

calendar until they were once more at home; when Robert took advantage

of the first quiet opportunity and came up to Peggy with a face of set

determination.

“Mariquita!” he said, “_I am--not--going--to give in!_ If you stick to

me, I think we can still manage to get the calendar off in time. There

are twenty more quotations to be found. I’ll sit up to-night and fix

them off, and go on writing as long as I can keep awake, but I can’t

take a dozen books up to town with me, so I must leave it to you to

finish up. I’ll mark the passages I choose, write the full address on

a piece of paper, and leave everything ready for you to make up the

parcel. All you will have to do will be to write the remaining cards,

and to see that it is sent off on Friday. Five o’clock will be time

enough, but if you can get it off in the morning, so much the better.

You think you can manage as much as that?”

“Oh, yes! I’d do anything rather than give up now. It would be too

grudging. I am not afraid of a little more work.”

“You have done more than your share already. I am mad about it, but it

can’t be helped. I couldn’t refuse to go with the mater, and I wouldn’t

if I could. She is really not at all strong, and does not like the life

down here. It will do her good to have a few days’ change.”

Peggy looked at him steadily. She did not speak, but her eyes grew soft

and shining, and there was something at once so sweet, so kindly, and

so gentle in her expression that Rob exclaimed in surprise--

“I say, Peggy, you--you do look pretty! I never saw you look like that

before--what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Doing!” Peggy straightened herself at that, in offended dignity.

“Doing, indeed! What do you mean? Don’t you think I am pretty as a

rule?”

“Never thought about it,” returned Robert carelessly. “You are

Peggy--that’s enough for me. A nice state I should be in to-day if it

were not for you! You are the jolliest little brick I ever met, and if

I get this prize it will be far more your doing than my own.”

Well, that was good hearing! Peggy held her head high for the rest

of that evening, and felt as if nothing would have power to depress

her for the future. But alas, when the pendulum is at its highest, it

begins to swing downwards. Peggy’s heart sank as she watched Robert

drive away from the door the next morning, and it went on sinking

more and more during the next twenty-four hours, as she realised the

responsibility which weighed upon her shoulders. When she came down to

breakfast on Friday morning the calendar was finished and ready to

be made up for the post, but her head was splitting with pain as the

result of the long hours’ work stolen from sleep, and a dead weight

of depression had settled on her spirits. It seemed of a sudden that

all this work and effort was waste of time; that the chances of being

successful were infinitesimally small; that even if it were gained,

the prize was of little value; that if Robert’s absence for four days

made such a difference in the life at the vicarage, it would become

altogether unbearable when he said good-bye at the beginning of the

year and went up to Oxford; that she was a desperately unfortunate

little unit, thrust into the midst of a family which was complete in

itself, and had only a kindly toleration to offer to a stranger; that,

in all probability, there would be a war in India, when her father

would be killed, her mother die of a broken heart, and Arthur be called

out to join the ranks of the recruits. She conjured up a touching

picture of herself, swathed in crape, bidding good-bye to her brother

at the railway station, and watching the scarlet coat disappear in the

distance, as the train steamed away. It was all most miserable and

picturesque, and outside the fog gathered, and the rain poured down

in a fine, persistent drizzle. It was one of those typical November

days when it seems as if the earth itself is in the blues, and that it

becomes everyone living on its surface to follow its example.

When afternoon came Peggy curled herself in an armchair in the corner

of the study, and stared gloomily at the fire. It was four o’clock.

In another hour the postman would call for the letters and she would

deliver the precious packet into his hands. She had made it up in the

dinner hour with some faint idea of carrying it to the village, but

she was tired, the rain poured, and Rob had said that the afternoon

post would do. She had given up the idea of going out, and taken a nap

instead on the top of her bed. And now it was four o’clock. Mellicent

called out that she was dying for tea-time to come; it had seemed

such a long, long day; they really ought to have tea earlier on these

dreary, murky afternoons. “_I want my tea!_” she chanted, in shrill,

penetrating tones, and instantly the refrain was taken up by the other

voices, and repeated over and over again with ever-increasing volume,

until the mistress of the house rushed in to discover the reason of the

clamour.

“Bless your hearts, you shall have it at once!” she cried. “I’ll ring

and have it brought in, and ransack my cupboards to see what treats I

can give you. Poor dears, it _is_ dull for you sitting indoors all day

long. We must think of some bright, exciting games for this evening.”

No sooner said than done; she did not wait until Mary appeared, but

bustled off to meet her, to enlist the cook’s sympathy, and put out the

promised delicacies, and when the table was set she returned to the

room and seated herself, smilingly, in Esther’s place.

“I am going to stay with you this afternoon,” she said brightly. “Draw

up your chairs, dears, and let us be jovial. There is no credit in

being happy when the sun is shining, as dear old Mark Tapley would have

said; but it will really be praiseworthy if we succeed in being festive

this afternoon. Come, Peggy dearie!”

Peggy turned her dreary little face and stared at the table. From

outside came the sound of the opening and shutting of the door, of

footsteps in the hall. She glanced at the clock, wondering if it could

possibly be the postman already, found it was only ten minutes past

four, and dismissed the supposition with a sigh. “I don’t--think--I

want----” she was beginning slowly, when, of a sudden, there came a

tremendous rat-tat-tat on the schoolroom door; the handle was not

turned, but burst open; a blast of chilly air blew into the room, and

in the doorway stood a tall, handsome youth, with square shoulders, a

gracefully poised head, and Peggy Saville’s eave-like brows above his

dancing eyes.

“Oh, what a surprise!” came the cry in loud laughing tones. “How do you

do, everybody? Just thought I would step in as I was passing, and have

a cup of tea, don’t you know.”

“My boy! My boy! Oh, how good to see you!” cried Mrs. Asplin

rapturously. Mellicent gurgled with surprise, and Peggy stood up by her

chair and stretched out both arms like a child to its mother.

“Arthur!--oh--Arthur!” she gasped, and there was a pathos, a longing,

an almost incredulous rapture in her voice which made the tears

start in Mrs. Asplin’s eyes, and brought a cloud of anxiety over the

new-comer’s face.

“Why, Peg!” he cried. “My little Peg! Is something wrong, dear? You

look as melancholy as----”

“Peggy has not been like herself for the last few weeks. I think she

has had an attack of home sickness, and longing for her own people. I’m

so glad you’ve come. You will do her more good than a dozen tonics.

Bless the boy; how big he is! And how did you manage to get away, dear,

and how long can you stay? Tell me all about it. I am consumed with

curiosity----”

“I can stay till Monday or Tuesday, if you can put me up; and I came

away because I--I suppose I am not quite up to the mark. My head

bothers me. It aches, and I see black specks floating before my eyes.

The doctor advised me to knock off for a few days, and I thought I

would rather come here than anywhere.”

“I should think so, indeed. Of course we can put you up--proud and

pleased to do so. Well, this is a pleasant surprise for a dull November

day! You couldn’t have had a better one if you had had a hundred

wishes, could you, Peggy? You won’t feel melancholy any longer?”

“I’m just enraptured! Saturday, Sunday, Monday--three whole days

and two halves, as good as four days--almost a week! It’s too

delicious--too utterly delicious to realise!”

Peggy drew deep sighs of happiness, and hung on to Arthur’s arm in

an abandonment of tenderness which showed her in a new light to her

companions. She would not loosen her grasp for a moment, and, even when

seated at the table, kept her fingers tightly locked round his arm, as

though afraid that he might escape.

As for Arthur himself, he was in the wildest spirits. He was as

handsome a young soldier as one could wish to see, and his likeness

to Peggy seemed only to make him more attractive in the eyes of the

beholders.

“Hurrah!” he cried cheerily. “Hurrah, for a good old vicarage tea!

Scones? that’s the style! Mary made them, I hope, and put in lots of

currants. Raspberry jam! I say, mater, do you remember that solemn

waitress you had, who told you that the jam was done again, and when

you exclaimed in horror, said, ‘Yes, ’um, it’s not a bit of good buying

raspberry jam. _They like it!_’ Ha, ha, ha, I’ve often thought of

that! That looks uncommonly good cake you have over there. Thank you,

I think I will! Begin with cake, and work steadily back to bread and

butter--that’s the style, isn’t it, Peggums? Esther, I looks towards

you! Mellicent, you are as thin as ever, I see. You should really do

something for it. There are regular hollows in your cheeks.”

“Nasty, horrid thing! You are always teasing! How would you like it

if you were struck fat yourself?” cried Mellicent, aggrieved. But,

in spite of herself, her chubby cheeks dimpled with smiles as Arthur

rolled his eyes at her across the table, for there was something

irresistibly fascinating about this young fellow, and it was like old

times to see him seated at the tea-table and to listen to his merry

rattling voice.

“The dominie must grant a general holiday to-morrow,” he declared,

“and we will do something fine to celebrate the occasion. We’ll have

out this wonderful camera in the morning and take some groups. You

and I must be taken together, Peggy, to send out to the parents. You

promised to send me copies of all the things you took, but you are as

false in that respect as the whole race of amateur photographers. They

are grand hands at promising, but they never, by any chance---- Hallo!

What’s that? My cup over? Awfully sorry, mater, really! I’ll put a

penny in the missionary-box. Was it a clean cloth?”

“Oh, my dear boy, don’t apologise! I should not have felt that it was

really you if you had not knocked your cup over! To see the table-cloth

swimming with tea all round, convinces me that it is Arthur himself,

and nobody else! Tut, tut! What does a table-cloth matter?” And Mrs.

Asplin beamed upon her favourite as if she were really rather delighted

than otherwise at his exploit.

It was a merry, not to say noisy, meal which followed. Peggy’s lost

spirits had come back with the first glimpse of Arthur’s face; and her

quips and cranks were so irresistibly droll that three separate times

over Mellicent choked over her tea and had to be relieved with vigorous

pounding on the back, while even Esther shook with laughter and the

boys became positively uproarious.

Then Mr. Asplin came in, and Arthur was carefully concealed behind the

window-curtains, while he was asked whom he would most like to see if

the choice were given him. In provoking manner he mentioned at once a

brother in Australia, and when informed that relations were not on the

list, recollected an old college chum who was out in the Mauritius.

“Oh, dear, what a stupid man!” cried his wife in despair. “We don’t

mean the friends of your youth, dear! Think of the last few years and

of your young friends! Now, if you could choose whom would you----”

“Arthur Saville!” said the Vicar promptly, upon which Arthur made a

loophole between the curtains and thrust his mischievous face through

the gap, to the Vicar’s amazement and the uproarious delight of the

onlookers. A dozen questions had to be asked and answered about

studies, examinations, and health, while Peggy sat listening, beaming

with happiness and pride.

It came as quite a shock to all when the Vicar announced that it was

time to dress for dinner, and Mrs. Asplin looked at Peggy with an

apologetic smile.

“We were all so charmed to see Arthur that I’m afraid we have been

selfish and engrossed too much of his attention. You two will be

longing for a cosy little chat to yourselves. If you run upstairs now,

Peggy, and hurry through your dressing, there will be a little time

before dinner, and you could have this room to yourselves.”

“Yes, run along, Peg! It won’t take me ten minutes to get into my

clothes, and I’ll be here waiting for you!” cried Arthur eagerly. And

Peggy went flying two steps at a time upstairs to her own room.

The gas was lit; the can of hot water stood in the basin, the towel

neatly folded over the top; the hands of the little red clock pointed

to six o’clock, and the faint chime met her ear as she entered.

Peggy stood still in the doorway, an icy chill crept through her veins,

her hands grasped the lintel, and her eyes grew wide and blank with

horror. There, on the writing-table lay a brown paper parcel--the

precious parcel which contained the calendar which had been the object

of such painful work and anxiety!

(_To be continued._)

TWO OF THE GREATEST AFFLICTIONS OF GIRLHOOD:

BLUSHING AND NERVOUSNESS.

BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

Some years ago an enterprising physician discovered that the whole

human race was insane.

This doctrine naturally drew forth from the public considerable

indignation. We do not believe that we are insane. But the answer of

the author was concise: “You cannot prove that you are sane, therefore

you are insane!”

And a large number took his word and believed it. Nay; even now people

are to be met who believe that everyone is insane. Nay--further!

There are many persons who not only believe everyone to be insane, but

believe that all physicians hold the same opinion!

And yet, if you ask one of these philanthropists if he thinks that he

himself is insane: “Oh, well--no; you see I am an exception. I do not

mean to say that I am better than anyone else, but I am different from

everybody that I know. No, I do not think that I am insane.”

Yesterday we were interviewing a gentleman “lodger” in an asylum, who

had come to the conclusion that all the inmates of the house--nurses,

patients, physicians and servants--were all insane, himself alone

excepted. This is a common creed in lunatic asylums.

No, everyone is not insane. The doctrine is fallacious. But we all pass

through phases in our lives when our minds are not capable of fully

grasping every detail of the situation. In other words, we are all

liable to nervousness.

What is nervousness? Think for yourself and try to answer the question.

It is difficult, we admit.

Is not nervousness a state in which the mind does not rise to the

situation? Is it not a condition of uncertainty? Is it not, as it were,

a feeling that you know not what step to take next or what answer to

give to a question? Is it not a conviction that you are out of place?

Indeed, it seems to us that nervousness is the expression of being

mentally ill at ease.

Few persons realise what a terrible disease nervousness really is.

It is one of the greatest annoyances of youth. It renders many girls

utterly miserable when they first “come out.” It is most fearful

suffering, and one which brings many girls to a life of misery.

There is but one other condition which troubles girls more than

nervousness, and that is excessive blushing, and blushing is but a

physical expression of nervousness.

It is commonly held that the work of physicians is confined to the

body, and that they have no knowledge of the troubles of the mind. It

follows from this that the study of the mind has been grossly neglected

by medical men, and even the simplest mental aberration will baffle

many worthy practitioners, simply because they consider that the mind

is not their province.

We can delay no further and must get on to consider the practical side

of our task, the causes and treatment of blushing and nervousness.

We suppose that we must first mention the physical causes of blushing

and nervousness. Many would consider these to be of the first

importance. They are not.

Blushing is a momentary relaxation of the minute blood-vessels of the

skin of the face, caused by an impression received by the brain. The

vessels relax, they become distended with blood, and the face becomes

red, hot and swollen.

If this phenomenon lasts but a minute it is called a blush; if it lasts

for a longer period it is called a flush. The former is usually due to

mental causes, the latter invariably to physical conditions.

Blushing is the direct effect of a more or less powerful stimulus

passing to the brain from one of the special senses. Flushing is the

effect of a stimulus from one of the internal organs, usually the

stomach.

Anæmia, indigestion, constipation, and various other ailments cause

flushing, and very rarely they produce blushing.

This is all we have to say of the physical causes of blushing and

nervousness, except that people who are ill or run down are often

irritable and nervous. But the illness is not the cause of the

nervousness, it only paves the way for it to become manifest; it only

reduces the force by which nervousness is normally overcome.

It is in the workings of the mind that we must seek the causes of

nervousness.

We are not all born with the same mental powers. Each inherits from

her parents certain hereditary tendencies. We all know that insanity

runs in families; so does nervousness; so does every kind of mental

inclination, but only to a certain extent. We do not inherit the

virtues, the vices, the powers or the mental shortcomings of our

parents; we inherit a tendency to them--a tendency which may develop

and reproduce in us the minds of our fathers. Or these tendencies may

be modified or suppressed by education; or they may be overwhelmed

by some individual peculiarity which we have not inherited from our

parents, but which had its beginning in our own minds.

The mind of anyone is an individual in itself. It has its own passions

and inclinations different from those of any other, but it must be

educated. Each of us must have a solid basis of general knowledge ere

she can use her mind. In other words we must all be educated.

And in education, or rather in the lack of some portion of education,

you will find the causes of blushing and nervousness.

Nervousness is more common amongst the highly educated classes than

amongst others. And yet you say that nervousness is caused by defective

education. How can this be?

You have not got a true notion of education! You say education but you

mean study; you confine the term to that part of education which is

learnt at school and from books; you have fallen into the common error

of the age by supposing that education is synonymous with schooling!

At school we learn to read, to write. We learn a little science,

perhaps a smattering of art and the elements of a language or two. Is

this all the education required by man? Is this sufficient food for the

mind of man for threescore years and ten? Do you learn nothing else in

your life than this little handful of unimportant subjects? No, you do

not! Far more than nine-tenths of your education is gained without your

knowing how: not without effort, but without your knowing that you are

educating yourself.

Our forefathers had no books; they never went to school; they knew but

little of art or science, and their technical skill was of the rudest.

We call them barbarians, but why? They had their passions as we have

them; they had their joys and their sorrows; they had their thoughts;

they were educated. The viking of old was a man with a highly wrought

mind. Though differing in detail, his education was the same as ours.

It was the study of himself and his companions.

Let us glance a little into these defects of education which cause

nervousness.

From what has been said, the reader will perceive that the lack of

knowledge of herself or her companion is the commonest cause of

nervousness; this indeed is the case. The girl who leaves the nursery

for the first time is shy and retiring: she cannot speak to anyone

without confusion; she has no experience of life. A new episode has

occurred and she cannot at once rise to the situation. She is not at

home; she is nervous.

And so if you think over the position in which you have been nervous,

you will see that in the majority of cases, your trouble was due to

inexperience.

The girl who has never spoken to anyone except her own friends is

nervous when she first speaks to a stranger. After she has been

introduced to one or two persons her nervousness vanishes, for she has

become used to her new situation.

Who has not felt nervous when she first appeared in public? Who has not

felt most unpleasant sensations when she first sang or played before

an audience? Yet after her second or third appearance all traces of

nervousness vanish, because now she is accustomed to her surroundings.

The warrior who will face death on the field without compunction may

fly in terror if he hear the buzz of a moth. Or if he is unused to

feminine society he will be completely cowered by a single woman.

The scientist who has astonished the world with his inventions is yet

too nervous to deliver a lecture to half-a-dozen students, for he is

used to his laboratory but is a stranger to the lecturer’s chair.

These are examples of what may be called healthy nervousness. They are

transient and can be overcome by the will. We will now talk of some

more complicated causes of nervousness.

There are many girls who have the misfortune of having been spoilt

during their childhood, and who as girls have had every wish gratified.

When these girls go into the world they often become irritable and

impertinent, or shy and retiring, or excessively nervous and bashful.

There are girls (and we are sorry to say there are a great many of

them) who between the ages of fifteen and twenty do nothing but loll

on a sofa and read cheap novelettes and other wretched and unwholesome

literature. These persons usually blush like beetroots when spoken to.

They are always nervous and usually silly and rude.

Self-consciousness is one of the greatest and most important causes of

nervousness. The fear of “giving oneself away” is a very potent factor

in the causation of nervousness.

Some people confuse self-consciousness with self-conceit. But they are

diametrically opposite conditions. The self-conceited girl believes

herself perfect. She cannot make a mistake. What she says must be

right. She has no fear of committing herself. Why should she ever be

nervous? And she never is nervous.

The self-conscious girl is the reverse of this. Not only does she

know her shortcomings, but she takes an exceedingly gloomy view of

everything. Truly she is always thinking about herself, but her

thoughts are not flattering. She puts herself in the worst light and

imagines that everyone else sees her in the same way. She imagines

everyone is laughing at her. She is confused. She is nervous.

Not all girls are nervous or blush from the same cause, nor are they

nervous in the same way nor in the same situations. Some girls blush

only when in the company of strangers, others even when speaking to

their greatest friends. Some blush or are nervous only when talking to

persons of the opposite sex, others when talking to anybody.

We can divide the various kinds of nervous girls into the following

groups--

1. Girls who blush or are nervous when talking to strangers, but

are not nervous among their friends.

2. Girls who are nervous when talking to friends or strangers.

3. Girls who are more nervous with their friends than with

strangers.

4. Girls who are only nervous when talking to one person, but who

are quite at home in a crowded room.

5. Girls who are nervous in a crowded place even when they are

talking to nobody, or when they neither know nor are known to

anybody.

6. Girls who are only nervous when talking to persons of the

opposite sex.

7. Girls who are nervous at all times and everywhere.

8. Girls who are only nervous when they are run down in health.

There are many other kinds of nervousness, but we cannot enter into the

discussion of them here.

To everyone who glances down this table it will be apparent that

the same explanation will not accord for all these conditions. Such

diametrically opposite states as that of Nos. 4 and 5 cannot be due to

the same cause. We must therefore briefly describe the various mental

states on which each form of nervousness depends.

The first case, girls who blush or are nervous when talking to

strangers but are perfectly at home when talking with their friends,

is one of the commonest of the eight types of nervousness. This is the

purely natural result of inexperience.

The very many girls who are exceedingly annoyed to find that they

cannot be introduced to anybody without blushing or stammering or

vainly trying to break a distressing silence, may be comforted by the

assurance that ere many months are passed they will have become more

accustomed to the very strange conditions imposed upon us by social

usage and to abruptly starting a conversation with a person whom they

have never seen before.

To some girls it may be a relief to know that young men are very much

more bashful, more inclined to blush, and find much greater difficulty

in starting a conversation to the first person to whom they are

introduced than girls do. The news will certainly be well received by

all girls suffering from this form of nervousness that a very short

space of time will see the end of their annoyance.

The sixth division of nervousness, that condition in which girls are

only nervous when talking to persons of the opposite sex, is only a

mild form of the first and, like it, it is a very transitory state.

The second class of nervous girls is that in which the members are

nervous when talking to friends as well as to strangers. This is the

most numerous class of all. This form of nervousness is sometimes due

to indigestion or other derangements of health. It is to this class

that we shall more especially refer when considering the treatment of

nervousness.

That form of nervousness in which the sufferer is perfectly at ease in

the excitement of a crowded room but who cannot endure to talk with one

person alone is a comparatively rare condition. It is typically met

with in cases of nervous exhaustion. It is tolerably common in persons

who have just recovered from some forms of depressing diseases.

The fifth class contains two very distinct groups of cases. There are

many people who are distressed in a crowded place. Many persons who are

not feeling up to the mark are often depressed and get a headache in a

crowded place, even where there is no noise or conversation going on.

This is a form of nervousness that is almost exclusively met with in

elderly or middle-aged persons.

It is in the second of the groups of people who are nervous in large

assemblings that we see the most advanced grades of self-consciousness.

We have seen girls in drawing-rooms, at concerts, and even in church,

suffering from this malady (for though it appears as vanity or

self-conceit, it is neither one nor the other, but a true disease).

They shift about, looking from one person to another, wondering what

the various members of the assembly are thinking about them. If anyone

happens to turn his glance in the direction of a girl with this form

of nervousness, a regular outburst occurs; she blushes and perspires

profusely, putting her hand up to her hat or fringe or rearranging some

part of her dress, wondering what can be a amiss, or she wipes her

nose with her handkerchief, thinking that there must be a smut there

to cause the unknowing agitator to turn round and look at her. It will

never strike her that the unwelcome gaze of the stranger is purely

accidental, or may be excited by the elegance of her dress or person.

No, there must be something “funny” for anybody to turn round and stare

at her like that!

The two last divisions of nervousness need but little comment. They are

due to bodily ill-health and are part and parcel of physical weakness.

We must now turn to the most important and most difficult part of our

task--the description of the means by which these various forms of

nervousness may be overcome. We have several times mentioned that many

forms of nervousness are commonly caused by ill-health, and we may now

state that all forms are rendered worse by any departure from physical

health. It is therefore obvious that if the sufferer is anæmic or has

indigestion, or any of the other ten thousand diseases to which we

poor humans are subject, it is essential that the unhealthy state of

her body should be cured ere she should try the special methods of

treatment to cure herself of nervousness.

As nervousness is so frequently the result of a one-sided education

and lack of experience, we would expect that persons who have secured

a varied tuition would be less subject to nervousness than their less

widely but perhaps more deeply educated sisters. And this we find to be

the case. It is a knowledge of a wide scope of learning, of the little

ins and outs of our very elaborate social customs, of a more or less

superficial knowledge of current views and events, which will help a

girl to be at home in society, rather than a deep knowledge of any one

subject. This is the proper place to point out that the popular idea

that nervousness is due to a feeble intelligence is totally untrue.

It requires a considerable amount of mental power to be able to be

nervous. Some of the greatest men in history have been conspicuously

nervous.

The girl who rapidly falls in with social customs, who can join in

conversations on the ordinary subjects of talk, and who can grasp and

retain the little ways of society which she cannot fail to observe,

need never fear of retaining any temporary nervousness she may have

experienced when she first “came out.”

Since experience is so antagonistic to nervousness, it follows that

the pursuit of experience is a very necessary point in the treatment

of nervousness. Of all ways of acquiring experience none can equal

travelling; for the experience gained by moving from place to place is

exceedingly varied, and it is this varied experience that is needed to

cure nervousness.

Often when nervousness is so intractable that it cannot be cured by

other means, we advise the subjects to leave society for a year or two,

to travel, if possible, or else to gain an insight into the ways and

working of the world before again attempting to face the terrors of

social life.

In many parts of this article we have maintained that

self-consciousness was an exceedingly common and important factor of

nervousness and blushing. If we could remove self-consciousness we

could cure most, if not all, forms of nervousness.

Suppose that a girl is self-conscious and she enters into conversation

with another girl who is not self-conscious. The question is broached

by the healthy-minded girl. She asks--

“Do you think that Mr. Jones’s French poodle would look better if he

were shaved?”

The nervous girl will undergo severe agitation as to what she ought

to answer. “You see, if I say ‘no,’ it may show that I do not know

anything about dogs. In fact, I must be very careful not to give myself

away as an ignoramus.”

As a matter of fact neither of these girls knows much about dogs,

perhaps neither would recognise a French poodle if she saw one. The

questioner, still waiting for the simple reply which her question

needs, looks into the face of her nervous companion, and at once the

latter’s wits desert her altogether. “Why did she look into my face? I

must be looking very ugly to-day? I know my dress is old-fashioned, but

it is very rude of her to notice it!” etc., etc. This poor girl cannot

bring her mind to bear on the subject of the conversation; she is

eternally thinking of herself. If she would only think about what her

questioner is talking of, instead of thinking about what her companion

is thinking about her, she would no longer be self-conscious, no longer

nervous.

The conversation concerning the French poodle has upset her altogether;

she leaves her first companion and seeks another. But here she can

boast no greater success. Perhaps she will brave a third effort at

conversation, but it is all to no purpose; she is either too fearful

of committing herself or saying something unseemly, or else she knows

that her companion is secretly laughing at her. Utterly downhearted she

eventually sits down in a corner and remains silently agitated for the

rest of the evening.

What a terrible state is that of self-consciousness, and yet how

common! And yet of the large number of persons who suffer from it how

many try to overcome it? Because it is far easier to foster than to

subdue these feelings is no reason for not making any attempt to quell

them.

A very important piece of advice to give to all nervous girls is to

avoid all trivial conversations, especially talking scandal. It is

unfortunately a fact that nervous girls are often quite themselves

when discussing the weaknesses of their friends and neighbours, but

such conversation begets a distrust of their friends, and we have no

doubt that the habit of talking against one’s neighbours is sometimes

a direct cause of that form of nervousness in which girls cannot talk

to their own friends without blushing. They know what their friends

say about others behind their backs, and they fear that they too will

be discussed in their absence. To such girls as these we may say,

give over such worthless friends and try to know others who use their

tongues to a more proper purpose, and never, under any circumstances,

talk scandal yourselves.

Self-conscious girls must get out of the habit of revolving in their

minds what answer to give to a simple question. When you are talking

socially, it is really of very little consequence whether your answer

is correct or not. You should indulge in conversation with everybody

whom you wish to know, and with whom your parents or guardians wish

you to be intimate. You must not sit in a corner and mope because

you thought that Miss Smith was criticising your dress when you were

trying to converse with her. Be a woman and bravely attempt to join

in conversation. It does not matter if you make mistakes. We are all

human. We all make mistakes. But it would indeed be a funny world

if we never attempted to open our mouths lest we should say what is

indiscreet or fallacious. Remember that when you have once braved your

inclination to sit down and be silent, half the battle is over and you

will soon grow to look with astonishment at your foolish behaviour of

some weeks back. Since experience is the great cure for nervousness,

gain all experience you can both by reading, by the study of the arts

and sciences and by observation of the doings of others and the working

of this great world. Keep your eyes open and look around you. However

limited your own circle may be, it still contains more to be studied

than you can learn in your lifetime. Trivial literature, and especially

cheap novelettes, should be avoided, for they give you a false notion

of life and deal with silly and impossible predicaments.

There are doubtless many people who think that nervousness can be cured

by diet, exercise and drugs. To such as hold this view we readily

admit that when nervousness is caused by bodily ill-health, or by lack

of precautions to the laws of well-being, such is the case. But the

true nervousness, seen so commonly in perfectly healthy persons, who

rigorously follow all the laws laid down by physicians and general

experience, is totally uninfluenced by physical treatment of any kind.

Blushing, which is one of the forms of nervousness most frequently due

to physical causes, is often to be cured by careful diet and other

therapeutical measures. There is one drug which is often of use in

this condition. Ichthiol taken in 2½-grain doses will often help to

cure blushing due to physical causes. No drug whatever is of use in

“nervousness.”

We have now finished our account of nervousness. If it has been

somewhat lengthy, it is nevertheless extremely brief when the gravity

and complexity of the subject is considered. We have not described all

forms of nervousness, nor do we expect to cure all persons suffering

from those varieties that we have described. But we hope and trust that

those who suffer from these most distressing ailments will derive some

benefit from our task.

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the

Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE YEAR 1807.

More than eighteen months had slid away since the day when Denham Ivor

had been summarily despatched with other détenus to Valenciennes. Once

or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was now

long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet at

Valenciennes was a matter of supposition, not of certainty. For aught

that his friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to

the grim fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

Roy continued to live at Verdun with his parents, for the long-desired

passport to England had never been granted. Though not compelled to

give his parole, or to sign his name twice daily at the _maison de

ville_, as were all détenus who did not care to pay a monthly tax for

freedom from this bugbear, he was practically as much one of Napoleon’s

prisoners as any man in the place.

One day in the spring of 1807 he stood upon the ramparts, gazing

eagerly towards the nearest town gate. Roy at sixteen was much the same

that Roy at twelve or fourteen had been, only decidedly taller and

broader. He looked almost as boyish as ever, with the same curly fair

hair and honest grey eyes. Not so good-looking, perhaps, as in more

childish days, but attractive enough.

To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a

boy’s life are a goodly slice of time, and Roy had now been four

years a captive, banished from England, and separated from his

twin-sister. He might and often did chafe and fume, and it had been a

sore disappointment not to find himself on his sixteenth birthday an

officer in the English Army. Still, he had good health and unquenchable

spirits, and however impatient he might be by fits and starts, no one

could have described him as unhappy. He had the gift of making the best

of things; and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy stood him in good

stead. Hard as it had been to find himself cut off from Molly for an

indefinite period, harder still to lose Denham, he managed on the whole

to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything and everybody.

“I say. Hallo! There’s something going on,” he exclaimed.

Roy gazed with widely-opened eyes, trying to make out the cause of that

gathering throng.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling

Roy that he would meet him presently on the ramparts. Roy supposed

that he would be expected to remain where he was till his father should

return. But as he watched, the pull became too strong. Something

certainly was happening. What if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about

him, and had gone in that direction to discover what was being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off

full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running

plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught

with a “Hallo, Roy!”

“I beg your pardon, sir. What’s up?”

“A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe,” the young

clergyman answered. “There was a report this morning that we might

expect them; and it seems to be true. Any friends of yours, I wonder?

There they come through the gate.”

Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself among

the crowd with great dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like

a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself--the

chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme--but that some

news of him might now be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would

certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his

spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one

who could have known how the boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a

word about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face

after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was

one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had assured himself that

he did not expect, yet keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor

failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months passed warmly,

and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly his glance fell upon

a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against a wall. A little child

lay asleep in his arms, and Roy’s first impression was of somebody who

was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face

without recognition, so much was it altered; the features sharpened

into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some

rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow; he does

look done!” thought Roy, and he went nearer.

“I say--hadn’t you better give me that little thing to hold?”

“Why--Roy!”

The voice too had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be

mistaken.

“Den--you don’t mean to say----”

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

“You’ve come back! I _am_ glad!”

“Yes. How are you all?”

“Den--I say--what’s wrong with you?”

A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the

child from Ivor’s arms.

“No words can thank you, sir, for your goodness to us,” he said, not

noticing Roy. “God will reward you. _I_ never can.”

“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s. Come and see me some day--tell me how

you’re getting on.”

“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”

Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned,

to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.

“You back too! That’s good. And your wife?”

“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t you know I had a little one? Well, I

have. Jolly little thing too. They’re in a cart with others--thanks

to Captain Ivor”--in a lower tone. “Never mind about us; get him

home”--with a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got to find rooms for

ourselves, after I’ve been to the citadel. Must report myself there

first, I’m told. And then I shall have to meet my wife.”

Roy moved two or three paces away with him.

“I say, tell me--what’s been the matter with him? He looks as if----”

“Not well for some time, and sharp attack of illness a few weeks ago.

He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for

himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey--a poor consumptive

young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And

then carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!”

“What for?”

“Child’s father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the

little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with

children. But he’s about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest.”

Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham’s arm.

“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I

come back. There’s one near.”

He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search.

Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.

“Roy--got Ivor? That’s right,” he said in his quick fashion. “Don’t

bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and answer for him, and fee the

gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard what’s been going on.

Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I’m told, and ill to begin

with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a bit of my

mind, Ivor, another day. You don’t look up to understanding it now.”

Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they

drove off, Roy watching his restored friend with a rapt gaze.

“Den, what was it for? Why didn’t you ride?”

“I did intend. Somebody else was in more need.”

“Couldn’t you have had a second horse?”

“No. The order took everyone by surprise. Most of us were short of

cash.”

Roy thought of what Curtis had said. “And I suppose you gave what you

had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself.”

“I shared with others--of course--”

“But you ought to have kept enough for riding. You’d no business--Den,

you’re awfully used-up.”

“When did you hear from me last?”

“Oh, ages and ages ago. I began to think--Are you glad to come back?”

“To my friend, Roy? Yes,” with an affectionate glance.

“Isn’t it a beastly shame that I can’t be in the Army yet?”

“Ah, that sounds like the Roy of old!”

“But it is. A beastly shame. What made you carry that little girl?”

“Her father fell lame, and she didn’t take to other people, I could

not stand the wailing. He’s a good honest fellow--badly off through no

fault of his own.”

“Shame!” muttered Roy again. “What is the reason for your all being

sent back now, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising

his condition, sank into silence, unable still to take his eyes from

that worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down. “Shall I go

and tell them?”

“No--no need. I’ll come. Can you pay the driver? I’m cleared out

completely.”

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was

Lucille, as was often now her custom. She had gradually become almost

a member of the Baron family, and one and all they were extremely fond

of her. When Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in,

his arm through Ivor’s, one startled “Ah-h!” broke from her, before

the other two had grasped what was happening; and then her face,

usually almost without colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips

remaining apart.

“Denham!” the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron’s grasp of Ivor’s hand and his fixed gaze were like those

of Roy. Mrs. Baron’s delight was even more plainly expressed. She had

long been as an elder sister to Denham, and when he bent to kiss her

hand, with the grave deference which he always showed towards her, she

did what she had never done before--gave him a sisterly kiss on the

cheek.

“This is joy! O this is joy,” she said. “Nothing else could be so great

a happiness--except going home. Welcome, welcome!” Then she held his

hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. “But, my dear Denham,

you have been ill--surely you have been ill. How thin!--how altered!

What have you been doing to yourself?”

“He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes,” cried Roy, before

Denham could speak. “He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to

somebody else.”

“Was that necessary?” the Colonel asked.

“I thought it so, sir.”

“Papa, he had no money left. That was why. He gave it all away. He

couldn’t even pay the driver, coming up here.”

“But you could have borrowed from somebody--you would know that I

should repay!”

“If I could have been sure, sir, that you would still be here--but

there was no certainty. And so many now are in difficulties, that it

is no easy matter to borrow--except by going to those whom I will have

nothing to do with.”

“How did you manage about food? My dear, make him sit down. How did you

manage?”

The question was disregarded. “Any letters?” Ivor asked.

“One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts

of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?”

“Not since leaving Verdun.”

“They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a

statement in the _Moniteur_ not long since, as to correspondence with

England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had

been taken possession of by the French Government, and bills to the

value of millions of pounds sterling.”

“No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That

may have been when I was ill.”

“You have been ill, then?”

“Yes. Nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank’s letter reach you?

Post?”

“Through M. de Marchand--under cover to him. We have advised her

repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But

doubtless our letters don’t reach them.”

Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had

held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards

the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground.

Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, “Do not be

merciless to your friend. Give him some small repose. He is what you

call--dead-beat.”

Roy nodded. “You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn’t

you?”

Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor

asked, “Where is the letter?”

“Roy has it, put away,” Mrs. Baron said. “It is partly to Roy and

partly to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else.”

“Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you

would allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and a change of

clothing,” Ivor said, rather drily. “Well, since you can assure me that

’tis all good news, I will wait half-an-hour.”

“And then I’ll read it to you, if you like,” observed Roy. “It isn’t

very interesting, Den. More than half is from my grandmother to my

father; and you know how she writes always of the things which nobody

wishes to near. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my

grandmother does not say much--does she?” with a look at his mother.

“Save that Polly is well.”

“Which point settled, I will beg, if I may, for a supply of water,”

Ivor replied.

(_To be continued._)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

MANY people think night air injurious and carefully close their windows

even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest

and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more

restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the

sleeper.

A LITTLE powdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble

and china basins.

WHEN the edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can

be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.

WHEN tortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little

olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.

IN case of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that

way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind

them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a

doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it

is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor

rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor

the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to

prevent a draught.

IF you do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that

the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the

chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this

slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to

make a fire fiercer.

THE seeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into

the best plants.

BREAD AND CAKES.

HOUSEHOLD BREAD.

_Ingredients._--Three pounds and a half of flour (household), about one

pint and a quarter of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a half of

salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce of moist sugar.

_Method._--Put the flour and salt in an earthenware pan, and mix well

together; put the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream with the

sugar, and add to it a gill and a half of the warm water. Make a well

in the flour and mix in the yeast and water, so that there is a soft

batter in the middle of the flour; sprinkle flour over this, lay a

cloth over the pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen minutes to

set the sponge; then stir in the rest of the water; flour the board and

knead the dough for about twenty minutes until very elastic; replace

it in the pan with a deep cross scored on the top to help it to rise,

cover up and put in a warm place to rise one hour and a half. Make into

loaves and bake; the oven should be very hot at first and moderate

for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will take nearly two hours

to cook. If the water used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be

killed and will not act.

[Illustration]

GINGERBREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, six ounces of golden syrup, four

ounces of brown sugar, four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground

ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of mixed

spice, two-thirds of a gill of milk.

_Method._--Put the flour, sugar, ginger and spice in a basin and mix

well together; put the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan

and melt over the fire; pour the contents of the saucepan into the

contents of the basin, mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a

greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.

[Illustration]

SCONES.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, two ounces of dripping, three

ounces of sugar, half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of

carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a few sultanas (floured and picked).

_Method._--Mix the tartar and the soda well with the flour in a basin,

rub in the dripping, add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk rather

more soft than for pastry, roll into two thick rounds, cut each into

six equal pieces, lay on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk

and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain scones can be made by

leaving out the sultanas and the sugar. These scones are best made with

milk that is slightly sour.

[Illustration]

PLUM CAKE.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, six ounces of dripping, six

ounces of brown sugar, six ounces of sultanas (floured and picked),

four ounces of currants (washed and dried), one teaspoonful of baking

powder, two eggs, one gill and a half of milk.

_Method._--Put the dripping in a basin and work it to a cream with a

wooden spoon; mix the flour with the baking powder and stir it into the

dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas and sugar, and last of all the

eggs beaten up with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin, and stand

the tin on a thickly-sanded baking sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an

hour and then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.

[Illustration]

SEED CAKE.

_Method._--Make like plum cake, using an ounce of caraway seeds for the

sultanas and currants, and a little less milk.

[Illustration]

UNFERMENTED BREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, one tablespoonful of baking powder,

milk and water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.

_Method._--Mix together to a soft dough; make into six rolls, brush

with milk and bake in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.

[Illustration]

POTATO CAKE.

_Ingredients._--Three-quarters of a pound of mashed potatoes, half a

pound of flour, two ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one

small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg, half a gill of lukewarm

milk.

_Method._--Melt the butter, and mix it with the mashed potatoes, mix in

the flour and baking powder, add egg well beaten and the lukewarm milk.

Flour the board, roll into a thick round, lay on a floured and greased

tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters of an hour.

[Illustration]

ROCK CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, two ounces of currants (washed

and dried), two ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping, two ounces

of brown sugar, one ounce of candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground

ginger, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk.

_Method._--Mix the flour and baking powder in a basin, rub in the

dripping, add the currants and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger,

mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in little rough heaps on a

greased tin with two forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.

[Illustration]

CITRON BUNS.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, two ounces of margarine, two

ounces of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a

little milk, three ounces of citron.

_Method._--Mix the flour with the baking powder, rub in the margarine

with the tips of the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized

pieces of the citron peel and chop the rest small; mix the chopped

citron with the other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten with a

little milk. Mix rather wet; divide into eight, lay on a greased tin,

lay a piece of citron on each cake and bake for fifteen minutes in a

good oven.

[Illustration]

SHORTBREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of

butter, half a pound of castor sugar.

_Method._--Rub six ounces of the butter into the flour and sugar, melt

the rest and mix it in; work a little with the hands to form a dough;

roll into two thick rounds and pinch them round the edge with the

fingers to ornament them. Prick over the top with a fork or a biscuit

pricker; put two or three large pieces of candied peel on each and bake

about half an hour in a moderate oven.

[Illustration]

RICE CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Three ounces of ground rice, two ounces of flour, three

ounces of butter, three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs, vanilla.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, add the

sugar and cream to that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by

degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the flavouring; fill greased

patty pans and bake in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.

[Illustration]

ALMOND CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Eight ounces of flour, four ounces of butter, five

ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a

pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring, a little water.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, stir in the

sugar, beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each to

prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of the flour after the eggs are

beaten in, lastly the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush some little

cake moulds with clarified butter and dust them with mixed castor sugar

and flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake mixture and bake

in a good oven a pale brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold ice

as follows.

_Icing._--Sift half a pound of icing sugar and mix it very smoothly

with a little cold water and enough almond essence to flavour it until

it is just thick enough to coat the cakes, pour over and let it set.

Put a crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips of blanched

almonds to ornament.

[Illustration]

CHOCOLATE CAKE.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of grated

chocolate, three ounces of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four

eggs, one small teaspoonful of baking powder, vanilla flavouring, a

little browning.

_For the Icing._--Half a pound of icing sugar, three ounces of

chocolate, a little water and browning.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream, add the castor sugar and the

grated chocolate; beat the eggs in one at a time, putting a little

flour with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring and a little

browning. Have ready a cake tin brushed out with clarified butter and

lined with buttered paper; put in the mixture, which should three parts

fill it, and bake in a good oven about one hour and a half.

_For the Icing._--Melt three ounces of chocolate; mix the icing sugar

with about four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the melted

chocolate; work well with a wooden spoon and pour over the cake when it

is cold.

[Illustration]

ROSCOMMON LOAF.

_Ingredients._--One pound of wholemeal flour, quarter of a pound of

household flour, one ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a

teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, sour milk to

mix.

_Method._--Mix the flour, salt and soda well in a basin, rub in the

dripping, mix to a rather soft dough with the sour milk; make into a

flat loaf, score across with a knife, and bake in a good oven one hour

and a half.

[Illustration: “FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”

(_Picture by A. E. Artigue._)]

WANTED: A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION.

BY JAMES AND NANETTE MASON.

Do you think we are going to advocate that all of us should retire

to dreamland to pass a drowsy existence there with the creations of

our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken. It is not possible to put

everything in the title, otherwise we might have made this one run,

“Wanted: a little more imagination for those who, at the right times,

have not enough, and a little less for those who, on all possible

occasions, have too much.” But it is the “too little” which is of most

importance for the purposes of ordinary life, and that is why the title

stands above as it does. Our first business is to be practical and to

speak of imagination as an aid in the work and conduct and duty of

every day.

Of all powers possessed by our minds this is perhaps the most

wonderful--the power of making pictures inside our heads, seeing there

what eyes know nothing of and what outside ourselves has really no

existence. It gives an importance--a glory even--to the most obscure

and solitary lives. Possessed of a vivid and healthy imagination, a

girl may live very much alone and yet be full of company, entertaining

a ghostly good society that in some respects is even an improvement on

that frequented by her less isolated friends.

Everything is the better for being shone on by its magic light--even

love. Imagination, someone says, is to love what gas is to the

balloon--that which raises it from the earth! It is, as we all know,

the test of genius; but it is found, too, in ordinary people as a

useful servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether out of our inner

life and we would be very poor creatures.

However, as we have said, we have sometimes not enough. This happens,

for example, when we fail to look at things in a spirit of kindliness,

and give utterance to criticism on other folk, hard, harsh, and

unreasonable.

Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise that all are not alike

and that allowance--and a wide allowance too--should be made for

differences both in thought and action. For this reason we find them

often wanting in sympathy and sometimes even cruel.

This the imaginative seldom are. “Put yourself in her place” is their

golden rule--the best rule that was ever devised for enabling us to go

through the world adding daily to the happiness of it.

Only have a little more imagination and you will be tolerant and kindly

and ready to make excuses not only for those you love, which is easy,

but for those you dislike, which, as everyone knows, is a much harder

matter. The “little more” will make Kate shut her mouth again the next

time it flies open to let out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It

will make Eliza pay that little account she has been owing for the last

six months without a thought in all that time of the dressmaker needing

the money. It will make Maggie give up grumbling that Beatrice writes

to her so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,--she the eldest of a

great bunch of sisters and her mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut

her visit short next time she calls on Alice, so leaving hard-worked

Alice to get through her school tasks for the morrow without sitting up

to all hours of the night. In fact, what will it not do in the way of

giving smoothness to the wheels of life?

Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which to obtain a look at

ourselves, and when we get a little more of it, it is like turning up

the gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves then as others see us,

and a pretty exhibition it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous,

whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this way gets to know it.

There is thus always hope for the imaginative--they can realise what

they are, and, without self-knowledge, what chance of reformation is

there for anybody?

Our friend Josephine, for example, came to us the other day, keen

on being an authoress; but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no

imagination. With only a few grains of it, she would have seen that

becoming an authoress is for her impossible, because what she wants is

publishers’ and editors’ cheques and what she does not want is trouble.

A well-trained imagination--not one inclined to run riot; no, certainly

not that sort of a one--is of great assistance in enabling us rightly

to sum up people and things. Our critical faculties are worth little

and only lead us into mischief and mistakes without it. Possessed of

only a “little more,” not a few of us would often be saved from being

misled by appearances and enabled to steer clear of the troubles that

come from drawing wrong inferences. The world is a difficult enough

world to live in, for things are but seldom what they seem, and some

art, like this one we are talking about, is needed by which we can

illuminate life and get at the real essence of all that interests us.

Another use of imagination is in the reading of books, and on this

subject no one has written better than the late Professor Blackie,

who held very decided opinions about the importance of having the

imaginative faculty properly trained.

“As there are many persons,” he says, “who seem to walk through life

with their eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others who read

through books, and perhaps even cram themselves with facts, without

carrying away any living pictures of significant story which might

arouse the fancy in an hour of leisure or gird them with endurance in a

moment of difficulty.

“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you read a chapter of any notable

book, not what you saw printed on a grey page, but what you see

pictured in the glowing gallery of your imagination. Have your fancy

always vivid and full of body and colour. Count yourself not to know a

fact when you know that it took place, but then only when you see it as

it did take place.”

These words form as valuable a note on the art of reading as we are

likely to meet with for many a day.

To train the imagination adequately, the Professor points out, it

is not enough that pictures be made to float pleasantly before the

fancy--that is merely the amusement of the lazy. We should call upon

our imagination to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they arise,

and not be content till we see them with our minds almost as clear,

distinct, and life-like as we might have done with our eyes.

For the culture of the imagination, works of fiction are no doubt of

great service, but the most useful exercise of this faculty is when it

buckles itself to realities.

“There is no need,” says the Professor, “of going to romances for

pictures of human character and fortune calculated to please the fancy

and to elevate the imagination. The life of Alexander the Great, of

Martin Luther, of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable characters

on the great stage of the world who incarnate the history which they

create, is for this purpose of more educational value than the best

novel that ever was written or even the best poetry. Not all minds

delight in poetry; but all minds are impressed and elevated by an

imposing and a striking fact. To exercise the imagination on the

lives of great and good men brings with it a double gain; for by this

exercise we learn at a single stroke, and in the most effective way,

both what was done, and what ought to be done.”

What is true of the value of imagination to the student of books is

equally true of its importance to all who devote attention to music

and art. Without imagination, the pursuit of either is little better

than a waste of time, and the more of it we bring to their culture,

the more successful we shall be. Let girls, then, and their parents

and teachers, look to it and do what they can to encourage this most

spiritual of all our faculties, the very life of artistic effort, and a

magician to whom everything is possible.

A great and good use of imagination is to reproduce to us our past

lives. It is something more than memory. Memory says I was at such

a place on a certain day, but imagination brings up the place--the

Highland loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn morning, the purple

heather on the hills, the steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking

the steamer, the young man in the coffee-room smiling to the landlord’s

daughter, the taste of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the burned

oat-cake.

“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a dream,” and by imagination we

can dream it all over again. And the recollection is sometimes better

than the reality, just as in moonlight our village looks more lovely

than in sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our ear, and a halo is

thrown over the unsightly and disagreeable.

An additional charm too is that many a problem which may have puzzled

us when things actually happened, is solved before we begin to look

back. The relationship of people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes,

sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain; the foolish have got

their deserts and the wise have got theirs; the envious have grown

lean and the good-natured and kindly have become fat; the wasters have

fallen to poverty and the industrious have risen to fortune.

Such changes as these give value and interest to our recollections when

we wake the ghosts of the past and make them parade before us. We are

able in a way which was impossible before to be actors, spectators, and

enlightened critics--all three rolled in one.

Girls who have now but little short lives, with comparatively few

incidents to recall, can hardly realise what a gratification this

wandering over the enchanted ground of imagination imparts to mature

years. If they did they would often be saying to themselves, How will

this look in recollection? And such a thought would keep them from

many a frivolity and many an error. But, short lives or long lives,

let us go over our past often if for no other reason than that we may

understand ourselves, not to speak of our gaining such knowledge as

will enable us to steer a safe course through the perils of the future.

Speaking of the future reminds us that that is a great territory of the

imaginative. By imagination girls are witches to foretell what is to

happen the day after to-morrow.

Now we spend our time ill if we build castles in the air and trust to

them as if they were substantial edifices. But, for all that, to let

the imagination dwell on what is yet to come has its uses and may be a

valuable help to conduct.

Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly extravagant ever to be

realised have brightened many dull and monotonous lives, and for that

reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged. Besides this there

is an important gain resulting from our projecting the imagination into

the future--we are thereby prepared for many events which now find us

quite unprepared.

The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination who danced and sang all

summer-time. They should have pictured to themselves the snow on the

ground, the pools frozen over, and the wind whistling through the bare

branches.

A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have all my life had a vision of

a workhouse door open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising early

and working hard. It is that which has made me saving and prosperous.”

A similar vision might work a change on some people we know. Bring your

own self forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that imagination of

yours, picturing yourself as old and disinclined for work, and see if

ever after you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.

“For age and want save while you may,

No morning sun lasts a whole day.”

A little more imagination may often be recommended to the good

looking, not forgetting all who think themselves so. Perhaps we

should rather say a little more of the right sort, for they indulge

in flights of fancy enough when it is a matter of picturing those

brought into captivity by their charms. They should leave considering

their conquests and captives and make an effort to realise what they

themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty, if they live so long. The

beauty and attractiveness of youth will then be over, and unless they

have something else to recommend them, their place will be on one of

the back seats of human life.

This should set them furnishing the inside of their heads as richly

as Nature has done the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental culture

endures and is found attractive, and even charming, to the very end of

the chapter. There are few sadder sights than that of a beauty in ruins

with an untrained intellect and none more refreshing than that of a

bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind it stored with information

and animated by shrewdness and good nature.

There is danger in all things, for all--yes, even the best--may be

misused. Imagination is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and

brighten our lives as we have seen, but that does not happen with

the foolish. Instead of occupying this wondrous faculty with what is

profitable and beautiful, they devote it to what is degrading and mean,

and thus become a great deal worse with imagination than they would be

without it.

And, even where its subjects are not positively objectionable,

imagination sometimes wastes its energy on whimsicalities and runs riot

in the broad fields of extravagance and nonsense. Of such a nature was

the fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to the end of her days,

showed great reverence for dogs and cats because she believed them

animated by the souls of her ancestors.

A very silly use of imagination is to picture to ourselves suspicions,

dangers and misfortunes. Some of us have a great deal of ability in

this line, and endure torments daily over evils that never arrive.

“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you” is a safe rule, and

only a stupid girl will set her imagination working so as to make

herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the stupid class--no

doubt, Caroline, it is on this occasion only--or she would at once get

rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us last Tuesday that the

letters sent to her by her sweetheart were detained at the post office

and read. As if the postmistress, even in her country place, had not

something better to do!

Another danger of the imagination is that we are apt to take refuge in

it against the duties of real life. In real life there is friction,

and there is nothing of that in dreamland. We can make that pleasant

country to suit ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction,

without mishaps, everything coming just right. Our business, however,

in the world is not to dream but to act, for which reason this great

gift of imagination must be kept in its proper place. It is a good

servant, but, by foolish indulgence, may become a very bad master.

But, after making all allowances for dangers--those we have named and

others that might be stated--the fact remains that to the greater

number of us a little more imagination would not come amiss. It would

make our lives richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly, more

sensible. It is only a “little more” that is wanted. That any of us

are entirely destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry sticks” is not

common for girls.

[Illustration]

AN EMBROIDERED BABY’S CARRIAGE COVERLID OF HOUSE FLANNEL.

I was recently asked by a lady friend to design her a simple piece of

embroidery for her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that the design

was not to be elaborate, as there was very little time to work it.

The illustration here given is the design I made, but it has a very

different appearance in black and white to what it had when worked in

two tones of blue worsted on house flannel. Still, those readers who do

embroidery will know what allowances to make.

I sketched the design right away in charcoal, and anyone at all

accustomed to using a pencil will have no difficulty in doing this.

Divide your material in half, and then draw a line in the middle

horizontally, and others above and below this. These lines will guide

you in getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as the principal

lines are symmetrical, it is enough. I found you can easily sketch in

vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel and it easily dusts

off afterwards.

The whole of the forms were produced in outline, and to show the

sort of stitch, I have given a leaf full size. The ground is soon

covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap look either. The fault

many embroiderers make in carrying out a design is that they miss the

“swing” of the lines, get broken-backed curves and clumsy-looking

details. To obviate this you ought to keep looking at your work as a

whole. Dwelling too long on any part of the design is likely to upset

the balance of the whole.

[Illustration]

It is obvious that in the design given the stems are the first features

to be worked, as the leaves and flowers merely grow from them and are

of secondary importance. It will add to the grace of the design to

get the lower part of the stems gradually thicker, say two strands

wide towards the base, just as in nature we find a plant gradually

thickening as it nears the root.

It will be noticed that a separate border is designed for the piece at

the top which turns over. The coverlid should have a worked edging, and

to get this even a few niches should be spaced out and drawn on a piece

of tracing paper and then pricked over with a coarse needle.

All you have to do is to rub a little crushed charcoal, tied up in a

piece of coarse linen or muslin, on the reverse side, when the powdered

charcoal will pass through the holes leaving an impression which can be

worked over at once.

Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it should be done evenly, and

the eye is not quite correct enough if left to itself, and much of the

workmanlike look of the whole would be marred if this edging were badly

done. The right initial or name can be added or left out if desired. In

the latter case put in a flower and a leaf or two.

Those readers who have never worked on house flannel will find it a

pleasant material, and for portières and short curtains very excellent

both in effect and for wear.

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

BY C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER I.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

Sitting in a cool green shade of trees and flowers, in the still heat

of a summer afternoon, I read in your most interesting paper, dear Mr.

Editor, a record of noble women who, from the slippery places of wealth

and ease, had sprung a mine of happiness in lightening the burdens, and

in sympathies for the sorrows, of many who had no helper.

I read and enthusiastically admired, and while admiring tried to

appreciate the difficulty which women so placed would find in realising

sufferings of which they could know so little by experience--of some

troubles they could absolutely know nothing--the want of bread, the

deadly fatigue of overwork, the misery of children crying for food, the

bitterness of bare poverty, of homes which do not shelter, of empty

fireplaces in cold, and shadowless rooms in the heat--and in such heat

as we have been taught lately can be suffered even in this dear England

of ours.

In the intense heat of the day--while the roses drooped and seemed to

sigh for rain, and the birds were silent, and by the shaded pool, at

the dark water’s edge, the cows were enjoying some freshness, and the

white flocks of waterfowl cowered and waited for the evening breeze--in

the stillness my thoughts floated away to curious visions, partly

suggested by a lovely series of pictures in the _Arabian Nights_ of

magical help and daring exploits, and one, the last (not in any English

edition), of a range of mountain caverns, with glittering temptations,

through which the prince has to fight his way till he comes to the

last vast hall shrouded in darkness and ended by dim heavy curtains,

which opened, disclosing the radiant islands in the seven seas, where

his love reigns, and the water-nymphs receive him as he leaps into the

waves and, singing, bear him to his queen, to rescue and love her.

Visions are curious and arbitrary things, and while dreaming of this

often haunting story, I thought that, instead of the gigantic fiend

who in the story waves his scimitar over the lover, I saw two radiant

angels parting those magic curtains as I in my dream gazed, and they

said to me--

“You have loved and revered the courage and self-devotion of the noble

servants of the Most High, who have abandoned the luxuries and repose

of wealth to save their fellow mortals--the poor, the helpless, and the

suffering. Would you know what more can be done?

“There are records in the kingdom of our Master of fellow-servants of

ours--women, with no power but their faith, no means but those like the

feast for five thousand provided by their Lord by the Galilean lake

from a few loaves and small fishes, no strength but the divine energy

of love--these servants of God, poor, weak, alone, have done work which

has caused joy in Heaven and saved those who, but for them and others

like them, would have been lost. Will you dream on, and we will show

you visions of some of these?”

In breathless expectation I waited, and gradually the vision resolved

itself before me into a wild mountainous country. A castle up the hills

was besieged by a horde of savage and furious soldiery. Defence was

hopeless, but the few loyal retainers held their own till the three

little orphan children of the lord were hurried out of the back postern

by their nurse and one (the only) trooper who could be spared to drive

the mule on which the two little leddies were seated and to carry the

young lord.

Heaven helped them and they safely reached the hut where, concealed

and protected by Elspeth the nurse, they escaped the search of their

enemies. By day and night this devoted servant worked for them, tended

them. To feed them she starved, to clothe them she managed to get by

night and hidden mountain paths to the few nobles still left on whom

she could rely with the words “My young leddies need this,” “My little

lord needs that.”

Years go by, and the brave old Scotchwoman has fulfilled her trust. The

young lord has regained his inheritance, and now they all plead that

she to whom they owe everything should accompany them to the noble home

she has so helped them to regain. But I see her, in advancing years,

still spinning on in the Highland home. At all times of need, whether

of joy or woe, they call for Elspeth, and she is with them again; but

she died as she lived, in the poor home of her fathers, but up-borne

by the prayers and the reverence of her people. “Poor, yet making many

rich.”

It was in vain the young lord and her leddies claimed her for their

richer life of competence and power, but the old Hieland woman said,

“Na, na.” She would go to them when on great occasions they wanted her,

but her strong independent life was still to be lived among the hills

she loved and among her own people; and by the work of her own hands

she would still live, and in her hut she would die.

The dream curtains slowly descended, but my last look at the beautiful

Highland scene was on the cottage on which the sunshine of Heaven’s

blessing still lingered, and on the noble peasant woman who had saved

her chieftain’s children.

I might be allowed to mention that, remembering this touching story of

fidelity and loyalty as it was told me by the Earl himself years ago, I

have searched through many volumes of the history of this great family

for further details of the time and place, but in vain, so I must leave

the little history as I heard it from the chief’s own lips.

In writing of servants, an anecdote of Lord Shaftesbury, mentioned in a

recent work--_Collections and Recollections_--is worth remembering.

“Speaking of his early and troubled childhood, he said, one only

element of joy he recognised in looking back to those dark days, and

that was the devotion of an old maid-servant, who comforted him in his

childish sorrows and taught him the rudiments of the Christian faith.

In all the struggles and distresses of boyhood and manhood, he used the

words of prayer which he had learned from the good woman before he was

seven years old. And of a keepsake which she left him--the gold watch

which he wore to the last day of his life--he used to say, ‘That was

given to me by the best friend I ever had in the world.’”

(_To be continued._)

“IN MINE HOUSE.”

BY LINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of “The King’s Daughters,” etc.