“I TRUST THEM TO YOU, MERLE.”
With the early summer came a new anxiety; Joyce was growing very fast,
and, like other children of her age, looked thin and delicate. She
lost her appetite, grew captious and irritable, had crying fits if she
were contradicted, and tired of all her playthings. It was hard work
to amuse her; and as Reggie was rather fretful with the heat, I found
my charge decidedly onerous, especially as it was the height of the
season, and Mrs. Morton’s daily visits to the nursery barely lasted ten
minutes.
Dr. Myrtle was called in and recommended change for both the children.
There was a want of tone about Joyce: she was growing too fast, and
there was slight irritability of the brain, a not uncommon thing, he
remarked, with nervous, delicately organised children.
He recommended sea air and bathing. She must be out on the shore all
day, and run wild. Fresh air, new milk, and country diet would be her
best medicine; and, as Dr. Myrtle was an oracle in our household, Mr.
Morton at once decided that his advice must be followed.
There was a long, anxious deliberation between the parents, and the
next morning I was summoned to Mrs. Morton’s dressing-room. I found her
lying on the couch; the blinds were lowered, and the smelling salts
were in her hand. She said at once that she had had a restless night,
and had one of her bad headaches. I thought she looked wretchedly ill,
and, for the first time, the fear crossed me that her life was killing
her by inches. Hers was not a robust constitution, and, like Joyce,
she was most delicately organised. Late hours and excitement are fatal
to these nervous constitutions, if only I dared hint at this to Dr.
Myrtle, but I felt, in my position, it would be an act of presumption.
She would not let me speak of herself; at my first word of sympathy she
stopped me.
“Never mind about me, I am used to these headaches; sit down a moment;
I want to speak to you about the children. Dr. Myrtle has made us very
anxious about Joyce; he says she must have change at once.”
“He said the same to me, Mrs. Morton.”
“My husband and I have talked the matter over; if I could only go with
you and the children—but no, it is impossible. How could I leave just
now, when our ball is coming off on the eighteenth, and we have two
dinners as well? Besides, I could not leave my husband; he is far from
well. This late session tries him dreadfully. I have never left him
yet, not even for a day.”
“And yet you require the change as much as the children.” I could not
help saying this, but she took no notice of my remark.
“We have decided to send them to my father’s. Do you know Netherton,
Merle? It is a pretty village about a mile from Orton-on-Sea. Netherton
is by the sea, and the air is nearly as fine as Orton. Marshlands, that
is my father’s place, is about half a mile from the shore.”
I heard this with some trepidation. In my secret heart I had hoped that
we should have taken lodgings at some watering-place, and I thought,
with Hannah’s help, I should have got on nicely; but to go amongst
strangers! I was perfectly unaware of Mr. Morton’s horror of lodgings,
and it would have seemed absurd to him to take a house just for me and
the children.
“I have written to my sister, Merle,” she continued, “to make all
arrangements. My father never interferes in domestic matters. I have
told her that I hold you responsible for my children, and that you will
have the sole charge of them. I laid a stress on this, because I know
my sister’s ideas of management differ entirely from mine. I can trust
you as I trust myself, Merle, and it is my wish to secure you from
interference of any kind.” It was nice to hear this, but her speech
made me a little nervous; she evidently dreaded interference for me.
“Is your sister younger than yourself?” I faltered.
“I have two sisters,” she returned, quickly; “Gay is much younger;
she was not grown up when I married; my eldest sister, Mrs. Markham,
was then in India. Two years ago she came back a widow, with her only
remaining child, and at my father’s request remained with him to manage
his household. Domestic matters were not either in his or Gay’s line,
and Mrs. Markham is one who loves to rule.”
I confess this slight sketch of Mrs. Markham did not impress me in
her favour. I conceived the idea of a masculine, bustling woman, very
different to my beloved mistress. I could not well express these
sentiments, but I think Mrs. Morton must have read them in my face.
“I am going to be very frank with you, Merle,” she said, after a
moment’s thought, “and I do not think I shall repent my confidence.
I know my sister Adelaide’s faults. She has had many troubles with
which to contend in her married life, and they have made her a little
hard. She lost two dear little girls in India, and, as Rolf is her
only child, she spoils him dreadfully; in fact, young as he is, he
has completely mastered her. He is a very delicate, wilful child,
and needs firm management; in spite of his faults he is a dear little
fellow, and I am very sorry for Rolf.”
“Will he be with us in the nursery?” I asked, anxiously.
“No, indeed: Rolf is always with his mother in the drawing-room, to
the no small discomfort of his mother’s visitors. Sometimes he is
with her maid Judson, but that is only when even Mrs. Markham finds
him unbearable. A spoilt child is greatly to be pitied, Merle; he has
his own way nine times out of ten, and on the tenth he meets with
undesirable severity. Adelaide either will not punish him at all, or
punishes him too severely. Children suffer as much from their parent’s
temper as from over-indulgence.”
“I am afraid Rolf’s example will be bad for Joyce.”
“That is my fear,” she replied, with a sigh. “I wish the children could
be kept apart, but Rolf will have his own way in that. There is one
thing of which I must warn you, Merle. Mrs. Markham may be disposed to
interfere in your department; remember, you are responsible to me and
not to her. I look to you to follow my rules and wishes with regard to
my children.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morton,” I burst out, “you are putting me in a very difficult
position. If any unpleasantness should arise, I cannot refer to you.
How am I to help it if Mrs. Markham interferes with the children?”
“You must be firm, Merle; you must act in any difficulty in the way you
think will please me. Be true to me, and you may be sure I shall listen
to no idle complaints of you. I wish I had not to say all this; it is
very painful to hint this of a sister, but Mrs. Markham is not always
judicious with regard to children.”
“Will it be good for them to go to Netherton under these circumstances?”
“There is nowhere else where they can go,” she returned, rather sadly;
“my husband has such a horror of lodgings, and he will not take a house
for us this year—he thinks it an unnecessary expense, as later on we
are going to Scotland that he may have some shooting. All the doctors
speak so well of Netherton; the air is very fine and bracing, and my
father’s garden will be a Paradise to the children.”
We were interrupted here by Mr. Morton.
“Oh, are you there, Miss Fenton?” he said, pleasantly (he so often
called me Miss Fenton now); “I was just in search of you. Violet, your
sister has telegraphed as you wished, and the rooms will be quite ready
for the children to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” I gasped.
“Yes,” he returned, in his quick, decided voice; “you and Hannah will
have plenty of work to-day. You are looking pale, Miss Fenton; sea air
will be good for you as well as Joyce. I do not like people to grow
pale in my service.”
“I have been telling Merle,” observed his wife, anxiously, “that she
is to have the sole responsibility of our children. Adelaide must not
interfere, must she, Alick?”
“Of course not,” with a frown. “My dear Violet, we all know what your
sister’s management means; Rolf is a fine little fellow, but she is
utterly ruining him. Remember, Miss Fenton, no unwholesome sweets and
delicacies for the children; you know our rules. She may stuff her own
boy if she likes, but not my children,” and with this he dismissed me,
and sat down beside his wife with some open letters in his hand.
I returned to the nursery with a heavy heart. How little we know as
we open our eyes on the new day, what that day’s work may bring us! I
think one’s waking prayer should be, “Lead me in a plain path because
of mine enemies.”
I was utterly cast down and disheartened at the thought of leaving my
mistress. The responsibility terrified me. I should be at the tender
mercies of strangers, who would not recognise my position. Ah! I had
got to the Hill Difficulty at last, and yet surely the confidence
reposed in me ought to have made me glad. “I trust you as myself.” Were
not those sweet words to hear from my mistress’s lips? Well, I was only
a girl. Human nature, and especially girl nature, is subject to hot and
cold fits. At one moment we are star-gazing, and the majesty of the
universe, with its undeviating laws, seems to lift us out of ourselves
with admiration and wonder; and the next hour we are grovelling in the
dust, and the grasshopper is a burthen, and we see nothing save the
hard stones of the highway and the walls that shut us in on every side.
“Lead us in a plain path.” Oh, that is just what we want; a Divine Hand
to lift us up and clear the dust from our eyes, and to lead us on as
little children are led.
These salutary thoughts checked my nervous fears and restored calmness.
I remembered a passage that Aunt Agatha had once read to me—a quotation
from a favourite book of hers; I had copied it out for myself.
“Do as the little children do—little children who with one hand hold
fast by their father, and with the other gather strawberries or
blackberries along the hedges. Do you, while gathering and managing
the goods of this world with one hand, with the other always hold fast
the hand of your heavenly Father, turning to Him from time to time to
see if your actions or occupations are pleasing to Him; but take care,
above all things, that you never let go His hand, thinking to gather
more, for, should He let you go, you will not be able to take another
step without falling.”
Just then Hannah came to me for the day’s orders, and I told her as
briefly as possible of the plans for the morrow. To my astonishment,
directly I mentioned Netherton, she turned very red, and uttered an
exclamation.
“Netherton—we are to go to Netherton—Squire Cheriton’s place! Why,
miss, it is not more than a mile and a half from there to Dorlecote and
Wheeler’s Farm.”
“Do you mean the farm where your father and your sister Molly live?”
I returned, quite taken aback at this, for the girl’s eyes were
sparkling, and she seemed almost beside herself with joy. “Truly it is
an ill wind that blows no one any good.”
“Yes, indeed, miss, you have told me a piece of good news. I was just
thinking of asking mistress for a week’s holiday, only Master Reggie
seemed so fretful and Miss Joyce so weakly, that I hardly knew how I
could be spared without putting too much work upon you; but now I shall
be near them all for a month or more. Molly had been writing to me the
other day to tell me that they were longing for a sight of me.”
“I am very glad for your sake, Hannah, that we shall be so near your
old home; but now we must see to the children’s things, and I must
get Rhoda to send a note to the laundress.” I had put a stop to the
conversation purposely, for I wanted to know my mistress’s opinion
before I encouraged Hannah in speaking about her own people. How did I
know what Mrs. Morton would wish? I took the opportunity of speaking
to her when she came up to the nursery in the course of the evening.
Hannah was still packing, and I was collecting some of the children’s
toys. Mrs. Morton listened to me with great attention; I thought she
seemed interested.
“Of course I know Wheeler’s Farm,” she replied at once; “Michael
Sowerby, Hannah’s father, is a very respectable man; indeed, they are
all most respectable, and I know Mrs. Garnett thinks highly of them. I
shall have no objection to my children visiting the farm if you think
proper to take them, Merle; but of course they will go nowhere without
you. If you can spare Hannah for a day now and then I should be glad
for her to have the holiday, for she is a good girl, and has always
done her duty.”
“I will willingly spare her,” was my answer, for Hannah’s sweet temper
and obliging ways had made me her friend. “I was only anxious to know
your wishes on this point, in case my conduct or Hannah’s should be
questioned.”
“You are nervous about going to Netherton, Merle,” she returned, at
once, looking at me more keenly than usual. “You are quite pale this
evening. Put down those toys; Hannah can pack them, with Rhoda’s help;
I will not have you tire yourself any more to-night.”
“I am not tired,” I faltered, but the foolish tears rushed to my eyes.
Did she have an idea, I wonder, how hard I felt it would be to leave
her the next day. As the thought passed through my mind she took the
chair beside me.
“The carriage has not come yet, Anderson will let me know when my
husband is ready for me; we shall have time for a talk. You are a
little down-hearted to-night, Merle; you are dreading leaving us
to-morrow.”
“I am sorry to leave you,” I returned, and now I could not keep the
tears back.
“I shall miss you, too,” she replied, kindly; “I am getting to know
you so well, Merle. I think we understand each other, and then I am so
grateful to you for loving my children; no one has ever been so good to
them before.”
“I am only doing my duty to them and you.”
“Perhaps so; but then how few do their duty? How few try to act up to
so high a standard. I am dull myself to-night, Merle. No one knows
how I feel parting with my children; I try not to indulge in nervous
fancies, but I cannot feel happy and at rest when they are away from
me.”
“It is very hard for you,” was my answer to this.
“It is not quite so hard this time,” she returned, hastily; “I feel
they will be safe with you, Merle, that you will watch over them as
though they were your own. I know you will justify my trust.”
“You may be assured that I will do my best for them.”
“I know that,” returned my mistress, gently. “You will write to me,
will you not, and give me full particulars about my darlings. I think
you will like Marshlands; my sister Gay is very bright and winning, and
my father is always kind.”
“Mrs. Markham?” I stammered.
“Oh, my sister Adelaide; she will be too much occupied with her own boy
and her own affairs to trouble you much. If you are in any difficulty
write to me and I will help you. Now I must say good-night. Have I done
you any good, Merle? Have the fears lessened?”
“You always do me good,” I answered, gratefully, as she put out her
slim hand to me; and, indeed, her few sympathising words had lifted
a little of the weight. When she had left the nursery I sat down and
wrote a long letter to Aunt Agatha, bidding her good-bye, and speaking
cheerfully of our intended flitting. When the next day came I woke far
more cheerful. The bright sunshine, Joyce’s excitement, and Hannah’s
happy looks stimulated me to courage. There was little time for
thought, for there was still much to be done before the carriage came
round for us. Mrs. Morton accompanied us to the station, and did not
quit the platform until our train moved off.
“Remember, Merle, I trust them to you,” were her last words before we
left her there alone in the summer sunshine.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
CHRISTMAS IN A FRENCH BOARDING-SCHOOL.
A Christmas morning of more than twenty years ago is breaking over a
picturesque old town of fair France. The cold wintry sun touches upon
the masts of the ships in her harbour and upon the crowded houses of
the Lower Town, creeps up to the leafless trees upon the ramparts, and
glints upon the steep roofs and stately cathedral of the Upper Town.
From the dormitory windows of a large boarding-school some dozen or
more of girlish heads are peering into the feeble light, in the hope
of seeing across the narrow “silver streak” the white cliffs of their
English home. In vain. A cold, grey fog is rising from the sea, and
baffles even their strong young eyes. The casements are closed, and
as the big school-bell sends forth its summons, the English boarders
hasten into the class-room below. It does not look very inviting at
this early hour; there is no fire and little light, while the empty
benches and the absence of the usual chattering throng of schoolgirls
serve only to make those of them who remain the more depressed. They
gather, from force of habit, round the fireless stove, and wish one
another a “Merry Christmas”; but they neither look nor feel as if a
merry Christmas could be theirs. With hands swollen with chilblains and
faces blue with cold, they stand, a shivering group, comparing this
with former anniversaries, and increasing their discomfort by reminding
one another of the warm firesides, the ample Christmas cheer, and the
lavish gifts with which the day is being ushered in at home.
At length the welcome sound of the breakfast-bell is heard, and our
small party descends to the _réfectoire_. Here excellent hot coffee and
omelettes, with the best of bread and butter, somewhat reconcile us to
our hard lot, while the different mistresses are really very kind to
_les petites désolées_, and do their best to enliven the meal. We are
told that during the ten days’ holiday now begun we shall be entirely
exempted from the necessity of talking French, and shall be allowed
to get up and go to bed an hour later than during the school terms;
moreover, that after service in our own church that morning (for, to
their credit be it said, these ladies, devout Catholics themselves,
never tampered with our belief), we should have a good fire lighted in
the small class-room, where we could amuse ourselves as we pleased for
the rest of the day.
After such good news we set off, under the escort of the English
governess, in revived spirits for church. It was a plain little
building, but we always liked to go; it seemed a bit of old England
transplanted into this foreign town; and to-day the holly and flowers,
the familiar hymns, and our pastor’s short and telling address, made
the service particularly bright and cheery.
We were very fond of our good, gentle little clergyman, and always
lingered a while after the services in the hope that he would speak to
us, as he often did, especially upon any Church festivals; and to-day
we had quite a long talk with him before, with many and hearty good
wishes, we parted in the church porch.
As usual, after service, we went for a walk on the ramparts which
encircle the Upper Town. The view was very fine, comprising on one
side the Lower Town, the shining waters of the Channel, and, on very
clear days, the houses as well as the cliffs of Dover; on the other,
the hills and valleys, watered by the Liane; if we went further still,
and passed the gloomy old château—now a prison—we could trace the roads
leading to Calais and St. Omer; while on a bleak hill to the left rose
Napoleon’s Column.
This rampart walk was a great favourite with us all, and we generally
liked to make two or three turns. To-day, however, we were to have
an early luncheon, and, besides, were yearning for our letters; so
we contented ourselves with _le petit tour_, and hurried home. Here
we found an ample mail awaiting us, whilst among the pile each girl
found a neat little French _billet_ from mademoiselle, inviting us
formally to dinner and a little dance that evening. Of course we
sat down at once to write our acceptances, then, with a cheer for
mademoiselle, turned our thoughts to the absorbing topic of what we
should wear. Dinner was fixed for 5 p.m., so that after luncheon there
was really not very much time left, especially as each girl, besides
the difficulty of choosing and arranging her most becoming costume, had
also to have her hair “done.”
Hair-dressing was an elaborate science in those days, puffs and
frisettes, curls and plaits, being all brought into requisition
on state occasions, and if this—a dinner and a dance given by
mademoiselle, the rather awe-inspiring though extremely kind
mademoiselle, who reigned an undisputed autocrat in our little
school-world—if this, I say, was not a state occasion, I appeal to
every schoolgirl throughout the kingdom to tell me what was.
The _dortoir_ was a gay and animated scene as we English girls repaired
thither after luncheon to “lay out” (rather a dismal phrase, but one
we always used) our best frocks and sashes, our open-worked stockings
and evening shoes, and our black or white silk mittens. One of the
girls was a capital hairdresser, as everyone else allowed, and as
her services were eagerly entreated by the less skilful in the art,
I can tell you her powers and her patience were put to the test that
afternoon.
Oh, the plaiting and waving, the padding and puffing, the crimping
and curling, that we gladly underwent on that memorable occasion!
How openly we admired one another, and—more secretly—ourselves; and
then how very funny it seemed to be walking into the drawing-room as
mademoiselle’s visitors!
Kind mademoiselle! how handsome she looked in her dark satin dress,
with a little old French lace at her throat and wrists! How pleasantly
she welcomed us all, while she gave extra care to the one child amongst
us, who could only wear black ribbons even for Christmas Day.
Of course, all the under-mistresses were there, and one or two of the
non-resident ones. I particularly remember the pretty singing mistress,
and the head music mistress, whose brother I hear of nowadays as the
first organist of Europe; whilst last of all to arrive was Monsieur
l’Abbé, who was a frequent and honoured guest, and for whose coming we
had all been waiting.
The dinner bell rang a few minutes after this important arrival, and
we all descended to the _réfectoire_. How good that dinner was! A
soup such as one never tastes anywhere but in France; the _bouilli_,
which we were too English to care for; the turkey stuffed with
chestnuts—delicious, but so unlike an English turkey; the plum pudding,
very good again, but still with a foreign element about it somehow;
and, as a winding up delicacy, the delicious _tourte à la crême_, a
real triumph of gastronomy.
Then our glasses were filled with claret, and we drank the “health of
parents and relations,” a rather perilous toast for some of us, whose
hearts were still tender from a recent parting; and finally coffee
was served—not the coffee of everyday life, but the real _café noir_,
which we girls drank with an extra dose of sugar, but which to seniors
was served with a little cognac. Then, as we sat over our fruit and
_galette_, mademoiselle and her mother, a charming old lady, with
bright, dark eyes, and soft, silver hair, combined with Monsieur l’Abbé
to keep us merry with a succession of amusing stories of French life
and adventure, until the repeated ringing of the hall bell announced
the arrival of some of the old pupils, who had been asked to join our
dance. Tables were quickly cleared, superfluous chairs and benches
removed, violin and piano set up a gay tune, and then we danced and
danced away until nearly midnight, when the appearance of _eau sucrée_
and lemonade, with a tray of tempting cakes, concluded the fun, and
gave the signal for retiring.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LACE-MAKING IN THE ERZGEBIRGE;[3]
OR,
THE RESULT OF A WOMAN’S HOSPITALITY.
BY EMMA BREWER.
Annaberg is a bright, thriving little town in Saxony, and, from its
pleasant situation, is known to the people round about as the Queen of
the Erz Mountains.
Its attractions are enhanced by the character of its population, whose
kindness, cleanliness, and industry are known to all.
Like many another old town, it has a history, and boasts of chronicles
which record many memorable facts concerning it, one of which is
peculiarly interesting to us, viz., that a great service was rendered
by a woman, in return for which a great benefit was received, and in
its turn given out again to women, among whom it brought forth fruit a
hundredfold; but this we will explain presently.
This cheery little town is surrounded by pine forests, to which many
of the poor inhabitants of the upper mountains come in the hot summer
months to pick berries and gather mushrooms, and so add to their
scant means. The highest point of the Erzgebirge is only two hours
distant, or about six miles, and it is quite worth while to climb to
it, for from it you get a view which does your heart good. Not that the
character of these mountains is either romantic or wild, like that of
the rugged rocks in the Bavarian Highlands; on the contrary, it is soft
and gently undulating, conveying rest and peace to the heart.
[Illustration]
And what of the inhabitants? Are they as attractive as the mountains?
I cannot be quite sure. Of one thing, however, I am certain, that they
would interest you. They are simple-hearted and good tempered. By
incessant industry they manage, as a rule, to gain a scant livelihood,
although there are bad times when, in spite of constant toil, many
suffer hunger.
[Illustration]
Potatoes, and a suspicious kind of drink which these people call by the
name of coffee, form the chief means of support. Those dwelling high
up in the mountains consider themselves quite happy if they are able
to place a dish of steaming potatoes on their well-scrubbed pinewood
table. If, however, night frosts and long rains spoil these, they have
little else to live on than the clear water from the spring and the
fresh air of the mountains. The result of this is that about Christmas,
which should be a happy time, the ghost of Typhus may be seen stalking
abroad over the mountains, pausing here and there to knock at one or
other of the little snowed-up huts of the weaver, the toy-maker, or the
lace-worker, and the gravedigger finds more than enough to do digging
graves down through the ice and snow.
Necessity has taught these simple people not only to live sparingly and
to exercise self-denial, but it has given them a wonderful cleverness
and readiness in taking up any new industry.
[Illustration]
Just as in great towns the fashions are continually changing, so
the demands of the markets of the world create new trades, and give
a variety to the occupations of even these remote dwellers of the
mountains. In the very poor huts, with shingle roofs scattered about in
out-of-the-way corners of this mountain district, you would scarcely
expect to see the inhabitants working a thousand various and tasteful
patterns of glistening, sparkling pearl articles, which, when finished,
go forth out of those poor huts to adorn the dresses of grand ladies in
Berlin, Paris, and London; yet this is the fact.
[Illustration]
In like manner and in like houses you may see the inhabitants
busy with the beautiful art-industry of pillow lace-making, which
brings us to the interesting fact recorded in the chronicles of
Annaberg—interesting to us because it refers to woman and woman’s work.
[Illustration]
The middle of the sixteenth century was a hard time for the people of
the Erz Mountains. Yearly the population increased, and yearly the
means of support grew less; for the productiveness of the mines, which
up to that time had been great, fell off to such an extent that even
the new tin industry failed to make up the loss.
It was just when the need was greatest that the good Frau Barbara
Uttman, a rich patrician lady of Annaberg, came to the rescue of the
inhabitants by teaching the poor women and girls[4] an entirely new
industry—one that had never been known in Germany. It was the rare art
of making exquisitely soft and costly texture with the hand by means of
dexterously intertwining and knotting single threads of silk or cotton;
in fact, to make what is known as bobbin or pillow lace.
Barbara Uttman (born in 1514, died in 1575), as the story goes, learnt
it from a fugitive Brabantine whom she hospitably received into her
house. If this be so, then was her hospitality rich in good fruit.
Although pillow lace does not hold so high a place in fashion at the
present time as in the good old days, yet the memory of Frau Barbara
is kept in affectionate and pious remembrance by the good and simple
people of the Erz Mountains.
A venerable avenue of lime-trees leads to her tomb in the “Gottesacre”
of Annaberg. It is one of the most simple in style and execution. It
points her out as the founder of the bobbin art, seated at a lace
cushion.
A good action is the most beautiful memorial, just as gratitude is the
highest of virtues.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Past neglect has been in a manner atoned for by erecting a worthy
memorial of her exactly opposite the ancient grey town-hall in the
market-place of Annaberg.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
There is a possibility that this memorial may be the means of reviving
the industry which has been so good a friend to the inhabitants;
and yet it is scarcely possible that it can ever compete with the
machine-made lace of Nottingham, which is comparatively cheap, and, to
the uneducated eye, scarcely to be distinguished from the hand-made
cushion lace. During the last thirty years the poor bobbin villages
would have starved on the ever-decreasing profits had not other
industries sprung up to give them work.
Many attempts have been made to give the pillow lace a fresh start,
a new life; but without any permanent good result. Standing out from
among many noble ladies who have made the attempt, is the Queen Carola
of Saxony, who has done her utmost to keep it going.
She maintains model bobbin schools, wherein children are taught the
industry under skilful supervision. It was she who gave the order to
the poor lace-makers for the bridal veil of the Princess Maria Josepha,
as well as for the lace dress.
It is the object in all the schools to ward off the threatened downfall
of the hand-made lace industry, by the production of patterns full of
taste and style; but this only goes a short way, the markets of the
world must do the rest.
Ladies might do much for the industry if they resolved to wear real
lace instead of cheap machine lace.
A committee of ladies in Vienna have already determined to do this,
which may be the beginning of better things.
Quite apart from its practical purpose of maintaining for the poor
mountaineers a branch of business peculiarly theirs, we must remember
that, should the cushion lace-making fail, an ancient and noble house
industry will have its fall—an industry which is even now able to
turn out beautiful works of art, worthy of high praise, one for whose
success three centuries have laboured.
The effect of this industry among the people who earn their bread by
it is to make them scrupulously clean; their huts have, as a rule, but
one floor, but the boards are always freshly scrubbed, the walls are
spotlessly whitewashed. The kitchen utensils, which are hung on the
walls, are like looking-glasses, so bright are they, and you would
look in vain for dust on the poor furniture of the little room.
The costly lace requires the most particular cleanliness, as well in
the lace-maker herself as in her surroundings.
The manners of these people are those bequeathed them by their
forefathers, and their work is carried on as in former days.
Even little children of four years old earn a few pence weekly at
the cushion towards the housekeeping, by making common wool lace. To
produce tasteful hand lace requires not only great patience, but also
such a high perfection in the art that it must be regularly practised
from childhood, and this explains the reason of such young children
being placed at the cushion.
The bobbin lace-making industry has never brought even a moderate
competency to the cleverest and most industrious worker. How could it,
when, if she work from early morning till late at night, the highest
she can possibly earn is 5s. a week, and in less busy times not more
than two to three shillings?
In the hard winter days no morsel of meat is seen on the table; and if
the potatoes are all consumed, then dry bread, and not much of it, is
all the nourishment they get.
How does it happen that such valuable work fails to give a fair return?
This, with a little knowledge, is easy to answer. It takes a very long
time indeed to produce the most simple lace, and as to costly patterns
of rich and tasteful designs, such as we give here as a cover to a
lady’s sunshade—well, it would require for its production six to twelve
months, or even longer, according to the pattern and the ability of
the worker. This lace-cover is bought in the shops of our great towns
for the ridiculously cheap sum of £5—perhaps £7 10s.—or, at the very
highest, £15.
If you take into consideration the high duty on these articles, the
worth of the raw material, which is generally the best silk, and
the fee to the middle-man, you will see how much remains for the
industrious artist at her cushion—never more than 2s. 1d. a day.
Supposing that a yard of pillow lace cost 7½d. in the shops, you must
take off quite 2½d. for the purchase of material and the fee for the
middle-man, which leaves the worker 5d. as the price of a day’s hard
work, for she cannot make more than a yard a day.
The poverty of the pillow lace-maker is no doubt due also to the low
market price of the lace, and this cannot be remedied, for lace being
not an article of necessity, but only of luxury, the desire to buy will
decrease with every rise in price, especially as the machine-made lace
is produced so easily and in such perfection that it is difficult often
to tell the true from the false.
For the last ten years it has seemed useless to think of bettering the
position of the lace-maker, male or female. Any effort made is rather
to prevent an excellent and artistic industry from dying out. The
population has turned itself to other industries which pay somewhat
better, merely taking up the lace-work when others fail.
For example, men who in summer seek their bread on the plains, either
as bricklayers, labourers, or artisans, join the family circle in
the winter in making lace, and it is wonderful to see what soft and
delicate work is turned out by those hard hands. It is pleasant to see
the wooden stools drawn round the table behind the glass globe filled
with water, through which the lamplight falls sharp and clear on the
spotless work, and watch the family, from the aged grandmother down
to the toddling grandchild, take their places at their cushions or
pillows. For those who have never seen pillow lace made, we will give a
few words.
The pillow or cushion is of cylindrical form, and tightly stuffed. On
this a number of pins are stuck, according to the pattern to be worked.
The threads, fastened to small bobbins, are thrown across the cushion
and placed round these pins; the threads, traversing from left to
right, or _vice versâ_, often weave at once the pattern and the ground.
There is a line in one of the Volkslied which runs—
“That bobbin lace may prosper ever.”
We echo the wish, but fear it will never be realised.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Mountains between Saxony and Bohemia.
[4] These wives and daughters of the miners had always worked at point
lace, but this was a quieter and easier work which Frau Barbara taught
them.
“NO.”
BY MARY E. HULLAH.