UNDER A CLOUD.
“It comes to this, Oscar. I myself believe in you. You have been
careless, easy-going, lax, but I have full faith in your integrity.
Yet it comes to this: you will have to make up your mind to be under a
cloud for the present. Without some sort of proof it would be useless
to drag in Cyril’s name. With pain I say to you that I myself greatly
fear the sin does lie at Cyril’s door. But with your memory uncertain,
and his absolute denial of being concerned in the matter, it seems
hopeless to seek to bring it home. It would be a source of bitterness
at home, and would almost break my mother’s heart.”
“I would much rather bear the blame myself than that that should
happen,” said Oscar in a broken voice; but North made a little
impatient gesture.
“Don’t take it like that,” he said. “I have no patience with one
person bearing blame for another—the innocent for the guilty, letting
the scamp go off free—when he could be caught. But in this case there
seems at present no way of getting at him. I don’t want to say harsh
things of my own brother, but I have had one or two shocks with regard
to him during these past six months, and that is why I do not find it
difficult to regard him as the culprit. But you are not without blame,
Oscar. I cannot acquit you, though I shall never believe that you had
any hand in the abduction of the money. You haven’t it in you. But you
ought to take your duties to yourself and others more seriously; and
when money is entrusted to you, nothing should ever induce you to place
it in any hands but those for whom it was given you. It is a breach of
trust, whether you think of it in that light or not.”
Oscar was very humble; he had talked the whole matter out with North,
and had kept back nothing. It had been an immense relief to him, and he
was deeply grateful for the faith reposed in him by his cousin. North
believed in him; he shared his fear that Cyril was the real defaulter,
yet he did not see, as things now stood, how it could be brought home
to him; and for Oscar to seem to try and shelter himself behind a vague
accusation brought against his own kinsman seemed a most undesirable
line of action. Oscar was almost relieved not to be forced to take it.
With his temperament it seemed easier to bear odium and suspicion than
to try and fasten them upon others.
“You must leave the matter in my hands,” said North, after a long
silence. “I will see my father and make the best I can out of the case.
It’s a serious bit of business, look at it as you will. And if he
acquits you of any embezzlement, he must perforce know that there is
somebody else not to be trusted in his employ. It will be hard on you
all, Oscar; and it will be a part of your punishment to know that this
difficulty could not have arisen but for your easy-going ways, of which
I have warned you before.”
“Yes,” answered Oscar, “I can see now how wrong I have been. I deserve
to suffer. But I hope nobody else will fall under suspicion. The other
fellows in the office have really nothing to do with it. I am as
certain as possible that——”
“Yes, yes, I know; and, Oscar, I shall not let the matter rest without
trying to get at the real truth. And my father is too just a man to
believe any person guilty without proof. But his confidence in your
trustworthiness must be in some sort shaken. I do not believe he will
think you have robbed him, but he must think that by your carelessness
you have allowed him to be robbed, and, indeed, Oscar, whether Cyril be
the defaulter or not, it is in a way the truth.”
Oscar winced, but he accepted the rebuke humbly. North sat silent
awhile staring into the fire, and then said thoughtfully and rather
gravely—
“But I shall not let the matter rest there. I shall do my utmost to
unravel the mystery. We have one possible chance. My father has the
numbers of the bank-notes. They may be difficult to trace after this
lapse of time, but it is possible we may be able to hear something of
them.”
“And you will try—even though—it might be—Cyril?”
“Of course I shall try,” answered North. “Do you think I want others
to bear the blame, even though the real defaulter may be a brother?
Besides, Oscar, if it is true, as I sometimes fear, that Cyril is
getting into dangerous company and dangerous ways, do you believe that
it is true kindness to seek to shelter him at the expense of truth?
Discovery and exposure at the outset have been the saving of many a
young man in like circumstances. I don’t know whether you know anything
about Cyril’s goings on just now, but I have an impression that he
is getting amongst a set of betting and racing men, and that these
frequent journeys to London, ostensibly to read at the British Museum,
have in reality a very different object.”
“I know very little about Cyril now,” answered Oscar. “He was friendly
at first, and used to invite me to go about with him, but latterly I
have been busy; and I found too much card-playing among his friends for
my taste—or my pocket. For several months I have seen very little of
him.”
North’s mouth looked set and grim.
“If he is taking to play, and attending race meetings, as I fear, it
would easily account for his desire for money, although my father has
been liberal to him; and I know he has given him extra help latterly,
believing it to go in fees or something for this law reading. I hope I
do not wrong Cyril when I express strong doubts whether the bulk of it
is used for such purposes at all.”
Oscar saw by all this that North was seriously disturbed about his
brother, and he was able to understand then why it was that he had from
the first been disposed to think Cyril might have had a hand in the
abduction of the money. It was a comfort to him to feel that North’s
trust in him was not shaken, but he knew that he had a bad time before
him both at home and in the office.
Nor was he mistaken. That a sum of forty pounds and over had been made
away with, and a counterfeit receipt given for it, were facts there was
no blinking. And it was known that Oscar had received the money, and
could give no satisfactory account of what he had done with it.
His fellow-clerks, with whom he was popular, did not suspect him of
theft, but concluded he had been swindled by some fellow at Jones and
Wright’s.
“He is so easy-going, he’d never notice or care so long as he got any
sort of receipt,” they said one to the other; but Oscar knew he had
never paid the money over, and disliked the thought that blame should
attach to anybody through him.
His uncle said very little to him, but his manner became more cold and
formal; and before long a new confidential clerk was introduced in the
place of Curtis, Mr. Tom remarking in the hearing of the junior clerks—
“I had hoped not to fill that place, but to let the younger men already
here have the chance of working up to it; but I find it does not do to
be without an experienced and trustworthy head.”
Of Cyril Oscar saw almost nothing for a whole week. He went off to
London, with the excuse of his law studies, and did not return till the
talk about the lost money had pretty well blown over.
Oscar begged his uncle to take the forty pounds from his own small
fortune, held in trust till his majority, now quickly approaching,
but he had only received an ambiguous reply to his request. His aunt
continued to treat him kindly, but he could feel the difference in her
manner, and Raby was rather inclined to ignore him altogether.
“It is so very disagreeable to have to talk about one’s family,” she
said. “Of course everybody knows something unpleasant has happened, and
I have had to tell the Bensons all about it. Lionel thinks Oscar had
much better be shipped off to the Colonies; I almost wish father would
get him away from here. It’s so disagreeable having him always about.
One does not like to be unkind, but one can’t trust him or like him.”
That was how Raby felt, and showed it in her manner. She was of course
much influenced by what the Bensons thought, and they naturally
concluded that Oscar was guilty.
“Lots of young fellows get into hobbles, and then make a grand
fiasco getting out,” Lionel had said. “I know Oscar got amongst some
card-playing fellows once. Cyril does too, for that matter; but Cyril
can afford it, he has plenty of money. Most likely Oscar got into a
hole, and was tempted to get out of it by hook or by crook as he could.
But I think it’s a mistake his staying on here. He’d be happier and do
better in a fresh place. That’s my opinion, if you want it.”
Nobody but Raby did particularly want it. She, however, took her cue
from Lionel, and she somewhat influenced her mother, and altogether
Oscar’s present life was not a very happy one. He did his best to be
patient and cheerful, and strove hard to conquer the tendency in his
temperament which had been the indirect cause of all this trouble.
North was uniformly kind and encouraging, and showed him that his
efforts were not unobserved, and he had his brighter days also in
between the dark ones; as when Ray once asked him to drive her across
to spend Saturday afternoon with May Lawrence, and talked to him quite
pleasantly and freely the whole way.
It was a delightful change to him to get right away from the town and
its associations, and May was pleased to see them, asked innumerable
questions about Sheila, and wished she could be out in such a beautiful
place and climate.
Rather to the surprise of Ray and Oscar, though apparently not to that
of their young hostess herself, North walked in about tea-time, and was
very cordially received by May.
From their talk they were evidently on excellent terms, and it was
plain that it was no unusual thing for North to spend his free
afternoon here, though his family knew nothing of his movements except
that he always took a long walk on Saturday afternoons.
He left before his sister, as he preferred walking to the back seat of
the little phaeton; and when he was gone May said with something rather
like enthusiasm—
“I do think there is something very fine about your brother, Ray; he is
so different from most of the young men one sees. He has such a lot to
do and think of. Life is all work with him and not play. I don’t mean
just money-getting. He wants to make things thrive, of course; but he
wants just as much to do good to the work-people and teach them to live
better lives and care for higher things. I’m so tremendously interested
in it all. I suppose you do a lot to help him?”
Ray rather stared and then laughed.
“I think North must talk more to you than he does at home. I know he
has some hobbies of his own, and spends a lot of evenings at the club
and lecture-room; but I don’t know much about the details. North isn’t
much of a one to talk.”
“He talks a good bit to me,” said May. “It’s awfully interesting. If I
were his sister I should want to do a lot. He always speaks of you as
his favourite sister, Ray.”
Ray coloured with pleasure, for North was decidedly her hero, although
she did not know so very much about the way in which his spare time was
spent. Like many men who work hard in one groove, North was reticent at
home of his doings, and even to Ray he only spoke rather vaguely of the
plans and projects in his mind. Working, not talking, was distinctly
North’s forte, and Ray wondered how it had come to pass that May had
broken down his reserve and won his confidence.
“I thought it was Cyril who came here to talk—not North,” she said.
“Cyril always speaks as though he were very intimate here.”
May slightly tossed her head, and her lip curled; she seemed about to
speak rather scornfully, but recollecting herself she answered quietly—
“Cyril does not come very often now, and I think his talk is more
interesting to himself than to other people, for it is mostly about
himself. I hope you don’t mind my saying that much, Ray; but indeed it
is true.”
“Oh, I know!” answered Ray, laughing good-temperedly. “We all know that
Cyril is a bit of a poser, or whatever you call it. But I think our
confidence in him as a hero got rather a shock on one occasion. It’s
not the fashion at home to poke fun at Cyril; but I’m sure other people
must laugh at him often!”
Ray laughed as she spoke, and May joined in; the two girls were very
fairly intimate by this time, for May had never dropped her friends
in the town since those summer days when the friendship had grown and
flourished.
“She is a nice girl,” said Ray, as she and Oscar drove away. “I once
began to think I might have her for a sister-in-law, but I don’t think
that is going to come off. Indeed, I almost hope not! Cyril is not half
good enough for her!”
Oscar was silent; the subject of Cyril was painful to him. Ray glanced
at him, and then said suddenly—
“Oscar, North has told me something about how things stand; he has told
me more than the rest know. I have an awful fear that Cyril is worse
than any of us have ever thought! Sometimes I am quite miserable about
it, and you getting the blame in a way. It is too bad!”
“I think people have been very kind to me,” said Oscar slowly, “and we
do not know anything against Cyril.”
“We know he was a coward once, and told a lie to screen himself! That
was quite bad enough. Oscar, I sometimes feel that a man who could do
all that could do much worse if the temptation were strong enough.
North says the same.”
“North is a very generous fellow—a very fine fellow!” cried Oscar, with
sudden enthusiasm; “and I hope he is going to get his reward—some day!”
“His reward? What do you mean?” asked Ray quickly.
“Didn’t it come into your head to-day? It did into mine. I think Miss
Lawrence may be, perhaps, your sister-in-law still!”
“Oh,” cried Ray, with wide-open eyes, “do you really think so? I never
thought of such a thing! Yet really it might be. But what _would_ Cyril
say?”
(_To be continued._)
DIET IN REASON AND IN MODERATION.
BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”
PART I.
THE BREAKFAST.
The subject of “diet and digestion” is a well-worn theme, and more
books and papers are written upon this than upon any other medical
subject.
But though the tale is old, there are variations and embellishments
which are quite new; and it is in an original manner that we wish to
speak to you on this old but oft-forgotten subject of physiological
diet.
We are going to teach you health from the kitchen and dining-room, two
of the most important sources of human suffering, and the chief sources
of income of the physician.
For it is in the kitchen that indigestion begins, and if your cook
is faultless, and rightly understands her business, you will not get
indigestion, save through your own indiscretions in the dining-room.
It is commonly supposed that the chief fault in diet is eating to
excess, that is, violation of the laws of moderation. But this is not
the commonest mistake, for in most cases where too much food is eaten,
it is from faulty methods of eating, and from taking unsuitable food.
The Americans suffer from indigestion more than do any other people
in the world; the French suffer perhaps the least. Yet the average
Frenchman eats more than the Yankee, but he has made a science of
feeding, and notwithstanding that he eats more than the American, he
eats it better and more rationally, and therefore his organs digest it
more rapidly.
You think it is disgusting to make a science of feeding—pandering to
one of the lowest of pleasures? No, you are mistaken; the science is
not only just, it is necessary for health. Of course, if your science
consists in elaborating dishes to tickle your appetite, to enable you
to eat more than you need, it is very wrong. But here it is not science
which is to blame, but the person who abuses science.
As soon as we are down in the morning we think of our stomachs, of
our breakfast. It is no good telling us that it is irrational to eat
breakfast; that as we have done no work yet we need no nourishment;
for we thoroughly disbelieve in this argument. It is much better for
everyone to take something at breakfast-time, but whether she should
make a good square meal at breakfast, and take but a small luncheon,
or just pick a little something at breakfast, and make a good meal at
midday, depends entirely upon what she is used to.
Many persons take a little fruit before breakfast, and it is not at all
a bad plan, for fruit is the natural and best aperient. Because of the
difficulty of obtaining fruit and vegetables many of us Londoners eat
too much meat, which is very wrong, for excessive meat-eating brings
many diseases in its train.
All fruits are not equally digestible, and some kinds are so difficult
to digest that they should only be taken by those who are in robust
health. All stone-fruit, especially cherries, and all nuts are very
indigestible. Fruit is always best when it is picked just before it is
eaten, and those who possess the luxury of an orchard or country garden
of their own should eat a little fruit from the trees, in the season,
every morning before breakfast, when the combination of the fresh fruit
and the crisp morning air will do much to brace up the system for the
day.
Unripe fruit is no favourite with the stomach, and it may produce
severe griping and colic. Much more injurious is over-ripe or
decomposing fruit, a very common cause of so-called English cholera.
Certain persons have peculiar idiosyncrasies for certain fruits,
especially for strawberries, and at the beginning of the strawberry
season attacks of nettle-rash accompanied with severe indigestion, due
to eating the fruit, are extremely common.
Now let us go to breakfast. There are plenty of things to choose from;
only think a little beforehand, and have some reason for your choice.
Here is the menu:—
Tea, Coffee, Cocoa, Milk.
Rolls and Butter.
Oatmeal Porridge.
Eggs and Bacon.
Fried Fish.
Bloaters.
Marmalade.
What will you take to drink? “Oh, tea is so indigestible, coffee is so
bitter, cocoa is so unrefreshing, and milk swarms with tubercle germs!
So give me any that you like.” Why? Is this the science of dieting? Who
has prepared this meal, that she serves up tea that is indigestible,
coffee that is bitter, and milk that swarms with tubercle bacilli? Give
her notice at once, and prepare the drinks for yourself; or rather,
bring us the necessary implements, and we will show you how to prepare
tea that is not indigestible, and milk that is quite free from germs.
There is a great deal of nonsense talked about the indigestibility
of tea. That tea as it is usually served is an indigestible and
highly nauseating decoction we readily admit; and also that if it is
indulged in to excess at all hours of the day, as it is by so many
poor seamstresses, it is injurious to the “nerves.” But in moderation,
properly made tea is as digestible as any hot liquid can be, and is
infinitely more readily digested than any of the numerous substitutes
which have been introduced to supersede it.
This is the way to make tea. What is this? A silver tea-pot!
Take it away and sell it, and buy a brown earthenware one for
fivepence-halfpenny. No good tea was ever made in a silver pot. Which
tea shall we have—Indian, Ceylon, or China? China undoubtedly, for
though it is much weaker than Indian tea it contains very much less
tannin, which is the indigestible ingredient of tea.
We are afraid that you must take the kettle back to the fire and boil
the water again, for while we have been talking the water has got
cooled, and tea must never be made with water that is not boiling,
because it readily dissolves the tannin but leaves the caffeine—to
which the stimulating property of tea is due—behind.
Now we will pour the boiling water over the tea and leave it to draw
for one minute only before pouring it into the cups.
“But it is so weak, I can see the bottom of the cup through it.” Quite
right; so you should. The caffeine and the flavour of the leaves are
instantly diffused into the boiling water. If you leave the tea to draw
for some minutes, excess of the tannin is dissolved, which precipitates
the caffeine and renders the tea indigestible and unrefreshing.
And the deepening of the colour. What do you think causes that? Dirt
and extractives, materials far better left behind with the leaves with
which to sweep the carpet.
Milk must be boiled the moment it enters the house. Infected milk is so
common and so readily infects those that drink it, that it is a serious
mistake not to sterilise it at once.
No milk should be put upon the table which has not been boiled. Boiling
kills all bacteria; it therefore kills the germs of typhoid fever and
tuberculosis which are very commonly found in milk. Indeed, milk is one
of the commonest agents by which these two diseases are spread. There
are numerous milk boilers in the market, notably those of earthenware
with holes in the lid, through which the milk can flow to and fro when
in the act of boiling.
What will you take to eat? But in the first place it is no good sitting
down to eat solids unless you have good teeth. Bad teeth and absence of
teeth are two of the commonest causes of indigestion.
Decayed teeth cause indigestion, because they swarm with germs which
secrete poisons which are swallowed with the food and irritate the
stomach.
Absence of teeth is the commonest of all causes of lifelong dyspepsia,
and the first step in the treatment of any form of long-continued
indigestion should be a visit to the dentist.
Also it is no good having sound teeth unless you use them. Teeth were
given to you to chew with, and you must chew every morsel of food, and
chew it well, giving at least twenty “grinds” to each mouthful.
It is bolting food which causes so much indigestion. It is bolting
which causes so many persons to eat too much, and it is bolting which
has rendered the go-ahead Yankee the proverbial martyr to dyspepsia.
If you eat slowly, and thoroughly masticate your food, you will lose
your appetite when you have eaten enough, and so you will not eat too
much without knowing it. But if you shovel in your food like pitching
bricks into a cart, the stomach is nonplussed, and you may go on eating
and still be hungry long after you have taken sufficient food; and
you will not know that you have eaten too much until your unfortunate
stomach attempts to digest its contents.
Now back again to our _menu_. Eggs and bacon is perhaps the commonest
breakfast dish in England. And a thoroughly good and wholesome dish
it is, too, if properly cooked. Of course if the eggs are stale and
the bacon is half raw and swimming in grease, it is indigestible; but
properly cooked fresh eggs—preferably poached and underdone—and crisp
grilled bacon is a very digestible food. It is curious that although
pork is one of the most indigestible of meats, bacon is tolerated by
the most delicate and disordered stomachs.
Fried fish is another excellent breakfast dish. Whiting, soles and
plaice are the three most digestible of fried fish. Herrings and eels
are bilious and difficult to digest.
Hot rolls and butter are proverbially indigestible. But our close
wool-like bread is far more difficult to digest than the light, more
glutinous _bâtons_ of the French breakfast. Indeed, these light rolls,
consisting of little more than holes stuck together, are not so very
indigestible. Why we cannot get them in England we do not know.
Oatmeal is the national breakfast dish of the Scotch. The Highlander
makes his meal of oatmeal before his long day in the open air. The
English lord, when he goes deer-stalking in the Grampians, also takes
oatmeal for his breakfast, and finds it a wholesome and sustaining
food. But when he returns to Mayfair, he would no more think of eating
oatmeal for breakfast than he would dine off sawdust.
The Scotch brag greatly about the value of oatmeal as a diet, and they
would persuade us Londoners that oatmeal is the best breakfast dish
we can take. But when we say that it makes us heavy, and gives us
indigestion, they always answer, “That is because you do not make it
properly.” But that is not the reason. Oatmeal is a very nutritious
food, but it is not easily digested; and so, although the Scotch
peasant likes it, and can digest it because of his outdoor life and
laborious occupation, the Londoner, with his sedentary life in a smoky
city, cannot digest it. And for him it is an unsuitable diet.
Last and least as regards expense, but most important from the numbers
who eat it, is the homely bloater.
Dried fish is not very easy to digest, but is highly nutritious and
is cheap. And when you can get nutritious food at a cheap rate, you
must expect to give a little extra trouble to digest it. Smoked salmon
is far and away the worst form of dried fish. It is much the most
indigestible, it is very expensive, and it is not really half so tasty
as a kipper.
A little bread and marmalade forms a pleasant end to the breakfast.
But what does this mean—“Good-bye, I am so glad to have had breakfast
with you, but I must rush off to catch my train, as I have to be in the
City by 9.30 A.M.” What! Running to catch a train immediately after a
meal? Then in future you had better belong to that class that eats no
breakfast. Better have an empty stomach than a full one which you will
not allow yourself to digest.
(_To be continued._)
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.
PART X.
THE VILLAGE INN.
[Illustration: VILLAGE INN AT WINGHAM.]
Those who recollect “coaching times” can alone realise the idea of a
“village inn.” Railways have created “country hotels,” but the modern
hotel is so different from the old-fashioned inn that it gives one
little idea of the kind of hostelry at which our fathers broke their
journeys when going from London to York, Norwich, or Bristol. Possibly
the attendance was none of the best and the accommodation not all that
could be desired, yet they had somehow or other a charm about them.
They were homely and not luxurious, and the company was decidedly
mixed, yet there was more good-fellowship and kindly feeling among the
guests than can be found in the modern hotel. Of course, we speak alone
of country inns and hotels. Some of our new London hotels are quite
what is wanted in a large busy town, and are distinctly an advance
upon the metropolitan hotel of our grandfathers’ day. But everyone who
recollects travelling by coach has a kindly corner in his heart for
the old roadside inn. How briskly everyone got down from the coach
when the landlord advanced from the porch of the cheery old building,
or the pleasant-looking landlady came to the door, with her pretty
and healthy-looking daughters, to welcome the ladies. There might, of
course, be some bilious old gentleman or cantankerous old lady amongst
the arrivals, but the cheerfulness of the scene and the healthy
appetite generally pacified even these unamiable folks.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE INN, ALFRISTON, SUSSEX.]
What friendships were made, and who does not remember some pleasant
act of kindness connected with the old inn? One of the earliest
recollections of my life is of such an act.
I was a child, and was being taken down to Norfolk to be put to school.
We sat down to dinner, my father on one side of me and a strange, but
very gentle, married lady on the other. My father got very interested
in a conversation with another clergyman on “dangers threatening the
Church.” I felt miserable, frightened, and ready to cry when a sweet
voice whispered in my ear, “What is the matter, my little man? Ah, I
see your hands are cold and you cannot cut up your dinner.” So she
took my hands and warmed them in her own fair palms. After a minute
she addressed me again. “Why, my dear child, you don’t seem to be at
your ease even now.” I was too silly or shy to tell her what was the
matter (and perhaps a little bit ashamed), but her quick woman’s wit
soon found out what was wrong. I saw her whisper to one of the girls
who were waiting, and very quickly a _child’s_ knife and fork were
placed before me. I had never before handled a large knife and fork.
How grateful I felt to that kind and thoughtful lady. I never saw her
again; and although it is more than half a century since this act of
kindness was done, I shall never forget either her or it.
Now, recollections of this kind seem to cling around old-fashioned
inns. And what quaint-looking buildings they were, with their
projecting bow windows, long low rooms, and great beams supporting the
front externally and the ceiling internally.
Few indeed of these old village inns now remain, but we give two,
one from Alfriston in Sussex, and the other from Wingham in Kent.
The former is an excellent example of Tudor work, half timbered
construction, with wooden mullions, bow windows, and doorways, with a
most curious fragment of a sign representing a dragon preserved at one
corner. Since we made this sketch the building has, we believe, been
restored, but we trust the old dragon has survived. The roof is covered
with thin slabs of stone called “shingles,” not an uncommon kind of
roofing in neighbourhoods where stone is cheap and plentiful.
The other inn, which we have sketched at Wingham, Kent, is a very
remarkable building, portions of which certainly date from the
fourteenth century. The great roof, which is visible from the upper
rooms, is very interesting, and seems at one time to have formed a
kind of hall undivided from end to end (the porch with its bow windows
above it is a charming feature). Possibly it may have been a primitive
concert room, and resounded with those sweet old English madrigals of
Bird, Dowland, and Orlando Gibbons.
There is a fine old Gothic inn at Glastonbury with a front of entirely
cut stone, and the picturesque old “King’s Head” at Chigwell, the
original of Dickens’s “Maypole” in _Barnaby Rudge_, is a good example
of the Stuart period.
The bishops and clergy of various denominations who have started “The
People’s Refreshment House Association, Limited,” have no doubt the
idea of replacing the ordinary village “public-house” by something
more nearly resembling the old “hostelrie,” in fact, of replacing the
mere drinking-shop by an establishment where rational refreshment can
be obtained by those who require it, and should they succeed in their
enterprise they will earn the thanks of all thinking people and be
doing a good work in the cause of temperance.
H. W. BREWER.
(_To be continued._)
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.
CHAPTER IX.
MORE ABOUT THE CHINAMEN.
One man I remember especially among these, who led us a fine dance! He
was a tall, thin, intellectual-looking fellow, with a handsome but most
cruel face. Some friends from a distance had sent us word that they
were coming over for the day, and I had provided a turkey for dinner.
All that I could prepare beforehand had been done. Dinner was to be at
one o’clock, and I began to be uneasy as the time passed, and I knew
the turkey to be lying white and cold and unstuffed upon the kitchen
table. It was dangerous ground to seem to interfere, or advise much,
and I had already twice said, and the last time with emphasis, that the
dinner must be punctual and the turkey well done. After anxious and
secret family consultations, however, as the time grew very late, and
I knew the great white thing to be still lying on the kitchen table, I
went in and told him that he must get the turkey into the oven at once.
He made no reply, and went on perfectly quietly with some unimportant
job; I waited a moment, and still getting no reply, I repeated my
order, adding, “Do you hear, Wong?”
Then he looked round at me, with a leer on his handsome face, and still
gave no answer. “Dinner is at one,” I said, trying to keep quiet. “When
will that turkey be ready?”
After a moment of silent laughter, when I could see his back shaking,
he said, “Turkey leady allie lightie to-mollow, not cookie him
to-day—no time!” Then his back shook again, as he bent over his bit of
work.
I confess I did not know how to deal with this. Nowadays, in such a
plight, I should storm and get very angry, and try to frighten him, for
they are all cowards. But I was too uncertain then, and our friends
were due directly, and I did not dare risk anything.
However, the end of it was, dinner was just a little late, but to our
amazement everything was beautifully cooked and served, and there was
no sign of that alarming mood in the grave alert man who waited on us.
I had not then realised how marvellously quick they are; what seeming
impossibilities they can accomplish without effort, slip-slopping about
in their loose, heelless little shoes with apparently tireless steps.
They are very methodical and orderly, and no doubt this is the secret
of their quickness. They certainly get through a great deal of work,
and with ease too, and have plenty of leisure besides.
One man we had always spent his leisure in sleep. He disappeared
regularly after the washing-up of the midday dinner. It was only by
chance that we discovered where he took his siesta. One of us went to
fetch something from the “cool” cellar we had dug for ourselves, and
of which we were very proud, and were startled to find a white figure
lying prostrate, stretched across three empty lemon boxes, in the
middle of the floor.
So that was where Quong disappeared to, and that was why at times the
cellar was locked and the key gone, as we had noticed once or twice.
I did not tell the rest of the family so, but I believe he also made
his Chinese toilet there, combing his pigtail, and generally setting
himself in order all among the milk-pans, and the butter, and the tarts!
He explained, smiling and unmoved, that it was “welly cool, welly nice
for rest there.” However, we said he must not sleep there any more.
Most Chinamen are wonderfully clever gardeners, especially delighting
in growing vegetables; and when once that nimble white figure is seen
busy at work in the kitchen garden, one may pick up some hope that the
new cook will quietly settle down in his new place, for some months
at least, and that the charms of the gambling houses and opium dens
of Chinatown will fade from his mind for a little while. Our present
man, who is a capital servant, has rejoiced our hearts lately by
making himself very busy in the kitchen garden. Knowing what contrary
creatures they are, always doing the opposite of what one expects, we
try to “rejoice with moderation,” as an old friend used to advise; but,
after all, why not enjoy one’s pleasure with a free heart, and to the
full, while it lasts?
We have never done admiring and wondering at the way our present
cook, Yung, does his gardening, accomplishing so much, and in such
a curiously casual way, popping out between-whiles in his little
embroidered velvet shoes, and finishing each time some fresh piece of
work in a masterly fashion.
Then besides the hope in one’s mind that this interest will bind him to
his place for a time, there is the thrilling expectation of some day
eating these same vegetables. One has to live on a ranch, out of reach
of Chinese vegetable carts, to know how pleasant that prospect seems.
The first years of a ranch demand so much work for the trees, and all
the business connected with the ranch itself is so pressing, that even
if a kitchen garden is made at once, as in our case, the vegetables get
such poor attention that they are of very little use. Nothing grows
here without the closest tending; but with constant care the growth is
like a fairy tale. However, very few ranchers find time for vegetables
in the first years, at any rate.
Some Chinamen, too, are great readers, and bring with them quite a
library of small paper-backed Chinese books. I asked one of these
studious ones if they were the books of Confucius that he was reading
so diligently, at which he seemed much amused, grinning and shaking his
head.
After our fatiguing time of domestic troubles, when the winter season
was over, and San Miguel was once more the half empty, easy-going
little town, and good Chinamen were ready to take even a place in the
country, we got quite a passable cook, bad tempered, however, and very
rough in his ways at such times. But we were thankful to have the work
done fairly well, on any terms, and we pretended not to notice his
almost brutal manner.
I had been warned again and again by friends who had long experience
in dealing with Chinamen, not to interfere at all, but to leave things
entirely to them. So long as the work is fairly well done and things
are clean, what does the rest matter? Most of them are by no means
extravagant or wasteful, as servants go; but if such a one should fall
to your lot, you may as well dismiss him at once, for you will never
persuade him to make the least change. They are so exceedingly stubborn
that interference, if it does no harm, is little likely to do any
good. In most cases where a change is demanded, they will say “allie
lightie,” and go on doing their own way.
As I myself do the choosing and buying of the meat, I also go through
the form of ordering how it shall be cooked and prepared for each meal.
If my orders accord with his Celestial ideas, they are carried out, and
if not, they are not. And that is the end of it. He always serves up
something nice, and does not waste, which is surely good enough for any
reasonable being.
I confess I do resent a little the half covert smile with which I am
received in the morning when I go into the kitchen to give these bogus
orders; but I brazen it out, and struggle through the form with the
best dignity I can.
One lady friend, when advising me never to interfere about the work,
told me of a striking experience she had before she learnt her lesson.
She kept a large boarding-school for girls, and employed a number of
Chinamen. The cook, being a very capable and respectable fellow, was
the acknowledged head over the others, engaging them and dismissing
them on his own responsibility. That was the plan which she had found
the best, and as long as he was satisfied, all worked as smoothly as a
machine, for he belonged, as most of them do, to some secret society,
and whether he was a “high binder,” as seemed likely, or not, they
feared and obeyed him as they would never have feared or obeyed her.
One unlucky day, however, she took it into her head to go into the
kitchen and prepare some small thing which he had cooked once or twice
in a manner that did not please her. She had told him that she did not
like it so, but next time it was served in just the same fashion, and
she was annoyed. She went bravely into her own kitchen, and prepared
it as she liked, leaving him in quiet possession as soon as this was
finished.
A large school is a busy place, and no one had time to notice anything
unusual or strange till the hour for dinner drew near. Then suddenly it
struck all the little community that the house was very still; there
was no smell of dinner, and in the dining-room, when the door was
hastily flung open, there were no preparations for the meal.
Our friend, startled and uneasy, hurried to the kitchen, to find
everything in perfect order, but no sign of Chinese activity, and the
fires of the range all grey and cold. A quick search convinced her
that they were alone in the house, and in a great state of wonder
and excitement she and her friends got together a cold, picnic sort
of meal, and ate it up, discussing meanwhile what they should do. As
the Chinese _chef_ had been exceedingly well treated, and had also
been some years with them, they felt very indignant that he should
have played them such a trick for so slight an offence, for my friend
recognised that she had committed an offence.
They determined in their wrath that they would have no more Chinamen;
they would employ nice, decent women, with whom they could reason, and
who would understand one’s point of view. They telephoned at once to an
employment agency in the nearest town, asking for the best girls that
could be had, at such short notice, to be sent out to them at once.
Soon they arrived, and were spreading confusion and discomfort all over
the house—a wretchedly incompetent set. They were all dismissed, and a
fresh batch sent out—but, alas! no better than the first.
Then the girls and their teachers, in desperation, determined to do
their own work until they had time to make some better plans. All
this had taken up three or four days, and one morning our friend was
hard at work sweeping her own drawing-room carpet, and making a great
noise over it, when the brush was taken out of her hands by a quiet
firm grasp, and glancing up, she saw her Chinese _chef_, looking
particularly neat and business-like, after all the tawdry finery of the
women servants. He said quietly, “Me do lis; you no do such sing,” and
went on with the sweeping as though there had been no break whatsoever
in his regular work. Being both breathless with her sweeping, and
very glad to hand it over to someone else, naturally also a good deal
taken aback, she murmured something or other and went quietly out of
the room, and then discovered that all about the house were quiet,
quick-moving figures, clad in the familiar white jackets, busy about
their separate duties, just as though they had been there all the time.
The lesson was very effectual in her case, for never again did she
attempt the least interference.
This seems to be an exceedingly long account of domestic affairs, but
being so unlike our English edition of such troubles, it may be of
interest, or, at least, it may serve to enhance the feelings of comfort
and luxury of those at home who can command a well-trained cook, and
housemaid, and parlour-maid, not to mention the useful charwoman, and
all for less money than we pay our one Chinaman.
(_To be continued._)
SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.
BY LA PETITE.
PART IV.
CHAIRS!
It so chanced that I did not see Belinda Ann for some long time after
the launch.
Illness and a trip to Switzerland came between us, and when I returned
to England the Club had not yet resumed its winter meetings.
The moment it did so, however, I took an early opportunity of visiting
it, and to my joy Belinda Ann arrived shortly after me.
I pounced on her at once and drew her into a secluded corner, where we
could talk unobserved.
“Belinda,” I began eagerly, “I want you to take me to your Feather Club
one day. Will you?”
She put her head on one side and glanced at me sideways, as was her way
when in doubt, and remarked—
“There ain’t nothink ter see, yer know. We just pys in our money every
week, an’ the one who draws the winnin’ number gits the feather that
week, an’ then we begins all over agyne, but I’ve left that an’ jined a
furniture club now,” and she gave me another sidelong look.
I was so full of my own ideas that I did not particularly notice her
evident desire to be asked why, but exclaimed—
“I did not know you had other sorts of clubs.”
“Bless yer, yuss!” retorted Belinda Ann, with all her old contempt for
my lamentable ignorance. “There’s furniture clubs, an’ crockery clubs,
an’ photergraph clubs, an’ draperies an’ boot clubs, an’ I dun know
what all!”
“And how much do you pay?” I asked.
“Well, it depends,” she replied cautiously. “It runs from anythink from
thruppence to five bob, accordin’ ter succumstances, but I’ll tyke yer
ter one ef yer like, though there ain’t nothink whatever ter see.”
I closed with the offer at once, and then asked what she had been doing
all this time.
“’Eaps!” she answered laconically; and then remarked in a would-be
off-hand manner, “I’m a-walkin’ hout with a young feller down our
court.”
“Oh!” I replied, not specially impressed, as this was a very everyday
affair.
“An’ ’e’s sed ‘Chairs’ ter me!” she added, with an elaborate assumption
of indifference and an unsuccessful attempt not to look triumphant.
“Oh, Belinda!” I exclaimed, grasping at once what this meant, “I am
glad. That is why you joined the furniture club?”
She nodded, pleased at my intelligence, and added complacently—
“An’ I’ve jined the sewin’ class, so’s I ken myke my own _trossax_.”
I fully approved of this, and inquired as to when the marriage was to
take place.
She pursed up her lips and shook her head solemnly, as she replied—
“Not yet awhile. I’ve no fancy fer startin’ too soon an’ bein’ brought
up with a jerk, an’ I wants ter myke sure of a comferble plyce ter
begin with,” which showed me what I had always known, namely, that
Belinda Ann was in many ways above her class.
“I means ter ’ave a room ter myself any’ow,” she went on. “Why, ef
you’ll berlieve me”—warming with her subject—“down Spitalfields wy
there was once four families as ’ad one room atween ’em. They each ’ad
one corner, an’ one man lived in the middle, but dear, they didn’t
mind, an’ got on well enough till the man in the middle took in a
lodger, an’ then there was a row ’cos they sed that was jest a little
too much.”
I heartily agreed, though the story was not new to me any more than it
will be to you.
We parted, having made an appointment for the following week, so a
few days afterwards found me under her guidance, trying to find out
something about the clubs.
As we walked she showed me notices in various shop-windows of “Clubs
held here,” but the one we finally entered was of a very humble
description, and the proprietress, a wizened little hunchback, looked
suspiciously at me and was most reluctant, even at Belinda Ann’s
request, to explain the mode of procedure.
There was not much to tell, she said stiffly, and nothing to see.
The girls just paid their sixpence a week, and the number of members,
of course, had to tally with the value of what they wanted.
Hers was a boot-club, and, as coster girls are notoriously fastidious
about the quality of their boots, seven-and-six and eight-and-six is
the price aimed at, so she had fifteen members just now, and a friend
of hers had seventeen.
They were strictly honourable, and always “stood up” to what they had
undertaken, even though they might find it a tax to produce the weekly
subscription regularly; and when a girl had secured the article for
which she had joined the club, she never by any chance “cried off,” but
went on paying till all the members were supplied.
Of course it was not everyone who could be admitted to these
privileges, and, as a rule, strangers were not particularly welcomed
unless well vouched for by an old member, as there was always the
chance of their being winners early and then “crying off” the rest of
their subscription.
The club was mainly composed of friends who rarely met at the
“club-holder’s,” except on the occasion of the weekly draw.
Of course, if a girl could spare the money, there was no objection to
her buying two tickets, thus enjoying two chances and also helping to
hasten matters, and there had been cases where the members, hearing
that one of their old “chums” (or “pals,” as they call it) was in sore
want, voluntarily kept the club going another week, and then handed it
all over to her, with the club-holder’s consent, of course.
The usual method was to put fifteen pieces of paper in a bag, on one
being written the number of weeks the club was old, and the member who
drew out the marked paper was able to buy the boots that week, and so
on.
“Then it really is a lottery!” I remarked meditatively.
“No, t’ain’t,” she snapped sharply; “it’s a club!” And after that I
could not get another word out of her, but I gathered later on that she
derived her profit from the draper or bootshop visited, who allowed her
so much for every “ticket” presented to him, and that she often had
more than one club running at a time.
Belinda Ann was so obviously crestfallen at the poor result of our
excursion that I hastened to inquire after her “young man,” upon which
she brightened up, informed me his name was Joe, that he was in the
coster line and owned a “barrer an’ moke” of his own. He sold anything
that was in season, and Belinda Ann had grave thoughts of giving up her
present occupation and accompanying him on his rounds.
I privately thought this would be a “come-down” for her, remembering
the draggle-tailed, slatternly women who usually pursue this line of
business, but she was so visibly elated over the whole business that I
could not bear to be a wet blanket.
She was dying to introduce Joe to me, and as I was no less curious
to see him, I agreed to attend the sewing-class one night, as she
proudly remarked, “’E allus fetches me ’ome ’isself, which is more nor
what most blokes ’ud do,” and indeed I found this to be the case, as
courtship in the East End is a very prosaic and matter-of-fact affair,
conducted on both sides with scant romance and without any of those
little amenities usual in the West End.
Accordingly I attended the next sewing meeting, at which Belinda
Ann showed me with pride the neat nightgowns she was making, with
little tucks and a frill of embroidery down the front, having already
completed a serviceable stout petticoat or two.
She was the best worker in the class and the others readily
acknowledged her superiority, coming to her for assistance or advice,
and admiring her skill with a whole-hearted generosity which had not a
trace of jealousy or envy about it.
I was sure Belinda Ann was not sorry to let me see her in a new
light, and as I sat apart and watched her I saw and appreciated the
subtle change that her new prospects had wrought in her. She was
sobered and softened, more womanly and more responsible. She had
perhaps lost the bizarre and picturesque charm which had been hers,
but she had gained in qualities which would be more useful to her in
the battle of life, and of which she might have dire need. There had
always been the makings of a noble woman in the rough undisciplined
factory-girl, and no true friend of hers could regret the disappearance
of characteristics which, while making her more interesting and less
commonplace, were not likely to help her much in her struggle for
existence.
Not that she was less ready than of yore with “chaff,” and I heard her
joining more than once in the shrieks of laughter called forth by an
oddly-shaped pattern or an ill-cut garment.
The ladies at the head of the class were wise enough to join in, even
when the joke was against themselves, and to take in good part the
various disrespectful and scornful remarks about their knowledge of
needlework made in stage-whispers all round them.
I do not think any of the girls really cared about sewing, and some of
them were frightfully slow workers. One girl had been at work on the
same garment for over a year, and as she came late and left early, it
seemed likely to last another twelve months at least.
The nominal hours were from eight to ten, but they dropped in at all
times, and some only stayed a few minutes.
One girl put in about three stitches and then rolled her work up in an
untidy bundle, crammed it into her bag (a lady had presented each girl
with a bag in which to keep her work clean), and remarking, “I carn’t
sew with coarse cotton like that,” disappeared with not another word of
explanation or apology. They could bring their own materials if they
liked, but long-cloth and flannelette were provided, and they could
then purchase the garments they made at cost price.
There was a piano in the room, but music as a rule was impossible, the
girls’ healthy lungs preventing anything short of a drum being heard.
One started a song and the others joined in, which was all right as
long as they all sang the same, but when half-a-dozen different tunes
were all being shouted out at once, the noise was rather appalling.
By degrees the room emptied till only Belinda Ann and myself were left,
even the founders having retired to a neighbouring class-room to put on
capes and bonnets. I ought to have mentioned before that the meeting
was held in a Board School which the authorities kindly lent for the
one night in the week.
Well, the clock began to strike ten, and I felt really sorry for
Belinda Ann, whose anxious glances at the door were getting more and
more frequent.
The tardy arrival of the swain, whose devotion she had been extolling,
was doubly vexing to a proud girl of her calibre, since it would, she
considered, make me think that she had been “gassing” unduly about him,
besides which she was not at all likely to put up with neglect in any
shape or form.
The slow minutes dragged inexorably on, and she was just rolling up her
work with a great show of nonchalance, when a lumpy and by no means
fairy footfall sounded on the flagged yard outside, and a healthy
whistle (in which, however, a nice ear might have detected some
trepidation) gave us to understand that the owner had “knocked ’em in
the Old Kent Road.”
I glanced at Belinda, who stopped folding as if she had been shot,
hastily unrolled everything and started sewing again with her nose in
the air and the light of battle in her eye.
I was not at all sure that even my presence would save the unlucky Joe
from a sound rating, but when the whistling and the footsteps abruptly
ceased together, and an apologetic double-shuffle at the door forced
her to look round, she evidently considered that the scolding had
better wait, and merely said haughtily—
“Ow, there y’are at larst! Come on an’ show yerself ter ther lydy an’
mind yer manners!”
This was scarcely calculated to set him entirely at his ease, and as I
could plainly see he was already suffering agonies of bashfulness I met
him half-way (literally as well as metaphorically) and, having said how
pleased I was to see him, held out my hand.
He was evidently unprepared for this, and having wiped his own
elaborately on his corduroys, he gave it a final polish with his cap
before venturing to respond.
A rather awkward pause ensued, which was happily broken by the ladies,
who now returned to the room ready to go home, and who all seemed to
know Joe very well. While he was answering their questions, I was able
to have a good look at him, and I must admit I was disappointed in his
appearance.
I had not expected anything heroic or romantic, of course, but, really,
Belinda Ann’s betrothed was distressingly plain.
His hair was an unmistakable red, and cropped so short as to suggest
his having lately lodged at Her Majesty’s expense. His eyes were a
watery grey, with very pink rims and no eyelashes to speak of, and his
mouth was so capacious it really quite alarmed you when he yawned, as
he did presently with engaging frankness.
He was obviously a good bit younger than the bride-elect, but this is
not unusual, and besides Belinda Ann would always have been the leading
spirit anyhow.
He was physically smaller, too, being so stunted in growth as to make
her look like a young giantess, and a stubbly attempt at a moustache
made him seem even more boyish.
By the time I had completed my survey we were all ready to go, and as
the other ladies were returning by the Underground, Joe and Belinda
offered to escort me to the omnibus.
“Joe’s got two tickets for the Vic. to-morrer night,” Belinda remarked
presently.
It seemed to me a pity that Joe should spend his hard-earned and
much-needed money on so questionable an amusement, and I ventured to
say so, in very delicate language of course.
“Ow, ’e ain’t pyd fer ’em!” returned Belinda Ann reassuringly, “a
friend o’ ’is goes on in the crowd, an’ ken pass in two friends when ’e
likes. Thet’s ’ow it is.”
The next time I attended the sewing-class I asked her how she liked
it, and nearly had my nose snapped off in return. For some reason (I
shrewdly suspected that Joe and she had had a “tiff”) she was in a
grievously bad temper, and had already quarrelled with everyone in the
room except me. Now it was my turn, and as she turned on me with a
gloomy frown I felt sorry I had spoken.
“Like it?” she remarked, viciously biting off her cotton with her
strong white teeth. “I never seed anythink more morotonous in all my
born days! Call thet a ply? I calls it a reglar ’owlin’ swindle!”
“Why? What was the matter with it?” I inquired mildly. “What was it
called?”
“Fust!” she retorted ferociously, and for a minute I wondered what she
meant, till it dawned on me that she probably meant _Faust_.
“Well, what happened?” I coaxed. “You might just tell me, Belinda.”
“Ow, I dun know,” she answered sulkily. “There was a sort of a cellar
plyce, kinder prison, with a old cove a-reading in a book, an’ then ’e
began ter jaw, and ’e could do it too. I thought ’e’d never leave off,
an’ I’d jest said ter my Joe, ‘What’s thet there old cove a-doing of?’
when there comes fireworks, an’ someone in red ’ops out of ’em, an’ if
’e don’t bergin ter jaw! My word, it was sick’nin’!” and she relapsed
into gloomy silence.
“But, Belinda,” I put in, “they are obliged to talk to let you know
what the story is about. If they did it all without speaking, you might
not understand it.”
“An’ small loss,” she retorted uncompromisingly. “I didn’t understand
it as it was. In one part three or four people went into a church, an’
I says, sarcastick-like, ‘It must be a weddin’, sech lots o’ people
agoin’ to church,’ but Joe says it was meant there was a service agoin’
on, an’ all I ken say is it was a werry poor congregeration.”
“Oh, of course, it is all make-believe,” I said soothingly. “They
had not really got a church there, you know, and the people were not
attending a service inside but only pretending to.”
“Well, I ’aven’t got the time nor the money ter spend on lookin’
at things wot ain’t true,” she replied with decision, “an’ wot’s
more, I sha’n’t let my Joe go neither. It ain’t wuth it,” which was
astonishingly sensible of her, I thought.
While heartily approving of her decision, I could not resist asking her
whether what she called “fireworks” had not pleased her.
“Purty well,” she replied reflectively, “I’ve seen better ones, but at
leastes they was real. There was one scene with a founting where the
gals shunted that cove in red, an’ then the founting ran fire, but I
spose that was make-believe too,” and, alas, I was unable to deny it.
I was rather relieved to find that her first visit to the theatre was
likely to be her last, and had certainly not given her a taste for
that sort of amusement (which I had been half afraid it might), and,
by dint of great exertion on my part, I managed to restore her wonted
good-humour before we parted.
(_To be continued._)
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.
B. G. (_Employment in the Colonies_).—We hope you will observe this
answer, as you have not given a pseudonym. It is, of course, a very
serious question whether you would do wisely or rightly to leave your
present comfortable situation where your services are valued in order
to seek employment abroad. So far as you yourself are concerned, it
would seem probable that if you have made yourself useful to one
household, you would to another. But in dealing with your employers a
frank explanation would probably be best. Tell them that you have this
strong desire to see something of the world outside your own country;
but that you would not like to leave at a moment when, by so doing, you
would be putting them to inconvenience. We can hardly doubt that your
employers will meet you in a similar spirit, and will try to arrange
matters so that you may leave England at the right time of year for
emigration purposes. If you wish to leave this season, you should lose
no time in taking lessons in cookery. You do not say where you live,
but nowadays there are few localities without either a regular school
of cookery or some evening classes at which cookery is taught. If you
can make yourself a really good cook, Canada would be the most suitable
country to which you could betake yourself. According to the latest
report of the Emigrants’ Information Office (31, Broadway, Westminster,
S.W.), cooks earn much more than general servants, £25 a year being
frequently paid. In the north-west cooks receive as much as £5 a month,
or at the rate of £60 a year. You should not leave for Canada later
than September, as the winter, which is severe, begins in October. If
you could go earlier it would be better, otherwise you should wait
till April of next year. The British Women’s Emigration Association,
Imperial Institute, Kensington, W., would advise and help you further
if you would apply to the Secretary. You should also make a note of
the address of the Women’s Protective Immigration Society, 84, Osborne
Street, Montreal, and of the Girls’ Home of Welcome, 272, Assiniboine
Avenue, Winnipeg, Manitoba. To these institutions you could turn if you
wanted a lodging or help in seeking a good situation.
DAISY (_One Year’s Training in a General Hospital_).—General
hospitals—the qualifications of which carry weight in the nursing
world—almost invariably receive probationers for not less than two
years’ training. Three years is an ordinary limit, and even four
years are required by some of the best training schools. The only
alternative course you could pursue is to enter some hospital as a
paying probationer. You would be required to pay thirteen guineas per
quarter; this would cover board, lodging, and tuition, but not uniform
or laundry. It is possible that at the end of six months a paying
probationer, who has shown an aptitude for nursing, may be invited to
join the regular nursing staff of the hospital. If such an invitation
were made to you, you would do wisely to accept it, for your position
as a private nurse would be strengthened by the fact that you had
undergone a full course of hospital training. We advise you to offer
yourself as a paying probationer to the Middlesex Hospital, Mortimer
Street, London, W., or the Royal Free Hospital, Gray’s Inn Road,
London, W.C. If you prefer to remain in Scotland, you might apply to
the Matron of the Northern Infirmary, Inverness. Here candidates are
received for one year only and are paid a salary. This institution,
however, is much smaller than either of the London hospitals
above-mentioned, and could not offer you so complete a knowledge of
nursing in all its branches.
DORIS (_Hospital Training_).—Hospitals do not receive girls as
probationers who are so young as eighteen. You must wait patiently, we
regret to say, till you are two or three and twenty. In the meantime
try to discover whether any evening classes are being held in your
neighbourhood at which you could study ambulance work. Perhaps you
could attend a polytechnic and learn other things as well, such, for
instance, as cookery, which is a most useful subject for a nurse to
understand. Indeed, if you occupied the next few years in obtaining
complete expertness in all the domestic arts, you would find in later
life that the time had been well spent.
A. E. T. (_Situation as Under-Nurse_).—As you are young and have not
yet been out in service, it might be better for you not to come to
London at first, but to seek a situation in your own locality. The
Matron of the Girls’ Boarding Home, 5, Abbey Street, Carlisle; or Mrs.
Chalker, Ladies’ Association for the Care of Girls Training Home, 8,
George Street, Carlisle, would doubtless be kind enough to give you the
address of some thoroughly respectable registry office in the North of
England, through which you could seek a situation. You are too young to
enter any hospital.
M. D. de J. (_Veterinary Surgeons_).—The Royal College of Veterinary
Surgeons does not at present admit women to membership; consequently
women cannot practise in this country with the English qualification.
There are many women who breed horses, and who, no doubt, are quite
capable of acting as “vets” in an amateur capacity. But women have not
gone further in this direction at present.
MISCELLANEOUS.
ROSEBUD.—White velvet, if not very much soiled, can be cleaned at home
with flour rubbed in well, and then brushed out; and this process may
be repeated till it is clean.
THELMA.—If you do not wish to mark your underlinen with your own
initials, why not wait till you are married, and mark it then with your
new ones? The father of the bride should pay for the carriages in which
the bridal party goes to church; the bridegroom pays for his own, and
also for that in which the newly-married pair depart from the church
and the house.
THEO.—1. The great writer on the subject was Lavater, and there is a
cheap edition of his book, but most libraries contain it.—2. We cannot
suggest methods of earning money when we do not know what you can do,
nor your age and position.
EVE.—1. There are exhibitions held in a large number of provincial
centres, at any of which you might exhibit your paintings. There is
one at Newbury, Berks, and many towns in that part of England, but
as you do not give an address, we cannot help you.—2. You must make
an arrangement with some shop (a greengrocer, perhaps) to sell your
flowers.
FRITZ C.—The word “lacustrine” is derived from the Latin _lacus_,
a lake. It means anything pertaining to lakes or swamps. It is
used especially of those lake dwellings which have been found at
various times and places, in which prehistoric peoples have lived
for protection and better security. The most famous of these were
discovered a few years ago in the Lake of Bienne, in Switzerland.
J. J.—We do not think that Di Vernon was an historical character.
Rob Roy, of course, was such, as it was a nickname given to Robert
McGrigor, who assumed the name of Campbell, when the Clan Macgregor
was outlawed by the Scotch Parliament in 1662. He has been called the
Scottish Robin Hood.
TOPSY should certainly _offer_ to pay for herself; but if the person
she accompanies wishes to do so, she can accept the offer with thanks,
of course.
NINE YEARS’ CONSTANT READER.—All engravings by Bartolozzi are of value,
but we could not say of how much, unless we knew in what condition they
were. You had better have them valued by someone near at hand.
RITA.—The year of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER ends with the month of
September. You would begin with the first number of October.
KUDEN.—The shillings and sixpences coined in the reign of Queen Anne
are said to be worth 2s. to 3s. You do not describe it, so we cannot
tell you further. If there be an “E.” under the Queen’s bust, it was
coined in Edinburgh.
DRAGON-FLY.—In the first issue of threepenny, twopenny, and
penny-pieces in Charles II.’s reign, the edges were not milled, but
there is no reason given for the fact. In the reign of Elizabeth there
was an issue of hammered, and one of milled, threepenny-pieces. It was
probably a matter of convenience, as we can find no explanation of it.
BARGE.—1. The term “Limited,” or “Ld.,” as generally written, is a
legal way of announcing the way in which that business is conducted.
There can be no question of politeness nor good manners about it, so
you can add it to your address without interfering with either.—2.
The word “therefor” is used in law works. “Therefore” means “for this
(previously mentioned) reason.” “Therefor” means “for this (previously
mentioned) thing.”
MERCIA.—The book is not of any monetary value, we regret to say.
STENCIL WARE.—The origin of the family of Este was in Italy. The first
we hear of it is Alberto I., a Tuscan prince, who died about 972 A.D.
They were rulers of Tuscany, Milan, Genoa, Padua, Modena, and Ferrara.
The last ruler of this State, Alfonso II., died without issue, 1597,
and Pope Clement VIII. seized on his estates. The descendants, however,
of his brother Cesare ruled in Modena till 1801, when the male line
became extinct, and it passed through the female line to Austria. The
last duke, Francesco V., was driven from his dominions in 1859, and the
duchy was soon afterwards incorporated into the kingdom of Italy. The
House of Este was (in 1060) divided into two branches; John Guelf was
invested with the Duchy of Bavaria, and Fulco remained at Modena and
Ferrara. The former is the ancestor of the House of Hanover.
A WIDOW.—A widow does not change the style of her address on the death
of her husband. If she were previously Mrs. John Thompson, she remains
the same, and uses it on her cards and letters. Mrs. Mary Thompson is
a form of address that is purely legal, and used by lawyers or other
men of business. It is not used in society. The methods of addressing
an aunt differ in different families. Aunt Mary, or Aunt Thompson, are
both correct. The latter is, however, rather old-fashioned. We know
a family in which there are three Aunt Marys. One is Aunt Mary, the
second is Aunt Mary John (the name of her husband superadded), and the
third is Aunt Mary Scott. These distinguishing names are only used when
their owners are spoken of. When spoken to, they are all Aunt Marys.
A BEDFORDIAN.—We think your handwriting unformed, and you probably
could not write quickly enough for secretarial work. Why not practise a
more flowing hand?
LORNA.—It is quite correct to have cards of your own, if you be living
with your brother, and keeping his house.
FLOSSIE.—Wear the white dress, if it be clean enough. Why not?
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 677: Autologia to Antologia—“Nuova Antologia”.
National to Nationale—“Révue Nationale”.]