A MASCULINE STANDPOINT.
“You needn’t go into raptures of gratitude till you hear all about my
suggestion, my love,” said Mrs. Bray; “it’s not all advantage. In fact
the person concerned has been rather on my mind, because I wasn’t at
all sure it would be easy to find her a situation in what she calls
‘this Babylon.’”
“Please tell me about her,” pleaded Lucy.
“To begin with, she is nearly forty years old.”
Lucy at once thought of “Mrs. Morison,” but what she said was, “I think
that is an advantage with me if she has been a good woman and—is
sober.”
“A good woman? My love, she’s one of the unco’ guid! And she’s a total
abstainer—always has been. But she is not what one can call a trained
servant. She has not been in a situation for about twenty years.”
“What has she been doing?” Lucy asked.
“Keeping her father’s house and looking after him,” answered Mrs. Bray,
“and now he’s dead. He had a little farm—a croft, I think they call
it—over the hills and far away, somewhere in a Highland place, which,
because it is not an island, is called the Black Isle.”
The quick, sympathetic old lady caught and understood an expression
which flitted over Lucy’s face.
“Oh, this is all quite genuine,” she said; “that is its one clear
advantage. She’s a friend of my poor Rachel’s—at least, Rachel has
known all about her and ‘her folks’ for years and years. Her brother
was piper in the same regiment with Rachel’s lover. And when Rachel
went North to see that lover’s mother, after he had gone to India, she
was in this woman’s house, and Rachel says that it was most beautifully
kept, and that there were no people in the place more respected than
these Gillespies.”
“One wonders why she left her native place and came so far away,”
observed Lucy.
The old lady shook her head knowingly, and replied, “As poor Rachel
says, ‘there are wheels within wheels.’ It seems there is a married
brother with his wife living near the ‘croft,’ and I understand there
was no love lost between this woman and her sister-in-law. There was
some sort of love-affair mixed up in their animosity. Rachel put me
to sleep one afternoon telling me about it, so you won’t expect me to
remember details. And when the father died, the home had to be broken
up anyhow, for the daughter had nothing to live on. I fancy she didn’t
care to go to service within the range of the sister-in-law, ‘mistress
in her own house.’ There’s a deal of human nature in man, my dear, and
especially in woman. Rachel says her friend doesn’t want to go back,
but if she doesn’t get a place soon, she’s getting so low spirited that
she thinks she will,” continued Mrs. Bray. “You see she has, after
all, only a servant’s recommendation—Rachel’s—and that wouldn’t mean
much to many, but it may to you, who have known Rachel in my house for
so many years, and who understand how faithful and good she is, poor,
silly, sentimental thing.”
Lucy looked up quickly into her old friend’s face. “I would take
your Rachel’s recommendation quite as soon as a ‘character’ from any
mistress,” she said.
“I think you would be wise to do so,” replied Mrs. Bray. “This woman
will be clean and honest, certainly not likely to attract any
troublesome flirtations. She’s got the soft Highland voice with a
pretty little whine in it.”
“Oh, call it a wail!” said Lucy, laughing.
“She’s terribly solemn to look at, and she ends her speeches with
a sigh,” went on Mrs. Bray. “But she’s not bad-looking, and is of
quite superior appearance. Her name is rather a mouthful—Clementina
Gillespie—and she’s not a person whom one could reasonably shorten
into Clem or Tina. No—it wouldn’t do. You might as well call Robert
the Bruce—Bob!”
“Will you send her to see me?” asked Lucy.
“Yes, I will,” said the old lady. “That ridiculous Rachel will be so
pleased! It seems a comfort to her to think of having her dead lover’s
dead old friend’s sister to live near her. To me it seems a far-off cry
of consolation! But everyone to their taste. And now, at last, we’ll
dismiss the kitchen, and you must tell me all about Mr. Challoner.”
Lucy had not only her good news to relate, but she actually had
something to show. The _Slains Castle_ had stayed for a few days at a
certain port, and Charlie had sat for a photograph, which he sent home
in his letter. It might not be much as a work of art or science, for
the posing was all wrong and the chemicals were manifestly bad. Yet
next to Hugh himself it was the very dearest thing in Lucy’s present
possession, so satisfactory was its assurance of the beloved wanderer’s
renewed strength and energy. Where were the wasted form and the wan
countenance which had hitherto haunted Lucy’s memories of her husband?
They had vanished, and thus the poor little photograph had cheered Lucy
as not even Charlie’s letters had done. For in those he might have
been trying “to make the best of things”—to dwell on every trifling
improvement, so as to cheer and uphold her in her loneliness. That fear
had often haunted her, basing itself on her own silence concerning
Pollie’s defection, which silence she had kept intact, “for fear of
worrying him.” The shock which Mrs. Morison’s breakdown had given her,
when on the eve of revelation, had restrained her from any further
attempt at confidence on this matter. This reticence and its motive
naturally made her dread some corresponding reticence on her husband’s
part. The little portrait set that suspicion at rest. So it had its
place in the centre of the dining-room mantelshelf, and was provided
with a dainty little frame—the only “article of luxury” which Lucy had
bought since Charlie’s departure.
Mrs. Bray went off gratified and elate. She loved to play the part
of fairy godmother, though when she was defeated in that—as when
the death of Rachel’s lover prevented her from overwhelming her maid
with marriage gifts—she was apt to turn unsympathetic and cynical.
She prolonged her visit to the little house with the verandah and
had to give up two or three other calls she had arranged in the
same neighbourhood. She drove off saying to herself with a full
consciousness of the humour of the reflection—
“Now I feel good; I could be always good if I was in a world of good
people and was able to straighten out every tangle I saw.”
Lucy had another visitor that evening, Tom Black, who had never failed
to put in his appearance from time to time ever since that memorable
Christmas Day. Tom’s visits were generally of a most cheerful not to
say hilarious description, beginning with games of romps with Hugh and
ending in all sorts of little services to Lucy herself. Thanks to his
aid, she had really given all her books their spring dusting and had
got them correctly restored to their proper places—a thing which could
not have been done by Jane, who though perfectly able to read, would
have stood them upside down, and scattered “sets” most recklessly. Tom
always asked whether there was “anything going on that he could do?”
and Lucy answered him frankly and candidly. She wondered sometimes
whether the inquiry came from humility or pride—from an unnecessarily
humble feeling that his presence might be less than pleasure unless it
was useful, or from a proud masculine consciousness that a feminine
household may often stand in need of a strong arm and a steady hand.
But this evening Tom was in such doleful dumps that Lucy was quite glad
that her own spirits had been somewhat cheered by Mrs. Bray’s visit.
Tom had got to leave his lodgings. He had been placed, on his
first arrival in London, with the elderly widow of a clerk in Mr.
Challoner’s firm. She had a neat little seven-roomed house somewhere
in Barnsbury, and she let two of her bedrooms and one parlour to Tom
Black and another young man. It was a quiet and comfortable though
unpretentious home, wherein a youth who was inclined to good habits
found every influence to help his perseverance therein. Youths who
were not inclined to good habits were not allowed to linger there. In
her earlier and more vigorous days the worthy landlady had wrestled
hard with sundry ill-doers, and not without a certain sort of success,
though she herself was more inclined to regard the results with
cynicism and suspicion than with self-satisfaction. When neighbours
would say to her how proud she must be that So-and-so had profited by
her warnings, disciplines, and encouragements, she was wont to say
“that he was different from what he once was, but she wasn’t so sure
that he was any better.” Being a Scots woman herself she would tell the
story of the Scots minister who was of the opinion that the sight of
one’s “converts” was generally calculated “to keep one humble.”
Of late years, however, she had ceased to struggle with those who
inclined to do evil, and had reserved herself for the upholding of
those who meant to do well.
“I’ve had my time of keeping a reformatory,” she had said in her quaint
way, “now somebody else must take a turn!”
“Mrs. Mott is giving up housekeeping altogether now, Mrs. Challoner,”
Tom explained with a rueful countenance. “She’s got a tenant for the
whole house, and she’s going to live in the country in some little
place which she can manage alone. She says she is ‘weary of her life
because of those daughters of Heth’—meaning the servant girls. You
know the way she speaks, Mrs. Challoner.”
Lucy laughed. She knew Mrs. Mott very well, and she was beginning to
realise the difficulties which must beset such a person.
“I sympathise with her,” she said. “But surely many of her servants
must have been models! I thought the house always looked so bright and
pleasant.”
“She says that’s because she put herself into it,” explained Tom. “Just
whatever they left undone, she says, she did, and she did it all,
when they ran away or gave her notice and went off before she had got
another. Now she says she can’t do so any more; she’s near sixty, and
her feet are weak, and she can’t manage the stairs, and she won’t keep
people in her house if it can’t be kept as it should be. I’m sure she
might let her place go very different from what it is, and yet it would
be a palace of neatness compared with the houses which I’ve seen since
I’ve been looking for lodgings,” added poor Tom ruefully.
“Has she had any special trouble lately?” asked Lucy.
“She says that for the last three years she has only had one girl who
was respectable and willing to learn, and she attended some class or
guild where the ladies told her she was ‘too good for domestic service’
and took her off to be trained as a hospital nurse,” answered Tom.
“Oh, dear, dear!” said Lucy, “as if the work of prevention is not far
better and more honourable than that of mere cure. And it ought to be
more honoured!”
“We have had some very queer customers lately, I must say,” Tom went
on in his blunt boyish way. “Young Hinton—that’s the other fellow who
stays at Mrs. Mott’s—happened to have a good deal of note-paper and
some hundreds of envelopes marked with a handsome H. Well, he never
could understand how that paper went off so quickly. He would take
out a packet, and write a few letters, and then the next time he went
to write he would find the packet almost empty. He used to say it was
bewitched! Well, Mrs. Mott caught that servant in the act of stealing
something—I think it was taking out coal in the big basket she carried
to fetch potatoes. When Mrs. Mott counted over her other things she
found some towels missing. So she told the girl she had better open
her box and show what else she had, and there, along with the towels,
were heaps of Hinton’s paper and envelopes, and what was funniest of
all, an old album of his with a lot of half-faded photos of his aunts
and cousins. Now what could she have wanted with that? The paper, of
course, she meant to use, because her name was Hannah—an H, you see.”
“The stolen photographs make the story look like a genuine case of
kleptomania,” observed Lucy; “yet it may have had some object which
does not readily occur to us. She may have wished to lay claim to
relationship with some nice respectable-looking people, such as Mr.
Hinton’s friends doubtless were.”
“That was what Hinton said,” Tom returned. “He found out Hannah had
been a workhouse child, and didn’t know of anybody belonging to her.
It did seem pathetic in a way. Hinton thought so. He wrote to his
grandmother in the country and got her to take the girl and give her
another chance. But she soon ran away. Some gipsy show-people had been
in the town, and the police said she went off with them. They had seen
her among them.”
“Ah,” thought Lucy, “and who knows what thread of hereditary
lawlessness and vagabondage had been in this poor girl, whose childhood
nobody had been at pains to understand and to discipline? And yet how
impossible it is that such a one could be harboured in a house like
Mrs. Mott’s—nay, it would be wrong, for nobody must voluntarily assume
responsibilities which clash with duties.”
“What decided Mrs. Mott, though,” Tom went on, “was when her last girl
calmly took a candle to see where the gas was escaping. Mrs. Mott just
stepped out of the parlour in time to see her coming with it, alight,
out of the pantry. The gas escape was in the kitchen, and she was on
her way downstairs. If Mrs. Mott had stayed in the parlour, we should
have been all blown up together, for I was in the room overhead. Mrs.
Mott was dreadfully upset; she set open every door and window and then
called me. I turned off the gas, and soon found the leakage. Mrs. Mott
was quite ill with the shock of knowing what might have happened. She
said to me, at once, that she couldn’t stand it any more, she could not
bear the responsibilities that the irresponsible might bring down on
her head at any moment. I thought the feeling might pass off with the
fright; but she’s stuck to it—more’s the pity for me.”
“One wonders at city girls not having yet learned the truth about gas,”
said Lucy. “Certainly I have heard curious stories about country people
coming into town and ‘blowing out’ the light, and wondering much at the
‘nasty smell’ which ensued, compelling them to open the window, though
there might be frost and snow outside. Did this girl come from the
country?”
“Not she,” said Tom; “she belongs to a mews quite close to our place.
And what is more, on our kitchen wall there is a printed placard giving
full instructions about such household matters as breaking pipes,
escaping gas, or street doors left ajar.”
“Everybody can read nowadays,” observed Lucy, “but every now and then
one comes across a person who does not seem to read with any ease or
facility; perhaps she was one of these.”
Tom shook his head. “No,” he said. “Mrs. Mott told me that till that
day she had never had much fault to find with her (she’d only been with
us for about three weeks), but that she had been sorry to see that
she spent all her leisure in reading penny papers, with stories and
pictures of men in evening dress and women with trailing robes, all
dukes and viscountesses, and pretty girls in shops. She must have spent
threepence or fourpence a week on these, Mrs. Mott says, and when she
had read them, she tore them up or burnt them. Mrs. Mott had told her
she ought to settle to one good magazine and collect a nice stock for
bound volumes.
“I don’t wonder Mrs. Mott is rather sick of it,” Tom went on, “only
I wish she didn’t give up out of feeling so responsible for us. All
that we shall gain, as it seems to me, is, most likely, girls quite as
irresponsible, and a landlady equally so. Mrs. Mott’s charges have been
very moderate—I did not realise how moderate—till I have gone about
and seen what is offered for the same money.”
“Then you have begun to make inquiries,” said Lucy.
“Ay,” answered Tom, rather bitterly, “and I don’t know when I shall
leave off or where I shall find myself. I mustn’t go one bit further
from the office than Mrs. Mott’s house is. Indeed, that’s rather too
far, except that I was there from the first, and knew when I was
comfortable. I’ve spoilt two Saturday afternoons going round and asking
questions at every house where I saw ‘Furnished Apartments.’ And oh,
Mrs. Challoner!”—Tom broke off with an indescribably comic expression
of dismay on his good-humoured face.
“Did you have some funny experiences?” Lucy questioned.
“Didn’t I?” echoed Tom. “The very first place to which I went was in
a good street not very far from the office, and the house looked nice
on the outside. The door was opened by such a girl!—I don’t know
whether she belonged to the family, or was a servant—I should think
the former. But she might have been a Fuzzy Wuzzy straight from the
Soudan by the look of her hair. It stood straight up all round her
head. You couldn’t believe it unless you saw it! And her gown might
have been made of dirty dishcloths. The passage looked like a black
cavern. I didn’t want to go in, but I didn’t know how to get away. So I
asked some questions. I said I wanted a bedroom-sitting-room, and the
use of a parlour for meals. She said, ‘There wasn’t no parlour; their
gentlemen mostly took their meals out.’ That gave me excuse to say it
wouldn’t suit, and I got away.”
“Surely that must be a very extravagant arrangement for the gentlemen,”
said Lucy.
“Mustn’t it?” rejoined Tom. “I should be stone-broke in a month!
But I found that was the cry at all of them. The best—the most
decent-looking—would give you your breakfast and ‘something at night,
if you wanted it.’ That last was quite a concession. But they all
turned up their noses at the thought of dinners! ‘There were plenty of
restaurants,’ they said, ‘and they were cheap enough.’
“And the rooms!” continued Tom, with his disgusted voice. “Those which
I could have for my price were always at the back, with a brick wall
within an arm’s length from the window. And, ugh! there was a feeling
about them as if one could smell and taste all the fellows who had ever
used them! Lots of the bedrooms had nailed-down carpets, whose very
pattern had disappeared. And the curtains and chair-covers looked as if
they had not been washed since they were made.”
“I daresay they were not washable,” explained Lucy. “Cretonnes have
replaced dimities and chintz, and none but the very best cretonnes will
bear washing. This is so much the case that I hear the trade of the
‘calenderer’ who used to make chintz as good as new, has gone almost
out of existence.”
“Most of them told me that all my washing would be ‘put out,’ and
I should get my own bill from the laundry,” said Tom, who seemed
considerably puzzled by all these domestic ins and outs, but not
without some sound conviction that they tended neither to his comfort
nor his prosperity.
“I did not find one house where they were willing to give me dinner
daily,” Tom went on, “except boarding houses with a lot of people
in them. I don’t like the idea of those at all. It is very tiring
and worrying to sit down every evening at a dining-table packed with
strangers, most of whom will be replaced in a week or two by another
set of strangers. And the very lowest fee of these, for a top back
room, so small, and with a roof so sloping, that I could not use my
Indian clubs without upsetting the furniture, is as much as I gave
Mrs. Mott for all my peace and comfort—and then it doesn’t include the
washing! Yet I expect I’ll have to come to this,” added Tom ruefully.
“I suppose the lodging-house keepers can’t cook themselves, and can’t
get servants who can,” said Lucy. “And oh, Mr. Black, many of the old
style lodging-house servants were terribly overworked and underpaid and
ill-treated. I once went to get lessons from a lady who had apartments
in one of these houses. She told me that there was only one servant—an
undersized creature who had opened the door to me. There were four sets
of apartments in that house, apart from her mistress’s family of four
people, and the girl got no help, except a little in the cooking, from
the mistress’s aged mother. The washing was done at home there, and the
servant did it all! My teacher told me that the girl was on her feet
and hard at work from six o’clock in the morning till after ten o’clock
at night, and ‘the worst of it was,’ she added, ‘the girl was learning
nothing, and getting so used to scamped and slovenly work, that she
could never rise to anything better than the same drudgery.’ She had
very low wages. A week’s illness would mean the hospital. Her life’s
sole resting-place would be the workhouse. We can’t be sorry for any
changes which end such a state of things, can we, Mr. Black?”
“Well, no, certainly not,” he said, “but are they ending? By the look
of the servants I saw in the big boarding-houses, I shouldn’t think
their lives are much easier or better. They may have higher wages.
Mrs. Mott’s girls certainly had a better time. They were comfortable
and happy when they chose to be so. She paid them a very fair wage,
considering that she taught them housework thoroughly. She says that
some of the girls she had long ago went from her place to the very best
situations. One of them afterwards married a young farmer, and when she
visits London she always comes to see Mrs. Mott.”
“As for getting meals at restaurants,” pursued poor Tom, “I can’t do
it. I can’t afford it. I know they are very cheap; but somehow there
doesn’t seem much ‘bite’ in their platefuls. And there’s such a noise,
and such a hurry, and such a horrid smell of food. If fellows really
have to come to that, I don’t wonder they take to drinking and smoking.
There’s something unreasonable about the whole thing. Here are girls
nowadays ready to do men’s work for half men’s wages, so that fellows
can scarcely get work at all. When I was in the City the other day I
saw a great crowd of men round an office. They were pushing right up
the stairway and half across the road. I thought there must have been
a murder. I said to a commissionaire who was standing by, ‘What’s up?’
‘Oh,’ says he, ‘these people are applying for a clerk’s place that’s
advertised.’ ‘Anything specially good?’ I asked. ‘No, sir, only a
pound a week,’ he answered. And I know it’s always so. Yet our ways
of living are all getting dearer, and no woman is ready to be well
paid for doing what we can’t do for ourselves. It’s inconsistent! It’s
abominable!”
Lucy could not help laughing. “Don’t say ‘Women won’t do what men
can’t do,’” she answered. “Don’t you know it is a favourite masculine
reflection on feminine inferiority that all the great cooks are men! If
that be so, then men are also likely to be the best average cooks. If
they are so hard pressed for work, why do not some of them turn towards
work which is crying for workers, and in which we always hear they
could excel? A cook with a wage of eighteen or twenty pounds a year,
and a thoroughly good home provided, is far better off than the earner
of a weekly wage of a pound.”
“Oh, well,” said Tom, “I can well believe that. But why can’t women
stick to cooking themselves? It’s women’s work.”
“Not if they can’t do it so well as we hear men can,” persisted Lucy.
“Well, you see, it would seem a come-down for a man,” Tom candidly
confessed. “A clerkship—domestic service; they have a different sound.”
“Just so,” said Lucy, “and that being the man’s standpoint, the
girls have naturally adopted it too. What reason is there in
such a standpoint? On the face of it, which work is the more
honourable—securing and maintaining the comfort of homes, or entering
figures in a ledger and addressing envelopes? Which sphere gives
the more scope for individual talent and character? And until this
perverted standpoint is changed, all our present miseries will continue
and increase. I have got my share, and you are finding yours. What is
your housemate, Mr. Hinton, going to do?”
“He’s one of the lucky ones!” said Tom. “His married sister and her
husband are coming into London, and they mean to let him have their
spare room.”
A sudden idea flashed upon Lucy’s mind.
(_To be continued._)
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
T. R. A. M. A.—We think you must be confusing two poems. The lines—
“O Mother Ida! many-fountained Ida,
Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die!”
recur frequently in “Œnone,” a poem by Tennyson; they may have been
confused by someone with the extract from Macaulay’s “Horatius,” which
you quote—
“O Tiber, Father Tiber,
To whom the Romans pray,”
or may, of course, be foolishly introduced into a parody upon the “Lay”
in question.
DAFFODIL (Portugal).—Thank you very much for your interesting letter
from Oporto. We like to hear about your life. Your information is
published elsewhere.
BLUEBELL.—The extract you give is from Lord Tennyson’s poem “Crossing
the Bar.” You will find it in the last volume of his works, and it
begins thus—
“Sunset, and evening star,
And one clear call for me.”
AGATHA.—We are pleased to have your letter from the Sea-Bathing
Hospital and hope you will soon be stronger. As for your quotation from
Longfellow—
“We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before,”
it is true that in one sense one cannot “dread” what is behind; and
yet it seems to us the poet’s meaning is clear. The world—life’s
experience, life’s memories—deprived of the presence of children,
would be more desolate and dreadful even than “the dark” or the unknown
future. One must not be too strict in criticising poetical expressions,
and “to dread” may mean to feel distress or horror, as well as
apprehension.
MISS R. M. JACOB, 8, Waldenshaw Road, Forest Hill, London, S.E., sends
us particulars of Correspondence Lessons in the cane basket-work.
The method is her own and original, and she seems already to be very
successful in teaching. Girls who need some fresh occupation will do
well to apply to Miss Jacob for particulars.
B. E. M.—1. There are a number of reading societies you could
join:—The National Home Reading Union, Surrey House, Victoria
Embankment, London; “The Queen” Reading Club, Miss Isabel G. Kent, Lay
Rectory, Little Abington, Cambridge; and one conducted by Mrs. Walker,
Litlington Rectory, Berwick, Sussex, besides many others mentioned in
this column from time to time.—2. You might consult _Our Sketching
Club: Letters and Studies in Landscape Art_, by Rev. R. St. John
Tyrwhitt, M.A. (Macmillan); _Brushwork_, first book, by Miss Yeats,
published by Philip & Son, 32, Fleet Street; or _Brushwork, or Painting
without Pencil Outline_, by D. Pearce, published by Charles Dible, 10,
Paternoster Square. Two questions are our limit.
PERI.—We have pleasure in telling you that the poem you wish to find
is called “The Man at the Gate,” and is contained in a small volume
entitled “Ezekiel and other Poems, by B. M.” The book was published
some time ago by Nelson & Sons at 3s. 6d., net price 2s. 7½d.
NELL BELL.—Dear girl, your letter is so disfigured by enormous blots
and erasures that we really cannot ask a French girl to correspond with
you. Your writing is good, and we are sure you could send us a neat
letter if you liked.
CARNATION (Australia).—Write direct to Mademoiselle Louise François,
Anzin, Nord, France.
We have again much pleasure in noticing the Sketching and Copying
Clubs of Miss H. E. Grace, 54, York Road, Brighton. The subjects for
the fourteenth year, 1899-1900, seem chosen and named in a felicitous
manner. We thank Miss Grace for her pleasant letter and enclosure.
ANCIENT BRITON.—Will Carleton’s “The First Settler’s Story” is
published in his book of _Farm Ballads_ and also appeared in _Our Own
Gazette_ for February, 1893.
AMÉDÉE.—1. The building depicted in the frontispiece to THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER for February is, doubtless, the Parthenon (literally the virgin’s
chamber), or temple to the Goddess Athênê on the Acropolis at Athens.
This wonderful edifice was built under the superintendence of Phidias,
who wrought in ivory and gold a colossal statue of the goddess for the
interior. The temple consisted of an oblong central building flanked
on all sides by a peristyle of pillars. It is a little difficult to
say precisely what religious festival is here depicted; but all the
Greek religious festivals were intermingled with the idea of gladness,
procession, and public rejoicing. We observe the lyre (Greek, phorminx)
as well as other instruments more familiar. You might be interested in
consulting Smith’s _Student’s Greece_.—2. Without seeing the picture
you name we cannot explain it. Art that makes the beauty of the past
real to us has its own value, even without any precise lesson.
DAFFODIL.—Your sonnet, “The Soul’s Awakening,” is decidedly above the
average of lines sent us for criticism. The thought is very good. There
are a few defects in the working out; the last two lines do not rhyme
with each other, or with any line, and the accent on “sepulchre” is
forced. But we can on the whole give you sincere praise.
SOPHIA.—We fear your description is not full enough to enable us to
help you as to the story you wish to find. Is it by any chance _The
Giant Killer; or, the Battle that all must Fight_, by A. L. O. E.?
That opens with the sons of a clergyman (Mr. Roby) quarrelling. Your
outline reads rather like A. L. O. E.’s style. Thanks for your reply to
DOUBTFUL.
MAB (Scotland).—Your story is far too sentimental, and shows a lack
of knowledge of real life. A complexion cannot be at once “tanned by
exposure” and “delicately tinted as a pink wild rose.” At the same time
your writing is not devoid of force, and it is quite possible that with
time and study you might do better. There is no presumption whatever in
your sending to us; we are always glad to advise our readers.
OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.
DOUBTFUL has again several answers for which we thank COPPER
BEECH, “TARLIE,” PHYLLIS, FLORENCE E. ROGERS, META, two anonymous
correspondents, MISS F. BARTRAM, AMY HUMPHRIES, PUGGY, M. S. HAMMETT,
ANNIE STANDING, FLORRIE WALLING, and J. M. BAYNE. The last three
correspondents kindly enclose a copy of the poem in question, “A Noble
Boy.” One says it is by G. R. Sims, another attributes it to Mary D.
Brine.
“PUGGY” asks for the words to the “Rowan Tree,” by Lady Nairne.
MARGUERITE is glad to be able to tell “HOPE” that “Trouble in Amen
Corner” occurs in _The Thousand Best Poems in the World_, published by
Hutchinson & Co., 34, Paternoster Row.
M. J. M. asks for two recitations, “Lucky Jim” and “Pennaby Mine.”
“DAFFODIL” writes from Portugal to inform A. MARTIN that “The Child and
the Seraph” begins thus—
“A little, meek-faced, quiet village child
Sat singing by her cottage door at eve
A low sweet Sabbath song.”
DAFFODIL thinks this poem must be identical with “Voices at the
Throne,” for which A. MARTIN inquires. It is to be found in _The
Children’s Harp; or, Select Poetry for the Young_, Frederick Warne &
Co., Bedford Street, Strand.
M. D. JORDAN kindly informs “WINTON” that the verse for which she
inquires is in a hymn by Bishop Bickersteth, beginning—
“Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile.”
It is No. 597 _Hymnal Companion_, new edition.
IRENE PETERKIN wishes to obtain a monologue called “Mr. Gutteridge’s
Great-Grandmother.” Can any reader help her?
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.
JOYCE, sixteen years of age, asks for a French and also an Italian girl
correspondent. JOYCE should write direct to Miss Adelina Grillo, whose
address we gave, if she wishes to correspond with her.
AGNES M. FORD, 49, Trinity Road, Birchfield, Birmingham, would like to
correspond with a French girl about seventeen or eighteen years of age.
MISS ELSIE SHAW, Crescent Villa, Tettenhall Road, Wolverhampton, wishes
to correspond with a French girl, about nineteen, of good family, each
to write in the other’s language, correcting and returning letters.
A Canadian girl is desirous of corresponding with a girl of about
seventeen in some European country (France or Spain preferred).
Address, Ethel Millar, 70, Elmwood Avenue, London, Ontario, Canada.
ROSE J. ARCH, Roseleigh, Chadwick Road, Wallwood Park, Leytonstone,
would like to correspond with some young English ladies in South
Africa, Japan, or Australia. We thank Miss Arch, and also Miss Hepper,
for their pleasant letters telling of the enjoyment and profit derived
by means of this column.
HILDA LEAKE, care of W. H. Shields, Esq., Stuart Street, Cottesloe
Beach, Western Australia, would like to correspond with “MISS
INQUISITIVE.”
FRÄULEIN GERTRUD OETTIG desires to exchange “view postcards,” English
or French. Address, Breslau, Schlesien, Ohlauer Stadtgraben 27, II.
étage.
GERTRUDE HUNT, Manukau Road, Parnell, Auckland, New Zealand, asks if “O
MIMOSA SAN” will exchange pictorial postcards with her.
MARIA DE VÁRADY, Fridau a/Drau, Steiermark, wishes to exchange
illustrated cards with a Russian girl, and asks if there are Indian
illustrated cards? (We may add, in response to her inquiry, that we
believe some preparations of petroleum are good for the hair, but she
must not set herself alight.)
“KOMURASAKI SAN,” who is a collector of stamps, would like to
correspond and exchange with other collectors. She will send a written
list of her duplicates to anyone who would like to exchange with her.
Her collection numbers 1000.
MISS E. LESLIE MELVILLE, Welbourn Rectory, Lincoln, wishes to say that
she has a number of Kashmiri stamps which she would like to sell to “G.
O. P.” readers. The prices vary from 2d. to 10s. each, and some of the
stamps are very old and rare. All the money goes to a C. M. S. school
in Sirinagur, which is kept by the friend who gave her the stamps.
[Illustration: RULES.
_I. No charge is made for answering questions._
_II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym._
_III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any of the
questions._
_IV. No direct answers can be sent by the Editor through the post._
_V. No more than two questions may be asked in one letter, which must
be addressed to the Editor of_ THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, _56, Paternoster
Row, London, E.C._
_VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter of the
nature of an advertisement, will be inserted._]
MEDICAL.
A. B. C.—Writer’s cramp is a name given to a peculiar form of nervous
disease of the right arm and hand met with, almost exclusively, in
writers. The disease belongs to that class of afflictions called
“habit spasms,” other examples of which are histrionic spasm, commonly
called “stage strike,” “musical stammering,” and some forms of true
stammering. Of the cause of writer’s cramp we know this much, that it
occurs mainly in writers; that it is far more common in men than in
women; that it sometimes occurs in persons who are run down in health;
that it is more common among the members of neurotic families, and
that it is most frequent in those writers who use their wrists and
little fingers as the “fulcrum” when writing. It is very uncommon among
type-writers. There are many types of the complaint. In some forms
weakness or paralysis of the muscles of the right hand is the most
marked feature; in other cases twitchings, cramps, or numbness are the
leading symptoms. The treatment for the affection is perfectly simple,
but, like most simple treatments, it is very rarely that it is carried
out. It is absolute rest from writing. The disease is cured by absolute
rest. Where this treatment is impossible, rest till all symptoms have
subsided, and then gradually taking to writing again, is the next best
thing. But the complaint is exceedingly likely to recur. Learning to
write with the left hand, nothing like such a difficult proceeding as
you would think, has frequently been tried for the trouble; sometimes
with great success, but not infrequently the disease attacks the left
hand also. Massage, galvanism, and other such measures are sometimes
used, but their effects are doubtful, and they appear to have but
little action. The same may be said of strychnine and other nervine
tonics. Of drugs the most useful are malt, cod-liver oil, and suchlike
foods. Writer’s cramp is a serious disease to writers, and, moreover,
it is one which they can never escape from if they must still continue
in their employment. It is far better to throw over their writing at
once, than wait till they are obliged to do so by the disease crippling
them.
POOR HUMPBACK.—The deformity resulting from tubercular disease of the
spine cannot be remedied. Indeed, the deformity is the remedy for the
effects of the mischief. For in this condition the tubercle germs have
destroyed some of the bones of the back, and the only way by which
the strength of the backbone is maintained is by the falling together
of the bones above and below the seat of the trouble, and this, of
necessity, produces shortness and deformity.
PINK MAY.—You should not wash your hair too often; if it is healthy,
once a month is quite sufficiently frequent.
MURIEL.—It is indeed a difficult matter to clear a complexion
“disfigured by innumerable freckles,” but still we can do a little
to render the marks less noticeable. Freckles are small patches of
pigment. We know there are fair and dark complexions, and a freckled
complexion is one which is both fair and dark in patches. One of the
greatest causes of excess of pigment in the skin is light, and we all
know how likely we are to get freckled or browned after being in a
strong sun. It is not the heat, but the light of the sun which forms
the pigment in the skin, and the bluer the light the more rapidly it
will form pigment. Light reflected from water is especially potent in
the formation of both browning and freckles. If you want to escape
freckles you must therefore keep out of the light, and you can do
this by wearing a red veil or using a red parasol. It is _said_ that
freckles can be bleached with peroxide of hydrogen, but we have not
seen much benefit from its use. Glycerine and lime-water is also said
to remove freckles.
A MOTHERLESS LASS.—Although all drugs are injurious when taken
regularly, if the reason why they are taken is persistent, it is
necessary to take them regularly. It is taking drugs without reason
which is so dangerous, or taking them to combat a complaint which is
cured. Aloes is the best habitual laxative we possess, and in most
cases it is the safest to employ, but in your case we do not advise you
to continue it, but to take a teaspoonful of liquorice powder instead.
For your anæmia we advise bone-marrow tabloids or the peptonate of
iron. The tabloids are often exceedingly useful, but they must be
taken with care. Begin by taking one tabloid crushed up in milk twice
a day, after food. After a week take two tabloids twice a day. Do
not exceed this amount. If headache, dizziness, or trembling occurs,
drop the tabloids for a week, then take to them again gradually. Most
of your troubles are due to anæmia, but this again is connected with
what you tell us in the latter part of your letter. Unfortunately we
cannot enter at length into the subject. We can only encourage you to
persevere and never to give up the struggle, however often you may
fail. You cannot expect to have good health unless you improve your way
of living. As regards the medical part of the question, you should take
plenty of healthy exercise and seek the companionship of others. Above
all, be careful of what you read. Frivolous literature is a terrible
evil which must be shunned without ceasing. And above all, do not
despair; we are all weak and fail sometimes, but if we do our best and
strive to do better, we may in time overcome our failings.
PRIMROSE.—There are certain soaps which “won’t wash clothes,” and
there are others which will not wash faces—or rather, will not wash
them without injury. Girls should always be careful not to use coarse
or strong soaps for toilet use. A soap made to scrub floors or soiled
clothes is not suitable to wash a face. For floors, etc., you want a
strong, coarse soap. But the human face is a delicate article, and
should be cleaned with soap made with great care, with no coarse or
biting principles to spoil the complexion. All soaps sold for the
toilet, except patent ones, are made of refined materials carefully
selected and blended; and it is these soaps, and these only, which
should be used for toilet purposes. Patent soaps should never be used,
not because they are impure, but because their preparation is secret,
and nobody knows from what they are made.
A HOTHOUSE ROSE.—Read the answer to “Poor Humpback.” Tuberculosis
of the spine is distinctly a curable disease, though usually some
deformity, more or less slight, is left after the disease has ceased.
The treatment is chiefly a question of absolute rest.
ANXIOUS ONE.—We cannot tell you what causes the pain in your left side
without any information about it. It is probably indigestion.
ANOTHER ANXIOUS ONE.—You are very wrong to go about untreated.
MYALL.—Coal gas is an intensely poisonous vapour. Unlike the
“choke-damp” of miners, which is carbonic acid gas, coal gas is not
only irrespirable, but is actually poisonous. A very small quantity
of gas in the air of a room may produce alarming results in anybody
sleeping in the room. We are all familiar, at all events through the
newspaper, with the immense danger of gas escaping into a bedroom. “How
the body of —— was found in bed, and an escape of gas noticed,” etc.
But few people are aware of the danger of a little gas escaping from a
defective bracket or burner. Yet many cases of chronic failing health
can be traced to this cause—gas escaping into the bedroom, often in
such small quantities as to be undetected till searched for. Coal gas
acts directly on the blood and destroys its function. When a person
is found unconscious in a room in which gas is escaping, she should
be immediately taken out into the open air and artificial respiration
employed at once. But only too frequently no effort is of any avail.
Charcoal burned with a limited supply of air gives out the same gas as
the poisonous factor in coal gas, namely, carbon monoxide. This gas has
no smell, and therefore it is not the poisonous constituent of coal gas
which gives it the characteristic odour. Amongst the symptoms which
may be met with in persons who sleep in a room into which a minute
quantity of coal gas escapes, are headache, lassitude, especially in
the morning, worrying dreams and anæmia.
OLD MOTHER HUBBARD.—1. Sallowness of the complexion is one of the
commonest symptoms met with in ill-health. Practically any form of
illness may cause it. It is almost invariably present in chronic
constipation.—2. Yes. One decayed tooth may injure every other tooth
in the head, just as one rotten apple will spoil a whole sackful.
Decayed teeth are not the least good to anybody; they cannot be used
for mastication, and they are not beautiful. But they are exceedingly
dangerous, and there are more deaths due to carious teeth than you
would ever have suspected! The moral of this is obvious: decayed teeth
should be removed or stopped at once.
LADY DISDAIN.—To ask us what natural mineral waters are advised for
chronic rheumatism is a very large order. The action of most waters is
profoundly obscure, and chronic rheumatism is an equally profoundly
obscure disease, so, of course, it is for chronic rheumatism that
most mineral springs come into existence. The mere mention of the
names of all the waters used for this complaint would occupy a volume.
And, moreover, we do not know the names of more than about one in
six. But we think that we know the most important of those that have
really any value. The sulphur waters are decidedly useful in chronic
rheumatism. The best are Harrowgate and Aix-la-Chapelle. All the vast
horde of alkaline waters have been advised for rheumatism. Seltzers,
Vals, Vichy, Contréxeville, and Alet waters are those chiefly in use.
Kreuznach and Woodhall, both of which contain iodine, and Royat,
which contains chlorides, are often of great value in chronic joint
affections.
DISTRESSED MOTHER.—In cases where children cannot digest milk—which
is almost always due to using milk badly prepared—and in the far
more common cases of children requiring extra nourishment, either
as the result of wasting disease or just before their taking a more
solid diet, do not supplement their food with the patent foods
sold for the purpose. These are never what is wanted, and they are
frequently exceedingly injurious. A very excellent supplemental food
for such cases is the following. It is difficult to make and is rather
expensive, but it is in its way almost a perfect food. Follow the
directions carefully:—Take four ounces of stale bread without crust
(it is better that the bread be made with “seconds” flour); soak
the bread for eight hours, squeeze it dry and then boil it in fresh
water. Strain it, and rub it through a hair sieve, and allow it to
cool. This forms a sort of jelly, and is called “bread jelly.” It is
frequently ordered by physicians, and is the first ingredient of this
excellent food. The second ingredient is meat juice. To make this, take
four ounces of the best rump steak, obtained from a very trustworthy
butcher, and shred it up fine. To it add one ounce (two tablespoonfuls)
of cold water, previously sterilised by boiling, and squeeze the
meat and the water through a muslin bag. Now to proceed. Take five
teaspoonfuls of the bread jelly, six of the meat juice, two of fresh
cream, and half a teaspoonful of white sugar. Two ounces of this food
makes an excellent meal for an infant. You must be very careful to see
that everything used in the making of this food is scrupulously clean.
The bread jelly and the meat juice must be prepared fresh every day,
and the cream must be obtained from a thoroughly reliable source.
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text:
Page 655: maens to means—“means of this column”.]