THE “NEW GIRL.”
“And was her grandfather really an earl?”
“And shall we have to call her Lady Gwendoline when we speak to her?”
“I wonder what she is like; I am dying to see her!”
“She is coming to-night; but perhaps Miss Elder won’t trot her out
until to-morrow.”
What an excited hubbub was going on in Meldon Hall schoolroom. The
girls had been told that a new pupil would arrive that night. This
alone, in mid-term, would have been enough to arouse some interest, but
when it got abroad by some means or another that the importation was a
beauty, an heiress, and related to an earl, their excitement knew no
bounds.
Marion Edwards, perched on the back of a chair, gave out what she had
heard, and a little more, to an admiring audience who took Marion’s
words for vastly more than they were worth. In every school there
are one or two leading spirits, and Meldon Hall had at present two
leaders--Marion Edwards and Edith Barclay. Edith was the clever,
studious girl of the school; and amongst those who were inclined to
be industrious, she was looked up to with great reverence. Marion was
handsome, rich, and had an aptitude for making witty remarks, which
made her at once admired and feared by her “set.” The two leaders
were quite friendly; they were in no wise rivals of each other, being
altogether different in disposition and aims. Edith loved study for
study’s sake, and had secret thoughts of entering a profession. Marion
cared nothing for her lessons, but easily managed to get along in a
superficial way; she was an only daughter and rich, and was looking
forward to entering society after she left school. Marion’s feelings
were divided between pleasure at the prospect of knowing a girl whose
grandfather was an earl, and a secret fear that this rich beauty might
want to queen it even over her, and that her set might forsake her for
the greater light.
The only one who was really indifferent to the new arrival was Linnæa.
She had had her times of hidden excitement over an expected newcomer,
and vague longings that she might be “nice,” but these feelings
were over and done, with long ago. Successive disappointments had
embittered her, and now it was a matter of little moment to her who
came and went. This night she had a slight headache and felt tired of
her schoolfellows’ chatter and not inclined to face the introduction
of a new girl, proud and haughty, who would doubtless criticise her
looks and manners and set her down--as all the others had done--as
hopelessly unattractive. She therefore slipped quietly away to her room.
“Oh, I do wish Miss Elder would bring her in to-night!” said one;
and, as if in response to her wish, the door opened and the principal
entered, followed by the new girl.
“This is Miss Gwendoline Rivers,” said Miss Elder, introducing a few of
the girls who were nearest her by name. “I shall leave her with you for
twenty minutes, but after that she must go to bed, as she has come a
long way to-day.”
Shyness was not one of the new pupil’s failings, and she asked more
questions than she answered. Soon she had found out all the rules and
regulations of the school, and had taken mental note of a few of the
characters around her. Report had been correct as far as her beauty
and wealth were concerned--her connection with the earl was a little
more remote--she was indeed a lovely girl. Her dark eyes were large and
lustrous, and her face had an almost southern richness of colouring.
Her appearance was aristocratic to a degree, and her clothes were
expensive and in the best of taste.
[Illustration: THE DUNCE OF THE SCHOOL.]
“Are you all here?” she said by-and-by, looking round on the group.
“All except two. Alice Melrose is in bed with neuralgia, and Linnæa
March has retired for the night.”
“And, pray, why has Linnæa March retired for the night? Had she not the
curiosity to wait up and see the newest thing in girls? I suppose she
knew I should arrive to-night, as you all did, and I know you were all
dying for me to put in an appearance so that you might deluge me with
questions. But I think I have got more out of you than you have out of
me. I find the only way to avoid too many questions is to ask a great
many yourself. Tell me about Miss March, please; I am quite excited.
What an outlandish name, too? She is altogether very mysterious!”
“There is not much to tell about Linnæa March, as you will soon know.
You will find the best way is to leave her alone, for, as sure as fate,
she will not trouble herself about you, any more than she has about the
rest of us.”
“But that is precisely what I never do! I never allow anyone to be
indifferent to me; they may hate me, if they please, but they shall not
be indifferent!”
“You don’t know Linnæa. I don’t believe she knows what love and hate
are--love, at least; she might manage to hate you, perhaps!”
“I shall make her love me then!”
The girls laughed. There was something very fresh and original about
this young lady who spoke as if the world and anything in it were hers
for the asking. It was easily seen she had not been denied much during
her life, and most of them felt very much inclined to carry on the
spoiling process if only they might be termed friends of this beautiful
and determined young woman; for if there is anything young people
worship, it is determination. But to talk of making Linnæa March love
her was a little too absurd.
“How long is it since this unimpressionable young lady left the
company? She won’t be in bed yet, will she? One of you go up to her
room and tell her the new girl wants to see her, and bring her down.”
Really, this was most ridiculous! Who was to go and give this
extraordinary message to Linnæa March? As if to-morrow were not soon
enough to see her! Whoever went would not get a very great reception.
“Has she a chum here?”
“She has no chum at all.”
“Then do you go!” said the imperious Miss Rivers, pointing to a
pleasant-looking girl beside her. “Listen to me,” said Gwendoline, when
the messenger had departed; “I mean to make this Linnæa March like me;
in fact, I mean to make her fall over head and ears in love with me,
and none of you must say a word to influence her in any way. I have
never yet made up my mind to do a thing that I have not done, and I
shall show you that I can do this.”
The excitement of the school was aroused, and the girls awaited
with great interest the development of the comedy to be enacted in
their midst. Would it be a comedy or a tragedy? If, as she boasted,
Gwendoline Rivers were able to awaken the love which lay dormant in
that sensitive heart, woe to Linnæa if she should discover the motive
which had called it forth; it would run a chance of souring her whole
after life.
After a few minutes the door opened and the messenger returned,
accompanied by Linnæa.
“Now, you know, I don’t think it was nice of you to go off to bed
without waiting to see me!” said Gwendoline, advancing towards her with
a smile and holding out her hand.
Linnæa’s sensitive face flushed.
“I am sorry if I appeared rude,” she said; “I did not think of it.”
“You will be forgiven this time; but”--looking serious--“I hope you
have not a headache; if so, I shall be sorry I brought you down.”
“Oh, no, thank you! I am quite well. I often go up earlier than the
others.”
“Well, I sha’n’t keep you down long, for I am going to bed myself. I
shall go up with you now and try if I can find my cubicle again.”
Calling good-night to the others, Gwendoline slipped her arm through
Linnæa’s, and the two walked away in the direction of the stairs.
“How strange it is, coming in amongst a lot of girls one has never seen
before! It is fortunate for me I am not shy, else, I suppose, I should
feel dreadfully put out. How long have you been here?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven years! Such a long time to be away from home!”
“My father and mother are out in India. I shall go there when I am
finished with school.”
“Oh, how splendid! I should love to go to India. I have a brother who
went out last year, and when I leave school I mean to pay him a visit.
Perhaps we may happen to go together. Wouldn’t that be nice? Is this
your cubicle? Horrid, bare places, aren’t they? I was warned about it
and brought some pictures and things with me; but I sha’n’t unpack them
to-night--I am too sleepy. Shall we say good-night, then? I somehow
think we shall be friends.”
Gwendoline, as she spoke, leant over and kissed Linnæa on the cheek,
then ran away to find her bedroom.
“Funny, quiet little thing!” said Gwendoline as she went. “I wonder if
I shall make good my words? She seemed almost workable to-night. I was
prepared to brave a few snubs to begin with.”
And what about Linnæa? She did not begin to undress at once as usual.
Why was she so excited to-night? Something had come over her, and
it was nothing more nor less than a subtle magnetism towards this
beautiful girl who had taken more notice of her than of any of the
others--who had kissed her when she bade her good-night. Why had she
felt so wooden and stupid? Why had she not returned the kiss? What must
this girl think of her?
She was in bed at last, but could not sleep. She seemed to feel the
kiss on her cheek and hear the voice saying they might be friends.
By-and-by, when sleep came, she dreamt that her father and mother
had come to school to take her home--the time she had looked forward
to through all the seven years--and she told them she wanted to stay
another year because Gwendoline had come.
(_To be continued._)
THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN.[2]
The letters of a favourite daughter of George III., and an aunt of
the Queen, whose life extended through the eventful period 1770-1840,
make a book of great interest and permanent value. The period referred
to takes in some of the more momentous events in modern history--the
loss of the American colonies, the French Revolution, the battle of
Waterloo, and the fall of Napoleon--as well as various important
parliamentary movements at home. Letter-writing is now generally
supposed to be a lost art; but the Princess Elizabeth, as one who “ever
remained an Englishwoman to the backbone,” wrote letters of the genuine
old-time order to her confidante. She imposed wholesome restraint on
herself in days when party spirit was more violent than we can realise;
but being in fullest accord with her father, who aimed at personal
government, her sympathy was rather for the cause of “Church and King
than for that of reform and progress.” The Princess did not deal in
scandal, however, she was not a politician, and in other respects she
showed a delicacy of language not common in those times.
In reference to his heroine, Mr. Yorke says that “the familiarity of
her style brings us all the closer to her, and the more familiar it
is the more intimate becomes our friendship for her. Sometimes it is
the case that where the style is most imperfect, there most appear
the individuality and originality of the Princess, and her portrait
drawn by herself must be of more value and interest to us than any
accuracy or polish of diction.” The Princess also loved her friends,
and this led her to write to them _con amore_, so that, as we read, “a
whiff of old times is breathed upon us.” She was in the best sense a
woman of her own times, one who inherited her father’s good qualities;
and during the ailments of youth she proved her good constitution by
surviving the medical treatment of the day. A girl of fifteen in these
days may still be liable to congestion of the lungs, but what would
she now say to being bled five times in forty-eight hours, to having
to take “emetics every other day,” and to having her “backbones rubbed
with musk?” In other respects the Princess seems to have been subjected
to very old-fashioned treatment. Even at the age of twenty-six she
was not allowed to read a book which her mother had not previously
examined. Nor does she appear to have possessed an income of her own
until she was forty-two years old. The Princess was six years older
when she married Frederick VI. of Hesse-Homburg.
The attention which the Princess extended to certain of her chosen
friends, appears to have been quite extraordinary. Thus, Lady Harcourt,
wife of the second Earl, says: “Once, when I was ill and confined
to the house for six weeks, I received from her in that time 143
letters.” The crosses of life, its joys and sorrows, with adventures
which vividly show how different those times were from our own, all in
turn come in for a share of attention. The journey between Windsor and
Weymouth was then a familiar one, and it was possible even for Royalty
to meet with rough adventures on the road. On October, 3, 1792, the
Princess writes: “Anything so disgusting as the breakfast at Woodgate’s
Inn, on the way from Weymouth, I thank God I never saw before and never
wish to see again. Bad butter, tea, coffee, bread, etc.; nothing to
eat but boiled eggs, which were so hard that I could not eat them.
So I returned to the carriage just as I got out--starved.” Anxieties
connected with public affairs and the wars gave far more serious
trouble, however. The brothers of the Princess, the Duke of York, and
the father of the present Duke of Cambridge, were with the army on the
Continent in the summer of 1793, and when news came that the heroes
were “within sixty yards of Valencienne,” their sister turned sick at
thought of the peril; but the Queen, their mother, showed “such an
uncommon share of fortitude,” that she would not even speak about it.
Still more alarming was the King’s being attacked by the mob when on
his way to open Parliament. A bullet even entered the royal carriage,
the street crowd following “in an insolent manner, moaning and
screaming.” In private the Queen cried over that adventure; “but I, who
naturally cry a great deal, scarcely shed a tear,” remarks Elizabeth.
“It was indeed very horrid,” she adds; “and my poor ears, I believe,
will never get the better of the groans I heard on the Thursday in the
Park, and my eyes of the sight of that mob!” A plot to murder the King,
and to attack the Tower, the Bank and the prisons, and on account of
which Colonel Despard and six others were executed, followed in 1801.
In May, 1810, the Duke of Cumberland was attacked while in bed by a
servant. “My brother, by all accounts, has been mercifully preserved
by the interference of a wise and good Providence, but sadly wounded,”
remarks the Princess; and then she adds, “We live in such a state of
constant anxiety, that upon my word when I rise in the morning I feel,
‘What will happen before night?’”
Things happened beyond what were looked for, so hard and troublous
were the times; but the heaviest trials of the Royal family culminated
in the blindness and insanity of the King and in the death of the
Princess Charlotte in November, 1817. As regarded the old monarch, the
distress occasioned by his condition was for others rather than for
himself; personally, his bodily health was good, he was happy in his
mind, and found something wherewith to amuse himself through each day.
There is one letter relating to the death of the Princess Charlotte
which affords us a vivid glimpse into the inner circle of the Royal
family in November, 1817--
“Just after we had set down to dinner at six, Gen. Taylor was asked
out; our hearts misgave us; he sent out for Lady Ilchester, which
gave us a moment for to be sure that something dreadful had happened:
the moment he came in my mother said, ‘I am sure it is all over,’
and he desired her to go upstairs. You may conceive that the horror,
sorrow, and misery was far beyond show, for it struck the heart, and
no tear would fall after such a dreadful shock.... It is indeed most
tremendous, but it is the Lord’s doing, and we must with great humility
bow, and kiss the rod, and remember that the Lord giveth and the Lord
taketh away, and that all that proceeds from that hand is right; and
that He does all things for the best.”
This faith in God was as characteristic of the King as it was of this
favourite daughter. It is true that at the time of Princess Charlotte’s
death George III. knew nothing of the crushing sorrow which had come
upon the Royal family; but the King had very remarkable lucid intervals
in his insanity when his Christian fervour never failed to find
expression. It had been so before his intellect had become finally
clouded, however.
At that crisis of danger from the mob already referred to, the King
sought to calm the feelings of excited peers, when about to step into
his carriage after opening Parliament, by saying--
“Well, my lords, one person is proposing this, and another is supposing
that, forgetting that there is One above us all Who is disposing of
everything, on Whom alone we depend.”
After her marriage in 1818, the Princess was thoroughly happy with her
husband, the Landgrave Frederick VI. of Homburg. Some would ridicule
the state and ceremonial of the little court as being a mimicry of the
Royal magnificence of greater nations; but it was picturesque, full of
interest, and probably gave far more satisfaction or enjoyment than
courtiers found either at London or Paris. At all events, while she
remained thoroughly English, and never even quite conquered the German
language, the Princess would speak of her own “dear little Homburg” in
the language of genuine affection. After the death of the Landgrave,
who expired April 2, 1829, through influenza affecting an old wound
received in the wars, she refers to the palace as “My own dear home,
once the happiest of happy homes.”
Certain fashionable people in London made it their business to ridicule
the Landgrave; but all impartial readers will see that his character
was superior to that of his detractors.
The Princess lived for about twenty-two years after her marriage, and
during half that period she was a widow. In some respects, to the
English reader, this was the more interesting period of a quietly
interesting life. Home life afforded genuine pleasure, and while there
may have been no pretentious magnificence, gardens, pictures and books
afforded tasteful recreation, though the poor were not forgotten. The
Princess even lent books to such friends as could be trusted with them.
“If you wish to take any home, I shall be happy to lend them, knowing
you to be careful,” she writes to Miss Swinburne. “I have been obliged
to give it up here, for if you could have seen some that were returned
to me you would have been disgusted; I was quite provoked.”
Unhappily, the ill-usage of books is not confined to Germany. On many
matters strong common-sense opinions are expressed. She does not accept
exaggerated local gossip; and though she never had measles, she says,
“I have no fears, I trust in God, and don’t let myself think about
catching anything, otherwise I should be miserable.”
We have glimpses of Brighton as it was sixty or seventy years ago, when
the reigning sovereign had a palace there.
“It appears as if it was a petty London, and all the fine ladies come
down in parties to enjoy a few days of the sea and back again in no
time,” writes the Princess in December, 1832.
There was a great procession to celebrate the town being made into a
parliamentary borough by the Reform Bill of 1832; but “why they would
not turn it at once into a marine city or town, I cannot think. It was
large enough when I was there and now much increased.”
Early in 1835 we find the Princess at the Pavilion on a visit to her
brother William IV.
“I generally drive out with my brother,” she writes. “He goes out, and
stays out till the lamps are well lighted, when we come in; to-day the
dear Queen is gone with him, so I may remain quiet.”
Political feeling still ran high, but Princess Elizabeth confessed to
hating politics. “I had rather talk of winter potatoes, though a very
mealy subject.”
In 1833, being over sixty, she realised that she was growing old.
“I am still from all accounts a fine old lady,” she remarks. “My
looking-glass tells me at times rather tall, and I say to you with
truth that no one enjoys more their old age than me, and am convinced
that I have been a much happier being since the spring and summer of
life are over--so many things I do and can do without bearing anything
unpleasant.” She was able even to wear a winter tippet which her
sister Augusta presented. “I look like a bear in it; but what signifies
looks when health is in question?”
As time passed, Elizabeth had other reminders that she was growing old.
“I blush to think how often I am late of a morning, which is not like
me, but my poor legs require time,” she writes in November, 1833.
“First I read my serious readings, then write, and do what business
I must do, and of late I have had a good deal of what I call parish
business, settling work for the poor and trying to content them if
possible.” She seems to have cultivated her mind in a wholesome way
without harbouring any foolish ambitions. “I have taught myself to see
everything with pleasure and without envy,” she remarks, and added
later, “Without religion there can be no peace, no order, no blessing.”
The Princess was struck with the excess of luxury in England in 1836.
“More jewels and more extravagance than ever.”
It was then that she saw the last of her brother William IV., whose
death in the following year she sincerely deplored. Elizabeth thus
survived to see the opening of the present reign; but she belonged too
much to a former age and to a different order of things to have much
sympathy with the new and more promising outlook of the Victorian era.
The memorial volume which Mr. Yorke has so well edited is of
considerable interest and of permanent value.
G. H. P.
[2] _Letters of Princess Elizabeth of England_, daughter of George
III., and Landgravine of Hesse-Homburg. Written for the most part
to Miss Louisa Swinburne. Edited by Philip Ch. Yorke, M.A., with
portraits. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1898.
VARIETIES.
HE THREW AWAY THE STONE.
The haughty favourite of an oriental monarch once in the public street
threw a stone at a poor dervish or priest.
The dervish did not dare to throw it back at the man who had assaulted
him, for he knew the favourite was very powerful. So he picked up the
stone and put it carefully in his pocket, saying to himself: “The time
for revenge will come by-and-by, and then I will repay him for it.”
Not long afterwards this same dervish, in walking through the city,
saw a great crowd coming towards him. He hastened to see what was the
matter, and found to his astonishment that his enemy, the favourite who
had fallen into disgrace with the king, was being paraded through the
principal streets on a camel, exposed to the jests and insults of the
populace.
The dervish, seeing all this, hastily grasped the stone which he
carried in his pocket. “The time,” he said, “has now come for my
revenge, I will repay him for his insulting conduct.”
But after considering a moment he threw the stone away, saying: “The
time for revenge never comes, for if our enemy is powerful, revenge
is dangerous as well as foolish; and if he is weak and wretched, then
revenge is worse than foolish, it is mean and cruel. And in all cases
it is wicked and forbidden.”
WHEN THINGS GO WRONG.
What’s the use of wooing trouble,
And of nursing every sorrow?
Though to-day is black as Egypt,
There’s another day to-morrow.
Lightly treat each hour’s distresses--
Sing a song for gloom to borrow;
Mirth and cheer can chase all phantoms--
There’s another day to-morrow.
WHY THEY HANGED THE DOGS.
On one of the early visits to Scotland of Sir Edwin Landseer, the
famous animal painter, he stopped at a village and took a great deal
of notice of the dogs, jotting down rapid sketches of them on a bit of
paper.
Next day, on resuming his journey, he was horrified to find dogs
suspended from trees in all directions, or drowned in the river with
stones round their necks.
He stopped a weeping urchin who was hurrying off with a pet pup in
his arms, and learned to his dismay that he was supposed to be an
excise officer, who was taking note of all the dogs he saw in order to
prosecute the owners for unpaid taxes.
CHARITY AS IT OUGHT TO BE.--If our mercy to the poor is to be true
mercy, it must never be careless giving, dictated by mere sentimental
impulse. Sentiment may be nobler than insensibility, but it often does
more harm. The Samaritan would have been no good example for us if he
had passed on with an easy conscience after administering the two pence
and had omitted to consider whether the special needs of the case did
not also require oil and wine.
THE AVERAGE WOMAN.--We have been favoured with this definition of the
average woman:--She is lovable but limited, for on the north side she
is bounded by servants; on the south by children; on the east by her
ailments, and on the west by her clothes.
TAKE A RIGHT VIEW OF LIFE.--It is a sad thing to begin life with low
conceptions of it. It may not be possible for a girl to measure life,
but it is possible for her to say, “I am resolved to put life to its
noblest and best use.”
TRIPLE ACROSTIC I.
In yonder bower, one glorious May,
Three lovely sisters grew;
_One_, in imperial bright array
Of richest purple hue;
_One_, who conceal’d her drooping head
Amid her foliage green;
And _one_ with fragrant petals spread,
Our beauteous Summer-Queen.
1. Waster of time, of mind, of health,
This useless creature see:
Yet once, in print, he gather’d wealth
And greatly sought was he.
2. From the north-east adventurers came
And built this City fair;
They call’d it by the river’s name
And yet--no river’s there!
3. A monster was to be destroy’d,
A hero claim’d the feat;
Alas! the means that he employ’d
Were sadly incomplete.
My ready help he needs would ask,
Which I was prompt to give,
Or else he must forego his task
And let the creature live:
While he, with heavy axe in hand,
Struck off each slimy head,
I tear’d the wound with flaming brand
And laid the monster dead.
4. ’Tis sometimes good, and sometimes bad,
And sometimes none at all;
This in his belt the Roman had,
Sharp-pointed, bright, and small.
For centuries it fix’d remain’d,
And might have kept so still
But that a Pontiff pow’r obtain’d
To change it at his will.
XIMENA.
MISCHIEVOUS JACK.
[Illustration]
I am gradually learning to estimate rightly the responsibility of
having a jackdaw loose upon the premises.
There is really no way of circumventing Jack’s craftiness except by
keeping him shut up all day in an outdoor aviary. I feel sorry to be
driven to this course, and would far rather let him roam where he
pleases; but his mischievous pranks have become unendurable.
I thought to-day I had made a great discovery, and that by placing a
large stuffed flamingo at the open French window I should effectually
frighten the jackdaw from entering.
I found him in the drawing-room on my writing-table busy about some
evil deed, so I held up the great stuffed bird, at which Jack cast one
horrified glance and then fled precipitately out at the window as if
his last hour had come. Now, I thought, by placing the flamingo near
the window, I could leave the room with an easy mind. Vain hope! I came
back after a few minutes and found the impertinent jackdaw hopping
about as happy as a king. He had pulled to pieces a rare foreign
insect I had just been setting on a piece of cork. He had overturned
all the small curios he could find, had pulled all the pins out of a
pin-cushion, and, worst of all, he had opened a Mudie book and torn its
map and pages to ribbons. That book will have to become my property and
remain a monument of Jack’s misplaced energy.
It was humiliating to think how he must have chuckled at my flamingo.
He had seen through the device at once and had no idea of submitting to
be scared away by such a bogie.
During the winter months we do not often have weather which will admit
of open windows, so Jack exercised his talent for mischief out of doors
by hiding the padlock of the aviary, pulling up flower labels, and
drawing nails out of the walls. In these varied occupations he managed
to spend his hours of idleness.
[Illustration: He disdaineth the Fair Sex]
As a rare treat he was sometimes allowed to bask on the fender before
the fire, and, charmed by the delicious warmth, he would assume the
various attitudes shown in the illustration. His wings and tail
expanded, his head on one side and beak wide open, he looked like a
dying bird, but we knew that in reality he was in a state of ecstasy.
When next summer arrived Jack was again kept in the aviary, and I am
sorry to have to reveal a very dark page in his moral character. He
was usually content with raw meat and sopped bread; but, alas, he much
preferred to catch his own dinner! And when, attracted by his food,
innocent little robins, chaffinches, and sparrows found their way into
his domain, I grieve to record the dreadful fact that none came out
alive! Jack feasted on their small bodies, and left only a little bunch
of feathers to show what he had been doing.
I have said enough to prove that Jack is neither to be loved nor
respected; but he is unquestionably clever, and evidently has his own
thoughts and ideas.
[Illustration: “Jack” sunneth himself.]
He will fly at one’s hand like a fury even when food is being given
him; but when his mood changes and he wishes to be caressed, he picks
up a twig or a dead leaf. This is a signal of peace, and whilst he
continues to hold it in his bill he is quite safe, and may be stroked
and petted.
[Illustration: He studieth Entomology.]
One day in the height of summer Jack was perfectly electrified by a
visit from six lively young magpies. The aviary door happened to be
open, and these birds came hopping in with their usual free and easy
manner, chattering to each other and coolly abstracting any morsels of
food which suited their taste. At first Jack tried to drive out these
audacious visitors, but they ignored him altogether and at last he had
to stand aside and watch their depredations, a very discomfited and
astonished bird. The magpies came at intervals for several days in
succession, and then I suppose they went off to the woods, for we saw
them no more.
[Illustration: He arrangeth the Table.]
It is rather curious that the mating instinct has not led Jack into the
bands of matrimony. I have seen several attractive specimens of his own
kind making overtures to him, but he treats them all with lofty disdain
and elects to remain a bachelor.
Perhaps next year he may yield to the fascinations of a wild mate,
and settle happily somewhere in my woods. It would be the best thing
that could happen, only I fear we should all eagerly bid him good-bye
without the addition of _au revoir_.
ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.
NEW DRIED FRUITS.
BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.
Most of my readers can recall, I fancy, the days when we had only
prunes and Normandy pippins in the way of dried fruits. The dried
apricots, apples, and plums of the present day are very modern and
recent gifts to a grateful world. So recent are they indeed that the
ignorance about them is very great; and, strange to say, the grocers
who have them for sale have not been supplied as they should have been
with small printed papers describing how to cook them.
In using the term “dried fruits,” you will notice, I hope, that I am
dealing with what may be called stewing fruits; for, though we stew,
or can stew, raisins, figs, and even currants, I believe the first
treatment of these fruits is not to cook them in that manner. Raisins
and currants speak to us more distinctly of our Christmas mince-pies
and plum puddings, and of a regular dessert dish throughout the year in
some houses, than of any other kind of cooking.
The stewing of raisins was introduced, I believe, by vegetarians, and
in this form with a flavouring of lemon-peel. They are not at all bad
when added to a milk pudding or some blancmange.
The stewing of dried figs comes almost under the same description, and
their chief objection lies in their extreme sweetness, which is a cause
of quite unmerited and needless toothache at times. The best way of
cooking figs will always be in the way of a fig pudding, which is an
excellent though rich dish.
Dried apples have always been a great household requisite in cold
countries like Canada and the northern states of America, and I
remember that the making of them constituted a very large part of the
many winter preparations which used to be necessary when the country
was less civilised than it is now, the fruit less plentiful, and the
means of keeping it very imperfect.
It was not always easy to guard against the frost, which penetrated the
ground to a depth of four or even five feet when the winters were too
snowless. On these occasions when the earth is left bare and without
her warm coating of snow, the frost has been known to penetrate even
six feet into the ground in exposed places. This fact is verified in
cold countries like Canada in a very painful manner when graves have to
be dug. So difficult is this that in large cities where there are many
to dig a cemetery hall is built to contain the bodies of those who die
in the winter, so that the frost may be out of the ground before the
graves are dug.
This will explain to you why in Canada all kinds of root crops and
apples must be so carefully guarded from frost; and when the country
was less settled, and even to-day in the less inhabited parts, the
apples are still dried in a primitive manner. They are peeled generally
by a small machine, then quartered and cored, and strung on long
threads by means of a coarse needle. Then they are dried, either near
the stove or else in the sun; but this last is not often possible,
because of the lateness of the season. The apples thus dried are very
good, but if cooked carelessly are apt to be rather tough.
In Italy figs are dried in the sun by the peasantry. Each fig is cut
open, but not divided, and carefully dried. Then, when dried, they are
closed together so as to look like whole figs again, and strung one by
one on the long flexible mulberry twigs. They are very good and are
less sweet than the dried fig of commerce, as no sugar is added to them
in drying.
Last year I saw quantities of figs dried by the peasantry in this
manner for sale in Switzerland, where they appeared to be quite a
novelty. I could not find out where they came from; but I daresay from
the Italian canton of Ticino, or, as the French call it, Tessin. This
is, of course, warmer than its sister cantons on the northern side of
the Alps. I have not seen these yet in England, but there have been
some Californian dried figs that were very good for eating, and perhaps
we shall see more of them in the future, as the market for them grows
more assured.
Dried figs are said by the scientists to contain nerve and muscle food,
heat and waste, but to be bad for the liver. The same is said of dried
prunes, but they afford the best and highest kind of nerve or brain
food. They also supply heat and waste; but they are not muscle feeding.
All stone fruits are said to be injurious for people who suffer from
the liver and should be used rather cautiously.
Apples are thought a most valuable food in every way but one--they do
not afford staying properties, but they supply the highest nerve and
muscle food.
If you be fond of almonds, you may like to know that they afford no
heat, but give the highest brain, nerve, and muscle food. I hope this
applies to the salted almonds which are so popular.
The process of drying is called “desiccation” or, usually in America,
“evaporated.” The original desiccator is an apparatus much used in
chemistry and physics and the word comes from the Latin _desicco_, “I
dry up”--meaning that the water is evaporated out of the fruit or any
substance to be dried. This idea was carried out into the drying up of
the water and fruit juices for commercial purposes. An oven with trays
in it to hold the fruit is one of the forms of using heat, and in Lower
California the heat of the sun is utilised for the drying of prunes.
Some time ago there were notices of the commencement of this industry
and the importation of work-people from the neighbourhood of Tours.
The ordinary prunes sold in the shops are the fruit of the St. Julian
plum, a common species which is grown everywhere in France for the
purpose. The best French or dessert plums come from Provence, and the
Californian plums must be of the same variety as the Brignole plum. The
latest competitor in the English market is Bosnia, and those which I
have tried were quite as good as the French plums. Under Austrian rule,
Bosnia has developed wonderfully, and the climate is a delightful one,
well suited to fruit growing.
The best of all the French dried prunes come from Provence, the land
of poetry and romance. They are made of the kinds of prunes called the
_Perdrigon blanc_, and _Violette_, and _Prune d’Ast_. The two former
come under one category and are called _Pruneaux de Brignole_, from
the place where they are prepared, the small town of Brignole, in
Provence, a name I am sure you will have often seen on the boxes of
prunes used for dessert. The common kinds of prunes are gathered by
merely shaking the trees; but those for preparing as French plums must
be gathered in the morning, before the sun is up, by taking hold of
the stalk without touching the fruit and laying each plum very gently
on vine leaves in baskets. The latter must be filled without the plums
being allowed to touch each other, and then they are carried to the
fruit-room and exposed to the sun and air for three or four days, after
which they become quite soft. The next process is to put them on trays
into a spent oven and shut up quite closely for twenty-four hours. Then
they are taken out, the oven is re-heated, and made rather warmer, and
the plums are put in again for the same time; then they are taken out,
carefully turned over, and the oven is heated to one-fourth hotter than
it was before, and the plums are returned to it again for the third
time, and after remaining the twenty-four hours, are taken out and left
exposed till they become quite cold. Then comes the most curious part
of the process, which, when once explained to me, was a solution of an
enigma over which I had much wondered, namely, why the stones of the
good French plums are loose and unattached, while those of the common
prune are so much more fixed in the fleshy substance of the fruit. This
part of the process is called “rounding,” and is performed by turning
the stones in the plums without breaking the skins, and the two ends
are then pressed between the thumb and finger to flatten the fruit.
Then they are once more laid on the sieves for drying and placed in
a rather hot oven for one hour, the oven being closely shut. Lastly,
they are put again into a cool oven, left for twenty-four hours, when
the process is ended, and they are packed in bottles or boxes for
sale and exportation. Now I have given this long account, taken from
a recent authority, because I know my readers of the “G. O. P.” are
world-spread, and because this is the kind of process adopted with any
kind of dried fruit; and an ordinary brick oven for bread-baking can
be perfectly well used for doing it. All varieties of the plum can, I
am told, be dried in this manner, some, of course, with better success
than others.
After the prunes come the kind which, I daresay, most of my readers
have seen in the grocers’ shops, namely, the crystal or dried yellow
plums, which are likewise said to be from California. They are
so-called silver plums, and are yellow, not black, and were first seen
in 1897, I believe. They require soaking over-night in just enough
water to swell them, and the next day should be put into a prepared
syrup, which has had a little lemon peel boiled in it, and very slowly
stewed, without breaking them. I find a war rages about this question
of soaking dried fruit over-night, as many people consider that long
slow stewing is equally good, or better.
Apricots are amongst the dried fruits that have been introduced within
the last few years; and although they may be a novelty to us, they have
been used in the East in this way for centuries. The apricot grows well
as a wall fruit in England, and is interesting because it was brought
here and first grown in the gardens of Henry VIII. by his gardener,
Wolfe, who was a Roman Catholic priest, and who brought it from Italy.
Indeed, it was during the reign of this monarch, and the subsequent
Tudors, that horticulture began to make such progress in England; and
no politics made them forget the interests of their gardens, to which,
as a family, they appear to have been much attached.
The dried peach we have not yet seen, but it is much used in that way
in New Jersey, Delaware, and in the Southern States; but probably
canning has rendered drying needless. Dried pears are also of ancient
origin, and I find them excellent in the present day, though I consider
they need careful doing. Any recipe for the stewing of winter pears
will answer for dried ones; and they must be soaked over-night to
ensure their being tender. It is well to remember that the less water
used, the more flavour in the pear, and the syrup should not be very
abundant.
And now we come to that most useful of all fruits--the apple. This
has been dried in many forms, and canned as well. The most recent are
the evaporated apple rings--the apple cut into rounds horizontally
through the fruit. When these first came out they were called “Alden
apple rings,” probably from the town or district where they were
grown. They are said to be made from greenings--the best of American
cooking apples--and one pound of the apples rings is said to represent
six pounds of ordinary apples. The best recipe for cooking these is
an American one, and in this the food is required to be soaked in
a pie-dish in cold water--just enough to cover it--for four hours;
then, without pouring off the water, add sugar, a little lemon rind or
spice, and then put the dish in a slow oven and stew very gently till
sufficiently cooked. If intended for a tart, soak as directed and stew
gently in a slow oven for half an hour before adding the crust, or the
latter will be done before the apples are sufficiently cooked.
The apples, which are dried whole, must be rather differently
treated. Take about a dozen apples, place them in an earthenware or
porcelain-lined vessel, and add about a pint and a half of water, and
let them soak for seven or eight hours. Then add sugar, spice, and the
rind of a lemon to your taste; put them all together as they are into
a porcelain-lined saucepan, and stew gently for an hour. If a more
_recherche_ dish be required than merely the apples plainly stewed, a
little whipped cream may be inserted in the place from whence the core
has been taken, and some cream poured round them in a glass dish.
“It is simply absurd,” says a recipe writer in an American paper,
“to soak evaporated apples over-night”; so, as this is a case of
doctors differing, I must give the directions which follow. Place
the evaporated apples in a saucepan, cover with water, and boil till
done; flavour to taste, and use for sauce, tarts or conserve. Now this
recipe I have also found good; and I know that the writer considers
that soaking or leaving the apple rings too long in water renders them
tasteless and vapid.
It seems strange that the subject of dried fruits, save and except the
ancient pippins of Normandy, should be quite ignored in our cookery
books; and yet there can be no doubt of their value as foods, and
adjuncts to other things, at a time when fruit is dear and scarce. They
are always inexpensive; a pound goes a long way, and, as a rule, if
well done, they are liked by the little folks.
But alas, the general remembrance of stewed prunes, apples or apricots
is enough to make anyone dislike them, sent up as they generally are in
a slop of tasteless, coloured, watery fluid. If we only examine into
the ordinary methods of cooking them, we shall see the cook washing
them first in one water, and then in another; perhaps letting them
remain for half an hour in soak, then putting them into more water,
with a cupful of sugar in a dirty saucepan on the fire, where she
boils it violently, and finishes it in half an hour.
Now, from beginning to end, this is all wrong. In the first place,
you must remember that the evaporated fruit took a long time to do.
The moisture was not removed from it in one hour, nor two, but took
a long time. So if you want to restore it to them you must give them
time also. Thus, perhaps, you will agree with me that the fruit must
be soaked for at least twenty-four hours, especially in the case of
apricots and peaches; and the water should cover the fruit to the depth
of an inch. When you are ready to stew the fruit, take it out and put
it carefully into a porcelain-lined saucepan; then pour the water in
which they have been soaking upon the fruit, leaving at the bottom
any dregs there may be. If not sufficient to cover it, you must add a
little more, then give an hour’s very quiet boiling; and a few minutes
before you remove it from the fire, add a little sugar, and use a
silver spoon to stir it in. I prefer to take the fruit out when I add
the sugar, for fear of breaking and spoiling the look of the fruit; and
then the syrup is boiled up once or twice, and poured over the fruit.
Peaches require rather more cooking than apricots.
Apples and pears need care in the cooking, and also in the flavouring;
and the best thing for both is the juice and grated rind of a lemon.
But before flavouring, you should taste the fruit after stewing, as you
will then judge whether you should add sugar, or the rind of a lemon,
and not the juice. The sugar should be put in first and thoroughly
dissolved, and then the flavouring. If you flavour first, and sugar
after, you will need double the amount of sugar. Prunes, raisins,
dates, and figs can all be stewed in the same way; and if you will only
remember that haste is not possible in preparing dried fruit for table,
you will always be successful.
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.
A CORRESPONDENT asks: “_Will the Editor of THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER be so kind as to let ‘DORA’ know through his columns,
what author first made use of the phrase, ‘Oil on the troubled
waters’._”
Although we cannot with absolute certainty point DORA to the first
author who made use of the expression, she may be interested to know
that it has its origin in antiquity.
Pliny the Elder (23-79 A.D.) says in his Natural History (Book ii.,
Sect. 234)--
“Everything is soothed by oil, and this is the reason why divers send
out small quantities of it from their mouths, because it smoothes every
part which is rough.”
Plutarch (46?-120?) asks in his _Symposiacs_ (Book viii., Question ix)--
“Why does pouring oil on the sea make it clear and calm? Is it for that
the winds, slipping the smooth oil, have no form, nor cause any waves?”
The Venerable Bede relates in his Ecclesiastical History (completed in
735) a story bearing on this point, which he says he had from “a most
creditable man in Holy Orders.”
A young priest was to set out by land, but return by water, to escort
a maiden destined for the bride of King Oswy. He sought a farewell
blessing from St. Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarne, who gave him a cruse of
holy oil, saying, “I know that when you go abroad, you will meet with
a storm and contrary wind; but do you remember to cast this oil I give
you into the sea, and the wind shall cease immediately.” A storm did
arise, and the young priest, pouring oil on the waves, reduced them to
a calm.
Apart from any suggestion of the miraculous, the effect of oil on rough
waters has been observed in modern times. It is stated that Professor
Horsford, by emptying a vial of oil on the sea in a stiff breeze,
stilled the surface, and Commodore Wilkes, of the United States, saw
the waves calmed in a storm off the Cape of Good Hope by oil leaking
from a whale ship.
The pictorial application of this physical fact is so obvious that it
could not help passing into popular usage.
_“MERCIA,” “THE WOULD-BE WISE ONE,” and “NOTHING BUT LEAVES,”
all ask us in effect the same question, the full meaning of
self-culture, and how it is to be attained._
In ways too many to particularise, “our girls” are anxiously seeking
this end. From all quarters of the globe questions come to us; not
perhaps expressed in the same direct fashion as the one above, but
showing an eagerness in some way to develop latent faculty, to improve
the whole nature. What, then, is self-culture? It is briefly personal
cultivation of self; the bringing forth, or “educing” talent and
capability, the improvement of taste, the storing of the mind with what
will elevate and help and inspire. There is the same difference between
a “cultured” and an “uncultured” person as between a cultivated and
uncultivated plot of garden-ground. The chief difficulty lies in having
to perform the affair for oneself. To yield one’s nature to trained and
skilful teachers is delightful, but when no such teachers are at hand,
the task assumes a different complexion, and looks well-nigh impossible.
But there are teachers whom everyone can command. The girl to whom
Newnham and Girton are undreamed-of possibilities, whose education at
school has been only just long enough to make her crave for more, can
call to her aid the greatest and wisest of mankind. Self-culture by
books is within the reach of all.
What books? and how shall they be studied?
The subject is too vast to be dealt with in even the longest answer to
correspondents, and we can only say here to “Mercia,” “The Would-be
Wise One,” and “Nothing but Leaves,” that we have begun in this volume
a series of articles by Lily Watson on “Self-Culture for Girls,” which
deal practically and in detail with the books that should be read, the
method of studying them, and everything that girls anxious to make the
best of their opportunities can wish to know.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
MEDICAL.
LITTLE DOT.--1. The condition of your face is almost for certain due
to _acne rosacea_. The only other disease which we think it likely
that you could be suffering from would be _lupus erythematosus_--a
form of lupus which is not due to tuberculosis or scrofula, but which
is a highly-developed form of chilblains. Your description agrees so
well with that of _acne rosacea_ that there can be little doubt but
that it is that complaint. This disease would be in no way dependent
upon nor influenced by any disease that your parents may have had.
This complaint commonly goes by the name of “grog-blossoms”; but is
frequently caused by other things than “grog.” In fact it is not the
alcohol itself so much as the indigestion that it causes which produces
the “blossoms.” Any form of indigestion may be accompanied by rosacea;
and so the first thing in the treatment of the affection is to look
to the digestion. Locally use an ointment of sulphur or ichthiol,
preferably the latter. You must guard carefully against constipation,
as this of itself will produce rosacea.--2. We think it highly
improbable that you suffer from stone in the kidney; but of course we
could not be certain without personal examination. The only symptom
you give us is one which you are very likely to have misinterpreted,
whereas you tell us nothing which to our minds suggests kidney disease.
MARGARET.--You _can_ test for yourself whether the water supplied to
you contains lead; but it is hardly worth your while to do so. Still,
if you wish to try, get a glass cylinder two feet long, and place it on
a sheet of white paper. Fill it with the water to be tested, and pour
into it a few drops of solution of sulphuretted hydrogen, or let a jet
of the pure gas bubble through the water. If lead is present a brownish
discoloration of the water will occur, varying in depth of tint
according to the amount of lead present. Copper and one or two other
metals give the same reaction. You must be careful of the sulphuretted
hydrogen, for it is poisonous. You could get the water tested for less
money than the cylinder and reagent cost to buy.
O MIMOSA SAN.--Certainly all your symptoms can be traced to your bad
teeth. You complain of flatulency, headache, constipation, cold feet,
and poor appetite. Are not all these common symptoms of dyspepsia? And
what is commoner as a cause of dyspepsia than bad teeth? Go to the
dentist again and have your teeth thoroughly overhauled. But remember,
if you have many teeth extracted, you _must_ have false ones inserted
in their place. Have the false teeth made at once, for after a month
or two the remaining teeth make an attempt to fill up the gap where
bad teeth have been extracted and leave your teeth with narrow slits
between them. How few people recognise the value of teeth! Normal
digestion is quite impossible without them.
AN IRISH READER.--1. Do you wear a straw hat, and do the spots on your
forehead correspond to the line where the hat presses? During the
summer many girls develop spots on their foreheads from the irritation
of straw hats. These spots often trouble girls, who seek in vain for
their cause. The real cause scarcely ever presents itself to their
notice. If you have thoroughly tried sulphur ointment without success,
use ichthiol ointment 2½ per cent. instead. Also see that your hats do
not press upon your forehead.--2. The fifth of September, 1877, was a
Wednesday.
LORNA DOONE.--One would naturally suppose that such a simple subject
as the care of the nails was completely understood. But this is,
nevertheless, far from being the case, and it often gives more trouble
to cure thin or broken nails than it does to cure some of the most
deadly diseases to which we are subject. We advise your friend to soak
her finger-tips every night in hot water and then to smear them with
lanoline or other simple ointment. In the morning she should wipe off
the ointment and dip her fingers into pure alcohol for five minutes.
She should also be very careful to cut and trim her nails properly. We
do not promise to cure her, but we have seen good results from this
treatment.
MAORI.--The hair frequently falls off in larger quantities in autumn
than in any other season. Indeed, it appears that the hair of man
“moults” as does the fur of mammals and the feathers of birds. After
autumn, the spring is the time of year at which the hair falls out in
greatest quantities. This periodical moulting of the hair does good
rather than harm, and there is really no call to stop it--if, indeed,
it could be stopped, which we question.
AGRICOLA.--“What is the difference between a sprained and a varicose
vein?” We really do not know what you mean by a “sprained vein,” so
that part of the question we cannot answer. Systematic rubbing or
massage is of some value for varicose veins; but it is not altogether
safe, and is not worth a trial. Rest with the legs elevated, walking,
and the support given by an elastic stocking are the chief items in
the treatment of varicose veins. Standing is to be avoided as far as
possible.
GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.
L. M. (_Employment on Board Ship_).--We fear you would find this
difficult to obtain, seeing that you are not strong at present.
Stewardesses need to be decidedly vigorous people. Such positions are
commonly accorded by the steamship companies to the relatives of their
own officers. It would seem that the work in a cotton mill, though well
paid, is likely to be injurious to your health, and therefore if you
could find some more healthy occupation, you should certainly take it.
Cannot your employer put you in the way of emigrating to South Africa?
It would be well to lay the case before him. You should likewise apply
for advice to the Manchester and Salford branch of the National Union
of Women Workers, 13, Temple Chambers, Brazenose Street, Manchester.
With this Union many of the most important societies in Manchester for
women and girls are affiliated, and the secretary could tell you which
would be most likely to help you. The secretary could also inform you
whether there is in Manchester any active member of the British Women’s
Emigration Association, the headquarters of which are at the Imperial
Institute, Kensington, W. We imagine that emigration would be best for
you; at the same time it is possible that work might be found for you
in this country under conditions that would better accord with your
health.
LACE-MAKING.--We know of no school for lace-making in London, but
very likely by inquiring of the Secretary of the Home Arts and
Industries Association, Royal Albert Hall, Kensington Gore, you might
find somebody to teach you. London ladies have interested themselves
especially in the revival of Buckinghamshire laces. The different
varieties of Honiton can best be studied in Devonshire. In your place
we should be disposed to give particular study to the various kinds of
guipure, as these are likely to remain fashionable for some time to
come.
AN ANXIOUS ONE (_Gardening, Dairy-work, &c._).--For you we should
say, Not gardening. It is too precarious a calling for a young woman
without private means or any conspicuous fondness for the occupation.
Dairy-work, which you could learn at the Dairy Institute, Reading,
would be considerably better. If you would like a colonial life with
its freedom from social conventions, and if you can do every sort of
housework (including, prominently, cooking), then by all means try to
emigrate to Canada or Australia through the British Women’s Emigration
Association. Except if you think of emigrating, we do not recommend
you to call yourself a useful help. In this country the woman who
specialises is the one who succeeds, not the “Jill-of-all-Trades.” Make
up your mind, we would say, to become thoroughly efficient either as
cook, dressmaker, laundress or dairy-worker, then you will be sure to
prosper. Of course these occupations are not for everybody; but one of
them would be best for you, seeing that your ability seems to lie in
the direction of practical rather than intellectual work.
A MOTHER (_Clay Modelling_).--The organs of the pottery trade are _The
Pottery Gazette_ (Scott, Greenwood & Co., 19, Ludgate Hill, E.C.)
and _The British Potter_ (W. Brickel, Longton, Staffordshire). Both
of these publications appear monthly, and the second may be obtained
gratis. But what we should advise is that the modeller call with
specimens of work upon Messrs. Doulton of Lambeth. It is probable,
also, that Messrs. Goode of South Audley Street, who deal in some of
the finest china, both English and foreign, would be kind enough to
advise in such a matter. But cannot the South Kensington authorities
themselves put their pupils and examinees in the way of seeking
employment in the proper quarters? They ought to understand these
artistic trades better than anyone. Teachers of clay-modelling are in
some demand for evening continuation schools and the like. It might
be desirable on this point to consult the Home Arts and Industries
Association, Royal Albert Hall.
SEVENTEEN SUMMERS (_Typing and Shorthand Writing_).--A typist and
shorthand writer may earn from 15s. up to £2 a week. Typewriting can be
learnt in about two months, shorthand takes a year of steady practice
at the least. You complain that your handwriting is far from good, and
that you also have great difficulty in expressing yourself. Now both
these circumstances are serious obstacles in the career of a clerk;
your prospects in this walk of life are not improved by the other
disability you mention. We strongly urge you to turn to some other
occupation. A person who finds it a “hard job” to “compose” a letter is
evidently not meant to make letter-writing a conspicuous part of her
business, as she must do if she is to remain a satisfactory clerk or
secretary. Is there not some other kind of work that is less of a “hard
job”? You might learn dress-cutting and pattern-cutting, generally, or
you could enter one of the better kinds of manufactories. Pray think
over your qualifications, and discover which sort of work you do best
(for there must be some), and then try to find the means of doing it.
MISCELLANEOUS.
M. A. R.--We think that your selection of Malvern seems a wise one,
especially as others should be considered as well as the invalid.
The waters are of an alkaline earthy nature, specially suitable to
scrofulous sores and skin diseases, besides internal complaints. There
are hydropathic establishments, and apart from the mineral waters,
the spring water is exceptionally pure. Great Malvern occupies a fine
position in the centre of the Chase of Malvern, on the slopes of the
hills, and those who can walk find the latter very attractive, as the
air is bracing and the view very fine. The distance from London is
123 miles by railroad. For anæmic patients the ferruginous waters of
Harrogate are specially suited. It has also sulphureous and saline
springs.
CURIOSITY.--Do you not confuse the heir presumptive and the heir
apparent to the throne? The Grand Duke Michael is the heir presumptive
only, and the “Czarevitch,” a term meaning only king’s son, or prince.
The title “Cesarevitch,” _i.e._, “son of the Czar,” is only given to
the eldest son, who is Crown Prince, Nashlyedrik, and heir apparent,
and his consort is “Cesarevna.” The first Czar of Russia of the House
of Romanoff was elected, and the succession has never proceeded in
regular order. Peter the Great left the crown by will to his daughter
Elizabeth; but Anne was elected instead, to Elizabeth’s prejudice, who
had to wait till after the death of the Emperor John before she came
to the throne. The four Empresses of Russia who have reigned alone
have been Catherine, widow of Peter the Great; Anne, daughter of Ivan,
his elder brother; Elizabeth his daughter; and Catherine II., widow
of Peter III., a grandson of Peter the Great. The Czar is the supreme
ruler, and the Government is an autocracy. The Salic law does not
obtain in Russia.
PANSY.--The following is the way that rust may be taken from steel, but
great care is needed to do it. Immerse the article to be cleaned for a
few minutes, till all dirt and rust be taken off, in a strong solution
of cyanide of potassium--about ½oz. in a wineglassful of water. Take out
and clean it with a toothbrush, using some paste made of cyanide of
potassium, Castile soap, whiting and water, mixed into a paste of about
the consistency of thick cream.
MARTHA.--When washing linen you will find it advisable not to place
either soap or soda directly into washing-tubs, coppers, or boilers of
any kind. Both should be thoroughly dissolved in warm or cold water,
and then only used in the coppers or boilers. A great deal depends on
the soaking of linen before it is put into the boiler. It should be
placed in a large tub of tepid water in which borax has been dissolved,
or a little good soap has been lathered. One tablespoonful of prepared
Californian borax to every gallon of hot water will be a very effective
soaking fluid. Do not use soda at this stage of the process. You have
probably been using too much. The soaking-water, or bath into which
you put the linen must be tepid, not hot nor cold. Many people rub a
little soap on the soiled place after the soaking and before boiling.
The rinsing is also very important, and must be attended to or else the
linen will be streaky or of a bad colour. In fact, neglect of rinsing
is the general cause of a yellow hue in linen. The water used should
never be cold but warm. Cold water sets, or fixes the grease and soap
in the fabric. Boiling-bags are very useful, and protect the linen from
the copper, but we think you will find too much soda is the cause of
trouble.
WAITING.--It would be impossible for us to give such a list, and,
indeed, we could not without knowing the kind of work it was and its
subject, as some firms publish one thing and others another. Some deal
with purely educational works, others take fiction; and many limit
themselves to high-class works only, such as those of reference and
research. The safest way to proceed is, we think, to write to the
Incorporated Society of Authors, 4, Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn
Fields; Chairman, Sir Walter Besant; Secretary, S. Squire Sprigge, Esq.
From them you will receive all requisite information and advice on the
subject.
MAB.--There is no reason why any building or institution should not be
inspected if it were thought needful. Health and sanitary inspectors
have power to go everywhere, we believe.
TINY.--Any strong wide-mouthed phial about 2½ inches high and 1½ inches
in diameter, containing spirits of wine, and having a cork stopper,
will answer for beetles; the cork should be secured round the neck of
the bottle by a piece of string. A smaller bottle can be used with a
quill through the cork for smaller insects. But a proper bottle of
solid mixture is expressly sold for destroying specimens. There is a
very nice little book called _The Home Naturalist_, published at 56,
Paternoster Row, which would be useful to you, as it contains full
directions for all the processes of catching and preserving insects,
plants, woods and stones. Its price is 5s. Insects may be destroyed for
collections of specimens without causing suffering.
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[Illustration: “THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.” [_From the painting by M.
Ellen Edwards (Mrs. Staples), exhibited in the Royal Academy._]]
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[Transcriber's Note--The following changes have been made to this text:
Page 303: cyclinder to cylinder--“get a glass cylinder”.]