CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1023.] AUGUST 5, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

BY LILY WATSON.

[Illustration: OPEN-AIR SKETCHING.]

_All rights reserved._]

PART VII.

After all the serious advice we have given to our readers as to the

literature that is to make them wise, it is pleasant to write of

self-culture through the study of the best poetry.

It is, however, not by deliberately taking poetry as a vehicle of

education, hunting up every allusion, parsing difficult sentences,

and picking the whole thing to pieces, that readers will fall under

its sway and know the power of its magic spell. We have often mourned

in secret at the prevailing fashion of “getting up” this, that, and

the other poem for examinations, and have wondered what such an

introduction to English literature is worth. Of this method of handling

the work of poets one may use Wordsworth’s phrase:

“We murder to dissect.”

Is it desirable, then, to pass by allusions without comprehending

them? Have we not praised the aspiring student who wants to know, for

instance, who was the

“daughter of the gods, divinely tall

And most divinely fair,”

or who it was

“Who saw life steadily and saw it whole,

The mellow glory of the Attic stage,

Singer of sweet Colonus and its child”?

We can only say that, whereas anxiety to understand whatever one reads

intelligently is to be commended, no individual knowledge about a

masterpiece of poetic genius is to be put in place of the masterpiece

itself. And we unhesitatingly condemn the practice of using poems as

vehicles for lessons in grammar, Grimm’s Law, or any other technical

matter whatsoever. For instance, if Wordsworth’s “Excursion” has

any meaning for your heart and mind, do not read it with notes which

stop you four times in the first three lines, with the derivation of

“landscape,” the explanation of “downs” and other kindred matters,

which are undoubtedly useful, but should not be learnt by the medium of

an immortal poem. If you need lessons in this elementary sort of thing,

we should advise you to find them elsewhere.

If you have to read one of Shakespeare’s plays edited by such admirable

commentators as Mr. Aldis Wright or Mr. Verity, do not adopt the

method of the girl who covered up the text, lest it should divert her

attention from the notes! But the notes are the most important matter

to the minds of thousands of middle-class girls and boys, because it is

on the notes they are going to be examined.

A suggestive and amusing essay on this subject for elder readers is to

be found in _Reviews and Essays in English Literature_, by the Rev. D.

C. Tovey, M.A., Clark Lecturer at Trinity College, Cambridge.

The well-known couplet:

“You must love him ere to you

He will seem worthy of your love,”

is true of the poet. And does the utilising of Shakespeare as a

class-book make him beloved by the young? We are afraid it does not.

Yet do not throw notes aside—only remember—do remember!—they touch

nothing but the form; the spirit of poetry eludes them altogether.

We may imagine two students of a poem brought into comparison. The one

regards it as a task alone; she has conscientiously learnt by heart

the notes of an erudite commentator, has looked up every allusion, can

expatiate on “Grimm’s Law,” and give instances of its working. The

other can do none of these things; she has found the volume in some

library, has pored over the poem till it has become part of her inner

life; its music rings in her ears; she loves it passionately, and it

haunts her inner consciousness like sweet, strange music. If both girls

are suddenly examined for the “Cambridge Local,” the latter will fail

and the former will pass. Yet the latter is the one for whom the poem

has really done its true work. We are not denying that she would be the

better for the technical knowledge possessed by the other; but if one

has to choose between them, she it is who really understands her poet.

Love and knowledge should go hand in hand, as Browning has taught us

by his legend of Paracelsus and Aprile; but the modern tendency in

much-examined young people is to dwell so largely on the knowledge that

the love flies away.

Read and love poetry as much as you can. It will open and enlarge your

mind; feed and enlighten your imagination; make life beautiful to you,

and teach you of the greater things that lie beyond life.

One sometimes hears a girl remark in a self-satisfied voice, “Oh, I

don’t care for poetry!” Dear young friend, are you aware that Goethe

said:

“Wer der Dichtkunst Stimme nicht vernimmt,

Ist ein Barbar, er sei auch wer er sei”?

(He who has no ear for the voice of poetry is a barbarian, be he who he

may.) And there is considerable truth in the statement. No one would

be proud of physical partial deafness and blindness; they constitute

nothing to be elated about in the mental sphere. If you “do not care

for poetry,” you had better at least give yourself a chance of caring

for it by reading some poem on a subject which seems likely to appeal

to you. In this way you may find out that you have an unsuspected

capacity of being touched by this music. If you do not appreciate

Milton, you may enjoy a simple poem by Coleridge; if Tennyson does not

please you, Rudyard Kipling’s stirring words may cause your heart to

throb and your eyes to melt; if Browning is too obscure, Tennyson’s

melody may charm you; if Keats and Shelley are too mystical, Scott’s

“Marmion,” or “Lady of the Lake,” may prove fascinating. In any case,

give yourself every chance of entering into your immortal and divine

heritage of “truth and pure delight.”

The greatest literature of all ages has a tendency to become poetry,

as you will see if you consider the Hebrew Psalms, Homer, Æschylus,

Sophocles, Virgil “lo buon maestro,” and Dante his pupil, Shakespeare,

Goethe. Poetry is the language in which highest aspirations, loftiest

truths, naturally clothe themselves. Coleridge’s definition in _Table

Talk_ is worth remembering.

“I wish,” he says, “our clever young poets would remember my homely

definitions of prose and poetry: that is, prose—words in their best

order; poetry—the best words in their best order.”

We must not, however, be led away into a disquisition on the extremely

difficult question of the true nature and scope of poetry, but must

give a few hints to the reader. Here much depends, and must always

depend, on individual taste and habit of mind.

Dante, the great poet of the Middle Ages, should be read and studied

by all who have the necessary time and capacity, but unfortunately no

translation can render the poetry of the original. It is worth while

to learn Italian in order to read the “Divine Comedy,” but if that

is impossible, it is also worth while to read it in Dean Plumptre’s,

Cary’s, or Longfellow’s translation. Longfellow’s is absolutely

literal, but truth compels us to state it is often very unmusical. For

“self-culture” the intelligent study of this great poet is a mighty

instrument. To enter into Dante’s thought is to enter into the view of

human life and human civilisation as it appeared to the greatest man of

the time, and anyone who can understand the historical allusions of the

“Divine Comedy” need not blush for her knowledge of history.

Do not take Shakespeare “as read.” That is even worse than concerning

yourself principally with the notes on his plays! There are small

editions of separate plays, such as Cassell’s sixpenny edition, too

numerous to mention, which are small enough to slip into the pocket,

and may form a companion on a wearisome journey. _The Merchant of

Venice_, _As You Like It_, _The Tempest_, _Richard II._, may be quoted

as good plays to begin with if your knowledge of the poet of poets is

scanty. But you may study Shakespeare all your life without exhausting

the wealth contained in his pages. Every succeeding generation sees

more and more meaning in what he says, because he is true to the inner

life of the human heart. The life is there. The lessons that can be

drawn from the life are practically endless.

The constant issue of fresh cheap editions of the plays is a good

sign. Perhaps Milton is not so much read nowadays; and yet you cannot

afford to neglect him. If you are alarmed at the length of “Paradise

Lost,” begin with some of his shorter poems and sonnets; and if you do

not read right through Spenser’s “Faerie Queen,” you will find many

beautiful scenes and thoughts here and there.

We have spoken of the great Florentine poet and the study of Italian;

it will not perhaps be quite out of place to hint to students of German

that a rich reward lies before them if they can master the language

sufficiently to enjoy the lyric poems of Goethe, the higher flights

of Schiller, and many others. The “Erl-König” (Erl King) by Goethe

and the “Farewell of Joan of Arc to the Mountains” from Schiller’s

play, _The Maid of Orleans_, were great favourites of the writer in

her girlhood. German poetry is true music, whatever may be said to the

contrary by those who only half know the language.

Space fails us to write in full of modern English poetry. Wordsworth,

Scott, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Keats, Shelley,

Matthew Arnold, Arthur Hugh Clough, William Morris, are names of

varying fame, but each name brings unspeakable associations to those

who know and love the poet through his work. Surely one of these may

become to you a teacher who will help and inspire.

Wordsworth will transport you into the world of nature. How much those

are to be pitied who live in the “stony-hearted” street, far from

the sweet influences of wood and meadow, moor and mountain, lake and

waterfall! These exiles from the true home of man may find solace in

the poet of nature.

“Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,

O Rotha, with thy living wave;

Sing him thy best! for few or none

Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.”

Thus Matthew Arnold apostrophises the little river that washes the

Grasmere churchyard. The epitaph to Wordsworth in the Grasmere church

so aptly describes his work that we cannot refrain from quoting it here.

“To the memory of William Wordsworth, a True Philosopher and Poet: who,

by the special gift and calling of Almighty God, whether he discoursed

of Man or Nature, failed not to lift up the heart to Holy Things: tired

not of maintaining the cause of the Poor and Simple; and so in Perilous

Times was raised up to be a Chief Minister, not only of noblest Poesy,

but of high and sacred Truth.”

Robert Browning, unlike Wordsworth, is a dramatic poet at heart. We do

not mean that his plays are his best work, but that he has unerring

skill in reading the human heart and translating into poetry its loves,

hates, fears, and ambitions. If you will try to understand him, do not

be discouraged by obscurity, but begin by some of the shorter, simpler,

and yet characteristic poems in the volume of _Selections_.

As for Tennyson, who sings alike of man and of nature, you will

probably be more readily lured to his pages than to those of Wordsworth

or Browning. If you are in sorrow, _In Memoriam_ may prove a faithful

comforter.

It is impossible, of course, to expatiate on all the poets named and

many others who are not named; a volume would not be sufficient.

All one can say is—read for yourself, and if you are ambitious for

self-culture, remember that the reading of the best poetry will do more

for you than can possibly be expressed by any words here.

There are two minor poets whose works you will probably much enjoy—Jean

Ingelow and Coventry Patmore. The “Angel in the House” by the latter is

greatly esteemed by Mr. Ruskin.

“Teach your children poetry,” says Lord Macaulay; “it opens the mind,

lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.” And

the rugged old philosopher, Carlyle, speaks thus of the influence of

poetry on any living human creature—

“Tones of sphere-music and tidings from loftier worlds will flit round

him if he can but listen, and visit him with holy influences, even in

the thickest press of trivialities or the din of busiest life.”

(_To be concluded._)

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object

in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHRISTMAS AGAIN.

The missive in Lucy’s hand was no simple workman’s clumsy bill. It was

a sheet of blank paper.

“What can this mean?” said Lucy, turning it about, while Miss Latimer

and Tom watched her.

“You may be sure it ought to be the bricklayer’s bill, but that he has

put in the wrong piece of paper,” observed Miss Latimer.

“Or it may have come from that stupid fellow we found in the area,”

said Tom. “Perhaps his next tipsy fit has taken this form, and he is

under the delusion that he has written a letter to Jane Smith.”

“That is not unlikely,” Lucy admitted, still turning the paper about.

“The letter has been posted at this district office, and there is no

maker’s name on the envelope. Anyhow, there it goes,” and she tore it

in two and dropped it into the waste-paper basket.

“I wonder if Clementina would notice the strange-looking letter,”

said Miss Latimer. “I’m always afraid of something stirring her

superstitions and making her take flight to her Highland hills on the

score that ‘Babylon’ is too terrible a place to stay in.”

That was all. It was but a nine minutes’ wonder. Yet they remembered it

afterwards.

Early in December there came a letter from Mrs. Grant in Peterhead.

Lucy and the captain’s wife had kept up a slight correspondence during

their husbands’ absence on the _Slains Castle_. Each had always written

to apprise the other of any news she had received. Once or twice,

indeed, when unexpected opportunities for ship’s letters had arisen,

the busy captain had contented himself with sending a message to his

wife _viâ_ his passenger’s home epistle. Mrs. Grant had always promptly

and cordially acknowledged these curtesies on Lucy’s part. But she was

not naturally a letter-writing woman. Her missives were always of the

briefest, and never until now had she taken the initiative.

Mrs. Grant’s letter seemed, on the face of it, both as cheerful and

as brief as usual. She “supposed Lucy had heard nothing lately, as

she knew she would have let her know if she had.” “Sailing vessels

are often out of their reckoning for weeks and weeks,” she added. She

dropped a word of congratulation that Lucy’s own welcoming day was

assuredly near at hand now, and of half-comic self-condolence that

hers was so much farther off. “In my case, too, one suspense is no

sooner over than another begins,” she wrote. “But that’s the lot of

the sailor’s wife, and I know it was all in my bargain when I took the

captain.”

There certainly seemed nothing in that letter to alarm Lucy, and she

marvelled at a strange uneasiness which she felt stirring within her.

Was she intuitively aware of some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Grant,

which she had studiously kept out of her words? Lucy wrote a prompt

reply, saying that she had heard nothing yet, but was daily looking for

tidings. She tried to make her letter cheerful, and wondered whether

Mrs. Grant, in her turn, would read anything between the lines.

Lucy scarcely liked to think of the approaching Christmas Day. If

Charlie had returned, it would be a day of supreme joy; if timely sea

news came in, it would be one of gladdest thanksgiving. But if——! There

Lucy paused, and turned aside as from a great mist advancing to enfold

her. Yet she must make her little plans to be fit for the fulfilment of

her hope. Not to do so, would seem like creating an omen of prolonged

separation and anxiety. So she and Miss Latimer sent out a Christmas

bidding to Mr. Somerset, Lucy saying with pathetic playfulness that

under the circumstances she scarcely knew whether she ought to issue

her invitations in her own name only or with Charlie’s joined thereto.

“For he may be among us on that day yet,” she added. Writing down her

hope seemed to make it more tangible.

Mr. Somerset called in reply to Lucy’s invitation. He told her that

in accepting it, he was accepting a real kindness. Without it, this

Christmas might have been very lonely and desolate for him. His

old landlord lay at the point of death, and consequently the whole

household was saddened and absorbed.

“How much sadness there is in the world!” sighed Lucy. “And how

terrible it is that there is a sort of consolation in realising that

one is not the only burdened and anxious soul. It seems a selfish and

cruel feeling to find comfort in that thought!”

Mr. Somerset looked up brightly.

“Yes, it seems so,” he said. “I used to think so, and probably it is

so in the spirit in which the idea may sometimes be suggested and

received. Yet I have learned to understand that it does not have a

selfish and cruel origin. I think I have discovered what the idea

springs from, and how it is that such a thought may really soothe and

strengthen. After all, what is the very depth of woe—its unendurable

sting?”

Lucy mused.

“I think it is the failure of our faith,” she said gently. “The chilly

feeling that God has let go of us and that there are none to help.”

“Exactly so,” answered Mr. Somerset, “and I daresay all of us have

known that feeling more than once. It calls our very humility and

littleness to its aid, so that we ask, ‘Who am I that God should

remember me?’ But can any sane mind look upon another, the lowest, the

worst and the most abject, and deliberately say, ‘Who is he that God

should remember him?’ I think not. We can feel that would be the vilest

blasphemy against God. It would at once strip God of all that makes Him

good, ay, or great either, with that wonderful greatness, before which

earth’s highest and lowest and best and worst are all the same. No,

Mrs. Challoner, in realising the fellowship of others in suffering, we

at once realise that God must know all about it, and that there must be

some wise purpose in it, and if so for that other, then for ourselves

too.”

“Did not some philosopher say that death, being universal, could be no

evil?” asked Lucy.

“I think it was the poet Schiller said so,” returned Mr. Somerset, “and

I believe it is the consciousness of this, however little realised,

which keeps life brave and bright and sane in the perpetual presence

of death. The ‘solidarity of humanity,’ though the phrase is one which

they may scarcely understand, is the secret treasure of the humble.

It never occurs to them to be surprised and shocked when those evils

befall them which they always knew befell others. In their eyes ‘it is

the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him _good_,’ always ‘good,’ you

may observe. ‘It is all in the day’s work,’ they tell one, when their

lot is hardest.”

Lucy thought of Mrs. May, and of the strength and comfort she had

gathered, more than a year ago, from that good woman’s calm outlook

on events, and her fixed conviction that there is inward strength

at command sufficient to lift us elastic after any outward blow. It

seemed to Lucy that she too might rise equal to the sublime suspenses

and sorrows of life if only her strength and spirits were spared the

perpetual corrosion of petty cares and worries which fretted them away

as moths consume a garment. Then the wiser reflection came—that neither

were such petty cares and worries special to her; they too entered into

every lot; one could not doubt that brave cheery Mrs. May had her full

share. The same inward strength must be as ready and able to bear the

perpetual little trials as the occasional great ones, if only we invoke

it and know how to use it. The great ocean of Divine love and strength

is always waiting to flow into our smallest trials, if we would but

hold them ready.

Once more the Institute holidays began. Lucy had now made arrangements

for continuing her services there into the next year, under a

running “quarter’s notice.” She had in readiness all her little gala

preparations with which to greet Charlie’s return, however unexpected

it might happen to be.

Of late she had seen very little of the Brands. She knew that Jem had

made a great success in some of his speculations. In newspapers she saw

that his name was held in prominent place at “financial” meetings, and

she noticed mention of Florence as among the guests at showy social

functions. Taking up a “society paper” by chance, she actually read an

account of her sister’s toilette! To Lucy’s ideas, such a thing was an

indecent intrusion into the affairs of a private lady. When Florence

called on her, elate over all these things, she could not congratulate

her, and Lucy felt that her simple silence chafed Florence. Even as

the boy-boarder, poor Tom, “degraded” Lucy in Florence’s eyes, so,

from Lucy’s standpoint, these vanities degraded Florence. The sisters

were drifting ever further apart. Lives with aims and aspirations

diametrically opposed cannot keep together, however household love and

the memory of old associations may yearn that they should do so. Nay,

the more these struggle against the separating tide, the more ghastly

is their shipwreck likely to be. There is “a time to embrace, and a

time to refrain from embracing.” The most poignant tragedy of life

comes in just here. For whatever love has ever been, will persist, and

has to learn to rest patient in the faith that “God seeketh again that

which is passed away.”

Christmas morning came. Miss Latimer had her Christmas offering of

daintily hemmed net ruffles, just the sort of thing which Lucy had

now no time to make. There was the usual budget of Christmas letters

and parcels. A book for Hugh, from “his father’s friend Wilfrid

Somerset,” sent by post, because Mr. Somerset knew that a “post parcel

for his very self” would bulk so largely in a child’s delight; and a

magnificent hand-painted glove and handkerchief sachet in white satin

from Jem and Florence.

What significance there was in those gifts! Miss Latimer and

Mr. Somerset gave with theirs a wee bit of themselves, the kind

consideration for a tired woman’s inability to serve herself, and for

the eager vanity of a little child. But that costly and delicate sachet

could have had no proper place in the little house with the verandah at

any time, and certainly could have no function in the life of a working

woman-artist, who bought no gloves but dark “suedes,” and who could

scarcely find time or spare energy to dust her books! Lucy expressed a

desperate admiration of the thing’s delicate beauty, and so did Miss

Latimer. There was nothing else to say. Each knew the other was not

deceived as to her estimate of the thoughtlessness of such a gift.

“But poor Florence means to be so kind,” Lucy urged upon herself. “That

is in her taste, and it would suit her own white-and-gold bedroom.

She cannot realise the difference between us! We always used to have

everything alike. And she means to be kind!”

Lucy secretly pressed a yearning kiss on the soft white thing, ere

she refolded it in its dainty papers, from which, she knew, it

would not be taken again for a long time. They rend us terribly,

do these thoughtless favours in which a kind intention seems to

blunder. Possibly this pang of remorse for seeming ungraciousness

and ingratitude might sometimes be lessened if we could look deeper

into the matter. It might have been spared to Lucy had she known that

Florence had neither chosen nor even bought this gift. It had been

sent to Florence herself, but she had just received another, much

handsomer, so after writing a gushing note of thanks to the donor, she

had promptly forwarded it to Lucy!

Mr. Somerset himself arrived in due time. Lucy sat amid her little

circle with a smiling face, but they all felt that she must feel a keen

disappointment that, after all, she still remained the sole head of the

household. They pressed upon her all the cheer possible.

“After all, the weary waiting time is all behind you,” said Mr.

Somerset. “Only fancy if last year you could have felt as you may now,

that all which remains is but a few days more or less.”

“We’ll have to be quite sure that we recognise Mr. Challoner when he

appears,” put in Miss Latimer playfully, pointing to Charlie’s portrait

over the fireplace. “Remember he has had long voyagings through sunny

seas even since that was taken, and his present self may be as much of

an improvement on that as that is on the pale invalid who went away.”

“You have made a supreme effort to win this triumph, Mrs. Challoner,”

remarked Mr. Somerset. “It may all seem easy to you now it is ending so

beautifully. But you made the effort in the dark, not knowing how it

might end.”

“But it was right to do, and that was Lucy’s part, and the disposing

of it is God’s,” said Miss Latimer. “We must not do evil that good may

come. But we must do right, however its ending may seem to us.”

“But possibly right is somewhat different with different people,”

remarked Mr. Somerset. “What was right for our friend here to do was an

action right only in those as brave and capable as she is.”

“I am no casuist,” returned Miss Latimer. “My idea of right is that it

is what each person knows he or she ought to do and can do.”

“Ah, but there is a great deal in that ‘can do,’” smiled Mr. Somerset.

“None know what they can do till they try,” retorted Miss Latimer.

“Dr. Ivery has been so kind,” said Lucy. “He had sent two or three

times to inquire after Charlie’s progress. So when I got that

photograph I thought I ought to let him see it. I said I hoped he would

excuse me for bringing it, but I thought it might help him what to

advise in similar cases, and he said, ‘Yes.’” Lucy broke off abruptly

with a little laugh and a heightened colour.

Mr. Somerset and Miss Latimer also laughed. They both guessed what Lucy

did not choose to tell them, that the doctor had said he would often be

happy to prescribe such a cure if the patient were but provided with

such a wife to help him to carry it out!

“All this is very well,” said Tom Black, assuming a grumbling tone.

“But I should look forward to Mr. Challoner’s coming with much more

delight if I did not fear that it will end my days here; he will want

all his house for himself!”

Lucy laughed very sincerely now.

“Charlie’s coming will bring you nothing but good, Tom,” she observed,

“and you know that well enough. You have been a great help to me, and

Charlie will be even more grateful than I am. But there is something

for which we can all be grateful together, at the very present

moment—to wit, that no poor Jessie Morison is spoiling the peace

of this Christmas Day. I was in the kitchen half an hour ago, and

Clementina has got everything most conscientiously in order.”

“Nevertheless she’s something of a spoil-sport,” put in Tom. “I wonder

if it takes any nourishment out of one’s food when the cook is always

sighing?”

Hugh had been perched up in the window, watching cabs which were

bringing Christmas guests to the neighbours. At this instant he turned,

crying—

“Something is the matter opposite. Policemen!”

They all rushed to the window.

“Is it a chimney on fire?” asked Miss Latimer.

“There is no smoke,” said Lucy.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]

SUNSHINE: A SUMMER SERMON.

BY Dr. GORDON-STABLES, R.N. (“MEDICUS”).

“Catch, then, O catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies,

Life’s a short summer, man a flower,

He dies—alas! how soon he dies!”

* * * * *

I will not begin by saying—as so many people do—that the small amount

of sunshine we get in this country is not worth mentioning. This is

not the case. Would you be surprised to learn that we have enough for

health’s sake, and that when we do not get actual summer sunshine, we

get the summer light all around us out of doors? That this light is

diffused, filtered for us through the clouds that float high above,

and that many people of wealth who leave this land of ours to seek

for sunnier soils and sunnier shores, about the Riviera, the isles of

the blue Levant or Madeira and the Canaries, make a most egregious

mistake, and their health would be vastly improved were they to spend

their time in the cool green midlands of England, on the sunshiny

braes and hills of majestic Scotland or even down at our own seaside

watering-places—quiet ones, mind you—where the wavelets ripple with

gladsome laughter as they break on the golden sands?

The maids of merry England seldom need the dry hot sunshine of the

Soudan or banks of the gliding Nile. Our maidens, I maintain, are

flowers, and beautiful flowers too, but not like those on far southern

shores that can without hurt or harm stare the sun in the face. There

is as much difference indeed between an English, Scottish, or Irish

girl, and an Italian or Spanish as there is between the violets blue

and the crimson flower of the cactus.

Our sunshine—our own _own_ sunshine—is best for _us_, unless our lungs

and blood are weakened by the on-coming of ailments like the deadly and

all too fatal disease we call phthisis.

Well, all my readers, even the youngest I hope have heard of the

sunshine bath. It is a very old form of bathing indeed. It is said to

have been invented by the Romans in their palmiest days, but it was

used by Indians and Africans or Egyptians long long before Rome or

Greece itself was very much of a country or kingdom. And they no doubt

were but following the example set to them by the birds and beasts in

forest and wildery.

The Romans before they became demoralised and effete had special baths

in which they could revel in the sunshine. These were very luxurious,

and splendidly draped apartments open only to the sky, in which one

could sit or lounge uncovered save by garments of gauze, and where,

with the head alone protected at times by a shade, one could benefit in

a most especial way from direct sun-rays. We have none such in our day.

The strong need none such, and may best take the sunshine out of doors

when it comes, not even troubling themselves to go in search of it.

But so convinced am I of the benefits of sunshine that I confidently

advise girls—young or not quite so young—to court it, to enjoy it all

they can, to sit or recline in it, to hang their hammocks in it, and

with or without a sunshade to dream and revel, laugh and live in it,

for verily, verily, to the delicate, summer sunshine is life itself.

Yes, and if it makes them drowsy when in their hammock, let them place

the magazine they have been reading over brow and eyes and go to sleep

in it.

But supposing the sun is not shining but the day is dry, well, you

still have light. And a bath of diffused light is a bath of health.

Don’t swing your hammocks under trees except in too bright sunshine.

Only beetles and toadstools can flourish under a cedar or spruce.

But what I want you, reader, specially to remember, and I’ll be

fearfully cross and grumpy if you do not remember it, is this: don’t

take your sunshine bath in a window or even a verandah. This is

altogether too one-sided an affair. The light or the sun-rays must be

all around you. All around you too must circle the fresh air.

Reverting to the Romish bath: I must say that if we had at sunny

seaside places institutions where we could enjoy such a thing nearly or

quite unclothed, with the sky alone above us, it would be a really good

thing, but following the example of the less endowed animals we see in

fields and woods we shall benefit by being out in the sunshine simply

lightly dressed. The sun can penetrate like Röntgen rays through and

through our garments and bodies if we but expose ourselves thereto.

Mere animals, as we are all too fond of calling them, appear oftentimes

to know what is good for them better than we do.

“Reason raise o’er instinct if we can,

In this ’tis God directs,—in that ’tis man.”

When a favourite animal belonging to our domestic circle, such as a dog

or cat, is weak because well-stricken in years, you may always notice

that he courts the sunshine whenever he has a chance, and with it the

fresh air.

A question which naturally enough often recurs to one is this: What is

the difference between indoor heat and that obtained from the sunshine?

Well, apart from the fact that sunshine, whether clearitically or

otherwise, exerts a very powerful influence for good on the animal

and vegetable creation, it has a hundred times more of penetrating

force than that which comes from a fire or that which we find in a

room heated by steam or hot water pipes. Moreover, the heat which

is artificial is all too often decidedly one-sided, and many a most

disagreeable cold has been caught on a chilly night from hugging the

fire, by which one portion of the body is heated at the expense of the

other. There is less oxygen to be breathed indoors, and a dangerous

amount of carbonic acid and other deleterious gases.

Again, all nature shows us that sunshine and light permeate every

tissue of the animal or vegetable structure, so that they may be

considered synonymous with the term life itself.

And the purer the air we breathe when out of doors the greater the

effect for good sunshine will have.

But if we are to benefit thoroughly by summer sunshine, we must be out

every day and, if possible, at the self-same hours of the day.

Walking in moderation will be found far more advantageous to the

delicate girl who would regain health than cycling. It must not be

carried to the boundary line of fatigue, however. One should be just

nicely pleasantly tired. Here, for instance, is a _régime_ that would

suit many a lassie who had gone to some bracing delightful spot to live

for the sixty or one hundred days of summer. She ought to adopt it from

the very second day.

Having retired early on the previous evening from quiet but

non-exciting employment, having neither talked nor laughed nor sung

much for the two hours previous, let her pull the window down, have

sufficient bed-clothing and a not too soft mattress, and easy yielding

pillows. Let her go to bed, and having done so—think of nothing. If

this plan is adopted sleep will soon waft her away to the beautiful

Land of Nod, and if she is breathing pure air all night she will awake

betimes, refreshed and as happy as the birds on the lawn. But this

awaking betimes is a _sine quâ non_ of this health-giving _régime_,

so if not sure of being called by seven o’clock, she ought to have an

alarm.

The first thing on getting up is tonic, bracing, cold sponge-bath

followed by a thorough towelling. She should not dawdle in dressing,

but get out into the garden for a fifteen minutes’ walk as soon as

possible. After a solid breakfast with not too much coffee or tea, the

forenoon may be said to be fairly begun. And the whole of this should

be spent out of doors in the sunshine or light. Even rain must not

confine her to the house. If she could live in a tent entirely it would

be better than a house. She ought to be back home to wash hands and

face and rest a little, a good half-hour before the 1.30 dinner. Rest

for half an hour after this. No wine or stimulant of any kind, and just

enough solid food to satisfy the needs of nature. Soup is a mistake

and so is cheese, and, as a rule, salad. Pudding is not to be eaten if

there is the slightest inclination to _embonpoint_.

Fruit may be partaken of at any time so long as it is quite fresh and

seasonable.

A little rest should be taken for say half an hour after dinner, then

out again for pleasant exercise or non-exciting games. One cup of the

very _best_ tea about five, and supper at seven. If sleepless and

thin, a little food should be taken the very last thing, a biscuit or

two with butter, and a large tumblerful of hot milk with sugar and

flavouring to taste. Then meditation and bed.

Really and truly a summer spent thus in fresh air, sunshine, or light

will cure seventy per cent. of all chronic ailments, quite bring back

appetite and happiness to the dyspeptic and gloomy, and even eradicate

the first seeds of consumption itself.

But one word in conclusion: if everything is not done day after day

with method and regularity, if late hours be kept, or the evenings

spent too excitedly, then you need expect but little benefit from even

the summer sunshine. I hope to have a paper very soon on the “_Fresh

Air Treatment of Consumption_.”

GRILLING AND DEVILLING.

BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.

I have taken the trouble to look in the dictionary for the word

“grill,” and I find it is derived from the French word “grille”—a

grate or gridiron—and it means to broil on a grate or gridiron. But

to-day, in point of fact, grilling is rarely performed in this manner,

few people having the gridiron; and if not done in the oven, it is

performed in an open frying-pan.

I have begun with this piece of information because some of my readers

may say on seeing the word, “Oh, we can’t grill! We have no means of

using a gridiron!” And as all devils must be grilled or fried quickly,

without burning them in a hot oven, it is well to understand exactly

what is meant. To my mind a frying-pan is better than an oven, because

you can watch the process and see that the gravy does not waste. And

the very first thing you have to guard against with an inexperienced

or poor cook is her either wasting all the mixture for the gravy, or

else her drying it up and burning the meat, or scorching the bones,

and making them uneatable. The operation of grilling must be performed

quickly, and needs the best attention of the operator.

Now I must tell you what I daresay you may already know, _i.e._, that

all the great cooks, like Francatelli, give you a recipe for what they

generally call “devil’s mixture”; and the following is the composition

of that renowned master in the art of cooking. Mix well upon a plate a

spoonful of either French or English mustard, a spoonful of Oude sauce

or chutney, the same of anchovy, two spoonfuls of olive oil, and a

little cayenne pepper. This should be used to cover whatever you are

about to grill.

In the _Pytchley Cookery Book_, which is so celebrated, you will find

two or three recipes for devil sauce. The first is the simplest. Warm

and blend together a teaspoonful of mixed mustard, a tablespoonful

of Worcestershire sauce, an ounce of glaze, an ounce of butter, a

saltspoonful of cayenne pepper, one of salt, and a tablespoonful of

chopped parsley. Mix, warm up, and rub the meat well with the mixture,

serving it as gravy, should any remain after the broiling.

The second Pytchley recipe is intended to be poured over the meat when

broiled. A tablespoonful of mustard, a teaspoonful of curry paste, a

tablespoonful of Worcestershire sauce, two tablespoonfuls of mushroom

ketchup, a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce, a teaspoonful of salt, the

yolk of an egg, and half a pint of thick soup from the night before, if

a thin soup. Then thicken it with some brown thickening, boil up, and

pour over the broiled bones.

Thus, you see, there are really two methods of devilling; the one

first-mentioned when you pour the sauce over the meat before broiling,

and the second when you put it over afterwards, which really takes more

the form of a gravy, though it is not intended to be too plentiful, nor

to surround the devilled meat in the dish. For the first intention of

devils is, that they should be dry, rather crisp, and savoury, not wet

and soft in the slightest degree. This you must be pleased to remember

if you would make them successfully, and one of your great difficulties

will be to have the dish dry, yet not dried up, which is the test of a

good devil.

What is known as Indian devil mixture is made as follows: To one

tablespoonful each of vinegar, ketchup, and chutney paste, add an ounce

of dissolved butter, a dessertspoonful of made mustard, salt, and a

small cup of good gravy. Mix all together, and rub them into the meat

either cooked or uncooked. Make all hot slowly together. They will take

ten minutes to make hot. Serve in the dish in which you have cooked

them.

This recipe is one which was left to the cooking world by Admiral Ross,

and it is an excellent one, quickly and easily made. In all those I

have given you will see that either mustard, mixed or unmixed, is made

use of; but I myself dispense with it, as I like the mixture better

without it for ordinary use.

What is known as a Cambridge devil was given to me long ago by a Fellow

of St. John’s, and dates certainly from the very last days of the last

century, or the early days of this one—which, if we all live long

enough, will soon be spoken of as “the last century” too! This can be

employed with any kind of meat, but I have chiefly used it with ham,

and it is very excellent in helping to use up the remains of a ham,

which is rather difficult to deal with when you do not turn it into

potted ham, which is, perhaps, the most sensible way of all.

The rough and ready way of making a Cambridge devil is to take the

mustard pot, and with the mustard spoon to smear over the slices of ham

on one side as much mustard as you think you are likely to stand, and

then to add some vinegar—perhaps two tablespoonfuls—just enough to make

a thickened gravy with the mustard you have put in. You have first laid

the slices of ham neatly on an old plate, or, at least, on one plate

which you do not mind putting into a very hot oven, and when you have

added the mustard and the vinegar, you must put the plate into a hot

oven. When it gets very hot, take a fork and turn about the slices of

ham until they be covered with vinegar, and the vinegar and the mustard

have amalgamated in some measure, then put back into the oven, and let

it brown well and frizzle up, and then serve in the same plate in which

it has been cooked. But you should stand it, of course, on another one,

so that it may not do any damage, nor burn people’s fingers.

I learned years ago a very nice and simple method of preparing slices

of cold meat of any kind by rubbing them with curry powder and then

frying them, or, better still, grilling. When you have cut the slices

of meat (mutton, I think, for choice), pour some curry powder on a

plate, and roll the slices in it; but if you do not like things very

hot and fierce, then mix the curry powder with flour in the proportion

of half and half, and this will make the dish more suitable for the

family. I am inclined to think that all these dishes of an extremely

savoury description are more suitable for the “grown-ups” than the

smaller fry.

Cold meat may be also simply devilled by shaking over it a mixture of

cayenne, black pepper, and salt, and sometimes a little French mustard

is added at the last before the meat is made hot. I have also seen the

above mixed with butter into a paste, the meat slightly scored, and

the mixture rubbed into the scorings. Amongst the most delightful of

breakfast dishes are those made of drumsticks of fowls, turkeys, or

ducks. These should be scored lengthways, and the mixture inserted;

then you should put on some tiny bits of butter (if you do not use oil)

and grill.

Now I must enter on the very important subject of bones (I am sure it

ought to have a capital B), grilled and devilled bones constituting

one of those delicacies which are always associated with club suppers,

or the midnight meals of celebrated eating-houses. In private houses,

devilled bones are not so well known, nor so successful, perhaps,

when done; and this is generally owing, as I have said before, to the

carelessness or to the inexperience of cooks, who may never have been

taught how to do them.

The bones most used for grilling and devilling are from the sirloin

of beef, or the shoulder or leg of mutton. Of course, when we speak

of “bones,” we do not mean that they are “bare bones”; they must of

necessity have a certain amount of meat left upon them—that is to say,

enough to be scored with a sharp knife, if to be devilled as well as

grilled. If to be grilled only, and you be fortunate enough to have a

gridiron, they need nothing but a little pepper and salt, and sometimes

not even that.

The bones require a fierce, hot, and clear fire, and the epicure of

grilled bones prefers that the meat should be black. If the fire be not

fierce enough, you can make it more so by throwing a little fat upon

it, either in the form of dripping, or of odd pieces of fat that may be

cut off from the meat. This will make a sufficient blaze, and you will

attain without trouble to the coveted degree of blackness, which really

is more smoke and scorch than burn, and gives with the grease that kind

of smoky taste to the grill that we enjoy so much with ham and any

other smoked meats.

_Grilled Kippered Salmon._—Cut some dried salmon into small long

pieces—about four inches long and two inches wide; broil them over

a clear fire, then rub them over with fresh butter seasoned with

lemon-juice and cayenne, and serve very hot.

_Grilled Cod Cutlets._—One ancient recipe for grilling will serve to

explain the process, and will enable anyone to perform the operation

without difficulty. The first thing to do is to dry the cutlets or

anything else in a clean cloth, and then to brush them over lightly

with fresh olive oil, place them on a hot gridiron, and grill for

about ten minutes; turn them on both sides, and, when done, sprinkle

with pepper and salt, squeeze lemon-juice over them, and serve very

hot. This is the usual process, and everything—fish, mutton, beef,

mushrooms, and chicken or turkey—can be done by it.

And now I hope that you will have quite comprehended from what I have

written the difference between grilling and devilling, and can see that

grills need not be devilled, but that devils must always be grilled. So

I will finish up my subject by discoursing on the things to which you

may apply the latter process, which are so many that you will find your

list of breakfast and supper dishes greatly enlarged.

I hope you are not foolishly prejudiced against tinned foods, because

they are very excellent if you do not try to purchase them cheaply, and

always go to good and reliable shops for them. Thus the matter is in

your own hands completely; and you have no one to blame but yourself if

they turn out unsatisfactorily.

I hope you understand also that devils must not be black as grills

are, and not be placed over a too hot fire; but must be well browned

and frizzled. And while there are some people who like dry ones, there

are other people who prefer that the devil mixture should be thickened

round them like a rather thick gravy. In fact, this process rather

repeats that of curry-making, as there are dry curries, wet curries,

and very wet ones.

And now I shall finish with a few more available dishes, which are

simple and easily made by any cook, whether good or bad, who can at

least read a recipe and follow it.

_Devilled Lobster_ is one of the things that can be made with tinned

lobster. You must first prepare a paste of salt, dry mustard, curry

powder, black pepper, and salad oil. Spread it over the lobster, then

melt an ounce of butter in a fire-proof dish, put in the fish, and heat

it well through, browning the top. If you are using fresh lobster, it

will require fully ten minutes in cooking.

Tinned salmon, or the remains of a tinned tongue, may be used in the

same manner, and so may the Australian beef.

The remains of a cold roast duck are suitable for a most excellent

devil. To make it you must remove the bones and cut the meat into

rather small pieces, but not too small. (This is better made in a small

enamelled saucepan.) Take a tablespoonful of dry mustard, a teaspoonful

of salt, a little cayenne, and two tablespoonfuls of lemon-juice. Mix

these ingredients gradually and very thoroughly together, and add two

tablespoonfuls of butter melted, and two tablespoonfuls of water. When

this gets hot, put in the pieces of duck and also a gill of some white

wine—Sauterne—or even a light claret, or, if you do not like wine, use

a gill of good stock instead. Place the saucepan over the fire and stir

it carefully till smoking hot, then turn it on to a hot-water dish, if

you have it, and serve as hot as possible.

Now, the next dish that occurs to me is devilled kidneys. For a large

dish, twelve sheep’s kidneys will be required; but, of course, you

must be guided by the number of people for whom you are catering. Cut

the kidneys in half, remove the centres and white tubes, and then

scald them, removing also the skin. Put two ounces of butter into an

enamelled saucepan; and, when it is hot, throw in the kidneys and cook

them quickly. Dust them over with salt and white pepper, and then

pour over them a tablespoonful of onion juice, one of Worcestershire

sauce, and four teaspoonfuls of light sherry. Serve smoking hot, and,

if possible, in a hot-water dish, for I hope you understand that

everything in this way must be served and kept hot while at table.

Sardines may be either grilled or devilled. If the former, scrape them

free from skin and oil, and wipe them in a clean cloth. Oil a little

butter and roll them in it, powder them with cayenne pepper and salt,

and cover them with some finely-chopped parsley and chopped mushrooms.

Wrap each sardine in oiled paper, and put in the oven till hot; and

serve in the same papers in which they were cooked without unfolding

them, and lay each on a slice of toast.

_Devilled Sardines_ are done in quite the same way. To begin with,

they are scraped and wiped, and rolled in a mixture of mustard,

Worcestershire sauce, anchovy sauce (be sure to shake both the

bottles), and four tablespoonfuls of melted butter, and lay each on a

slice of toast in the oven, and serve very hot. It should not take more

than five minutes to cook them in a very quick oven.

Eggs devilled with anchovy toast is another good supper dish. You

must first put a little butter in the frying-pan, and afterwards a

mixture of half a teaspoonful of dry mustard, two tablespoonfuls of

tomato sauce, one of Worcester sauce, and one of mushroom ketchup.

Put into this four hard-boiled eggs, sliced, salted and peppered, and

when heated through, place the egg on toasts which you have previously

spread with anchovy paste.

In conclusion, I will say that I find Worcester sauce my greatest

reliance in devilling bones, in making that thoroughly delightful

dish—a devilled shoulder-bone of either mutton or lamb, or, indeed,

where anything in the way of meat is concerned. I do not shake the

bottle; but that is a matter of individual taste. I have tried Harvey

sauce, which also answers; but we at home prefer the former.

Tomato sauce is very excellent for some things—like pork—and is also

good with veal; but you cannot mix other sauces with it. And, unless

very very sour, I would counsel you to avoid the sugar so freely

recommended in most books on cookery.

And I had nearly omitted to mention a very important item, viz.,

devilled biscuits, which are so much enjoyed by many people. These are

done either dry or buttered. What are called American toast biscuits,

or soda biscuits in America, are the nicest; but they need a light

hand, as they break easily. Dip them twice into warm water, then pepper

them with cayenne pepper, and bake till quite crisp in a slow oven.

Serve hot in a toast-rack.

In the other way, you must knead together an ounce and a half of

butter, a saltspoonful of cayenne, and a saltspoonful of flour of

mustard. Dip the biscuits twice into warm milk, spread them with the

mixture, and bake in a slow oven till crisp. Serve very hot.

VARIETIES.

LOTTERIES IN GREAT BRITAIN.

In the close of last century and the beginning of this the lottery

system prevailed in Great Britain to a surprising extent. From 1785 to

1823 there was a Lottery Act every year which brought in the State over

a quarter of a million a year.

Independent of the State lotteries there were lotteries for houses and

lands, jewels and plate, merchandise and ships, and even advowsons

and presentations. Tailors advertised their business by means of

lotteries; so did hatters and glovers. Even the bootblacks gave away

coupons, entitling their customers to a share in lotteries. A plate of

meat at an eating house gave the purchaser a chance of sixty guineas.

Threepennyworth of oysters included a ticket in a five guinea lottery.

Even a sausage stall had a lottery attached, offering the chance of a

five shilling prize to every one who ate a farthing’s worth of sausages.

The whole system—and a demoralising one it was—had an end put to it by

the Lottery Act of 1823.

THE WEDDING-RING FINGER.—The origin of wearing the wedding-ring upon

the fourth finger of the left hand has been much disputed even from

very ancient times. A Latin writer of the fifth century gives the

following matter-of-fact reason. The fourth finger was chosen, he says,

“as being least used of any, as being guarded on either side, and

having in most this peculiar feature, that it cannot be extended alone

and by itself, but will in all its movements be accompanied by some

finger placed on either side.”

THEY DID NOT GET HIS FORTUNE.

One of the great benefactors of the City of Bristol in bygone days was

Mr. John Whitson, a merchant of that place, who by his life afforded a

pleasing example of the success which in general accompanies diligence

and honesty.

The following anecdote told of him is worth repeating:—

As he was one day busy in his office he overheard his nephews talking

loudly in another room, and found the subject of their discourse turn

upon himself and the great fortune they would inherit at his death.

They declared they would spend it like men of fashion, in pleasurable

and expensive pursuits.

The good old gentleman upon this burst in upon them, and with honest

indignation said that since he had heard from their own mouths their

resolution with respect to his fortune, they should now hear his. He

had long been a witness, he told them, of the abandoned course of life

into which they were plunging themselves, and had often remonstrated to

no purpose against it. They now stood self-convicted, and to prevent

the infamy which they might entail upon him, themselves and the public

by such irregular excesses, he was resolved to put it entirely out of

their power.

He accordingly made his will immediately afterwards, and after the

death of his wife left the whole of his money to charitable purposes.

COURAGE.

If courage is gone, then all is gone!

’Twere better that thou hadst never been born.

_Goethe._

AN INDIAN SONG OF WELCOME.

When Lord Reay was governor of Bombay a few years ago, in the course of

a tour he visited the native state of Morvi.

Amongst other institutions shown to his Excellency was the telephone

exchange, which connects various public buildings as well as the towns

lying round about. Here the Thokore Saheb had a microphone attachment

so arranged that from a school fourteen miles off some of the scholars

sang a song specially composed for the occasion by the chief judge of

the state.

The words of the song were as follows:—

“Reay, the lord, our Governor good,

Eternal be your fame;

First-class State of Morvi made,

Increased thus far its name;

Visit now our capital town,

With condescension kind,

And view Sir Waghji’s works of art,

Which surely please your mind.

Tram, telegraph, railway choice,

And many another thing,

To your Excellency’s ears

Telephone by which we sing.”

CALCULATING HER AGE.

An indiscreet young man once asked a lady her age.

“Wait till I count,” she replied. “I married at eighteen, my husband

was then thirty. Now he is twice that—then I must be thirty-six.”

“Is it possible,” ejaculated the other, amazed at this method of

feminine computation. “Well, I should never have expected it.”

* * * * *

[Illustration: CECILLY.]

* * * * *

HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.

BY Mrs. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful

Number,” etc.

CHAPTER I.

“It is no good, we can never manage it,” cried Cecilly, half crying,

throwing on the floor, as she spoke, the book she had been studying for

the last half hour.

“Well, Cecilly, it is no good spoiling the book. That won’t help us,” I

said, picking it up and smoothing its ruffled pages.

“It is just as silly as the others,” Cecilly continued, starting up

and walking quickly up and down the room. “These people did not put a

majolica sink in their dining-room, or embroider their dish-cloths,

but they spent fifty pounds in having water laid on to every bedroom,

bought a new cooking-stove, and every other contrivance advertised

for saving labour. If we had fifty pounds to spend to save ourselves

trouble, we need not do without the servants. I see we shall have to

give up the idea after all. Jack is right; we can never manage.”

“Don’t say that,” I cried, for Cecilly had been the originator of the

idea, and last evening had fought most hopefully every objection the

boys had raised against our carrying out our plan of doing without

servants.

It was only six months ago that the first shadow had fallen on our

bright happy home. Our dear father had been suddenly struck down by

illness, an illness which had seemed but slight at first, but which, as

the weeks went by, grew graver day by day, till there came a long, long

night when we waited in silent grief for the summons to bid him our

last farewell. But God in His mercy heard our broken-hearted prayers,

and gave him back to us and life.

His recovery was fearfully low and tedious, and no one was surprised

to learn that the only hope for his recovery was for him to pass the

winter abroad. It had been very difficult to find the means to take him

away, but they were found. At first the change did wonders, but the

improvement did not last, and in every letter we could read the anxiety

mother was trying to hide from us.

The day before the one of which I write the first bright report had

reached us.

“Father is really better,” mother wrote, but even as we gave our shout

of joy, Jack read these words: “but the improvement comes too late—our

funds are nearly exhausted, and we must soon turn our faces homewards.

The doctors say if only he could stay on for another few months, they

are certain of his recovery. But that cannot be, and God knows what is

best for us always.” Again and again we asked ourselves what it was

possible for us to do to keep him in Cannes, but there seemed no way.

Cecilly had found a few pupils for music when dear father had first

been ill, and she had left no stone unturned in trying to get more,

but in vain. I too had sought for employment, but beyond going to read

to an old lady two afternoons in each week, I had been unable to find

any. Jack was in a solicitor’s office, and already was filling up every

spare hour with extra work, while Bob and Phil were still at school.

Everything of value our home possessed had already been parted with for

the journey, so that it was no wonder we cried out in despair.

“Can’t we give up meat?” Bob asked at dinner that evening. “Kitty is

always moaning over the butcher’s bill.”

“Is it likely you can give up meat,” Jack answered crossly, and I said—

“We might, but the servants would not.”

Then it was that Cecilly had cried out, “Send the servants away. I am

sure we could manage without them.”

Jack was as indignant with Cecilly as with Bob, but she would not be

quieted.

“Listen to me and hear reason,” she cried. “We must have money somehow,

and here is a way of getting it, or saving it, which is the same

thing. Cook’s wages are £20 a year, Ann’s are £16. So in three months

we should save £9. Nine hard sovereigns—not counting their keep. Oh,

Kitty, what is their keep?”

“Quite ten shillings a week each, not counting their washing,” I

answered.

“And we should save the kitchen fire, except when we are cooking,” said

Cecilly.

“And the gas,” said Phil. “They flare it away at every burner. I turned

it out myself in the scullery last night.”

“We should be able to live much more economically, of course,” I said.

“One dinner instead of the two we always have to cook now, must be a

saving in every way. Oh, Cecilly, what a splendid idea yours is.”

“It is all rubbish,” said Jack. “Is it likely mother and father would

allow you girls to turn into slaves?”

But Cecilly would not be silenced, and if she had her will would have

rushed off into the kitchen and dismissed the servants there and then.

She was up quite early and off to the stores to buy two or three books

she had seen advertised on the subject of “How to manage without

servants.” But, as I have said before, the authors had all been able

to spend the servants’ wages for a year in labour-saving contrivances.

Poor Cecilly had been so excited and hopeful the evening before that

she could not endure facing all the difficulties the morning laid

before her.

“Jack is right. We cannot manage,” she cried again, and then burst into

a flood of tears.

I was vainly trying to cheer her when the door opened and our dear old

friend Mrs. Travers, whom we all call Aunt Jane, entered.

“Oh, my dears,” she cried, in dismay, “you have bad news from your

mother!”

I hastened to reassure her, while Cecilly cried out—

“Yes, the news is bad, Aunt Jane. He will never be well again, and we

can’t help him.”

Then I told her mother’s words, and all about our idea that had come to

nothing.

“Why should your idea come to nothing?” she asked, and when we

both asked her at once if she really thought we could manage, and

she answered, “If you can face plenty of hard work, of course you

can,” Cecilly rushed at her to hug her in her joy. “Sit down, you

scatter-brain,” said the dear old lady, “and we will then talk

seriously. There can be no doubt that you will save considerably if

you do send away the servants, but the necessary work you will find

very hard, far harder than you can yet imagine, especially at first. I

speak from experience, my dears, for my early married days were spent

in Canada, and there I learnt to use my hands. I have known many girls

and women as gentle and refined as any English lady, doing the entire

work not only of a house, but helping husband, brother or father with

poultry or dairy as well. And if our sisters in the Colonies can do

without hired help, why can’t we here? There is nothing so healthy as

housework. Have your windows open while you work, and there will be

no need for any more bicycle rides. The question is, Are you really

prepared for hard work? Can you face the early rising, the spoiling of

pretty white hands, a good many backaches, and a great many irksome

duties?”

“Of course we can!” we cried at once. “If only we can give father this

chance, we will face anything!”

“Then, my dears, the first thing is to give the servants notice.”

“Luckily, Aunt Jane, Ann is going; she is only staying on till we knew

when mother would be back.”

“And I know of a place that would suit cook beautifully,” said Cecilly.

“That’s well,” said Aunt Jane, “they are easily disposed of. When they

are gone, you must find a little girl.”

“No, no!” we both called out. “We will do everything ourselves.”

“Hear me out, my dears,” said Aunt Jane quietly, “and then raise your

objections. I say you must have a girl just for one hour in the morning

to clean the boots.”

“Oh, I had forgotten the boots!” sighed Cecilly.

“I would have said a boot-boy, but a girl can clean your doorsteps, for

you must not do that.”

“Why not?” asked Cecilly. “I see nothing to be ashamed of in any work.”

“Neither do I, my dear; but your mother would object to that, I am

sure, and as you must have someone for the boys’ boots, the someone may

as well clean your steps.”

“Why can’t the boys clean their own boots?” Cecilly began, but

I stopped her, for I saw Aunt Jane was looking vexed at her

interruptions, and I knew mother would not like the boys to do such

work while they were going to school among other boys.

“Next,” continued Aunt Jane, “I should advise you to do away with your

kitchen range and have a gas stove.”

“No, dear Aunt Jane,” I pleaded. “We must not spend anything to save

ourselves.”

“I am not asking you to spend anything, my dear, excepting a few

shillings. The gas company will let out on hire any stove for a small

sum, I believe about one shilling and eightpence a quarter. There

will be the cost of setting it, but that will soon be paid for by the

saving in coals. A gas stove can be turned off as soon as you no longer

require it, so is economical in every way. I know I must not add that

it will save you much work, both in cleaning and lighting, though that

is the truth.” We laughed as we told her we were quite lazy enough

to be saved any labour, and she continued, “I will tell you another

plan to lighten your work. Take up all the heavy carpets possible,

especially in the bedrooms. A stained floor with rugs you can shake is

far easier to keep clean as well as being more healthy.”

“But we should have to have the floors stained,” said Cecilly. “And

every shilling will be wanted for father.”

“I think you must spare one or two of them to buy a bottle or so of

stains,” replied Aunt Jane, smiling. “Stain them, and then polish them

by degrees with beeswax and turpentine. I had an oak staircase once

that I treated in that way, and it looked beautiful. Of course, if you

have mats and rugs, so much the better, but strips of carpet with the

ends fringed out do very nicely. What you will find most irksome is

the continual washing up. Take my advice and leave your evening dinner

things till the next morning. I know it is far nicer to get them washed

up overnight, but you must remember that your first duty is to make

home bright for the boys. When dinner is over, put away all domestic

duties and make the evenings as bright with music and suchlike as you

do now. Now I must be going, and will only add this piece of advice.

When you speak to cook and Ann, tell them the reason you are parting

with them. They are both kind-hearted girls and will, I am sure, help

you in getting ready to do without them, and doubtless will be able to

give you good advice too.”

“I hope Jack won’t be very vexed,” sighed Cecilly.

“Never mind Jack,” said Aunt Jane. “He is too sensible to be really

vexed.”

“Poor Jack,” I said. “You know, Aunt Jane, how very friendly and kind

Mr. Marriott has always been to him. Now, although he has been goodness

itself in finding him extra work after office hours, we can all see he

does not approve of the friendship between Jack and Cynthia. Cynthia

comes to us in the daytime as much as ever, but very rarely in the

evening when Jack is home.”

“Mr. Marriott is quite right, my love. The way they are bringing up

their daughters makes marriage with any but a rich man out of the

question.”

“Oh, Aunt Jane, Cynthia is the sweetest girl,” we both cried, while

Aunt Jane answered—

“The sweetest of girls can make the worst of wives.”

After bidding our kind old friend good-bye, we went at once to the

kitchen to tell our tale to cook and Ann. As Aunt Jane had predicted,

they received our news with the greatest kindness, and immediately

offered to help us in every way.

“You had better come into the kitchen every day while I am here, and

let me teach you the young gentlemen’s favourite dishes, Miss Kitty,”

cook said, and Ann, who was leaving because she had been so rude to

Cecilly, sat down and cried because she could not bear to think of us

having to “so bemean” ourselves.

(_To be continued._)

THE FIRE OF LOVE.

BY MARY BRADFORD WHITING.

“Come here, Lion.”

It was not a dog that obeyed the summons, but a child, a sweet-faced,

curly-headed child, with big, pathetic eyes, and soft smiling mouth.

Treading on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the sleeping figure on the

sofa, Lion made his way across the room and crept up to his father’s

chair.

“What were you crying for?” asked Mr. Beresford, as he lifted the

little fellow to his knee.

“Oh, daddy, how much, much too sharp your eyes are! I hid myself all up

with my ship book, so as you shouldn’t see.”

“No ship book that was ever made would hide your tears from me!” said

Mr. Beresford, in a tone that was evidently more for himself than for

the child. “But never mind that now. I did see, and now you must tell

me all about it. What were you crying for?”

“I don’t want you to go away,” said Lion, in a trembling voice. “Why

must you go, daddy, and leave me alone with——”

The loyal little fellow caught himself up without finishing the

sentence, but Mr. Beresford knew only too well what the concluding word

would have been, and he sighed heavily.

A wealthy man, with congenial work to occupy him, with a lovely wife

and a sweet little son, there were plenty of people who envied him with

all their hearts; but Paul Beresford, like many of those who seem the

most prosperous, had a secret sorrow that embittered his whole life. He

had married young, believing that he had found the embodiment of grace

and goodness in the beautiful girl to whom he had given his heart, only

to discover too late that she was utterly selfish and cold-hearted. It

was a terrible awakening for him, and many a man in his place would

have made shipwreck altogether; but Paul Beresford only clung the

closer to the hidden faith that sustained him, and solaced himself with

the oft-quoted lines—

“My own hope is a sun will pierce

The darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”

That hope seemed to him to be fulfilled when his baby son was first put

into his arms and he felt the touch of the tiny fingers, and kissed the

soft roseleaf face. Surely no woman could resist such a darling mite

as this, and he looked forward confidently to the dawn of better days.

But as time went on, the terrible truth was borne in upon him that the

child had only widened the breach between his wife and himself. Little

as she had cared for his love in the past, she was jealous when she saw

it bestowed upon another, and far from lavishing any tenderness on the

little Lionel herself, she treated him with an indifference that made

her husband’s blood boil.

The child had never been strong, but no one but his father gave him

much attention, for the nurse who had brought him through his babyhood

was obliged to leave when he was five years old, and his mother’s

maid, who was supposed to have the charge of him, was as selfish as

her mistress. But there was a courage and pluck in his slender frame

that would have done honour to a boy of twice his age, and which

well deserved his father’s name of “Lion.” He had early seen that it

distressed his beloved “daddy” if he told him of the troubles he had to

undergo, and the result was that he tried to keep them to himself with

a self-control that was marvellous in so young a child.

But now a terrible trial had come for Lion. They had no sooner settled

down in the little Cornish village that had been selected for their

summer holiday, than a summons had come for Mr. Beresford to go out to

his West Indian property on imperative business, and he was obliged

to start as early as possible on the very next day. Somewhat to his

surprise, his wife had made no objection to his sudden departure; he

had expected a storm of tears and reproaches, but beyond the one cold

remark that he seemed to be glad of any excuse for leaving her, she had

said nothing, and he had felt thankful at being let off so easily.

If he could have read her thoughts, he might, however, have felt

differently. She had given him no reason for her sudden desire to

settle down in a quiet seaside village, and he had been too glad of

the suggestion for the boy’s sake to ask any explanations. But now

it seemed to her that his departure was arranged as conveniently as

everything else had been; she had known very well when she chose their

holiday resort that Lord Barfield’s yacht would be anchored in the

neighbouring bay, and on board the yacht were people for whose society

she cared far more than she did for that of her husband or child,

people whom he distrusted, and had forbidden her to visit.

Mr. Beresford was ignorant of all this, however, and he tried to

comfort his little son with parting injunctions; it was useless, alas,

to hope that his mother would take any care of him, but perhaps it

might console his loneliness to tell him to take care of her.

“But mother won’t let me take care of her,” said Lion piteously.

“That must only make you try all the more,” said his father, speaking

out of the depths of his own bitter experience. “You must be very

careful not to worry her, because you know that sometimes you talk too

loud when she has a headache, or even slam the doors. Will you promise

me that you will be very good while I am away?”

“Yes, I will, I truthfully will!” said Lion, drying his eyes with a

brave attempt at a smile.

“I shall soon come back,” said Mr. Beresford, “and I shall write you

long letters while I am away, and tell you all about the shells and the

snakes and the little black boys.”

“And you’ll write it like print, won’t you?” said Lion, “so as I

needn’t bother mamma to read it, because that’s just one of the things

that vexes her so, when I ask her to read your letters.”

He spoke innocently, little knowing the wounding power that his words

contained, but Mr. Beresford was well used to hiding his feelings, and

he made the required promise in an unshaken voice.

“That’s all right, then,” said Lion joyfully. “But oh, daddy dear, you

won’t have me to curl your moustache for you, and you don’t look a bit

nice when it hangs all down like that,” and throwing himself against

his father, he proceeded to curl the offending moustache with his small

fingers, while Mr. Beresford laughed at the sight of his earnest frown.

“I wish you would not let that child make so much noise,” said a

querulous voice at this moment, and leaving their play with a start,

both father and son were hushed in a moment. Lion slipped down to the

floor and took up his book, and Mr. Beresford went across to the sofa

and tried to soften his wife’s displeasure with his attentions.

The morning came all too soon, and Lion had hard work to keep a bright

face through their hurried breakfast. Greatly to his relief Mrs.

Beresford had chosen to remain upstairs, so that he had his father all

to himself and could hang lovingly about him until the carriage came to

take him to the station.

“Don’t forget your promise,” said Mr. Beresford as he drove away.

He spoke cheerfully, but his eyes were moist as he looked back at the

lonely figure of the little six-year-old boy at the gate. If only his

mother’s arm had been round him, he could have far better borne to

leave him; but it was useless to indulge in such thoughts, and taking

out his pocket-book he was soon deep in calculations.

Lion, for his part, tried quite as practical a cure for his grief.

“I’ll pick some flowers for mamma,” he said to himself manfully,

and having rubbed the tears out of his eyes, he set off round the

flower-beds of their hired house, picking a rose here, and a geranium

here, until he had as large a bunch as he could hold.

“Mamma, I’ve brought you some flowers,” he said, as he ran into her

bedroom and laid the straggling nosegay on her lap.

Mrs. Beresford was lying on the couch, a novel in her hand and a

breakfast tray on the table by her side.

“Oh, you bad boy!” she exclaimed, brushing the flowers hastily on

to the floor, “how dare you put those dirty things on my new white

wrapper. And there’s an earwig running over me! Go away this minute, I

tell you! Lettice, Lettice, come here!”

Her screams brought the maid, who succeeded in catching the earwig; but

Lion had not waited to see the end of his escapade; a sudden sharp pain

had stabbed his baby breast, pain, not so much at his mother’s anger,

as at the thought that he had already disobeyed his father’s command.

“Oh, daddy, daddy, I didn’t mean to be naughty!” he cried, and throwing

himself down on the grass, he sobbed as if his heart would break.

“I am going out this afternoon,” said Mrs. Beresford at lunch-time, “so

you must amuse yourself in the garden.”

“Mayn’t I come with you,” said Lion timidly. “Daddy said I was to take

care of you while he was away.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Beresford sharply, as though the words stung her.

“Do you think I can have you always after me? You must stay at home,

and see that you don’t get into any more mischief.”

It was very lonely for Lion that afternoon. Lettice slipped out as soon

as her mistress had disappeared, and the servants of the house did

not consider it part of their business to look after other people’s

children. By-and-by it began to rain, and the little boy stood sadly

counting the falling drops until a sudden thought seized him. His

mother’s cloak was hanging in the hall; how wet she would get unless he

took it to her! To trot out into the hall and put on his hat was the

work of a moment, and seizing the cloak, he sallied forth.

Far and wide the poor little fellow wandered, while the driving rain

soaked him through and through; but no trace of his mother could he

see, and at last he turned back to the house. Just as he reached the

gate a carriage drove up, however, and he saw his mother alight, and

heard her parting words, “On Thursday, then; I will be sure not to

fail.”

“You naughty boy, what have you been doing?” were her next words, as

she espied the dripping child at the gate. “Look at my cloak, all

messed and spoilt. Go upstairs at once; didn’t I tell you not to get

into mischief?”

Weary and heart-broken, Lion attempted no explanation, but creeping

sadly up to his room, cried himself to sleep on the floor.

At breakfast-time next morning Lettice rushed into her mistress’s room

exclaiming, “Oh, ma’am, Master Lionel’s dying!”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Beresford. “I daresay he has eaten something that

has disagreed with him; but you can send for the doctor.”

She had forgotten all about it in five minutes, but when the doctor

came he insisted upon seeing her.

“Your child has acute inflammation,” he said, “and his life will depend

upon the nursing.”

“Then you must send for a nurse,” she said coolly, though she felt an

inward qualm at the thought of her husband.

“I shall do so, of course, but she cannot be here until to-morrow

morning, and in the meantime you must be responsible; your maid is

perfectly useless.”

Mrs. Beresford assented resignedly. She was glad now that they could

not take her on the yacht till Thursday. The nurse would have come by

then, and she could leave without trouble, and with this consoling

prospect in view she even agreed to sit up with Lion that night.

Some people would have been touched by the child’s piteous cries for

his father, and by the way in which he constantly checked himself with

the reminder, “Daddy’s gone away; I must take care of mamma now.” But

Mrs. Beresford only found it wearisome, and tried to bury herself in

her book.

She knew, however, that it would not do to forget the nourishment that

the doctor had ordered, and rousing herself at last she tried to light

the spirit-lamp. The most simple things of everyday life were mysteries

to her, and as she bent over it, candle in hand, there was a flare and

a scream, and Lettice rushed into the room to find her mistress’s hair

in flames.

Help was summoned, and the doctor sent for, but he made short work of

her complaints.

“There’s not much harm done,” he said bluntly. “I daresay your hair

will grow; your skin will never look the same again, but, after all,

that doesn’t matter.”

And this to one whose chief joy in life had been the beauty of her

complexion! Mrs. Beresford hid her bandaged face in the pillows and

gave herself up to despair. No hope of going on the yacht now. They

would sail away and forget all about her, or, worse still, make

ill-natured remarks about her misfortune. At any rate, no one should

see her altered appearance, and she had the blinds pulled down, and

admitted no one but Lettice into her room.

But the day came when the hospital nurse forced an entrance into the

forbidden precincts. She and the doctor had held many an indignant

conclave over their little patient, and when his perpetual inquiries

for his mother could be silenced in no other way, she made up her mind

to fetch her.

Her words were few, but they made an impression that Mrs. Beresford

could not resist, for however indifferent she might appear, she knew

that she should not dare to face her husband if the child should die

without her seeing him.

Her resolution almost failed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the

glass that had once reflected such a lovely vision, but it was too

late to turn back now, and she crossed the passage and entered the

sick-room. There on the bed lay Lion, his curls gone, his face hollow

and deathlike, but when he saw her he held out his hands with a cry,

“Oh, please say forgive!”

“What does he mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said the nurse, “he has been saying it ever since I

came. You had better speak to him.”

“What do you want, Lion?” she said, repressing a shudder as she went up

to the bedside.

“Oh, mamma, I did promise daddy to be good, and you said I was so

naughty, and then you got your face burnt, and it was all my fault. Oh,

please say forgive!”

Forgive? If anyone needed forgiveness it was not Lion, and as if a veil

had suddenly been lifted from her eyes, Mrs. Beresford saw herself

in the true light at last, worldly-minded, selfish-hearted, far, far

different from the pure and loving nature before her!

“Oh, my child, my little child!” she said, bending down to take him in

her arms.

There was silence for a few moments, while Lion lay wonderingly in the

embrace that had never enfolded him before, then raising his hand to

her bandaged face he whispered—

“Poor mamma, you’re much worser than I am; but you’ll tell daddy I was

sorry, won’t you?”

“No, no; you shall tell him yourself,” she exclaimed with sudden

vehemence; “you are going to get well, you must, you shall!”

The nurse looked at her warningly, and she was silent again while

Lion’s excitement subsided into a drowsy state which lasted till the

doctor came.

He looked in amazement at the strange figure by the bed, but for once

in her life Mrs. Beresford had no thoughts for herself.

“He is better, is he not?” she said eagerly, but the doctor shook his

head.

“No,” he said, “I shall telegraph for your husband to-night.”

The days passed on, and one evening a carriage dashed up to the door

and springing out almost before it had stopped, Paul Beresford seized

upon the doctor, who came forward to greet him.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Better,” was the answer, and waiting to hear no more he dashed

upstairs and opened the door of his boy’s room.

“How are you, my darling?” he said eagerly.

His wife turned away with a sudden pang. It was not likely that he

would recognise her for she had sent him no news of her accident, but

for the first time she felt that he was dearer to her than the friends

for whom she had once sacrificed his happiness.

But Lion did not forget her.

“Daddy,” he said, “mamma has forgiven me, but you must forgive me too;

it was all my fault, you know, that she was burnt.”

“Lena!” cried Paul in astonishment, as he gazed at the white-capped

figure by the window.

“You told me to take care of her,” said Lion mournfully; “but she has

had to take care of me all the time!”

Lena had hidden her face in her hands, but in a moment she felt her

husband’s arms round her and knew that a new life had begun for them

both.

“Are you so very sorry that mamma was burnt?” asked Lion wistfully, as

he saw the tears in his father’s eyes.

“No, dear, he is glad,” said his mother softly, “because there is a

fire in my heart that will, I hope, burn up all the selfishness.”

“What fire comes in people’s hearts?” asked Lion in wonder, and with a

look that made her scarred face more beautiful than it had been in all

the perfection of its bloom, his mother answered—

“The fire of love!”

[Illustration]

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.