TWO MIGHTY MEN.
The message sent to Sir John Moore was that Lord Castlereagh, Secretary
of State, desired to see him on the next day at 3 P.M., and that he
would be required to leave town quickly afterwards. This was all, no
hint of further particulars being given.
Prompt as ever, Moore made his arrangements, and ordered that a chaise
should be in waiting one hour later to carry him—anywhere.
At three he appeared before Castlereagh, and was enlightened as to
those arrangements which, a day or two later, Jack Keene indignantly
related to the Bryce circle.
Sir John, with all his sweetness of disposition, had a fiery temper.
And though he habitually held in that temper with so firm a curb that
he could be described as “the most amiable man in the British Army,”
yet there were times when it got the better of him. Those hazel eyes
could flash with a scathing light, and those lips could pour forth
vehement utterances. He was not to be lightly roused; but perhaps that
which he could least patiently endure was the sense of being unjustly
treated.
It may well be, too, that at this moment he was physically suffering
from the severe strain of those most trying expeditions to Sicily and
Sweden. He may have been still under something of reaction from that
hard fight in the south of Italy, when his own “feelings” had had to
be sternly repressed, for the sake of the young girl whom he loved. In
a short letter written three or four days later from Portsmouth to his
mother, a note of weariness may be detected, unwonted in Moore. But
Rest lay ahead—not far off—though a fierce experience lay between.
One way or another, he did wax wrathful in this interview with
Castlereagh; and his answer came promptly—
“My lord, a post-chaise is at my door, and upon leaving this I shall
proceed to Portsmouth to join the troops. It may perhaps be my lot
never to see your lordship again. I therefore think it right to
express to you my feelings of the unhandsome treatment I have received.”
“I am not sensible of what treatment you allude to,” interrupted the
Secretary.
Sir John had no difficulty in explaining what he meant. Had he been an
Ensign, he said, he could hardly have been treated with less ceremony.
He had not even been told, till the last moment, how he was to be
employed. Coming as he did from a chief command, if he were now to be
placed in an inferior post, some explanation certainly was his due.
Lord Castlereagh had told him that his conduct in the Swedish affair
was approved of, but this did not look like approval.
“His Majesty’s Ministers have a right to employ what officers they
please,” Sir John went on, working off his warmth. “And had they on
this occasion given the command to the youngest general in the Army, I
should neither have felt nor expressed that the least injury was done
to me. But I have a right, in common with all officers who have served
zealously, to expect to be treated with attention, and when employment
is offered, that some regard should be paid to my former services.”
“I am not aware, Sir John, of having given you just cause for
complaint,” Castlereagh replied gravely; and he made few further
remarks. Who would have imagined, looking on, that this cold-mannered
Secretary would, not many months later, fight a duel in defence of the
fair fame of the gallant General now before him?[1]
Moore had said his say, and no doubt felt relieved. Without delay he
started post-haste for Portsmouth, pausing on the road for one night
at his mother’s country home. Though he told her and his sister of the
apparent slight which had been put upon him, as indeed he could not
avoid doing, since all the world would know of it, he does not seem to
have been depressed, but talked cheerily, and kept up their spirits all
the evening.
The parting next day was, however, sadder than usual. Did any of them
guess it to be the last? Some forebodings may well have suggested
themselves to the mother’s heart, as she watched that manly figure pass
away into the distance. He had been to her the most tender of sons; but
on earth she would see him never again.
From Portsmouth he wrote to her—
“The treatment I have received gives me no longer uneasiness. The
actions of others I am not responsible for; it is only my own, if they
are unworthy, that can mortify me. I am going on the service of my
country, and shall hope to acquit myself as becomes me of whatever part
is allotted to me. God bless you, my dear mother! I shall write to you
whilst I continue here, and hope for the time when I shall be allowed
to pass the rest of my days quietly with you, my brothers, and Jane.”
Four or five days later, while still in Portsmouth, where he had pushed
forward preparations, he resigned to Sir Harry Burrard the chief
command of those troops which for so long had been in his own hands. He
then wrote again to his mother—
“One word I have to say and no more. I have letters from London; all
has been communicated to the King and the Duke of York, who have both
approved of all I have said and done.... All is now ready the moment
the wind is easterly. You may write when you think fit, as I shall
leave directions about my letters.”
This was not the end of the matter. But before telling the rest, a few
words about Roy are needful.
* * * * *
For Roy was entering on his first campaign.
He was full of delight at the prospect. During months past a passionate
craving to be sent against the enemy had pervaded the English Army, and
Roy was behind no one in this desire. Alike by inheritance and by early
training, his instincts were all soldierly; and that was an age to call
forth patriotism in the dullest nature. But Roy was by no means dull.
To be ordered, when barely eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve under
Moore himself—this indeed was a fulfilment of Roy’s utmost longings.
“You’ll write to me sometimes, won’t you?” pleaded Molly, clinging
tearfully to him, when he came to say good-bye. “And don’t be taken
prisoner again.”
“Trust me for that!” laughed Roy. “I’ve had a taste already of French
prisons. Take care of yourself, Molly; and don’t let Polly lose heart.”
“See, Roy, I have made this little case for you. It has paper and pen
and pencil in it, and a tiny ink-bottle. And you can put it into such a
little corner, or into your pocket. I want you to keep a journal of all
that happens—ever so few words at a time. And perhaps you might send me
a sheet now and then, when it is full.”
“All right. I don’t mind if I do. Not a bad notion, on the whole.
You’re a good little sister. No man ever had a better.”
Roy arrived at Portsmouth while Sir John Moore was still there, and
before he had given over the command to Burrard. It was always his
way to see, and personally to influence, the young officers placed
under his command, and though he was not to be at the head of affairs,
he would still have control of his own Division. Moore did not leave
nearly so much to unassisted Nature as a good many generals of the day
were content to do. Roy, being aware of this, was not astonished to be
early summoned to his presence, and punctually at the hour named he
reached Sir John’s lodgings.
Others were there when he entered, but Roy saw little clearly besides
this princely soldier, with whose fame for many a long year all Britain
had been ringing, whose name on Ivor’s lips had been from Roy’s infancy
the very embodiment of all that was noble and true.
Sir John stood at the upper end of the room, talking with his friend
Colonel Anderson—a strangely attractive figure, alike dignified and
winning, with a brow of regal breadth and power, searching luminous
eyes, through which at times the whole spirit of the man seemed to
shine, and well-cut sensitive lips, gentle in expression as any
woman’s, while yet they could close like adamant. The young Ensign’s
heartbeat tumultuously, under a rush of new sensations, and a fervour
of devotion for such a leader as this sprang at once into being. In
that moment Roy knew why Denham Ivor so loved Sir John, and why men
could with very gladness die for him. Moore, gazing in his earnest
fashion upon the boy, smiled at the look he saw. It was no new thing
for him to be conscious of his own almost magical control over the
hearts of others.
A few business-like questions were put, as to when Roy had joined his
regiment, and the training he had since received. Presently Moore
remarked—
“So you escaped from Bitche, I am told?”
“I was so fortunate, sir. With the help of a Frenchman.”
“Ha! How was that?”
“He was grateful, sir, to my father and wished to make a return. He
had been taken in the Conscription some time before, and my father
and Captain Ivor helped to pay for a substitute. It was for his old
mother’s sake.”
This was a note which could not fail to appeal to the most loyal of
sons, and Moore’s face showed quick response, though he only said,
“Détenus?”
“Yes, sir. We were detained in 1803—my father and Captain Ivor. My
mother stayed with them, and I could not get a passport. And later I
was sent to Bitche.”
“Not Denham Ivor of the Guards! I remember—he was among the détenus.”
“Yes, sir. He was under you in the West Indies and in Egypt.”
“Of course. I know him well. How came he to linger so long in France?”
Roy explained briefly the small-pox complication, the General listening
with still that intent gaze.
“Then Ivor is at Verdun still. Hard upon him! As gallant a young fellow
as I ever had to do with. I would give something to have him with me
now.”
Roy treasured up the words for Ivor’s future comfort.
“Ivor feels it terribly, sir!” he said.
“You have been much thrown with him!”
“Yes, sir. He has been the best friend to me that I ever could have.”
“I am glad to hear it. He is a friend worth having.” After a slight
pause, the General remarked, “Napoleon made a blunder there for once.
The absence of proper exchange falls at least as heavily upon the
French as upon ourselves. By-the-by, you know Captain Keene also. He
spoke to me of you.”
“Yes, sir. We are connected.”
“Well, Baron, I shall expect a good deal from a friend of Ivor!”
“I will do my best, sir,” Roy answered. Then an interruption came, and
Sir John smiled kindly again, as he turned away. Roy went out of the
room, captivated, dazzled, wild to do or to dare aught in the world for
the sake of Moore.[2]
* * * * *
The last letter written by Sir John to his mother from Portsmouth was
dated in the end of July, and he reached the coast of Portugal on
the 20th of August, or about three weeks after the arrival there of
Wellesley. Moore was ordered to disembark the troops with him, and at
once to join Wellesley’s force.
Three days before Moore could get to the spot, Sir Arthur
Wellesley—future Duke of Wellington—gained a decisive victory over the
French at Vimeira. Unfortunately he, like Sir John Moore, was at this
moment superseded in command by Sir Harry Burrard, who arrived while
the battle was being fought; and the pursuit of the flying foe, which
should have ended in a complete rout, was timidly cut short. Next day
Sir Harry Burrard was in his turn superseded by Sir Hew Dalrymple,
whose management of affairs and hasty signing of an armistice raised at
home a storm of indignation.
“It is a pity,” wrote Moore in his private journal with reference to
Wellesley, “that when so much had been thrown into his hands, he had
not been allowed to complete the work.” And to Sir Hew Dalrymple he
spoke decidedly: “If hostilities recommence, Sir Arthur Wellesley
has already done so much that I think it but fair he should have
the command of whatever is brilliant in the finishing. I waive all
pretensions as senior, for I consider this as his expedition. He ought
to have the command of whatever is detached.”
But while Moore thus generously proposed to sacrifice his own claims on
behalf of Wellesley, Sir Arthur was no less anxious that Moore’s great
gifts should not be lost to his country. The conduct of these two grand
men, each to the other, is a fair sight, beside the jealousies which
sometimes blemish the bravest characters.
On the 17th of September Wellesley sent a frank soldierly letter to
Moore, referring to the interview of the latter with “His Majesty’s
Ministers,” and expressing a fear lest Moore’s action might stand in
the way of his being raised to the supreme command. Would Sir John
Moore be willing to discuss the question with him? “It appears to
me,” he wrote, “to be quite impossible we can go on as we are now
constituted. The Commander-in-Chief must be changed; and the Country
and the Army naturally turn their eyes to you as their Commander.”
This disinterested letter took Moore by surprise. The two had of course
met before, perhaps several times; but they had not been intimate,
though each had appreciated the other. He at once replied cordially,
and the next day the interview took place, Wellesley calling upon Moore
on his way home.
The confidential talk which followed was a remarkable one. Two of
the greatest men of their age met, each bent upon the good of his
country—each willing to sacrifice for the good of the other what might
be advantageous for himself. One by birth was Irish, one by birth
was Scotch, but both were British—nay, English!—to the backbone. Sir
Arthur Wellesley, in age only eight years the younger, was still at
the opening of his grand career; Sir John Moore, after thirty years of
hard service, was fast nearing the close of his. Sir John’s at this
date was a worldwide fame. Sir Arthur, though he had made his mark by
a successful campaign in India, was still not very famous beyond a
certain circle. But Moore had noted his power.
They went into the matter calmly together—Wellesley’s strongly-outlined
eagle face and large Roman nose contrasting with the refined beauty
of Moore’s features. In force of character, however, in strength of
will, in courage and patriotism, in freedom from all narrowness of
party spirit, the two were alike. “Although I hold a high office under
Government I am no party man,” Wellesley had declared in that memorable
letter to Moore, received only the day before. With Wellesley, as with
Moore, private interests went down before National interests, and Duty
was a word utterly supreme through life.
Perhaps the main difference between the two lay in the fact that
Wellesley lacked that peculiar “strain of sweetness,” that element of
womanly tenderness, which made Moore to be so intensely beloved. His
was a more homogeneously iron nature; but it was of finely-wrought iron.
The meeting between Lord Castlereagh and Moore, with Moore’s impetuous
self-defence, was referred to. Sir John Moore gave full particulars of
what had passed, adding frankly:
“I thought it needful to express what I felt under the circumstances.
But, having done so, I have felt no more upon the subject.”
Wellesley demurred as to any such need. He feared much that, unless
some explanation took place, Sir John’s heat on that occasion might
stand in the road of his future usefulness to England. He was perfectly
sure that there had been no unkind intentions on the part of the
Ministers, since he had often heard them speak with high esteem of
Moore. Lord Castlereagh was naturally of a “cautious” temperament,
and there might have been some difficultly in giving the chief
command to Sir John, until a formal explanation had taken place with
the Swedish Court. Then Sir Arthur asked—might he be authorised to
say to the Ministers that Sir John was sorry to have been under a
misunderstanding, if indeed no slight had been meant by them; and that,
having once for all spoken out what he felt, he had now forgotten the
matter, and would think no more about it?
Moore could not at once agree to this proposal. “Not a word has reached
me since I left England,” he observed, “from anybody connected with the
Government. No opening having been made on their side, I hardly see how
I can properly myself take the initiative. Of course, when I spoke to
Lord Castlereagh as I did, I was quite aware of what the consequences
might be. But to make a submission now, merely with a view to obtaining
a higher post—that is out of the question!”
Sir Arthur was not convinced. His one thought, then as ever, was
for England’s good. He knew what the loss of Moore’s services in
any degree could not fail to be to England. It seemed to him that
personal feelings, and what might be thought of any personal action,
were entirely unimportant compared with the one great question of the
Country’s need, and the one fact that Moore, beyond all other living
men, could supply that need. He still earnestly urged his own view of
what ought to be done.
Presently, in response to further arguments, Sir John partly yielded.
He remarked that, if Sir Arthur were enough interested in the affair to
care to mention this conversation to Lord Castlereagh, simply stating
as a fact known to himself that Sir John had not the smallest feeling
of ill-will to any man in the Ministry, he was welcome to do so.
“I spoke out my mind plainly,” repeated Moore, “and there, so far as I
am concerned, the matter ended. But naturally, if any wrong impressions
are held which might prevent my being made use of, I should wish to
have such impressions removed. I should be grateful to any friend who
would kindly set things right.”
Further than this Moore refused to budge; and Wellesley, though
absolutely convinced that no slight whatever had been meant, had to
promise that he would keep strictly to the terms dictated by Moore. He
sailed next day for England.
But before he could carry out his generous intentions, such action as
he most wished for had already been taken. Dalrymple was recalled;
Burrard was superseded: and Moore was appointed to the supreme command
of twenty thousand men, to be used in the North of Spain, conjointly
with the Spanish armies, to drive the French backward. Ten thousand men
in addition were to be at once sent out to him. Had the Duke of York
been allowed a free hand, Moore might have had the command of sixty
thousand.
The news of his appointment was received by Sir John quietly, with
no sign of exultation; and he at once bent all his energies to the
difficult task before him. It was a task far more difficult than
anyone in England imagined. The Spaniards were to prove themselves
utterly worthless as allies. Money for expenses was eked out in the
reluctant style which in those days still characterised the British
Government in all matters of warfare, no matter which party might be in
power. Moore’s force consisted partly of raw recruits, and largely of
officers who had never before seen active service. He had a march ahead
of between five and six hundred miles, with every possible hindrance
in the complete lack of any organised transport, and in the shape of
stormy wintry weather. Yet within three weeks of his being placed in
command, the headquarters of the Army removed from Lisbon!
He had been so strongly impressed during the interview described, with
the lofty and disinterested character of the future Iron Duke, that
it must have given him pleasure to receive from Wellesley a letter,
relating what he had said to Castlereagh, as well as that nobleman’s
hearty reply about Moore, and adding:
“I find that by the distribution I am placed under your command, than
which nothing can be more satisfactory to me![3] I will go to Coruña
immediately, where I hope to find you.”
Unfortunately Sir Arthur was kept in England for the military inquiry
into late doings under Dalrymple; and Moore had not the help of his
presence during the coming campaign.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The famous duel between Castlereagh and Canning—those, unhappily,
were still the days of duels in England—was supposed to have taken
place because Canning had ousted Castlereagh from office. But on the
authority of Lady Castlereagh, Sir W. Napier offered a different
explanation. This was, that her husband might have been reinstated in
office if only he would have agreed to “sacrifice the reputation of Sir
John Moore.” Such a proposal was, as the stern old historian writes,
“an insult well answered with a shot.”—_Life of Sir Charles Napier_, by
Sir W. Napier.
[2] The Marquis of Londonderry, one of Moore’s later critics, wrote:
“Perhaps the English army has produced some abler men than Sir John
Moore; it has certainly produced many who, in point of military talent,
were and are quite his equals; but it cannot, and perhaps never could,
boast of one more beloved, not by his own personal friends alone, but
by every individual that served under him.”
[3] This is the more remarkable an expression because, after the
appointment of Sir Hew Dalrymple over his head in the end of August,
Wellesley had written privately to Lord Castlereagh, expressing an
earnest wish to leave Spain, for “I have been too successful with this
army ever to serve with it in a subordinate situation with satisfaction
to the person who shall command it, and, of course, not to myself.” To
serve under Sir John Moore with that same army was plainly in his eyes
a very different matter.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
MEDICAL.
PERCY.—You could do no harm by putting a few drops of tincture of
benzoin into the water in which you wash your face, but we much doubt
whether it would do any good. You must attend to your digestion and
always wear a veil when you go out. A little glycerine and rose water
applied to the face may relieve the burning.
ENID.—Individuals differ greatly in the amount that they perspire.
Some persons seem scarcely to perspire at all, while others get wet
through from any trifling exertion. As a rule fat persons perspire more
than thinner ones, and in them it is salutary, as it reduces their
fat. Excessive sweating is often hereditary, as, indeed, it seems to
be in your case. You may not attempt to check perspiration too much,
for the sweat is an excretion by the skin from the blood—it is one of
the methods by which the blood gets rid of its impurities. The best
known, and one of the most satisfactory preparations for limiting the
perspiration from the face and hands, is toilet vinegar. Persons who
perspire profusely should wear woollen undergarments and change them
frequently.
GIDDY GIRL.—Giddiness or vertigo is a symptom met with in very many
complaints. In biliousness, acute indigestion and occasionally in
chronic indigestion, giddiness is not uncommon. In certain diseases of
the ears giddiness is usually present in a very aggravated form. It
occasionally occurs from wax in the ears, and is not at all uncommon
while the ears are being syringed. Then there is the vertigo associated
with errors of sight—a common, but often overlooked variety. And there
is the true brain vertigo—a common symptom of disease of the nervous
system. In anæmia, and one or two diseases of the heart, giddiness is
common—due to the brain not being sufficiently supplied with blood.
Here you have the cause of vertigo in a nutshell. To tell which of
them is causing your giddiness, with nothing whatever to guide us to a
conclusion, is quite impossible.
FOOLISH.—The pseudonym you have chosen is very appropriate. You are
exceedingly foolish to take drugs of which you know nothing; but it is
worse than foolish, it is criminal. You look with horror upon a man who
is a chronic drunkard. You consider it is a very great crime to drink
more alcohol than is necessary; is it not an equally serious crime to
take more drugs than are necessary? You object to this because alcohol
deprives you of reason, whereas the drug you take does not. But you
are wrong; the drug you are taking does interfere with the mind. It is
worse than alcohol in many ways. To take a drug which is unnecessary
is wrong; but the drug you take, cocaine, is one of the most fatal of
all to take habitually. You are killing yourself by it. All persons
who acquire the cocaine habit die from it, unless they stop their
pernicious habit very soon. If you wish to save your life you must
abandon your habit without delay. As we said before, to take cocaine is
worse than to get drunk—it is more injurious to the body, more fatal to
the mind, and more destructive to morality. But where did you get the
cocaine? Chemists are forbidden to give poisons to silly girls.
AGED 50.—At your time of life club-foot cannot be cured by operation
or otherwise. If the foot is more trouble than good, you can have it
removed; there is nothing else that can be done.
MAID OF ASTOLAT.—Yes; by all means continue with the treatment. It
often takes a long time to completely eradicate acne.
CURIOUS.—It is an old superstition that you can cure warts by rubbing
them with a potato, and then giving the potato to a pig to eat. Like
most similar superstitions it does not bear investigation.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
“JO MARCH.”—1. Your fairy story is bright and pretty. You use the
word “and” too often, and the closing scene about the giants and
fairies reads as though it were hurried, in comparison with the rest
of the little sketch. Were the flowers for the ladder unfading?—2. We
think you might possibly succeed with fairy stories if you practised
composition. What you have sent us is scarcely enough to show decided
talent.
CECILIA—1. You ought to be guided by your teacher as to the number
of hours you should practise daily. It is said that Paganini, when
asked how long it would take to learn the violin, replied, “Twelve
hours a day for twenty years.” On the other hand, we have heard
on very illustrious authority that three hours taken in separate
periods of practice is enough for anyone. One thing you may receive
as certain—that when you get jaded and listless, practising ceases to
be of use. So long as you can keep your attention alive and alert,
practising will do you good. Let us urge you to persevere and be
diligent. “The gods give nothing without labour unto mankind” is an
old Greek saying, and though you may not always “like” practising,
you will reap the reward in years to come if you apply yourself
strenuously now.—2. For learning music by heart, your second suggestion
is the best—to study it quite accurately, little by little. You may
occasionally of course try to give a general reproduction of a piece,
but that method alone would not make you play really well from memory.
MRS. WALKER, Litlington Rectory, Berwick, Sussex, kindly sends us the
rules of various improvement societies, and offers to give information
about them to any of our girl readers. They are the following:—Early
Rising Society, Reading Society, Musical Society, Walking Society,
Language Society, Plain Work Society, Knitting and Fancy Work Society.
Surely the readers who consult us about societies will find something
here to suit every need. We advise them to apply to the Hon. Secretary,
Mrs. Walker, enclosing a stamped envelope.
SYMPATHETIC.—The real name of “Claribel” was Charlotte Alington
Barnard. She was born in 1830, and married in 1854. Her master was
Mr. W. H. Holmes. She published a hundred ballads which have won
extraordinary popularity. She died at Dover in 1869. This is all we
know of her history. Possibly the sadder tone (to which you refer) of
her later ballads may have been due to failing strength and health, as
her death occurred quite in the prime of life.
HISTORIAN.—We find it difficult to answer your question about the Czar
and the succession to the Russian throne without seeing the paragraph
to which you refer, but certainly there is no Salic law in Russia. We
cannot trace the letter you sent us six months ago. Questions can never
be answered immediately, as we go to press long before you receive your
magazine, but we endeavour to reply as quickly as possible.
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.
“FLORENCE” has four would-be correspondents—(Miss) E. Randall,
Hopeville, The Greenway, Uxbridge, Middlesex; H. Hughes, Downfield,
Stroud, Gloucestershire; Amy Day, 70, Broomfield Street, Crisp Street,
Poplar; and Mabel Brown, 24, Brigden Street, Brighton. If “Florence”
would allow us to print her address here, it would expedite matters.
MISS ELSIE HIGHTON, Brigham, Keswick, Cumberland, would like to
correspond with Miss Marguerite Rahier, or with another French lady.
MISCELLANEOUS.
CARILLON.—We think we have answered your question before about carron
oil, but as it may be out of print, we are glad to do so again. Carron
oil is equal parts of olive oil and lime water well shaken together,
and is employed as a remedy for burns. Some doctors add a very little
laudanum to it. It was first employed at the Carron Ironworks, near
Falkirk.
ENONA.—1. A cartoon is a design drawn on strong paper in chalks or
distemper, to be afterwards calked through, and transferred to the
fresh plaster of a wall to be painted in fresco oil-colour or tapestry.
The finest cartoons known are those executed by Raphael for Leo X.
in 1515 and 1516 as patterns for tapestry. Each of them is about
twelve feet high, is drawn with chalk on strong paper, and coloured in
distemper by that master and his pupils. They were ten in number, but
three have been lost. The seven you have seen at the South Kensington
Museum were bought in Flanders by Rubens for our King Charles I., and
we owe their preservation to Cromwell, who bought them from the King’s
private collection for the country. They are thought to be the finest
of Raphael’s works.—2. A cartouche is a different thing entirely, and
you have mixed up the two perhaps from seeing both in the museums in
London, where you have seen the latter applied to an elliptical oval
on the ancient Egyptian monuments, and in papyri also, on which are
hieroglyphic characters expressing the names and titles of Egyptian
kings. In architecture a cartouche is a tablet for ornament or for an
inscription, formed like a sheet of paper with its edges rolled up.
DOROTHY.—If you be interested in the history and use of bells, you
had better read North’s _English Bells and Bell Lore_, re-edited by
the Rev. W. Beresford. The ancient “mote bell” was rung to assemble
the people in cases of danger, or for public purposes, by command
of Edward the Confessor. The “dole meadow bell” used to summon the
parishioners to vestry meetings. The “storm bell” was appointed to
“cause the fiends and wicked spirytes to cease of the movyng of the
tempeste,” to which Bishop Latimer (martyr) made allusion in one of his
sermons (published by the Parker Society). There was also the “common
bell” and the “pancake bell” used at Shrovetide to summon people to
confession. Besides these uses, certain bells were employed for the
use of farming—calling the country-folk to seed-sowing, harvesting,
and gleaning, and which were rung also on “Plough Monday.” The custom
of ringing “joy bells” at coronations, royal birthdays, and weddings,
is familiar to all, as well as the “passing bell” to announce a death,
the tolling at funerals and executions, and the terror-inspiring “fire
bell.” We cannot tell you more in our correspondence columns. Read the
exhaustive work we have named on bell lore.
EUGENIE.—The second Monday in July, 1940, will be the 8th. Wrinkles
in the forehead are caused by raising the eyebrows, which draws the
skin into lines and rolls. The only way to cure them is by leaving off
making that special grimace, which makes you look not only both old and
plain, but gives a silly and an unhappy expression.
FIRENZE.—_Catafalco_ is an Italian word, meaning “a scaffold” or
funeral canopy, and is applied to a temporary piece of woodwork
decorated with painting and sculptures, representing a tomb, and
employed in funeral solemnities. We have the word in French also,
_catafalque_, which dates from the fifteenth or sixteenth century.
PADDY.—Jan. 13th, 1866, was a Saturday; Feb. 17th, 1864, was a
Wednesday.