I made my way forward as quickly as I could, endeavouring, as I went,
to make believe in my own mind that I was not much frightened, and did
not very much dislike the whole situation—in fact, that it was rather
an amusing and interesting one. But, after all, it was an extremely
poor, thin make-belief indeed. The darkness grew thicker and thicker,
the outlines of surrounding objects more and more indistinct; the wind
rose higher and higher, and went sweeping by with a wild, dreary wail;
the rain began to stream down as if a couple of rivers or more were
being emptied from the sky on to the earth. I had brought no waterproof
with me, I had only on a mantle of light summer cloth, and, as well may
be supposed, I was soon enjoying the comfortable certainty that I was
getting wet through as rapidly as I could. Yes, there was no denying
it; it would decidedly be better to be in bed than here, even if I was
expecting next morning the arrival of the ugliest ogre uncle that ever
appeared in a fairy tale.
I felt a most real and lively inclination to sit down and cry; but as
there were some small shreds of heroism still hanging about me, I did
not do it—I persevered onward, instead. Things were, however, becoming
most uncompromisingly worse and worse. Hitherto there had been at the
side of the road fences of some kind, the dim outlines of which had
been, in a certain degree, a guide to me; but now I had got out on to
an open common, where there was nothing round me save an expanse of
what seemed immeasurable darkness, and where the wind and the rain beat
upon me more violently and pitilessly than ever. I soon became aware,
too, of another very unpleasant fact: I had evidently got off the road,
for I could feel the damp, spongy-ground of the common underneath my
feet. I tried to find my way back to it, but all in vain; I seemed only
to get into wetter and less solid ground.
It was so dark now, I was so completely enveloped in thickest
blackness, that I could not have seen even a stone wall had it been in
front of me; but it would have been some consolation, some reassurance,
only to have felt it when I stretched out my hand before me; instead of
that, however, when I extended my arm it went groping about helplessly
in illimitable space. The storm appeared to be finding a cruel
pleasure in playing me all sorts of unkind tricks, for now it flung
the folds of my mantle over my head, and now it poured a waterspout
down my back. The ground under my feet was growing every minute more
swampy, and sometimes I sank in ankle deep; two or three times I found
that, by way of a little change, I had stepped into a gutter, which
caused a refreshing shower of muddy water to come splashing upward to
meet and mingle in friendly amity with the raindrops that pelted down
from above. The sprites of earth and air may possibly have found much
satisfaction in this meeting, but most decidedly I did not, nor did my
luckless petticoats and stockings.
All at once I found myself making a most undignified descent from an
upright position; I had stumbled over some object which was lying in
my way. There was no saving my untrustworthy feet; the next instant
I was lying prostrate on the dripping grass, with my head in what
seemed to be a shallow puddle. I was going to try to pick myself up
again as quickly as I could, when there rose around me a series of
long-drawn-out, horrid, incomprehensible sounds, each of which appeared
to strike a rough note in a discordant gamut, while in among them there
was a tumultuous, confused jangle of bells, as if a hundred tambourines
were ringing together. Then there came a sensation of having my face
swept with a drenched mop that was composed of very long, shaggy hair,
and was passed and re-passed over my cheeks and forehead, and used my
eyes and mouth in a most unpleasantly free-and-easy fashion, and after
that I was trampled upon by a succession of small, but by no means
airy feet—a process which it is far more agreeable to describe than to
feel. This over, there followed a noise of scampering and rushing and
hurrying across the common, until footsteps and bells all died away in
the far distance, mingling with the chorus of the storm.
My head was so dizzy and bewildered after this adventure that I lay
still for two or three minutes, utterly oblivious of all Miss Dolly’s
well-instilled principles with regard to damp ground and rheumatism.
When, however, I had recovered myself sufficiently slowly to rise to my
feet, I began to realise what had happened. I had fallen in with one
of the numerous herds of goats which we had often seen in our drives,
and which, no doubt, frequented the common. I must have stumbled over
one member of the flock as they lay huddled together, and this must
have startled and aroused the whole band. Yes, it was all plain enough
now. It was a horribly prosaic, unromantic incident, and a horribly
uncomfortable one at the same time.
If ever a young lady made vows never again to run away from any of
her relations—no, not even from a forty-seventh cousin—it was I,
Beatrice Warmington, that night. On I went, wading through the heavy,
marshy ground, shivering with external cold, yet at intervals hot with
inward fear. There seemed no possible way out of my self-incurred
difficulties. The darkness was as dense as ever, the storm as
unrelenting. I had completely broken down, and was sobbing bitterly.
What was to become of me? And the wind answered mockingly, “What?”
My situation appeared to me, in truth, to be growing one of real
danger. I was becoming so weary that I did not think I could drag my
tired limbs much further; a half-stupor was creeping over my brain, and
my senses were beginning to be partially numbed and blunted with terror
and fatigue. It seemed to me that I must soon sink down and glide into
unconsciousness. I heard in the wind the voice of Lily calling me,
half sadly, half reproachfully; and with the thought of Lily came the
thought of prayer. But prayer had never been to me what it was to Lily;
I could not lean on it as she would have done in my situation. I strove
to get hold of words which would tell of my sorrow for my rebellious
wilfulness, which would be a cry to my Father above; but they slipped
away from my lips, and would not come when I wanted them, as they would
have come like helpful angels to Lily.
I was now evidently beginning to descend a slope of some sort; I could
tell that from the feeling of the ground as I trod it. The earth I
was walking upon appeared to be less swampy than it had hitherto
been, but it was more slippery. Before long this slipperiness became
something that there was no contending against; my feet lost all power
of stopping themselves; I was sliding swiftly downward, as if I was
upon ice. Whither was I going? The question flashed confusedly through
my bewildered brain in the midst of the storm and the darkness, and
still I flew forward at always increasing speed. All my senses began to
float into a dim whirlpool, and I could scarcely take firm hold of any
distinct idea.
Suddenly there was a sensation of extreme coldness up as high as
my waist, and at the same time a consciousness that my involuntary
downward flight had ceased; I was standing still again at last, but
where was I standing? I stretched out my hand, and bent forward; I
could feel water round me. Now that I was at last still, I could
collect in some measure my shattered intelligence; I reflected for some
moments, and came to the conclusion that I must have slid down the
sloping side of the common, rendered especially slippery by the rain,
and must have landed in some stream which ran at the bottom of the
declivity.
I was wet up to my waist, but at least I was off the common at last; I
groped about cautiously with my hands, keeping my feet firm where they
stood. I soon found the bank of the stream, which must, I felt certain,
be but a shallow and a narrow one; I made a spring in the direction
in which my hands had gone, and was quickly, with a great feeling of
thankfulness which thrilled from heart to brain, standing once more on
solid ground that was neither swampy nor slippery.
I had apparently now reached again some road; it was still too dark
for me to distinguish anything, but the wind and the rain were less
violent here than they had been on the open common. This made a small
improvement in my condition, but still there seemed no more hope than
there had been before, of my getting out of my difficulties. I moved
onward, it is true, but it was quite without there being any distinct
notion in my mind of any end or object in my proceeding forward.
However, anything was better than standing shivering there by the
stream; movement would, at least, keep me warm.
[Illustration: ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE.]
I had advanced thus some little distance, when my further course was
impeded by some object in front of me. I extended my hand, and what it
touched was a cold iron bar; I moved my arm from side to side, and
still it was iron bars with which my inquiring fingers came in contact.
It must be an iron paling of some kind, I thought, and then began,
while I lent wearily against the bars, to ask myself vaguely what kind
of places are generally enclosed within such a fence.
While these questions passed through my mind, the bars suddenly
began to give way before the pressure of my whole weight, which I
was supporting upon them; the circumstance nearly caused me another
fall, but I saved myself just in time. Then I made a discovery that
sent a gleam of indistinct hope flashing through me; what I had been
leaning against was an iron gate, I could feel its fastening now quite
clearly, and hear the little click it made as I moved it up and down
with my finger. Did not the existence of such a gate warrant the notion
that some house must be near at hand? The gates into fields are not
generally like this gate, I argued.
I advanced some steps, and then I became aware of another fact; I was
certainly standing underneath trees; I could hear the wind in their
branches, could feel the raindrops that dripped from them. I was
pausing in doubt and new uncertainty, considering what I might infer
from this, when, borne on the wind, there reached me a sound which was
like the sound of voices. My heart gave a great leap, all my senses
went into the sense of hearing; I listened as eagerly as if I had been
catching the rarest notes of music; yes, voices were decidedly drawing
nearer and nearer to me, and with the voices there approached a glimmer
of light.
“If we can’t get in by the glass door, we shall by the store-room
window.”
Such were the words that reached my ears, spoken in a man’s voice in
French.
“We’ll get in quick enough if we can only reach the house,” said
another man’s voice, in the same language, and a very rough, harsh
voice it was this time, too.
“We must be very quiet and silent in our movements,” rejoined the first
speaker.
“Not even the old dog shall catch a sound of us—no, not even if he is
sleeping with one eye open,” replied the other.
“There must be a house, then, close in this neighbourhood,” I thought,
“and this must be the way up to it, and surely, surely,” and now a
great terror seized me, “these must be burglars who are going to break
into it.”
An agony of fear, worse than any by far that I had experienced on the
lonely common, now took possession of me, as I heard the steps of the
two men drawing nearer and nearer. I went on one side and held my
breath, hoping that, in the darkness, they would pass me unnoticed; but
I must have made some sound that betrayed me, for the next instant a
hand was on my arm, and I heard a voice in my ear.
(_To be concluded._)
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”
OR,
THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.
BY DORA HOPE.
Two very happy events happened in Ella’s household at the beginning of
this month; her father came to see her, and her aunt came downstairs
for the first time.
Mrs. Hastings had been feeling rather anxious about her daughter for
some time. The young housekeeper had had a good deal of worry and
anxiety, and her letters had quite unconsciously betrayed the fact that
she felt in low spirits. Her depression soon disappeared, however,
when her father came, and his strong common sense and masculine way of
ignoring the little trials of housekeeping were as good a tonic to her
mind as the sharp walks he took her were invigorating to her body.
Thinking her looking pale and languid, Mr. Hastings inquired as to her
daily exercise, and found that on many days she did not go out at all,
except to feed the fowls, or gather a few flowers from the garden, as
her household duties took her so long that she felt she had no time for
walks. Mr. Hastings considered that this quite explained her want of
colour and appetite, and insisted that it must be altered. In vain Ella
pleaded that it was impossible for her to go out always, and would be
still more so when the nurse left. Mr. Hastings was quite unmoved by
all her arguments, and insisted on her promising to take some open air
exercise every day, even if it were only a quarter of an hour’s run up
and down the quiet lane behind the house.
He also planned in his own mind to send Ella’s two brothers, Robin and
Norman, to Hapsleigh for their Easter holidays. They were good boys,
who would not make unnecessary noise in the house, and they would
supply a complete change of thought for their sister.
Nor was this the only alteration Mr. Hastings urged in Ella’s daily
routine. In her restless anxiety about her aunt and the housekeeping,
she had entirely omitted all her own studies. The piano was rarely
opened, and all the useful books her mother had packed up for her
still lay untouched at the bottom of her trunk. Mr. Hastings strongly
disapproved of this, and pointed out to Ella that not only was it a
great pity for her to lose the knowledge she had spent so many years
in acquiring, but that it was very bad for her health, both bodily
and mental, to give up all interests in life, save the cares of a
household; nor would she be an agreeable companion for her aunt or
their visitors if she had no topics of conversation more interesting
than the difficulties of servants, or the best food for fowls; it was
quite imperative, therefore, that she should set apart a certain time
every day for reading and music.
Mr. Hastings was quite ready to acknowledge that Ella would find
it difficult to manage, especially at first, for her inexperience
in household matters made her twice as long over them as she would
otherwise have been; but she felt she could do it if she made effort,
and a little conversation with her father soon convinced her that it
was well worth exerting herself for.
In order to make her studies as easy as possible to her, before leaving
Hapsleigh Mr. Hastings went through the library with Ella and chose out
a selection of books which he thought she would find interesting as
well as instructive, for he held very strongly the theory that unless
a book interests us, it is waste of time to read it, for though we
may imagine ourselves to be getting a great deal of information, if
the facts do not take sufficient hold upon the mind to interest it,
the knowledge is as soon forgotten as acquired. He was very careful,
therefore, in advising a course of reading for Ella, to consult her
taste, and to select only those books which she would really enjoy
reading.
Nor was this the end of Mr. Hastings’s suggestions, for Kate had
commissioned her father to explain a new enterprise of her own. She had
joined a water-colour sketching club, and, without waiting to consult
her, had proposed her sister’s name also as a member. Each member was
expected to send in an original sketch once a month, the subject being
proposed by each in turn. The sketches having all been sent in to the
secretary, they were then submitted to a professional artist, who put
his initials on the back of the one he considered the best, and wrote a
short criticism on each. The portfolio was then sent the round of the
members, who each in the same way marked the one they liked best.
Kate had sent a supply of all the necessary materials by her father,
with an injunction to Ella to be sure to send in a trial sketch in time
for the next month.
Mr. Hastings’s visit came to an end all too soon, but not till his
loving counsel had done Ella good in every way. His experience
smoothed over all her difficulties with an ease which seemed to her
almost marvellous, while she was encouraged to fresh exertions by the
unstinted praise he gave her for the manner in which she fulfilled the
duties of hostess.
To Ella’s surprise, when her aunt heard of these new schemes for study
she took a deep interest in them, and suggested that Ella should read
her instructive books aloud to her. The fresh subjects of interest
quite roused the invalid, and Ella had the great satisfaction of
finding that the little mental stimulus they produced not only helped
to soothe the irritability and restlessness which troubled her, but
that as the mind naturally re-acts upon the body, she was actually
better in health for it; while, for her own part, Ella found that her
aunt’s sharp intelligent remarks often cleared up points which would
otherwise have been a difficulty to her.
In the sketching, too, her aunt took a great interest, and once, when
Ella was lamenting over an effect she could not catch, abruptly asked
why she did not get Mr. Dudley to help her.
Ella felt shy of asking him; but shyness had no chance of thriving
in her aunt’s presence, and Sarah was despatched to ask if he would
have half an hour to spare that afternoon. He soon showed Ella where
she was wrong, and henceforward was always ready to give her just the
advice she needed; and as the weather grew warmer, and made outdoor
occupations possible, she was surprised at the many charming “bits” he
found for her to sketch in the flat, uninteresting country in which
Hapsleigh was situated.
Soon after Mrs. Wilson’s new servants arrived, Mrs. Moore, the widow
woman whom Ella had engaged as cook, asked her if she might “make so
bold as to say, could she not have family prayers for them in the
morning; for, not being a very good scholar herself, she could never
manage to read her Bible, and Sarah, though a nice steady girl, was not
so fond of her Bible as to care to sit and read it to her.”
Ella was a good deal dismayed at this suggestion, but promised to think
it over and consult her aunt. This was a mere matter of form, for she
was sure that her aunt would approve of the suggestion, so that the
decision really rested with herself. She felt sure it was the right
thing to do; but she was really very bashful, though she dared not say
much about it at Hapsleigh, and this seemed to her taking so much upon
herself. And what should she read? and when?
A very short reflection decided her that it must be done somehow, and
for the rest she had no choice but to consult her aunt.
Mrs. Wilson warmly approved of the idea, but seriously added to Ellen’s
discomfiture by remarking—
“You had better begin to-morrow, my dear. I wonder we none of us had
the sense to think of it before; and, nurse, if you will begin from
to-morrow to give me my breakfast punctually, we will have prayers here
in my bedroom directly afterwards. Yes, my dear,” she went on, in reply
to an exclamation of dismay which Ella could not altogether repress,
“it is so long since I have attended a service I feel a perfect
heathen, and need to be read to quite as much as Mrs. Moore.”
And having once taken the idea into her head, nothing would induce Mrs.
Wilson to give it up; though, on nurse’s advice, she agreed that they
should meet in the evening instead of the morning, as being a more
convenient time for an invalid.
Mrs. Wilson had one or two books of prayers in the house, but as they
were old and most of them rather too long, she told Ella to look
through the books beforehand, and select a prayer each day, marking
with a pencil which portions to omit. At the same time she talked over
with her the most suitable portions of the Bible to select for reading.
“You know, Ella, that, as St. Paul tells us, the whole Bible is given
us for our instruction, yet some portions are not easily understood
unless a rather long passage is read at a time, and as that cannot be
managed at daily prayers, it needs care to choose a portion which
gives a complete thought in a small compass, so that those who, like
Mrs. Moore, get no other reading during the day, have something
definite to carry away with them.”
It was with considerable inward trepidation and a trembling of voice
she could not altogether control that Ella made her first attempt at
conducting the family prayers the next evening; but she struggled to
forget herself, and as she went on her voice grew steadier, till, when
they all repeated the Lord’s Prayer together in closing, she was able
to join in the spirit of the prayer as simply as anyone present.
It was with sincere pleasure that, a few days afterwards, Ella helped
her aunt downstairs for the first time; but her delight that her
patient had advanced so far towards recovery was mingled with a certain
amount of nervousness lest she should find anything to disapprove of
in the rooms, which she had not seen since she was first taken ill.
For several days the servants had been expending a good deal of hard
work on polishing the furniture and rearranging all the ornaments of
the sitting-rooms, and Ella had exercised all her skill in arranging
flowers to make the rooms look bright to welcome the invalid, so that
Mrs. Wilson could not but be pleased, and she expressed her approval
with a warmth which greatly gratified Ella, and which sent Sarah into
the kitchen with a beaming face to tell Mrs. Moore that—
“Missis do seem pleased like, and she says to me, ‘Sarah,’ she says, ‘I
never saw that bookcase look so bright before; why, you must have got a
patent polisher.’”
This well-earned praise was very gratifying to all the household, and
spurred them on to fresh exertions.
Ella’s interests just now were chiefly centred in the fowls. She took
the greatest care of the sitting hens, and brought her aunt each day
a minute report of their welfare. When the time drew near for the
chickens to appear, her eagerness became so great that she would have
disturbed them a dozen times in the day to see how they were getting on
but for the exhortations of her aunt.
The hens were allowed to remain on the nests the whole of the day
before the chickens were due, but were well fed, and had a plentiful
supply of water given them. When the day for hatching came, Mrs. Moore
refused to go near the nests till late in the afternoon, but at last
when she and Ella approached them very quietly, so as not to disturb
the hens, a gentle peeping sound announced that some chickens had
already broken their way into the outer world. They found, indeed, that
one hen had hatched all her chickens, but the other had still two eggs
unbroken. Mrs. Moore removed the hen which had finished her work, and
while Ella went into ecstasies over the fluffy round balls, she made
the mother dust herself well with the ashes sprinkled about, and then
escort her lively children to a clean new nest, while the old one was
burnt and the box which had contained it was put into the open air to
sweeten.
The mother hen was given a good meal of barley and plenty of water, but
no food was given to the chickens.
In answer to Ella’s remonstrances, Mrs. Moore explained that chickens
need no food for from twelve to twenty-four hours after they are
hatched, and, indeed, are much better without anything.
Mrs. Moore then brought a basin of warm water (heated to 105 degrees),
and placing it near the other nest, deftly removed the two still
unhatched eggs without disturbing the hen, and put them in the water.
In a few minutes one of the eggs began to bob about in a curious
manner, whereupon Mrs. Moore took it out and returned it to the hen.
The other one remaining still, she held it close to Ella’s ear, and
shook it for her to hear the fluid contents shaking about, proving that
the egg was useless.
The shells of the hatched eggs were then removed, and Ella was much
interested in noticing that the two ends of each shell had been laid
one inside the other, so as to take up the least possible space; but
Mrs. Moore could not answer her questions as to whether it is the
chicken or the hen who does this, whether it is done deliberately, or
as the result of the chicken’s struggles to free itself from the shell.
The next morning the last egg was hatched, and the two “hen-wives”
congratulated each other on having fifteen eggs hatched out of sixteen
set.
For the first day or two the chickens were fed on hard-boiled eggs,
chopped up and mixed with breadcrumbs or oatmeal; and for a time they
needed such constant feeding that Ella’s generous mind was quite
satisfied, and the chickens soon knew her so well that when she
appeared they would come running to meet her, and flutter up all over
her dress and into her lap.
The hens were put into coops and brought into the garden, and as long
as they were too young to do mischief, the chickens were left loose to
run about where they liked near the mother’s coop.
It was in the midst of these cares and pleasures that Ella’s two
brothers, Robin and Norman, came for their ten days’ visit. Robin was
nearly sixteen, and Norman fourteen, and, considering their ages,
they were good, considerate boys. For the first night and day after
their arrival they were extremely subdued, and afraid of disturbing
their aunt, but this unnatural quietness soon wore off, and Ella found
her powers of mind and body fully exercised in supplying them with
amusements which would not excite or tire her aunt too much.
Happily the weather was fine, and the boys delighted in long excursions
into the country after mythical rare ferns, herons’ nests, or other
treasures. Frequently Ella went with them, and she told Mrs. Mobberly,
much to that lady’s amusement, that they made her feel like a child
again.
Mrs. Mobberly, being very anxious to encourage the feeling in Ella,
that although she had reached the mature age of eighteen her youth was
not quite a thing of the past, came in several time to spend a few
hours with Mrs. Wilson, so that Ella was set free for a long day’s
excursion with her brothers.
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
HINTS FOR TRAVELLERS.
Take one-fourth more money than your estimated expenses, and have a
good supply of small change.
Acquaint yourself with the geography of the route and region of travel.
Arrange, if possible, to have but a single article of luggage to look
after.
Dress substantially. Better be too hot for two or three hours at noon
than be cold for the remainder of the twenty-four.
Arrange, under all circumstances, to be at the place of starting
fifteen or twenty minutes before the time, thus allowing for
unavoidable or unanticipated detention by the way.
Do not commence a day’s travel before breakfast, even if it has to be
eaten at daybreak. Dinner or supper, or both, can be more healthily
dispensed with than a good warm breakfast.
A sandwich eaten leisurely in the carriage is better than a whole
dinner bolted at a railway station.
Take with you a month’s supply of patience, and always think thirteen
times before you reply once to any supposed rudeness, insult, or
inattention.
Do not suppose yourself specially and designedly neglected if waiters
at hotels do not bring what you call for in double-quick time. Nothing
so distinctly marks the well-bred as waiting on such occasions.
Comply cheerfully and gracefully with the customs of the conveyances in
which you travel, and of the places where you stop.
Respect yourself by exhibiting the manners of a lady, if you wish to be
treated as such, and then you will receive the respect of others.
Travel is a great leveller; take the position which others assign you
from your conduct rather than your pretensions.
GOOD REASONS FOR LEARNING SINGING.
The following eight reasons why everyone should learn to sing are given
by Byrd in his “Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs,” etc., published in 1588:—
1. It is a knowledge easily taught and quickly learned, where there is
a good master and an apt scholar.
2. The exercise of singing is delightful to nature, and good to
preserve the health of man.
3. It doth strengthen all parts of the breast, and doth open the pipes.
4. It is a singularly good remedy for a stuttering and stammering in
the speech.
5. It is the best means to procure a perfect pronunciation and to make
a good orator.
6. It is the only way to know where nature has bestowed a good voice
... and in many that excellent gift is lost because they want art to
express nature.
7. There is not any music of instruments whatsoever comparable to that
which is made of the voices of men, where the voices are good, and the
same well sorted and ordered.
8. The better the voice is, the meeter it is to honour and serve God
therewith; and the voice of man is chiefly to be employed to that end.
“Since singing is so good a thing,
I wish all men would learn to sing.”
AN ANTIPATHY TO CATS.—People who have a strong antipathy to cats detect
their presence by the odour, in circumstances which would be thought
impossible. A lady in my study, one day, suddenly remarked, “There is a
cat in the room.” On my assuring her there was none, she replied, “Then
there is one in the passage.” I went out, to satisfy her. There was
no cat in the passage, but on the first landing, looking through the
railings, there, sure enough, was the cat.—_G. H. Lewes._
DR. ZIMMERMAN’S DAUGHTER.
The name of Zimmerman has been familiar to me almost from my first
being able to read. In catalogues of libraries, or of books for sale,
the last entry is usually “Zimmerman on Solitude.” I do not like
solitude, and I always fancied that a book about it must be very dull;
so I never knew anything about Zimmerman and his book beyond the title.
But I have lately found, in an old book published at York in 1810, an
account of Zimmerman’s daughter, which I have read with much interest.
The title of this book is “True Stories and Anecdotes of Young Persons;
Designed, through the Medium of Example, to Inculcate Principles of
Virtue and Piety.” In fact, it is a little book of Christian biography,
and among the examples of virtuous and pious young persons is the
daughter of Dr. Zimmerman. The page is headed, “A Tribute of Paternal
Affection,” and this tribute proves that, whatever else Dr. Zimmerman
may have been, he was a most fond and devoted father. It seems that he
lost this only and beloved daughter, a very amiable, accomplished girl,
in the summer of 1781, when she was twenty-five years of age. Here is
what her father says of her, a record well worth reproducing for the
benefit of others, even now after more than a century has passed.
“May I be permitted,” says the sorrowing father, “to give a short
account of one whose memory I am anxious to preserve? The world was
unacquainted with her excellence; she was known to those only whom she
has left behind to bewail her loss. Her sole pleasures were those which
a retired and virtuous life affords. She was active, always gentle, and
compassionate to the miseries of others. Diffident of her own powers,
she relied with perfect confidence on the goodness of God, and listened
attentively to the precepts of her fond parent. Though naturally timid
and reserved, she disclosed the feelings of her soul with all the
warmth of filial tenderness. For me she entertained the most ardent
affection, and convinced me, not by her professions, but by actions, of
her sincerity. Willingly would I have resigned my life to save hers,
and I am satisfied she would as willingly have given up her own to
preserve mine. One of my greatest pleasures was to please her, and my
endeavours for that purpose were most gratefully returned.
“From her early childhood she had been the victim of ill-health; but,
though of weak frame of body, and deeply afflicted, she bore her
sufferings with steady fortitude and pious resignation to her heavenly
Father’s will. Soon after our leaving Switzerland for Hanover she fell
into a deep decline, which too soon deprived me of the comfort of
this beloved child. From the knowledge I had of her constitution, I
apprehended that the disorder would prove mortal. How frequently did my
wounded, bleeding heart bend me on my knees before God to supplicate
for her recovery! But I concealed my anxiety from her observation.
“Although sensible of her danger, she never discovered the least
apprehension. Smiles played around her pallid cheeks whenever I
entered the room. Even when worn by the fatal disease, and under most
afflicting pains, she made no complaint. Her decay became evident to
the eye, but to the last hours of her life she preserved a serenity
correspondent to the purity and composure of her mind. Thus I beheld
my dear, my only daughter, at the age of twenty-five, after a tedious
suffering of nine long months, expire in my arms.
“During our short residence in Hanover, where she was much respected
and beloved, she composed some religious pieces, which were afterwards
found among her papers. About the same period she also wrote many
letters, which were always affecting, and frequently sublime in the
expressions of her feelings. The last words that my dear excellent
child uttered were these: ‘To-day I shall taste the joys of heaven!’”
* * * * *
Such is the memorial tribute. The love of a father and daughter is
always beautiful, and in this case is unusually touching. The perusal
of what the good man wrote has made me think of him with softened
feeling. I know nothing about his life or history, save what appears in
this account of his daughter, after reading which I could even look at
his book on solitude with complacency!
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
EDUCATIONAL.
B. IGNORAMUS.—You cannot say, “No one knew I was here but her,”
because you are speaking in the nominative case, which answers to the
question “who”—viz., “Who was there?” “She was;” not “her was.” In the
accusative case the personal pronoun “her” is employed—viz., “Of whom
did you borrow it?” “Of her;” not “of she;” the accusative answering
the word “whom.”
A. R. B.—A visitor requested us some time since to draw attention to
the Training Home for Governesses, 81, Mildmay-grove, N., at which the
fee for board, lodging, and laundry for three months is only £6. We
think this might suit you, especially as the foundress undertakes to
find situations for the students. The Kindergarten system is included
in the course of training. Address the directress.
MOLLY M.—Friendless and homeless girls and others needing a short
training in the ordinary work of a general servant are received at a
payment of 5s. a week, at Breydon House, North Quay, Great Yarmouth.
Address the lady superintendent, Mrs. H. E. Buxton. Every effort
is made to place the girls in suitable situations on leaving the
institution. They cannot remain there after the training is over.
DOROTHY.—We fear there is nothing to be done, if you cannot spell, but
to purchase a little dictionary, and always look out every word of
which you have the least doubt. We are glad you find our dress articles
so useful.
BEEAHUDHU AND INNISTORE.—The action of the rays of the sun does put
out a fire by rarefying the air, and so causing it to flow more slowly
towards the fire. The air which really does reach the fire at the time
also affords no nourishment, because rarefied air contains less oxygen
than the same quantity of condensed air. We should imagine the steel
chain would have no effect unless you were struck by lightning.
PURPLE CLEMATIS should write to the secretary of the College of
Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C.
A COUNTRY LASSIE.—The 12th February, 1886, was a Friday. We do not know
the school you mention. It is probably a private one. Why not write
yourself direct?
ANXIOUS.—Perhaps a Kindergarten school would suit you better.
GLAN MENAI.—1. _Kinder_ is one word in German, and _garten_ is another,
so the word is “Kindergarten.” 2. Tancredi is an Italian name. The
most famous bearer of it was Tancred, son of Marquis Odo the Good, of
Sicily, born 1078. He assumed the cross in the First Crusade, 1098, was
created Prince of Galilee, and died of a wound at Antioch, 1112. He was
“a very perfect, gentle knight,” and in him was embodied the chivalrous
spirit of the Crusades.
F. E. N. (Bishop’s Stortford).—There is a good arithmetic society,
including algebra, for particulars of which write to Miss Frances
Mason, hon. secretary, care of Mr. Horwood, 62, Green Lanes, London,
N. French and English correspondence is likewise undertaken by this
society. We thank F. E. N. for information respecting her Pledgdon
Bible-class Society, to which we gladly draw the attention of our
readers.
HOUSEKEEPING.
VIOLET and ROSE.—Put a little turpentine on the spots of paint; or if
that be not successful, try benzine colas.
SIDNEY R.—We can only advise you to hang curtains between the pillars
in your drawing-room. With some flowing draperies they will look less
stiff.
BLUE-EYED BURKIE.—Hominy porridge would be quite as nutritious as any
other, and would provide a change from oatmeal. You could also try
polenta, made from Indian meal or maize in the same manner as oatmeal
porridge.
IRENE.—It is still the fashion to hang curtains over looking-glasses,
as you describe. The curtains should match those in the windows or the
trimmings of the dressing-table.
MADGE.—To take rust from steel ornaments we should advise you to
cover them with sweet oil, well rubbed in, and after 48 hours to use
finely-powdered unslacked lime. Rub in until the rust disappears.
F. O. writes to us to say that spots of mildew on the leather covers of
books that have been kept in a damp room may be removed by rubbing them
with dry crusts of bread.
DEVONIA has only to set the milk in clean pans for the cream to rise.
Once a week is the usual time for churning, and every two or three days
the pans are skimmed. The cream need not be sour to churn into butter.
MISCELLANEOUS.
JIM’S DARLING.—Your mother should see that the two children obey you,
and if they need punishment she should inflict it, not you. Your
spelling and writing are both very defective.
RED BERRIE.—“Genius” appears to us to mean originality and creative
power; talent does not imply originality. We generally apply the word
to those who ably interpret the ideas and carry out the discoveries of
others.
JANET MORETON.—Stopped teeth sometimes last for years if well done. If
the stopping should come out, it ought to be at once replaced.
DAISY NAOMI seems to need a tonic. We advise her to read the articles
by “Medicus.” Cod-liver oil would probably be of service to her. Naomi
needs a doctor’s advice as to her digestion.
ALYS and MABELLE.—“Nigel” is pronounced as it is spelt; the last
syllable as the first in “gelatine.”
K. M. W. is anxious that others who, like herself, have lost their
voices, should know how much she has benefited from the treatment by
the electric battery, which she obtained at St. Thomas’s Hospital. She
hopes not only to recover her voice completely for speaking, but also
for singing.
MONA.—The lines, “Break, break, break! On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!”
are by Lord Tennyson. They have been several times set to music, and
you can obtain the songs at any music-seller’s.
FAIR ROSAMOND.—When you first observed that the strange man made a
habit of occupying the same seat as yourself, you should have gone
elsewhere. Now you have habitually sanctioned the liberty he took,
seeing you without a chaperon or companion, and this has made your
case difficult. You can only say that you acted indiscreetly in the
first instance in allowing yourself to be drawn into conversing with
a perfect stranger, and that you regret that you must withdraw from
further intercourse, unless properly introduced and suitable references
be given. Even were he thoroughly respectable, he may be in no position
to pay his addresses to you in point of fortune.
FOUR MAIDENS.—Young ladies in England have their names put on their
mothers’ visiting cards, unless under peculiar circumstances. If
they have no mother, their names would appear together—_i.e._, Miss
Smith—Miss Belinda Smith.
[Illustration]
SARNIA.—Your school children, whom you train to sing in the choir of
your church, would be rendered more efficient were they to sing through
a few ordinary scales for a few minutes previously to practising the
chants and hymns. It would only extend the time some five or ten
minutes beyond the hour hitherto devoted to the lesson once weekly.
There would be no necessity for consulting them on the subject, nor
even drawing attention to the brief prolongation of the time. Were you
to propose an extra day for practising, they might grumble or find
difficulty in attending.
MIGNONETTE.—The 20th of April, 1868, was a Monday. Many thanks for your
nice letter.
D. E. S.—Messrs. Cassell publish a “Guide to Female Employment in
Government Offices.”
MAUDE must make inquiries, and try to find some writing, copying, or
needlework. She gives us no indications of what she can do, so is
evidently not a practical young person.
ALICE ROCKHAMPTON.—1. The words, _Ricordo di Napoli_, mean “a
remembrance, or memento, of Naples.” 2. We should think lemonade a very
good summer drink.
H. S. G. H.—The 28th August, 1852, was a Saturday, and the 5th January,
1864, was a Tuesday.
SCOTCH LASSIE.—We should advise you to take a situation as
cook-housekeeper. Your writing does not seem good enough for a clerk.
NATALIE METZ.—In writing such articles, a doctor makes use of his
acquired knowledge, of course. How do you suppose a doctor could
prescribe with success if he did not know about every portion of the
human organism and its use and functions?
PHYLLIS H.—You may use the tweezers, but we do not think you should try
anything else.
THISTLE sends us a letter of inquiry as to how she can earn her own
living. She says, “I have no special talent for anything; I am no
musician, I have no accomplishments, I am a bad writer, I dislike
teaching, also nursing, and I cannot learn languages.” We see nothing
left but domestic service or matrimony, and Thistle had better begin
to learn cooking and housekeeping, so as to be prepared for either
position.
AN ANXIOUS ONE would do well to try the Dental Hospital and have advice
about her teeth.
MAUDE C.—Felt hats, if good enough, can be re-dyed and blocked without
much expense. The 4th Feb., 1869, was a Thursday.
NESTA.—The 15th March, 1871, was a Wednesday; and the 28th February,
1874, was a Saturday.
AUDREY GALLOP.—The German _Auf Wiedersehn_ means the same as the French
_au revoir_. We have no similar idiom in English, the meaning being, “a
wish for our next meeting.”
A JUNE ROSE.—Most young girls if short-sighted prefer eyeglasses to
spectacles, but it is quite a matter of individual preference.
BUSY BEE must go through the usual course of submitting her story to
the various publishers. There is no royal road to literary success.
MAKIE.—We could not give space for such a quantity of statistics. Buy a
“Whitaker’s Almanack.” The story you mention about the Queen has been
recently contradicted, we believe.
EMMELINE KENNEDY.—1. The distance from Rydal to Ambleside is given
differently in guides and gazetteers—viz., as two miles, a mile and
a quarter, and a mile and a half. You say it is a “short mile,” but
you will allow it is not a matter of very vital importance. A quarter
of a mile from the shores of any lake may be very truly described as
being on or near the banks of that lake. You will understand that we
are not called upon to visit each locality and test the correctness
of gazetteers and guides, so we are quite willing to believe your
statement correct. 2. The poet Wordsworth had, as you say, an only
daughter, Dora; married to Mr. Quillinan. She died in 1847, leaving no
family. Mr. Quillinan had, however, two daughters by his first wife,
who was a daughter of Sir Egerton Bridges. This poor lady was burnt to
death. Mr. Quillinan himself died suddenly in 1857.
CECIL.—The lines you quote are from a short poem by Lord Byron.
CONSTANT READER.—Colour-blindness is, unfortunately, very common,
and more especially among men. It is rare among women. Red and green
are the colours which, through some defect in the eyes, are the more
generally confounded. Sailors and soldiers have to be carefully
examined to ascertain their ability to distinguish signals, and
engine-drivers likewise.
NORA, THE ANXIOUS.—You had better apply to Mrs. Houston Smith
respecting situations as mother’s help; office, 409, Oxford-street, W.
A. M. B.—We quite understand your difficulty in understanding our
Lord’s statement (St. Mark xiii. 30, and St. Luke xxi. 32). It may
be explained in more than one way. If He referred to His Second
Advent, you must remember that the term “generation” is sometimes
employed to denote the nation as a whole, and in this sense this is
true, as we see in reference to the Jewish people, who exist to this
day, notwithstanding the cruel exterminating persecutions to which,
through all the subsequent centuries, they have been subjected. If
the statement referred to the destruction of Jerusalem, the term
“generation” bore the signification which we put on that term, for
those standing by (very many of them) lived to see that prophecy
fulfilled. Our Lord’s discourse referred to both events, although the
two prophecies are rather unaccountably run together by the evangelists
in their record of them.
MARROW BONES repeats an old query, which we have ceased to answer. Read
“The Art of Letter-writing,” vol. i, page 237.
SANDOWN.—The few holidays accorded to the banks include Christmas
Day and Good Friday, and though national, they are properly called
bank holidays also. Christmas Day was a great festival of the ancient
Romans, but the day was observed by Christians to commemorate a very
different event.
SARAH.—The man who made use of such an expression as that to which
you refer is certainly very profane, and wanting in the feelings of a
gentleman towards those in whose presence he spoke. It is a species of
swearing of a very low class and horrible kind. If these girls allowed
such language to be used without denouncing its gross profanity and the
personal insult to themselves, as listeners, they showed want of common
self-respect, not to speak of reverent feeling.
ELLENNETTE.—Perhaps it would be of some service to have the old boards
planed, then well saturated with turpentine, and, when dry, painted
thickly with two or three coats of paint. The vermin will scarcely
be able to penetrate this, if any survive the turpentine bath. We
have not tried this plan, but should do so under the same distressing
circumstances. Some have found the use of a kettle of boiling water
very effectual. We should use this first, then the turpentine, and then
the paint.
INCOGNITO.—The _Ides_ in the Ancient Roman Calendar were eight days
in each month. The first, denominated the _Idus_, fell on the 15th of
March, May, July, and October, and on the 13th of the other months. The
_Ides_ came between the _Calends_ and the _Nones_, and were reckoned
backwards. Thus, the 14th of March, May, July, and October, and the
12th of the other months, was called “the day before the _Ides_.” In
the calendar of the “Breviary,” and in the Chancery of Rome, this
needlessly complicated mode of reckoning is still retained.
A CHESHIRE CAT.—When the reflecting surface is concave the contiguous
reflected rays themselves intersect, and as we pass along any line
on the surface—say the line of intersection, by a given plane—the
reflected rays by their ultimate intersections form a plane curve.
By varying the plane of section an indefinite number of such curves
result, and these all lie upon the surface known as the caustic,
to which every reflected ray is a tangent. A concave lens must of
necessity render originally parallel rays divergent. The principal
focus of the convex lens is the point at which the rays which pass
through it, near and parallel to its axis, converge. The science of
optics is one that needs to be taught.
BUNCH OF GRAPES.—1. We do not hold ourselves bound to inform our
readers of the why and wherefore respecting our plan of conducting our
paper. 2. If the terra-cotta be very dirty, sponge with turpentine, and
then with soap and water.
M. S. O.—No further continuation of the article on “Paper Boxes” was
given in the G. O. P. “My Work Basket” is continued at intervals as
space will permit.
PARTICULAR.—From Angus’s “Handbook of the English Tongue,” we
quote the following with reference to your query:—“In old writers,
and occasionally in modern print, ‘an’ is sometimes erroneously
placed before semi-vowels or vocal ‘h,’ as ‘an usurpation,’ ‘an
historical account.’” Thus, you see that “a historical account” was
right. You should get the book in question; it is published at 56,
Paternoster-row, E.C.
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 394: duplicate word “sight” removed—“sight, and we”.
Page 395: he to the—“of the storm.”
Page 396: Dandalo to Dandolo—“Dandolo, who went”.
Page 400: Weidersehn to Wiedersehn—“Auf Wiedersehn”.]