[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.—NO. 365. DECEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE ONE PENNY.]
WHERE HEAVEN BEGINS.
BY RUTH LAMB.
Not at the gates of pearl or streets of gold,
Not with the endless day or songs of praise;
In meeting those above we loved below,
Or echoing back their new, exultant lays.
Not in the thought of tears for ever dried,
Of pain, want, weariness and sorrow fled;
Or in the thought that nothing there can part
Those loved and lost ones whom we call “Our dead.”
So vast our heritage, we claim all these,
For Jesus bought them, made our title clear;
Yet, blessed thought! for heaven we need not want—
Our Lord is with us, and our heaven is here.
No night, no fear, if Christ within us dwell;
Above where Jesus reigns can be no night.
Heaven here with Jesus, and His hand shall lead
O’er Death’s dark threshold into life and light.
[Illustration: “ABOVE WHERE JESUS REIGNS CAN BE NO NIGHT.”]
_All rights reserved._]
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.
CHAPTER XII.
John Shelley’s White Ram was a great success; up to Friday everything
had gone well; the puddings and cakes had been pronounced excellent,
the beer first rate; and though there had been no stint, John had kept
his word, and no one had as yet been any the worse for it. The tent,
too, was voted a great improvement on a close kitchen, and there, when
supper was over, the men sat smoking and singing their sheep-shearing
songs, while Jack and Fairy listened outside, Jack having hitherto
resisted all his father’s invitations to sup with the other shearers,
in which Fairy, knowing his feelings, assisted him, and, to please her,
John did not press it.
On Friday evening, when Jack and the other shearers came back earlier
than usual, it was found that Charlie had forgotten to bring home a
lamb that was ailing and required nursing, so, as John Shelley could
not be spared from the supper, and Charlie by no means inclined to go,
Jack, tired as he was, set off to fetch it. While he was gone, the last
of the series of suppers went on in the tent, and was over and the
singing begun before he returned. Fairy wandered out into the field to
listen to the men’s voices as they sang their favourite song.[1]
“Here the rosebuds in June and the violets are blowing,
The small birds they warble from every green bough;
Here’s the pink and the lily,
And the daffydowndilly
To adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.
“Our shepherds rejoice in their fine heavy fleeces,
And frisky young lambs which their flocks do increase.
Each lad takes his lass
All on the green grass,
Where the pink and the lily,
And the daffydowndilly
Do adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.
“Here stands our brown jug, and ’tis filled with good ale,
Our table, our table shall increase and not fail.
We’ll joke and we’ll sing,
And dance in a ring,
Where the pink and the lily,
And the daffydowndilly
Do adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June.
’Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow,
And the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.”
As the men sung these verses to a swinging tune, which if not very
high musical art, at any rate had plenty of go in it, and suited the
occasion, Fairy strolled across the meadow into the road by which she
knew Jack would come, to meet him. She had not gone very far before
she saw him coming, with his crook in one hand, and what looked like a
dead lamb dangling in the other. As he got closer she saw this was the
case, and there was a frown on Jack’s handsome face; though vexed and
tired as he was, he smiled when he saw Fairy, and Jack’s smile was a
singularly sweet one, which lighted up his whole face.
“Is it dead, Jack?” asked Fairy, sympathetically.
“Yes, and all for the sake of a little care. If Charlie had only had
the sense to bring it home with him we might have saved it; he must
have seen it was dying when he came away, but all he thinks of is
getting home to the White Ram. I wish there weren’t such a thing, for
if I had not been forced to leave my sheep to that boy for the sake of
the shearing it would not have died, I am sure.”
“Poor little lamb. I am very sorry for you, Jack; but it is the first
you have ever lost, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and if I had my way, I would give Charlie such a thrashing that
he would take pretty good care it was the last. Lazy, careless young
scamp!” said Jack.
“Never mind, Jack, he will always be lazy; it is his nature, just as it
is yours to be always poring over books; but come home and have some
supper; you look tired out; mother has saved some for you. What are you
going to do with that lamb?”
“Bury it; but I will have some supper first,” said Jack, leaving the
lamb just inside the gate of the field, which they had now reached.
Unfortunately, just at that moment Charlie came rushing out of the tent
from which the chorus “of the pink and the lily and the daffydowndilly”
was still rolling, shouting for Fairy at the top of his voice. He was
flushed and excited, his blue eyes sparkled, and he looked just what
he was—a healthy, happy, lazy, labouring boy of sixteen, fresh and
clean, but in thick shoes and corduroys, and not the least pretension
in manner or appearance to be anything but a shepherd’s lad, thoroughly
enjoying his first shearing-feast. As soon as he saw Fairy he ran up
to her, and seizing her by the waist, cried—
“Come along, Fairy, let us have a dance.”
“Don’t, Charlie, I don’t want to dance; I am going to give Jack his
supper,” said Fairy, pushing him away.
“Nonsense! let Jack get his own supper. Come along.
‘Each lad takes his lass,
All on the green grass,’”
sung Charlie again, seizing Fairy by the waist; but before the words
were out of his mouth, Jack, in an ungovernable fit of temper, had
raised his crook, intending to give his brother a good stroke across
the shoulders with it, but Charlie, turning his head suddenly round to
see what was coming, met the blow, which fell heavily across his right
temple. He staggered backwards half-stunned, and fell to the ground,
striking the back of his head in his fall against the stone gate-post.
There he lay insensible, and for the moment both Jack and Fairy
thought he was killed on the spot. Down on their knees beside him they
both knelt. All Jack’s anger vanished, and only a terrible fear, too
terrible for words, taking possession of his heart.
“Oh, Jack, Jack, what shall we do? what shall we do? Charlie, Charlie,
do open your eyes! Oh, Jack, has he fainted? What is it?”
“I don’t know, Fairy. Fetch mother, will you? We must carry him into
the house,” said Jack, trying to feel if Charlie’s heart were still
beating.
Fairy flew rather than ran into the kitchen, where Mrs. Shelley was
sitting resting after her hard week’s work, listening to the shearing
songs, and watching lest Jack’s supper should burn. In spite of the
hard work, perhaps partly because of it, it had been a very happy week
to her, for she was very proud of John’s position as captain of the
company, and up to the present nothing had occurred to spoil the feast;
it had been as merry as any “White Ram” ever was, but no excess, no
coarse jokes, no irreverent jests had ever been attempted, and Mrs.
Shelley knew, if her husband did not, that his presence was in itself
enough to prevent their occurrence. And now what an ending it was to
have.
“Mother! mother! come and help Jack! Charlie is dead, we are afraid,”
cried Fairy, standing on the threshold, her great eyes open wider than
ever, and her pale cheeks testifying there was at any rate some truth
in her words.
Mrs. Shelley was not a nervous woman, and she did not for a moment
believe Charlie was killed, though she rose immediately to go and see
what was the matter.
“Killed; nonsense, he has fainted, I suppose. Where is he? What has
happened?” she asked, as she followed Fairy.
“By the gate. Jack wants you to help to carry him indoors; he is
insensible.”
“Insensible! What has made him insensible? How did it all happen?”
“I don’t know, it was all so quick. Charlie wanted me to dance with
him, and Jack was angry because his lamb is dead, and he hit Charlie
with his crook, and somehow Charlie fell and knocked his head against
the stone gate-post,” said Fairy.
They were close to Charlie and Jack, and Mrs. Shelley saw at a glance
it was a more serious matter than she had at first supposed, and
having, like Jack, a quick imagination, as well as a quick temper, she
guessed what had prompted Jack to raise his hand against his brother,
and, for the first time in her life, she turned and spoke unkindly to
Fairy.
“Go out of my sight; it is all your fault; but for you there would
never have been strife between my boys. Fool that I was to take you
in, when something warned me, even then, it would lead to no good. Oh!
Jack, Jack, my son, my son, what are we to do?”
Even then, in the first flow of her grief, Mrs. Shelley’s sympathy
seemed to be for her darling son who had struck the unlucky blow, and
not for the poor boy stretched lifeless, to all appearance, on the
ground.
“Get him indoors first, mother, and then I will run to Lewes for the
doctor. If you will take his feet, we can easily manage him.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure; we don’t want all those men to know what has
happened. Your father will be out in a few minutes for some more ale,
and then we can tell him,” said Mrs. Shelley, helping Jack to carry
Charlie to the house.
Again Mrs. Shelley was thinking of her eldest boy. If, indeed, Charlie
were killed, she knew it would be a terrible thing for Jack, and in
any case she did not want all this shearing company to know what had
happened, and gossip about it.
As she and Jack carried Charlie to the house, Fairy followed,
trembling, and wondering what Mrs. Shelley’s cruel words meant. Why
was it her fault? What had she done? When had she wilfully stirred up
strife between the boys? And where was she to go out of Mrs. Shelley’s
sight? Was she to be turned out of the house because poor Charlie was
dangerously hurt? Frightened and grieved for Charlie and Jack, cut to
the quick by Mrs. Shelley’s words, Fairy threw herself on the bench
outside the door, and burst into tears.
A minute or two later, John Shelley, coming out of the tent to fetch
some more beer from the house, saw the unwonted sight of Fairy crying
as if her heart would break.
“Fairy! Why, my pet, what is it? Crying at my White Ram. What is the
matter?” he asked, laying his hand on the bowed golden head.
“Oh John, John!” sobbed Fairy, clinging to him, “poor Charlie is
dreadfully hurt; it was partly an accident and partly Jack hit him, and
he fell, and he is insensible. Go in and see. I mustn’t come.”
John had not time to stop and ask why Fairy must not come, but went in
to the little sitting-room, where Jack and Mrs. Shelley were applying
restoratives to the still insensible Charlie.
“What is this?” said the shepherd, glancing sternly from the prostrate
Charlie to Jack, who dared not meet his father’s glance.
“Hush, John! it is a terrible business—listen.” And in a few words Mrs.
Shelley, who had heard from Jack exactly how it occurred, told her
husband the story, and what prompted the unfortunate blow.
“Poor boys, poor boys! Jack, Jack, what were you thinking of?” cried
John Shelley, stooping over Charlie to try and see where he was hurt.
“He is alive, thank God; perhaps he is only stunned; we must go for Dr.
Bates at once,” said John, after a brief examination of Charlie.
Here a stifled sob broke from Jack, who was standing with his head
buried on his elbow which he was leaning on the corner of the
chimney-piece, and caused the shepherd to turn to the son who was
suffering far the most acutely. John crossed the room to his eldest
son, and put his arm round his neck. He did not say a word, but as
Jack grasped his father’s hand, he knew that he not only forgave him,
but sympathised with him also. If they had never understood each other
before they understood each other now, these two, as they stood half
broken-hearted by the chimney-piece. Jack understood that whatever
trouble might be in store for him in consequence of his hasty act,
his father would be his friend and do his best to help him; he knew,
too, that he would never hear a word of blame from his lips, for as
children, the shepherd had ever been wont to forgive them directly they
showed any signs of repentance, and it did not require much penetration
to see that Jack already bitterly regretted his hasty temper. And the
shepherd understood what it was that had roused Jack’s anger; in fact,
at any rate, he could quite sympathise with his vexation and annoyance
at the death of the lamb, and he guessed at his jealousy with regard to
Fairy, for Jack’s love for her was no secret to his father.
“Jack, some one must go for the doctor at once. Will you, or shall I?”
asked the shepherd.
“Oh! I will, I can go quicker; besides, you can’t leave the men yet,”
said Jack, rising and seizing his hat.
“That is the best plan; I can’t dismiss these men yet, but I will tell
them we have had a bad accident, so I can’t ask them to stay late, and
I’ll come in every few minutes, Polly, to see how you are going on,”
said the shepherd, as Jack left the house.
All this happened much quicker than it has taken to tell, and ten
minutes after the blow was struck Jack was running across the fields
to Lewes like a madman, knowing that his brother’s life hung in the
balance. While he was gone John Shelley told the men in the tent his
youngest boy had met with a serious accident, and was lying between
life and death, and, to their credit, the men unanimously stopped
singing and took their departure before Jack returned with the doctor.
So ended John Shelley’s first White Ram.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Taken from the Sussex Archæological Collections (out of print).
A VEXED “WOMAN’S QUESTION.”
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.
There is no more vexed “woman’s question” than that of “clothes.” It
has been said that if we see how a man regards money and deals with it,
we see the whole character of the man; and we think it is equally true
that if we find out how a woman or girl feels and acts about clothes,
we should have an excellent key to her nature and history.
There is the woman to whom “clothes” are the object of life. This does
not necessarily mean that she is a rich woman, who can spend much
money, nor does it mean that she succeeds in being a well-dressed
woman. She may be one of those who indulge in what the poet Crabbe
called “The piteous patchwork of the needy vain,” and who send “one
poor robe through fifty fashions”; or she may be a millionaire, always
on the alert to catch up the latest fashionable outrage on good taste
and good sense. Only in either case, dress is always foremost in her
thoughts. The first question she asks about any public event is, “What
did the ladies wear?” Her first anxiety concerning any crisis in her
own life is, “What shall I put on?” At church she remembers the
bonnets and not the text; and the moment she enters an evening party
she appraises all the toilets present, and is unhappy unless hers
is the most modish and costly, whether it be with the costliness of
Worth’s latest whim from the Continent, or of the last box of frippery
received at the village shop.
If she feels that any reflection is cast on her waste of time and
expenditure of money in the matter of dress, she defends herself in the
following manner—that she owes it to society to look nice; that it is
everybody’s duty to make the most pleasant appearance; that it is well
to employ labour and to put money into circulation, etc., etc. If she
has “gone in” for “culture,” perhaps she may quote Browning—
“Be thy beauty
Thy sole duty,” etc.
On the other extreme there is the woman who does not care a bit for
dress; who says she wishes we were born covered with black fur, or that
we might cut holes in a sack for our feet and arms, and tie it up round
our necks! She carries out her words so far as generally to appear in
garments specially unsuitable to the occasion on which they are worn,
and seems arrayed in remnants and oddments, chosen without any regard
to her age, complexion, or circumstances; she thinks getting up a lace
fichu is “a waste of time,” and finds it too much “bother” to wear the
little ornaments with which family affection may have provided her.
She defends herself from any charge of slovenliness by pointing to the
swamp of petty frivolity in which too many female lives are sunk, and
avers that she scorns any regard which would be influenced by what she
wore or did not wear. It may be said in her favour that she generally
grows tidier and trimmer as she advances in life, and, proving much
more amenable to the criticisms of “her young people” than she was to
the raillery of school friends and cousins, is often a matron of comely
and attractive appearance.
Then there remains the great multitude between these extremes—a
multitude who does not quite know its own mind, and cannot find any
principle whereby to regulate its movements; who wants to look pretty
and to please, yet is afflicted in its conscience when it reflects on
the sin of personal vanity, and on our responsibility for the souls
and bodies which are perishing at our gates; a multitude who is sadly
tossed between the conflicting arguments of the more strongly-biassed
ladies whom we have just described, with the demoralising result that
it generally leans in practice towards the former, and in theory
towards the latter.
It is this great multitude of girls and women whom we would like to
help by offering a few broad principles for their consideration;
for principles underlie everything. And it is only by our grasp on
principles that we can guide ourselves through the ever-varying details
of duty.
Let us say at once that it is the right of all to be well dressed,
because that means to be dressed suitably to the climate and
circumstances in which they live, and to their occupation, age, and
appearance. A woman may be quite as well dressed in print and serge as
in velvet and satin. When you hear people complaining that “nowadays
everybody will go so well dressed,” you hear a misuse of language;
and language loosely used is a dangerous thing; because it leads to
looseness of idea. Nobody has any right to complain of anybody’s being
well dressed. What they really mean is that these are unsuitably
dressed. And there is a great deal of unsuitable dress in the world
of the kind, more or less in degree, of that seen in the daughter of
a _parvenu_ millionaire of the Western States, who, when she went to
a sensible New England seminary, where the young ladies were expected
to wait on themselves, descended to the scullery in a velvet robe and
diamond earrings!
Anybody, therefore, is not well dressed whose attire unfits her for
the performance of those actions which _ought_ to be her duty. The
tight-laced, be-flounced be-trained damsel proclaims to the world her
utter unwomanliness. The nursery would soon make havoc in her finery.
Let us hope she would never carry it into a sick room, and in the
kitchen it would be a nuisance and a bad example. But then “Isn’t it
pretty for wearing in the parlour during those hours when we are doing
nothing?” Let us reply with other questions: “Ought there to be hours
when we are doing nothing?” And “In providing ourselves with clothes
only fit for such occasions, are we not falling into the error we often
smile at in working men who will buy stiff, uncomely Sunday garments
of broadcloth and silk hats, instead of providing themselves with gala
suits of the sensible tweed that will serve afterwards for work-a-day
wear?”
We began by saying that everybody has a right to be well dressed in the
true meaning of the phrase. But, as Ruskin says in his grand “Letter
to Young Girls,” “Although in a truly Christian land every young girl
would be dressed beautifully and delightfully: in this entirely heathen
and Baal-worshipping land of ours, not one girl in ten has either
decent or healthy clothing, and you have no business, till this be
amended, to wear anything fine yourself.” And Jean Ingelow, a writer
with whose works you cannot too soon make acquaintance, brings this
indictment against our sex—“For them mainly are the gorgeous pageants,
are the costly clothes, the gold lace, the carpets of velvet pile, the
diamonds and the splendours of life. The pride of life is in their
souls, and mainly for them. It is luxury that stands in the way of the
civilised world, so that men cannot marry young and be happy. For the
earth does not produce unbounded riches for a few while yet the many
can have enough. Equality is a word without meaning or possibility; but
notwithstanding, squalor and destitution might be things outside our
experience, as should be luxury and waste.”
This brings us to the principle that should guide our expenditure,
whether the sum at our command be large or small. Of material we should
buy the best and most durable within reach of our purse. We have no
right to keep people employed in weaving and making up useless and
perishable shoddy articles. It is a dishonour to them to do such work,
and if they are forced to do it that they may get bread to eat, we
are keeping them in the worst kind of slavery. That we pay them for
it does not make it any better, any more than if we paid them for any
other degrading and wasteful service. We insult them by taking their
industry and trampling it under foot, as if they had no concern in
their work, but only in their wages. How can the industrial classes
retain self-respect under such circumstances? And when self-respect is
lost, respect for others always goes also. Quite lately we saw a lady
sitting in a dressmaker’s room watching the “setting-up” of what was
considered a very grand garment. Its materials were certainly of the
costliest, but it had yards of delicate silk trailing on the ground to
an extent that must have ensured their speedy destruction, even on the
most ceremonious occasion, and over the short front skirt hung masses
of tulle, festooned by elaborate iridescent glass drops, worthy of the
decoration of a South Sea Island god! Seeing our friend’s grave face,
we asked her what she was thinking of, and she replied, “I am thinking
of the men who wove that silk to be trodden on, and the girls who sewed
those beads to be smashed. Poor things! I would rather be the grimiest
maid-of-all-work toiling for real human needs, or the roughest tailor
or cobbler, working to cover honest human nakedness.”
Let all dress, therefore, always be as durable as can be, both in
material and mode. As to “fashion,” even that has a root of necessity
and common sense, because dress must change as social habits and
customs change. Ruskin advises that no garment should ever be thrown
aside because unfashionable, and that no costly fashion should ever be
followed. Think what that word “costly” involves. Tight lacing, heavy
flouncing, open bodices, high heels, and so forth, costly of health;
dead birds’ wings, and everything else costly of suffering; complicated
trimmings, costly of time and human energy in a world where there are
thousands of little children growing up ill taught, thousands of sick
people dying ill tended, thousands of industrious folk slaving to death
for a paltry pittance.
It seems to us that when a lady has once discovered the dress best
suited to her age, appearance, and condition—the ideal robe in which
she would wish to be painted for the eyes of unborn generations—her
future study will be, not how much she can “follow the fashion,” but
how little she need follow it to escape singularity. Fashion has
nothing to do with a desire to be pleasant in the sight of others.
Let any of our readers turn to the graceful studies of girl-life
with which M. E. E. makes us so familiar, and then to the figures in
any fashion-plate, and ask themselves candidly which are most likely
to commend themselves to the eye of artistic taste or of domestic
affection?
And here we come to the matter of making ourselves “fair to see.” This
is a decided duty. We have to make ourselves attractive to those whose
love we desire, and to those from whose wisdom we wish approval. But we
imagine that the desire to be loved and approved has a very small share
in extravagance and fantasticalness in dress. Let us speak out plainly.
We seldom befrill and bedeck ourselves, and waste time and money,
to please our parents or friends, but rather to spite and outshine
our “dearest enemies” among our female acquaintances. Suitability of
style, dainty freshness, and tasteful variety will always satisfy
love; and good sense, combined with a little industry and taste, will
easily secure these desirable objects. I remember the approving notice
bestowed by a great divine and philanthropist on the appearance of a
young literary woman, who, travelling under difficult and troublesome
conditions, was provided with a very few dresses of the plainest
quality and style, but who by artfully varied arrangements of muslin
or lace and coquettish little additions of tasteful ribbon, managed to
give her friends’ eyes an ever-new surprise and pleasure. Can there
be a prettier picture than that of a modest little maiden trying how
a rose-coloured bow will brighten her sober dress, to please papa—or
perhaps somebody else?
And now we come to the consideration of “luxury.” If we are always
to remember the ignorant and the starving, are we never to have
anything whose price might have paid teachers or bought bread? Let
us hear Ruskin again:—“What of fine dress your people insist upon
your wearing, take and wear proudly and prettily for their sakes.”
Let us never seek luxury of any sort—let us rather avoid it; but let
us still accept it with delight when it comes to us by the hands of
genuine love. The diamond in a girl’s engagement ring, the gold locket
enclosing her mother’s portrait, the dainty filigree bracelet sent
by her brother abroad, the exquisite lace set worked by her dearest
friends, are on quite a different line from the fashionable jewellery
and ornaments which she buys for herself or teases her relatives to buy
for her—as different (with all reverence be it written) as the gift of
the alabaster box of precious ointment tendered by a loving woman to
her Master is different from the cases of Rimmel’s perfume which are
squandered at every ball.
And thus we see that the great principle which underlies this
vexed “woman’s question” of clothes is the great principle of love
itself—love, serving others, considering others; love bestowing, love
receiving. Such love needs no law, being itself the highest law.
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.
BY EMMA BREWER.