The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 366, January 1, 1887

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 366, January 1, 1887

Author: Various

Release date: June 25, 2021 [eBook #65696]

Language: English

Credits: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at




Vol. VIII.—No. 366.

Price One Penny.

JANUARY 1, 1887.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]




Oh, bonny New Year, pray tell me true,
While your birthday bells are ringing,
What beautiful work have you come to do?
How much of joy shall we find in you?
In your wallet of blessings, all fresh and new,
What fairy gifts are you bringing?”
“For field and garden, asleep in the cold,
A wonderful store I carry,
Fresh robes for the snowdrops, first to unfold,
Pink ruffs for the daisies, fair to behold,
New cups for the crocuses, yellow as gold,
Wherein shall the sunbeams tarry.
“The woods I will clothe in vestures bright,
Whose work shall be mine own doing,
Anemones there shall be found in white,
And bluebells ring by day and by night,
And girlies warble with new delight,
Old songs of loving and wooing!”
“But what do you bring, oh blithe New Year,
To human sorrow and sadness?”
“For shrouded lives, an horizon clear,
For hearts that are desolate, friendship dear,
For midnight sufferers, starlight cheer,
And morrows of peace and gladness.
“To those who have climbed when barely shod,
New guerdons for brave endeavour,
New flowers to bloom on the graveyard sod,
New visions of heavenly heights untrod,
Yea, the gifts I bring are the gifts of God,
And of love that shall last for ever!”


All rights reserved.]



By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.




was afraid Mrs. Markham did not understand children. Nothing would induce Reggie to let her kiss him; he beat her off in his usual fashion, with a sulky “go, go,” and hid his face on my shoulder. I could see this vexed her immensely, for she had praised his beauty in most extravagant terms.

Joyce listened with a perplexed expression on her face.

“Have you ever seed an angel, Aunt Adda?” this being her childish abbreviation of Adelaide.

“Dear me, nurse! how badly the child speaks. She is more than six years old, you say. Why my Rolf is only seven, and speaks beautifully! What did you say, Joyce?”—very sharply—“seen an angel? What unhealthy nonsense to put into a child’s head! This comes of new-fangled ideas on your mother’s part”—with a glance in my direction. “No, child! of course not. No one has seen an angel.”

Joyce looked so shocked at this that I hastened to interpret Mrs. Markham’s speech.

“No one sees angels now, Joyce; not as the good people in the Bible used to see them; perhaps we are not good enough. But what put angels into your head, my dear?”

“Only Aunt Adda said Reggie was like an angel, and I thought she had seed one. What is a cherub, nurse, dear? Something good to eat?”

I saw a smile hovering on Mrs. Markham’s thin lips. Evidently she found Joyce amusing, but just then a loud peevish voice was distinctly audible in the passage.

“Mother, mother, I say! Go away, Juddy, I tell you. You are a nasty disagreeable old cat—and I will go to mother”—this accompanied by ominous kicks.

I signed to Hannah to take the children into the adjoining room. It was Reggie’s bedtime, and Joyce was tired with her journey. The door was scarcely closed upon them before the same violent kicking was heard against the nursery door.

“It is only Rolf. I am afraid he is very cross,” observed Mrs. Markham, placidly, shivering a little after the fashion of people who have lived in India, as she moved away from the open window, and drew a lace scarf round her. “Judson is such a bad manager. She never does contrive to amuse him, or keep him quiet.”

“He will frighten Reggie,” I remonstrated, for she did not offer to stop the noise, and I went quickly to the door.

There was a regular scuffle going on in the passage. A little boy in Highland dress was endeavouring to escape from a young woman, who was holding him back from the door with some difficulty.

“Master Rolf—Master Rolf, what will your mamma say? You will make her head ache, and then you will be sorry.”

“I shan’t be a bit sorry, Juddy, I tell you! I will go in, and——” Here he stopped and stared up in my face. He was a pale, sickly-looking child, rather plain, as Miss Cheriton had said, but he had beautiful grey eyes, only they were sparkling with anger. The young woman who held him by the arm had a thin, careworn face—probably her post was a harassing one, with an exacting mistress and that spoilt boy.

“Who are you?” demanded the boy, rudely.

“I am Miss Fenton, the nurse,” I returned. “Your little cousins are just going to bed, and I cannot have that noise to disturb them.”

“I shall kick again, unless you let me come in and see them.”

“For shame, Master Rolf. Whatever makes you so naughty to-night?”

“I mean to be naughty. Hold your stupid old tongue, Juddy. You are a silly woman. That is what mother calls you. I am a gentleman, and shall be naughty if I like. Now then, Mrs. Nurse, may I come in?”

“Not to-night, Master Rolf. To-morrow, if you are good.”

“Nurse,” interrupted Mrs. Markham’s voice, behind me, “I do not know what right you have to exclude my boy. Let him come in and bid good-night to his cousins. You will behave prettily, Rolf, will you not?”

One look at the surly face before me made me incredulous of any pretty behaviour on Rolf’s part. I knew Joyce was a nervous child, and easily frightened, and already the loud voices were upsetting Reggie. I could hear him crying, in spite of Hannah’s coaxing. I felt I must be firm. The nursery was my private domain. I was determined Rolf should not cross the threshold to-night.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I returned quickly, “I cannot have the children disturbed at bedtime; it is against Mrs. Morton’s rules. Master Rolf may pay us a visit to-morrow, if he be good”—laying a stress on good—“but I cannot admit him to-night.”

She looked at me with haughty incredulity.

“I consider this very impertinent,” she muttered, half to herself. But Judson must have heard her.

“Come with me, Rolf darling. Never mind about your cousins. I daresay we shall find something nice downstairs,” and she held out her hand to him, but he pushed it away.

“Bring him to the drawing-room, Judson,” she said, coolly, not at all discomposed by his rudeness; but I could see my firmness had offended her. She would not soon forgive my excluding Rolf.

Rolf waited till she was out of sight, and then he recommenced his kicks. I exchanged a glance with Judson; her harassed face seemed to appeal to me for help.

“Master Rolf,” I said, indignantly, “you call yourself a gentleman, but you are acting like an ill-tempered baby, and I shall treat you like one,” and to his intense astonishment I lifted him off the ground, and, being pretty strong, managed to carry him, in spite of his kicks and pinches, down to the hall, followed by Judson. Probably he had never been so summarily dealt with, for his kicks diminished as we descended the stairs; and I left him on the hall mat, looking rather subdued and ashamed of himself.

I had gained my point, but I felt out of heart as I went back to the nursery. I had entered the house prejudiced against Mrs. Markham, and our first interview had ended badly. My conscience justified me in my refusal to admit Rolf; but all the same, I felt I had made Mrs. Markham my enemy. Her cold eyes had measured me superciliously from the first moment. Very probably she disapproved of my appearance. With women of this calibre—cold, critical, and domineering—poor gentlewomen would have a chance of being sent to the wall.

When the children were asleep I seated myself rather disconsolately by the low nursery window. Hannah had been summoned to the housekeeper’s room to see her sister Molly, and had left me alone.

I felt too tired and dispirited to settle to my work or book; besides, it was a shame to shut out the moonlight. The garden seemed transformed into a fairy scene. A broad silvery pathway stretched across the park; curious shadows lurked under the elms; an indescribable stillness and peace seemed to pervade everything; the flowers and birds were asleep; nothing stirred but a night moth, stretching its dusky wings in the scented air, and in the distance the soft wash of waves against the shore.

I laid my head against the window frame, and let the summer breeze blow over my face, and soon forgot my worries in a long, delicious day-dream. Were my thoughts foolish, I wonder!—mere cobwebs of girls’ fancies woven together with moonbeams and rose scents!

“A girl’s imagination,” as Aunt Agatha once said, “resembles an unbroken colt, that must be disciplined and trained, or it will run away with her.” I have a notion that my Pegasus soared pretty{211} high and far that night. I imagined myself an old woman with wrinkles and grey hair, and cap border that seemed to touch my face, and I was sitting alone by a fire reviewing my past life. “It has not been so long, after all,” I thought; “with the day’s work came the day’s strength. The manna pot was never empty, and never overflowed. Who is it said, ‘Life is just a patchwork?’ I have read it somewhere. I like that idea. ‘How badly the children sew in their little bits—a square here and a star there. We work better as we go on.’ Yes, that queer comparison is true. The beauty and intricacy of the pattern seem to engross our interest as the years go on. When rest-time comes we fold up our work. Well done or badly done, there will be no time for unpicking false stitches then. Shall I be satisfied with my life’s work, I wonder? Will death be to me only the merciful nurse that call us to rest?”

“Why, Miss Fenton, are you asleep? I have knocked and knocked until I was tired.”

I started up in some confusion. Had I fallen asleep, I wonder? for there was Miss Cheriton standing near me, with an oddly-shaped Roman lamp in her hand, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes, as though she were pleased to catch me napping.

“You must have been tired,” she said, smiling. “The room looked quite eerie as I entered it, with streaks of moonlight everywhere. Dinner is just over, and I slipped away to see if you are comfortable. I am afraid you are rather dull.”

But I would not allow that, for what business has a nurse to be subject to moods like idle people? but I could not deny that it was very pleasant to see Miss Cheriton. She was certainly very pretty—a good type of a fresh, healthy, happy English girl, and there is nothing in the world to equal that. The creamy Indian muslin gown suited her perfectly, and so did the knot of crimson roses and maidenhair, against the full white throat; and the small head, with its coil of dark shiny hair, was almost classical in its simplicity. A curious idea came to me as I looked at her. She reminded me of a picture I had seen of one of the ten virgins—ready or unready, I wonder which! The bright-speaking face, the festive garb, the quaint lamp, recalled to me the figure in the foreground, but in a moment the vague image faded away.

“How I wonder what you do with yourself in the evening, when the children are asleep!” observed Gay, glancing at me curiously. Then, as I looked surprised at that, she continued, sitting down beside me in the window-seat, in the most friendly way imaginable:

“Oh, Violet has told me all about you. I am quite interested, I assure you. I know you are not just an ordinary nurse, but have taken up the work from terribly good motives. Now I like that; it interests me dreadfully to see people in earnest, and yet I am never in earnest myself.”

“I shall find it difficult to believe that, Miss Cheriton.”

“Oh, please don’t call me Miss Cheriton; I am Miss Gay to everyone. People never think me quite grown-up, in spite of my nineteen years. Adelaide treats me like a child, and father makes a pet of me. By the bye, you have contrived to offend Adelaide. Now, don’t look shocked—I think you were quite right. Rolf is insufferable; but you see no one has mastered him before.”

“I was very sorry to contradict Mrs. Markham, but I am obliged to be so careful of Joyce—she is so nervous and excitable; I should not have liked her to see Rolf in that passion.”

“Of course you were quite right; I am glad you acted as you did; but you see Rolf is his mother’s idol—her ‘golden image,’ and she expects us all to bow down to him. Rolf can be a nice little fellow when he is not in his tantrums; but he is fearfully mismanaged, and so he is more of a plague than a pleasure to us.”

“What a pity!” I observed; but Gay broke into a laugh at my grave face.

“Yes, but it cannot be helped, and his mother will have to answer for it. He will be a horribly disagreeable man when he grows up, as I tell Adelaide when I want to make her cross. Don’t trouble yourself about Rolf, Miss Fenton; we shall all forgive you if you do box his ears.”

“But I should not forgive myself,” I returned, smiling; “the blow would do Rolf more harm than good.” But she shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject, chattering to me a little while about the house and the garden, and her several pets, treating me just as though she felt I was a girl of her own age.

“It is nice to have someone in the house to whom one can talk,” she said at last, very frankly; “Adelaide is so much older, and our tastes do not agree. Now, though you are so dreadfully sensible and matter-of-fact, I like what I have heard of you from Violet, and I mean to come and talk to you very often. I told Adelaide that it was an awfully plucky thing of you to do; for of course we can see in a moment you have not been used to this sort of thing.”

“All dependent positions have their peculiar trials,” I replied. “I am beginning to think that in some ways my lot is superior to many governesses. Perhaps I am more isolated, but I gain largely in independence. I live alone, perhaps, but then no one interferes with me.”

“Don’t be too sure of that when Adelaide is in the house.”

“The work is full of interest,” I continued, warming to my subject, as Gay’s face wore an expression of intelligent curiosity and sympathy. “The children grow, and one’s love grows also. It is beautiful to watch the baby natures developing, like seedlings, in the early summer; it is not only ministering to their physical wants, a nurse has higher work than that. Forgive me if I am wearying you,” breaking off from my subject with manifest effort, “one must not ride a hobby to death, and this is my hobby.”

“You are a strange girl,” she said, slowly, looking at me with large puzzled eyes. “I did not know before that girls could be so dreadfully in earnest, but I like to listen to you. I am afraid my life will shock you, Miss Fenton; not that I do any harm—oh, no harm at all—only I am always amusing myself. Life is such a delicious thing, you see, and we cannot be young for ever.”

“Surely it is not wrong to amuse yourself.”

“Not wrong, perhaps,” with a little laugh; “but I lead a butterfly existence, and yet I am always busy, too. How is one to find time for reading and improving oneself or working for the poor, when there are all my pets to feed, and the flower vases to fill, and the bees and the garden; and in the afternoon I ride with father; and there is tennis, or archery or boating; and in the evening if I did not sing to him—well, he would be so dull, for Adelaide always reads to herself; and if I do not sing I talk to him, or play at chess; and then there is no time for anything; and so the days go on.”

“Miss Gay, I do not consider you are leading a perfectly useless life,” I observed, when she had finished.

“Not useless; but look at Violet’s life beside mine.”

“In my opinion your sister works too much; she is using up health and energy most recklessly. Perhaps you might do more with your time, but it cannot be a useless life if you are your father’s companion. By your own account you ride with him, sing to him, and talk to him. This may be your work as much as being a nurse is mine.”

“You are very merciful in your judgment,” she said, with a crisp laugh, as she rose from the window-seat. “What a strange conversation we have had! What would Adelaide have thought of it! She is always scolding me for being irresponsible and wasting time, and even father calls me his ‘humming bird.’ You have comforted me a little, though I must confess my conscience endorses their opinion. Good night, Miss Fenton. Violet calls you Merle, does she not? and it is such a pretty name. The other sounds dreadfully stiff.” And she took up her lamp and left the room, humming a Scotch ballad as she went, leaving me to take up my neglected work, and ponder over our conversation.

“Were they right in condemning her as a frivolous idler?” I wondered; but I knew too little of Gay Cheriton to answer that question. Only in creation one sees beautiful butterflies and humming birds as well as working bees. All are not called upon to labour. A happy few live in the sunshine, like gauzy-winged insects in the ambient air. Surely to cultivate cheerfulness; to be happy with innocent happiness; to love and minister to those we love, may be work of another grade. We must be careful not to point out our own narrow groove as the general footway. The All-Father has diversity of work for us to do, and all is not of the same pattern.

(To be continued.)



The world-wide existence and remote antiquity of heraldic insignia—before heraldry emerged from its infancy, and developed into a science—is an established fact. To enter exhaustively into this branch of my subject, its historic and artistic interest, and valuable practical uses; its institution by Divine ordinance; together with its various accessories—comprising war-cries, badges, mottoes, seals, and devices—would demand far more space than could be allocated in a weekly magazine.

Some of my readers, it may be, will inquire, “What is Heraldry?” and lest this should be the case, I must commence by stating that it is the practice, art, or science of recording genealogies, the blazoning of arms or ensigns armorial, and all that relates to the marshalling of state ceremonies, processions, and cavalcades; the devising, also, of suitable arms and badges for families, guilds, cities, and regiments. This brief explanation supplied to the uninitiated, we may enter at once on the historical department.

The antiquity of distinctive badges and ensigns dates back, as I have premised, to long-ago ages of the world. No exact period can be assigned to their first adoption by Eastern nations; from whence the custom spread to the West. It would appear that in the first instance only nations, or tribes of one and the same people, distinguished themselves by special emblems displayed on their banners; although certain princes and warriors adopted personal devices. In later times, such distinctions were granted to families likewise, as hereditary honours, in reward for chivalrous service rendered to their country. Such rewards were more esteemed by many than gifts of money or lands, as they sacrificed life or limb as patriots, and needed no pecuniary compensation.

And here I must draw attention to the fact that the granting of such rewards for distinguished service as should commemorate that service for all generations, and confer hereditary honour on the hero’s descendants, was, in its character, in accordance with the just and liberal dispensations of the All-wise Himself. He is “a rewarder of them that do well;” and while visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation, He “shows mercy unto thousands in them that love Him.” To such He says: “The promises are to you, and to your children” (Acts ii. 39), because “they are the seed of the blessed of the Lord; and their offspring with them” (Isa. lxv. 23)—a clear case of hereditary blessing; for, “as touching election,” we are told “they are beloved for the fathers’ sakes.” Duly considering the Divine example, it seems to me that ample precedent exists for the reward of well-doing in a man’s descendants; more especially as, in most cases, those commemorative rewards exist in a title only, or an escutcheon on his seal.


We return now to our historical data, in reference to the infancy of the art in question. Those who are acquainted with the classics will find many references to the use of heraldic emblems before that use was reduced to a complete and perfect science. According to Herodotus, the Carians were the first who put crests upon their helmets and sculptured devices on their shields. These Carians inhabited a country in the south-west angle of Asia Minor, of which Halicarnassus was the capital and Miletus its rival—both famous cities of antiquity. The princes of Caria reigned under Persian protection, but the kingdom was annexed to Rome about 129 years before Christ. Herodotus further observes that Sophanes “bare on his shield, as a device, an anchor,” and Tacitus speaks of the standard, eagles, and other ensigns in use of the Romans. Xenophon, also, says that the Median kings bore on their shields the representation of a golden eagle. The Greeks adopted crests from the Carians, and had flags adorned with images of animals, or other devices bearing a peculiar and distinctive relation to the cities to which they belonged. For instance, the Athenians chose an owl, that bird being sacred to the goddess Minerva, the patron and protector of their city, while the Thebans were represented by a sphinx, in memory of the monster overcome by Œdipus. The emblem of Persia was the sun, of the Romans an eagle; the Teutonic invaders of England bore a horse on their standards, and the Norsemen a raven.

The figure-heads on the prows of our own ships owe their origin to the times of the Phœnicians and Bœtians, who distinguished theirs by a figure of one of their gods, being thenceforth the tutelar god and protector of the vessel. Thebes was the principal city of Bœtia; and their tutelar divinity, Cadmus, having been the founder of that city, was represented on their flags, having a dragon in his hand. They also used flags to distinguish one ship from another, which were placed in the prow or stern; and these were sometimes painted to represent a flower, tree, or mountain; and the names of the vessels were taken from the devices respectively portrayed upon them.

Before our system of heraldry was organised, even in a yet imperfect degree, we read that the ancient British kings, Brute, Lud, Bladud, and others, all assumed their respective insignia. Brute bore on a golden shield a “Lion rampant gules, charged on the neck and shoulder with three crowns in pale.” Camber, another British monarch, bore on a silver shield two lions passant gardant, gules.

Even to this day, the descendants of the British Prince Cadogan-ap-Elystan bear the arms of their warrior ancestors—“gules, a lion rampant regardant or,” and combined with them the badge of the three Saxon chiefs (brothers), i.e. “three boars’ heads couped sable, on a silver field”—which chiefs he slew in battle with his own hand.

In the same way, the Saxons, who succeeded, and partially exterminated our ancient British ancestors, are still memorialised by the badges of their thanes; and later on, the Normans—so reputed in the annals of chivalry—were all individually distinguished by their armorial bearings.

As time went on, ripening all arts and sciences—or is supposed to do so—heraldry began to develop, and to be regulated by certain rules under State control, and the spirit of chivalry, that grew with the institution of the crusades, jousts, and tournaments, may be credited with that development. The English knights under Cœur de Lion, and the French under Philip Augustus, wore emblazoned shields; and such of my readers who may visit the Museum at Versailles may see a fine collection of those worn by the crusaders, arranged in proper order. There are (or were some thirty years ago) no less than 74 of these “écussons,” which belonged to “seigneurs les plus illustrés et les plus puissants,” including those of our lion-hearted king, and Philip Augustus, before named. These all date from the first Crusade, in 1095, down to the time of Philip “le Hardi,” 1270. But, over and above these emblazoned shields, once used by the grandest examples of Middle Age chivalry, the visitor to this museum will find some 240 others, bearing heraldic insignia worn by crusaders of less exalted rank than the illustrious personages better known to fame comprised in the seventy-four first-named. The better to appreciate such an exhibition, the student should previously acquaint herself with the curious and charming “Chronicles of Froissart,” than which no romance could ever prove half as interesting, and certainly not as desirable for study, being a faithful and graphic history of those warlike times.

To obtain an appreciable idea of a field prepared for a tournament, we refer the reader to the eighth chapter of Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe.” The picture he gives of the scene is worth notice. Imagine the gay{213} pavilions ranged side by side, and the arms of the several knights, emblazoned on their shields, suspended before the entrance of each and guarded by their squires, the latter being curiously attired, according to his lord’s particular fancy. Then picture to yourselves the knights, armed cap-à-pie, mounted on splendidly caparisoned chargers, and riding up and down the lines, and the whole field glittering with arms and bright with gorgeous banners.

But perhaps some reader may say, “Cui bono? What a vain exhibition and useless expenditure of money!” Nay, such condemnation is scarcely just. In those half-civilised, warlike times danger threatened the country on every side, at home and abroad, and at any unexpected moment; and such practice in the science of arms and reviews of the efficiency of the knights and leaders of our armies were absolutely essential. Even in our own day it is a thoroughly well recognised fact that such a terrible service as that of arms needs all the external attraction with which it can possibly be invested to induce volunteers to enter its ranks. Were there no band, no uniform, no decorations nor rewards for gallantry in prospect, thousands who, when face to face with the enemy, would give their lives for their country without a moment’s hesitation, would be revolted if, in the first instance and in cold blood, they were invited to dress in a butcher’s apron, and were presented with a mallet or cleaver. But these few reflections may suffice in reply to objectors, and we will return to the history under review.

It was not until the latter end of the twelfth century, about the time of Philip le Hardi, that the science of mediæval armory developed into a system. In the thirteenth century it had gained in growth and in favour, the uses of the art being more fully recognised. Thus, under the reign of Henry III. a regular system, classification, and technical language of its own were devised and organised.

The earliest heraldic roll of arms actually still existing is dated at the time of Henry III. It is a copy, of which the original was compiled (according to Sir Harris Nicholas) between the years 1240 and 1249, and the regular armorial bearings of the king, princes of the blood, chief barons, and knights of England were correctly blazoned. Moreover, most of the principal terms in use in the present perfected state of the art are to be found on this roll. A second of the same period still exists, comprising nearly seven hundred coats of arms, besides other and similar heraldic records, which are likewise preserved to this day, belonging to the several reigns of the first, second, and third Edwards and of Richard II. It appears that the right to bear arms was inaugurated at some time in or about the reign of Henry II.

In the reign of Henry V. a registry of armorial bearings was inaugurated, rendered essential for the avoidance of confusion and the just settlement of disputations; but the incorporation of the officers of this College of Arms by royal charter was granted in 1483 by Richard III. The several titles and duties of these officers shall be duly recorded in another part of this series; for to the apparent origin and antiquity of heraldic insignia, and the gradual development of their use into a science, I must for the present confine my attention.

Cold Harbour was the name of the mansion allocated to the heralds as soon as incorporated into a college. It was erected between Blackfriars and St. Paul’s Wharf by Sir John Poulteney, who was four times elected Lord Mayor of London. This mansion was successively known as York Inn, Poulteney’s Inn, and thirdly as Cold Harbour. In the reign of Mary I. she removed the college to Derby House, previously the palace of the Stanleys, and bestowed it on them by charter, Dethick being Garter King-of-Arms at that time. This ancient building stood on St. Benet’s Hill, and was destroyed in the Great Fire of London, A.D. 1666; but the valuable records were all saved and conveyed to Whitehall, Charles II. sending his private carriages for the purpose. Thither also the heralds removed and continued to reside until upon the original site the present college was erected. Of this building Sir Christopher Wren was the architect, the north-western portion having been built at his own expense by Dugdale. It was constructed in the form of a quadrangle, but the formation of a new street caused the removal of the southern side, and the form was changed. To obtain further particulars respecting this interesting institution and all its treasures we recommend a visit to the college, if the means of admission can be procured through acquaintance with some one of the officers connected with it.

So far I have given a brief account of the remote origin and growth of heraldry. I now proceed to name a few of the leading uses claimed for armorial insignia, and still further for the institution of a regularly organised system in connection with them under the authority of the State.

In the first place, when a knight was encased in armour and wore (as the hand-to-hand warfare of the times necessitated) a visor to protect the face, it became equally essential that some external sign should identify him as a friend or foe and distinguish him as a leader and the lord of his special retainers and squires. Thus the rewards granted in the form of heraldic escutcheons emblazoned on his shield, and the crest that surmounted his helmet identified him, and even in the thick of a close encounter, when the shield might be hidden from view, the crest could be seen and his identity recognised.

Thus, likewise, the standards used by the conflicting hosts served to distinguish at a distant point of view the friendly or hostile forces one from the other, whence the shields and crests would have been indistinguishable. To those individually engaged in mortal combat, and to the countries whose woe or weal hung on the issue of a battle, the usefulness of employing emblazoned standards and shields and the wearing of crests was sufficiently self-evident.

Again, amongst the uses of heraldry, as at present existing and developed into a science, I may name the service rendered to private families by the records preserved, the investigation of claims to property, the identification of relationships, and finding of next of kin; the distinguishing between one branch of a family from another, proved by some trifling differences in the arms they respectively bear, or in the crests or mottoes; usurpation of arms and titles, and unjust pretensions to the privileges due only to legitimacy, to the injury of real heirs—all these are rights or evils which the College of Heralds alone is in a position to investigate, prove and maintain, or expose and frustrate, respectively. Such public services as these, not confined to the titled or untitled aristocracy, nor even to the upper commoners of the country, but available to all classes when seeking relationships, and through relationships property, or when searching for registries of births, deaths, or marriages—such public services as these, I say, ought surely to be duly recognised by all.

Lastly, so long as public pageants and processions continue to exist—no less interesting and attractive to the poorer spectator than to the great personages that are fêted—so long as there are royal presentations, investitures with orders of knighthood, coronations, and grand State ceremonies to be conducted, and processions marshalled in suitable order—just so long the offices of the College of Heralds will be essential to the requirements of the State and country.

And now I have reached the last part of my subject with which this, my first chapter, has to deal, i.e., that in its broad features heraldry is supported by the highest possible authority. The formation of pedigrees, the use of emblematic signs and figures, and of emblazoned standards, as distinctive badges, was not merely permitted, but was Divinely ordained. To many customs of the world around them the “elect people of God” were forbidden to conform. In the case in question it was otherwise.

In proof of this assertion, let me refer the reader to the Book of Numbers, chap. i., 2, 18, 52. There we read as follows: “Take ye the sum of all the congregations of the children of Israel, after their families, by the house of their father, with the number of their names.” “And they declared their pedigrees, after their families, by the house of their fathers, according to the number of the names.” “And the children of Israel shall pitch their tents, every man by his own camp, and every man by his own standard, throughout their hosts.” Again, in the same book, chap. ii., 2, 34, we read thus: “Every man of the children of Israel shall pitch by his own standard, with the ensign of their father’s house.” “And the children of Israel did according to all that the Lord commanded Moses; so they pitched by their standards, and so they set forward; everyone after their families, according to the house of their fathers.”

What some of these several standards represented, so as to distinguish one tribe from another, we have not far to seek, although we have no data whereby to determine the devices of the several families they each comprised. Jacob, the patriarch and father of these elect tribes, allocates to each its fitting symbol. To ascertain what these were I refer the reader to the blessing he gave them when his pilgrimage was rapidly drawing to its close. (See Gen. xlix. 10, 13, 14, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 27.) Some of the tribes had two emblems, as in the case of Judah—a lion and a sceptre (or kingly crown)—and Joseph—a bunch of grapes and a bow—these two sons of the patriarch inheriting respectively the birthright and the blessing. Other emblems of a representative character were attributed to these Hebrew tribes by Moses also, for which I refer the reader to Deut. xxxiii.

In my next chapter I propose to enter on what is designated the “grammar of heraldry,” and without further taxing the reader’s patience, I now take my leave.

(To be continued.)



By PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of “The Girl’s Own Cookery Book.”

A certain young lady, a member of The Girl’s Own Cookery Class (in other words, an individual who has educated herself in cookery, with the assistance of articles published in this journal), was married a few weeks ago. Her husband is an exceedingly good fellow, and holds a salaried position in a mercantile establishment. He has plenty of common sense and energy, and, if all goes well, he will make his way; but at the present moment he is not very well off. He has, however, managed to save enough to furnish the small home very prettily and very well, while his wife has received from her father a handsome trousseau, a good supply of house linen of every sort and kind, and a good many odds and ends of things. Besides this, the young couple, having a large circle of friends, have been presented with a considerable number of wedding presents.

Young beginners in these days are really very fortunate; for they get so much friendly help in starting life. It very much simplifies matters if, just as one has arrived at the conclusion that a dinner service is imperatively required, but that the money for purchasing the same is not immediately forthcoming, a knock is heard at the door, and a box is brought in containing a handsome dinner service of the newest pattern and latest fashion, as a small proof of the affection of a friend. The young people now referred to have been most lucky in this way. They must have received scores of presents, all useful, all judiciously chosen, and with only two duplicates, which were speedily exchanged for something else. That delightful Parcel Post has been a messenger of good fortune to them. Pretty things for the table have arrived in profusion; ornaments, pictures, silver, glass, china, cutlery have appeared upon the scene as if by magic; and the result of it all is that the home of this newly-wedded pair is as thoroughly well appointed all the way through as anyone need wish a home to be.

The routine of married life in these days is first the wedding day, then the honeymoon, and then any amount of visiting—dinner parties and supper parties without limit. Old-fashioned individuals may disapprove of this, and say that it would be better for the newly-wedded to settle down quietly, look at life from a serious standpoint, read improving books aloud to each other in the evenings, and save up every available halfpenny for a future rainy day. Without doubt, the old-fashioned individuals are right; but, unfortunately, few young married people see as they do. Experience is the great teacher, and its lessons can never be learnt by proxy. These young people have not yet been to that school. They have their charming home, their many friends, their limited income, and their pretty table appliances; and the question has now arisen—How shall they entertain their friends? They plume themselves on being prudent; they have no wish to run into extravagance, and they have no thought of entertaining everyone whom they know; but they are hospitably inclined, and they have deliberately arrived at the conclusion that there are one or two special friends whom they must invite, and whom they must make a little fuss over. The result of it all has been the bride’s first dinner party.

When first the subject of an entertainment was mooted, the young bride, whom we will call Mabel, was much exercised as to whether it would be wiser to have high tea or dinner. There was much to be said in favour of both. With high tea it was possible to have everything cold, and put on the table all at once, and this would enable the mistress to see the table laid, and be sure that everything was right before the guests arrived, a consideration not to be disregarded where there was only one little maid, and that one only eighteen, though clever for her age. The bride thought of the anxiety which she would have to go through if there were to be an awful pause between the courses, and then Emma were to come to her side and say, “Please, mum, the pudding won’t turn out!” What should she do? Then too, high tea was quieter, and less pretentious, and the young housekeeper had no desire to make a display beyond her means. On the other hand, dinner would be pleasanter; and, best of all, it would furnish an occasion for bringing out all the pretty presents, the bright silver, the exquisite glass, the artistic table ornaments, the elegant dinner and dessert services. Where was the good of being possessed of all these treasures if they were always to be kept locked up in a cupboard? With these presents a dinner-table could be laid out so effectively that the food would be quite a minor detail. Besides, “the master” preferred dinner. In his bachelor days he had been accustomed to dine on leaving business, and had learnt to regard high tea as a nondescript sort of meal, only to be accepted as a painful discipline when it could not well be avoided. Of course, the master’s likes and dislikes counted for a good deal with the mistress, and dinner was almost decided upon. But then came the question, “Which meal would be the more expensive of the two?” Expense was the chief consideration after all. Everything had to be paid for with ready money, and a committee of two of ways and means had decided that a sovereign must cover all expenses apart from beverages. There were to be six guests, eight in all with master and mistress; could the thing be done for £1 sterling? The young lady was doubtful.

At this stage of the cogitation, a double knock was heard, and in a minute or two the maid, young but clever for her age, came up and announced that Mrs. Jones had called to see Mrs. Smith. Amy Jones! exactly the person to consult. Amy was an old school-mate of the bride’s, had been married a couple of years ago, enjoyed almost the same yearly income, and deserved the reputation of having arrived at Dora Greenwell’s idea of perfection; that is, she had, up to this point, not merely made both ends meet, but made them tie over in a handsome bow. Yet she had been hospitable, too. A person of such abundant experience would be sure to know what was best.

“Amy, if you were in my place, which should you decide upon, a high tea or a small dinner?”

“You have begun to consider the claims of hospitality, have you, Mabel! What is your maid like?”

“She is a very good little girl, and she does her best, but she is very slow. If all goes on quietly, she manages excellently, but if she were to be flurried, I do not know what would happen.”

“That’s bad,” remarked experienced Amy Jones.

“Yet she means well, and really does her best,” continued the young mistress, anxiously eager to defend her first domestic. “She can cook plain dishes fairly, and is interested in her work. If I tell her a thing, she never forgets.”

“That’s good; almost good enough to make up for the slowness. Can she wait?”

“Not properly. She can bring dishes and plates into the room and take them out again quickly, but that is almost the extent of her power; she could not hand round dishes or remain in the room during a dinner to be a credit or help. If we were to decide on dinner, don’t you think you would hire a waitress if you were me?”

“If you want my advice, dear, I should say, decidedly, do nothing of the kind. It would be an exhibition of effort which would involve pretence, and the slightest pretence would be a mistake. Whatever you do, don’t go beyond the resources of your own modest establishment. At present, all your friends know exactly what your position is; they will respect you if you make the best of it, but if you seem to wish to go beyond it they will begin to criticise, while the people you care for most will blame you.”

“Then you would give up all thought of dinner?”

“I don’t say so. Why should you not have a small dinner? Prepare everything yourself, altogether dispense with regular waiting, show Emma exactly what she has to do, and let her do her best. Supposing there should be a little contretemps, never mind; laugh at it, and your friends will laugh with you. They will only say that you are inexperienced. If all should go well, how pleased your husband will be! You are sure you don’t mind the trouble?”

“Mind the trouble! I like it. I think it is fun. I am only uneasy about the expense.”

“Well, dear, I should say that high tea, though less troublesome, is quite as expensive as dinner. We can easily ascertain the truth, however. Let us take paper and pencil, and draw up a statement of the cost of both. We will begin with the high tea. I suppose we are to take it for granted that you must have something extra? It would not do to have a thoroughly simple meal.”

“Oh, no. If we ask six people on such an occasion, we must make a sort of feast. Let me think. You put the items down as I decide on them. We might have a lobster salad, a couple of boiled fowls with egg sauce, a beefsteak and oyster pie, a strawberry cream, a jelly of some sort, a few tarts and cheesecakes, some fruit and fancy biscuits. Then, of course, tea and coffee and thin bread and butter, brown and white. That would do well enough. We could not well have less.”

“A very excellent menu, indeed,” said Amy, while a rather amused look passed over her face. “What do you suppose it will cost?”

“I don’t know,” said Mabel. “You cast it out and see. You understand prices better than I do.”

For a while there was silence, and nothing was heard but the scratching of a pencil. Then Amy read aloud:—“Lobster salad, 3s. 3d.; boiled fowls and egg sauce, 7s. 11d.”

“Oh, dear!” said Mabel.

“Well, you see, it is spring, and fowls are dear in the spring. I do not suppose you could get a fine pair for less than 3s. 6d. each. Beefsteak and oyster pie, 5s.; strawberry cream (made with your own jam), 1s. 8d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.; tarts and cheesecakes we will calculate roughly at 1s. 4d.; a little fruit, 2s.; tea and coffee (say 2d. per person), 1s. 4d.; bread and butter, 2s. Altogether say £1 5s. 10d.”


“That will never do,” said Mabel. “We must take something away.”

“For one thing, you might take the tarts and cheesecakes. Surely they are not necessary.”

“One wants a little trifle of the sort to conclude the meal,” said Mabel.

“Then make jam sandwich. I can give you a simple recipe, by following which you can produce a dishful for less than sixpence.”

“Thanks. But that will not make matters right. We must reduce much more than that.”

“Suppose that before doing so we draw up a dinner, and see what we can make of that. I will furnish the menu this time.”

“Very good. Only remember to take into consideration Emma’s limited capacity,” said Mabel.

Again there was silence. After a few minutes Amy read aloud once more:—



Potato soup, 11d.; tomatoes farcies, 1s.; mutton, forcemeat, gravy, &c., 6s. 9d.; potatoes and celery, 6d.; orange jelly, 1s. 4d.; ready-made pudding, 1s. 3d.; macaroni cheese, 9d.; dessert, 3s.; coffee, 10d. Altogether, 16s. 4d.

Mabel was silent for a moment from amazement. Then she said—

“That is very extraordinary. I would not have believed it.”

“Yes, dear. But you must take into account that you drew up rather a luxurious tea; and my dinner is a very simple and homely one. Therefore you were scarcely fair to yourself.”

“I only described the sort of high tea we should have had at home before I was married.”

“And you forgot that your mother did not need to make a sovereign cover all expenses.”

“And yet your dinner sounds more satisfactory than my tea, and I am sure it would look more. I wonder if Emma could manage a dinner like that; she is not entirely ignorant. She can roast a joint, and boil potatoes very well, and she can bake a pudding——”

“Then I am sure she could manage, for everything else you could yourself prepare beforehand. Of course, if she were more of a cook, you might have a little fish, or perhaps a trifle of game after the mutton, and still keep within the sovereign.”

“I feel that I should be wiser to experiment first in a small way,” said Mabel.

“Very well. The potato soup you know well. It is good, and cheap; you can get it ready beforehand, so that Emma will only have to make it hot. The mutton you can get the butcher to bone, and then stuff it with veal forcemeat, and roll it early in the day, leaving Emma to roast it. The gravy, also, you can make ready, and put, nicely seasoned and free from fat, in a cup, so that Emma will need only to put it in a saucepan to get hot when she begins to dish the meat. The tomatoes you can prepare. The celery and potatoes you may leave with her, I should think.”

“Decidedly; she boils vegetables very well, and she can mash potatoes, and put browned potatoes round quite easily. I had better make the sauce for the celery, though.”

“You might make it, and put it in a gallipot in a saucepan with boiling water round, to keep hot. Then surely if you make the soup, if you prepare the meat, and make the gravy, make the sauce, get the tomatoes ready, make the jelly, mix the pudding, three parts cook the macaroni, dish the dessert, and altogether make the coffee, there can be no danger.”

“I shall be rather tired by the time our friends arrive,” said Amy, looking a little grave as she realised the responsibilities which she was proposing to take upon herself.

“Oh, yes; you will have to be very quick, and to do all the head-work. But you said you did not mind the trouble. And besides, remember this, if once you can succeed in your attempt you will find that you are not at all more tired with providing dinner than you are with providing high tea. But there are just two things you would do well to try for, in my opinion.”

“What are they?”

“One is to make Emma well acquainted with every dish beforehand. Let her understand how things ought to be and to look when properly cooked; on no account let the final touches be the product of her imagination as exercised in carrying out your descriptive order.”

“No, that would scarcely do,” said Mabel, laughing.

“Well, the only way to prevent it is to make the most of the time between now and the important day. Have potato soup one day, rolled mutton another, tomatoes farcies, and ready-made pudding a third, and macaroni cheese a fourth, and so make her familiar with what is coming.”

“And the second point?”

“I was going to suggest that if you have anything served in a style superior to your ordinary mode, you should try to keep Emma up to the better way as a regular thing. This will really be a great kindness to her. It will make her more skilful, and fit her for taking a better situation afterwards, and, strange to say, she will be all the happier for it. Right-minded girls (and I should quite think Emma is one) are glad to be shown refined ways, and they respect a mistress who understands and insists upon the best modes of doing things far more than they respect a mistress who lets things go, and puts up with slipshod fashions just for the sake of peace and quiet. And really you will find that when Emma knows what ought to be, all you will need to impress upon her is the time required for the various dishes.”

“That is it precisely,” said Mabel, who had been listening very quietly to her friend’s remarks, but who was evidently giving all her thoughts to the subject in hand. “I can see now exactly what I shall have to do. I shall make out a list of every ingredient, and have everything where it will be close to my hand, the day but one before the dinner. The day before I shall make the jelly and, with Emma’s help, brighten all the glass and silver, and look out any pretty ornaments and services. Then quite early on the eventful morning I shall make the soup, and put it ready for making hot; yes, I shall even fry and dish the sippets and chop the parsley, which will have to be sprinkled in at the last moment. I shall stuff and roll the mutton, dish the sour plums (those delightful sour plums! they were there without needing to be in the estimate; how good it was of Frau Bergmann to give them to me). I shall stuff the tomatoes, turn out the jelly, dish the dessert, arrange the coffee cups and saucers—but, oh, the coffee, what shall I do for that? Emma never makes it properly.”

“Few servants do; and if I were you I should look after it yourself in this case. The coffee is so very important. Really good coffee, served at the close even of an unsuccessful dinner, almost atones for disaster, while inferior coffee spoils the most recherché repast. Why should you not steal away for a minute or two when your friends leave the dining-room, make the coffee, and send Emma in with it. Then all is sure to be right.”

“Yes, that will be best. Well, as I was saying, I must be as busy as possible before luncheon. Then, after luncheon——”

“After luncheon I should lie down for an hour,” said Amy.

“Oh!” said Mabel, dubiously.

“Yes. It would be unfortunate if the dinner were a success, and the hostess laid up next day through fatigue.”

“May be. Yes, I will certainly rest awhile after luncheon. Then, while Emma prepares her vegetables, tidies the kitchen, and attends to the roast, I will lay the table; and I know I can make it beautiful.”

“What shall you do for flowers? We did not allow for them in our estimate.”

“I planted some corn a week ago in a large fancy bowl, and it will be lovely. Have you never done that? You get a few ears of corn, pack them in a bowl full of water, so that the ears are close together and are partially covered with the water. Put the bowl in a warm room, and in about a fortnight the delicate blades will peep out and grow to be very pretty. There could not be anything more effective for the middle of the table, and the grass lasts five or six weeks, and it is a most convenient decoration when flowers are scarce. We always used to provide ourselves with corn in harvest time for this purpose.”

“I will remember to do the same,” said Amy. “I never heard of growing corn in a bowl.”

“I can give you a little meanwhile to experiment with. Then, when the table is laid, I will dress, and when I come down will present Emma first with a written menu, giving a list of what is to go in with each course, and a few notes of reminder—something of this sort:—


“To put the pudding and tomatoes in the oven, also to pour the sauce over the macaroni and set it to brown, as soon as the last guest arrives.

“To put the plates for soup, meat, tomatoes, ready-made pudding, and cheese to heat half an hour before the dinner hour.

“To make the milk boil before stirring it into the boiling soup, and to sprinkle in the chopped parsley at the last moment.

“To shut the dining-room door after taking in or removing dishes, &c., and to move about as quietly as possible.

“To begin to dish the meat and vegetables and make the gravy hot the moment soup is in, so that everything may be quite ready when the bell rings.

“To put the coffee (left ready ground on the dresser) into the oven, to get hot, as soon as dessert is in, and at the same time to set a jug of milk in a saucepan of boiling water.”

“What is that for?” said Amy.

“It is to scald the milk. Coffee tastes so much more delicious when the milk is scalded, not boiled. There, I think that is all. I will write the notes early, and then, if anything else occurs to me, I can put it down. But, Amy, for safety’s sake would you mind giving me the recipes for the dishes in your menu. I have one or two, but they may be mislaid, and I should not like there to be a mistake.”

“There is not much fear of a mistake, if you take all that trouble. But I will give you the recipes with pleasure. In return, will you give me the recipe for the sour plums? I should like to have it, for I intend to make some when plums are in season.”

The arrangements thus laid down were implicitly carried out, and the “Bride’s First Dinner Party” was a great success—so much so that every guest remarked, when the evening was over, “What a clever little woman Mrs. Smith is! How fortunate her husband is to have a wife thus domesticated.” Then,{216} in a moment, “What lovely wedding presents!”

For the benefit of those who may care to have them, I subjoin a copy of the recipes which were exchanged between Amy and Mabel.

Potato Soup.—Melt a piece of butter the size of an egg in a stewpan. Throw in two pounds of potatoes, weighed after they have been peeled, the white parts of two leeks, and a stick of celery, all cut up. Sweat for a few minutes without browning. Pour on a quart of cold stock or water; boil gently till the vegetables are tender, and pass through a sieve. When wanted, make hot in a clean stewpan, and add salt and pepper. Boil separately half a pint of milk; stir this into the boiling soup. At the last moment sprinkle on the top of the soup a dessertspoonful of chopped parsley. If cream is allowed, the soup will be greatly improved.

Tomatoes Farcies.—Take eight smooth red tomatoes; cut the stalks off evenly, and slice off the part that adheres to them; scoop out the seeds from the centre without breaking the sides. Melt an ounce of butter in a stewpan. Put in two tablespoonfuls of cooked ham chopped, two tablespoonfuls of chopped mushrooms, two shalots, two teaspoonfuls of chopped parsley, pepper and salt, and two ounces of grated Parmesan. Mix thoroughly over the fire, fill the tomatoes with the mixture, and bake on a greased baking tin in a moderate oven for ten or fifteen minutes. The tomatoes should be tender, but not broken. If the ingredients for this forcemeat are not at hand, a little ordinary veal forcemeat may be used, but the taste will be inferior.

Rolled Loin of Mutton.—Get the butcher from whom the meat is bought to bone the loin; spread veal stuffing inside, roll it up, bind it with tape, and bake in the usual way. Thick, smooth gravy should be served with it. This may be made of the bones.

Mashed and Browned Potatoes.—Mash potatoes in the usual way. Prepare beforehand six or eight good sized potatoes of uniform size. Parboil them, then put them into the dripping-tin round the meat for about three-quarters of an hour—less, if small—and baste them every now and then till brown. Pile the mashed potatoes in the middle of the tureen, put browned potatoes round, and sprinkle chopped parsley on the white centre.

Stewed Celery.—Wash the celery carefully, and boil it till tender in milk and water, to which salt and a little butter have been added. The time required will depend on the quality. Young, tender portions will be ready in half an hour or less; the coarse outer stalks will need to boil a long time. Drain thoroughly, dish on toast, and pour white sauce over.

Sour Plums (a substitute for red currant jelly served with meat; to be made in the autumn).—Take three pounds of the long, blue autumn plums, almost the last to come into the market, called in Germany zwetschen. Rub off the bloom and prick each one with a needle. Boil a pint of vinegar for a quarter of an hour with a pound and a-half of sugar, a teaspoonful of cloves, three blades of mace, and half an ounce of cinnamon. Pour the vinegar through a strainer over the plums, and let them stand for twenty-four hours. Next day boil the vinegar, and again pour it over the fruit. Put all over the fire together to simmer for a few minutes until the plums are tender and cracked without falling to pieces. Tie down while hot.

Ready-Made Pudding.—Mix two tablespoonfuls of flour, an ounce of sugar, and a very little grated nutmeg, with a spoonful of cold milk to make a smooth paste, then add boiling milk to make a pint. When cold, beat two eggs with a glass of sherry, mix and bake in a buttered dish for half an hour.

Orange Jelly.—Soak an ounce of gelatine in water to cover it for an hour, and put with the gelatine the very thin rind of three oranges. Squeeze the juice from some sweet oranges to make half a pint, then add the juice of two lemons, and strain to get out all pips, etc. Take as much water as there is fruit juice, put this into a stewpan with the gelatine, and a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar, and simmer for a few minutes till the gelatine is entirely dissolved. Remove any scum that may rise, then add the juice; boil up once, and strain into a damp mould. This jelly has a delicious taste, and is not supposed to be clear.

Macaroni Cheese.—Wash half a pound of Naples macaroni, break it up and throw it into boiling water with a lump of butter in it, and boil it for about half an hour, till the macaroni is tender. Drain it well. Melt an ounce of butter in a stewpan, stir in one ounce of flour, and, when smooth, half a pint of cold milk. Stir the sauce till it boils, add salt and pepper, an ounce of grated Parmesan, and the macaroni drained dry. Pour all upon a dish, sprinkle an ounce of macaroni over, and brown in the oven or before the fire.

Simple Jam Sandwich.—Beat three eggs, and add a breakfastcupful of flour, to which has been added a teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Beat the mixture till it bubbles. Add a scant breakfastcupful of sifted sugar. Beat again, and add half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda. Turn into a shallow baking tin, greased, and bake for a few minutes in a quick oven. With the oven ready, this cake can be made and baked in half an hour.



Why, sir, should you seem so startled
When you chance to come on me
Talking silly baby-language
To the child upon my knee—
To this happy, crowing urchin,
While his peasant mother stands
Watching us, while she is wiping
Thick-flaked soapsuds from her hands?
“When you met me first, at dinner,
At the Hall the other night,
You were seated on my left hand,
The professor on my right;
And you saw I cared to listen—
Saw it with a scornful mirth—
To the facts that he was telling
Of the strata of the earth.
“And again, when of the Iliad
My companion chanced to speak,
You were less pleased than astounded
That I quoted Homer’s Greek.
And beneath my half-closed eyelids
I observed your covert smile,
When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,
And I answered with Carlyle.
“Then you thought you read me fully—
‘Woman in her latest phase,
Following with feebler footsteps
In far-reaching manhood’s ways.
A half-taught, conceited creature,
Something neither wise nor good;
Losing for a vain chimera
All the grace of womanhood.
“‘Failing in her mad endeavour,
Though in every languid vein
Love-warmed heart-blood she replaces
With cold ichor from the brain.
Woman striving to be manlike,
Making him her enemy,
Fighting where she best had yielded’—
This was what you saw in me.
“Sir, I claim to be a woman:
Nothing less and nothing more;
Laughing when my heart is joyful,
Weeping when my heart is sore;
Loving all things good and tender,
Nor so coldly over-wise
As to scorn a lover’s kisses,
Or the light of children’s eyes.
“Over-wise! Nay, it were folly
If I cherished in my mind
One poor fancy, one ambition
That could part me from my kind—
From the maiden’s hopes and longings,
From the mother’s joy and care,
From the gladness, labour, sorrow,
That is every woman’s share.
“Not for all life’s garb of duty
In the self-same tint is dyed;
I must walk alone, another
Shelters at a husband’s side.
Yet I claim her for my sister,
While—though I must stand apart—
All her hopes, her fears, her wishes
Find an echo in my heart.




“True it is I love to study
Every page of nature’s lore.
Must that make my soul less gentle?
Nay, it softens me the more.
True it is I love the story
Of the old heroic age,
True I love the aspirations
Of the poet and the sage;
“But if poet, artist, thinker,
Lend me some inspiring thought,
Must it follow that the duty
Of the woman is forgot?
No; ’tis you who err, believe me,
Thinking, as perchance you do,
That because her brain is empty,
Woman’s heart must beat more true.
“’Tis not learning that unsexes,
’Tis not thought will make us cold,
Nor at sight of heavy volumes
Love on us relax his hold.
Woman is for ever woman;
O’er her life love rules supreme,
Though his kingdom be but fancy,
And the bliss he gives a dream.
“Nought besides, however worthy,
In her heart can take his place—
But enough! The child is frightened
At the graveness of my face.
I must bring him back to laughter.
Pray you, leave us for a time,
Or you’ll hear a Girton student
Teaching him a nursery rhyme.”



By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.




s soon as the shearing company was gone, John Shelley went into the house to watch by Charlie’s couch, and to take counsel with his wife as to what must be done about Jack, as to whose safety he was as anxious as about Charlie’s, for if the latter died Jack would inevitably be tried for manslaughter, though the shepherd felt sure the fall on the stone gate-post was a far more serious matter than the blow Jack had dealt, and which had accidentally, and quite unintentionally, caused the fall.

All Jack had meant to do, as the shepherd and his wife knew well enough, was to give Charlie a good bang across the shoulders, but if the boy died it might be a difficult matter to persuade a coroner’s jury that no more was intended, especially as Jack, by keeping himself aloof, as he did, from his own class, was by no means popular in the neighbourhood.

Mrs. Shelley was even more keenly alive to the danger which threatened Jack than her husband, and was for sending him away at once to her brother, who lived at Liverpool, but John Shelley never acted hastily or on impulse, and he suggested taking counsel with the doctor and Mr. Leslie, both of whom were good friends of Jack’s, before they decided on any course of action.

“We’ll send Jack round to the rectory as soon as he comes back; he will be glad of something to do, tired and hungry as he must be, for I see he has not had his supper yet,” said the shepherd.

“No, he won’t touch anything till there is some hope of Charlie, I daresay. He has been unconscious nearly an hour now, John. Do you think there is any hope?”

“Yes, I do; while there is life there is hope. I expect it is concussion of the brain, and if so, people are often unconscious for hours. He is breathing, you see. But where is Fairy? Why does not the child come in? Is she frightened?”

“I don’t know, I am sure; I had forgotten all about her. Just see, John, will you? She has had no supper either,” replied Mrs. Shelley.

John went to the door to look for Fairy just as Jack and Dr. Bates came up together. The shepherd brought the doctor in, and sent Jack to the rectory, and then went to talk to Fairy, who was still sitting on the bench outside.

“Why have you sent for Mr. Leslie? Is Charlie worse?” asked Fairy, anxiously, as she beckoned to the shepherd to sit by her side.

“No, he is just the same, but I want to ask Mr. Leslie’s advice about Jack; I am afraid we shall have to send poor Jack away. Shall you be sorry, Fairy?”

“Sorry! Of course I shall; but, John, why must Jack go as well as I? Mother says it is all my fault, and I am to go away, and I don’t know where to go, so I was waiting till you came, to ask you; but if Mr. Leslie is coming, I daresay he’ll take me in for a little while,” said Fairy, with a little sob at the end of each sentence.

“Mr. Leslie take my Fairy in. Why, child, you would not leave us now in our hour of trouble, when we most want you to comfort us, would you?”

“I don’t want ever to leave you, unless, of course, I find my own parents; but mother says I am to go, and she is sorry she ever took me in, because it is all my fault. So you see, John, of course I must go away after that,” said Fairy, gently.

“I can’t spare my little Fairy now. Mother did not mean what she said; she was so upset at seeing poor Charlie insensible, I expect she hardly knew what she was doing, so you must forgive her—will you, little one?—and stay and cheer us in our sorrow,” said John.

“Of course I will, if you are quite sure mother didn’t mean it, but she should not have said it was my fault, should she? For she knows as well as you do, John, how fond I am of both the boys, and how I never let them quarrel; only this was done in such a minute I could not stop it; it really was more an accident than anything else. Poor Jack didn’t mean to knock Charlie down, or to hurt him really, only he was so angry about that lamb that he lost his temper. How grave you look, John; you don’t think it was my fault, do you?”

Now the shepherd understood perfectly what his wife had meant by saying it was Fairy’s fault; but it was evident the child had not the remotest suspicion of Mrs. Shelley’s meaning; she was too childlike and innocent (children of that day were less precocious and more like children than they are now), too free from vanity and self-consciousness to be aware that Jack had any other feeling for her than a brotherly affection, and it was equally evident that at present, at any rate, Fairy’s affection for Jack was of precisely the same character as her sisterly love for her foster-brother. Seeing this, the shepherd felt his wife was right in saying it would be far better for many reasons that Jack should go away; but he was so lost in thought that he forgot to reply to Fairy’s question, which, after waiting a minute or two, for she was accustomed to John’s slowness of speech, she repeated.

“No, my child, no, I am sure it was no fault of yours; don’t think any more about it. Here comes Jack with Mr. Leslie; I will go in and hear what the doctor says. Ask Mr. Leslie to wait in the kitchen for a minute, if he does not mind,” and the shepherd went indoors to hear the doctor’s report just as Jack and Mr. Leslie appeared.


See “The Shepherd’s Fairy,” p. 219.


They both looked very grave, for Jack was a great pet of the rector’s, and he had already told him exactly how the accident had occurred; and Mr. Leslie was almost as anxious as Jack to hear the doctor’s report, for Jack seemed so absorbed in his anxiety about Charlie as to be unconscious of his own danger.

“How is he?” they exclaimed in a breath.

“I don’t know; Dr. Bates is still with him,” said Fairy; but a minute or two later John Shelley came out with the doctor’s report.

“Well, what news?” asked Mr. Leslie.

“He is still unconscious, and the doctor can’t say how it will go with him,” replied the shepherd.

“Is there no hope, father?” asked Jack, turning very white and speaking very low.

“Yes, lad, yes, there is hope, thank God; he may rally; it is the fall on the gate-post that has done the mischief. He struck the back of his head against the stone; the place on the temple is a mere trifle. But will you walk in, Mr. Leslie? Dr. Bates wants to speak to you, and you too, Jack.”

Accordingly these four went into the kitchen and shut themselves up to discuss the matter, leaving Fairy feeling very miserable and in the way, for she did not know where to go, on the bench outside. But a few minutes later Mrs. Shelley came to the door to look for her, wondering what had become of her, having forgotten her hasty speech on seeing Charlie lying prostrate on the ground.

“Why, Fairy, where have you been all this time? Come, child, you have had no supper yet. How pale you look; and your hands are quite cold. You are not frightened, are you?” said Mrs. Shelley, as Fairy reluctantly followed her into the house.

“No, I am not frightened, but it is all so miserable,” said Fairy, sobbing, as she looked at the unconscious Charlie, who was breathing almost imperceptibly on the sofa.

“Come, this won’t do; I shall have you ill next; why, the child has cried more to-night than she ever cried all the sixteen years she has been here,” said Mrs. Shelley, taking Fairy in her arms.

“You were never unkind to me before,” sobbed Fairy.

Suddenly Mrs. Shelley remembered how she had turned on Fairy in her anxiety and pity for Jack.

“There, child, don’t cry any more; I don’t know what I said; but at any rate I can’t let you quarrel with me when I may lose one, if not both, of my sons; for I am sure they will decide to send Jack away—indeed, I hope they will,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“You hope so, mother?” asked Fairy, in astonishment.

“Yes; if anything happened to poor Charlie, Jack might get into terrible trouble, so, for his sake, I hope Mr. Leslie will let him go; besides, he is not fit for a shepherd; he never has liked the work, and he may get on far better at something else.”

Just as Mrs. Shelley said this, the kitchen door opened, and John Shelley asked his wife to come in to the discussion which was being held in the kitchen, and Fairy was left to watch by Charlie. It seemed an interminable time to Fairy, though it was not really half an hour before the door opened and they all came out. Mr. Leslie went home; the doctor came in to look at Charlie again; Mrs. Shelley went upstairs with Jack; and the shepherd called Fairy into the kitchen to tell her what had been decided.

“Jack is going away to-night; he is going to America.”

“To America!” exclaimed Fairy, for in those days going to America was indeed going to another world.

“Yes, for two years; perhaps for longer if he likes it. Mr. Leslie has friends out there, and he knows of something he thinks will do for Jack. There is a ship sails on Monday from Liverpool, so he is to go to Brighton to-night with Mr. Leslie, and be off by the London coach at five to-morrow morning. Mr. Leslie will go to Liverpool with him and see him off if he can get anyone to take his duty here on Sunday; anyhow, he will go to London and put him into the Liverpool coach.”

John had not time to enter into further details as to what had passed at the meeting in the kitchen; but, in truth, both Dr. Bates and Mr. Leslie had strongly urged getting Jack out of the way as quickly as possible. Dr. Bates because he was very anxious and by no means hopeful about Charlie; Mr. Leslie partly on the same account, but also because he knew the state of Jack’s feelings with regard to Fairy, and had long wished to see the boy in a position where he would have some opportunity of using the talents he possessed, and, by dint of his own abilities and exertions, rising in the world. It so happened that he had friends in New York, and a relation of his; a banker there had, in answer to his inquiries whether he had an opening for a clever, self-educated young man, lately written to say he had a vacancy for a clerk which he would keep for Mr. Leslie’s young protégé. Mr. Leslie had only been waiting till the shearing season was over to offer this post to Jack, knowing that he could not very well be spared till it was finished. Jack was delighted at the idea; a salary of fifty pounds a year seemed to him untold wealth, and to have all the rest of the day from five in the afternoon till ten the next morning to himself, a perpetual holiday; and then to go to America, to him who had never been much farther than Brighton, would, under any other circumstances, have been all that he could have wished for, except Fairy to accompany him. The post was offered him for two years, and the option of remaining, if he liked the work, at the end of the two years. The only difficulty was the money for his passage, but, to the surprise of Jack, his father said he had plenty in the savings bank for that and to get him a few necessaries as well.

But leaving as he was leaving, took all pleasure out of Jack’s good fortune; if he felt any pleasure at all it was only from the excitement of the journey, and the occupation of both mind and body, which prevented him from dwelling on the sorrow he had brought on them all, and diverted his mind from the terrible anxiety Charlie’s state caused him.

If it had not been for Dr. Bates, Jack would have remained at home for the night, and walked over to Brighton at daybreak to catch the coach, but the doctor was rather a nervous man, and knowing that it was quite possible Charlie might not live till the morning, he urged Mr. Leslie to take Jack to Brighton that evening, adding in an undertone that if anything happened Jack had better learn it in America. Perhaps it was as well for all parties that the doctor’s advice was acted upon, for it prevented any prolonged leave-takings, and gave no one time to fret over Jack’s departure; indeed, an hour after the council held in the kitchen, Jack was standing already to start, folding his mother in his arms as he bade her good-bye. Then he went to the sitting-room, in which Charlie was lying, and took a long, long look at him as he lay with closed eyes, just breathing, all the colour gone from his usually rosy cheeks. What would not Jack have given to see those merry blue eyes open once more before he went away, perhaps never to see them again? But no, the eyelids remained firmly closed, and Jack waited in vain for any hopeful sign. He was alone in the room, and before he left he knelt down by the side of the sofa and prayed until a footstep outside startled him, and he rose hastily, for, proud and reserved as he was, he would have hated even his mother to have seen him on his knees, for, like many young men of his age, he had a great deal more religion than the world gave him credit for. The footstep was Mrs. Shelley’s; she was come to warn her darling son that it was time he started or he would keep Mr. Leslie waiting.

“Mother, may I have a lock of his hair?” asked Jack. And Mrs. Shelley cut one of Charlie’s fair curls for him; and then Jack stooped, and, for the first time for many years, kissed the boy’s pale cheeks, and then, once more embracing his mother, he left the room. But there was another person to say good-bye to—Fairy—who was waiting in the passage, and now came forward, putting both her hands in Jack’s and lifting up her sweet, delicate little face to be kissed as naturally as though Jack was her own brother; and though poor Jack blushed crimson as he stooped and kissed her, Fairy, if she changed colour at all, grew paler, for she felt very sad and lonely at the loss of her favourite companion.

“You will think of me sometimes, Fairy, won’t you?” whispered Jack, holding her hands.

“Yes, often, Jack; and mind you write to us directly you get to America; we shall be longing to know how you are getting on.”

“Jack, my boy, it is time to start,” cried John Shelley, who was waiting outside to walk to the rectory with his son, and the next moment they were off.

(To be continued.)





After having tided over my difficulties, which had been brought about partly by the ill-feeling and envy of the Land Bank, and partly by another matter to be explained later, I went on successfully in my old home, gradually increasing my powers and responsibilities, and, if I may be allowed to add, daily growing more attractive.

Everybody courted my smiles, and were wretched if they failed to find favour. Among those who paid me attention were members of the royal family, bishops, clergy, ministers of state, merchants, and philosophers; and, strange to say, I was as great a favourite with the women as with the men, and I think I influenced their lives not a little, for if a girl were known to be on my visiting list, even though she were very plain, she found no difficulty in marrying well. Did a mother hold in her arms her first-born, she was more restful and content concerning its future if it had an opportunity of being placed in my good books; and, certainly if a person died who had during his life stood well with me, he was buried with more pomp and ceremony for the fact.

It seems wonderful, does it not, that I should have kept my head amid so much flattery and attention, and I very much doubt if I should have done so but for the healthy tone of my home and the constant care of my people.

Every now and then I got a fright, which prevented my becoming frivolous, and which, but for my good constitution, would have gone far to shake the life out of me. One I remember well.

It occurred in 1707, when I was but thirteen years old. It came in the form of a “run,” and certainly, but for timely help, I should have been torn to pieces.

The word run may be suggestive to you merely of a race between me and another bank; but in bank language it has a most terrifying and disagreeable meaning.

It is a sudden demand from everybody to whom you owe money to pay up on the spot, and without hesitation.

Your office is filled and refilled with people angrily and defiantly demanding their money. Such was the case with me, and in my one room in the Grocers’ Hall, at the date I mentioned.

I tried to console myself with the thought that if the people would but give me time I would pay everyone to the full, but, alas! I was old enough to know that this was not sufficient—my existence depended upon the whole world believing me to be safe and worthy of confidence, and their test of my trustworthiness was that I should pay everyone in full at a moment’s notice.

I was nearly wild, and, for the moment, utterly powerless. To me confidence was money, and by money I lived and breathed.

It was no use disguising the fact—I had not sufficient in my chests to pay the reckless demands.

Not that I had misused the money entrusted to me, but that I had lent it out again, that it might work and earn for me the means to pay interest to the depositors and afford me something for my trouble; all this was quite honourable and above board, and yet how frightened I was! Had I wished it I could not have run away, for you know I had but one room, without private doors and staircases; I was, therefore, compelled to stand and face the excited and unreasonable crowd.

In the case of a run, it is absolutely necessary to find the money somewhere, in order to meet the demand made by the public; for if once payment is suspended credit is gone, career blasted, and business at an end.

When a person asks me in confidence my definition of a run, I always answer, “A reckless, senseless attack on a bank—one in which self-interest is so overpowering as utterly to cover and blot out reason for the time being.”

Of course the news spread like wildfire that I was surrounded by a clamorous people whom more than likely I should not be able to satisfy, and who, in that case, would not hesitate to take my life.

This roused my friends, who without loss of time came to my assistance with the only commodity that could save me.

Godolphin (the Lord Treasurer in the reign of Queen Anne) declared that the credit of the country was bound up together with mine, and that help must be at once offered, for which phrase, when I had time to think of it, I was thankful; but, better than words, my friends, the Dukes of Marlborough and Newcastle, and others of the nobility, at once came to my rescue with large sums of money, and gentlemen of all ranks came with their offering of such cash as they had in hand.

One incident deeply touched me. A poor man, hearing of my trouble, came to me with £500 which he had saved, and placed them absolutely at my disposal. On my mentioning this to the Queen when next I saw her, she was so pleased that she sent him a present of £100 and an order on the Treasury to pay at once the £500 which had been lent to me. You may be very sure that I did not forget such a friend.

You see, therefore, how the ill effects of the run were averted by the kindness of private and powerful friends.

The next fright I had was of another character, and occurred on the 28th of February, 1709, just two years after the run.

You who have studied the history of this country know that in the reign of Queen Anne a certain Dr. Sacheverell caused a great deal of trouble to those in authority, and roused the people to acts of riot and rebellion.

On this particular day the people were mad with triumph. They had set fire to chapels and meeting-houses; they had made bonfires of Bibles and other books and materials in Lincoln’s Inn Fields without let or hindrance, and while these were blazing the mob, which had been joined by persons of the very lowest class, began to entertain the thought of attacking me in Grocers’ Hall and relieving me of my wealth.

So on they came, as you know mobs will when they think themselves masters, and there stood I and my whole household, determined to guard our home and its treasures with our lives.

Thanks to the Earl of Sunderland, who rushed into the Queen’s presence with an account of the mob’s proceedings, help was sent before harm could reach us. The Queen, on hearing of the danger which threatened me, turned pale from fear, but quickly regaining her courage, bade her secretary “send her foot and horse guards forthwith and disperse the rioters.” Thus peril was once again warded off from me and my home.

I know that you will think I had enough to do without dabbling in politics, but in all your criticisms of me and my doings you must take into consideration my education, my position, and my responsibilities. Of course, I had daily dealings with every class of politicians, and became acquainted with every shade of politics.

There is no knowing on which side I should have ranged myself—whether among the Whigs or among the Tories—had I been allowed a choice; but circumstances decided for me, and made me, and kept me for several generations, a determined Whig.

My friend Joseph Addison[1] fully realised my position, and in a pretty allegory set forth the calamity which would fall upon me should I by chance favour the Tories.

It is very elegantly written, and, as it is not long, I will relate it to you.

You will see that he speaks of me as a queen—by name “Public Credit.”

“I saw Public Credit on her throne in Grocers’ Hall, the Great Charter overhead, the Act of Settlement full in her view. Her touch turned everything to gold.

“Behind her seat bags filled with coin were piled up to the ceiling. On her right and on her left the floor was hidden by pyramids of guineas.

“On a sudden the door flies open, the Pretender rushes in, a sponge in one hand, in the other a sword, which he shakes at the Act of Settlement.

“The beautiful queen sinks down fainting; the spell by which she has turned all things around her into treasure is broken; the money-bags shrink like pricked bladders; the piles of gold pieces are turned into bundles of rags, or faggots of wooden tallies.”[2]

The truth which this picture was meant to convey was never absent from my mind or from my governors’.

We were perfectly aware of how very closely our interest was bound up with that of the Government, and the greater the public danger the more ready were we—that is, I and my people—to go to their rescue.

I mentioned in an earlier portion of my story that I gained part of my income by discounting bills of exchange.

It has been suggested to me that I should make clear to you the meaning of bills of exchange, their origin and purpose, and how I could have gained money by my dealings with them. I will do so as well as I can, and in as few words as possible.

Originally, a bill of exchange was nothing more than a letter from a person in one country to his debtor in another, begging him to pay the debt to the person who would deliver the letter to him.

This way of proceeding was a saving of trouble to everybody. To the creditor certainly; to the debtor, who could pay the money owing without the danger and expense of sending it abroad; and to the third person, or bearer of the letter, who, travelling in a foreign land, found himself in funds of the country without the great inconvenience of carrying much money from home.

For example, Madame Rotina, dwelling in Constantinople, has sent goods to Mrs. James, of Cheapside, London, to the amount of £300,{221} to be paid on a certain date some twelve months hence. Well, a friend of Madame Rotina’s intends spending a few weeks in London, and asks if she can do anything for her friend while there. “Oh, yes,” says madame; “I shall be glad if you will take a letter to Mrs. James, who owes me money, and receive it for me.”

It might so happen that the friend would wish to leave London before the time has arrived for Mrs. James to pay. She would, therefore, take the letter, which would be open, to a fourth person—to me, perhaps—and say, “This bill is not due for a month. The debtor is reliable. Will you be good enough to discount it for me?” Under the circumstances, this is what I should do: take the bill for £300, and give the bearer £298 19s. 6d. Four per cent. interest for one month would be £1, which would be mine for the trouble and risk of discounting, as well as payment for the loss of my money for that time. The odd sixpence would be for the stamp. At the end of the month I should get the full £300. Now do you see how I increased my income by discounting bills of exchange, especially if some hundreds passed through my hands in one day?

These letters or bills, which were representatives of debts, became by degrees articles of traffic. They were simple instruments, transferring value from place to place, at home or abroad, and by their means accounts were balanced without the transmission of money. At this present time the net produce of stamps alone in Great Britain is enormous.

I hope I have made it clear to you; because I want you to become thoroughly acquainted with all my daily work.

And now to proceed with my story.

There is no knowing how long I should have gone on content in my one room at the Grocers’ Hall, had not some unpleasantness occurred about the renewal of the lease.

My governors and directors met me in council on the 20th of January, 1732, and we decided that, if we could find a suitable site, we would build a house of our own.

We were fortunate enough to find a house and garden for sale, the property of a former director of mine, Sir John Houblon. It was situate in Threadneedle-street, in the parish of St. Christopher-le-Stocks.

We employed a first-rate firm of builders, Dunn and Townshend, very well known at that time, and the first stone of the Bank of England was laid on August 3rd, 1732.

It was a great day for me and a very imposing ceremony, in which my governors and directors took a prominent part. I gave away twenty guineas to be distributed among the workmen, that they too might have cause for rejoicing on such a memorable day.

In less than two years the building was complete, and on June 5th, 1734, I took up my abode there, and have lived in Threadneedle-street from that day to this; so that I am, of course, the oldest inhabitant. One after another I have seen my neighbours pass away, and their houses pulled down to make room for other and more stately buildings. The friends of my youth, too, are all gone, and there remain none who can sympathise with me in my high position, because there are none old enough to remember my early struggles, which led up to it.

A very lonely old woman I feel sometimes when I have leisure to sit in my grand but comfortless parlour and think, with only the shadows of past friends for companions.

There is no one with whom I care to speak of them; for, alas! the present generation remember only their faults, and none of their greatness.

It was but the other day, when some one was abusing one of my former governors, Thomas Guy,[3] I reminded him that my friend had built and endowed Guy’s Hospital at a cost of £18,793 for the first, and £219,499 for the last, and that he should be spoken of with respect and gratitude. “Oh, yes, I know,” was the careless answer, “Charity covereth a multitude of sins.”

I think this is the first time I have been able personally to express my feelings about people and things in my life, and for the opportunity I am indebted to you, the girls of the world, who have expressed the desire to make my acquaintance.

The house in Threadneedle-street, into which I moved all my effects, and in which I took up my abode in 1734, was small and insignificant compared with its present size and appearance. It consisted only of the present centre, courtyard, hall, and bullion-court, and was scarcely visible to passers-by.

It was almost enclosed by the Church of St. Christopher-le-Stocks, three taverns, and about twenty houses.

This house was at first sufficiently large for me to carry on my business comfortably; but as the work became more complicated we found it necessary to add to it, and in 1770 built the eastern wing. Thirty years later the western wing, together with the Lothbury front, was built. From time to time there have been additions and alterations, which account for the variety in the style of architecture.

I ought to have mentioned that part of my residence stands on marshy soil, in the course of the ancient stream of Walbrook, and, that I might suffer no ill effect from this, the foundation was strengthened by means of piles and counter-arches. And here, being settled in my new home, I will pause to put all things in order before going on with my story.

(To be continued.)




By the Author of “Flowering Thorns.”




n all friendships which ultimately cease to exist there comes the point of departure as in the capital letter Y; the point where the two before united friends separate and continue their lives in different directions.

At first the division between them is a very narrow one, but it widens and stretches out till the two wholly lose sight of each other. Of this I have already spoken as the drifting apart of friends; the gradual cooling of once warm friendship.

But it has another kind of conclusion as abrupt and final as the termination of the capital letter I, of which no continuance is possible.

It was difficult in the first instance to say just where the separation between the friends began, but here there can be no mistake, and very often not only the girls themselves but their relations and acquaintances know that there has been a quarrel.

The letters and meetings do not become shorter and fewer, they cease; or if circumstances do not allow of this—for their respective families do not necessarily quarrel too—they become noticeably forced and frigid, and, if possible, avoided. There is a sore feeling on both sides which those who tranquilly drifted apart never experienced. The friendship has broken off short, as it were, there has been no period of preparation for this sudden issue, and both girls are wounded; though whether it be in their affection, dignity, or self-love, the cause of estrangement and character of each must determine.

It is impossible to sever all at once the many links which bind friend and friend; and the consciousness that it is so, and that for many a day after their quarrel they must stand connected, often adds to the pain and bitterness they feel.

Now, what are the causes of these complete separations, or, to put it more correctly, complete alienations?

Death is, of course, a final interruption to friendship, but does not mean alienation. Our dear dead friend is ours still, in a sense. We know that the dead in Christ have a conscious existence, and feel convinced they do not forget, but continue to love us; and looking forward to a reunion some day, we cannot feel that our friendship is broken. A friendship interrupted by death seems to me to be only purified and elevated, and when the thought arises, as it often will: “What would she say to this? how would she advise on that?” the certainty that her opinions must now be always ranged on the side of what conscience tells us is right must tend to draw us upward and onward.

Yes, the severance of death is not complete, but what are we to say of the severance of pride or jealousy?

It is, unfortunately, true that many a girl, as well as her elders, cannot bear to feel herself second, and because her friend is prettier, cleverer, or it may be more fortunate, then she manages to quarrel with her.

She does not acknowledge that such is the reason, of course; even if she be conscious that it is so, she does not give it the true name, but, “I am not always going to dance attendance on Louisa”—“Louisa comes to me when she can get no one else, and I won’t put up with it”—“I don’t see why Louisa should expect me always to go to her, and never come to me,” and so on, until an irritated feeling against Louisa is produced; and the two come to an open rupture.

If Louisa is indeed the superior of the two she has probably taken the first place unconsciously, and a slight to her friend is the last thing she dreams of. She feels the reproaches are unmerited, replies hotly, or contemptuously, and the breach is made.

The friendship was, of course, a very imperfect one, or it could not have been so easily broken. I don’t think the girl who felt herself slighted and aggrieved could have given her friend much help or sympathy for some time before the quarrel began.

“Ah, but,” someone exclaims, “perhaps she could not help and sympathise with such a superior creature as Louisa.”

“Then,” I reply, “the friendship was too unequal to last long.” Not that I mean for a moment to insist that two friends ought to be on a level in every particular, but each should be superior in turn. It won’t do for one always to be able to look down. If the other is meek and submissive it creates a one-sided friendship; if she happens to be high-spirited or mean-spirited, a quarrel. So that if your friend either is, or considers herself, your superior in everything, or if you will not allow that she is superior to you in anything, look out for the breach that is sure to come.

And these breaches are not such as can be healed. The one most in fault is sure to be the one who thinks herself injured, so that the necessary first step is never taken. The friendship may indeed be patched up for awhile, but it is never reliable again, for the simple reason that girls who can quarrel once for such causes are quite certain to do so again.

Friends are alienated, too, by a misunderstanding, and the beginnings of these are often so far in the past that it is almost impossible to find them. What very slight things occasion a misunderstanding which in course of time may kill a friendship! A trifling neglect, an explanation given too late, a carelessly worded speech or letter, and, above all, perhaps, conversation incorrectly repeated.

Probably the remarks made are not of sufficient importance to deserve that we ask an explanation of them, and in nine cases out of ten we don’t stop to inquire whether it is not likely they have been inaccurately reported—often by mistake—or, even if the words be right, what a difference do look and tone make!

“You wretch,” is quite a term of endearment from some people, for example; and “how mean of her to tell you,” does not sound very severe from laughing lips.

“Clara said it was very mean of you to say anything to Maria about the way she spoilt that dress of hers,” says the tale-bearer (and tale-bearers do not generally understand a joke, but take all they hear au grand sérieux). Harriet is vexed, for she thought Clara considered the spoilt dress quite a laughing matter, and would not betray her friend’s confidence for the world; still, it is not worth while to make a fuss about it, but she can’t forget it, and the next time she and Clara have a “difference” it comes out.

“You told Maria that I was mean and didn’t keep your secrets,” says Harriet.

“I did not do any such thing,” cries Clara, who has forgotten all about her careless speech, and to whom the spoilt dress had never seemed a secret.

“Well, somebody heard you.”

“Nobody could have heard what I did not say.”

“You must have said it, or it would not have been heard,” etc., etc.

And even if the two make it up now there remains a feeling of distrust of each other which is almost sure to ripen into alienation.

Misunderstandings may also be occasioned by a letter so heedlessly worded that it makes a misrepresentation.

If such a statement as that the body of the late Prince Leopold was to be “burned” at Frogmore can pass the proof-readers and appear, as it did, in a public paper, it is not much wonder if girls, in their hasty, thoughtless letters to one another, often say things quite as untrue without the smallest intention of misleading. Girls do not always write their meaning very clearly (nor other people either, for that matter), and even the omission of a comma, to say nothing of a “not” or a “sometimes,” may make all the difference in the world to a sentence.

Separations caused by misunderstandings are hard to bridge, because it is so impossible to trace them to their beginnings. We have forgotten ourselves what it was that first aroused the feeling of distrust, and because we cannot give a reason for the feeling it is probably the stronger. “I feel because I feel” is, after all, a position of great strength. But we have lost each other as in a maze whose complications are too numerous to permit of return or even exit, and here there is no man in the middle to point out the way backwards or forwards.

Interference from without, tale-bearing, and meddling generally are such obvious modes of dividing friends that I need hardly allude to them except to say that outsiders rather overlook the fact that the “third body” is nearly as much in the way between friends as between lovers. Both resent having their quarrels made up from without; the would-be healing hand is in most cases changed into that thumb about which we so often hear, and which makes a small breach a large one.

I will only now speak of one more way in which friends part utterly, and that is the parting of determined purpose for some clearly-defined reason. This is not to be done lightly, and will only—can only—be done by girls of decided character.

The reasons for such partings must lie deep, and in light, unthinking characters there is no depth to contain them. Earnest differences will often spring up on religious questions, and if their convictions or fanaticism lead them to believe such differences vital, girls will sometimes mutually agree, either tacitly or in words, to bring their friendship to a close and be in future mere acquaintances.

When two friends disagree in matters of religion, the subject is generally altogether dropped between them; and can there be a{223} true friendship, do you think, when what is of vital interest and importance to both is entirely left out of conversation?

Minor religious differences are of no consequence; but let there be agreement in what an old woman aptly called “the fundamentals,” and this Christians of different sects can certainly manage to do.

Again, if one of the two friends pursues a line of conduct of which the other strongly disapproves, either on religious or moral grounds (not upon some strained question of ceremonial or class etiquette, remember), a total estrangement is likely to take place. I have a case of this sort in my mind at the present moment, the cause of disagreement being certain books, the reading of which one considered would injure her moral purity. A hot dispute ensued, and the girls parted. It was best they should part; they could never have been lasting friends.

Let me add but one word to this chapter of broken friendships.

Girls must remember that even a dead friendship is a sacred thing, and that its death does not loose them from the responsibility laid on them by that friendship while still alive. The secrets your friend confided in you while your friend are secrets still. You have no right to make them common property because she is no longer your friend. All she told you must be as if it were under the seal of confession. There is nothing I think more contemptible than a girl who makes use of the knowledge she acquired of another while they were friends to show her up to ridicule or scorn. It somehow reminds me of a decoy-duck. It is some satisfaction, however, to feel that such a creature gets more than all the contempt and disgust she intended for her sometime friend.

I am afraid girls lose sight of these responsibilities of friendship, and think when the last handclasp is loosened they are freed from the burden of the other’s confidence. But this is emphatically not the case. A dead friendship is a sacred thing.

(To be concluded.)



Nurse and Housemaid should apply to the secretary, St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, W., stating full particulars.

L. Martin will obtain information on schools, etc., by getting “The Englishwoman’s Year Book” from Messrs. Hatchards and Co., Piccadilly, W. Her question is too vague.

One of the Girls (Belfast).—The openings in India at present are generally in connection with medical missions, and good governess situations are not easy to get. You are far too young to think of it yet.

A Cornish Lassie.—We recommend you to study Dr. Angus’s “Handbook of the English Tongue” (Mr. Tarn, 56, Paternoster-row, E.C.). You must not end any sentence with a preposition such as with, for, by, to, in, or of. Transpose the phrase so as to avoid it or alter it. “What did he do it for?” is incorrect. You should say, “Why did he do it?” or “For what reason did he do it?”

Schoolgirl (Toronto).—Backboards and stocks were both used. The former are to be seen now in many schoolrooms in England, and when one sees the rounded shoulders and poor carriage of so many of the present generation of girls, one wishes that the backboard régime could be restored.

E. M. H.—The name Abram meant “a high father.” This was afterwards changed to Abraham, which means the “father of a great multitude.” See the promises of God to him in the Book of Genesis.

H. Y. M.—We must request you to read all that we have recently said to other correspondents desiring to become governesses, and reckoning on salaries in accordance with the amount of their certificated acquirements, but overlooking the circumstances of youth and inexperience. In your own case, your hand is not formed, and you are incapable of teaching that essential branch of education—writing; nor do you express yourself properly—i.e., you should not say “for teaching same as above.” This is a very commercial style of abbreviating a sentence. Also, you should not say “over seventeen,” but “upwards of.” We point out such little inelegancies only in kindness, because your style of letter-writing might obtain or lose you a good situation, and we wish you well. A visiting governess is generally better paid than a resident one.

A Constant Reader.—We recommend you to procure a small “Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” published by Griffith and Farran, corner of St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.

Miss A. S.—We are glad to bring the Parkinson Society of Lovers of Hardy Flowers into the notice of our readers, and regret that, although not specially designed for our girls, it was not until too late for publication brought before the compiler of the shilling manual of girls’ clubs above-named. It was founded by the late Juliana H. Ewing, and had its origin in her story of “Mary’s Meadow,” in reference to the cultivation, study, and preservation of hardy wild flowers. The name was given in commemoration of the old herbalist, John Parkinson. Members of this society receive a parcel of MSS. and books on gardening every month, from April 1st to November 30th. For rules and other particulars, apply to the hon. secretary, Miss A. Sargant, 7, Belsize-grove, London, N.W.


Mimica.—The remains of Turner, the painter, are buried in the crypt of St. Paul’s Cathedral, close to those of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Cotaghaleurin.—We do not usually give addresses. You may procure cheap unmounted photos in all London bazaars and at many art shops, and the prices range from four pence to half-a-crown. Your handwriting is good. We are obliged for your kind offer of a fern, which we are unable to accept.

Celandine.—1. We consider milk and water a good preparation for setting pencil drawings. 2. Probably you have forgotten to dip your mould in cold water, and so wet it before pouring in your lemon sponge.

K. A.—For setting a smoked picture, see answer on page 399, vol. iii., to “Charing Cross.”

Two Schoolberries.—To preserve holly berries, dip them in a solution of sealing-wax and spirits of wine, such as you employ for colouring soiled baskets.

An Interested Reader.—An annual exhibition of china paintings is held by Messrs. Howell and James, and they will take any articles for it if fairly well executed. The price is attached to each piece, for which if sold a small commission is charged.

Elise.—To remove the gloss on the surface of a photo, apply the tongue to the paper, for no preparation is as safe as this natural one.

Violent.—We cannot make promises as to competitions. Read our replies on this subject to other inquirers. They can only be of rare occurrence, and are so planned as to suit the majority of our girls.

Daphne.—It is difficult to paint without a few lessons at the commencement. Bad habits are formed, which have to be abandoned. Green’s three shilling volumes on painting from nature, sold by Messrs. Rowney, might assist you. Study them carefully, and copy the examples given after having enlarged them.

Sag.—A “cold shadow” in painting is one that runs from a blue-grey to black, and a “warm shadow” is a grey tint inclining to crimson or purple. The shadows are effected by the amount of sunlight at the time the picture is taken. Megilp is mixed with oil colours and other mediums, but not to any great extent. Make your capital letters more distinct. We cannot tell whether you call yourself Sag, Say, Tag, Lag, or Lay.

Howell and Emmeline (Barbadoes).—For an article on waxwork, see vol. i., page 355. It is sufficient for a beginner. We are surprised that you should select such a field of art in so warm a climate. Surely it would be very unsuitable? To model in clay or carve in wood or ivory would, we should fancy, be much more practicable.


Judy.—The cashmere skirt with the beaded bodice would be quite suitable for a quiet evening at home.

Gertrude.—The only way is to procure orders for the things you make by going round with a collection of them to the shops, and showing what you can do; but it would be a very precarious way of living.

Grannie must send the cloth to a good French cleaner. We fear the crimson spot is a dye, not a stain.

Daisy Randolph.—Alas! so many of our correspondents write to us about “a little work they could do at home to add to their incomes.” Such work is the most difficult to get; but dressmakers are always in request. Why cannot “Daisy” try dressmaking or millinery, and make a small home business?

E. Gemmell writes in behalf of the Decorative Needlework Society, 45, Baker-street, W., to say that scientific or other dressmaking is not taught at their institution. The art of decorative needlework, including church embroidery, is taught, and all desiring such instruction should address the hon. secretary, Miss Mary Haworth. The promoters of this society were formerly engaged in that of the Royal School of Art Needlework.

Seventeen, minus the Sweetness.—Nun’s-cloth, cashmere, or fine alpaca, are all suitable for inexpensive evening gowns for young girls. We should think that a crimson or ruby-coloured material would suit you, though as a rule youth looks best in white. Black lace over a red foundation is also used by young girls at present, and is not expensive.

Thermometer.—Steam the plush on the wrong side and shake it well. Curl the feather with a blunt penknife, drawing each filament separately and gently between your thumb and the blade.

Miss Rendell.—Inquiries being perpetually made by our correspondents as to any method of disposing of their needlework, we are glad to have found one at last in a society for the aid of girls and young women. To those who live by their work, the yearly subscription is 2s. 6d., and Miss Rendell’s depôt is at 12, Shawfield-street, King’s-road, Chelsea, S.W. The names of all lady workers are kept quite private. The depôt is open from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., Saturdays excepted. A commission of 2d. in the shilling is charged on all work sold, the rent of the house, etc., having to be met.

Miss E. Radcliffe.—The Pinafore Society is one conducted by this lady, to which each member subscribes one shilling annually, and must contribute, as we understand, two pinafores a year likewise. For further particulars write to the hon. secretary, Balmore, Caversham, Oxon.

Amy W.—To make a handsome sermon-case, embroider an ecclesiastical design upon strong linen with floss silk and gold threads. Transfer this to good dark velvet, and hide the linen edges by couching a gold cord round them, lining the velvet with rep silk of same shade of colour.

F. L. C. W. (Leicester).—A verse of four lines suitable to embroider on a needlebook is not easy to find, especially as you give no particulars as to the receiver of your gift.


Edith C. Jarvis.—Your little poem gives promise of better to come. There is considerable freedom, but no original ideas. Had the writer been younger, we might have tried to find space for it.

Daisy should read our series of articles on good breeding and etiquette under every circumstance of life. Possibly these may be published in separate form, and if so, it may be shortly; but, in any case, we advise you to read them in their present form.

Doris.—See our articles on the meaning of “Girls’ Christian Names,” in vol. iv., pages 39, 134, 235, and 381.

Rothsay Bay.—Of course, you should say grace before breakfast and dinner. A very usual form is, “For these, and all Thy mercies, we give Thee thanks, O Lord!” or, “O Lord! relieve the wants of others, and make us truly thankful.” It is certainly to be regretted that people who recognise the duty of returning thanks to God for the “daily bread” for which they pray, should mutter them hurriedly over, as if ashamed of them!

Bessie.—1. Cousins of any degree of nearness may be legally married. 2. May 27th, 1868, was a Wednesday.

Horseshoe inquires “why some people have different coloured eyes.” We will tell her if she can inform us why some people’s noses turn up and some turn down. Such peculiarities may be hereditary, but what the ancient origin of the distinctive features of various races may be we do not propose to investigate for our correspondents.

Heliotrope and Mary’s Lamb.—The word “marmalade” is of Greek origin, composed of two words, “apple” and “honey.” From the same source the French derive their kindred word marmelade, the Spaniards their mermelada, and the Portuguese their marmelo. The term is not merely applied to an orange confection, but likewise to one of apples and of quinces.

An Old Friend at Aachen.—We read your letter with much interest. We are not certain whether you intend to say you are earning £30 in English money and have also £30 income. If so, and you are now in a situation, you should dress on £20 and save the rest.


Vanity.—We have pleasure in directing attention to the opening of a home for destitute children of the upper classes at Tunbridge Wells. So much is done for the lower orders, and so very little for poor gentry, that we sincerely wish this little institution will meet with abundant support. Address Mrs. Ladds, hon. secretary, 11, South-grove, Tunbridge Wells. The objects are twofold—to provide a home for the children till able to earn a livelihood, and to offer temporary change of air to those whose parents (military, naval, or professional) can only make a small payment for it.

Jo.—1. We recommend you to go or write to the New Zealand Emigration Office in Victoria-street, Westminster, S.W., where you will obtain all the information you need. 2. The 14th of September, 1864, was a Wednesday.

Fauvette.—To fasten small shells on boxes, strong glue is used, or cement such as you buy at a chemist’s for mending china. We are much pleased that you value our paper. Of course, you are one of “our girls.”

Venture.—The poem is prose badly rhymed. How can you make a “thankoffering of a friend”? Your thoughts are confused, and your metaphors nonsense.

Alice Cann.—Your duty is to serve the Lord faithfully, relying on His grace and aid in whatever situation His Providence has placed you; but if one of special temptation, you may seek a less trying one when able. On no account, however, neglect your obedience to His command, and give up your attendance on His divine ordinances, especially that of Holy Communion. It would be the first step in a downward direction. We have a battle to fight, the “fight of faith,” and must “overcome evil with good.” You write a very pretty hand. Accept our best wishes.

Mabelle.—There is no sequel to either book, nor has the “Mystery of Edwin Drood” been finished by anyone bearing authority from the Dickens family.

Just Eighteen.—The mutual opening of each other’s letters should be made from the beginning a matter of distinct agreement between a husband and wife. However great the mutual confidence may be, expediency may often render the indiscriminate opening of letters undesirable as a regular rule. In fact, it would be better, in our opinion, that each should open their own and respect those of the other, thereby showing the greater confidence in that respect. Voluntarily to read aloud the ordinary letters to each other is certainly desirable.

Troublesome Flo.—We do not think the lines original enough to get into print, but they show a very sweet and tender-hearted disposition, and no doubt it gave you pleasure to write them, and relieved your heart at the time; so be satisfied with that, and cherish the good and loving thoughts, and seek ever what is best.

Tulliallan.—Christmas Day, 1860, was a Tuesday.

Bobtail.—January 4th, 1874, was a Sunday.

Jeanette.—You would be both rash and imprudent in marrying so unreliable a man. His saying that he “could do so much with you” is mere talk, when every act has contradicted the assertion. Besides, he has no right to reckon upon leaning on you. You have a right to expect to lean upon him. He is a broken reed to depend upon, and would drag you down to poverty, and then, when failures and want have tried his weak nature, who knows the result? Drink might follow. It is unmanly and dishonourable in a man who has no home nor money to ask any woman to marry him, and you are fully justified in withdrawing from the engagement without asking his permission, having already excused his failures so often. Ask your parents to dismiss him if troublesome.

Margaret.—What is called house-leek, or, vulgarly, “hen and chickens,” is a very good plant for bordering a garden bed.

A Young Mother (New Zealand).—Your very gratifying letter has been long unanswered, but we greatly appreciate the opinion you express respecting this paper, and thank you for it sincerely, the more so as your sole object in writing is to encourage us in our work by a few gracious words. Accept our best wishes for you and yours.

Rogator.—We read in Notes and Queries that whenever the German knights headed an infamous Jew hunt in the Middle Ages they shouted “Hip-hip!” equivalent to saying “Jerusalem is destroyed!” “Hip” is said to be a notarica of the letters Hierosolima est perdita. The authority given is Henri van Laun. The word “hurrah!” is taken from the word Huraj, “to Paradise,” and the two words thus connected would seem to mean “Jerusalem is lost to the Infidel” (or unbelieving Jew or Saracen), “and we are on the way to Paradise.”

Mumbles.—“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” is taken from Shakespeare’s Julius Cæsar, act iv., scene 3.


A Constant Reader tells us that she became so deaf from a severe cold, that she could not hear the clock strike when close to it. For this deafness she tried the following prescription, for which, she says, a lady paid a physician three guineas. She moistened a little wool with the fat of uncooked bacon, and put it in her ears, changing it every second day. The weather being cold, she tied a lace lappet over her ears, and when out of doors covered them with her bonnet strings. In less than a fortnight her hearing was restored, and she has had no return of deafness. Another lady recovered her hearing by means of taking a strong tonic, taking also nourishing food, and so strengthening the entire system, and with equally satisfactory results.

S. Mearer.—We do not recommend the profession you name. It is one of such great temptation, and such a hindrance to spiritual life and progress. It is also exceedingly trying to the health.

Helen Ada.—All games of ball are of very remote origin. The Greeks played them assiduously, and gave a statue to Aristonicus for his wonderful play. Tennis is thought, from the terms used in the game, to have originated in France prior to the fifteenth century. There is a book called “Annals of Tennis,” by Julian Marshall, which would interest you.

Awkward Sixteen.—Ask a surgeon. We could not give an opinion without seeing them. It is always a risky thing to carry bottles full of any liquid in a trunk; it is better to put them in the handbag, if there be room.

Note of Interrogation.—A widow can claim a third of her husband’s property, and the remaining two-thirds are divided in equal shares between his children, by whichever wife. The marriage settlements, if any exist, are apart from this. You may have money from this source.

A. B. C.—Always consult your rector as to the decorations of his church. Your writing is fairly good and legible.

Persis.—It would be better to consult your doctor about your fits of sneezing, as there are several causes, and, independently of outward irritation of the air passages, some affections of the stomach are said to produce them.

Sara Amelia.—The Mishna of the Jews was the oral law, and the Gemara was the commentary upon it, and these two united form the Talmud. The Masora is the true reading of the Scriptures, while the before-named Mishna and Gemara combined gave the true interpretation. The commencement of the Masoretic Notes is dated by some as far back as the time of Ezra, the inspired writer of the book bearing his name in the Old Testament.

Violet and Sunflower.—The St. Bernard puppies could be disposed of by advertising them. Of course, a pedigree would make them more valuable. We should think that the fowls wanted a much warmer fowl-house.

Ella must put her name on her mother’s card. Young ladies of twenty-one do not have separate cards.

Ariel.—Leave the steel brooch in oil for a day or two, and then rub it well with chamois leather. Should that prove ineffectual in removing the rust, send it to a silversmith to be cleaned.

E. M. H. must let her friends know that she has returned, and the best way to do that is to call and see them.

Ernestine.—The name De Lesseps is pronounced as in English, excepting that the final “s” is mute. The name Sodor is derived from Sodor Eys, or South Isles—i.e., the Hebrides, the Orkneys being known as the North Isles. These Southern or Western Isles were made an Episcopal diocese by Magnus, King of Norway, in 1098, and were united as one diocese to the Isle of Man in 1113.

John’s Kitten.—May 6th, 1853, was a Friday, and July 21st, 1867, was a Sunday. We are glad to hear that our answers have helped you.

Janie Shaw.—Miss Ellman, The Rectory, Berwich, Sussex, is secretary of an early rising society, as well as of other societies.

F. E. S.—There is always a table for finding dates in every “Whitaker’s Almanack.”

Miss Moore Smith wishes it to be known that her Home Workers’ Missionary Union passed from her hands into those of Miss Chute, 25, Longford-terrace, Monkstown, co. Dublin, and thence again into other management. Perhaps Miss Chute might give any information desired.

Daisy A. (Moor-street).—The “Old Maid’s Story” is not without merit. The language flows very easily, and, with more experience and plenty of perseverance, we think the writer might do something worth reading later on.

Forget-me-not, Maggie Davies, and Little Dot.—Write to our publisher about the index, “Crown of Flowers,” etc. The 13th November, 1833, was a Wednesday, and the 12th October, 1833, a Saturday. It is pleasant to hear of your appreciation of the G. O. P.


[1] Joseph Addison, an elegant writer and a Secretary of State in Queen Anne’s reign. He was born in Wiltshire, 1672, and died in 1719 at the age of forty-seven.

[2] Try and keep the meaning of tallies in your mind.

[3] Thomas Guy was the son of a lighterman in Horselydown, Southwark. He was born in 1643, and died in 1724. He was apprenticed to a bookseller, and afterwards began the world with £200, which, by good business habits and extreme parsimony, became an immense fortune.

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 211: dreadfuly to dreadfully—“dreadfully sensible”.]