The Girl’s Own Paper, by Various—A Project Gutenberg eBook

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 373, February 19, 1887, by Various

Produced by: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

lthough the subject I have chosen for this month’s paper might seem to some an uninteresting one, I feel I should be casting a slur upon the good sense of the readers of The Girl’s Own if I doubted for a moment their willingness to hear what I have to say.

I confess to you, however, that I would far rather discourse to you in pleasant language of perfumes distilled from flowers, of health-giving rambles by moorland, mount, or sea, of the ozone-laden air that gladdens the heart, or the sweet sunshine that warms and thickens the blood, than of rheums and aches and pains. But, was it not Solomon himself who said there is a time for all things? Yes, and the spring months in this country are fraught with a deal of little disagreeablenesses, which prudence and a modicum of care might enable us to avoid.

Perhaps the state of the weather to-day may have something to do with the production of this article. My minimum thermometer has been down to 31° during the night, and winter not yet ended. As I write a wild east wind is roaring through the trees, bending the poplars as if they were fishing-rods, tearing the brown leaves from the elms, and whirling them high over the chimneys. Determined not to have fires in my study, I am fain, nevertheless, to envelop myself in my ulster, and thus I sit defiant; the surging, sea-like roar of the storm cannot disturb my equanimity, nor eke the swaying creepers that tap at the windows like dead men’s fingers.

Winter will last with us far into April, and on the wings of east winds are borne along many of the seeds of illnesses we would do well to be prepared for.

I was looking at a lime or linden tree last autumn, when the sun was shining brightly, and ere the leaves had commenced to turn from green to yellow. All know the graceful and beautiful linden tree, with its wealth of heart-shaped leaves, so close and thick that if a man climbs but half-way up, he is hidden in a cloudland of verdure, and might consider himself a hundred miles from the earth for all he can see of it. And the linden is a spreading tree, its lower branches stretch far outwards, and their tips almost touch the ground, so that once beneath it you are in a kind of fairy alcove or bower, into which even rain cannot find its way. The tree I was looking at was covered with myriads of its strange, wee flowers, the perfume from which had attracted bees in countless thousands. As I stood beneath its shade I was delighted with the fragrance of the wee flowerets, and charmed with the drowsy music of the little artisans, that were so busy gathering honey therefrom—the sweetest and best honey in the world, by the way; but I could not help wondering when I thought of the tens of millions of seeds, which, in a few weeks, would be scattered broadcast upon the earth, not one of which from this particular tree I have ever known to take root and grow. And why not? Listen, because the answer to the question has a bearing upon the subject I have under consideration. The reason why the seeds do not germinate, lies in the fact that the ground on which they fall resists their efforts to take root and grow.

As the air is full after a time of the seeds of the linden tree, when the south wind blows, and, as the earth beneath is bedded with them, so, when the chill, cold breezes of spring are blowing, is the sky filled with seeds of illness, which fall on the lungs of those breathing them, and it depends upon the state of one’s blood and constitution, whether those seeds shall take root and develop coughs and colds, and aches and pains and rheums of every kind, or be repelled and do nought of harm.

From this we may learn a lesson. For it is strange but true enough, that so great is the struggle for existence in this world—I do not mean among human beings, but among the living though invisible germs which—everywhere and at all times surround us in clouds, that no sooner does the health of anyone of the higher forms of animal life fall below par, than it is attacked by these, and if the weakness is extreme he falls a victim, and severe illness, that may even end fatally, is the result.

It is a well-known fact, established long, long ago, that all such plagues as cholera, for instance, or typhoid fever, are caused by germs of disease afloat in the air, or in the water, and through these media introduced into the human system. These germs are ferments so strong, poisons so powerful, that if they once succeed in gaining ingress to the blood, hardly can all the skill of medicine destroy them or render them innocuous. Yet we daily hear of medical men and nurses walking about in the midst of plague and pestilence, but coming through the outbreak all unscathed. We can only account for this by believing that these individuals have well-kept up systems, that the lungs are constantly so healthy, and the surface of their bronchial tubes so smooth and pure, that the disease germs can find neither food nor foothold therein or thereon.

Now the two great enemies to the health of the delicate during the spring months are cold and damp, and just as often as not they both attack one at the same time. Nor is it the delicate in constitution alone who have to fear the evil influence of these foes to life and comfort, for strong men and women, too, must be careful.

If I were to ask any of my older readers what she considered the cold and damp of spring were most likely to give rise to in the shape of illnesses, the answer would almost certainly be, “Colds and coughs.” So far she would be right, but there is another ailment very prevalent at this time, and too often the result of exposure to the weather, namely, fits of indigestion. The sufferer feels chilly and not over well in the evening; perhaps she retires early, has a restless night, and awakens in the morning with disagreeable headache and complete loss of appetite. There may even be nausea and sickness.

These symptoms are generally put down to a chill caught, or to a bilious attack, and the patient—for patient she must be now for a few days at all events—tries to think back what she has been eating. This kind of self-examination is usually somewhat unsatisfactory, and it would be better were she to ask herself, “Where and when did I expose myself to cold and damp on an empty stomach?” You notice I have italicised the last words, because I want you to get a firm grasp of the fact that when the system is, for the time being, weak and below par, with no food pouring into the blood, it is ten times more liable just then to become the victim of unhealthful influences.

A little attack like that which I have mentioned is best got rid of by confinement for a day or two to the house, on a sofa, in an easy chair, but not in bed if possible, by diet of an easily-digested and nourishing kind, by a mild aperient and warm bath at bedtime, with, if it be deemed needful, about ten grains of Dover’s powder, while before being again exposed to this weather, a warmer woollen garment should be worn next to the skin.

In the spring months the delicate, who would avoid aches and rheums, must be careful to keep the body well-nourished.

Beware, however, I pray you, of that deluding sentence, which is the cause of so much human misery, “Keep up the strength.” To do this some people resort to the madness and folly of constantly cramming—I can use no milder verb—the body with all kinds of nourishing food and drink, till the liver and other internal organs are gorged with blood, and this blood itself is poisoned with bile and acid, and the stomach is utterly prostrated with the efforts it has to make, and the unusual strain put upon it. In this heated, half-fevered condition of system, if a person be exposed to cold wind or to damp, can she wonder that illness is the result? And this illness will take the form of rheumatism in the joints in one, muscular pains and stiffness in another, chest complaint in a third, and so on through every scale of trouble.

The corollary from the above may be summed up in these words: in spring time get up soon in the morning, and after a pleasant bath and a breath or two of fresh air, sit down to a quiet breakfast of a palatable, but not over rich nature. Ring the changes, day after day, on eggs, cold fowl or game, fish (white), mild bacon, etc., and toast—invariably toast—with sweetest of butter, and either good tea, coffee, or cocoatina. Fruit should be eaten before breakfast, or the juice of oranges in sugar and water may be drank. Be moderate in eating, and if hungry at midday take a biscuit with a cup of cocoatina. Let luncheon and dinner be all partaken of under the same restrictions, and exclude stimulants and cordials as you value your health. At bedtime, if a bad sleeper, a tumblerful of sodawater may be drank with ten grains of bicarbonate of soda dissolved therein.

This system of living is the only true way to keep up the system in spring, and to guard against its cold winds and the troubles that fly on the wings thereof.

But there are other rules to be attended to if one would have perfect health at this season.

Exercise must not be forgotten, to keep the skin acting freely; nor recreation, to keep the mind from becoming dulled and low.

Depend upon it that exercise and real healthful recreation go very far to keep sickness at bay.

Older people often suffer from cold in spring. They will not do so if they take the following advice. Sleep in a comfortable, well-ventilated room. Very great pains must be taken with the ventilation; it must be scientifically done by door and windows, and probably by chimney. I may dwell at some length another day about this; meanwhile, remember that a draught is not to be tolerated, and that this can easily be avoided by using perforated zinc, which can be painted most ornamentally, the little holes being afterwards freed with a long needle.

Too heavy or too hot bedclothing should not be used, and if a fire is lit it should be so banked before retiring that it will smoulder away all night. All kind of stimulating cordials should be avoided, but cod-liver oil should be taken.

About clothing for spring I have spoken before, and always do speak in favour of wool for young or old. I have also many times raised a warning voice against the dangers from wearing mackintoshes.

The following is from a medical contemporary, and although it refers to topcoats, it is equally àpropos of any extra over-garment.

“The general effect is well enough while the overcoat is kept on, but the moment it is removed evaporation recommences, and the body is placed in a ‘cooler,’ constructed on the principle adopted when a damp cloth is wrapped round a butter-dish—the vapour passing off, abstracting the heat, and leaving the contents of the cooler refrigerated. The point to make clear is that the overcoat, let it be fashioned and ventilated as it may, does not prevent the underclothing from being saturated with moisture, but actually tends to make the moisture accumulate therein. This is proved by the sense of genial warmth felt while the overcoat is worn, and the evidences of perspiration easily perceived, under the arms and at the sides of the chest particularly, after the overcoat has been removed. Moreover, we take off the coat when we enter a warm house, and precisely at the moment when muscular activity is suspended. A very little consideration will suffice to convince the common-sense thinker that nothing can well be worse managed than this process, both as regards its nature and the time and condition of its operation. It is opposed to all the canons of health to allow the clothing to become saturated with perspiration, and then to take off the external covering and suffer rapid cooling by evaporation; while if it were designed to do this at the worst possible time, probably none worse could be found than when muscular exercise has been discontinued. The suggestion we (Lancet) have to offer is that it would be far better policy to wear only one coat at a time, and to make whatever change may be necessary by removing a thin coat and replacing it by a thicker one when going out of doors, and the reverse when coming in. If, instead of wearing overcoats, people would wear coats of different thicknesses, according to the weather and conditions generally, they would avoid the danger of cooling by evaporation; the garments saturated with moisture would be removed, and dry off the body instead of on it. We believe no inconsiderable portion of the ‘colds,’ attacks of lumbago, and even more formidable results of what are popularly called ‘chills,’ may be traced to the practice of wearing overcoats, which arrest the ordinary process of evaporation, cause the clothing within to be saturated with accumulated perspiration, and are then removed, when rapid cooling takes place. The avoidance of this peril is to be attained by such change of coats as the conditions require.”

CHAPTER III.

t was midnight on the 19th of December, her seventeenth birthday, when Madame Royale left the Temple. M. Benezech, the Minister of the Interior, escorted her to the Porte St. Martin, where the travelling carriage provided for her journey to Vienna was in waiting. There went with her the Marchioness de Soucy, sub-governess to the children of France, an officer of the gendarmerie, and M. Gomin, one of the commissaries of the Temple. Hué joined her at Huningen, which she reached on Christmas Eve. Although all precautions were taken to prevent her being known, the princess was frequently recognised, and greeted with silent respect, in the course of her journey. She stayed over the 25th at the sign of the “Crow” at Huningen, and set out for Basle on the next day. As she left her room the innkeeper fell at her feet and asked her blessing. Tears stood in her eyes as she entered the carriage. “I leave France with regret,” she said, “and shall never cease to regard it as my country.”

At Basle the exchange was effected, and Madame Royale left on the night of the 26th, accompanied by Madame de Soucy and escorted by the Prince de Gavres, who had been appointed by the Austrian Emperor for the purpose. At Lauffenbourg she stayed a day to celebrate a service in memory of her parents, and at Innspruck she remained two days to visit her aunt, the Archduchess Elizabeth. She arrived in Vienna on the 9th of January, 1796.

Warmly received by the Emperor and Empress, with a household appointed for her in accordance with her rank, Madame Royale took her place at the Austrian Court, and here she spent the next four years. But amid the glitter of the Court of Vienna she was, perhaps, more truly lonely than she had been in the Tower of the Temple. Her heart was in the graves of those she loved, and the mourning garments which she wore told truly that she lived in the past. The Archduke Charles sought her hand, and the Emperor and Empress urged, and even insisted, that she should accept him. But Madame Royale steadily declined. She had no heart to give a lover; but the wish of her father and mother pointed out the path she was to take, and if she must wed it could only be her cousin, the Duc d’Angoulême. Her refusal drew down on her the Imperial displeasure, which was augmented by her careful avoidance of various political schemes into which it was sought to entangle her.

It was a great relief, therefore, to the princess when this anomalous position was put an end to in the spring of 1799 by a demand on the part of the Emperor of Russia, made at the request of Louis XVIII., in terms which allowed no refusal, that Madame Royale should be permitted to join her uncle and the other members of her father’s family at Mittau, in Courland, where they were then residing.

The princess gladly set out from Vienna in May, and on the 4th of June she was met at the gates of Mittau by Louis XVIII., his wife, and the Duc d’Angoulême. It was a touching meeting, memories of the past crowding up and dimming the happiness of the present, while rendering it more sacred. Not only her relatives, but loyal nobles of France and faithful servants of her father received Madame Royale at Mittau. Of these the most notable was the Abbé Edgeworth, who had attended Louis XVI. on the scaffold. The princess was, at her own request, left alone with the abbé, that she might learn from him the details of her father’s last moments. She ever cherished for the good man the warmest regard, and when, some years after, a dangerous fever broke out at Mittau and numbered him among its victims, it was Madame Royale who took her place by his bedside, closed his dying eyes, and followed his remains to the grave.

The thought that lay uppermost in the minds of all when the first emotions of meeting were over, was the permanent union of Madame Royale to her family by her marriage with the Duc d’Angoulême. Where the wishes of all parties were at one, there was no need for delay. On the 10th of June, six days after the princess’s arrival, the marriage ceremony took place in the gallery of the ducal castle. Loving hands had decked the altar with branches of lilac and summer flowers, and here, in a strange land, in the presence of the little court of Louis XVIII., the prince and princess plighted their troth. It was the fulfilment of a vow rather than the consummation of a love match, and the faith was plighted to the dead as much as to the living.

We have lingered so long over Madame Royale’s early life that we have no space to do more than glance at the years which immediately followed her marriage. In 1801 the exiles were obliged, through the caprice of the Czar, to quit Mittau in the depth of a severe winter. They appealed to the King of Prussia for a refuge, and he appointed Warsaw, where they remained some years. In 1805 they were again at Mittau. In 1808 they came to England. Here for two years they resided at Gosfield Hall, a seat of the Marquis of Buckingham in Essex, and here, in November, 1810, Louis XVIII. lost his Queen.

They then removed to Hartwell Hall, a fine Elizabethan house between Oxford and Aylesbury, which they occupied until the year 1814.

Some memories of the Duchess of Angoulême at Hartwell have been preserved. She is described as reserved and sad, and averse to the notice or attention of strangers. But she would often be seen standing in the porch of the little church a silent spectator of the Protestant service, and she expressed to the minister her pleasure at the reverence and fitness which characterised the English mode of worship.

When the events of 1814 drove Napoleon into exile, and brought back Louis XVIII. to the throne, the Duchess of Angoulême was at Hartwell with her uncle. It was on the 25th of March that the news reached them of the proclamation of Louis XVIII. at Bordeaux. A month later they set out on their return to France. The Prince Regent accompanied them to Dover, the Duke of Clarence escorted them across the Channel. From Calais to Paris their progress was one long triumphal procession.

The state entry of the King into Paris took place on the 3rd of May. Seated in an open carriage drawn by eight white horses, Louis XVIII. had on his left hand the “daughter of the last King.” It was on her that all eyes were turned, and to her that the warmest tribute of welcome was paid. Dressed wholly in white, there was on her countenance a kind of grave joy which struck all beholders. What strangely mingled thoughts were passing through her mind may well be imagined. Tears which she could not{324} restrain fell frequently from her eyes. When she reached the Tuileries, which she had not seen since the fatal day when her parents had left it to take refuge in the Assembly twenty-two years before, the thronging memories of the past were too much for nature to bear, and she was carried into the palace in a swoon.

There had reached Madame Royale, year by year during her exile, a bunch of flowers gathered from her mother’s grave. A faithful old Royalist, M. Descloseaux, had bought the ground in which the King and Queen, amongst many other victims of the Reign of Terror, had been interred, and to keep it sacred had converted it into an orchard and planted it with flowers. To this sacred spot the Duchess of Angoulême bent her steps the day after her entry into Paris, and there, as she thanked M. Descloseaux in a voice broken by emotion, the loyal old man made over to her the ground he had been preserving for her for the past seventeen years.

Public rejoicings followed the restoration in abundance. At the opera “Edipus at Colonos” was presented, and at the passage where Edipus recounts the tender care of Antigone, Louis XVIII. turned to the Duchess of Angoulême and kissed her hand.

Crowds came to the Tuileries to be presented to the duchess. She received twelve at a time, and the ladies so presented all wore white, with coronets of fleur-de-lys. The likeness which the duchess bore to her mother was much remarked; but it has been called “the resemblance of cold marble to animated flesh and blood,” and young débutantes were apt to look upon the reserve and self-repression of the princess as austerity or want of sympathy. The terrible past was too deeply impressed on her mind for her to shake it off. The blessing of children, whose care and training might have brought her new hopes and new associations, had been denied her, and her thoughts went back constantly to the days of her youth and to the loved ones who had been so cruelly torn from her.

Within the year of the Restoration the Duchess of Angoulême found new work to her hand. Ten months after Louis XVIII.’s entry into Paris came the tidings that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and once more landed on French soil. The hearts of the French people, never aroused to enthusiasm for Louis XVIII., turned instinctively to the Emperor. The Duchess of Angoulême was at Bordeaux when the news reached her. The men of the city were loyal to the monarchy, but the soldiers of the line awaited the course of events in silence. It was to win these that the duchess bent all her energy. Mounted on horseback, she reviewed the troops day after day, and sought earnestly to make them declare for the King. She met with little or no support, and when, on the 1st of April, the Imperial forces, under General Clauzel, arrived before the city, it was evident that all their sympathies were with the Emperor. Perceiving this, the duchess addressed herself to the National Guard and the citizen volunteers. These, regardless of personal danger, she reviewed in face of the enemy, whose loaded guns on the other side of the river commanded the position. General Clauzel, in the true spirit of chivalry, kept his men from firing. His first duty, he said, was to respect the courage of the duchess. He could not order her to be fired upon when she was providing material for the noblest page in her history. The Duchess of Angoulême did not forget General Clauzel’s chivalrous conduct. When he afterwards fell a prisoner into the hands of the Royalists, she interceded with the King and saved his life.

But it was too evident that the duchess’s efforts were in vain. With tears in her eyes she thanked the National Guard for what they had done, and begged them, as a last favour, to lay down their arms and so avoid bloodshed. Then, with a sad heart, she set out for Pouillac, where she embarked for Spain. As she once more quitted the shore of France as an exile, she turned to the people who were assembled to witness her departure, and distributed amongst them the plume of white feathers which she wore in her hair. “Bring them back to me with better days,” she said, “and Marie Thérèse will show you she has a good memory, and has not forgotten her friends at Bordeaux.”

The King had fled already, and the Duc d’Angoulême was temporarily a prisoner. But who does not know the story of the Hundred Days? It was on the 3rd of April that the Duchess of Angoulême left France; on the 18th of June Napoleon staked and lost all on the field of Waterloo. Five weeks later the duchess was once more on her way to Paris, her path strewn with flowers and the air rent with shouts of welcome. Louis XVIII. was already there, and as she rejoined her uncle at the Tuileries, it might have seemed that the cries of the populace were but the echoes of those of the year before, which time had not yet allowed to die away.

But the orphan of the Temple—the filia dolorosa of France—had had bitter experience of the fickle, easily-swayed French people. Was it matter for wonder if she withdrew more than ever into herself, and appeared more than ever cold and austere? Taking as little part as possible in Court festivities, she led a simple, retired life. Rising early in the morning, she lit her fire and made her early breakfast with her own hands. At seven o’clock she went to mass in the chapel of the palace. The day passed in simple routine; no sumptuous dinners or late hours were known in her household. But her charity flowed forth freely to all who were in need, although it was wisely administered so as to reach only the really deserving. The anniversaries of her parents’ deaths were always kept by her in strictest seclusion, and it was noticed that in her daily drives her carriage always made a wide detour, rather than pass the fatal spot where they had perished on the scaffold.

A prudent and parsimonious old lady, who lived in one of the Western Isles of Scotland, took the following method to get rid of the visitors and strangers who came to her house. Having set before her guests an ample Highland breakfast, she said, towards the conclusion of the meal:—

“Pray, take a good breakfast; there is no saying where you may get your dinner.”

A Faithful Dog.—The following instance of canine fidelity has seldom if ever been surpassed. When nearing Montreal the engine-driver of a train quite recently saw a dog standing on the track and barking furiously. The driver blew his whistle; yet the hound did not budge, but crouching low was struck by the locomotive and killed. Some pieces of white muslin on the engine attracted the driver’s notice; he stopped the train and went back. Beside the dead dog was a dead child, which it is supposed had wandered on the track and gone to sleep. The poor watchful guardian had given its signal for the train to stop; but unheeded had died at its post, a victim to duty.

Avarice.—Extreme avarice almost always makes mistakes. There is no passion that oftener misses its aim; nor on which the present has so much influence, in prejudice of the future.—Rochefoucauld.

When children first leave their mother’s room they must, according to an old superstition, “go upstairs before they go downstairs, otherwise they will never rise in the world.”

Of course it frequently happens that there is no “upstairs,” that the mother’s room is the highest in the house. In this case the difficulty is met by the nurse setting a chair and stepping upon that with the child in her arms as she leaves the room.

How to Play at Sight.—To play at sight the following conditions are necessary: First, a good grounding in technical execution; secondly, a regular and systematic knowledge of fingering; thirdly, a cheerful and ready disposition; and fourthly, undivided attention and concentration of the mind on the work in hand.—Ernst Pauer.

Good Counsel Thrown Away.—A draught of milk to serpents does nothing but increase their poison. Good counsel bestowed upon fools does rather provoke than satisfy them.—From the Sanskrit.

In Peril.—Women are safer in perilous situations and emergencies than men, and might be still more so if they trusted themselves more confidingly to the chivalry of manhood.—Hawthorne.

On a Moonlight Night.—An insane author, once placed in confinement, employed most of his time in writing. One night, being thus engaged by the aid of a bright moon, a slight cloud passed over the luminary. In an impetuous manner the author called out—“Arise, Jupiter, and snuff the moon!” The cloud became thicker, and he exclaimed, “The stupid! he has snuffed it out.”

Be Satisfied.—I say to thee, be thou satisfied. It is recorded of the hares that with a general consent they went to drown themselves, out of a feeling of their misery; but when they saw a company of frogs more fearful than they were, they began to take courage and comfort again. Compare thine estate with that of others.—Robert Burton.

Undeserved Praise.—The shame that arises from praise which we do not deserve often makes us do things we should never otherwise have attempted.—Rochefoucauld.

Now, girls, I want you to take the Home Philosopher very much into your confidence, though I am going to begin by warning you to be very careful whom you trust. I have lived a good many years longer than any of you, and I have suffered in many ways that I am anxious to show you how to avoid, by not acting rashly on the spur of the moment, as, alas! I have so often done.

Many of you would, no doubt, be glad to earn a little additional pocket money, even if you are in no way obliged to get your own living. In our day, nobody seems to be ashamed to make a little money; on the contrary, they show a great deal of honest pride if they are fortunate enough to be able to do so; and in my experience—and depend upon it, girls, it will be yours too, no money is so sweet in the spending as that which is earned.

But few things that are very good, or very pleasant, are to be procured without trouble. Competition is so keen now, that it is no easy matter to make a few pounds, or even a few shillings, without some special talent, or, better still, some special training. Moreover, caution is necessary, or the unwary and inexperienced fall an easy prey to the rogues, ever on the alert to make their want his or her opportunity; for, worse luck, there are female as well as male rogues. One of their most successful modes of proceeding is the insertion of specious advertisements in newspapers.

When one’s eyes are open it is easy to wonder how other folks can be so readily taken in—this, by-the-bye, generally after we ourselves have suffered.

Years ago the writer of the following advertisement made quite a large sum, and I daresay{326} you and I think his victims must have been very gullible.

“Music.—An extra opportunity for being instructed in music, either in town or country. The advertiser has found out a method by which he teaches to play on either the piano, violin, or guitar, in the completest manner, by only the practice of one single lesson, which he does on the most reasonable terms.”

Imagine anyone thinking they could learn the use of an instrument in a lesson! Yet it is not one whit more absurd than the many employments offered and advertised, “without any previous knowledge being necessary,” even if it be merely colouring photographs. I have seen such an announcement with regard to painting on china, a palpable absurdity, for the very nature of the work demands a certain facility in manipulating colours and mediums, even if no skill in drawing be needed, and without this it must be very rudimentary painting indeed.

As a rule, the more tempting such advertisements are, the more likely they are to be catchpennies, though, of course, among the many there are a few that are bonâ fide. I was myself a victim to a well-known fraud, which is a good example of many others. Lucrative employment in the form of lace, church work, etc., was offered to ladies in their own houses. Like hundreds of others, I applied by letter to M. D., Fern House, West Croydon, and in reply received a printed letter, in which constant employment was offered, all work to be paid for on delivery, if properly executed, and materials would be sent on receipt of one guinea. I rashly sent a guinea I could ill afford, and duly received materials and instructions for making lace for washing dresses. The lace I returned when the work was done, and was sent an acknowledgment for the same, but no money. While I was meditating what steps to take to regain my guinea, M. D., who proved to be a Mrs. Margaret Dellair, was brought up at the Surrey Sessions, “for obtaining divers sums of money and certain valuable securities by means of false pretences, with intent to cheat and defraud.” She had received over 200 post office orders for a guinea, but none of the many ladies who appeared against her had had payment of any sort. She was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude, her husband at the time undergoing a like sentence for the same class of offence. It was proved that the woman had no connection with any leading firms from whom she told her dupes she had constant orders; and I tell you this because I would advise you, whenever it is possible, to go to the fountain-head yourself. There are many good firms who will give orders for articles which girls could do at their own homes, if—but the if is all important—the work is done in the best possible manner, and the whole transaction carried out on business principles and with business exactness. Punctuality is a most necessary part of the agreement. Work must be done to time if you wish to have the orders renewed.

It is a pretty safe rule that whenever a demand is made for money over and above the value of goods sent, there is a necessity for being on the alert. A rascal used to take in a number of poor women by advertising for ladies to copy sermons at twopence per hundred words. Applicants were, as a preliminary, required to deposit half-a-crown, which was said to be returned if no work was sent, but before that could be done another seven and sixpence was demanded “to avoid any possibility of unscrupulous persons obtaining valuable sermons on pretence of copying.” Neither the half-crown nor seven and sixpence were ever returned, and in time the advertiser paid for his ingenuity by twelve months’ imprisonment with hard labour.

There is no doubt many women have answered the advertisements which offer to teach a system of dressmaking, or give employment in painting lace, or painting Christmas cards, or turning the use of a knitting-machine to account, and have profited thereby; but you may be quite sure that if these lead to any good results the proceedings did not begin by the applicants being mulcted of shillings, half-crowns, half-sovereigns, or larger sums. Girls, if you want to earn money, draw your purse-strings tight.

I have made many inquiries respecting societies and associations professing to be established with the benevolent object of assisting ladies to dispose of their handiwork, either artistic or needlework, and I have come to the conclusion that, however well such advertisements may read, they are to be accepted with caution. I should advise none of you to send any article or to put down any annual subscription to any such societies unless they have a working committee of people whose names carry weight and issue a properly-audited balance-sheet annually. Many of these sort of things are stated, perhaps without any intention of fraud, but without the power of commanding a sale or sufficient means in the background to find the rent and other expenses, or perhaps lacking the necessary business aptitude on the part of the promoters. They go on for a while, and then too often suddenly collapse. The goods, if returned at all, are mostly much the worse for wear, and, as a matter of course, the entrance fee is sacrificed.

But perhaps some of you girls have literary talents, and desire to publish tales or essays, poems, or whatever else you are able to produce. If so, send them to well-established periodicals or country newspapers. Do not be discouraged by failure. Many a good article rejected over and over again has appeared in print and laid the foundation for a literary career. Let your copy be clear, carefully written on one side of the paper only, and the matter something about which you have some specific knowledge. Few well-established publications need to advertise for contributors, and it certainly is not necessary for you, a tyro in the art, to subscribe towards the publishing of a magazine in which your productions are to appear. Few such publications would have the faintest chance of success under such auspices.

It might, under exceptional circumstances, when needlework is ordered, be necessary to deposit a few shillings as a guarantee that the materials sent to you will be duly returned or paid for; but if your writings require a deposit of any kind to get them read or published, the waste-paper basket is the best place for them, however highly you may yourself value them. Literature, after all, is a very open market, and fresh blood is always needed, though it may be a difficult matter to get your first step on the ladder. “Try, and if you don’t succeed, try, try, try again,” is the very best advice, but don’t subscribe to any association which offers even the most tempting terms to publish in any magazine issued by the joint subscriptions of amateur authors. Nor do not be tempted by offers of introductions to publishers for a consideration. Attack the publishers yourself, without any intermediary. No paid one will help you. I was asked to subscribe to something of the kind not long ago, and among the advantages the subscription was to give me was the power to try for the acrostic and other prizes offered by a well-known weekly paper, which was open to everybody.

If as much ingenuity were employed in securing honest work as we find in these bogus advertisements, the perpetrators, I think, would be much better off. The addresses change so frequently, applicants are so deluged with printed testimonials, that they are the more easily gulled. Sometimes the advertisers are obliged at last to send something in return for the money. One Everett May, for example, who for eighteenpence undertook to teach how to earn four guineas a week. For a time he would declare that the packet was posted, and must have been lost in transit, but after a long correspondence and constant demands for more money, if very hard pressed, something arrived, as, in one case, a last, a small boot for a child, and a few pieces of leather, from which it would be impossible to make a fellow boot, and a note concluding with, “As soon as we receive from you a specimen equal to pattern we shall be glad to afford you constant employment.” Another advertisement offered to gentlemen in a respectable circle of acquaintance the means of increasing their incomes, and on receipt of thirty stamps advised the purchase of a cwt. of potatoes for 4s., a basket, and 2s. worth of flannel, to have half the quantity of potatoes baked nightly, put them in the basket well wrapped in flannel, sell them at a 1d. each, and so earn £2 a week.

Perhaps some of you girls may be attracted by the advertisements which seek for a depôt where some everyday article may be sold, and if you are in a position in which such a sale at home is possible you may, perhaps with a good deal of trouble, make a little money in that way. Such advertisements are far more bonâ fide, I expect, than £2 and upwards offered by certain firms to persons of either sex without hindrance to present occupation. To any girls about to have recourse to these, my advice would be like that of Albert Smith to those about to marry—“Don’t.”

Just now the word competitions occupy many advertisements in the newspapers. I counted fourteen different addresses in one number. The amount offered in prizes is tempting, and those of my friends who have competed have found the promoters apparently fair dealing. But it is not easy to obtain a prize, and the shilling paid by each competitor is, I expect, the most important point to the advertiser.

One other class of advertisement I am about to touch upon, viz., the fortune-telling ones. Seeing the penalties the advertisers lay themselves open to, it is wonderful that they appear at all. If any of you send your shilling in the hope of obtaining your horoscope or any revelation as to your future life, based on the information you furnish as to your height, colour of hair, eyes, and date of birth, even supposing you receive any reply at all, you will very surely have wasted your money. None of these folks know any more of your future than The Home Philosopher, and if I could tell the future, I should know what stocks were going to rise, and what horse will win the next Derby, and thereby make more money in a week than the fortune-tellers, if they had ten lives. Depend on it, if they could they would do the same.

CHAPTER V.

In our last interview you saw me firmly and proudly established in my new home in Threadneedle[1]-street.

By this move I became a parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks, whose church and burial-ground were quite close to my new house.

The church was old, for mention is made of it as early as 1368. I cannot give you many particulars about it except that it was rebuilt or renovated in 1462, and that it was slightly injured by the Great Fire in 1666.

It had a certain sort of melancholy interest for me, for it was the burial-place of many who had been my early friends, among others, the Houblon family.

The living, which was in the gift of the bishops of London, was worth only £120 per annum; not a very rich one, you will say.

To save returning to the subject of this parish again, I will tell you now how it is that at the present moment you see neither church nor churchyard, neither parish nor parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks.

The increase in my duties and the variety of work put upon me, rendered the size of my house wholly insufficient for the purpose, therefore, from time to time, as opportunity offered, I purchased houses in the parish, power to do so being granted me by Acts of Parliament, and so rapidly were my purchases made that in fifty years from the time of my settling in Threadneedle-street, I owned the whole parish of St. Christopher le Stocks, save and except seven houses on the west side of Princes-street and the church and burial ground. And of the rates and taxes of the parish I paid five-sixths of the whole.

Even with this extension of room I could not get on, and an Act was passed vesting the glebe land and parsonage belonging to the rector of the parish in the governor and directors of the Bank of England.

Nor was this all; I wish it were. The riot of 1780, which I will tell you about a little later, suggested that the church might prove a dangerous fortress for rioters in case of any attack made on my cellars, and after long consultations I and my directors entered into an agreement with the patrons and rector, with the sanction of Government of course, that the church and churchyard should be ours.

On this site, therefore, the west wing of my residence is built, upon a plan designed by Sir Robert Taylor.

I am glad to get over this point in my story, for the demolition of the church caused such pain to those who had friends and relatives buried there, that I would not witness it again for any consideration.

Even at this distance of time, when I look out from my parlour on to the churchyard, which is now full of flowers, and is, in fact, my garden, my conscience is troubled, and I should have been happier if a building devoted to God’s service had not been destroyed to increase my domain.

It is a painful subject with me, and so I am sure you will excuse my referring to it when the years come under review in which they took place.

Should any of you wish to see memorials of the Church of St. Christopher, you will find one or two in St. Margaret’s, Lothbury, with which parish that of St. Christopher’s was united. They consist of two flat figures placed in niches on either side of the altar, and a metal bust inscribed to Petrus le Maire, 1631, which stands at the west end of the church.

You may not be aware of it, but I have several children of various ages, each with distinct characteristics and purposes, and if you are ever to gain any advantage through your introduction to me it must be by means of one or more of these.

They differ from other people’s children in many respects, and yet I would not have them other than they are.

They bear a high character throughout the world, and are, I may say, blindly trusted, for those who place implicit confidence in them know little or nothing of their daily life and character, which are known thoroughly only by their own circle, and would, I think, be puzzled to give a reason for their trust.

They speak a language peculiarly their own, a language which not one in a thousand of their admirers can understand, yet it is one which, with a little attention, might be taught in our public schools with as much ease as French or Latin, and would richly repay the trouble of learning.

The remark of a man known as Captain Cuttle illustrates the want of education I refer to. He says, “I feel bound to read quotations of the funds every day, though I am unable to make out on any principle of navigation what the figures mean, and could very well dispense with the fractions.”

An equal ignorance is observable in reference to their servants or bodyguard. A comparatively small number of people know anything of their office and its duties, and it has become the fashion to speak of them with contempt, but I think most unreasonably.

I am no friend to ignorance, and will endeavour, while telling you my story, to throw some light upon these points. If I remember rightly, this will be in accordance with your wish conveyed to me in your introduction.

I do not think it would be easy to find a family whose health is such a matter of public solicitation and anxiety as mine. At rapid intervals during the day their pulse is felt, their temperature tested, the figures registered and posted up to public gaze. No sooner do they meet the eye of the anxious crowd than telegraphs and telephones are set to work to carry the announcement far and wide, and according to the knowledge possessed of these figures fortunes are made and fortunes are lost.

They are, as a rule, healthy children, but unfortunately they are dreadfully sensitive, rushing up madly to high spirits on the slightest of good news, and sinking into a state of depression at the very suggestion of a war or even a change of government. I have known even after-dinner speeches at the Mansion House and Guildhall affect them. Unless the state of their feelings were registered you would almost doubt the possibility of trusted creatures being so uncertain in their disposition.

I know that this morbid sensibility is as bad for my children as for those of any other parent, for do I not see advantage taken of it every day?

When their pulses run up to fever height in the morning there is no knowing how low their purses may be before night, for everyone who has studied their language and understands the state of their health by its means takes the opportunity of coming to them for money. The livelong day the plea is for money, which is never refused while my children have a penny.

Of course I am bound to acknowledge that there is another side to the picture, viz., that whenever through bad news they become so low and depressed that you think it impossible they can rally, help comes, and in a way you would not expect.

People no sooner read the bulletin, “Very low to-day,” than they empty their purses, collect their savings, write cheques for their balance at the bankers, and come and lay all at the feet of my children. It is a strange world, and I have a strange family, but so it is.

You might suppose they were my step-children, as they do not bear the family name of Bank or Banks, but you would be wrong in your supposition. They are my very own, their name of Stocks or Funds having been assumed to denote the exact part they play in the world.

You will please to bear in mind that Stocks or Funds are nothing more nor less than debts which the nation owes to the people whose names stand in my books. By doing this much will be clear to you which otherwise would be difficult of comprehension.

We have all experienced that a personal introduction is much more effective than writing, and therefore, without loss of time, permit me to introduce you to my eldest born, Three per Cents. Consols.

Three per Cents. was born in Grocers’ Hall in 1731, and was a baby in arms when I moved into Threadneedle-street.

The circumstances attending her birth were simple. The king, as usual, wanted money, and I managed to obtain it for him by means of a lottery. The money so obtained and lent received the name of Three per Cent. Stocks, by which name it was called until 1752, when, by consent of Parliament, my child was united to a balance of annuities granted by George I., or rather, I should say, consolidated with the annuities, and henceforth was known to the world as Three per Cent. Consols.

Of this child I could say much. She has never given me uneasiness; on the contrary, she is one of the steadiest and most reliable of my children. She is less liable to high flights and deep depression, and it is in her favour I think that old people, widows and orphans, prefer her to the rest of my family.

The next Stock, or, as she is called, Government Stock, to whom I would introduce you, is Three per Cent. Reduced, a curious name, and one which might lead you to think of her as poorer than her sisters—as, in fact, reduced in circumstances. She derived her name in this wise. Originally she was a fund or stock lent to the Government upon condition that those who contributed to it should receive four per cent. for their money, and up to the year 1750 was known as Four per Cent. Government Stock; but circumstances which I need not go into here reduced the interest to three and a half per cent. in that year, at which it remained until 1757, when it was again reduced to three per cent., and henceforth known in society as Three per Cent. Reduced.

A thorough acquaintance with these two members of my family, the way to approach them, to deal with them, and to profit by them, will enable you to understand the whole family of Stocks, and this will save me time and protect you from an old woman’s prosing about her children. All this I hope to do when next we meet. Till then adieu.

It will be remembered that on arriving at Verona the two bachelors wandered about the city, merely glancing at its many beauties, in order to get a general impression, reserving for the next day the task of examining its buildings.

Our hotel at Verona was most picturesque; it had a courtyard in the middle, on to which all the principal rooms looked. There was a fountain in this courtyard, surrounded by dark green shrubs, which had a very cooling and refreshing appearance. The few English and Americans at the hotel were as usual the most pleasant of the guests; in fact, we have always liked those of our countrymen whom we have met abroad, and we venture to think that John Bull on the Continent has been maligned and abused far more than he deserves. We found the English at the places we visited quiet, companionable, and always well-behaved at table. Our satirists a generation back were never tired of depicting the narrowminded prejudices of the English abroad, but we cannot help thinking that many of these prejudices have disappeared, and this seems to be borne out by the undoubted increase of friendly feeling shown to our countrymen when travelling on the Continent, notwithstanding that in many cases we have not so much money to spend as our travelling forefathers had.

We rose early on the day after our arrival at Verona, as we were anxious to see as much as possible of the city before going on to Padua and Venice. As early as nine o’clock we had finished our breakfast and were starting out to see if, on second sight, Verona would delight us as much as its first impression had.

After about five minutes’ walk from our hotel we found ourselves in the Piazza delle Erbe, the fruit-market of Verona. This fine open square was completely filled with stalls, with funny old white umbrellas covering them. On one side of these stalls were little stools about six or seven inches high, on which were seated the oldest of old women, generally knitting. How very ancient these women looked, how wrinkled and furrowed were their countenances! Indeed, we could almost have imagined that these crones were in existence when the palaces and tower of the piazza were being built, and that they have been perched on their stools selling their wares during the centuries that have crumbled the buildings, and reduced the fortunes of Verona, formerly one of the most brilliant cities of Italy, the abode of Dante, Sammicheli the architect, and Paul Cagliari, or Veronese, the last great genius of the North Italian school of painting.

We were anxious to see how these women conducted business, and going up to a particularly old one we asked the price of some oranges. As we could not understand her patois (of which there are over a hundred in Italy—the country of a confusion of tongues!) the older bachelor took up a franc, in exchange for which she was about to present him with two oranges! Fancy this old creature, who had probably lived all her life amidst the beautiful buildings of Verona, and who was at least eighty years of age, attempting to swindle two (as she thought) unwary foreigners. We were walking away disgusted when the woman shouted after us, offering three oranges for the franc; and seeing we were still discontented, she offered four, then five, then six oranges, which last we took, much to the delight of the woman, who even then had probably got double the value of her wares.

Strolling out of the Piazza delle Erbe, we entered the Piazza dei Signori, where there was much to interest us. On one side is the Palazzo del Consiglio, the grandest in Verona. It is built in the early Renaissance style of the fifteenth-century, and is covered with rich and exquisite detail. Near to this palace is the fine marble statue of Dante, erected in 1865. The poet is standing, with his head resting on his right hand. The features are extremely intellectual, but rather stern, such as one would expect in the writer of the “Divina Commedia.”

After the Piazza dei Signori we visited for the second time the tombs of the Scaligers.

Our girls will remember from our last article what a very important part the families of the Visconti and Sforza took in the history of Milan. Now, an almost equally important position was occupied for nearly a century and a half by the Scaligers, or della Scalas, in Verona.

It was about the year 1260 that Mastino della Scala, their first historical character, was elected “captain of the people.” To him succeeded others of the family, like him distinguished as wise rulers, patrons of art, and in every way excellent princes. As time went on the Scaliger family added several other important North Italian towns to their rule, including Lucca, Parma, Brescia, Vicenza, and others. But a little after the middle of the fourteenth century the family began to lose all those excellent qualities which had raised them to fame and power, and from the years 1359 to 1405 the history of the Scaligers is a record of barbarous murder and unprincipled corruption. With their leaders so degraded, it was certain that the Veronese would sooner or later be conquered, either by the Dukes of Milan or the Republic of Venice, and, to put an end to the difficulty, they threw over the rule of the Scaligers, and gave themselves up to the Doge of Venice in 1405.

Repeatedly in Verona one comes across delicately-carved little ladders. These are the arms of the Scaligers (della Scala means “of the ladder”), and they serve to show how great an influence this family exercised for a number of years.

Continuing our walk, we went again to see St. Anastasia, noticing near the entrance the beautiful tomb of Count Castelbarco. This is very like the monument to the Scaligers, and, with the façade of the church, makes a very picturesque subject. The church of St. Anastasia has always been considered as an ideal of Italian Gothic architecture. Street and other experts are never tired of describing its beautiful colour and wonderful symmetry. To the left of the choir is the huge tomb to General Sarego, which has given rise to some controversy. Of the magnificence of the monument there can be no doubt; but it may be questioned whether its gigantic scale does really injure the effect of this fine interior.

From St. Anastasia we went straight across the city to the church of St. Zeno. Our object in doing so was to see, in as short a time as possible from one another, the finest example of Italian Gothic (St. Anastasia), and the church of Zeno, probably the most magnificent Lombardic-Romanesque work in existence.

St. Zeno stands at the far west of the city, almost alone; its magnificent brick and marble campanile standing quite apart from the church. The nave is twelfth-century work, and the choir thirteenth century; internally the latter is raised up upon a crypt which is visible from the nave. The church is supported by alternate piers and columns, shafts of the former being carried up to the roof, thereby breaking the monotony of the vast amount of blank wall between the semicircular arches and the roof. The general effect of the interior is one of extraordinary solidity, but the proportions being so fine, there is no “heaviness” of effect. In the choir is a very curious statue of St. Zeno, sitting most uncomfortably in a chair. He is painted a rich brown colour, holding his episcopal staff, from which is hanging a fish. There are several opinions about this; some describe it as a symbol of baptism, others to the bishop being a famous fisherman. St. Zeno, Bishop of Verona, was an African martyred by Julian the Apostate in the fourth century.

We bachelors, humbly be it said, were not carried away into violent admiration about either St. Anastasia or St. Zeno. To our mind the lofty, clustered columns of Westminster Abbey are far more beautiful than the heavy, round pillars of St. Anastasia; and the magnificent Norman naves of Durham or Norwich Cathedral, with their open triforia and superb vaulting, seem infinitely more splendid than the nave of St. Zeno with the blank wall-spaces over its arches and its heavy timber roof.

After leaving St. Zeno we visited the cathedral, a fine Gothic church not very unlike{330} St. Anastasia, but much larger; St. Fermo Maggiore, a very interesting church containing a monument of the last branches of the Dante family; and Santa Maria in Organo, remarkable amongst other things for its choir stalls and the intarsia work in its sacristy.

It was getting towards evening when we found ourselves again at the old Roman Arena; and we mounted the steps of the latter in order to take one last look at the ancient city. The sun was setting behind the St. Gothard Alps, which glittered like silver, while nearer were the lesser mountains, spurs of the Alps, telling out dark blue; and gathered under our feet were the numberless red brick buildings, churches, towers, and old walls of Verona. It was a beautiful sight, and rendered doubly romantic by the solemn stillness. In these old Italian cities there is often a quiet and absolute silence, which is almost startling to our bustling ears—partly accounted for by the Italians, or North Italians, at any rate never descending to that vulgar rowdyism which the lower classes in our cities take so much delight in.

We got back to our hotel quite late in the evening, after one of the most pleasant days of the whole tour. Notwithstanding our fatigue, however, we could scarcely sleep, so great was our excitement at the idea that to-morrow we should be in Venice—that wonderful city which the older bachelor, at all events, was more anxious to see than any place in the world.

We were, however, to see Padua first, and as the train started early in the morning for that city, we had scarcely had enough sleep, when we were awakened by the femme de chambre, who informed us that the breakfast was ready.

The day on which we left Verona was broiling hot, and the two bachelors, being still tired, went soundly to sleep in the railway carriage. Now, this was a mistake, for Padua is not very far from Verona, and we had only just time to get into a comfortable sleep when we were awakened by the train stopping, and had to rush about the station to look after our luggage, which, after a great deal of trouble, we were able to leave with a porter for the few hours we had to see the city.

Immediately on leaving the station we were much worried by a tout, whom we found almost impossible to get rid of. This and our being awakened from our sleep threw us into a very bad temper, and caused us to express very qualified views as to each other’s intellects and characters. One of the bachelors declares that the other threw mud at him—but this must be only taken in a figurative sense; and one of them (we won’t say which) began to express views respecting the ancient buildings and monuments of Padua something in the style of Mark Twain.

As before stated, it was a broiling day, and we scarcely remember anything more delightful than the delicious coolness of the church of the Eremitani, the first we visited in Padua. This huge church would not be particularly remarkable if it were not for its fine frescoes adjoining the right transept. The best of these are by Andrea Mantegna, a great Paduan master of the end of the fifteenth century, celebrated for his “lifelike” work. But the interest attached to these frescoes sinks into insignificance when compared with those by Giotto in the Arena chapel close to the church of the Eremitani, the importance of which can scarcely be overrated.

Our girls may remember that, when speaking about the Brera Gallery, we mentioned the name of Giotto, and as this painter exercised such a great influence over art, it may not be out of place to take this opportunity of saying a few words about him.

Giotto di Bondoni, born in 1276, has been called the father of modern Italian art, a title given to him on account of the vast progress his pictures show over those of any of his predecessors or contemporaries. Let anyone compare the pictures of Giotto with those of Cimabue, his master, and the most famous representative of the earlier school, and they will see this. Note the bright colour and infinitely greater expression in the former; also the movement, and the less conventional attitudes of the figures. Giotto was also the first to introduce anything approaching to dramatic effect in the art of painting, for which and other reasons he made a reputation far greater than had yet been made in painting—so great, in fact, that it was not surpassed until the age of Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michel Angelo, the great trio of Italian artists, who may be said to have perfected that style of painting of which Giotto was the first representative.

The little Arena chapel at Padua is completely covered by frescoes of Giotto, which are amongst the finest examples of his work to be found out of Florence. The subjects represent the history of Christ and of the Virgin, the former being much more admirable; indeed, some of the subjects, especially the Crucifixion and the Pietá, will compare with any of the master’s work. The two bachelors were a long time looking at and admiring these frescoes, and that they were allowed to do so alone added not a little to their enjoyment. One pays a fee for seeing the Arena chapel, and is given a plan and description of the paintings. This is a great advantage, for it renders the attendance of a guide superfluous, and one is excused the attendance of a dirty little garlic-smelling man, who keeps up an incessant chattering in bad French or execrable English, half of which one does not understand, and the other half Bædeker tells far better.

Having but a short time to see Padua, we tried to find our way at once to the famous church of St. Antonio, known as “Il Santo”; we, however, took about three hours to do so, during which time we saw many interesting churches, some containing frescoes.

The two great painters of this city were the before-mentioned Mantegna, and Squarcione, the founder of the Paduan school. The work of both these painters is remarkable for its scholarly character, to be accounted for from the fact of Padua being the seat of a great university (founded as early as 1238), which attracted learned men from all parts of Europe; and naturally the school of art was influenced by the conflux of scholars and scientific men, which made Padua so important a city in the Middle Ages.

Nearly all the streets in Padua are flanked with arcades, which add much to the picturesqueness of its thoroughfares. We, of course, sought out Il Salone, the palace celebrated for its huge hall, said to be the largest unsupported by columns in the world. The walls of this hall are completely covered with frescoes, nearly 400 in number, more remarkable for their strange subjects than their value as works of art. At one end of the hall is a huge wooden horse; very ugly, the bachelors thought, though it was designed by the great Florentine, Donatello.

After seeing Il Salone the bachelors wandered about for an hour or so, and at last came in sight of the monstrous church of St. Antonio. As this is the work of the greatest architect of the Gothic period in Italy, Nicolo Pisano, we suppose that we ought to have been much struck by it; but we confess that we were not, at any rate by its exterior. The domes, seven in number, bear a most unfortunate resemblance to so many dish-covers, and the kind of circular drums or towers on which they are placed have a kind of truncated look, as if they have been cut short, and were intended to have been much higher.

The west front, though adorned with Gothic arcades, has a bald, sprawling look about it, and does not seem to “fit” the church properly. The sides of the building, moreover, are positively ugly, and there is only one point from which it really looks well, and that is a garden near the east end, where the domes are seen rising up over a group of trees.

The first impression of the interior is rather one of baldness, but when one arrives halfway up the church, and the exquisite chapel of St. Antonio in one of the transepts, a most lovely work by Sansovino, and the very beautiful Gothic altar and screen in the opposite transept are opened out to the view, the first impression is at once corrected.

Perhaps in the whole of Italy there is not to be found a more perfect example of the Renaissance than the exquisite chapel of St. Antonio. It opens from the transept by five arches, the detail and proportion of which are simply perfect. On the opposite wall are five similarly-treated blank arches, filled in with extremely elaborate bas-reliefs, beneath the centre of which is the altar. A semicircular barrelled vault, adorned with detail, perfectly bewildering from its intricacy and delicacy, covers the space between the two arcades. It is certainly a matter for regret that the Renaissance architecture of Italy did not stand still at this beautiful epoch, instead of developing into the wildness and eccentricity of the later school.

On emerging from St. Antonio the bachelors were astonished to find the sky overcast, and to notice the suspicious gusts of wind which generally precede a storm. The latter, however, did not approach Padua, but contented itself by grumbling about in the distant Alps. We were only too glad to be spared its visitation, especially as we were anxious to have a moonlight night by which to form our first impression of Venice.

Scarcely any Englishman ever visits Italy without bothering his friends about his first impression of Venice. But in all probability these first impressions are not formed from the place itself, but from photographs purchased in Oxford-street.

It has always been a question whether the enjoyment which one experiences in seeing a place of great interest about which one knows nothing from pictorial representations, or that experienced upon arriving at one of which every street—nay, almost every stone—has been made familiar by representations, is the greater. Some people have asserted that it is almost impossible not to feel a kind of disappointment upon seeing any place about which one has read very much and has seen very frequently represented. If this be the case, Venice ought to be a disappointment, because no city has been more described, painted, engraved, and photographed. Yet, does it disappoint? Our grandfathers were perhaps in one way fortunate in the fact that Venice must have appeared to them more strange, more wonderful, and more poetical than it can ever appear to us. It is true they must often in fancy have stood upon the Bridge of Sighs—“A palace and a prison on each hand.” They must in fancy have wandered over the Rialto, and have dreamed of marble palaces, their steps washed by the Adriatic. But with them it must have been a mere dream, without form or shape. With us, however, Venice is a thorough reality before we see it. The Campanile of St. Mark, the Doge’s Palace, the white domes of the Salute are almost as well known to those who have never been to Venice as to those who have lived in the place. Consequently, the great element of surprise must to a great extent be wanting to all those who now visit this city.

There are no two places in the world the approach to which excites one so much as Rome and Venice. Rome, according to all{331} account, and notwithstanding the stupendous remains of its ancient monuments and the wonders of its churches, seems always to disappoint. Even a man who approached it with the feelings of Cardinal Newman does not disguise the fact that, pictorially, at any rate, it in no way realises his preconceived notions; and Charles Dickens compares the first appearance of it to London, and seems almost to hesitate whether he would not give the palm to the latter city. But with Venice who shall say? The mind of man can call up palaces which are more beautiful than hands have ever raised. The imagination can raise up air-built structures which no architect, however able, or builder, however skilful, can execute: and, therefore, every city about which one has thought much must be to a certain extent disappointing at first, and it requires a touch of reality to restore the mind to its proper equilibrium; and it is after this has been done that one must judge of the true impression made upon it by any place, scene, or building. Perhaps the old-fashioned saying that “second thoughts are best” may convey our meaning, and one must not judge from one’s first impression of such a city as Venice, or be astonished that one’s first feeling is one of disappointment. Though when the mind has become sobered sufficiently to take in all the various beauties of this matchless place, then one should ask oneself the question, “Is it disappointing?” Whether it proved so to the two bachelors our readers will see in our next chapter.

“Cissy Weller never answers back. You may say the spitefullest things to her, and they disappear like a wave on the sand.”

It was a lovely May afternoon, and Mabel Bruce was returning home between two of her schoolfellows. The three girls had been sauntering leisurely along in the shades of some tall trees, but as Mabel said these words they turned aside to take a nearer cut across some fields, and, the weather being unusually warm for the time of year, they stopped to rest for a few minutes before striking through the broad sunlight, perching themselves in various attitudes upon the stile.

“No; Cissy never answers back,” repeated Mabel, poking in the hawthorn-bush with her sunshade and then bending over her books to readjust the strap in which she was carrying them; “she would be easier to deal with if she did. She’s a splendid sample of Christian patience,” she added, with a sneer.

“‘Patience on a monument, smiling at grief,’” jeered Merry. “She wears a sour enough face over it. For my own part, I hate dumb people. One might as well have to do with posts!”

“Perhaps it is a virtue to be a ‘post,’ sometimes,” suggested the other girl—Eva Daventry, by name. “You wouldn’t care to have a post start up and strike you on the head if you chanced to run into it. That’s what smart-tongued people do. ‘Speech is silvern,’ sometimes; but ‘Silence is golden.’”

Eva Daventry was a more gentle-faced girl than the others, and was often ridiculed for her sentimental, poetic way of viewing things. Even as she said this, she was looking out towards the distant hills, as though her thoughts were far beyond the level of her companions’ comprehension—as indeed they were; for Eva had begun to enter upon a higher life, of which, as yet, neither Mabel nor Merry knew anything.

“Just like one of Eva’s sayings,” cried the latter, with a careless laugh. “I wonder what dried-up old sage invented that absurd axiom! One might as well talk about a cypher being of more value than a unit. Why weren’t we all born dumb?”

“I know who wasn’t!” exclaimed a voice that seemed for the moment to come out of the sky itself; and almost before the girls could turn, Hubert Daventry had swung himself down from one of the larger boughs, and was descending the trunk.

Mabel and Merry sprang to the ground with a startled air, but Eva kept her seat, looking up into her brother’s face with an admiring glance. They were “only” brother and sister, and thought a great deal of each other.

“Now, I’ve got something worth looking at in my pocket,” said Hubert, eyeing the girls with an expression of amusement as he reached terra firma, “and I’ll vouchsafe the first peep to the one who knows how to give ‘the smartest answer.’ Girls have all got tongues, you know. That’s a settled question, so there’s no crying off; it’s simply a matter of competition. Come, now!”

But neither Mabel nor Merry responded to the challenge. It was evident that Hubert had overheard their remarks about Cissy, and it is a speaking fact that, however much girls may indulge in backbiting when by themselves, they inevitably “feel small” if they chance to be caught at it by their boy friends. They know that it is small, and they are ashamed of it. Mabel glanced at Merry, and Merry at Mabel, and both looked down and were silent. Hubert occupied the interval in brushing the green from his clothes.

“Come, now!” repeated he, “the prize is to be fairly won! I can’t in honesty include Eva in the competition after her last remark. When people affect contempt for any particular gift, you may make pretty sure they don’t possess it. It lies between you two.”

“I, for one, don’t want to examine the lining of your pockets!” exclaimed Mabel, saucily.

“I assure you, I didn’t contemplate turning them inside out for inspection,” returned Hubert, mischievously. “What’s in will come out without such strong measures.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Merry. “He has been robbing a nest. I wouldn’t see the poor little creatures for the world. They must be nearly suffocated. It’s cruel, horrible, inhuman, to tear them from their mother just for the sake of torturing them to death!”

“How sharp some people’s ears are!” laughed Hubert, provokingly. “When little birds do take to singing for their supper they make a good deal of noise; but perhaps I’m a trifle deaf. Do you hear them, ’Va?”

“Oh, you are a teaze!” exclaimed Eva, jumping down. “I don’t believe it’s anything alive at all. But it’s high time we pursued our ‘winding way.’ Which direction are you going to take, Hu?”

“I propose doing myself the honour to constitute myself your protector,” returned Hubert, with mock ceremony, “in case you should have rough work with any ‘animated posts’ by the way.”

Mabel and Merry inwardly objected to this arrangement, fearful of Hubert’s sarcastic mood. They could see that he despised their littleness, and they were both dreadfully uncomfortable. But it was too late to go round by the road after delaying so long, so there was no help, and the four went up the field together, Hubert teasing rather unmercifully all the way, until their path divided, when he drew from his pocket and exhibited two insignificant-looking eggs, which he had secured for his collection.

“What’s the matter with Cissy Weller?” he asked, as he walked on with Eva, after calling a parting injunction to the other girls to fight shy of “animated posts.”

“Oh. Cissy is always getting into hot water with the girls,” explained Eva; “through sheer blundering, you know, for she’s a good creature at heart; only she has always had a governess at home, and doesn’t understand the ways of school life, some of which are decidedly unchristian, to my thinking,” added Eva, confidentially. “Then the girls get regularly mad, and do all they can to lash her into a fury. But it is of no use, as they said just now; Cissy never answers back, and it generally ends in her getting sent to Coventry. Poor Cissy! that hurts her more than anything, I believe; she looks so miserable over it. And the strange part of the whole thing is, that if she were to ‘show spirit,’ one or two battles would settle the matter, and they would learn to ‘respect’ her. Hubert, if hot words can do so much, why is silence ‘golden?’”

“Because, in scriptural phrase, angry words ‘stir up strife,’” replied Hubert.

“Why weren’t we all ‘born dumb,’ then?” quoted Eva. “Oh, Hubert, I do wish I could answer them when they say things like that! You could silence them in a minute; but my thoughts travel so slowly. I know it is more Christian not to retort; but I ought to be able to give a reason for what I believe, when other people say such odd things. After all, what use is there in having tongues, if we mayn’t use them in self-defence?”

“In order that we may use them for a better purpose,” answered Hubert, after a few minutes’ reflection. “I thought you had floored me, but I see it now. ‘Speech is silvern,’ and ‘silence is golden;’ but ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath.’ Although Cissy might gain apparent victories by retorting, she would in reality only draw upon herself greater antagonism, whilst, on the other hand, her silence both irritates them and makes them think her craven-spirited. If she were great enough to show her superiority by explaining, or apologising for her blunders, she would very soon put to rout all their hostility and win their hearts: that is, unless girls are made of very different stuff from boys. But this sort of greatness is only to be arrived at in one way,” he added, gravely. “Perhaps you could help her to find out how.”

Eva understood her brother’s meaning, for they often had these confidential talks on serious subjects.

“‘Take my yoke upon you and learn of me,’” she repeated, softly. “I had not thought of trying to help her.”

Hubert was right. An angry retort often provokes the bitterest enmity and does irreparable harm, and silence irritates by its likeness to contempt, but a gentle word is like oil on troubled waters. It is the coin by means of which we may purchase that which neither silver nor gold can buy—the love of an enemy; and more, by thus driving the demon from a human heart we may be the means, in God’s hands, of converting a sinner from the error of his ways. “And if,” said Christ, “he hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother.”

The first lady performer on the violin that I ever heard, which was some forty years ago, was Madame Philipowics, a Polish lady, neither young nor beautiful. And it so happened that she was engaged to perform at an oratorio in Bradford, where I also was engaged to sing the bass solos. So between the acts of the oratorio she was advertised to play an air with variations on the violin, the novelty of the performance of which created a perfect furore, and the applause far exceeded all that was given to the singers of the oratorio. But her execution, although considered wonderful, was not equal to that which Theresa Millanollo produced some time afterwards in the metropolis. “The most dangerous things for our piano-playing scholars to hear,” says Gustave Schilling, in his work on teaching, “are the more productive stringed instruments. One of my scholars,”{333} he continues—“a young lady with whom I had taken special pains, and who was really clever, and had made much progress towards perfection as a pianist—after hearing Theresa Millanollo play the violin, declared that she would give up the piano, and take to that instrument, even though she should be able to play the violin but a little. And I had the greatest difficulty to get her to relinquish her intention, and to excite anew her interest and her former enthusiasm for the continued practice of the piano. But I at last succeeded in convincing her of the folly of her desire to change instruments, and she became, as I predicted, an extraordinary pianist.”

Most students manifest a peculiar liking for some particular instrument at the outset of their career, and if they persevere in their determination to practise it, they often become eminent in its performance.

Good teachers will not fail to take every means in their power to induce their pupils to take pains to arrive at a perfect knowledge of their art. I knew an old country professor, some fifty years ago, who was excessively fond of Haydn’s Symphonies, arranged as quintets for two violins, viola, violoncello, and flute; but he could not often get together the performers where he resided; so, having four grown-up daughters, he taught them to play these instruments in first-rate style, and thereby found no difficulty in indulging his hobby. And they were very particular in keeping their instruments in good order.

In the preservation of a good violin it is requisite that it should be kept, when not in use, in a wooden case, lined with cloth or flannel; and as it is subject to damage from the sudden changes of the weather, the greatest care should be taken to keep it from damp. Too great heat, however, will often render the wood brittle, and make it difficult to produce the tone with the best effect, as the strings are apt to become dry, so that it is not easy to bring out that delicacy of tone which is one of the charms of the instrument. To carry the violin to any distance from home in cold weather, it should always be put into its case, or else it is apt to condense moisture when brought into a warm room, and to cause dust to accumulate both inside and outside of it. And it should never be left out of its case in the summer, as the flies are almost certain to get into the f holes, and leave their filth in it, much to the detriment of its tone. It is also absolutely necessary to keep the violin perfectly clean; and the resin-dust should be carefully wiped off with a soft linen cloth before and after using it. It is a good plan to insert a handful of warm barley into the interior, through the f holes, and by shaking it well the dust will attach itself to the seed, and will be brought out with the barley through the f holes. This process should be performed twice a year, and the instrument will be better preserved for it. To keep the strings on the instrument in good order for any length of time, take a small piece of taffeta and moisten it with almond oil, and rub it lightly over the strings, from the bridge to the nut, after using the violin, and before putting it into its case. And when you want to use it again, wipe off the oil with a piece of fine linen. This plan is especially beneficial to the fourth or G string, which, however much it may be stretched before being covered with wire, is apt to shrink in summer, when the wire gets loose if the string is not subjected to the oiling. The advantage of adhering to this plan will be that the strings will not become dry, and will retain a smoothness of tone, and keep the moisture from the fingers from being detrimental to the strings, and prevent their producing a false tone, or that grating or whistling so common in the use of the resin from the bow. This treatment of the instrument was communicated to Ernst by Otto, and Ernst mentioned it frequently to the professors and amateurs, who readily adopted it and found considerable advantage therefrom. The proper means of preserving strings not in immediate use is stated to be the moistening them with the best almond oil, putting them into a piece of calves’ or pig’s bladder, and enclosing them in a tin box. Most violin players know where to procure the best strings. Another important thing connected with the violin is its having a paper bridge fitted for it, which should be specially adapted to the instrument. If the performer has a good violin, there will be no difficulty in procuring a good and proper bridge for it when it is required. And the next thing to having a good bridge is that of having a good set of pegs for tuning the violin. In Germany girls are taught to play the cornet, the French horn, and various other wind instruments; but whether it would be decorous for our females to imitate such examples is rather doubtful. It is by constant use, and not by age only, that a violin becomes mellow in tone; but a great deal depends on the maker. It is true that Cremonas and other violins which have been in constant use for many years have acquired a character for superiority beyond most others, consequently they often fetch a larger price—more, perhaps, from having been in the possession of first-rate performers than from any intrinsic value in the instruments themselves. It is not our intention, however, to give any account of the manufacture of the violin—those who are curious in such matters may consult a thousand other works on the subject, which are to be obtained of the music publishers, both foreign and English.

CHAPTER XIX.

ighteen years have, of course, made a great many changes in Château de Thorens. The old baroness is long since at rest, she died a few years after her son Léon was drowned; and Père Yvon, though still alive, is very old and infirm, and lives in daily expectation that the summons will come for him to follow his late patroness to her last home. The baron is stouter than he was when he ran down the spiral staircase with his infant daughter in his arms that midsummer evening, whose work he would have given the rest of his life to undo, so bitterly had he repented of it. His hair, too, is turning white, though he is under five and forty still, and there is a settled melancholy look in his brown eyes, which not all the jokes of his three sons can ever wholly chase away. The young baroness is no longer known by that name since the old baroness died, yet she still looks very young to be the mother of those three great boys, the eldest of whom, a tall handsome youth of sixteen, named Léon, after his poor uncle, to whom he bears a striking resemblance, is now hanging over her and trying to persuade her to ride with him before dinner this September evening.

“Nonsense, mother, it will do you good; you are getting much too stout,” said Léon, mischievously; for he knew his mother prided herself on her figure, which was slight and almost girlish.

“Léon, you dreadful boy! I am sure it is not true! I will ask your father; and I certainly won’t ride with you now, to punish you for your impertinence. Besides Rex de Courcy came back yesterday, and I am sure he will be here later to see me.”

“Ah! now we have got at the real reason. Of course, if Rex is coming I have not a chance,” said Léon, half in earnest, half in fun, for he was rather jealous of his mother’s friendship for Rex de Courcy.

“Don’t be silly, Léon; I have not seen Rex for two months, and I am longing to hear all about his visit to England. Besides, I never can forget what a comfort Rex was to me before any of you boys were born; he always seems to me almost like one of my own sons. Go and get your father to ride with you; it will do him good; and tell the other boys Père Yvon is expecting them in the study,” replied the baroness.

These three boys were the only children she had, and though she worshipped them, and had long since ceased to grieve for her little baby daughter,{334} yet the baron, proud as he was of his sons, never forgot the little girl he had got rid of so much more thoroughly than he had ever intended to do. He never spoke of the child even to his wife, and all the boys knew of her was that they once had a little sister who was drowned with their Uncle Léon; and yet a day never passed on which the baron did not think of her, and in his secret heart he cherished a hope, vain and futile as he knew that hope to be, that, after all, perhaps she had not perished with Léon, and he might yet live to hold her in his arms. Perhaps if he had had another daughter to take the place of the lost one he might not have hankered after the sleeping baby he had so ruthlessly torn from its luxurious home to be cast upon the waves of a wicked world. But no other daughter had come, and, though her three fine boys satisfied the baroness’s heart, there always remained an empty place in her husband’s.

As the baroness had said, Reginald de Courcy had been a great comfort to her in those sad days when she believed her own baby to have perished with Léon. From the day when she went to stay at Parc de Courcy, while her husband and M. de Courcy were in England inquiring into the loss of the Hirondelle, until her own Léon was born, the baroness thought a day lost unless she had half an hour of the pretty little Rex’s society; and ever since, though he was too old to be a companion for her boys, Reginald had been a constant visitor at Château de Thorens, which he looked upon as a second home, and came and went as he pleased.

It was now two months since he went on a visit to Oafham Park, a visit spent, as we know, in winning Fairy’s heart; and the baroness, who had heard rumours of some love affair which had occupied Rex in England, was expecting him to call this evening, feeling sure he would make her his confidante. And in this she was not disappointed, for when Rex appeared, as he did a little later in the afternoon, she found he was quite as anxious to talk of his late experiences in England as she was to hear.

Like all lovers, Rex felt the next best thing to being with his beloved was to be with someone to whom he could openly discourse upon her perfections; moreover, he had great hopes of winning the baroness to take his part in the matter, in which case perhaps she might be prevailed upon to invite Fairy to come and stay at Château de Thorens, and he felt confident if his people could only see her apart from her foster family, they could not in reason object to her as a daughter-in-law.

“And you are really engaged, Rex?” asked the baroness, when Rex had paused to take breath in the midst of an eloquent panegyric on Fairy’s beauty and many virtues.

“Of course I am, and what is more I mean to marry her as soon as she is of age, in spite of all my people may say to the contrary, and at present I don’t see a chance of their giving their consent.”

“But why not? I thought your mother had always declared she would let you choose your wife in the English fashion; and surely she would rather you married an English girl and a Protestant, would she not?”

“Yes; but, ahem! you see there are some insuperable difficulties, which, at present, I don’t see any way to overcoming.”

“Oh! of course, we always are until we are wives; but who is she?” said the baroness, beginning to suspect there was a great deal more to be confessed yet.

“Well, you see, that is the very thing, I don’t know who she is; she does not know herself; in fact, nobody knows.”

“Nobody knows who she is! My dear Rex, this is very odd; pray explain yourself. Who is she?”

“She is the dearest, prettiest, sweetest, most elegant little creature you ever saw in your life. Her hair——” began Rex.

“Oh, but you have told me all about her hair and her wonderful eyes and her exquisite complexion before; I want to know her name, and where she lives, and what her father is, and all about her.”

“She has not a father; in fact, she has no relations. She was found by her foster father when she was a baby, and the people all believe the fairies brought her, and they call her the fairies’ child.”

“But, my dear Rex, there are no such things as fairies; surely you can’t believe what those ignorant English peasants say. Who is her foster father then?”

“Well, that is the unfortunate part; he is only a shepherd, and yet Fairy, that is her only name, is as perfect a lady as my mother or Lady Oafham.”

“Oh, but my dear Rex, it is impossible, brought up in a shepherd’s cottage!” said the baroness.

“Do you mean to say I don’t know a lady when I see one?” asked Rex, angrily.

“On the contrary, I don’t know a better judge, but in this case, Rex, don’t you think it is possible you are biassed by your feelings; don’t look so black at me; you know I always tell you exactly what I think, and if you begin to quarrel with me about this wonderful Fairy, I shan’t like her.”

“I am not going to quarrel, only I want you to believe me, though, of course, it must sound incredible. She has been educated like a lady with the rector’s daughters, she speaks French better than any English person, except my mother, I have ever met; she paints and sings charmingly, and the Leslies—Mr. Leslie is the rector and a friend of the Oafhams—are as fond of her as of their own children, and she often stays with them, and nearly always spends her mornings at the rectory, and the Leslies think there is no doubt she is a lady by birth, though they have never been able to trace her parentage. They know no more about her origin than I do, namely that she was found by the shepherd on his doorstep one summer evening.”

“No, my people know nothing at present unless the Oafhams have ferretted it out.”

“Then what made you tear yourself away? I thought you were to stay in England for some Protestant carnival in November?”

“So I was to have done, but Mr. Leslie persuaded me to go away because the shepherd would not allow me to see her any more unless I had my father’s consent to our engagement, and at present I know it would be worse than useless to ask for it. But the Leslies and I have made a little plan by which I hope to win it. If I tell you the plot you will promise not to breathe it to anyone, not even the baron; if it fails, I give you leave to tell him; and if it succeeds, of course everyone will know. Will you promise?”

“Well, you know, my father is going over to this carnival, which takes place at Lewes on the 5th of November. It is a grand sight, some people say, only second to the Carnival at Rome; some say it is better. The Leslies are going to invite Fairy to spend a week with them. They will bring her to the carnival and introduce father to her. He is sure to be charmed with her, and will go and call on the Leslies, where he will see she is like one of the family, and then I hope to win his consent to our marriage before he finds out her foster-parents, or perhaps in spite of it, for Fairy is sure to captivate him.

“I don’t think anyone could resist her. Even her foster-father was obliged to consent to this plan when she asked him, though he wanted to put a stop to our engagement at once and get me packed off here for good. I must say the man behaved uncommonly well, though, about it, and acted with the feelings of a gentleman, though he is only a peasant. He said he knew it would be exceedingly disagreeable to me to have to discuss the subject of my marriage with a poor man like him, so he went to Mr. Leslie and put the matter in his hands, asking him to speak to me, and so the very day after I was engaged to Fairy I had a letter from Leslie, asking me to call on him the next morning. I went, little dreaming what he wanted to see me about, and there I was closeted with him the whole morning, and a nice state of mind I was in when I heard I was never to see my Fairy again unless my father consented to our marriage. However, Leslie I soon found, though at first he was on stilts, was on my side, and we arranged the little conspiracy I have just told you, for he thinks with me if my father can only see her apart from her foster-parents, he will be so favourably impressed with her that he will eventually give his consent. But Leslie would only promise to help me on condition I left England at once; he would not even agree to my seeing Fairy again, though he promised to go and tell her at once what we had planned, and he consented to my writing to her once a week.

“I went back to Oafham, intending to return home at the end of the week without seeing Fairy again, though I did not know how to keep away from her. But, to my joy, Mr. Leslie walked over the next morning, and told me I might go that afternoon and say good-bye, for Fairy had spent the whole of the previous day in crying and saying, ‘I want my Rex,’ ‘I will have my Rex,’ ‘I don’t care what John says, I will have my Rex;’ so when the shepherd came home that evening he went to Leslie at once, before he had his supper, and said he could not bear to see his little sunbeam in tears, and I might go and bid her good-bye. So I went, and found her as bright as ever, and Mrs. Shelley laughing at her and saying she wished everyone’s sorrows were as shortlived as Fairy’s, who cried for her lover for a whole day, as if she were crying for a doll, like the child she was; and then the shepherd, who had always spoilt her, sent for me, and gave his wife a good scolding for letting me go to the house in the first instance. But I shall tire you out with my tales of Fairy. I could talk of her all day long and all night, too,” said Rex.

“Well, you must stop and dine with us. Arnaud will be glad to see you again. You won’t tell him about it, I suppose?”

“No, certainly not. Please don’t tell him a word, will you? My mother would not like it if she knew I had told you; but, you see, it would never do for me to tell my people under present circumstances.”

The baroness promised not to mention it to her husband, little thinking that the Fairy in question was no other than her long-lost and now forgotten daughter. It never for one moment occurred to her that such a thing could be possible, for she had never doubted that the child had perished in the Hirondelle with Léon. Nor was she at all aware that her husband doubted this, and cherished a secret hope that one day he might find his long-lost treasure. Perhaps had she known this she might have begged Rex’s permission to mention this mysterious love of his to Arnaud; and one thing is certain, had she done so the baron would not have rested until he had been to Lewes and made every inquiry, and in all probability he would have discovered the truth.

On such trifles as we count them does the whole course of our lives turn. One word from the baroness to her husband, and that word might—and in all probability would—have led to the recovery of their child; but that word was not spoken, and Fairy remained at the shepherd’s.

Very slowly indeed did those two months of September and October pass for Rex, and as the baroness was his only confidante, it was natural that he should spend a great deal of his time at Château de Thorens; and when the baron and his sons were present, since he could not talk of Fairy, he was never tired of talking of the Lewes carnival, to which he looked forward with such impatience. Indeed, he so fired the imagination of the baron with his description of the wonderful doings which were to take place, that there was at one time some talk of the baron going over with M. de Courcy and Rex; but Père Yvon put his foot on this arrangement, by objecting to Arnaud’s being present at a demonstration against Roman Catholics; and as Rex could not deny that he believed part of the proceedings consisted in mobbing the Roman Catholics of the town, and in travestying some of their sacred rites, the baron abandoned his scheme, for he was a devout Romanist, and submitted to Père Yvon’s authority in all spiritual matters.

At last the first of November dawned, and that day Rex and his father crossed the Channel, hoping to reach Oafham in due time for the wild revels of the fifth.

EDUCATIONAL.

WORK.

ART.

HOUSEKEEPING.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Daphne and Muriel.—You had better make your own selection amongst those named in the “Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” (Griffith and Farran, St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.) The rules, fees, and prizes differ in the various societies respectively, so you should be acquainted with them. Any stationer would procure a copy for you, or you could write direct; price one shilling and sixpence. 2. A very little salad oil applied with a scrap of flannel, and rubbed dry with a chamois leather, would suit the black furniture.

Anxious Inquirer.—We thank you for your offer of articles; but our staff of experienced writers and authors is very ample, and we have no means of assisting you in this way. Good wood engravings sell well, but the competition is considerable.

Adelheid von Döring.—1. The word “anomalous” means irregular, deviation from ordinary rules, abnormal. 2. Pierre, in the line of Byron’s “Childe Harold”—

“Shylock and the Moor,

And Pierre cannot be swept or worn away,”

was a conspirator in Otway’s tragedy of Venice Preserved. He dies, stabbed by Jaffer.

Nest Bird.—The Castle of Hurstmonceux is Norman. Waleran de Monçeau, first lord of the district, gave his name to it. From an heiress of this family, it passed to Sir John de Fienes, whose descendants, the Lords Dacre, held it till 1708. An ancient manor-house existed on the site of the castle. This was built, temp. Henry VI., by Sir Roger de Fienes, entirely of brick. The interior, having fallen into decay, was demolished by Wyatt (architect), and used for enlarging the present mansion, Hurstmonceux Place, at one side of the park. The shell of the castle remains—half fortress, half mansion. The moat was drained, temp. Elizabeth. The flanking towers are eighty-four feet high, and capped by watch turrets. The shield of the Fienes, with their supporters, the alannes, or wolf-dog, figured in most of the windows, and over the porter’s lodge was a room called “The Drummer’s Hall,” in which, tradition says, a treasure chest was concealed and guarded by a supernatural drummer, whose drum was occasionally heard at midnight.

Tomboy.—Has your mother provided a leather (calfskin) suit for you of the “bloomer” or bathing-dress style? If not, how about the dresses she gives you? Surely they are very unsuitable for the “climbing of trees”? You may enjoy plenty of good exercise, in a great variety of ways, that will not injure your clothes. Of course, if a mad dog or ferocious bull were racing after you, no one could object to your climbing either a tree or a wall, and you might prepare for such an event by some lessons in gymnastic exercises.

Birne seems injudicious in her attempt to take high notes. She risks the over-straining of her voice, and in so doing may lose it altogether. One hour’s practice daily is quite sufficient, if not preparing as a professional, in which case the period allotted for it should be divided; and you should not attempt to sing after taking outdoor exercise.

High-school Girl.—1. Playing such games with your brothers under the circumstances you name could not be at all objectionable. 2. Your verses need counting through, and the beat or emphasis placed on the proper syllable, as on the corresponding one in its corresponding line. The verses have, otherwise, some merit.

White Rosebud.—The old brass coin which you describe appears to be only a token, and of no value.

Thomas D.—The story of the Barmecide Feast is given in the “Arabian Nights,” in the tale of the “Barber’s Sixth Brother.” Schacabac, the hare-lipped, a poor man in the greatest distress, called one day on the rich Barmecide, who, in merry jest, asked him to dine with him. Barmecide first washed in hypothetical water, Schacabac following his example; Barmecide then pretended to eat of various dainties; Schacabac did the same, and praised them highly, and so the feast was carried on to its close; Barmecide was so pleased that Schacabac had the good taste and temper to enter into the spirit of the joke without resentment that he ordered a real banquet, at which he made Schacabac a welcome guest. Thus, a Barmecide feast is a dream feast, an illusion, a “castle in the air.”

C. B. D.—1. We cannot quite make out whether you intended to hoax us or have been imposed on yourself by some would-be funny person. No such person as John Yarrow appears in “Alibone,” nor in any such book as a poet or elocutionist, nor as having refused the Poet Laureateship before it was offered to Tennyson. 2. What the “gold key of Windsor” is you must ask your informant to explain. Perhaps it is what the Irishman called “the kay to stay out” when he was ordered from the house!

Soldier’s Daughter.—A “drumhead” court-martial was a military court held on the spot, and the trial concluded without further meeting. The word originated from the fact that the big drum was placed on the three smaller ones for a table, and the court formed round it, the regiment being “in square” to witness the proceedings.

Scotch Lassie.—Your very gratifying letter deserves our warm acknowledgments. The wishes you express for us we heartily return on your behalf.

Mayflower (Halifax).—By some accident your flower has fallen out of your letter, and we regret our inability to enlighten you upon it.

Glasgow Lassie.—Sponge the leaves of the plant with tobacco-juice. We think that will free it from the vermin.

Dolly R.—1. Your verses have more merit than the majority sent to us. We could not promise their insertion, and in any case they were not certified according to our rule. 2. Read our article on the care of the hair, and consult our indexes for answers given on the same subject.

Ragged Robin.—You should procure an old almanack of the year 1857 for the information you require; likewise one for 1860.

Ralph Roister Doister.—The House of Parliament is spoken of as a whole, not as separate individuals. Thus you say “the House is,” “the House was,” not “the House are,” nor “the House were.” See “The Handbook of the English Tongue,” by Dr. Angus.

Tall Girl.—Provided that your intimacy with this man and the fact of his alluding to your eventual marriage be known to your parents and approved of, the next time he makes such an allusion, ask him about the wishes of his own family in respect to it, and say that you could not consent to any clandestine engagement; on your own part all was open and satisfactory, and you required that all should be equally so on his. An introduction to his parents should be arranged for without any further delay, and they and your own parents should have an interview together to settle all business matters on behalf of yourself and any future family.

Pop.—We could not say that to dye the hair is wrong; it is unwise and unbecoming. Some people’s hair turns grey in separate streaks and patches, and has a magpie effect, which forms some excuse for temporary dyeing. But it is a very silly, vain thing for a young girl to dye her eyebrows, especially as the attempt at deception of such a kind is so complete a failure. That no one knows your secret is a mere delusion. Your “no ones” must be remarkably “blind buzzards.”

Gumpot had better send her dress to a dyer’s, as she has made such a failure herself. Home-dyeing is usually so.

Wee-wo.—It is perfectly inadmissible to pick any description of bones in the fingers in any polite society. It is a dirty habit, which obtains amongst third or fourth class foreigners. Possibly you might see an old and decrepid person or invalid of the upper circles of society breaking through all acknowledged rules of good breeding when in the privacy of home, and do many little things which they would certainly not have done in former times. They take a special licence, as it were, in view of the infirmities of health or age; but no such liberty could be accorded to younger or stronger persons.

Miss Biggs.—If you look through one or two of our recent numbers you will find a long answer on the subject of phosphorescent plants, etc.

Leamingtonian.—1. We thank you warmly for your gratifying letter. We can quite understand that our answers, like the arrow “drawn at a venture,” will often strike where unknown to us, and carry, as you say, regarding yourself, “a message specially for me.” 2. The celebrated “White Horse of Wantage” (Berkshire), cut out of the chalk hills, commemorates a great victory gained by Alfred over the Danes during the reign of his then reigning brother, Ethelred I. It is called the Battle of Æscesdun (Ashtree-hill). The length of the horse is 384 feet, and it is visible at a distance of fifteen miles.

A Lady Student of Music.—We have read your letter with much distress; it reveals a state of things which should not exist. Professors in musical colleges should treat their young lady students with the same respect they would be obliged to show if they were giving lessons under their fathers’ roof. They should certainly not call them by their Christian names. We hope your letter is exaggerated; but we should, in any case, advise the authorities of such institutions to keep a sharper lookout, and, if need be, establish a duenna in each room, who should be empowered to keep these exuberant and presuming professors in order. There is nothing to prevent any girl from saying that she prefers being called Miss So-and-so to the use of her Christian name by strangers.

Ivy Leaf.—We believe that Lullington Church, in Sussex, is the smallest church in England; it is sixteen feet square; but, judging from some ruins on the exterior, it formed only part of a larger building, of which the present church may have been only the chancel. Tilham Church, near Gainsborough, is twenty-six feet long and seventeen feet wide. There are also small churches at Culborne, near Minehead, Chilcomb-grove, in Buckinghamshire, and St. Lawrence, in the Isle of Wight.

Matty.—We think, if your egg-eating hen be of little value, you had better have her killed at once; but the fault usually begins through lack of lime, which hens should always be able to get. Some people keep a box of old mortar and lime rubbish in a corner of the hen-house.

Mizpah.—Get a concordance, make a note of all the passages in which the term occurs, and draw your own conclusions. It is often the case that the accessories connected with certain acts—the company, hours, expenses, etc.—are alone to be condemned as more or less objectionable; not the mere act itself. Change these, and the latter may be good in itself. But we have no liberty to judge our neighbours in such matters. Every man must be “fully persuaded in his own mind.” “To his own Master he standeth or falleth.”

Spider.—It never was etiquette to wear gloves at dinner. Mittens may be worn. Sweetbreads are eaten with a fork; a knife is not necessary.

Emily Day.—How disgusting your description! To neglect brushing the teeth and cleansing the mouth brings its well-deserved and bitter punishment. A visit to a dentist is now essential, and you should make a bargain with him for doing all that is necessary after he has examined all the teeth.

G. Todd.—Consult our indexes, and send your gloves to a cleaner.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] More probably Threeneedle-street, from the fact of the Merchant Taylors’ Hall being situated in it.

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THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

SPRING: ITS TROUBLES AND DANGERS.

A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.

CHAPTER III.

VARIETIES.

ADVERTISING SWINDLES.

THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

CHAPTER V.

OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.

“SILENCE IS GOLDEN,” BUT “A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”

HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A VIOLIN.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

CHAPTER XIX.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

WORK.

ART.

HOUSEKEEPING.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

SPRING: ITS TROUBLES AND DANGERS.

A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.

CHAPTER III.

VARIETIES.

ADVERTISING SWINDLES.

THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND; OR, THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

CHAPTER V.

OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.

“SILENCE IS GOLDEN,” BUT “A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”

HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A VIOLIN.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

CHAPTER XIX.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

WORK.

ART.

HOUSEKEEPING.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.