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

MERLE’S CRUSADE: Chapter 1.
THE AMATEUR CHURCH ORGANIST.
EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN: Part 1.
VARIETIES.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY: Chapter 1.
FASHIONABLE EMBROIDERY.
ROMANCE.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
AUTUMN.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

“‘WHAT A PITY YOU STOPPED ME JUST THEN.'”

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CHAPTER I.
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.

erle, I may
be a little old-fashioned
in
my notions;
middle-aged
people never
adjust their
ideas quite in
harmony with
you young
folk, but in my
day we never
paused to
count fifty at
a full stop.”

Aunt Agatha’s
voice
startled me
with its reproachful
irritability.
Well, I had
deserved that
little sarcasm
for I must
confess that I had been reading very
carelessly. My favourite motto was ringing
in my ears, “Laborare est orare.”

Somehow the words had set themselves
to resonant music in my brain;
it seemed as though I were chanting
them inwardly all the time I was climbing
down the steep hill with Christiana
and her boys. Laborare est orare.
And this is what I was reading on that
still, snowy Sunday afternoon: “But we
will come again to this Valley of Humiliation.
It is the best and most fruitful
piece of ground in all these parts.
It is a fat ground, and, as you see,
consisteth much in meadows, and if a
man was to come here in the summertime
as we do now, if he knew not anything
before thereof, and if he delighted
himself in the sight of his eyes, he might
see that which would be delightful to
him. Behold how green this valley is,
also how beautiful with lilies! I have
known many labouring men that have
got good estates in this Valley of Humiliation.”

“Merle,” observed Aunt Agatha, a
little dryly, “we may as well leave off
there, for it seems that you and I are to
have our estate among the labouring
men in this very valley.”

Aunt Agatha was a clever woman,
and could say shrewd things sometimes,
but she never spoke a truer word than
this; but my wits were no longer wool-gathering.

“What a pity you stopped me just
then,” I remarked, somewhat sententiously;
“we have missed the purest
gem of the allegory. ‘He that is down
need fear no fall; he that is low no
pride.'” But here a hand was lifted in
protesting fashion.

“Put the marker in the page, child,
and spare me the rest; that is in favour
of your argument, not mine,” for a weary
discussion had been waged between us
for two whole hours—a discussion that
had driven Aunt Agatha exhausted to
the couch, but which had only given me
a tingling feeling of excitement, such as
a raw recruit might experience at the
sight of a battlefield. Aunt Agatha’s
ladylike ideas lay dead and wounded
round her while I had made that last
impetuous charge.

“I am of age, a free Englishwoman,
living in a free country, and not all the
nineteenth century prejudices, though
they are thick as dragons’ teeth, shall
prevent me, Merle Fenton, of sane mind
and healthy body, from doing what I
believe to be my duty.”

“Humph, I am rather doubtful of the
sanity; I always told you that you were
too independent and strong-minded for
a girl; but what is the use of preaching
to deaf ears?” continued Aunt Agatha,
in a decidedly cross voice, as she arranged
the cushions comfortably.

It was true that I was getting the
best of the argument, and yet I was
sorry for Aunt Agatha. I felt how I was
shocking all her notions of decorum and
propriety, and giving pain to the kindest
and gentlest heart in the world; but one
cannot lead a new crusade without
trampling on some prejudices. I knew
all my little world would shriek “fie,”
and “for shame” into my ears, and all
because I was bent on working out a new
theory. The argument had grown out
of such a little thing. I had shown Aunt
Agatha an advertisement in the Morning
Post, and announced my intention of
answering it in person the following
morning.

“NURSE.—Can any lady recommend
a thoroughly conscientious superior person
to take charge of two children,
baby eighteen months old? Assistance
given in the nursery. Must be a good,
plain needlewoman. Prince’s Gate,
S.W.”

To the last day of my life I do not
think that I shall ever forget Aunt
Agatha’s face when she read that advertisement.

“You intend to offer yourself for this
situation, Merle—to lose caste, and take
your place among menials? It is enough
to make my poor brother rise in his
grave, and your poor, dear mother too,
to think of a Fenton stooping to such
degradation.” But I will forbear to
transcribe all the wordy avalanche of
lady-like invective that was hurled at
me, accompanied by much wringing of
hands.

And yet the whole thing lay in a nut-shell.
I, Merle Fenton, sound, healthy,
and aged two-and-twenty, being
orphaned, penniless, and only possessing
one near relative in the world—Aunt
Agatha—declined utterly to be dependent
for my daily bread and the
clothes I wore on the goodwill of her
husband and my uncle by marriage,
Ezra Keith.

No, I was not good. I daresay I was
self-willed, contradictory, and as obstinate
as a mule that will go every way but
the right way, but, all the same, I loved
Aunt Agatha, my dead father’s only
sister, and I detested Uncle Keith with
a perfectly unreasonable detestation.

Aunt Agatha had been a governess
all her life. Certainly the Fenton family
had not much to boast of in the way of
wealth. Pedigree and poverty are not
altogether pleasant yoke fellows. It
may be comfortable to one’s feelings to
know that a certain progenitor of ours
made boots at the time of the Conquest,
though I am never quite sure in my mind
that they had bootmakers then; but my
historical knowledge was always defective.
But a little money is also pleasant;
indeed, if the pedigree and the money
came wooing to me, and I had to choose
between them—well, perhaps I had
better hold my tongue on that subject;
for what is the good of shocking people
unless one has a very good reason for
doing so?

My father’s pedigree did not help him
into good practice, and he died young—a
grave mistake, people tell me, for a
professional man to commit. My mother
was very pretty and very helpless, but
then she had a pedigree, too, and, probably,
that forbade her to soil her white
hands. She was a fine lady, with more
heart than head, which she had lost
most unwisely to the handsome young
doctor. After his death, she made
futile efforts for her child’s sake, but
the grinding wheel of poverty caught the
poor butterfly and crushed her to death.

My poor, tender-hearted, unhappy
mother! Well, the world is a cruel
place to these soft, unprotected natures.

I should have fared badly but for Aunt
Agatha; her hardly-earned savings
were all spent on my education. She
was a clever, highly-educated woman,
and commanded good salaries, and out
of this she contrived to board and maintain
me at a school until she married,
and Uncle Keith promised that I should
share their home.

I never could understand why Aunt
Agatha married him. Perhaps she was
tired of the drudgery of teaching; at
forty-five one may grow a little weary
of one’s work. Perhaps she wanted a
home for her old age, and was tired of
warming herself at other people’s fires,
and preferred a chimney corner of her
own; but, strange to say, she always
scouted these two notions with the utmost
indignation.

“I married your uncle, Merle,” she
would say, with great dignity, “because
he convinced me that he was the right
person for me to marry. I have no
more idea than you how he contrived to
instil this notion into my head, for
though I am a plain body and never
had any beauty, I must own I liked tall,
good-looking men. But there, my dear,
I lived forty-five years in the world without
three things very common in women’s
lives—without beauty, without love, and
without discontent.” And in this last
clause she was certainly right. Aunt
Agatha was the most contented creature
in the world.

If Uncle Keith—for never, never
would I call him Uncle Ezra, even had
he asked me as a personal favour to do
so—if Uncle Keith had been rich I
could have understood the marriage
better, being rather a mercenary and
far-sighted young person, but he had
only a very small income. He was
managing clerk in some mercantile
house, and, being a thrifty soul, invested
all his spare cash instead of
spending it.

Aunt Agatha had lived in grand
houses all her life, but she was quite[Pg 3]
content with the little cottage at Putney
to which her husband took her. They
only kept one servant; but Aunt Agatha
proved herself to be a notable housekeeper.
She arranged and rearranged
the old-fashioned furniture that had
belonged to Uncle Keith’s mother until
she had made quite a charming
drawing-room; but that was just her
way; she had clever brains, and clever
fingers, and to manipulate old materials
into new fashions was just play work to
her.

But for me, I am perfectly convinced
that Aunt Agatha would have called
herself the happiest woman in the world,
but my discontent leavened the household.
If three people elect to live
together, the success of the scheme
demands that one of the three should
not smile sourly on all occasions.

For two whole years I tried to be
amiable when Uncle Keith was in the
room, and at last gave up the attempt
in despair, baffled by my own evil
tempers, and yet I will say I was not a
bad-tempered girl. I must have had
good in me or Aunt Agatha would not
have been so fond of me. I call that a
real crucial test—other people’s fondness
for us.

Why is it so difficult to get on with
some folk, very worthy people in their
way?

Why do some people invariably rub
up one’s fur until it bristles with discomfort?
Why do these same thoroughly
estimable creatures bring a sort
of moral east wind with them, scarifying
one’s nerves? Surely it is beneath the
dignity of a human being to be rasped
by a harsh, drawling voice, or offended
by trifling mannerisms. Uncle Keith
was just like one of my sums—you might
add him up, subtract from him, divide
or multiply him, but he would never
come right in the end; one always
reckoned that he was more or less than
he was. He was a little, pale, washed-out
looking man, with sandy hair and
prominent brown eyes. Being an old
bachelor when he married Aunt Agatha,
he had very precise, formal ways, and
was methodical and punctual to a fault.
Next to Uncle Keith, I hated that white-faced
watch of his. I hated the slow,
ponderous way in which he drew it from
his pocket, and produced it for my special
benefit.

I have said that my detestation of
Uncle Keith was somewhat unreasonable.
I must own I had no grave
reasons for my dislike. Uncle Keith
had a good moral character; he was a
steady church-goer, was painstaking
and abstemious; never put himself in a
passion, or, indeed, lost his temper for a
minute; but how was a girl to tolerate
a man who spent five minutes scraping
his boots before he entered his own
door, whatever the weather might be;
who said, “Hir-rumph” (humph was
what he meant) before every sentence,
booming at one like a great bee; who
always prefaced a lecture with a “my
dear;” who would not read a paper
until it was warmed; who would burn
every cinder before fresh coals were
allowed on the fire; who looked reproachfully
at my crumbs (I crumbled
my bread purposely at last), and scooped
them carefully in his hand for the benefit
of the birds, with the invariable remark,
“Waste not, want not,” a saying I
learnt to detest?

I suppose if we are ever admitted
into heaven we shall find very odd
people there; but perhaps they will
have dropped their trying ways and
peculiarities, as the chrysalis drops its
case, and may develop all sorts of new
prismatic glories. I once heard a lady
say that she was afraid the society
there would be rather mixed; she was a
very exclusive person; but Solomon tells
us that there is nothing new under the
sun, so I suppose we shall never be
without our modern Pharisees and
Sadducees. The grand idea to me is
that there will be room for all. I do
not know when the idea first came to
me that it was a mean thing to live
under a man’s roof, eating his bread
and warming oneself at his fire, and all
the time despising him in one’s heart.
I only know that one day the idea took
possession of me, and, like an Eastern
mustard seed, grew and flourished.
Soon after that Uncle Keith had rather
a serious loss—some mercantile venture
in which he was interested had come to
grief. I began to notice small retrenchments
in the household; certain little
luxuries were given up. Now and then
Aunt Agatha grew a little grave as she
balanced her weekly accounts. One
night I took myself to task.

“What business have you, a strong,
healthy, young woman,” I observed to
myself, severely, “to be a burthen on
these good folk? What is enough for
two may be a tight fit for three; it was
that new mantle of yours, Miss Merle,
that has put out the drawing-room fire
for three weeks, and has shut up the
sherry in the sideboard. Is it fair or
right that Aunt Agatha and Uncle
Keith should forego their little comforts
just because an idle girl is on their
hands?”

I pondered this question heavily before
I summoned courage to speak to
Aunt Agatha. To my surprise she
listened to me very quietly, though her
soft brown eyes grew a little misty—I
did so love Aunt Agatha’s eyes.

“Dear,” she said, very gently, “I
wish this could have been prevented;
but, for my husband’s sake, I dare not
throw cold water on your plan. I cannot
deny that he has had a heavy loss,
and that we have to be very careful. I
would keep you with me if I could,
Merle, for you are just like my own child,
but Ezra is not young;” and here Aunt
Agatha’s forehead grew puckered with
anxiety.

“Oh, Aunt Agatha,” I exclaimed,
quite forgetting the gravity of my proposition
in sudden, childish annoyance,
“how can you call Uncle Keith, Ezra?
It is such a hideous name.”

“Not to my ears,” she answered,
quite calmly; “a wife never thinks her
husband’s name hideous. He loves to
hear me say it, and I love to please him,
for though you may not believe it, Merle,
I think there are very few men to compare
with your uncle.”

She could actually say this to my face,
looking at me all the time with those
honest eyes! I could not forbear a little
shrug at this, but she turned the subject,
placidly, but with much dignity.

“I have been a working bee all my life,
and have been quite contented with my
lot; if you could only follow my example,
I should be perfectly willing to let you
go. I have thought once or twice lately
that if anything were to happen to me,
you and your uncle would hardly be
comfortable together; you do not study
him sufficiently; you have no idea what
he really is.”

I thought it better to remain silent.

Aunt Agatha sighed a little as she
went on.

“I am not afraid of work for you,
Merle, there is no life without activity.
‘The idle man,’ as someone observes,
‘spins on his own axis in the dark.’ ‘A
man of mere capacity undeveloped,’ as
Emerson says, ‘is only an organised daydream
with a skin on it.’ Just listen to
this,” opening a book that lay near her.
“‘Action and enjoyment are contingent
upon each other. When we are unfit
for work we are always incapable of
pleasure; work is the wooing by which
happiness is won.'”

“Yes, yes,” I returned, rather impatiently,
for Aunt Agatha, with all her
perfections, was too much given to proverbial
and discursive philosophy; “but
to reduce this to practice, what work can
I do in this weary world?”

“You cannot be a governess, not even
a nursery governess, Merle,” and here
Aunt Agatha looked at me very gently,
as though she knew her words must
give me pain, and suddenly my cheeks
grew hot and my eyelids drooped.
Alas! I knew too well what Aunt
Agatha meant; this was a sore point,
the great difficulty and stumbling block
of my young life.

I had been well taught in a good
school; I had had unusual advantages,
for Aunt Agatha was an accomplished
and clever woman, and spared no pains
with me in her leisure hours; but by some
freak of Nature, not such an unusual
thing as people would have us believe,
from some want of power in the brain—at
least, so a clever man has since told
me—I was unable to master more than
the rudiments of spelling.

I know some people would laugh incredulously
at this, but the fact will remain.

As a child I have lain sobbing on my
bed, beaten down by a very anguish of
humiliation at being unable to commit
the column of double syllables to memory,
and have only been comforted by Aunt
Agatha’s patience and gentleness.

At school I had a severer ordeal. For
a long time my teachers refused to admit
my incapacity; they preferred attributing
it to idleness, stubbornness, and
want of attention; even Aunt Agatha
was puzzled by it, for I was a quick
child in other things, could draw very
well for my age, and could accomplish
wonders in needlework, was a fair
scholar in history and geography, soon
acquired a good French accent, and did
some of my lessons most creditably.

But the construction of words baffle
me to this day. I should be unwilling[Pg 4]
to write the simplest letter without a
dictionary lying snugly near my hand. I
have learned to look my misfortune in
the face, and to bear it with tolerable
grace. With my acquaintances it is a
standing joke, with my nearest and
dearest friends it is merely an opportunity
for kindly service and offers to write
from my dictation, but when I was
growing into womanhood it was a bitter
and most shameful trial to me, one
secretly lamented with hot tears and
with a most grievous sense of humiliation.

“No,” Aunt Agatha repeated, in the
old pitying voice I knew so well, “you cannot
be even a nursery governess, Merle.”

“Nor a companion either,” I exclaimed
bitterly. “Old ladies want
letters written for them.”

“That is very true,” she replied,
shaking her head.

“I could be a nurse in a hospital—in
fact, that is what I should like, but the
training could not be afforded, it would
be a pound a week, Aunt Agatha, and
there would be my uniform and other
expenses, and I should not get the
smallest salary for at least two or three
years.”

“I am afraid we must not think of
that, Merle,” and then I relapsed into
silence from sheer sadness of heart. I
had always so longed to be trained in a
hospital, and then I could nurse wounded
soldiers or little children. I always
loved little children.

But this idea must be given up, and yet
it would not have mattered in a hospital
if I had spelt “all-right” with one “l.”
I am quite sure my bandages would
have been considered perfect, and that
would have been more to the point.

(To be continued.)

THE AMATEUR CHURCH ORGANIST.

By the Hon. VICTORIA GROSVENOR.

We believe that young people generally have
a desire to be useful. Sometimes not an
actually formulated desire, but a vague intention
which they mean some day shall have a
practical issue, when and how they do not
quite know, or in what way. It is proposed
in this article to point out one means of
eminent usefulness—i.e., that of amateur organ
playing in our churches. It is scarcely
necessary to show what a large field of good
useful work is open to amateurs in this direction.
We all know that on the one hand
parishes wholly agricultural—the other
suburban parishes in large towns—are utterly
unable to pay for the services of a professional
player; while there is nothing so calculated to
lift up the heart of the congregations such as
these are likely to obtain, as good music.
Would it not therefore be a pleasant duty for
anyone gifted with musical talent and leisure
to qualify in the best manner possible for this
ennobling and helpful occupation?

The intending organ-player must ascertain
that he or she has a gift for music, and this
need not be of the highest order, as even a
small portion of the gift can be improved with
care, and fostered into usefulness. A first
rate ear can be a snare to those who trust to it
too much—although it is undoubtedly the
best of servants, if kept in its proper sphere of
work. A very ordinary measure of talent,
supplemented by calm and good sense, clear
power of thought, and determined perseverance,
will be a good foundation to start
with. Good sense and attention have more to
do with the good music of ordinary persons (as
opposed, we mean, to remarkably clever ones)
than people are apt to think. It was said of
Mendelssohn that music was the accident of
his being; and there are many of whom the
same could be said, with this meaning—i.e.,
that the powers which make them succeed in
music would enable them to succeed in other
great things if attempted.

We will therefore suppose the case of a
young lady possessing a moderate gift for
music, desiring to improve it and herself, and
to take up organ playing with a view to real
usefulness. She should first find out whether
her playing on the piano is perfectly correct,
taking the easiest possible music to exercise
herself upon, and trying whether her musical
ear is competent to be her teacher in the
matter of correctness. If neither steady
attention nor ear enable her to discover mistakes,
she had better consider that music is
not the talent God has given her to use to His
glory. A musical ear may, however, be
much improved by its possessor. With even
the smallest of voices she should join a choir
or madrigal society and learn to sing at sight.
She should, when listening to a musical performance,
try to guess its key. She should
endeavour to know, without seeing, the sound
and name of single notes on the piano,
practising herself with her eyes shut. It is
good practice, also, to take an easy chant or
hymn tune, hitherto unknown, and try to get
some idea of its melody and harmony without
playing it. When all this is done, one of the
most important tasks remains: that of
mastering time in all its branches. Slovenliness
in this particular is fatal to all music,
above all to that for the organ, which is meant
to guide and control. A feeling for rhythm
and a quick-sighted accurate knowledge of
time, may be much improved by playing with
others, either duets on the piano, or accompaniments
to voice or instrument. The
player should compel herself to account for
the time reason of every passage slowly,
until she is able to do so with rapidity and
precision at sight. At this point it may be
well to begin lessons on the organ, taking
great pains to become familiar with the
technical part of the instrument, the names of
stops and meaning of these names, mechanism
and its use. Then will come the careful
practice of pedals, which are at first so
absolutely bewildering that amateurs are
filled with despair at the apparent impossibilities
they are asked to face with hope.

Into the teacher’s work it is not our province
to go; but we would ask the learner to
be armed with courage and perseverance, and
to practise patiently. Success is more than
likely.

We now proceed with advice to one possessed
of some knowledge of organ-playing
and some acquaintance with its technical capabilities.
First, we should say—Play on all
available instruments, as no two are alike, and
the stops are called by many different names,
which must be identified quickly as emergencies
arise. Then acquire a knowledge of harmony,
specially useful in accompanying church
music with dignity, and enabling the player to
fill in chords which the vocal score (or voice
parts) have left thin and ineffective. Volumes
might be written on accompaniments; but on
this subject we would advise amateurs to consult
heart, head, and common sense, and we
would recommend them to read Dr. Bridge’s
“Organ Accompaniment,” one of Novello’s
music primers, which will open out to them
many possibilities, on the use of which they
must decide for themselves according to their
technical ability and the effect they aim at.
It may be they can only try to pull a few weak
voices through the singing allotted to them—in
which case a strong, steady accompaniment
of the simplest description is the best.

One word on voluntaries. These should be
chosen with great care and the deepest respect
for the church and the instrument, and kept
well within the powers of the player. Amateurs
do not as a rule obtain much control of
their nerves, and the greatest help in the world
is given by the knowledge that there is not a
“difficult bit” coming. Voluntary books are
not quite to be trusted, as their selection often
contains operatic music very unfit for organ or
church; but they generally contain some pieces
of a sacred and dignified character,
which may be useful. It is also dangerous
for the inexperienced to plunge into easy
arrangements of unknown music, taking perhaps
wrong views of the time, and sometimes[Pg 5]
making the more experienced listener smile, if
nothing worse, at the curious rendering of
some well-known air, jumbled up with its
obbligato accompaniment, the existence of
which was entirely unknown to the poor player.
Every organist should possess a metronome,
and carefully ascertain with it the correct time
of any music intended for use in public.

Finally, if every small action is to be done
to the glory of God, how much more the
playing in His church! Let none take this
noble work in hand without a desire to give,
in its degree, the best work that can be given
in absolute self-renunciation, humility, and
reverence.

EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.

A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.

By JAMES MASON.

PART I.

Every girl who is guided by common sense
will aim at becoming a business woman. That
is to say, she will try to cultivate habits of
order, industry, perseverance, method, and
punctuality, and will do her best to learn how
to conduct formal correspondence, how to
keep accounts, how to manage money, and
what to do with savings. Besides this, she
will make a point of knowing something about
the laws relating to domestic life—the renting
of houses and the employment of servants, for
example—and she will push her inquiries in
every direction, so as to acquire not only the
right way of doing things, but the right way
of forming a judgment upon them.

A wise girl will thus greatly increase her
usefulness in the world. She will be able to
take part in the affairs of life with pleasure to
herself and without being a trouble and hindrance
to her neighbours.

Another advantage may be pointed out.
There are always people trying to get the
better of those who know nothing, and their
victims more often than not are ladies. It is
easy to fall a prey to rogues and sharpers if
one is ignorant of business, especially when
nature has made women kind-hearted and
experience has not rendered them suspicious.
As a protection, there is nothing like being a
business woman.

Perhaps someone may say that “business
woman” has a hard sound, and stands for a
character precise, selfish, and uninteresting.
That is not what we intend by it at all. Is a
girl to be less loveable, less gentle, less charming,
whenever we cease to say of her, That
girl, in regard to all the ways of business, is a
perfect simpleton? On the contrary, business
is a fine training-school for many virtues;
and of all good women, a good business
woman may be reckoned the very best.

Our articles are intended to be of use to
two classes of girls. The first consists of those
who either have or are likely to have a little
money of their own, and need to know how
to manage it and how to regulate those affairs
which money always brings in its train. By
ignorance of business many a useful life of this
class as been marred.

The second is made up of girls who have to
earn their own living and make their own way
in the world. These have a special need to
know something about business. People as a
rule are valuable in proportion to their knowledge—those
who know nothing being simply
worth nothing.

One great reason for the work of girls and
women being poorly paid, is that few know
anything about either the principles or the
practice of the most ordinary business affairs.
We shall try in these articles to put girls in
future on a better footing, and to make them
in business equal, at any rate, to any average
men. In this way there is a good chance of
doubling their usefulness and value, and of
more than doubling their independence.

Nothing is done all at once, and in business,
as in everything else, if you mean to build
high you must begin low. A girl who wishes
to be a business woman must start with accumulating
the same sort of knowledge as an
office-boy. We shall therefore try to deal
with the subject simply and from the very
beginning. You may sometimes be tempted
to say, “Oh, we knew that before,” but
another girl may not have been so fortunate,
and her ignorance must be taken as our reason
for pointing out what appears to be familiar
facts.

We begin with the subject of business
letters, and the first thing we shall say about
them is—Be very particular about their
appearance. There is a proverb, to be sure,
warning us that appearances are deceitful, but
that proverb is only true occasionally; in
general we may safely draw an inference as to
the writer from the look of her letter. An
ill-folded, clumsy, up-and-down-hill, blotted,
greasy-looking letter almost certainly comes
from an untidy house and a stupid girl,
whereas a neat, carefully-written epistle suggests
just as surely the opposite.

In friendly letters our correspondents know
something about us beforehand, but in business
we may be writing to perfect strangers, who
can only judge of us by the figure we cut on a
sheet of note-paper. To secure prompt attention
and a polite reply, no plan works so well
as putting good taste into the appearance of
letters. They are really a part of ourselves,
and a girl should as soon think of sending
them marked with carelessness to either a
friend or a stranger as of going to make a call
in a patched frock, a faded hat, and gloves
with holes.

An indispensable point in a business letter
is to have the meaning quite clear. It must
say exactly what the writer intends, leaving
nothing to be guessed at.

And after clearness the next point is shortness.
A brief letter makes far more impression
than a long one, besides which it usually gets
attended to at once. We have known a man
open a lady’s letter on a matter of business,
and, seeing it a long rigmarole, put it at once
in his pocket and let it lie there forgotten for
a week.

That long letters receive most notice is a
mistake into which girls fall very often, but
she who aspires to be a real business woman
must give herself to the study of such short
epistles as that of the officer who sent in as his
official report, “Sir,—I have the honour to
inform you that I have just shot a man
who came to kill me.—Your obedient servant,
——.”

All letters should be headed with the address
from which they were written, the day
of the month, and the year; in this way:—

2, Ireland Avenue,
Stratford-on-Avon, 9th October, 1886.

It is an irritating peculiarity with many
people unaccustomed to business to be careless
on this point. Common sense suggests
that they should mend their ways, and by
putting the date and a full address on every
letter, save their correspondents sometimes a
good deal of trouble.

There is a short way, occasionally employed,
of writing the date; for example, 4 / 7 / 86;
meaning the 4th day of the 7th month (July,
that is) of 1886. This contraction—which is
improved by having the month put in Roman
figures (as, 4 / vii. / 86)—is handy now and
again, but it does not strike one as looking
particularly well at the head of a letter.

Put the name of the person to whom the
letter is written at the beginning or the end.
Long ago, when envelopes were not in use,
this did not matter so much, because the name
of the person addressed could be seen by
turning to the postal direction; but nowadays
the envelope bearing the address is dropped
into the waste-paper basket, and a second
address is required to give the letter completeness,
and enable third parties, perhaps, to
understand it.

As to how to begin, whether “Sir” or
“Madam,” or “Dear Sir” or “Dear
Madam,” everyone may please herself, only
taking note that the “Dear” should be
omitted when any special reason exists for
being distant and formal. Not, however, that
the word when used in a business letter has
anything of an affectionate meaning. It is
just one of the drops of oil used to keep the
machinery of human intercourse working
smoothly. Perhaps it originally crept in to
soften the sharp effect of “Sir,” which sounds[Pg 6]
for all the world as if it would snap a correspondent’s
head off.

“Dear Sir” and “Dear Sirs” are both right,
but “Dear Gentlemen” is not, though there
seems no reason against it. If you begin
“Sir” you must not end “I remain, dear sir.”
The beginning and the end should be all of a
piece, and in both places the same form of
address should be used.

In concluding a business letter you may say
“yours respectfully,” or “your obedient
servant,” or “yours truly,” or “yours faithfully,”
according to the degree of intimacy
existing between you and your correspondent.
But really there are no very nice distinctions to
be observed between such phrases, and their
use may safely be left to every girl’s common
sense and discretion.

Take pains to sign your name always so
that people can read it. Some, out of pure
affectation, conceal what they call themselves
under a scribble which none can read—”a
hopeless puzzle of intemperate scratches.”
How is a stranger, getting a letter signed in
this way, to know to whom to send a reply,
unless, as is sometimes done, he cuts out the
signature, pastes it on the envelope, and adds
the address? But illegible signatures, it must
be confessed, are more often a man’s folly
than a woman’s.

Always, too, sign your name the same way:
get into the habit of it. Don’t let it be to-day
“Mary G. Snodham,” and to-morrow
“Mary Snodham,” and the day after “M. G.
Snodham.” If character comes out anywhere
in writing, it is in the signature, and it ought
to be every day the same, the same in words,
the same in writing, and the same in flourishes—that
is to say, if there are any flourishes.

When you send a Post Office order to anyone,
however, you may make an exception to
this rule. It is a good plan to sign a letter
accompanying such an order with initials only.
When this is done, should the letter fall into
the hands of dishonest people, the chances are
considerably reduced of their knowing the
name of the sender so as to get payment of
the order. In getting the money for a Post
Office order it is always necessary, as perhaps
you know, to tell at the post-office who
sent it.

When you (we shall call you Elizabeth
Fisher) are asked to write a letter in the name
of another person (call her Janet Constable),
how should you sign it? Not, certainly, by
just writing Janet Constable; that would be
highly improper. To put another person’s
name to any letter or document whatever, even
in fun, is not even to be dreamt about. You
must sign—

Yours truly,

for Janet Constable,

Elizabeth Fisher.

Or, if you like it better—

Yours respectfully,

Janet Constable,

p. Elizabeth Fisher.

In this case the p. stands for per, and means
that Janet Constable signs the letter by or
through you. You may write per in full, if
you like.

Sometimes you may have to write inquiring
about the character of people or their standing
from a money point of view. In doing so, put
the name or names on a slip of paper and gum
it at the foot of your letter, so that it can be
easily torn off. Your correspondent can then
at once destroy the slip, and should your letter
or her reply afterwards be read by other people,
they will probably be none the wiser, for they
will only see in your letter an inquiry regarding
the person or persons “noted at foot,” and in
hers an answer about the person or persons
“about whom you inquire.”

All enclosures sent in a letter should be
mentioned in a note in the left-hand bottom
corner after signing one’s name. Thus:—

Enclosed:

Postal Order, 10s. 6d.
Recipe for cooking rattlesnakes.
Pattern: the Tullochgorum mantle.

We have spoken about the clearness and
brevity required in business letters, but to the
subject of style a few lines more may be
devoted. Business letters are of necessity dry
and matter-of-fact, and in writing them no
time should be lost in hunting for fine expressions.
They should contain politeness, but
light and airy sentences are worse than thrown
away.

“Accuracy of expression,” says Mr. George
Seton, in his pleasant “Gossip about Letters
and Letter-writers,” “as distinguished from
looseness and slovenliness of statement, is of
the utmost consequence—not only with the
view of saving the time of one’s correspondent,
but also to prevent what may prove a very
serious misunderstanding. I have known many
cases of prolonged litigation which were chiefly
owing to some doubtful or equivocal expressions
in the course of a business correspondence.”

There are many phrases peculiar to business
letters—formal beginnings, for example, such
as—

“I am favoured with yours of 14th curt.”

“I duly received your favour of 19th inst.”

“I am in receipt of your lines of y’day, and
note that, &c.”

“I beg to confirm my last respects of 25th
ult.”

“I beg to confirm my letter of yesterday.”

These phrases and many others which will
appear in the course of these articles may seem
formal enough, but we must not expect in
business to meet with the language of story-books.

A common business term is “advice,” used
to mean information sent by letter. For example:
“I wait your advice as to the despatch
of the parcel.” A funny misunderstanding of
the word occurred recently, when a provincial
postmaster, new to his duties, in the United
States, sent the following communication to
the Postmaster-General:—

“Seeing by the regulations that I am required
to send you a letter of advice, I must
plead in excuse that I have been postmaster
but a short time; but I will say, if your office
pays no better than mine, I advise you to give
it up.”

Every subject mentioned in a letter should
have a separate paragraph. Very formal, you
may say. Perhaps; but it is also very clear.

Always acknowledge receipt of business
letters at the earliest possible opportunity. If
they come with money, an acknowledgment
ought to be sent by return of post, that is to
say, by the first post after they arrive. The
same rule may safely be applied to letters
coming with any enclosure whatever. Sometimes
delay may be of no consequence, but to
answer at once will at any rate get you the
credit of courtesy.

Of all business letters a copy should be
kept. If you write few they may be copied
by hand into a book kept for the purpose, but
if many the use of a copying-press saves a
great deal of monotonous labour, and secures
absolute accuracy besides.

The way to use a copying-press is this.
Write the letter with copying-ink. Then put
a sheet of oiled paper under the leaf of the
letter-book on which you wish to take the
copy. Letter-books of thin paper are sold for
the purpose. Wet the leaf with a brush or
soft sponge. On the top of the wet leaf put
a sheet of blotting paper, and on the top of
that another sheet of oiled paper. Then shut
the book, put it in the press, and give it a
squeeze for a second to take off the superfluous
moisture. Take out the book, remove
the blotting-paper and the top sheet of oiled
paper, and in their place put your letter face
downwards on the damp page. Shut the
book, put it back into the copying-press, give
it a hard squeeze by means of the lever or
screw, leave it in from half a minute to a
minute, and the whole thing is done; an exact
copy of the letter will be left in your letter-book.

A letter being written and copied, has to be
posted; but before being posted it must be
addressed. The address should be written
neatly and plainly, neither too high up nor
too low down.

To say, Be sure to put the direction on your
letters is not unnecessary advice. Thousands
of letters are posted every year without any
address whatever. In the year ending 31st
March, 1886, there were no fewer than 26,228
of them, and of this large number 1,620 contained
cash and cheques to the amount, in all,
of £3,733 17s. 5d.

Be sure, too, that your letters are properly
fastened. On this subject, hear Mr. George
Seton. “There is,” he says, “no real security
in wafers, and probably still less in adhesive
envelopes, which are now in almost universal
use. Both may easily be loosened by the
application of either water or steam. The
best mode of securing a letter is first to wafer
it and then seal it with wax. When, however,
an adhesive envelope is used, the proper
course is to damp, rather than wet, both sides
of the flap before pressing it down; and if
the paper is very thick, the upper side should
be again damped after being pressed down.”

Insufficient and wrong addresses occasion a
great deal of trouble to the Post Office officials,
and this trouble one of the present Postmaster-General’s
predecessors remarks, with some
pathos, “ought scarcely to be given to make
up for what generally arises from the carelessness
of the writers, without an additional
charge.” Last year, through some fault in the
addresses, no fewer than 12,822,067 letters,
postcards, newspapers, and parcels were
received in the returned letter offices.

As an example of an insufficiently-addressed
letter, we may mention one the subject of a
complaint made by a Mrs. Jones of Newmarket.
She stated that a letter had been
posted to her, but had not reached her. It
appeared, however, on inquiry, that there
were twenty-nine Mrs. Joneses at the place,
and that there was nothing in the address to
help the postman to decide between their
several claims.

When money or anything of value is sent
through the post, the letter in which it goes
should be registered. By this means we can
be almost absolutely sure of its travelling
safely. The fee for a registered letter was
at one time half-a-crown, and not so long ago
was a shilling. In 1878 it was reduced from
4d. to 2d. Not only has the fee been reduced
to what may be thought the lowest possible
point, but registered letter envelopes are now
sold in different and convenient sizes. The
Post Office also undertakes to make good,
under certain reasonable conditions, up to £2
the value of any registered letter which it loses.

If people who have these facilities for sending
letters securely provided for them choose to
run the risk of loss, they deserve very little
sympathy if the chance goes against them.
Last year an unregistered letter containing a
cheque was alleged to have been stolen in the
post. It was found, however, to have been
duly delivered by being pushed under the front
door, and afterwards to have been torn in
pieces by some puppies inside the house. The
fragments were in the end discovered in the
straw of the dog-kennel. Now, had the
sender only spent 2d. in registering this letter,
a receipt would have been taken on its delivery,
and all chance of its falling into the[Pg 7]
paws of the puppies would have been prevented.

But it is wonderful what people, penny-wise
and pound foolish, will sometimes do to save
2d. A few years back the sealing-wax on a
letter was found to contain £1 10s. in gold
coins. There could hardly be a more stupid
way of sending money.

If coin, or watches, or jewellery are posted
in letters or packets without registration, and
the fact is discovered, the Post Office people
bring into force a system of registration by
compulsion, and on delivery charge a fee of
8d. in addition to the ordinary postage.

When coins are sent in a letter they should
on no account be put in loose, but should be
packed so as to move about as little as possible.
The best way is to take a card, and,
cutting quite through to the other side, make
a cross on it for each coin; then slip the coin
into the cross, so that it is held in its place
by the tongues of cardboard, two on each
side.

Who owns letters whilst they are in the
post? In Great Britain the ownership of a
letter whilst it is in the post lies in the Queen,
as represented by her Postmaster-General and
her Secretary of State. “Neither the sender
nor the person to whom it is sent can claim
to interfere with a letter whilst it is in the
Post Office. Only the warrant of a Secretary
of State can stay its delivery.” Once a letter
is dropped into a letter-box it is like a spoken
word, it cannot be recalled.

After letters come postcards, which were
introduced into this country in October, 1870,
and have proved a great convenience to many
people, saving them both time and money.
By means of reply postcards you can make
sure of an answer from a correspondent without
putting her to any expense or to any trouble
worth mentioning.

The back of the postcard is for the message;
nothing must be put on the front except the
address. This limitation of space is useful for
the cultivation of brevity; but those who have
a great deal to say may derive consolation
from the fact that on the back of a postcard
you can, by writing small, easily put at least
four hundred and sixty words! We do not,
however, say that such a performance, good
enough for amusement, would be like that of
a woman of business.

All business letters ought to be preserved.
They should be folded neatly longways and
all of a size, and docketed, as it is called—that
is to say, the date and the name of the
sender and his (or her) address, and the
subject, should be put on the back thus:

6th September, 1886.
Martin Rose and Co.,
Liverpool.
Remittance, £10 19s. 2d.

Do not, however, crowd these particulars together,
as has been done here for convenience in
printing; leave a considerable space between
the first and second, and the third and fourth
lines. When letters are folded and docketed
they should be tied up in the order of their
dates, or put away in pigeon holes under the
different letters of the alphabet. One can
never tell when it may be necessary to refer
to old letters on matters of business, so it is
prudent to keep them all. Doing so and
turning them over occasionally is also useful
for giving us a humble opinion of ourselves;
we see by the light of additional experience
how we might often have managed things
much better than we did.

Besides letters and postcards, telegrams
furnish another means of communication.
For a telegram sent to any place in the
United Kingdom, the charge is sixpence for
the first twelve words, and a halfpenny for
every word after the first twelve. Addresses
are charged for, so a sixpennyworth of
telegraphing does not represent a long
message, but by ingenuity—and a business
woman is nothing without ingenuity—a few
words may be made to mean a great deal. The
cost of a reply to a telegram may be prepaid.

About the newspaper post, the book post,
and the parcel post, not much need be said.
Always be careful about wrappers. A great
many newspapers and books escape from their
wrappers every day, and land in the returned
letter office. In sending parcels the packing
is often a weak point; it is not so much that
people are either handless or stupid, they are
just thoughtless. “It must be borne in
mind,” says the Postmaster-General,
“although, of course, every care will be
taken by the officers, that a parcel with
fragile or perishable contents must be several
times handled before it reaches its destination,
and will probably have to be packed with
many others of a different kind and shape, or
more weighty and bulky. Eggs, butter, and
fruit, especially delicate fruit, such as grapes
and peaches, should be placed in strong
boxes and so placed as not to shift. Fresh
flowers should be carefully packed in strong
boxes; but cardboard boxes should not be
used for the purpose, as they are often
reduced to pulp by the moisture which
exudes from the contents. Fish or game
should be carefully packed in strong boxes, or
hampers, or in perforated boxes.”

Remember that some things are forbidden
to be sent by post—live animals, for instance.
This prohibition is very little regarded by
some people. Last year, in Dublin alone, two
hens, eight mice, and two hedgehogs were
stopped on their way through the post. One
of the hens which was addressed to a
veterinary surgeon in London, was in bad
health, and though carefully attended to, died
in the office. The rest of the animals were
given up alive to the senders.

Certificates of the posting of parcels can be
got at all post offices. If you have any doubt
about the trustworthiness of the person
entrusted with the posting of a parcel,
instructions should be given to bring back a
receipt. A few months ago the Post Office
was charged at Liverpool with the non-delivery
of a bottle of wine and a box of figs.
It turned out, however, that the missing
goods had never come under its charge, the
person to whom the packet had been given to
post having eaten the figs and drunk the wine.

Parcels can also be insured against loss and
damage by the payment of a small sum.
Paying a penny insures to the extent of £5 and
twopence to the amount of £10.

In order to understand the outs and ins
of the Post Office—and it is a subject
with which every sensible person should
be familiar—let a girl invest sixpence
in a copy of the Post Office Guide, a
publication of which an edition is issued every
quarter. She will there find everything necessary
to be known about the posting of letters, postcards,
newspapers, book packets, and parcels
to places in the United Kingdom, or abroad,
the sending of telegrams, the rates for money
and postal orders, and the regulations of the
Savings Bank. To turn over its 300 pages or
so is decidedly interesting. One sees what a
complicated machinery is now employed for
the convenience of the public, what wonders—to
speak of letters alone—can be done for a
penny, and how thousands of miles can be
reduced to insignificance by the magic of
twopence-halfpenny.

In the twelve months from the 31st of
March, 1885, to the same day of this year, the
number of letters delivered in the United
Kingdom was 1,403,547,900, giving an
average of 38.6 to each person in the kingdom.
The total number of postcards was 171,290,000.
Adding to the letters and postcards the book-packets,
newspapers, and parcels which passed
through the Post Office during the twelve
months, we have a grand total of 2,091,183,822,
which shows an average to each person of
57.5.

VARIETIES.

The “Woman of Stenay.”

“And so you have not heard the story of the
‘Woman of Stenay’?” said a Lorraine peasant.
“It was in war-time, and she offered a
barrel of wine to a detachment of Austrians,
saying—

“‘You are thirsty, friends. Drink. You
are welcome to all my store.’ And as she
spoke she drank a cupful in their honour.

“The soldiers accepted with pleasure, and
in a few minutes four hundred men were
writhing on the ground in agony.

“Then the ‘Woman of Stenay’ rose, and
with her dying breath shrieked out—

“‘You are all poisoned! Vive la France!‘

“She then fell back a corpse.”

This is the legend of Lorraine, and the
memory of its heroine is revered by the
peasantry as highly as that of Charlotte
Corday.

Singing Servants.

Tusser, in his “Points of Huswifry united
to the Comforts of Husbandry,” published in
1570, recommends the country housewife to
select servants who sing at their work as being
usually the most painstaking and the best.
He says—

A Hint for Workers.—St. Bernard has
said that the more he prayed and read his
Bible the better he did his ordinary work and
the more clearly and regularly did he conduct
his correspondence. An increase of private
devotion will be found not to lessen one’s
power of work or one’s efficiency in ordinary
duties.

Our Own Selves.—How can you learn
self-knowledge? Never by meditation, but
best by action. Try to do your duty, and you
will soon find what you are worth. What is
your duty? The exigency of the day.—Goethe.

Useless Anxiety.—I shall add to my list
as the eighth deadly sin that of anxiety of
mind, and resolve not to be pining and
miserable when I ought to be grateful and
happy.—Sir Thomas Barnard.

The Moonlight Sonata.—The “Moonlight
Sonata” is an absurd title which has for
years been attached, both in Germany and
England, to one of Beethoven’s sonatas. It
is said to have been derived from the expression
of a German critic comparing the first
movement to a boat wandering by moonlight
on the Lake of Lucerne.[Pg 8]

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.


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

CHAPTER I.
THE FAIRY’S ORIGIN.

“Die Eifersucht ist eine Leidenschaft
der mit Eifer sucht muss Leiden
schaffen.”—German Proverb.

Very many years ago, in a valley a few
miles from the coast, there stood a
French château, beautifully situated in
a handsome park near the Norman
village of Carolles. The rich woodland
scenery, the green pastures with their
large wild fences now laden with wild
roses; the shady lanes, whose banks
will soon be covered with the long,
bright green fronds of the hartstongue,
and the delicate drooping trichomanes;
the fine timber, and the picturesque
farmhouses with their thatched roofs
nestling in the valleys—all tend to give
a home-like English air to the scenery
of Normandy. And the district in which
the Château de Thorens stands possesses
all these attractions for an English eye.
Not that any English people lived in the
château; the De Thorens were French,
or rather Norman, to the backbone,
descended from the great duke, and
proud as Lucifer of their birth. Pride
and poverty are generally supposed to
go together; and though poor is perhaps
hardly the word to apply to people who
could afford to live in the ease and
luxury which prevailed at Château de
Thorens, yet for their rank the De Thorens
were not rich, and, consequently, after
the fashion of many French families,
there were three generations of them
now all living under the ancestral roof.

First there was the old baroness, a
picturesque old lady with very white hair
and piercing black eyes, with whom we
have very little to do; then there was
her eldest son, the present baron, for his
father had been dead some years, and[Pg 9]
his beautiful young wife, whom he was
so passionately fond of that he was
jealous—dreadfully jealous—of her love
for her baby, a little girl a few months
old; and, lastly, there were the baron’s
three younger brothers, who with Père
Yvon, the chaplain, made up the family
party. The two younger brothers were
mere boys, still under Père Yvon’s
charge, for he acted as tutor to them
as well as chaplain; but Léon de
Thorens was a young man of five-and-twenty,
only a year or two younger than
the baron. He was a fine, handsome
man, tall and thin, with his mother’s
fine black eyes and small well-cut nose
and mouth. He was of a bold, reckless
nature, full of animal spirits, the very
life of the house when he was at home,
which was seldom, as he owned a yacht,
in which he spent a great deal of his
time. He was his mother’s favourite
son, and both he and she had often
privately regretted that he was not the
eldest.

The baron was smaller and fairer than
Léon, and not so handsome, though
there was a strong family likeness
between the brothers. He was of a
quieter disposition, and his restlessness
took an intellectual rather than a
physical form, his wanderings being
confined to the shelves of the valuable
library which the château boasted,
instead of extending over the seas on
which Léon spent so much of his time.
The baron’s studious nature had endeared
him very much to Père Yvon,
with whom he was a prime favourite,
and who had never shown him any of
the severity of which the other brothers
often complained, but, on the contrary,
had erred on the opposite side with the
baron, whose wishes had never been
crossed in any way, and who had grown
up to think himself the one important
person in the world to whom the convenience
of everyone else must be sacrificed.

For the first year of their married
life the pretty baroness had contributed
as much as Père Yvon to spoil her husband,
whose every whim she had
humoured until her baby was born, and
then, much to his astonishment, the
baron found that his beautiful, gentle
wife had a will of her own, and, what
was still worse in his eyes, a large place
in her heart for someone else besides
himself, and although that someone else
was only his infant daughter, the baron
was jealous.

In vain had he urged that the baby
should be sent away to some peasant
to nurse until it was a year or
two old, as he and all his brothers had
been, after a very common custom in
French families. No, the baroness
would not hear of such a thing; she
could not live without her baby, and
every moment she could spare she spent
by its cradle. Indeed, so infatuated was
she with her new possession, whose
every movement was a delight to her,
that she did not notice the baron became
daily more and more morose, and that
an ominous frown had settled on his fine
forehead, while his mouth was closed
with a determination that boded ill for
his wife and daughter. But the baroness
lived so much in her child that she did
not observe the change in her husband;
and as he never allowed the baby to be
brought into his presence, the baroness
saw but little of him except at meals,
when all the others were present, and
Léon’s wild spirits covered his brother’s
depression and silence.

At last, one fine June morning,
matters reached a climax, when the
family sat down to their one o’clock
déjeuner. The baroness was late; the
first course was finished, and still she
did not appear.

“Where is Mathilde, Arnaut?” asked
the old baroness.

“I don’t know,” said the baron,
sulkily.

“I do,” said Léon; “she is worshipping
at the shrine of that precious
baby of yours, Arnaut. Why on earth
don’t you send it away till it is old
enough to amuse us?”

“Go and tell Madame la Baronne the
soup is already finished,” said the baron
to a servant at his elbow; but he vouchsafed
no further answer.

“I think Arnaut has suggested that
the baby should be sent away, but
Mathilde objects,” remarked the old
baroness.

“Send it away without asking her,
then. Give her a pug instead; it will
be much more amusing, and not half
the trouble the baby is,” said Léon.

Here the servant returned to say
madame would take her déjeuner in
the nursery, as the nurse was out and
she could not leave the baby.

“Really, Mathilde is
too absurd, when there
are at least three or four
other servants in the
house who could look
after the baby as well
as the nurse,” said the
old baroness, helping
herself to some omelette.

“She is mad,” muttered
the baron, angrily.

“Quite, all women
are; there can be no
doubt about that. Look
here, Arnaut, it is quite
clear if you don’t send
that infant away, you
might just as well live
en garçon, like me, as I
foresee you won’t have
much of Mathilde’s society
now,” said Léon.

“It does not require
much foresight to predict
that,” said the
baron, bitterly.

“Well, if Mathilde
won’t send it away, just
hand it over to me the
next time I take a cruise,
which will be as soon as
ever there is wind enough
to fill my sails, and I’ll
place the child somewhere
where there is no
fear of Mathilde getting
it again till it is of a
reasonable age,” said
Léon.

The idea of handing
the baby over to
the tender mercies of Léon struck them
all as so comic that a general laugh, in
which all but the baron joined, greeted
this speech, which was forgotten as soon
as it was uttered by the speaker.

A few days after Léon announced that
he was going on board his yacht that
evening; a south wind was blowing, and
he should take a cruise up the Channel.
Would the baron go with him? They
were sure to have fine weather, and it
would be delightful at sea in this heat.
The baron declined the invitation, as he
was a wretched sailor; but that evening,
when he and Léon were smoking after
dinner, he said, suddenly, “Where are
you going, Léon?”

“I don’t know; it depends on the
wind. I may run over to England, or
I may only go to the Channel Isles. I
shall see.”

“Shall you touch anywhere?”

“Oh, yes, I shall go ashore; I shan’t
take provisions for more than a week.
Why?”

The baron looked round the verandah
in which they were sitting to make sure
that they were alone, and having satisfied
himself of this he leant forward and
said, in a half-whisper, “Tiens, Léon!
Will you help me? I am determined to
stand it no longer; it is wearing my life
out; I have not a moment’s peace. If
I don’t get rid of it I believe I shall go
mad.”

“What is it you are talking of? I’ll
help you if I can, but what is wearing
your life out?” said Léon.

THE BARONESS.

“The baby, of course,” said the baron.[Pg 10]

“The baby! Well, but what do you
want me to do with that! I can’t kill it,
you know.”

“Of course not, but you said in joke
the other day you would take it with you
on one of your trips, and put it out to
nurse. I wish to heaven, Léon, you’d
do it in reality. It is no use my sending
it to anyone near here; Mathilde would
go after it the next day. My only
chance is to send it somewhere where it
will be safe, of course, and well looked
after, but where Mathilde can’t go after
it, and as she would go to the end of
the world for it if she knew where it was,
it must go where she can’t find it; she
must not know where it is. No one,
indeed, need know but you, for as far as
I am concerned the less I know about it
at present the better; it has spoilt all
my happiness. Mathilde is so wrapped
up in that child she does not care a fig
for me now; in fact, I rarely see her. If
you can only put that infant safely out
of our way for a year or two, I’ll never
forget it, Léon.”

“Are you in real sober earnest, Arnaut?”
asked Léon, who, in his astonishment,
had risen to his feet, and was
puffing away vigorously at his cigar.

“Of course I am. I am willing to
pay handsomely for it, and I shall depend
upon you putting it where it will
be well taken care of. As for all the rest,
I leave it to you to take it where you
like—Australia if you wish, only don’t
tell me where it is, or I might cut my
own throat by telling Mathilde if she
makes a great scene, as she will when
it is gone. Will you do it, Léon?”

“Whew!” whistled Léon. “I don’t
care for the work, for if anything should
happen to the child Mathilde would
never forgive me nor you either. However,
if you insist, I think I could manage
it, but as I am going to start in two
or three hours, there is not much time. I
must go down to the yacht and speak to
my men first. If I may tell them I am
taking the child by your express wish I
could manage it, I think. The next difficulty
is where to take it, but I have
an idea about that, so I’ll be off now,
and see what I can arrange. I shall
ride, so I shall be back in an hour.”

“Tell them anything you like, except
not to let anyone know where you leave
the child,” replied the baron, as Léon
started on an errand which, in spite of
his protest to the contrary, was
thoroughly after his own heart; indeed,
any mad freak such as this was quite in
his line.

Among his crew he had an English
sailor who acted as carpenter, and, as
Léon often said, was worth two or three
French sailors in a gale or an emergency.
He knew the Channel, too, as
well as a pilot, and, indeed often acted in
that capacity; he was an honest, trustworthy
man—at least, so Léon thought;
and as he rode over the hills to Carolles,
he decided to take this man into his
confidence, and see if he could help him;
it was possible this Englishman knew of
some of his own countrywomen who would
undertake the charge of the child.

Accordingly, when he reached his
yacht, Léon called for John Smith, and
had a long conversation with him in
English, which he spoke fairly well, the
result of which was the carpenter, after a
little thought, declared he knew of a
shepherd and his wife in Sussex who, he
felt sure, would undertake the charge of
the child; his only fear was that they
might have some scruples about keeping
the matter a secret, and might want to
know who the child was; but if Léon
would leave this to him to arrange, he
could, he thought, manage it so that the
shepherd should have no idea to whom
the child belonged, nor why it was put
into his care.

“Where does this good man live?”
asked Léon.

“About four or five miles from
Brighton, sir. The wind is favourable; we
might run across in twenty-four hours or
less if it lasts, and I think it will; we
shall have the tide with us going out if
we start at ten to-night,” said the
carpenter.

“Well, that is settled. Now the next
point is, who is to take care of it on
board? It must be fed; who of our men
understands babies best?”

“I can’t undertake that, sir, but
there’s Pierre Legros, he has half a
dozen of his own, and when he is at
home looks after them all I believe; he
ought to know all about it.”

“Call Pierre, then.”

Pierre Legros was accordingly called,
and, on hearing what was required of
him, professed with pride his ability to
act as nurse during the voyage; and
having commissioned him to lay in a
stock of food for the baby, about which
Léon’s ideas were exceedingly vague,
Léon rode back to the château.

The baron was on the lookout for him,
and was delighted to hear all was
arranged for the baby’s removal.

“I have not been idle since you have
been gone. Luckily Mathilde has a headache,
so I have sent her to bed, and I sat
with her till she was asleep. My next
care was to get rid of the nurse, so I
have packed her off to Brécy with one
of the other servants for some medicine
for Mathilde, and the coast is clear to the
nursery now. There is only one of the
housemaids with the baby, and when you
are ready to start you must lose something
and require her to find it while I
secure the child. Lastly, I ordered the
dogcart, and said I would drive you.”

“But how about the child?” interrupted
Léon.

“I am coming to that. Just as we
are going to start, you must lose a stick
or a coat. I’ll offer to go back for it, and
meet you at the side door; there is a
staircase leading to the nursery close to
it, down which I shall come with the
baby after I have sent the housemaid
who is guarding it to look for your stick.
We shall be off and the baby on board
before it is missed, for the girl is sure to
stay gossiping with the other servants
when we are off.”

“Well, I hope you’ll succeed, but I
confess I think this is the most difficult
part of the affair. However, there is no
time to lose; you had better order the
dogcart at once, while I go and say
good-bye to mother and the boys. We
must be off in twenty minutes,” replied
Léon.

Half an hour later the brothers were
seated in the dogcart, while the old
baroness, with a shawl thrown round
her head, stood on the steps under the
portico to catch the last glimpse of her
handsome Léon, with her two younger
boys by her side, and Père Yvon and
some of the servants in the background.
The groom had just let go of the horse’s
bridle when Léon exclaimed—

“Wait a minute! I have forgotten my
Malacca cane. I lent it to you the other
day, Arnaut. I must have it. Where
shall I find it?”

“So you did. Here, one of you boys, run
into my—but no, you’ll wake Mathilde,
I’ll go myself. Here, Léon, take the
reins, and drive round to the side door;
I’ll meet you there,” said the baron, descending
from the dogcart, and running
into the house.

(To be continued.)

FASHIONABLE EMBROIDERY.

The fancy embroidery of the present day is of
such varied character and make that all would-be
workers will find among the diversities of
stitch and material some description that suits
their particular need and ingenuity.

A few years ago one embroidery alone
claimed attention. This was the celebrated
crewel work, of which there is no fault to be
found in the execution and design of its higher
grades, but which, like all fancy work that
becomes the rage and is cheapened and multiplied
without any regard to reason, degenerated
to the most impossible designs and the
worst execution attainable. Thus crewel work
passed away, and though the best kinds are
still to be met with, it is really superseded in
modern drawing-rooms by embroideries all
originating in the present desire after Oriental
colouring and design, but of kinds distinctly
characteristic and individual.

The work known as Leek embroidery recommends
itself in many ways, it being very
reasonable in price, easily executed, and extremely
rich and handsome when finished.
The foundation is Tussore silk, specially
made with the pattern to be embroidered
upon it printed upon the foundation, during
its manufacture, and therefore indelible. The
colouring of the foundation is either cream,
straw, pink, blue, green, or terra-cotta, and
the pattern is not printed in outline only, but
filled up with indications guiding the arrangement
for the centres of flowers, veins of leaves,
and other distinguishing marks. To work the
embroidery it is necessary to line the Tussore
with fine unbleached muslin, and to work with
Tussore silk and Japanese gold thread. The
Tussore silk costs 1d. the skein, and is dyed in
every shade of Oriental colouring. Three to[Pg 11]
four shades of a colour are used to work in a
flower, and two shades of green for the leaves.
The stitch is crewel-stitch worked very close.
No shading about each leaf is necessary, but
different greens are used for different leaves,
and thus a variety of colouring is attained
without trouble. Every part of the pattern,
the bordering included, is worked, and only
the foundation left, showing where it forms
the background to the design. The gold
thread is laid on as the finishing touch. It is
placed round all the chief parts of the design,
and sewn on as an edging with a couching
stitch; that is to say, the gold thread is held
tightly stretched in its position with the left
hand, while a stitch brought from the back of
the material is passed over it and put down to
the back again with the right hand. Lines of
gold are used to mark out the border pattern,
and are fastened down with the couching
stitch. When sewing on the gold it is very
important to keep it tightly stretched, as if
put on loosely it is not effective. If the work
is at all puckered, iron it with a warm but not
hot iron on the wrong side before laying down
the gold thread. Leek embroidery is sold by
the yard in strips, varying from one inch to
twelve inches in width, and costing from 6d. to
2s. the yard. These strips are used for mantelpiece
borders, table borders, chair backs, and
curtain bands, according to their width. They
look best mounted upon plush or velveteen,
but are often mounted upon Liberty’s Oriental
silks, or made up as perfectly plain bands.
When used for chair backs or for hanging firescreens
the background should be handsome,
and either ruby or dark blue in colour, and
the work arranged either straight down its
centre or crossing it in a number of diagonal
lines. This manner of making up is newer
and more effective than merely laying it on as
an edging. Bands of unmounted Leek embroidery,
simply lined with twill, are much
used for looping up summer curtains, and give
richness to the soft, creamy materials now
employed for curtains.

As dress trimmings Leek embroidery is
good, the wide bands making a waistcoat
front and the narrow the cuff trimmings. To
a velveteen winter dress a waistcoat and cuffs
so made are an admirable finish as long as the
embroidery is kept subdued by rich colours,
and the gold carefully put on, while for dinner
dresses a broad panel of embroidery is carried
down the skirt, and the waistcoat cut low, and
no trimming required for the sleeves.

Oriental embroidery cannot be made up in
so many different ways as Leek embroidery,
but it is quite new, and aims at reproducing
early Eastern designs. The foundation
material is surah silk, the silk sold in large
squares as Liberty’s handkerchief being
correct in colouring and texture. Upon this
foundation the patterns, which all consist of
single petalled flowers resembling single
dahlias, sunflowers, or chrysanthemums, are
worked with Oriental silk, which are silks of a
thick make, but very soft and with a gloss on
them similar to the gloss on floss silk. The
leaves surrounding the flowers are of the shape
of the jessamine, and to these are added
tendrils and queer-looking bunches of seed-vessels.

There is little variety in the design, as the
embroidery is entirely executed in one stitch
(that of a close herringbone), but there is
great variety and great scope for good shading
in the colouring. Oriental silks are all dyed
in the shades of blues, yellow pinks, terra-cotta
reds, and brilliant yellows, to be seen in
Eastern embroideries worked before the
introduction of aniline dyes, and the consequent
lapse into Imperial purples and
magentas and royal blues.

By a judicious use of good colours the same
design can be so repeated as to look entirely
different. Thus, a spray of flowers worked
upon an orange-red ground, with cream, yellow,
pink and pale blue colours, will be quite distinct
from the same spray laid upon sea-green silk,
and coloured with deep orange-reds and blues
running from sky into navy blue.

As before mentioned, the only stitch used is
herringboning, and the only flowers single
petalled ones; but the herringboning is done
so closely together that it looks like an interwoven
stitch of double crossings, and the
flowers are all worked in their centres in a
different silk to that used on their tips, and
therefore resemble double petalled flowers.
The tips of each petal are wider than the commencement,
and the herringboning is not
taken along as a wide line of equal width, but
as a curved line running small, and widening
out again several times if the petal or seed-vessel
is a long one. Each petal is worked
separately, and the silk is never dragged or
drawn tightly, but is allowed to lie easily over
the foundation, and rather loosely, although the
stitches follow each other so closely that
nothing of the foundation can be seen where
they are laid. The stems, long leaves, and
large branches are worked as closely as the
petals in herringbone, but tendrils and sprays
are more opened out, and are given the look of
single coral stitch as a variety.

When shading a flower select two colours
that are distinct in tone but not jarring in
their contrast; thus, cream-white used for the
outer petals can be finished with pale blue,
yellow pink, pure orange, or pale yellow for
its centre petals; scarlet red outside petals
with black inner petals, bright blue outside
petals with lemon yellow or terra-cotta red
inside petals, and every one of these colours
are allowable when working bunches of flowers
scattered over the whole of a five o’clock tea-cloth
or fireplace curtains.

The embroidery is used for table-cloths,
mantel borders, and curtain brackets, knitting
bags, handkerchief cases, and as a trimming
to evening dresses. In all cases it requires a
silk lining, and should be worked with a
muslin lining beneath it. Embroidering Breton
handkerchiefs is not a new description of fancy
work, but it is still in vogue; and when a lady
has had sufficient patience to successfully
accomplish the feat of covering every portion
of the handkerchief with thick filoselle work,
there is no doubt that she has produced a
piece of embroidery not only handsome and
durable, but that will justly hand her name
down to posterity as a real worker, and not
one who takes up the whim of the hour and
throws it on one side as soon as it bores her.
The squares made of these embroidered
handkerchiefs are shown more effectually
when they are lined with quilted silk and used
as banner-screens than when they are bordered
with wide plush and used as table-cloths.
The pattern in the latter case is never seen as
a whole, and the beauty of the work is often
marred by water from flower vases spilt over
it, or wet teacups and saucers put down on it.
The small screens now so fashionable make
another admirable place for mounting Breton
work. These screens are made of two compartments
only, in height about 4½ feet. To
each panel, 2½ feet from the ground, a ledge
that can be put up or down is fixed, and that
is used for holding a book or a teacup. The
panel below this ledge is merely filled with a
little curtain made of coloured Oriental silk,
and arranged in very full folds. The panel
above the ledge, that is fully displayed to
every eye, is filled with the embroidery
stretched quite tightly across it and displayed
to its full advantage. The back of the
embroidery is concealed with a satin or silk
matching the little curtain beneath. Two
Breton handkerchiefs are required, one for
each division, but they should not be selected
both of the same design. The little screens
are made of oak, mahogany, and ebonised
wood. They are a simple framework, an inch
and a half square, and any working carpenter
would make them to order.

Breton embroidery is too laborious for many
people, and those whose time is much occupied
with household matters, and who cannot
devote much of it to the task of making their
drawing-rooms pretty, we recommend to try
crazy patchwork in its place. We have lately
seen this easy work carried out most successfully,
and used as mantel and table borders,
covers for footstools, and as the centres of
small table-cloths. The work is one of the
least expensive that can be tried, and can be
put down without derangement of effect at
any moment (a great point in its favour where
interruptions are frequent). Before commencing
any piece of it, it is better to accumulate
all the oddments of ribbons, plush, velvet,
silk, and satin lying in the piece-drawer from
dress trimmings or sent as patterns from shops.
The more plush and velvet obtainable, the
greater the effect produced, while the colouring
should be of a vivid tone, but excluding
the bright aniline dyes already once referred
to as being unsuitable to blend with other
shades. A strong piece of ticking is required
for the foundation, and on this the pieces are
arranged. They should be pinned on while
the amalgamation of colouring is being tried,
and, when that is settled, basted on to the
lining, the edges of soft materials being turned
under and secured with the basting lines.
Similarity in shape and size is to be avoided
when placing the pieces, and the effect aimed
at that of the colouring of a kaleidoscope in
its variety and brightness. In order to obtain
queer shapes and corners, it is not necessary to
carefully cut them out and fit them into their
various spaces; in fact, it is better not to do
so, but to lay one material partly over another,
and by so doing make the desired form. The
embroidery is generally left until the pieces
are basted down to the lining, but now and
again the scraps should be embroidered before
they are fixed down, this method being the
least troublesome when fine silk work is attempted,
such as working flowers in shades of
colour or intricate designs, or following out
the lines of stamped velvet or brocade with
couched-down cords and gold thread. Thin
Oriental silks require a thin muslin lining
underneath them, and the embroidery executed
before they are tacked to the ticking, as unless
this precaution is taken they are apt to pucker
and look uneven and poor. When the patchwork
scraps are all arranged, spare strands of
filoselle of any shades are used to cover over
the basting threads with lines of coral stitch,
feather, chain, rope, and herringbone, while
oddments of silk cord, Japanese gold thread,
very fine braids, etc., are sewn down either as
borderings to the securing lines or as forming
designs and figures on the patches themselves.
Embroidery stitches of all kinds are used to
fill in the centres of the patches, and advantage
is always taken of any pattern on the patches
either by filling it in entirely with shaded silks,
filling up its background with stars, crosses,
or dots, or by enclosing it within diagonal
lines, or sewing spangles down so as to cover
it over. Every effort is made to enrich the
patches by the use of gold thread, spangles,
gold lace, and silk cords, and when the work
is faithfully done, no one could guess it was
devised out of oddments and produced at a
nominal cost.

B. C. Saward.[Pg 12]

ROMANCE.

FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE.

Professor Sir G. A. Macfarren.

Listen | View/Download Lilypond

[Pg 13]

[Pg 14]

[Pg 15]

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

A. Z.—The part of a whole made by two-thirds of
three-fourths is one-half. Such books as those you
name are not so appropriate for young girls as very
desirable, instructive, as well as interesting books,
although a girl of twenty-one might read one of such
a kind once in a way. There is an article by Dr.
Green in the last two numbers of the Leisure Hour
(published by the Religious Tract Society, 56, Paternoster-row,
London, E.C.), those for April and May,
in which such books as you require are recommended—history,
biography, travels, archæology, geology,
astronomy; Shakespeare, Milton, Elizabeth Barret
Browning, Longfellow, Tennyson, etc. Such books
should occupy all your leisure for reading, besides
the study of household economy, nursing, cookery,
needlework, and cutting out. The first five years
after leaving the school-room should be devoted to
such studies as these, not wasted on the class of
literature you specify.

G. H. T.—Yes, there is a Kindergarten College and
Practising School established by the British and
Foreign School Society. It is at 21, Stockwell-road,
S.W., and it is directed by the Misses Crombie.
There are ten such schools in London and eight in
the provinces. Write for papers, and all information
will be supplied you direct from that or any of the
other schools. Had you given your address we could
have given that which is the nearest to you. We
think your age would be suitable. The answer you
receive as to terms may decide you as to the way in
which your £20 may be required. Perhaps if you
annoyed your cousin she would not allow you to
return home to sleep. Whether you could do so as
well as board at the college we could not say. “Look
well before you leap.”

ART.

Sheltie.—To ornament ginger jars, or any kind of
earthenware, without knowing how to draw or paint,
first size it with ordinary glue-size, melted over the
fire; then cut bright scraps of chintz, or gaily-painted
cottons, into diamonds, squares, half-circles, triangles,
etc., and paste them to the jars, carefully
covering every part of the jar with the scraps laid
closely together, but without making any set design.
Let the paste dry; then size the jar, and varnish
with white hard varnish.

Fleur des Alpes.—We fear there are no chances of a
sale in London, as the market for screen and fan painting
is already so full. Besides, you should take such
work personally to shops and obtain trade orders.
Would it not be wiser and more easy to dispose of
them at Geneva, which is within your reach? Accept
our best wishes.

Would-be Photographer.—The reason that the
object to be taken appears upside down in the
camera is this. Light travels in straight lines, and
rays coming through little crevices (such as are used
in cameras), cross each other, and become inverted.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Effie.—The texts of Holy Scripture which you cannot
find are to be found as follows:—Psalm xciv. 22, and
Gen. xvii. 8; Exodus xxix. 45; Ezekiel xi. 20;
Zechariah viii. 8; 2 Cor. vi. 16; Rev. xxi. 3, and
in other places. Your “Concordance” must be a
very bad one. Your handwriting is not formed, but
promises well.

Gowan Cobban.—We do not recommend publishers to
our correspondents. All three specimens of writing
are legible, but No. 2 is careless and unfinished.
Why write a small “b” for a “v”? The latter has
no tall upper stroke.

E. M.—The health of bride, bridegroom, bridesmaids,
and respective parents of the newly-married pair is
drunk, but no others, as a rule.

Corisande.—We could not possibly assist you in
carrying out or devising a method of revenge on the
wrong-doer, nor do we think that even the aggrieved
parents of the injured friend would approve of the
plan. If you reprobate an ill-bred action, you cannot,
consistently with your own views of what is seemly
and dignified, punish that action by following suit,
and doing what would be ill-bred yourself. Besides,
as a Christian, read Romans xii. 19.

Una Mildred Hitchings (N.Z).—The 14th of
February, 1809, was a Tuesday. Many thanks for
your nice letter.

E. B. P. we think had better take more exercise, and
avoid late suppers and sitting up late, as it seems
probable her digestion is weak.

Sepia.—Hairpins are not injurious to the hair except
when the hair is too tightly put up, when that certainly
affects the nerves. We think young people, as
a rule, do not require stimulants unless under the
doctor’s orders. We think oils are far easier to use
than water-colours.

Morning Dewdrop.—We do not think the poetry
worth much now, but it shows that at fifteen you are
thinking about good things in preference to evil and
idle things, and so we consider writing poetry, in
many cases, a good amusement.

Queenie Foster should return the duplicate copy
and ask for the right one, and if enclosing stamps, as
the surest way of getting it, she can retain the
duplicate.

An Unhappy One should not marry her widower on
any account, if she feels as unhappy as her letter
portrays. She must not grow discouraged too soon,
but cultivate patience, and never minding. And
should she finally undertake the care of a ready-made
family, she must be brave and courteous, not
rendering railing for railing, but, contrariwise, blessing.
Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil
with good.

Hawthorn.—We know of nothing better than your
present treatment. We are much obliged by your
kind offer, but we do not require any at present.

Idonea.—We should think your digestion was out of
order. Read the advice given by Medicus to
“Working Girls,” page 295, vol. vi.

Mysotis.—Your nationality is that of your father, but
you may adopt a country; and if he be naturalised
English, you become English too, or you may
legally become so yourself. Also, if you marry an
Englishman you become an Englishwoman, without
going through the process of naturalisation. Of
course by blood you are half English, through your
maternal descent.

Ophelia.—We feel for “Ophelia” very sincerely; but
she should rouse herself, and not give way to morbid
brooding over her troubles. Has she no sacred
duties to perform to those around her? No Lord and
Master above to serve and glorify, by submission to
His dispensations? Has she no blessed hope of a
life beyond the grave? We could not insert your
verses. “All else” is not “gone,” whoever was
removed, when you have “one that sticketh closer
than a brother” to lean upon. Read St. John xiv.;
indeed, you had better study the whole Gospel, and
set yourself resolutely to devote yourself to others.

May Elwin.—Our publisher, Mr. Tarn, sent us your
letter. We suppose you thought him the editor.
The writer of the poems you name is not one with
whom we are acquainted.

Myself.—We cannot do better than refer you to the
abuses of the Lord’s supper, to which St. Paul
alludes in 1 Cor. ii. 21, 22, which answers your
question. Also see Hebrews x. 25, and 1 Cor. xiv.
40. Beware how you trifle with sacred rites and
sacraments. You had better look up the whole of the
text about Elders and their office in the New Testament
Epistles. Our Lord’s promise is that where two
or three are gathered together He would be in their
midst and bless them. You had better look out the
word communion in the dictionary, as it cannot
refer to one person alone; it is an act performed
by a certain number of persons together, more or less.
Again, when the clergyman prays for his congregation,
is he not a mediator? And when you and
your friends pray for each other, are you not
mediators? And this, without disparagement to the
doctrine that Christ is the great and chief Mediator,
without whose divine mediation all other would be
useless.

Brunette.—The soul does not attain its highest state
of bliss until it be re-united to the body; but the soul
of a believer in Christ (by which we mean one of
His faithful people, who loves, serves, and trusts in
Him and His atonement alone) will enter into a
happy and sinless rest. He has made “an everlasting
covenant with them,” not with those who
deny Him. Any mercy shown to such would be
uncovenanted. See for yourself what the Scriptures
say. We know nothing more than what is revealed
in them. As to the heathen who have not heard the
Gospel, they are “a law unto themselves,” and will
be judged as such, not as those who rejected
Christ.

One Wanting To Learn.—We are glad that you
find the Sulhampstead Question Society, which we
recommended, so useful in helping forward your education.
We do not print our correspondents’ letters.

Roy.—We regret that we cannot accede to your
request. It would interfere with the general usefulness
of our magazine if we were to introduce the
subject of politics into it. We do not even discuss
vexed questions of religious belief, because our paper
is meant for persons of all denominations, whose
feelings should be respected. We limit our teaching
to the broad principles of our common Christianity.

Lottie.—If in so feeble a state of health, you should
obtain medical advice. We could not prescribe for a
perfect stranger.

June.—All the chief writers of this paper, with the
artists and musical composers, including ourselves,
have already been represented, in a more or less
satisfactory manner. The story, “That Aggravating
Schoolgirl,” appeared in the second volume, beginning
at page 9.

M. C. F.—We do not quite understand what you
mean. Visiting cards should never be sent by post,
and if they be left at the house you acknowledge
them by calling in return. If people be at a distance
from you, you must take an opportunity of calling
when near. You must answer congratulations either
by letter or a call.

Birchbroom.—St. Paul was a bachelor, and tells you
so in 1 Cor. vii. You will find many pretty designs
for knitting in our paper. We do not propose to
keep any space specially for knitting recipes. You
will find one for a petticoat at page 41, vol. ii., in the
number for October, 1880.

Nellica.—We thank you for your kind and grateful
letter, and rejoice that you enjoy our paper and are
allowed to read it. You write a very fair, legible
handwriting.

A Hothouse Plant.—Pampas grass must be bleached
in a solution of chloride of lime. You had better
consult the chemist of whom you procure the drug
as to the proportion of water. Perhaps he would
prepare it for you. You write well, but use a bad
pen—we mean an old, worn-out one.

Bedwaeen (Hyderabad).—We acknowledge your kind
letter with our best wishes and thanks. You do not
ask any special question; but as you regret a want
of acquaintance with the rules of English grammar,
we recommend “The Handbook of the English
Tongue,” by Dr. Angus, published at our office,
56, Paternoster-row, E.C.; address Mr. Tarn.

Amelia should take her “twopenny mulready envelope”
to a shop where stamps are sold for collections.
This is the only plan, if not disposed of to a private
collector. We do not think she will make very much
on the sale.

The Bird.—Kindly refer to the article in question,
where all information is already given.

Ormonde should call after all invitations, whether she
accept them or not.

Lily Walker.—The bridegroom presents the bride
and bridesmaids with their bouquets; but it is not
needful that the latter should have them. The health
of the bride and bridegroom respectively are proposed
by the oldest friend of the family present; but
other healths are no longer drunk as a universal rule,
we believe.

Italia.—The competition papers are in no case
returned. Your quotation is very good, but is
useless under the circumstances.

Dulcie Weston should consult a doctor and take a
tonic. We should decidedly object to cold baths in
her case. They should be rather warmer than
tepid.

Dewdrop.—When the right time comes for the hatching
of silkworms, they should be kept in the sun.
Before that they should be kept cool, as their coming
out should be delayed until that of the new mulberry
leaves. The worms need not to be kept in the
sun.

Bluebell and Dolly.—Many thanks for your kind
letter.

Mayflower.—We should think, from the price you
name, that you are buying spirits of wine. Send
your own bottle to an oilshop for methylated spirits.
But why not do this:—Get a small oil-lamp and
kettle, enough to boil a quart of water; when quite
boiling it will be enough for two gallons of cold
water, and, using a sponge bath, you can have a comfortable
bath?

Grace should wear the backboard and faceboard, so
often recommended by us, for an hour every day
while reading or learning her lessons. The book
could be set on a stand or shelf, and she could learn
while walking to and fro.

Guelder Rose.—Some words and names have been
given an arbitrary pronunciation by that tyrant—the
fashion of the day. There is a rule for each class
of society, by which all within those respective
circles is bound, unless its members wish to make
themselves remarkable. Amongst the “Upper Ten”
the name Derby is pronounced “Darby,” Shrewsbury
as “Shrowsbury,” and clerk as “clark.”
Balmoral is “Bal-moral,” the “mo” chiefly accentuated.
Writing fairly good.

Try Again is thanked for her kind letter. That a
competitor should not be successful is no discredit to
her work, because the number of papers sent in is
so enormous, none but the most remarkably perfect
amongst the good ones can be awarded even certificates,
not to say prizes.

Coming thro’ the Rye.—You form your letters fairly
well, but reverse the heavy and light strokes. The
down strokes should be heavy, and the up strokes
light. Also, if you did not make the ends of your
final letters in every word turn up like pig-tails, your
writing would be improved. Perhaps your handwriting
may be formed, or begin to be so, at sixteen.
No children write running hands.

Rose.—No “gentlemen” presume to speak to girls in
their own rank of life without an introduction; it
would be an insult. And as to proposing to walk
with you, as a stranger, if you have no father,
brother, nor uncle to warn him away, he deserves to
be handed over to the police. But men do not
usually take such liberties unless they have had
some encouragement. Beware of looking at strange
men in passing them. Look away when they come
near.

Edith.—Sage tea is good for cooling the face and
healing the skin when much sunburnt; but it should
be used the same day. Lie on a sofa, and lay the
wet leaves over your face.[Pg 16]

AUTUMN.

By HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.