[Pg 65]

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

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY: Chapter 5.
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND: Introduction
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND: Chapter 1.
HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS: Sketch 1.
NOTES FOR NOVEMBER.
CHILD ISLAND: Part 1.
AFTERNOON TEA.
HEALTHY LIVES FOR WORKING GIRLS.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.


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

“THE POOR LITTLE BARONESS, WHO WAS ASLEEP, STARTED UP.”

[Pg 66]

CHAPTER V.
THE CHATEAU AFTER THE LOSS OF THE BABY.

s the baron had conjectured,
the housemaid
whom he had
called out of the
nursery to look for
Léon’s cane, on finding
her master had
gone without it, did
not hurry back, but
stopped talking to
some of the other
servants for perhaps
a quarter of an hour,
when she returned to
the nursery, and to
her amazement found
the baby was gone.
She was not alarmed at first, except
she supposed she should get a scolding
from the nurse, who she imagined had
come in and taken the child to another
room; however, having the excellent
excuse that her master had called her
away she went in search of the nurse,
but now not finding her anywhere, and
hearing from the footman that she was
not expected back till very late, Marie
became seriously alarmed.

“Perhaps madame has taken it into
her room; she might have heard it crying,
and fetched it,” suggested the footman,
and Marie, very much against her
will, felt she was in duty bound to go
and see.

So, knocking at her mistress’s door,
she called out, “Madame, has she taken
the baby?”

The poor little baroness, who was
asleep, started up, and called to the
servant to come in.

“Madame, has she the baby?” repeated
the girl.

“The baby? No, what do you mean?
Where is it, and where is nurse?” cried
the baroness, jumping up and slipping
on a dressing-gown and slippers.

Marie began to cry, and to pour forth
such a volley of words, excuses, fears,
alarms, and wonders that the baroness
could make out nothing, and rushed to
the nursery to see for herself what had
happened. The empty cradle did not,
however, throw much light upon it, and
the servants who answered the bell,
which the baroness clashed wildly,
looked as scared as the sobbing Marie
to find the baby had disappeared. A
search from attic to basement was at
once instituted, the men-servants were
sent into the grounds with lanterns, the
whole house was turned topsy-turvy, in
the midst of which the nurse returned,
and finding her baby was gone, went
into violent hysterics, while the young
baroness, with flying hair and dilated
eyes, rushed about, wringing her hands,
and looking, as she felt, distracted with
grief.

The search was, of course, in vain,
and they were just coming to the conclusion
that the baby had been stolen,
when the baron returned from seeing
Léon off.

The moment the baroness heard his
voice in the hall she flew down the wide
oak staircase, crying, “Arnaud! Arnaud!
My precious baby is gone, it is
stolen; find her, find her, or I shall go
mad.” And a glance at her wild eyes
almost testified she spoke the truth.

“She is not stolen, she is safe enough,”
said the baron, sulkily.

“Safe? Where? Where? Take me
to her, my precious one; where is she?”
cried the baroness, with a loud burst of
hysteric laughter on hearing her child
was safe.

“Silence, Mathilde, don’t behave in
this ridiculous style. Come with me,”
said the baron, in a tone his wife had
never heard him use to her before, and
which had the effect of reducing her to
tears; and, sobbing wildly, she hung on
her husband’s arm as he half led, half
carried her upstairs, and laid her on a
sofa in her own room.

“Now, Mathilde, if you will try and
compose yourself, I will tell you what I
have done with the baby. For some
time I have felt sure that you were
ruining the child’s health by the absurd
way in which you coddle it up, and,
moreover, making yourself a perfect
slave to it, neglecting all your other
duties,” began the baron, as he seated
himself on the edge of the sofa by the
side of his sobbing wife, who was, however,
much too anxious about her baby
to be able to listen patiently to the marital
lecture to which the baron was about to
treat her.

“But Arnaud! Arnaud! where is the
baby? Oh, do tell me; it is cruel to
keep me in this suspense,” sobbed the
baroness.

Now, to be cruel to his wife was the
very last thing the baron intended; it
was only out of the extremity of his
jealous love for her that he had sent the
baby away. Thoughtless and selfish he
might have been, but surely no one could
say he had been guilty of cruelty to this
wife, whom he loved so madly that even
her love for her child had raised the demon
of jealousy within his breast. The
word “cruel” stung him to the quick;
it was a new phase of his conduct, one
that had never struck him before, and
as he glanced at the poor little baroness,
who had half risen on the sofa, and was
looking at him with an agonised look on
her pretty face, he was seized with remorse,
and felt it impossible to go on
with the rôle he had attempted to play
of the wise father and husband, who had
only acted for the good of his wife and
child. Already he was beginning to repent
of his rash act, and if it had been
possible to go after the yacht the chances
are the baron would have started at
once, and brought back the baby for
the pleasure of seeing its mother smile
again. As it was impossible, the next
best thing was to make the best of it,
and if Mathilde could not be comforted
in any other way, why he must promise
to let her have it back again. He decided
all this as he petted the baroness,
and tried to comfort her by whispering
fond nothings into her ear; but he soon
found all his caresses were useless, unless
he yielded to her entreaties and told
her where the baby was, and as all
he knew about it was that it was on
board Léon’s yacht, on which it was
being taken, he believed, to England,
though he was by no means sure, this
did not tend to allay the poor mother’s
anxious fears.

Her baby confided to the wild Léon’s
charge, tossed about in a yacht with not
a woman on board to take care of it,
her fragile little daughter, on whom the
wind had never been allowed to blow,
now at the mercy of wind and waves for
days, and then, supposing the child was
alive, which in her present mood the
baroness declared to be impossible, even
if it were, not to know where it was till
Léon came back, perhaps for a week or
more, for the baron dare not tell her it
would probably be a month before he
returned—oh, it was unbearable! She
was sure she could neither eat nor sleep
until she had her baby back. Life until
then would be a burden to her. What
could she do without it? Already she
was sure it knew her; and oh, how happy
she had been watching by its cradle! If
Arnaud only knew how she delighted in
nursing and playing with it, even to gaze
on it while it slept was a joy to her! Oh,
if he only understood, he would never
have been so cruel as to send it away.

All the baron’s arguments as to the
advantages to the baby which were to
be derived from his scheme, and the
wonderful health and strength it was to
derive from leading a less luxurious life,
failed to reassure the baroness, and she
passed a sleepless night, and looked so
ill and miserable the next morning that
the baron was angry with her for looking
ill, and with himself for being the cause.
No one in the house but the baroness
had been told the night before what had
become of the baby, the general opinion
being that it had been taken or sent to
some woman in the neighbourhood to
look after; but when it became known
that it was sent away in Léon’s charge
no one knew where, the sympathy with
the baroness was universal, and the baron
found himself looked upon as a jealous
tyrant, with no real love for either his
wife or child.

“A nice father you are,” cried his
brother Jacques.

“The idea of trusting Léon with a
baby. Why, he will pitch it overboard
if it cries,” said little Louis, a remark
which so annoyed the baron that he
promptly seized Louis by the collar and
turned him out of the room.

“You really must have been mad,
Arnaud, to dream of such a thing as
entrusting Léon, of all people in the
world, with an infant,” said the old
baroness, for once taking the part of her
daughter-in-law against her son.

Père Yvon said nothing just then; it
would not have been wise to have done
so while the baron’s temper was ruffled
by the criticisms of his family or in their
presence, but when he was alone with
Arnaud, Père Yvon spoke his mind pretty
freely, and read the baron a severer
lecture than he had ever done all the
years he was under his tuition.

It was nothing but jealousy which had
prompted such a mad, cruel act, and
jealousy of the most unreasonable—he
might almost say unpardonable—kind:
a father to be jealous of his wife’s love
for his own child! There was a German
saying, excellent in the original, but
which lost the double play upon the[Pg 67]
words in the translation which Père Yvon
quoted to the baron—

which means, freely translated, that
jealousy is a passion which brings misery
to him who indulges in it; and Père Yvon
impressed upon Arnaud that if any misfortune
happened to the baby, he would
have no one to blame but himself, for
though all sins bring their own punishment,
jealousy is undoubtedly one that
can never be indulged in with impunity.
This, and much more to the same effect,
Père Yvon said, and the baron, lying in
an easy chair, listened patiently enough,
partly because he was very fond of the
chaplain, and partly because he was so
angry with himself now for his folly that
it was a relief to him to be blamed
roundly for it.

All that day the baroness wandered
about the house in a vague, restless way,
unable to settle to anything, and trying
to amuse herself by consulting with the
nurse as to how they should go and
fetch the baby back when they discovered
where it was. She ate little or nothing,
and after another sleepless night looked
so worn and ill that the baron sent for a
doctor, who came and urged strongly
that the baby should be sent for at once,
or he would not be answerable for the
consequences; the suspense and anxiety
were telling so on the baroness that if
the strain lasted much longer he feared
she would have an attack of brain fever.

On hearing this the baron was dreadfully
alarmed, and telegraphed to Léon’s
agent at Havre to let him know immediately
he heard from M. Léon de Thorens,
who had sailed two nights before
in the Hirondelle for a cruise in the
Channel. The agent telegraphed back
that he knew no more than M. le Baron
at present, but so soon as he received
any further information he would let the
baron know. This did not reassure the
baroness, who had taken it into her head
that something had happened to the
yacht, and not all Arnaud’s promises
that the moment he knew where the
child was he would go himself and bring
her back could comfort the poor, anxious
little mother, who, with pale cheeks and
black marks round her great brown eyes,
which were always large but looked bigger
than ever now that they had not
been closed since the baby left, wandered
about the château, looking like a
picture of despair.

This lasted for nearly a week, and
then came a telegram from the agent to
say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off
the east coast of England with all hands
drowned. The baron was alone when
the telegram was handed to him, and
the news was such a shock to him that
he read the message over again and
again before the words, though they
were burnt indelibly into his brain, conveyed
their full meaning to his mind.
Slowly he grasped the terrible truth;
poor Léon, the life of the house, wild,
handsome Léon was drowned, and his
own poor innocent baby as well, drowned,
and by his fault. He was little better
than a murderer, he thought, in the first
outburst of his grief, and he must tell
Mathilde, and perhaps kill her too. How
should he ever have the courage to do
this? Strange to say, though perhaps,
after all, it was not strange, the baron
was far more cut up at the sad fate of
his little girl, whom, a few days ago, he
had been so anxious to get rid of, for a
while, at least, than he was at the news
of poor Léon’s death. So much hung
on the baby; Mathilde’s life might almost
be said to depend upon its recovery,
and now he must go and strike
the blow which would perhaps kill her.
Père Yvon was indeed right; his jealousy
was truly bringing a terrible punishment
in its train, and the baron buried his
face in his hands, and sobs of bitterest
grief shook his whole frame. At
last, rousing himself, he went to the
door of the study where the chaplain
was engaged teaching the younger boys,
and beckoned him out. Père Yvon saw
at a glance by the baron’s pale, scared
face, as well as by the telegram he held
in his hand, that something terrible had
happened, and drawing Arnaud into the
nearest room, he asked eagerly what was
the matter. The baron answered by
placing the telegram in his hands, and
paced the room in a frenzy while Père
Yvon read it. The chaplain’s first
thought was for the poor widowed mother,
whose darling son was thus cut off in
the beauty of his youth. He had known
her so many years, and had comforted
her in so many sorrows, it was natural
he should think of her first, before the
other mother, who had her husband to
comfort her, and whose child was only
an infant of a few months old.

“La pauvre baronne! My poor
madame! It will break her heart: her
darling son,” murmured the chaplain.

“Ah, poor Léon. I can’t realise it
yet that we shall never see him again,
and my poor, innocent baby too; it will
kill Mathilde. Oh, mon père, how
are we to tell them?” groaned the
baron.

“I will tell your mother; it is not the
first time I have been the bearer of ill
news to her, and you must break it as
gently as you can to your wife. It is a
sad day indeed for this household, but
the Lord’s will be done. He knows best,
and He will not send any of us more
than we are able to bear,” replied Père
Yvon, as he went on his sad mission to
the old baroness.

As he had said, he had broken many
sorrows to her, but he had never had to
deal a heavier blow than when he told
her her favourite son was drowned, the
son of whom she was so proud, whom
she loved better than all her other children;
but the baroness was a saintly
woman, and one of her first sayings after
she heard the news was, “Mon père, it
is hard, but it is just—he was my idol.”

She did not grieve in any extravagant
way; she did not absent herself from any
meals; she attended mass, for she was a
devout Catholic, in the private chapel
every morning, and, indeed, spent a
great deal of time there in prayer; she
never gave up one of her accustomed
duties, visited the poor as regularly as
ever, but from the day she heard the sad
news to her death, which happened a
few years later, she was scarcely seen to
smile again, and she was never heard
to mention Léon’s name except to Père
Yvon. Hers was a life-long sorrow, too
deep for words, too deep for even tears
to assuage its poignancy; her heart was
broken; she had no further interest in
this life; all her hopes were centred on
that life where she hoped to meet her
darling son again, never to be separated
from him.

The young baroness bore her trial
very differently. She gave way to a passionate
outburst of grief on learning that
her baby was drowned—a grief in which
the baron shared, and was, indeed, in
more need of consolation than his wife,
for to his sorrow was added remorse and
bitterest stings of conscience for having
brought such sorrow to his wife, about
whom he was very anxious, until the
doctor assured him the sad certainty
was even better for her than the terrible
suspense she had been enduring for the
last week. To a young, passionate nature
hitherto undisciplined by the sorrows
of life, like the young baroness’s,
anything was easier to bear than suspense,
and the doctor assured Arnaud
that the passionate grief in which his
wife indulged would do her no harm—on
the contrary, she was more likely to get
over it quickly. Violent grief is rarely
lasting; there invariably follows a reaction.

A few days later the baron received
another telegram from the Havre agents,
telling him they had found out that the
Hirondelle had left Yarmouth, on the
Norfolk coast, where she had been lying
for two or three days, the day before she
was lost, and was then intending to
cruise round the coast of Great Britain.
The baron was immediately raised from
the depths of despair to the highest pinnacle
of hope on hearing this, for he
felt sure Léon had gone ashore at Yarmouth
to place the baby with some
Englishwoman, and had remained there
some days on purpose. Confiding his
new hope to Père Yvon, he at once decided
to start that night for England by
Dover and Calais, for already steamers
ran once or twice a week between these
ports. He would then go on to Yarmouth
by stage-coach, and make all inquiries
for his baby. His difficulty was, he did
not know the language, but living near
the Château de Thorens was a Monsieur
de Courcy, who had married an English
wife, and spoke English very well. He
was intimate with the De Thorens, and
the baron hoped he might be able to
help him in his trouble.

Accordingly he called on the De
Courcys at once, and, to his great relief,
Monsieur de Courcy offered to go to
Yarmouth with him, while Madame de
Courcy suggested that the baroness
should come and stay with her during
their husbands’ absence, for the château
was a very gloomy place for the poor
young mother while the shadow of death
rested upon it. Arnaud jumped at this,
for he had never been separated from
his wife since their marriage, and he
would far rather leave her with this
pretty young English lady than at the
château, while his mother’s grief for
Léon saddened the whole household.[Pg 68]
It was easy to account for his journey
to England, by saying that he was going
to get particulars of the accident from
the place off which it happened. This
would seem only natural to Mathilde,
who must on no account be told that he
had any hope of finding the child. She
had accepted the news of its death without
questioning it, and it was far better
to let her continue under this impression
than to raise fresh hopes, which, after
all, might never be realised, and if he
could only persuade her to come to Parc
du Baffy while he was away he would
feel quite happy about her.

Madame de Courcy and the baroness
were on intimate terms with each other,
although Madame de Courcy was a
staunch Protestant, and both the baron
and baroness bigoted Romanists; but
the great attraction to Mathilde, as
Madame de Courcy guessed, would be her
child, a beautiful boy of three years old,
in whom the baroness had delighted
until her own baby was born and
absorbed all her time and affection.
Knowing this, Madame de Courcy offered
to send her boy to the château with the
baron, hoping to inveigle the baroness
to return with him to Parc du Baffy, a
manœuvre which succeeded admirably,
for Mathilde, not having seen the little
Rex for some weeks, was so enraptured
with him that she could not part with
him, and as Madame de Courcy could not
be asked to spare her child as well as
her husband, the baroness consented to
go and stay at the Parc while the baron
was away. The little Rex was too old
to remind her of her own baby, and his
pretty mixture of French and English
amused her immensely, and for the
moment charmed away her sorrow.
Had she known the real object of her
husband’s visit to England, the suspense
and anxiety would have made her
seriously ill; not knowing it, the change
and Rex’s society did her good, so that
Madame de Courcy was able, after a
day or two, to write to the baron and tell
him his wife was certainly better and
more cheerful since she had been at the
Parc du Baffy.

Meanwhile the baron and M. de
Courcy reached Yarmouth safely, and
learned the day and hour on which the
Hirondelle arrived and also left Yarmouth,
and that the cause of her remaining
so long there was the absconding
of an English sailor, named, or, at
all events, calling himself, John Smith.
The baron was more elated than ever at
hearing this, for he knew the Englishman
was to place the baby out to nurse,
and if he were safe, the chances were
that the child was too; but when,
after having run two or three John
Smiths to earth and discovered that they
bore no resemblance to the original, it
became evident that the real John
Smith had made himself scarce, and
was probably not John Smith at all, the
baron’s hopes of recovering the child
again fell, though he could not abandon
the idea that if he could only find the
runaway sailor he should hear some
news of the child. The wish was, perhaps,
father to the thought, but he
could not help thinking the child was
not on board the Hirondelle when she
went down, now that he found the
English carpenter had left the yacht at
Yarmouth. But the baron felt his inability
to speak English a great drawback
to prosecuting his inquiries as
fully as he would have liked, although
M. de Courcy was very kind and did all
any friend could have been expected to
do; still, it was not the same as speaking
the language himself, as the baron felt,
and he bitterly regretted he had never
tried to master its difficulties. Many of the
Yarmouth fishermen and boatmen remembered
the Hirondelle and the handsome
French gentleman to whom she
belonged, but not one had ever seen the
sign of a baby on board her, though
this did not throw much light on the
matter, as the baby might easily
have been kept below or removed at
night.

At last, after spending a week or ten
days in fruitless inquiries, the baron and
his friend returned to France, the baron
convinced in his own mind that some
hope of his child being safe still existed, a
hope which he dared not communicate
to the baroness, but which, nevertheless,
lingered in his breast for many a long
day.

(To be continued.)

THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;

OR,

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

By EMMA BREWER.

INTRODUCTION.

A gentleman asked me the other day upon
what subject I intended next to write, and
on telling him that the Editor had kindly permitted
me to deal with the Bank of England
and the National Debt, he said, “Nonsense!
what do girls want to know about the Bank
of England and the National Debt? Let
them be content to leave all such knowledge
to men, and rest satisfied if they get their
dividends all right and know how to spend
them properly and keep out of debt.”

He seemed to forget that to do even the
little he permitted us would require knowledge
and education of a liberal character, and that
without these our desires might outrun our
income, and getting into debt might prove our
normal condition.

A thorough knowledge of our circumstances
is better than partial blindness, and to see
things all round and weigh them justly is
better than sitting with hands folded while
men see and judge for us.

The subjects of the Bank of England and the
National Debt are well worth a study, and
will not fail to afford us both varied and
interesting information.

Among other things they will tell us how
the Bank of England came into existence;
what the nation did previous to its existence;
how our country came to have a debt which
it has never been able to pay off, and how it
would prove a calamity if it were possible to
pay it off suddenly.

Again, we shall learn the meaning of
“selling out” and “buying in” money, and
what is understood by “consols,” “reduced
threes,” “stocks going up and down,” “a
run upon the Bank,” “panic,” and many
other such terms.

There is no reason why girls should not be
able to give answers to all of these, and every
reason why they should, seeing that an
intimate knowledge of these subjects is as
much a part of our nation’s history as is the
history of our kings and queens, our wars, and
our institutions.

And even beyond this, it is a matter of
importance that girls having property, little or
much, should understand the character of
those to whom they entrust it.

There are many and valuable books
published upon these subjects, but they are
expensive to buy and take a long time to wade
through; in addition to this, they are so
learned that we women-folk fail often to get
the simple information we require, even when
we have read them.

The Bank of England, either by name or by
sight, is known, I suppose, to all of us; but
its origin, its working, its influence, is not so
familiar to us, and it does not seem to me that
we should be going at all out of our province
if we were to ask the “Old Lady of Threadneedle-street”
to tell us something of her
history, her household, and her daily life, seeing
that most of us contribute to her housekeeping,
some more, some less.

We trust her so completely that “safe as
the Bank of England” has passed into a
proverb; yet, for all that, we should like the
old lady’s own account of how she came into
existence, and how she became such a power
in the land, and what she does with all the
money we lend her, and out of what purse she
pays us for the loan.

She certainly ought to be able to tell an
interesting tale—for her palace, her servants,
her house-keeping, her treasures, her cellars,
her expenditure, her receipts and clearing, the
frights she has every now and again both
given and received, must each and all be more
amusing and full of interest than any fairy tale
told by Grimm or Andersen.

CHAPTER I.

THE STORY OF THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE
STREET.

And so you want me to tell you the story of
my life! Telling tales is not quite in my line,
but I will do the best I can; and should I become
garrulous and tedious, as old ladies are
wont sometimes to be, you must recall me by
a gentle reminder that you live in the present
century, whose characteristics are short, decisive,
and by all means amusing.

My career has been a strange and eventful
one, as you yourselves will see if I can interest
you sufficiently to listen to the end.

Of course, I was not always known as the
Old Lady of Threadneedle-street; indeed, I[Pg 69]
can well remember the feeling of annoyance
with which I saw Mr. Punch’s illustration of
me in 1847, as a fat old woman without a
trace of beauty, except in my garments, which
were made of bank notes. I have kept a copy
of it, and will just pencil you the outline.

The annoyance was intensified when I found
myself handed down to posterity by him as
the Old Lady of Threadneedle-street. He
could have no authority for this picture, seeing
that, like the Delphian mystery of old, I am
invisible, and deliver my oracles through my
directors.

You are girls, and will quite understand the
distress of being thrust suddenly into old age.
Up to 1847 I was young, good-looking, and
attractive, and to be bereft of my youth and
romance at one blow; to know that from
henceforth all would be prosaic and business-like,
that I should never again have lovers
seeking my favour, was a condition of extreme
pain. I had always prided myself on my figure,
but even this Mr. Punch did not leave me, but
told the world that it was due to
tight-lacing. It was very cruel,
and I have sometimes thought it
was envy of my position; but let
that go. I took counsel with
myself, and determined to face
the future with the resolve to be
the very nicest old lady in the
world, and to make myself so
useful to my fellow-creatures that
they should love me and stand
by me even though my first
youth had passed. And I am
sure you will agree with me in
thinking that I have accomplished
this, and that not only
have I kept clear of weakness
and decrepitude, but have
achieved for myself a reputation
and position second to no lady
in the land.

It has been necessary for me
to make this little explanation,
otherwise you might have thought
I had never been young. And
now to proceed.

It was in the reign of William
and Mary that I first saw the
light, being born in Mercers’
Hall on the 27th of July, 1694.

From this place, after a few
months, I was removed to
Grocers’ Hall, Poultry; not the
stately structure with which you
are acquainted, but one much
more simple, which was razed
to make room for the present
building.

I may say, without vanity,
that my birth created a sensation throughout
the length and breadth of the land.

The House of Commons even was not
exempt from this excitement, but set aside its
serious work to discuss whether or not I should
be strangled and put out of the way, or
nurtured into strength by its support and
countenance.

Those members who were in favour of the
last resolution declared that I should rescue
the nation out of the hands of extortioners,
lower interests, raise the value of land, revive
public credit, improve commerce, and connect
the people more closely with the Government,
while those of the contrary opinion assured
the House that I should engross the whole
money of the kingdom, that I should weaken
commerce by tempting people to withdraw
their money from trade, that I should encourage
fraud and gaming, and corrupt the morals
of the nation.

Little recked I of all the stir and commotion
my birth was causing, as, nursed and
cared for by my father, William Paterson, a
Scotch merchant, and his friend, Mr. Michael
Godfrey, I gradually grew into strength. It
was not till long afterwards that I heard and
understood the circumstances of my birth, and
how around me were centred the interests of
the kingdom.

When I was only twelve months old, those
who were bound together to take care of my
interests separated my father from me, giving
as an excuse that he was of too speculative and
adventurous a spirit to be entrusted with my
welfare.

Poor father! It has always seemed to me
very sad that he who had worked so long and
so persistently for my success should have
been condemned to spend the last years of
his life in solitude and neglect in Scotland,
while I, his child, was gradually becoming
everything that his highest ambition could
have pictured; but so it was.

THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.
From “Punch.”

I have often wished that he had employed
those last weary years of his in writing a history
of his life. I am sure it would have interested
all classes of readers, but I suppose
he was too sad and out of heart. He was
forty-one years of age at the time of my
birth, having been born in Dumfries in 1658.
He was one of those who may be said
to live before their time. He possessed great
ability, knowledge, and experience, and was a
great traveller, yet, with all this, his life was a
series of disappointments and failures.

His great friend, Michael Godfrey, who had
worked so faithfully by his side, would, I am
sure, never have forsaken him, but he was
struck down by a ball in the trenches of
Namur, in 1695, while seeking the king in my
interests.

He was a great loss to me, although I was
too young at the time to estimate it fully. He
has left behind him a quaint and graphic account
of my infancy, with which I shall hope
to make you acquainted later on.

Should you feel any interest in him, look in
St. Swithin’s Church some day when passing,
and there you will find a monument to his
memory, which records that he “died a
batchelour, much lamented by his friends,
relations, and acquaintances for his integrity,
his knowledge, and the sweetness of his
manners.”

My name “Bank,” which signifies “bench”
or “high seat,” I derived from Italian forefathers,
who, in early days, carried on their
business in the public places or exchanges on
benches.

This business of theirs consisted chiefly in
being the depositories of the wealth of rich
people, and making payments for them according
to written orders, and further in receiving
money from some people on interest,
and lending it to others at a higher rate. I
have been told that in their day making a
profit by lending money was not considered at
all an aristocratic proceeding, and procured
for those who indulged in it the name of
usurers, a word I do not like; it savours of
sordidness.

From my very birth I was educated to be
reliable, steady, secure, and faithful, and to be
true and just in all my dealings.

It was made clear to me that it was the
lack of these qualities in the
money affairs of the kingdom
which had led to the necessity
of my existence, and I was made
distinctly to understand that it
was only upon my developing
largely these peculiar traits of
character that I should continue
the existence thus begun.

My education was quite different
from that of other girls. I had
to learn arithmetic almost before
I could speak, and the state and
condition of kings and governments
were instilled into my
mind as regularly as food into
my body.

There were no novels, no light
literature for me, except what I
could extract for myself out of
the dry material placed before
me. Still, my mind was not
warped with this peculiar bringing
up, and now that I am an old
woman, I think I can see that I
owe this to the character of
those who governed and directed
me.

Of course, this peculiar education
and training kept me far
ahead of other girls, and while
they were scarcely out of the
nursery, and still enjoying battledore
and shuttlecock, I was seeking
information, either by reading
or conversation, concerning
my forefathers, position, duties,
and property.

Young as I was, I began to
feel creeping over me a sense of responsibility,
and a longing to know how best to fulfil all
that was required of me. I knew that I was
rich, but how did I become so? I knew that
my riches were expected to make others rich,
but how? I was always asking questions, and
sometimes succeeded in getting an answer,
which served as a clue, and sent me to search
old parchments or to make comparisons.

It was some time before I could piece the
scraps of information together, but gradually
I did so, and then assuredly I saw the awfulness
of my influence and position, and determined,
with God’s blessing, to be a comfort
and support to the widows and orphans who
trusted in me, as well as a source of strength,
security, and honour to the nation and its
rulers, and I resolved that henceforth my
name, the Bank of England, should carry with
it a meaning wherever it was heard, far beyond
its original signification; it should be
another term for wealth, honour, and thrift—a
something to be trusted, and in which nothing
foul, mean, or sordid must be found.

(To be continued.)[Pg 70]

HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

Sketch I.—The Oratorio and Passion Music (Sacred Drama).

By MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital.

n a former number,
in prefacing
reviews of
new music, we
said sufficient
upon the subject
of listening
to music to call
the attention of
our many readers
to the performances
going
on so frequently
in all
parts of the
world, and now
we persuade
ourselves that
there may be
some to whom
a short account
of the various
and varied
forms, to which
our attention as
audience is
most frequently
invited,
would be
of interest, even though they have some
knowledge of the subject already; and that
there may be others to whom these very incomplete
sketches may appear as information,
and as an incentive to further investigation.

For our first sketch we have chosen the
oratorio, for it is undoubtedly the highest
form of musical dramatic art, and is founded
upon and contains the greatest and deepest
truths of the Christian life. As regards the
actual music forms employed, we find, indeed,
similar ones in the operas, such as the various
forms of recitative, the aria, the duet, and the
chorus, and even the scena; but in the sacred
works, who are the heroes and heroines? Are
they not the instruments of the Divine power,
the messengers of the good tidings? And
what are the subjects? Are they not the
struggles, the trials, the victories of noble
souls? With such sacred characters, with
such lofty thoughts, the composers of the
oratorio, dealing, not with the semblance of
truth that the opera contains, but with the
truth itself, are bound to express their feelings
and emotions in the grandest and most perfect
thoughts.

Purely sentimental ideas, and the whole list
of passions and struggles in human existence,
rather form the basis of opera than the proper
subjects for oratorio, and the modern attempts
to transform the sacred ideal into the region
of operatic and dramatic realism seem to fall
singularly short of expectation. To our minds,
the strongest period in the history of oratorio
was the time of Handel and Bach, and writers
of to-day have yet to graft on to their work the
more careful study, and the strengthening
influence of these noble masterpieces in
stronger cuttings, to make the struggling
young plant a healthy and beautiful tree.
Let us progress, by all means, but true progression
is but the joining of all that is good
in the preceding age with all the fresh beauty
God bestows upon us in this our day.

We seem to be comparing or contrasting
the secular form opera and the sacred oratorio,
and it is interesting to know that the origin
of both may be traced back to the same
source—viz., early miracle plays and moralities.
For some time after the introduction of
Christianity into Eastern Europe, the new
converts seem to have retained their fondness
for the heathen practice used in religious, as
in secular, celebrations of theatrical representations,
which were chiefly upon mythological
subjects, and all of which angered and
distressed the priests of the new religion.
However, the latter soon found out that it
was necessary to reach the minds of these
people through their more acutely trained
senses and the medium of their old traditions,
and thus in these early ages the dramatic
element worked its way into the church
worship. Spiritual plays were arranged by the
priests in all parts of Christianised Europe,
who chose scenes and stories from both Old
and New Testaments, and from the lives of
the saints and holy men. The plays were
acted upon a stage, usually erected under the
choir of the church. As women were not permitted
to appear, priests took all the characters,
male and female. We learn, from many
reliable sources, that these sacred representations
had a great effect upon the pious worshippers.

In the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, and chiefly in the west of Europe,
profane elements crept in amongst the holy
legends, and these religious entertainments
also developed so greatly, that hundreds of
actors would be engaged in representations
lasting over several days, whilst the eager
audiences were so large that the churches
could not contain them, and the stage had to
be erected in the market-places, and out of
doors.

The direction passed more and more into
the hands of the laity, who employed jongleurs,
histrions, and strolling vagabonds,
whose acting included gross buffoonery, and
whose profanity completely choked the religious
growth first implanted by these miracle
plays. The stages, it should be explained,
were of curious construction, being divided
into three stories, the upper one containing
the heavenly characters, the middle one being
for the people upon earth, and the lowest for
the denizens of hell.

At the beginning of the sixteenth century
the whole Catholic world was influenced by
those reforms so necessary to the Christian
Church of that time, and so bravely contended
for and gained by Luther. The demoralisation
which weakened all the church’s fabric was
deeply deplored by the Catholic clergy, and
we find at the close of this century St. Philip
Neri founding a congregation of priests in
Rome and drawing youths to church by
dramatising in simple form such stories as the
Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, etc., which
were set to music in four parts with alternate
solos, first by Animuccia (a pupil of Goudimel),
and later on by the great Palestrina. These
“sacred actions” or plays were not performed
in the church itself, but in an adjoining
chamber, called in Italian “oratorio,” an
oratory, and the title has since then adhered
to this species of sacred work.

Our girls will be pleased to know that the
first oratorio, set to music by Emilio del
Cavalieri, was written by a lady, Laura
Guidiccioni. It was acted for the first time
in the year 1600, probably in the oratory of
the Church of Santa Maria della Vallicella, in
Rome. The name of the work is “The
Representation of the Soul and the Body.”
It was to be played in appropriate costumes,
and certain choruses were to be accompanied,
in a reverent and sedate manner, by solemn
dances. Some of the characters were Time,
Pleasure, the World, Human Life, the Body,
etc.

As the various forms of music, already
named as common to the opera and oratorio,
developed in the former, so in proportion
they expanded and became freer in the latter;
those portions which had been mainly founded
upon plain song became more expressive and
dramatic, and the melody assumed a flowing
and cantabile character. But whereas you
would imagine that a closer connection
between the secular and sacred would be the
result of this change, nevertheless, the composer’s
conviction that the music must strive
to be of adequate importance to the sacred
words and subjects caused a line to be drawn,
ever growing more and more marked, as time
and growth in grace and knowledge went
on, between the secular and sacred musical
drama.

In the seventeenth century we find Carissimi
greatly advancing oratorio, and composing
really noble music. You may remember
a revival of his “Jephtha,” by Mr. Henry
Leslie, a few years back. Scarlatti, Stradella,
and others also contributed to this period.
But, notwithstanding its Italian birth and
infancy, it remained for Germany to bring
oratorio to a vigorous manhood, and to its
lofty position in the world of music. The
compositions of Handel and Bach, early in
the eighteenth century, placed this sacred art
form upon a pinnacle of such height and
strength, that few composers have the stamina
or knowledge wherewith to reach it.

Having gazed at this, for a time, culminating
summit, let us go back to the early
days again for a moment to notice a branch
of this tree, a member of this sacred family,
whose growth has been parallel with that of
the subject of our sketch, viz., the Passion
oratorio, one dealing with the sufferings and
death of our blessed Redeemer. Foremost
amongst the miracle plays, in which originated
the sacred drama, was the representation,
during Holy Week, of the Passion of our
Lord. To this day we have interesting relics
of this custom, such as the Oberammergau
play in South Bavaria, the performances in
the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and in some
parts of Spain. The oldest Protestant composition
on this subject was published in 1570.

At the commencement of the seventeenth
century a great development followed in the
writings of Heinrich Schütz, who wrote music
to the Passion, as told by all four evangelists,
and whose tercentenary was celebrated last
year by commencing the publication of all his
works. He did much towards the great
musical development in Germany. Following
in his footsteps came Sebastiani, at the end
of the century, and Keiser at the commencement
of the eighteenth. In Keiser’s Passion
we find, in addition to the Bible narrative,
reflective passages for a chorus, holding much
the same functions as the old Greek chorus,
with interpolated solos for “the Daughter of
Sion” and “the Believing Soul,” some of
which are used later on by Bach, especially
in his setting of the subject according to St.
John’s Gospel. John Sebastian Bach added,
moreover, many well-known chorales in which
the people could join, and these favourite old
hymn tunes had the greatest power over the
hearts of the worshippers.[Pg 71]

Now we have returned to the period at
which we left oratorio, and side by side with
Bach’s great Passion music stand up those
massive monuments, the oratorios of Handel,
of which so much has been written, and many
of which you all know and love so well. It is
worthy of notice, if only to show how recently
(viz., almost halfway through the eighteenth
century) action, and costume, and other accessories
were tolerated in connection with the
sacred subjects, to tell you that at the performance
of his first English oratorio, “Esther,”
at the theatre in the Haymarket, Handel appended
the following note to the playbills:—

“N.B. There will be no acting on the stage,”
this being called shortly after “oratorio
fashion,” even when applied to performances
of secular dramatic subjects which were to
be sung, and not acted.

After these great works of Handel, no important
oratorio was heard in England until
Haydn’s “Creation,” in 1798. Then, in the
present century, Spohr followed with his
“Crucifixion,” “Last Judgment,” and “Fall
of Babylon;” and then Mendelssohn, that
greatest disciple of Bach, whose “Elijah” and
“St. Paul” quite revived the taste for
oratorio, and gave an impetus to it, which
extends to our day.

To end this fragmentary sketch, we may
fairly say that oratorio should contain two
important elements:—

I. The narrative form, as subject of the
whole work.

II. The didactic and contemplative, as
interpolations in soliloquy, or in chorus of
adoration, prayer, and warning.

A third element, the dramatic accessories of
costume, scenery, and action, we have dispensed
with, and, I think, happily so.

We find in these days in many nations,
including our own dear country, composers
are striving after this highest and noblest
ideal; let us pray they may receive that
strength necessary for so great a responsibility.
There is none greater in music, and our hearts
tell us that unless a composer knows and
believes himself that the subject which in
reverence he approaches is the truth itself,
which he must proclaim and preach as a conviction
of his own—we say that unless he thus
incorporates himself in his work it is but
mockery, and the result of it nothingness.

NOTES FOR NOVEMBER.

uring this month we get
the finest effects of the
changing tints of foliage;
after a wet,
windy summer the colours
are poor, but fine
and varied after dry
calm weather.

These autumnal changes
of colour are caused by decay
and death; the life
in the leaf enabled it to
withstand certain chemical
changes, which it can no longer resist as the
vital force wanes, and the green colouring
matter is either changed or destroyed.

We can prove this fact for ourselves if we
notice how often, while all the rest of a tree is
green, the leaves and small branches which
are partly broken, and have, therefore, lost a
great part of their vitality, lose their green
colour, and become yellow or red.

Not only are the broad effects of a landscape
made beautiful in autumn by the rich colouring
of large masses of trees, but the close
observer will find every hedge, bottom, and
wild common flaming with colour. Heath
tell us “it is the commonest plants whose
colours are the most beautiful and striking.”
Amongst those which produce the most
brilliant autumnal tints, the following are
found almost everywhere in the hedges in
England: Bramble, hawthorn, wild strawberry,
dock, spindle-tree, herb robert, cranes-bill,
silver weed, hedge maple, dogwood, black
bryony, ivy; while in the kitchen gardens
nothing can exceed the beauty of the asparagus
and the common carrot.

Many birds come to England from the north
to spend the winter. Wild ducks, woodcocks,
fieldfares, and curlews are coming now, besides
thrushes, larks, and other small birds. Some
of these live with us all through the year, and
are only joined by relatives from colder climates.
In very cold winters many birds who do not
usually migrate, are driven south in search of
food; but the reception they meet with is
hardly calculated to attract great numbers of
strangers to our shores; for the notice one
usually reads in the newspapers is that such
and such a rare bird “has been seen and shot.”

“It is as hot as we have it in India, or, at
any rate, I feel the heat as much.” One
often hears this statement on a hot summer’s
day from an Indian visitor; while, on the
other hand, our Canadian cousins assure us
that their bright, clear winter, though so
intensely cold, is not so trying as ours.
This is to a great extent caused by the
unusual moisture of the air in England. John
Burroughs tells us that “the average rainfall
in London is less than in New York, and yet
it doubtless rains ten days in the former to
one in the latter,” which he explains by the
fact that in England “it rains easily, but
slowly.”

That we can bear greater dry than damp
heat is easily proved by holding one’s hand
before a fire, and then plunging it into hot
water, using a thermometer in both cases to
test the heat. The same fact with regard to
cold can be tried by holding both hands in a
draught of cold air, the one hand being wet,
the other dry.

Lovers of natural history are not all aware
what advantages the first sharp frost offers
them for the study of animal and vegetable
life in ponds. Thoreau, one of the most
devoted admirers of nature, says in his
“Walden,” that, “The first ice is especially
interesting, being hard, dark, and transparent,
and affords the best opportunity that ever
offers for examining the bottom, where it is
shallow; for you can lie at your length on ice
only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the
surface of the water, and study the bottom at
your leisure, only two or three inches distant,
like a picture behind a glass.”

Country girls have an opportunity during
the early darkness of winter afternoons of
appreciating one of the dangers which beset
arctic explorers during the long twilight
which takes the place of day during
the winter months in those northern
climes. In towns, the well-lighted and well-paved
streets make walking in the dusk as easy
as in the day; but girls, whose walks lead
through fields and rough country lanes, know
how many trips and stumbles are caused by
the uncertain light before darkness sets in.
Greely, in his terribly sad history of the sufferings
of his men during their arctic expedition,
tells us how much their difficulties were increased
by this dimness of the light. It was
necessary that they should go long journeys
on foot, each man carrying a heavy load of
provisions and other stores; and he adds:
“The absence of sufficient light to cast a
shadow has had very unfortunate results, as
several of the men have been badly bruised
and sprained. When no shadow is formed,
and the light is feeble and blurred, there is the
same uncertainty about one’s walk as if the
deepest darkness prevailed. The most careful
observation fails to advise you as to
whether the next step is to lie on a level, up
an incline, or over a precipice. A few bad
falls quite demoralise a man, and make him
more than ever distrustful of his eyesight.”

There is not much to be done in the garden
this month, but bulbs may still be put in,
though the flowers will not be so good as
those planted earlier. Hyacinths, narcissi, and
tulips planted now ought to flower in April.

If the weather is mild, the grass should be
rolled occasionally; early peas and beans may
be planted in a dry place, and a little radish
seed sown in a warm corner, but they must be
carefully covered if a sharp frost comes.

Green hedges should be clipped, and shrubs
needing it pruned. Now that the leaves are
off, the fruit trees may be more easily
examined, and dead branches, or those that
rub against one another, removed.

If the weather is very cold, take care of
delicate plants by spreading cocoa-nut fibre
or light manure over the beds, or by covering
the plants with matting.[Pg 72]

CHILD ISLAND.

FAIRY TALE FOR YOUNGER GIRLS.

A long time ago—so long that it was ages before my grandfather
was a little boy, and long before his grandmother was a little girl—there
was, not far from fairyland, a beautiful lake, the waters of which
were so clear that as they sparkled in the sunlight they glistened and
gleamed like silver: and so it was called the Silver Lake. Beautiful
white swans sailed majestically on its surface, and thousands of gold
fishes swam in its clear waters.

On one part of the lake the most lovely water-lilies opened up
their white flowers, looking, as some people said, like tiny boats; but
one of the little girls I am going to tell you about thought they
looked like a set of green saucers and white cups, and used to call
them the swans’ best tea-things. Now, in the midst of this Silver
Lake stood the beautiful island called Child’s Island. Such a lovely
little island as it was had never been seen before, and I verily
believe has never been seen since.

Black clouds never came near it, for there the sky was blue and
cloudless always, and I am told that at night more stars might be
seen from that pretty isle than from any other part of the world; but
whether that is true or not I cannot tell. But I do know that its
shores sloped green down to the water’s edge, that the brightest
and sweetest flowers bordered every pathway, that the roses were
without thorns, and there was not a single nettle in the whole island.
I know, also, that the grass was the greenest, the trees the shadiest,
the flowers the brightest, and the fruit the ripest to be found anywhere.
As to the animals, there were none but the gentlest kind.
Little white mice went peeping about with their wee pink eyes, pretty
tame squirrels bounded from tree to tree, and a herd of graceful
fawns fed and played in the meadows. Birds of the gayest plumage and
sweetest song were there; pretty poll-parrots hopped among the trees,
crying, “What’s o’clock? What’s o’clock?” In short, it was the
brightest, merriest, sunniest spot in the world, and I can say no more in
its praise than that. All day long the sun shone gently down upon
the little isle, and the wind never raised its voice above a whisper.

But, besides birds and butterflies, fawns, and flowers, there was something
else in this pretty isle. Now, what do you guess that something
was? Why, a beautiful fairy palace.

I call it a fairy palace, not because fairies lived there, for they did not,
but because it was the work of fairy hands, and was more beautiful than
any other palace in the world. It stood in the midst of a lovely garden,
but no wall or railing shut it in from the rest of the island; and you[Pg 73]
and I, had we been there, might have walked across the green lawn, and plucked
some of the gay flowers, and gone up the marble steps, without anyone saying,
“Stop! You must not go there.” Round about the palace, in groups of
twos and threes, were several little houses, all very beautiful and all exactly
alike.

Now, I daresay you will think that this was a very pretty place, at the
same time, very strange; yet the strangest and, to me, the most charming
thing of all was that there were none but children in this little island.
They were all quite young, the eldest amongst them were not twelve
years old; they were the king and the queen, who, of course, lived in
the beautiful palace. And thus, because only children dwelt there,
it was called Child Island.

Well, these little folks had nothing to do but to play;
and a rare time they had of it, as you shall hear; but[Pg 74]
perhaps you would first like to know how it
happened that they were alone in this island
without any grown people to take care of
them. Then listen, and I will tell you.

The Silver Lake and Child Island belonged
to the good fairy Corianda, who was very fond
of little children, and took great pleasure in
inventing games for, and otherwise amusing
them. She loved all children, but she was
especially fond of those of Noviland, the king
of which was one of her subjects. She used
often to slip on her magic veil, which rendered
her invisible, and go amongst the little folks
of Noviland to watch them at their play, or at
their lessons, or to peep at them whilst they
slept. It was in this way that she found out
there was scarcely a child in Noviland but
what was discontented with what it had, and
sighed for what it had not.

One fancied that Noviland would be the
jolliest place in the world for little boys if
there were no lessons, no schools; but
grammar and spelling spoiled all. Pepitia
thought that if she might wear fine dresses
like mamma, have a coach and six to ride in,
and no one to control her, she would be perfectly
contented. The little Teresa sighed for
a land where there was no A B C, and Dorinda
for one where toys grew on trees, and no hard-hearted
shopkeeper demanded money before
they were plucked. Herbert wished he lived
in a place where there were plenty of gay
butterflies, and that he had nothing to do but
to hunt them. Thus each child had something
to wish for, and something to be discontented
about.

I wonder whether there are children in any
other part of the world who, like those of
Noviland, want what they have not, and
grumble at what they have? Do you know
any? Ah, no! I suppose there are no other
little folks so silly, so I won’t urge the question,
but go on with my story.

When the good fairy heard all these murmurings,
she said to herself, “I will gratify
these little people for a short time in what
they want, and we shall see if they will be
happy then.”

So she set her fays to work, and had built
on Child Island the beautiful palace and
houses I have told you of. When all was
ready, she and her fays took the little
grumblers out of their beds one fine night
and wafted them away, whilst still asleep, to
Child Island, taking care, I should tell you,
to leave changelings from Fairyland in their
places, so that the parents might not be filled
with grief in the morning to find that their
dear children had been stolen away.

The next morning, after the sun had dispelled
the mist which always seemed to hang
about him before breakfast at Child Island,
and he was fresh and bright for the day, like
little boys with clean faces ready for school,
the young strangers were all assembled on the
lawn in front of the palace, and the fairy
spoke to them as follows:—

“My dear children, as you all fancy you
would be happier if you were quite free from
control, and if you had nothing to do but to
play, I have brought you to this beautiful
island, where you can amuse yourselves all day
long. You will have everything supplied to
you, and there will be no one to dictate to
you. These pretty houses I give you to live
in. The palace is for the king and queen, and
the other houses are so precisely alike that
none of you will be able to dispute as to
choice. You, Philip, who are the eldest boy,
shall be king, and you, Pepitia, who are the
eldest girl, shall be queen. Be kind and
good-natured to one another, and I will
always be your friend. Don’t eat too much
fruit or cake, as that will make you ill. Now,
come with me, and I will show you the inside
of the palace.”

Then they followed the good fairy, in a
merry crowd, up the marble steps into the hall
of the palace, and a grand hall it was, with
its rows of pillars and richly decorated walls.
The fairy led them up the staircase and
through the royal apartments, which consisted
of drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, bedrooms,
and dressing-rooms, where the looking-glasses
reached from floor to ceiling and the wardrooms
were filled with magnificent dresses.
Then into the throne-room, hung with
crimson velvet embroidered in gold, and
where, at the upper end, were two golden
thrones inlaid with precious stones and
cushioned with crimson velvet. The more
they saw the more delighted the little folks
were; they clapped their hands with joy, and
cried, “Oh, my! how beautiful!” at least
twenty times in a minute.

“Oh! shouldn’t I like to be you,” said
Amanda to Pepitia, “you will be queen, and
have all these fine things.”

After they had seen all that was in the
palace, the fairy took them over the other
houses, all of which were elegantly furnished,
but it would take up too much time to tell you
of all the beautiful things that were in them.
Just fancy how you would like to furnish a
little house that had drawing-rooms, dining-rooms,
bedrooms, kitchens, and whatever you
fancy you would like to put there was there,
and even more than that. No wonder the
children were pleased.

After the fairy had shown them all the
pretty things the houses contained, and had
allotted to each set of children the particular
house they were to inhabit, a crystal car,
drawn by six white swans, was seen to
approach the shore. Then the fairy said,
“Now, my little dears, I must go, for here is
my coach and six come to fetch me.” So she
kissed them all round, bade them be good
children, said she would come to see them
again some day, got into her car, and was soon
out of sight, the children shouting, “Good-bye,
dear Fairy, good-bye,” till they could see
her no longer.

Then they said, “What shall we play at
first?”

“Let us go into that pretty dell, where the
fawns are at play, and gather some of the
flowers,” said Pepitia. To this they all
readily assented, and ran skipping and singing
into the dell. Some pulled long rushes and
sat themselves down to weave little baskets;
some gathered nosegays, some played with
the fawns. Presently one of them said, “Oh!
suppose we have a dance.”

“Yes, yes, yes, so do,” cried a dozen little
voices.

“But there’s no music,” objected the
queen, “we can’t dance without music. How
I wish we had some!”

“I’ll hum a tune,” said Sophia; and she
immediately began one.

“No, that’s so stupid,” said Amanda.

“Oh!” screamed a little boy. “Look
there!”

“Look where? What’s the matter?”
cried they all.

“Why, look at that big yellow thing,”
replied the child, pointing to a large gourd
which lay upon the ground, “it’s opening all
by itself!”

And sure enough it was slowly opening, as
if it were a monster mouth taking a lazy yawn.
The children clustered together and watched
it eagerly, when, to their great amazement, out
popped a little figure, not more than six
inches high, dressed in a suit of sky blue
velvet with white lace ruffles at the throat and
wrists. The dress was fastened down the
front and at the knees by diamond buttons;
diamond buckles were in its shoes, white silk
stockings on its legs, and on its head a crimson
cap with white feather. As soon as this quaint
little figure jumped out of the gourd he was
followed by another, and another, and another,
till there were a full score of them, all dressed
exactly like the first, and each carrying a tiny
musical instrument in his hand.

As the last jumped out the gourd closed,
and the leader of the Liliputian band stepped
a few paces in front of his fellows, and, taking
off his feathered cap, made a low bow to the
king and queen, then, without speaking a
word, he sprang on to the foremost branch of
a white Mayflower bush, which was in full
blossom, and immediately his little companions
perched themselves on different
branches behind him, and began tuning their
tiny instruments.

The children, full of glee, arranged themselves
for a dance, the band struck up “Sir
Roger de Coverley,” and away they all went,
their little feet keeping time to the music as
truly as the leader’s tiny baton. They danced,
and they danced, and they danced, till they
were too tired to dance any more, then they
flung themselves down to rest; upon which
the little leader of the band jumped down from
his perch and placed himself on a broad
smooth leaf, that two of his band spread on
the grass opposite to where sat the king and
queen.

He made a low bow to their majesties, the
band struck up, and the little fellow commenced
dancing a pas seul. If you had seen
him prancing and capering about the leaf, now
with his arms akimbo, going jauntily round
and gracefully bending his body from side to
side, keeping time to the music as he did so;
now suddenly clasping his hands above his
head, whirl rapidly round and round till he
got to the front edge of the leaf, and then,
springing into the air, come down on the very
tips of his pointed shoes; if you had seen all
this I think you would have laughed and
shouted as loudly as did Rosetta, Minette,
and all the rest of the little folks. When the
droll fellow had finished his dance he flourished
his feathered cap, made a low bow, and backed
to where his companions were standing. The
gourd slowly opened again, and each little
fellow making his bow, popped in as quickly
as he had popped out; then the gourd closed,
and nothing more was seen of the little
musicians that day.

The children gathered round the gourd and
tried to open it; tapped at it; called to the
little musicians to come back; bent down
their pretty heads to listen; but all was
useless, no sound came from it, and they
might as well have tried to open the oak tree
‘neath which they stood as it.

Now, for fear you should think that the
good fairy had left these little children to take
care of themselves entirely, to cook their own
food, wash their own clothes, make their own
beds, and all that sort of work—for children,
you know, cannot do these things for themselves,
and that is why they are always so
good and obedient to mammas and papas
and kind aunts, who see to all these things
being done for them—I will tell you what
queer, droll little beings she left in the island
to attend to the domestic concerns of the
young king and queen and their little
subjects.

Just shut your eyes and fancy you see a
little brown figure with small dark eyes, like
black beads, sharp nose, thin lips, and glossy
red hair, combed off the face, plaited into a
long tail behind, and tied by a bow of black
ribbon. Then fancy this little figure, with
arms so long that they reach to its knees,
dressed in a dark blue smock frock
without sleeves, a red leather belt round its
waist, dark red trousers on its legs, and green
morocco shoes on its feet; then call it a
Noman, and you will see precisely the sort of
beings which were left to wait on the young
inhabitants of Child Island. They were all
alike and all dressed alike; they used to make
their appearance and begin to dust and sweep,[Pg 75]
and light fires, and such like, just after cock-crow
every morning, and they all disappeared
every night directly the children were safely
tucked in bed. They came all together and
they disappeared all together, but where they
came from or where they went to nobody
ever knew, so you must not expect me to tell
you.

I daresay you will think these Nomen a
strange race, but I am going to tell you something
stranger still concerning them, and that
is that none of them could talk, no—not
one!

Was not that odd? They had some way of
talking amongst themselves by means of signs,
but the only words they could say to their
young masters and mistresses were, “nob,
nob,” which meant no, and “yah, yah,”
which meant yes. These they uttered very
quickly, and nodding their heads at each
sound.

Now, the good fairy had charged these
little beings to be very kind and attentive to
the children; to cook their meals and serve
them nicely, and to keep their houses in
pretty order.

She also charged the children to be kind
and gentle to the Nomen; never in any way
to tease, annoy, or insult them, for if they
did, the fairy said, and she looked very grave
as she said it, “some punishment would
immediately follow.” This Master Edmund
found to be quite true, when one day he
attempted to kick the Noman who was
brushing his hair, for as he raised his leg to
kick, an invisible hand pulled the other from
under him, and Master Edmund measured his
length on the floor. So, also, Miss Sophia,
who said one day, whilst looking in the glass,
admiring herself and sneering at the Noman
who was fastening her frock, “What a fright
you are with your squiny eyes and red hair! I
shouldn’t like to be such a fright as you are.”
Upon which she immediately felt a sharp prick
on her nose, whereon a large red pimple, as
big as a cherry, made its appearance; her frock
was torn to tatters, and on going to her wardrobe
for another she found it quite empty, so
she had to wear her rags all that day, as it was
not until the next that the clothes came back
to her wardrobe, and the pimple left her nose.
I warrant me she will never be saucy to the
Nomen again!

Master King Philip had a lesson of the same
kind once, at his dinner table, when all
his court were dining with him. Calling
to one of the Nomen who were
waiting, “Make haste, you brown rascal,
and fill me a glass of wine!” the words
were scarcely out of his mouth than he got a
smart sounding slap on his face, and his elbow
was violently jerked, so that he spilt all his
wine, whereupon the little lords and ladies
tittered, and some were so uncourtly as to
laugh outright, and say it “served him right,”
which made Master King Philip wish he had
not been so bounceable.

One evening, after they had been some
weeks on the island, the king told his courtiers
to prepare for a butterfly hunt, which he intended
to have the next day. Early on the
morrow they all assembled at the palace,
attired in green and white, and each carrying
an ivory rod, at the end of which was a green
net, with which to catch the butterflies. On
reaching the top of the staircase the little
lords went to the dressing-room of the king,
and the little ladies to that of the queen. Her
majesty was dressed in white satin trimmed
with green.

“Won’t you wear your crown?” asked
Rosetta.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the queen, in
an undecided tone of voice. “Ought I?
Won’t it be too heavy for the chase?”

“Oh, but kings and queens always wear
their crowns when they go out—don’t they?”
said Rosetta, appealing to her companions.

“Yes, yes; to be sure they do. Wear the
crown—do wear the crown!” they all cried,
clapping their hands.

Pepitia did not require much persuasion on
the subject, as she dearly liked to be finely
dressed. And, indeed, when she had put it
on, and also her velvet train lined with satin
and trimmed with ermine, I must confess she
did look a charming young queen. The little
Dorinda was so struck with her appearance
that she screwed up her face into a comical
expression of surprise, and, holding up both
her hands, exclaimed—

“Oh, my! Aren’t you smart!”

“But I don’t like the way your hair is
done,” said Amanda, who was disposed to be
quizzical.

“Don’t you?” rejoined the queen, tartly.
“Then you needn’t.”

Amanda was on the point of making an
equally tart reply, when fortunately the king
appeared at the door, and so interrupted the
threatened dispute. He also wore his crown
and train, and, moreover, he carried the ball
and sceptre in his hand; for this little monarch
was not disposed to part with any of the
insignia of royalty, and thought he might as
well not be a king if he did not wear the grand
trappings belonging to his office.

Then the whole party went down into the
hall to be marshalled into proper order by
Alphonse, who always took upon himself to
be master of the ceremonies whenever he
could get a chance. This was not effected
without a vast deal of chattering and confusion;
and report says that one or two
sounds like “Shan’t!” “Shall!” were distinctly
heard, followed by what sounded like,
and probably was, a slap.

The little train-bearers were especially difficult
to manage, owing to their constantly
wanting to speak to one or other of their
companions in the rear, which inclination
occasioned their majesties several unmajestic
jerks from behind, and, of course, called forth
a sharp reprimand from the majesty so pulled;
the only effect of which was a vast deal of
giggling amongst the little girls, and the
making of droll faces by the little boys.

“Please, queen, Edmund’s making a face!”
cried a little lady-in-waiting, looking at the
culprit and speaking to the queen.

“Oh, you story-teller!” cried Edmund,
indignantly. “I ain’t.”

“I’ll box your ears if you do so again, you
rude boy,” said the queen, turning sharp
round on the guilty Edmund. At this threat
the urchin made a queer grimace, and then
pretended to cry, sobbing out, “Oh, please,
queen, don’t!”

At length all were got into their proper
places, and the procession set out. The king
and queen, with their train-bearers, marched
first, then strode consequential Master Alphonse,
and the rest of the party followed,
two and two, all singing a jingling rhyme as
they marched, and swinging their nets to the
tune. This is what they sang:—

When they came to the dell where most
butterflies were to be found they all separated
and got their nets ready, whilst Alphonse
took a thin switch and gently beat amongst
the flowers, which grew in great profusion.

Presently a cloud of large, brilliant butterflies
flew up, and the children, shouting,
started off in chase of them. The train-bearers
were not proof against the excitement
of the moment, and, quite forgetting their post
of honour, scampered off pell-mell with the
rest, leaving their majesties looking rather
foolish.

“The rude little things, to run off in that
manner!” cried the queen.

“Here, I say, you Alphonse!” shouted the
king, forgetting his dignity, “come back! I
shan’t play if you’re going off like that. Come
back.”

But Alphonse was too busy chasing a brown
and gold butterfly to heed King Philip or
anybody else.

Just then there flew past an immense
butterfly with wings of crimson, black, and
gold. Philip immediately forgot all about
being a king; away went ball and sceptre, and
off he started in full chase. Now the queen
loved butterflies no less than the king, so no
sooner did she see him take to his heels than
she started off in pursuit of the same butterfly.

Away they both went, their trains flying
behind them, over hillocks and through bushes,
quite regardless of their fine clothing.

The butterfly led them a fine dance; many
a time they thought they had got it, but it
always managed to fly off just as the extended
thumb and finger were about to close upon it.
Philip and Pepitia were tired, though by no
means inclined to give up the chase, when the
butterfly burrowed itself deep into a convolvulus
flower that grew on the top of a not very
high bank.

“Now we shall have him,” cried Philip, as
they both scrambled up the bank. But, alack
and alas! Pepitia’s foot got caught in her long
train just as she got to the top of the bank,
and down she fell, roly-poly, to the bottom.

Poor Pepitia! she quite forgot she was a
queen, and began to cry most lustily, not the
less because she could not use her arms to
raise herself, for in her tumble she had got so
rolled round and round in her train that she
could not move her limbs.

Philip ran quickly to her assistance, and
soon extricated her from her embarrassment,
but as she still continued to cry, he tenderly,
for he was a tender-hearted boy, sat her down
on a grassy mound and tried to console her.

“What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself,
dear?”

But Pepitia only sobbed and sobbed instead
of answering, partly because she was hurt,
and partly because she was vexed, and the
poor little king began to fear she would never
leave off crying.

“I wish that Alphonse and the rest would
come back,” said he, feeling disposed to pick
a quarrel with “that” Alphonse when he did
come.

(To be concluded.)

[Pg 76]

AFTERNOON TEA.

(See Frontispiece.)

Sydney Grey.

HEALTHY LIVES FOR WORKING GIRLS.

“Grant her in health and wealth long to live.”

These are the words in which many of us,
Sunday after Sunday, pray for our gracious
Queen. We desire for her health and wealth;
and justly so; both are necessary. The one
for her comfort, and to enable her to perform
her arduous duties; the other for her exalted
rank and position.

For ourselves, however, it is to be hoped
we rarely pray for what is termed wealth;
but, on the other hand, how needful it is that
we should supplicate unceasingly for health.
“Grant me health, Lord, to perform my daily
task.” We have, indeed, need to ask for that
unpurchasable, that priceless blessing. If we
possess it already, we need to implore its
continuance; if we have lost it, so much the
more earnestly and devoutly should we solicit a
return to its paths. Yes, next to the possession
of a healthy conscience, we hold physical
health to be the greatest of all gifts, but, like
most of the grandest, fairest, and divinest
things on earth, many of us accept it as a
matter of course. And when, through our
own want of forethought, through neglect of
the most ordinary rules of health, through
reckless indifference, we are forced practically
to acknowledge that the most robust health
has its limits of endurance, then we chafe and
pine; and life, which seemed such a joyous,
easy thing a month ago, is now a dreary
burden, duty a heavy chain, pleasure a fiction;
and self, weary self, rises in the ascendant,[Pg 77]
occupies all our sympathies and thoughts, and
leaves us dissatisfied and indifferent, ungrateful
and ungracious.

There are those who believe that by not
attending to or neglecting their health they
are acting unselfishly. They say it is so
selfish to be always considering whether this
is good or harmful or that is likely to encroach
upon the domain of health. If this sentiment
is carried to the verge of hypochondria, we
grant its truth. There is nothing more odious
than a person who is constantly looking out
for the weathercocks, and who, as soon as he
finds the wind in a certain quarter, shuts himself
up, and carefully excludes all intercourse
from the outer world; or who can trace certain
symptoms—the hypochondriacs’ pet word—to
the extra spoonful of salt or sugar in yesterday’s
seasoning; who is a bore to his surroundings
and a melancholy object of interest
to himself; who is nothing but a useless encumbrance
upon the face of the earth.

This is not the taking care which we advise
or suggest. Things good in themselves may
be perverted into errors by the spirit and the
want of judgment with which they are pursued,
and we fervently believe that if our prayer for
health is answered, it will be first by the
opening of our own eyes to facts and laws to
which we were hitherto blind, or of which we
have been ignorant, than to the practical
observance of these laws, and our willingness
to be subject to them.

But it is not of those who are merely inconvenienced
by illness that we would speak
to-day. Not of those who are only subjected
to the loss of a little pleasure, a good deal of
temper, and who are learning a lesson in being
patient. In a word, we do not write for the
well-to-do invalid, but for a very different
class. Our remarks are intended especially
for those of “our girls” to whom health is,
perhaps, the only capital they possess. To
whom loss of health means loss of work, loss
of wage, anxiety, which aggravates matters,
and perhaps serious privations to those in any
way dependent upon their exertions.

Yes, the army of girl and women workers
in this great metropolis is, indeed, a vast one,
and work for them is no sinecure. If they
cannot work so thoroughly or efficiently as
men, at least it is for them greater toil than
for the sterner sex. Of a more delicate
organisation, of less robust frame, of smaller
powers of endurance, the “buffets of fortune”
meet with less resistance, and are more readily
yielded to. Added to this, men have the
advantage of being early trained to the
habit of work which many of our girls have
not, and they have greater facilities afforded
them for outdoor exercise, of which they very
readily avail themselves. These are all advantages
which women do not possess, or if they
do, it is after a careful course of acquired
systematic training with a view to meet those
demands upon their health and strength which
are entailed by the continued and steady
application to one branch of labour or to one
particular profession. There is no doubt that
a girl cannot take up an engagement which
demands her daily presence at a stated place
and at a given time, to perform duties which
perhaps require the concentration of mental
powers, and very frequently the maintenance
of the body in one position for many hours
together. There is no doubt, we repeat, that
unless such avocations are begun and continued
with decidedly common-sense views as to diet,
hygiene, and general deportment, but little
time will elapse ere our girl will succumb for
a greater or less period to the unusual fatigue
and the unwonted restrictions to which she
has to submit.

It is fatal in such cases to regard health from
a careless or indifferent standpoint. It is a
question which must be considered by every
one of the legion of working girls and women
who labour for their own, and often for others’
bread. Looking at it from the most practical
standpoint, it will be found to be the greatest
economy in the end. If the health is kept
at a fair standard of excellence, the mental
powers are maintained in a state of useful
energy. As soon as health is below par, even
when not sufficiently so as to force us to desist
from work, the brain loses its elasticity; we
are dull, become mere machines instead of intelligent
workers, and our duty gets irksome and
fails to interest us. And here let us interpose
one word. If we wish to spare ourselves that
most wearying of all sensations, that fatal
sense of boredom and disgust for our daily
task which sometimes creeps in upon us, we
must try with all our hearts to take an interest
in what our hands find to do. “Whatsoever
thy hand findeth to do that do with thy
might.” It is not only right to think and act
up to this; it is the greatest wisdom also; for
our own comfort and happiness. Work done
with a will only takes half the time in doing.
The hours fly, and the sense of weariness has
no time to creep in. This is a spirit, it will be
found, which can be easily cultivated, and will,
after a little effort, come quite naturally, much
to our benefit in every way.

It has seemed to us, in spite of the great
advance that has been made in the teaching
of hygiene, and the possession by many of a
fair knowledge of the laws which govern it,
that there is still a lamentable want of
practicability in its application; that is to
say, the theories we learn, and to which we
subscribe, are rarely, and then very imperfectly,
carried out in actual individual life. We grant
that great improvements are visible on all
sides, in what we might term general hygiene;
but where we perceive a great deficiency still,
is in that personal application of the laws of
health which must and can only be properly
applied by individuals to themselves, so as to
make them fit into the circumstances under
which they exist.

It will not help our girls much, for instance,
to have learnt the number of cubic feet of
oxygen that is necessary for turning the purple
blood into scarlet—the amount of nitrogenous,
phosphatic, carbonaceous, and other elements
which are requisite for building up new tissue,
etc., etc., and many other dry facts of a
kindred nature, if she does not put this
knowledge to practical use. There is a wide
division between facts thus learnt off glibly at
school and the practical application of them
to our daily wants.

The human body, if it is to be maintained
in but a fair state of health, requires a certain
amount of fresh air—a certain amount of flesh-forming,
bone-forming, brain-forming, and
warmth-giving nutriment. Our girls require
to have a tolerable, if not exactly a faultless,
circulation, in order that these various foodstuffs
may be digested, i.e., converted into
these flesh, bone, and brain-forming tissues.
In order to have a tolerable circulation, the
body must have a regular amount of exercise
and of fresh air. There, in a nutshell,
is the secret of the whole matter. Given a
fairly normal state of health to begin with,
that health may be maintained by a little wise
direction of our actions towards supplying the
really very moderate demands of Nature, upon
which, however, modest as they are, she insists,
to enable her to carry on the process of healthy
life. Deprive her of that little, and the results
are such as we too frequently see—broken-down
health from overwork (so-called)
of many of our busy sisters. It is our intention
here to endeavour to put this plainly
before our girls.

We will imagine, then, that some of our
girls have to pass many—say eight or ten—hours
of their days in work; that that work is
sedentary work; that our girls are very apt to
stoop, for their poor backs get weary sometimes.
We will imagine that it is winter, and
sitting as they do all day, they like to have all
the windows closed. Our girls will not feel
very hungry when meal-time comes, especially
if they have to provide their own meals. In
fact, many of our girls practise a little economy
in this direction, if the choice of doing so
rests with them. Economy, we all know, is
imperative in many conditions of life—not
only amongst working girls; and it is a serious
matter to practise it wisely—to determine
and mark clearly the line that divides the
luxuries from the necessities. In the former
practise as much economy as you will; in the
latter it is only a false way of meeting matters
which will have to be balanced by-and-by with
heavy interest.

Well, our girls not being very hungry (for
their lungs are full of impure air, and they feel
tired and weary—rather sleepy too—all from
the same cause), they think they will make
themselves “a nice cup of tea—strong, you
know.” They do not care whether they have
milk with it or not, so long as the tea is strong
and gives them a fillip. With this they will
eat a little roll and butter or bread and cheese.
This so-called meal is either partaken of in
the room in which they work, or our girls go
out for it. In the latter case they stand a
little better chance; for often the fact of going
out of the room in which they have been
seated all the morning brings with it a sense
of returning appetite, and induces them to
procure a more substantial meal. But even
this is rarely the case; for they have an odd
sinking at the chest, and if they eat a heavy
meal and sit down directly after it, they
get that weight behind their waistbands,
they cannot breathe, and they feel altogether
miserable. They do not feel like this, they
think, after the good, strong tea—the clearest
proof to them that they should look to it as a
main resource during the midday rest. Probably
tea is again hailed with delight during
another break in the work-hours; and at the
end of the day our weary one is so fearfully
tired, although she has been sitting all day,
that she feels as though her limbs would never
carry her home. Come what may, she must
ride. She puts herself into the first Underground
Railway carriage that will take her to
her destination, and, exchanging the carbonic
acid gas of the workroom for the sulphurous
gas of the underground tunnels, she arrives
home spent and utterly tired out, longing to
get to bed and rest her weary limbs and pillow
the poor, fatigued head. In the morning,
feeling refreshed after Nature’s kind and grateful
rest, she plucks up again and walks to the
scene of her duties. But she has to be there
by a certain time, and, somehow, she always
manages to be just a little late in starting, so
that at the last she has to hurry to arrive at
the appointed hour. She looks at every clock
she passes; she starts at some which tell her
that it is later than she thought, feels relieved
at others which are more merciful; and, putting
on an extra spurt at the last, manages to
arrive just to the minute.

But what good can our girl get from a walk
taken under such circumstances? It is ten
times as fatiguing—the mind is harassed, the
heart is beating wildly, and the breathing is
short and hurried.

The routine of the previous day is then repeated.
There is the same shyness of air, the
same imperfect meal, the same lassitude, the
same finale.

Pursue this course, or one similar to it, for
a few months and we defy any girl to keep
well. She may not yet break down altogether,
but she will have lapsed from positive into
negative health, and the merest straw may
turn her negative health into actual bodily
incapacity—which means the loss of work and
wages to which we have referred.

And is it to be wondered at? Our girl has[Pg 78]
been steadily withholding from Nature all
those elements upon which she imperatively
insists as the condition under which alone she
will consent to carry on her work. Long-suffering
she is, and ever eager to repair any
neglect that has not been carried too far.
Only return to the right path, and she busily
sets to work to make good the ravages which
have followed upon our ignorance or neglect of
her laws. But it must be the right path.
None other will do. She will not be cajoled
into working with any other than her own
simple tools.

Our girls have withheld from her air, food,
exercise—the three great factors of her powers—and
have given for them miserable substitutes.
Though kind, she cannot be put off
with excuses. She is inexorable, and the same
results will follow our neglect of her laws,
whether it be due to a want of acquaintance
with them or want of attention. It is as much,
if not more, from these causes, then, that our
girl has become ill than from the supposed
overwork. Overwork might have been the
immediate cause; that is to say, her collapse
might have followed upon a little extra pressure
or hurry of work; but the real cause will
be found to lie in that steady neglect of the
primary laws of health to which we have
alluded, and upon which too much emphasis
cannot be laid. Had it not been so, the
fatigue engendered by an extra hour’s work
would have been set right by a good night’s
rest.

And when our girl is ill, her recovery will
depend upon the degree to which she is
enabled to meet the demands of Nature. If
she can have plenty of rest, peace of mind,
fresh air, light, digestible, and nourishing food,
sunshine, and genial surroundings, she will
soon be herself again. But if our brave worker
has not these indispensables, or has them in a
chance, get-me-if-you-can sort of way, then
she lingers on, and often rises from her couch
but half cured, and plunges on again under the
old conditions, until something occurs which
some persons call “a chance,” some by
another name, which mercifully changes the
current of her life for a while, or perhaps for a
permanency.

It is said that “men do work while women
weep.” That is part of an old-time ditty. In
this generation women do not leave all the
work to their brothers, and we will hope that
in proportion as we work more, so we weep
less. And women are not to be pitied that it
is so. Work is one of the greatest of blessings,
and when its aim is high, is, we believe,
blessed. There is no reason why our work
should be irksome to us, or should be aught
but a pleasure. We must make up our minds
to a certain number of disagreeables, and be
prepared to meet them as they arise; but
beyond that we should endeavour to take a
pleasure in our work and a pride in its correct
fulfilment. This will be easy to do with
health, but without it will require more moral
resolution than many of us possess.

Let us then turn this subject over in our
minds and see if nothing can be done to make
matters a little smoother; to enable us to be
happy in our work-a-day lives; to lessen the
chances of becoming ill, and, in spite of circumstances,
to meet Nature’s demands in one
way or another.

First, then, as to air. That early morning walk
is a good thing. It is well to get the lungs filled
with pure morning air. Even in the London
streets the air is tolerably good at that time.
But many of our girls live a little way from
the crowded streets, and only come into them
for business or professional purposes. Some
live too far to walk the whole distance into
town. If that is the case, they should ride
part of the distance. They should choose for
the walking that part of the route which has
the most trees about it, going a little out of
their way even to walk through one of the
parks or squares. They should not hurry, but
should take care previously to allow themselves
ample time. This can quite well be done by
a little management, and when our girls are
imbued with a sense of its importance we are
sure will be. They should, if possible, meet
one of their companions who is going the same
way, and should chat to their hearts’ content.
(We are not afraid of the non-performance of
this part of our prescription.) This will
exercise the lungs, send plenty of fresh air into
them, and lessen fatigue. A walk, under such
conditions, is of untold value.

Our girl then will begin her day in better
spirits. She will feel in a lighter mood; difficulties
will be brushed aside. Instead of a
furtive glance at the clock, and a thankful gasp
that she has arrived in time, she will never
think of the hour till she enters the room, for
she has not troubled her mind about it, knowing
she has given herself ample time. With
all the arts of persuasion at her command she
will then seek to lead her companions to have
the windows open, just a chink or two at the
top; and will gradually lead them round to
her own conviction of the necessity for fresh
air, and of the great desirability there is for an
outlet for the carbonised air which is being
emitted by one and all from their lungs.
Before long she will have gained her point,
and the open window will be a daily fact.

We are speaking now, of course, of our
sensible girl, the one who has taken in the
justice of our remarks, and who intends to act
up to them as far as she can.

At luncheon time she will produce from her
store some well cut sandwiches, made preferably
with brown bread, and, with heroic determination,
refuse tea (for it is hard to give up a
habit), and will, instead, regale herself with a
glass of milk, or a cup of cocoa; or, if she has
neither of these, she will make a little strong
beef-tea of Liebig’s extract of meat, and partake
of it with her roll and butter, remembering
that, by the addition of an egg, she will
make her broth more sustaining.

If she goes out to a restaurant and does not
care for meat, she will recollect that its properties
may be found more or less in eggs, in
milk, in lentils, in haricot beans, in oatmeal,
and in peas. Oatmeal porridge and milk
form an excellent, inexpensive, and nutritious
lunch or midday dinner. In some form or
other one of these nitrogenous foods should be
taken during the midday meal; and, if the
taste and finances permit, should be supplemented
by a little fresh, stewed, or dried fruit.
Fruit is most wholesome, and is well enclosed
within the border line of necessities.

Then, when tea time comes round, our
sensible girl will either take milk again, or
else will dilute her tea largely with milk, or,
failing that, with water, and will refuse
altogether to drink tea that has “stood” for
more than a quarter of an hour. In the
evening she will feel less tired (i.e., less
exhausted from want of air and food), and will
repeat her method of procedure of the morning
on her journey home. Arrived there, she will
feel far less weary and exhausted, and will
enjoy a quiet, social evening, a book, a little
music, or some such relaxation.

But we can hear her, O. S. G., saying, after
pursuing this régime for awhile, “It is true I
am better in a great many ways, but I do still
have back-ache, I do still have the weight in
my chest, which I know now to be indigestion;
you say nothing about that. Even your pea-soup
or your oatmeal porridge punishes me,
and make me wish we could altogether live
without eating.”

Be not so impatient, my dear sensible one,
we are coming to that now. One great
reason of your back-ache is that stoop of
yours. You seem to think it essential to
maintain your spine in the shape of the letter
C. You have got into a very bad habit, and
if you try now to sit upright you get as tired as
possible—your back, too, is not the only
sufferer; your digestive organs are all cruelly
cramped—all the delicate machinery, by the
aid of which occur the changes of the food in
its conversion to the different bodily tissues, is
impeded in its action, is hemmed in, is fretted.
Instead of a free circulation, and an unimpeded
course between all the channels of communication,
the functions of digestion are carried
on with difficulty, and the stooping pose is the
cause of many other complications into which
we have not space to enter here.

We have said that exercise is necessary. A
great part of that is indeed gained by the walk
to and from business. But that is not sufficient.
Indeed, we do not consider that walking
exercise, exclusive of any other, is sufficient
to keep the body in health; but in the
instance we are imagining it is especially
insufficient. The body ill brooks being kept
in one posture for any length of time; and
during sedentary occupation some of the
muscles are maintained in a state of extension,
whilst others are as unduly kept in a state of
relaxation. These relative conditions, kept up
as they are for hours and hours, cannot fail to
have their marked results on the health of our
girl. If she were at home, she would throw
her work aside, get up and walk about a little,
or run upstairs to stretch out her limbs; but
in business this is not to be thought of; so
she must bear it as best she can. Not so,
say we. There is even here a remedy—even
here a way of procuring an immense amount
of relief. Our only fear for its adoption, however,
rests in its extreme simplicity. But
when our girl thinks a little more she will
learn that all really great and effective things
are simple, and that it is only their useless
wrappings that blind people to their real simple
grandeur. We shall give O. S. G. our remedy
in its modest garb of truthfulness, and she will,
we think, not reject it. We would advise her,
then, three or four times during the day, to
stand upright by her chair—she need not even
move from her place—throw her shoulders
back, stretch her head up, expand her chest,
and arch the spine well inwards, remaining in
that position for at least half a minute. This
will entirely change the posture of all the
muscles, those which before were expanded
being now contracted, and vice versâ. She
will then send her arms straight up over her
head, and either bring them down from there
like a wheel, or, if she has not room for this,
will bend her arms so as to form a V with
each arm, the two points of the V being respectively
the shoulder and hand and the lower
point the elbow. If done properly, this will
beautifully expand the chest, and will contract
the muscles of the back both laterally and
longitudinally. Our girl must take care, however,
to keep her head very erect, if she would
have the whole benefit of the exercise. The
whole business occupies about a minute and a
half; it is as easy and as simple as breathing;
and, we repeat, its usefulness is not to be
measured.

The chief difficulty in this part of our régime,
after its extreme simplicity, will lie in its
novelty. It will seem absurd and ridiculous
to those who do not understand these matters,
but O. S. G. will have to learn to bear the
ridicule of others some time during her life,
and she might as well begin now. She may
be sure that only those will laugh at her whose
opinions are not worth considering, and if she
quietly persists in doing what is right, the
ridicule will first be changed into respect, and
then into imitation.

O. S. G. must remember that her health
is her all. At least, it is the all of the girl of
whom we are speaking. Now, it is most imperative
that she should guard that health as
she would a treasure. Once aware of the[Pg 79]
simple rules which must be observed to that
end, she will shape her actions so as to make
them fit in with the circumstances of her life.

The dress of our girl workers is also a point
to be considered. It should be durable, suitable,
comfortable, and should be made simply
and practically. The dress is far better
when made in one, i.e., not divided at the
waist, then the weight of the garment is
equally distributed over the body, from the
waist and shoulders. There should be no
steels or kindred impediments, which have to
be considered in sitting down. A durable
wool material, thicker in winter, thinner and
lighter in colour and texture in summer, is
always the most durable, and keeps its freshness
longer. The bodice should fit well and
comfortably at the neck and round the arm-holes,
so that there is no pressure anywhere.

For a working gown there is nothing, in our
opinion, to equal the princess dress, made to
clear the ground, and modernised, if our girl
wills, by a flouncing, and a little puffed
drapery behind, either with or without a scarf
loosely tied round the waist.

For slender girls the round-gathered dress
and bodice (in one) are very useful and suitable.
The principal advantage of the princess
dress is its continuity from the shoulders
downwards, leaving the waist free of bands
and tapes. With spotless collars and cuffs,
our girl will be both suitably and well dressed.
A good woollen combination under-garment
for warmth and protection from the cold,
thicker in winter, thinner in summer. One, or
at the most two, woollen petticoats, made
with sloping bands, to prevent pressure at the
waist, will form a very comfortable and practical
dress, and, moreover, one that will present
a very fair appearance.

No, we know we have said nothing
about stays; we are no friend to them;
we dislike them heartily, and we shall never
rest until we can release our girls from their
trammels. We know the difficulties that present
themselves on all sides, but these can be
met and overcome. Once release our girls
from this bone and steel bondage, her health
will rise to a high state of excellence. But
she has so accustomed herself to use her stays
as a prop upon which she leans, that not without
great resolution on her part will she consent
to pass through the small discomfort of
the change.

Once she has done so, however, she will
wonder that she never thought of it before,
so light, so free, so agile will she feel. These
stays are our girls’ worst foes, and have as
much to answer for the indigestion as all else
put together.

If our girls wish to be happy, merry workers,
as well as hard, responsible workers, they will
have to learn to do without stays; they will
have to train their own muscles to supply them
with the support they now seek in the corset.

“How are we to do this?” we hear
some exclaim, who have followed us so far.
“How are we, who work from morn till eve,
to begin ‘training our muscles?’ We have
no time now for that sort of thing.”

Get a little more patience, dear girls. Reforms
go slowly, but steadily, if willing hearts
go together. We hope ere long to show you
that this, too, is possible.

Meantime, for an immediate step in the
right direction, let us urge upon those who
have not the courage to throw aside the corset,
to set about rendering it less harmful.
Let the working corset be soft, and denuded
of its bones, and let the front steel be exchanged
for a very flexible one, and let the
stays, above all, be very loosely laced. We
feel we are weak in conceding thus much even,
but we look upon it as the thin end of the
wedge, which represents the fulfilment of our
aim.

We think we have now said enough to set
our girls thinking, and though we have far
from exhausted our subject, we hope that each
reader will be able to deduce some hints
which may be applicable to herself.

BOOKS FOR TIRED GIRLS.

Have not some readers of The Girl’s Own
Paper a few to spare?

A little reading-room and library for business
girls is about to be opened in the new
Y.W.C.A. Buildings, 316, Regent-street, now
quickly nearing completion. Help is greatly
needed in making it really attractive for those
whose minds are hungry after the day’s
mechanical work, but who are too weary to
take up a prosy volume.

Brightly written works of history, biography,
natural history, travels, etc., would
be warmly welcomed, and good poetry and
fiction; also graver books, specially such as
would be helpful to Sunday-school teachers.

Parcels should be addressed to Miss L.
Trotter, 316, Regent-street, London, who will
thankfully acknowledge them.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

H. F. and Conamara.—Write to Griffith and Farran,
St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C., for a small shilling
manual called a “Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” which
will give you a large choice of educational, literary,
industrial, artistic, and religious societies instituted
for the benefit of girls, the cost being little more than
nominal.

M. Hedge.—The change of your address, from what
has been given in the “Directory of Girls’ Clubs,”
will probably cause you inconvenience, which it is
now too late to avoid. You should have named the
probability of a change. In any case, we can tell
our readers that those who wish to avail themselves
of your useful Society for Studying Languages,
should address the secretary at Lyndhurst Lodge,
Chelsea-road, Southsea, Hants.

A. G. O. E.—We scarcely think that any system for
helping the memory for ordinary use would be of
service to you in the matter of playing long pieces of
music by heart; it is so much a mechanical operation,
the hands often acting while the mind is preoccupied
with other matters. Try to learn a simple air, not a
long piece of six pages.

A Swiss Girl.—The Cambridge and Oxford examinations
are open to students of all nationalities alike.
For information respecting those of either university,
write direct. If you wish to compete in the Cambridge
junior local examination, held in December,
you must be under seventeen. Write to the Rev. G.
F. Browne, St. Catherine’s College; fee, £1. For
the Cambridge senior you must be under eighteen.
The Cambridge higher (local) examinations are held
in December and in June; fees, £1 and £2. An
honour certificate in this examination admits to
Tripos examinations the members of Girton and
Newnham who have resided during a sufficient
number of terms, provided the student has passed
a language and mathematics. If your age should
exclude you, you might go to the universities of
Edinburgh, Glasgow, or St. Andrews, where no
limitations are made in respect to age.

Guess.—We advise you to write to the British chaplain
of the Embassy Chapel, in the Rue d’Aguesseau,
for information and the best advice, as he has
taken a special interest in the matter of English
girls being sent to French schools, and has publicly
addressed the question in all its many bearings.
Address the British Chaplain.

Anxious Mother.—See our answer to “Guess.”
There is a French Protestant institution, directed
by Madame Yeatman Monoury, 27, Bd. Eugène,
Parc de Neuilly, Paris, which is, or was, patronised
by the Rev. Canon Fleming, the late Bishop of
Carlisle, Bishop of Down, Lord Napier of Magdala,
and other persons of consideration. There is also a
Protestant school at 27, Rue des Bois, près du Bois
de Boulogne, for which the charge amounts to £60
per annum. Apply to the lady directress, Mademoiselle
Jonte.

ART.

A Colonial Subject.—The illuminating body mentioned
is used on parchment and hot-pressed drawing-paper.
It is mixed with the water-colours to
render them opaque.

R. C. M.—1. To press flowers, gather them when dry,
not quite full-blown, and before the sun has faded
them; press them between sheets of botanical-paper,
change and dry the latter constantly. 2. You can
draw an outline upon a mirror with red pencil and
Indian ink. It is better, however, to mark the
design through tracing-paper with a knitting-needle.

Asthore and Dolly.—The generality of the advertisements
named by you are not to be relied on, and
we advise your not spending your money as you
propose.

Larry Wilfer.—Female art scholarships are conferred
by the Slade School, by the Crystal Palace
School of Art, and by the National Art Training
School, South Kensington. Apply for farther information
to the secretaries of each of these schools.

A Would-be Artist.—There is a school of wood-engraving
at 122, Kennington Park-road. The yearly
fee for instruction is £3, and free scholarships after
the first year are obtainable by students. These
latter must be upwards of sixteen years of age.

Princess Peace.—1. There is a preparation sold by
Lechertier and Barbe for fixing chalk drawings. It
is a liquid, which is blown upon the picture when
finished with an apparatus resembling a scent-spray
(price 2s.). 2. If you can obtain regular employment
from a good firm, wood-carving is profitable,
especially when you can originate your designs; but
these appointments are not to be had every day.
Show some of your work to an upholsterer, or a
carver and gilder, and you may either obtain an
engagement or at least an order.

HOUSEKEEPING.

A Young Wife is certainly entitled to display any
large articles of silver she may possess on her sideboard
in the dining-room.

Pastora should have the silver cleaned by a silversmith.
2. A recipe for “pot pourri” has lately been
given.

A Farmer’s Daughter.—The feathers required a
very much longer time for drying, and must also be
“stripped,” as it is called, i.e., all the large thick
stalks taken out. It is these which have not dried,
and retain the animal particles, causing the smell.

Pincher and Freda.—A recipe for “pot pourri” was
given at page 224, vol. v.

A Young Domestic.—We should recommend the
eiderdown quilt being sent to a cleaner’s, as it will
only lead to disappointment if you wash it at home.
Put a little glycerine on the tea-stain before it goes
to the wash.

Primrose should try a little tripoli and water
upon the surface of the table. It will remove the
spots.

Primevere.—There have been no other papers but
those you mention on “Economical Housekeeping,”
but we shall probably give more on both subjects.

Willoughby.—We do not think that either green
gooseberry jam or jelly can be kept green; they
always boil a light red.

Novice in Housekeeping.—If you paid more
attention to ascertaining what meat, game, fish,
poultry, fruit, and vegetables were in season (fully
in), and then procured them at places where you had
not to pay for extra high rents, as you do when
shops are situated in expensive localities, you would
bring down your bills greatly.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Inky Pen.—We sympathise much with your anxiety,
but we can only say to you as we say to all who wish
to succeed in literary work, you must try and try
again for a long time before you will succeed, and
success is not even then assured.

E. Mc. T.—Your sedentary life as a dressmaker does
not agree with you. You should try to take more
exercise and warming food. Dress in woollen under-clothing,
and rub the body well in the morning with
a cloth dipped in salt and water.

Violet Vernon.—We have heard that the homœopathists
have a special cure for such little excrescences.[Pg 80]

Tom-Tit writes very well. The 2nd of January, 1865,
was a Monday.

Nymphia Alla.—Disease or weakness of the nervous
system is often, unhappily, an inheritance from our
parents. Not that they may be nervous themselves,
but that their course of life—late hours, over-taxed
brain, poor living, fast living, drink, or bad constitution,
etc., result, one or more, in bequeathing a
wretched inheritance of weak nerves, not positive
disease, to their children. Live generously, go to
bed early, be much in the open air, and take a tonic
if required, and by a doctor’s advice.

Alone.—We sympathise with you, and approve of the
sentiments you express in verse; but the latter is not
even correct in composition, quite apart from its lack
of any ideality, which is inseparable from true poetry.
No sentence should be divided (excepting as a joke
in a burlesque piece) between two lines thus—

B. W. complains of “taking fits of laughter into her
head.” Evidently, she has apartments to let in that
repository. In any case, it is well that she should
find so much to entertain her and feel so bright and
happy. This state of things will only change too
soon.

Fiddlesticks.—Your verses have been written without
due knowledge of metrical composition.

Maty Gerty.—We are glad to hear that you have
rosy cheeks. Surely you would not like to look like
a washed-out, pasty-faced, sickly little girl? Young
folks often get spots in the face from eating too fast,
swallowing half-masticated food, and indulging in
too much jam and sugar and “lollypops.” By this
means they spoil their teeth as well as their
skin.

Gladys.—Your neck should be examined by a good
surgeon. You may have broken some small tendons,
and need to be bandaged. It might be desirable to
go to one of our first-class hospitals, and so get the
opinion of more than one experienced surgeon. You
write a pretty hand. On no account change it to
the coarse “park-paling” style of writing which so
many girls affect to look “strong-minded.” They do
not take us in by it!

Very Grateful Woman.—Homœopathic doctors
give vegetable medicines—not minerals. The principle
of the system is “like cures like.” Allopaths
give drugs of a directly opposite
character to the disease, instead
of that which, taken in health
and in different proportions,
would produce the disease to be
cured.

L. M. O.—The famous
Library of Alexandria
was burnt by the Saracens
in 642 a.d. It
was a union of two
collections. One was
made by the
Ptolemies, and
the other was
that of Pergamus,
formed by Eumenes,
and given by Mark
Antony to Cleopatra.
Eumenes was a chief
officer in the army of
Alexander, and well
worthy to succeed
him, as he did.

RULES

I. No charge is made for answering questions.

II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym.

III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any
of the questions.

IV. No direct answers can be sent by the Editor through the
post.

V. No more than two questions may be asked in one
letter, which must be addressed to the Editor of
The Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster-row,
London, E.C.

VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter
of the nature of an advertisement
will be inserted.

Joey.—We will consider
your wishes in future,
if possible.

Unhappy S. (we cannot read the name).—We feel for
you much in being separated from a home so dear to
you; but you must look away from all second and
human causes of this separation to the ruling Hand
of One who is as good and as merciful as He is wise
and mighty. If you wish for peace and real happiness,
seek His favour and guidance and personal
care in daily prayer. Lay your troubles at His feet,
and ask Him to give you a contented spirit, and grace
to be thankful and reverently loving towards “Him
who first loved us.”

Rosebud.—Wear stuff shoes, instead of leather, and
let them be very easy and wide in the toe.

America.—You will find a full list of Miss Wetherall’s
(Susan Warner’s) works in any encyclopædia. We
have not room in our over-crowded correspondence
column for long lists of books, so only give the chief
works of interest.

Sweet Nineteen (?).—The young ladies of a family
are called Miss Edith, Miss Margaret, etc., by
gentlemen who do not know them well.

Iona would not require to know the name of the head
of the department. She should ask for the secretary
or the head clerk.

Primrose.—Lord Beaconsfield was by birth a Jew,
and of very ancient and distinguished family; but
he became a Christian by conviction. Having had
no personal acquaintance with him, we could not
possibly answer such a question as yours, even were
it right to do so.

Daisy A.—Your contribution is declined, with thanks.
It is not devoid of merit, but needs more experience
in writing.

Georgiana W.—We are much obliged, but do not
think the essay fit for our amateur page, nor is the
subject new nor interesting enough.

Eton Gardens had better wear gloves to protect the
hands. We know no other way.

A Fiji Girl.—The work of a bookkeeper is the same
almost everywhere. She keeps books, and in a hotel
she would make out the
accounts of the visitors,
of course.

Damaris.—The lady bows
first, of course, if she has
been formally introduced.
Invite the brother, certainly.
If you know
the family you do not need a separate introduction
to him.

Laura.—We have always prophets of evil amongst
our friends, and a celebrated American advises that
“no one should prophesy unless he knows.” There
are no reasons for believing that there are any real
inspired prophets now, if that be what you mean.

Struggling Bird.—We sympathise with you; but
in committing your way to God in prayer, you do the
best that we could recommend. It is best to avoid
any exercise of authority over your sister, who is so
wild and wilful; but should she do anything very
wrong, you will have to lay the case before your
father, painful and ungracious as the duty may be.
You are right in regarding example as better than
precept.

Camomile is thanked for her grateful letter. If she
used a better pen her friends would like her writing
better.

Fernie.—1. Herne Bay is on the east coast, and thus
exposed to the trying winds from that quarter, to
which you specially object. Ventnor, in the Isle of
Wight, various places on the south coast of England
and in the Channel Islands, especially in Jersey and
the Isle of Sark, would suit your mother. The latter
island is specially ordered as a cure for asthma.
2. After pressing the leaves between sheets of blotting-paper,
varnish them with a solution of gum-arabic.

Sirena.—If you eat hot cake or buttered bread, of
course take off one glove at afternoon tea.

A Young Wife.—We are not quite sure that we
should advise any business man to give up in
England and go to Australia unless he saw his way
very clearly indeed. Why do you not write to your
friend who has already emigrated, and take his
advice on the subject? Write also for full particulars
of expenses and advice to the secretary of the
Colonial Emigration Society, 13, Dorset-street,
Portman-square, W. The rates of passage, third-class,
are, £18 and kit; sailing vessel, second-class,
from £20 to £28; third-class, £17 to £21.

A Loyal Irish Girl.—We are very glad that you
have been improved by the late competition. We
are much obliged by your kind offer. Your letter is
very creditably written and composed.

Sweet William.—Directions for bookbinding were
given in vol. ii., pages 342, 426, and 810.

R. L. I.—Our paper can be got in all the colonies.
Many thanks for the information that the free grants
of land were stopped in Tasmania in January last.

A Nursery Governess, we think, is unhappy and discontented
because she dwells on herself and her own
feelings too much, and thinks too little of other people
and their happiness. She must try to live most in
others, and in giving pleasure and love to them. As
yet she fails to comprehend the Christ-like character
which is so lovely an acquisition, and the higher
service to which we are destined by following Him
in all things. Love is the keynote, and, if she try,
in so doing is the happiest and truest life to be
found.

Young Lochinvar should bear in mind the enormous
ages attained by the antediluvian patriarchs, and that
the world around them was so quickly populated
that Cain might, and did, meet with plenty of people
who possibly, as he thought, would regard him
as a monster to be driven from amongst them. A
long course of years succeeded that on which he slew
his brother through envy and a hatred as to what
was holy and God-fearing. In the first days of man
upon earth they married their sisters, there being no
physical objection to it ordained by a merciful God.

M. R. (Norwood).—We pity you! To what a miserable,
unwholesome state of deformity you have reduced
yourself! We do not open our columns to persons
who boast of having so far degraded themselves.

F. M. C.—On no account take a cold bath if it do not
agree with you. Have it tepid, or as warm as you
feel comfortable. If the bath-sheet were warmed
you would run no chance of being chilled. The 17th
June, 1865, was a Saturday. The violin is not an
easy instrument to learn, and requires a good ear;
but we should recommend it in preference to the
banjo or the concertina. The guitar is also unsuited
for general music.

Lizzie Mattie Clover.—Coals are called “black
diamonds” because coals and diamonds are both
carbon.

Single Dahlia.—You do not name your age. Try
St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, W. Write to the
matron. We could not say whether it would be
against you. The 12th March, 1864, was a Saturday.

Hopeful.—Perhaps you need a tonic. Ask a medical
man, and take plenty of exercise and a tepid bath
every morning.

Lucy.—From what you say of your being “saucy”
to your stepmother, and that you are slapped
“whenever you tell lies,” and that you think you
“ought to do as you choose,” we see that you have
been a spoilt child, and deserve some sort of correction.
You are evidently well and suitably fed.
We greatly disapprove of tight-lacing. If you were
good, obedient, and respectful, you might then venture
to say when the maid laced you in. It is to be
regretted that so young a girl should wear any at all.

A Bunch of Violets might undertake bookkeeping,
or, if she know any thing of millinery, she might
get a little extra work from that. Her pay in the
shop is very small. Everyone should be paid
enough to live upon, and 8s. a week is not enough
to live and dress upon.