A DAISY.

By CLARA THWAITES, Author of
“Songs for Labour and Leisure.”

“LIFT THY HEAD BUOYANTLY
AFTER THE RAIN.”

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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

CHAPTER VI.

WHEELER’S FARM.

After all, the difficulties were like
Bunyan’s chained lions—they did not
touch me. How true it is that “one-half
our cares and woes exist but in our
thoughts.” I had predicted for myself
all manner of obstacles and troubles, and
was astonished to find how smoothly and
easily the days glided by.

From the beginning I had found favour
in my mistress’s eyes, and Mrs. Garnett
had also expressed herself in warm terms
of approbation. “Miss Fenton was a
nice, proper young lady who gave herself
no airs, and was not above her duties;
and Master Reggie was already as good
as gold with her.” This was Mrs.
Garnett’s opinion; and as she was a
great authority in the household, I soon
experienced the benefit of her goodwill.

With the exception of Hannah, who
generally called me “nurse” or “miss,” I
was “Miss Fenton” with the rest of the
household; even the tall housemaid,
Rhoda, who had charge of our rooms,
invariably addressed me by that name.

Mrs. Garnett generally prefaced her
remarks with “My dear.” I found out
afterwards that she was the widow of a
merchant captain, and a little above her
position; but Anderson, the butler, and
Simon and Charles, the footmen, and
Travers, Mrs. Morton’s maid, always
accosted me by the name of Miss
Fenton; but I had very little to do with
any of them—just a civil good-morning
as I passed through the hall with
the children. The messages to the
nursery were always brought by Rhoda;
and though Mrs. Garnett and Travers
sometimes came in for a few minutes’
gossip, I never permitted the least
familiarity on Travers’s part, and to do
her justice she never gave me any cause
for offence. She was a superior person,
devoted to her mistress, and as she and
Anderson had been engaged for years,
she had almost the staid manners of a
married woman.

I soon became used to my new duties,
and our daily routine was perfectly
simple; early rising was never a hardship
to me—I was too strong and healthy
to mind it in the least. Hannah lighted
the fire, that the room should be warm
for the children, and brought me a cup
of tea. At first I protested against such
an unusual indulgence, but as Hannah
persisted that nurse always had her cup
of tea, I submitted to the innovation.

Dressing the children was merely play-work
to me, with Hannah to assist in
emptying and filling the baths. When
breakfast was over, and Joyce and I had
cleaned and fed the canaries, and attended
to the flowers, Hannah got the
perambulator ready, and we went into
the Park or Kensington Gardens.

Joyce generally paid a visit to her
mother’s dressing-room before this, and
on our way out baby was taken in for a
few minutes in his little velvet pelisse
and hat. We generally found Mrs.
Morton reading her letters while
Travers brushed out her hair and arranged
it for the day. She used to look
up so brightly when she saw us, and
such a lovely colour would come into
her face at the sight of her boy, but
she never kept him long. “Be quick,
Travers,” she would say, putting the
child in my arms. “I can hear your
master’s footsteps on the stairs, and he
will be waiting for me.” And then she
kissed her hand to the children, and
took up her letters again; but sometimes
I caught a stifled sigh as we went
out, as though the day’s work was distasteful
to her, and she would willingly
have changed places with me.

On our return the children had their
noonday sleep, and Hannah and I busied
ourselves with our sewing until they woke
up, and then the nursery dinner was
brought up by Rhoda. Hannah always
waited upon us before she would consent
to take her place.

In the afternoon I sat at my work and
watched the children at their play, or
played with them. When Reggie was
tired I nursed him, and in the twilight
I sang to them or told them stories.

I never got quite used to Mr. Morton’s
visits—they always caused me embarrassment.
His duties at the House occupied
him so much that he had rarely
time to do more than kiss his children.
Sometimes Reggie refused to be friendly,
and struck at his father with his baby
hand, but Mr. Morton only laughed.

“Baby thinks fardie is only a man,”
Joyce observed once, on one of these
occasions, “but him is fardie.”

Mr. Morton looked a little grave
over this speech.

“Never mind, my little girl; Reggie
is only a baby, and will know his father
soon.” But I think he was grieved a
little when baby hid his naughty little
face on my shoulder, and refused to
make friends. “Go, go,” was all he
condescended to observe, in answer to
his father’s blandishments.

Mrs. Morton seldom came up into the
nursery until I was putting the children
to bed, but even then she never stayed
for more than ten minutes. There were
always visitors below, or it was time to
dress for dinner, or there were letters
to write. It was evident that Mr.
Morton’s wife had no sinecure’s post.
I think no hard-worked sempstress
worked harder than Mrs. Morton in
those days.

Now and then, when the children
were sleeping sweetly in their little cots,
and I was reading by the fire, or writing
to Aunt Agatha, or busy about some
work of my own, I would hear the soft
swish of a silk dress in the corridor outside,
and there would be Mrs. Morton,
looking lovelier than ever, in evening
dress.

“I have just come to kiss my darlings,
Merle,” she would say. “Dinner
is over, and I am going to the theatre
with some friends; they are waiting for
me now, but I had such a longing to
see them that I could not resist it.”

“It is a bad night for you to go out,”
I observed once. “Rhoda says it is
snowing, and you have a little cough,
Travers tell me——”

“Oh, it is nothing,” she replied,
quickly; “I take cold very easily.” But
I noticed she shivered a little, and drew
her furred mantle closer round her.
“How warm and cosy you look here!”
glancing round the room, which certainly
looked the picture of comfort, with
the lamp on the big, round table, and
Hannah working beside it; and then she
took up my book and looked at it. It
was a copy of Tennyson’s poems that
Aunt Agatha had given me on my last
birthday.

“If you want books, Merle,” she
said, kindly, “Mr. Morton has a large
library, and I know he would lend you
any if you will only be careful of them.
Charles, the under footman, has charge
of the room. If you go in early in the
morning, and write out a list of what you
wish, and give it to Travers, I will see
you are supplied.”

“Thank you; oh, thank you, Mrs.
Morton!” I exclaimed, gratefully, for I
was fond of reading, and the winter
evenings were long, and a book was
better company than Hannah, though
she was a nice girl, and I never found
her in my way. I used to talk to her as
we sat at work together. She was a
little shy with me at first, but after a
time her reserve thawed. She was a
farmer’s daughter, the youngest but one
of twelve children, and her mother was
dead. She told me she had five sisters
in service, and all doing well; but the
eldest, Molly, stayed at home to take
care of her father and brothers.

I grew interested at last in Hannah’s
simple narrative. It was a new experience
of life for me, for I had never
taken much notice of any servant but
Patience before. I liked hearing about
Wheeler’s Farm, as it was called, and
the old black-timbered house, with the
great pear-tree in the courtyard and the
mossy trough out of which the little
black pigs drank, and round which
strutted the big turkey-cock Gobbler,
with his train of wives.

“The courtyard is a pretty sight of
a summer’s morning,” Hannah said
once, growing quite rosy with animation,
“when Molly comes out with her apron
full of corn for the chicks. I do love to
see them, all coming round her, turkeys,
and geese, and chicks, and fowls, and
the little bantam cock always in the
middle. And there are the pigeons, too,
miss; some of them will fly on Molly’s
shoulder, and eat out of her hand. You
should see Luke throw up the tumblers
high in the air, and watch them flutter
down again on his arms and hands, not
minding him more than if he were a
branch of the pear-tree itself.”

Who was this Luke who was always
coming into Hannah’s talk? I knew he{99}
was not one of the five brothers, for I was
acquainted with all their names. I knew
quite well that Matthew and Thomas
worked on the farm, and that Mark had
gone to the village smithy; the twins,
Dan and Bob, were still at school, and
Dan was lame. Perhaps Luke was
engaged to Molly. I hazarded the
question once. How Hannah blushed
as she answered me!

“Luke is Luke Armstrong, a
neighbour’s son, but his father is a hard,
miserly sort of a man; for all he has
Scroggins’ Mill, and they do say has
many stockings full of guineas. His wife
is no better than himself, and his
brother Martin bids fair to be the same.
It is a wretched home for Luke, and ever
since he was a lad he has taken kindly
to our place. You see, father is hearty,
miss, and so is Molly; they like to offer
the bit and sup to those as need it,
though it is only a bit of bread and
cheese or a drop of porridge. Father
hates a near man, and he hates old
Armstrong like poison.”

“Is Luke your sister Molly’s sweetheart?”
I hazarded after this. Hannah
covered her face and began to laugh.

“Please excuse me,” she said at last,
when her amusement had a little subsided,
“but it does sound so droll, Molly
having a sweetheart! I am sure she
would never think of such a thing.
What would father and the boys do
without her?”

“Bless me, Hannah,” I returned, a
little impatiently, “you have five other
sisters, you tell me; surely one of them
could help Molly, if she needed it; why,
you might go home yourself!”

“Oh, but none of us understand the
cows and the poultry and the bees like
Molly, unless it is Lydia, and she is
dairymaid up at the Red Farm. They
do say Martin Armstrong wants Lyddy;
but I hope, in spite of his father’s guineas,
she will have nothing to say to
Scroggins’ Mill or Martin. You see,
miss,” went on Hannah, waxing more
confidential as my interest became apparent,
“Wheeler’s Farm is not a big place,
and a lot of children soon crowded it
out. Mother was a fine manager, and
taught Molly all her ways, but they
could not make the attics bigger, and
there was not air enough to be healthy
for four girls, with a sloping roof and a
window not much bigger than your two
hands. And then the creeper grew right
to the chimneys; and though folk, and
especially the squire, Lyddy’s master,
said how pretty it was, and called
Wheeler’s Farm an ornament to the
whole parish, it choked up the air
somehow; and when Annie took a low
fever, Dr. Price lectured mother dreadfully
about it. But father would not
have the creeper taken down, so mother
said there were too many of us at home,
and some of us girls ought to go to
service. Squire Hawtry always wanted
Lydia, and Mrs. Morrison, the vicar’s
wife, took Emma into the nursery; and
Dorcas, she went as maid-of-all-work
to old Miss Powell; and Jennie and Lizzie
found places down Dorcote way; but
Mrs. Garnett, who knew my father,
coaxed him to let me come to London.”

“And you are happy here?” I
hazarded; but as I looked up from the
cambric frill I was hemming, I noticed
the girl’s head droop a little.

“Oh, yes, I am happy and comfortable
here, miss,” she returned, after
a moment’s hesitation, “for I am fond
of children, and it is a pleasant thought
that I am saving father my keep, and
putting aside a bit of money for a rainy
day; but there’s no denying that I miss
the farm, and Molly, and all the dumb
creatures. Why, Jess, the brindled cow,
would follow me all down the field, and
thrust her wet mouth into my hand if I
called her; and as to Rover, Luke’s
dog——” But here I interrupted her.

“Ah, to be sure! How about your
old playfellow, Luke! I suppose you
miss him, too.”

Hannah coloured, but somehow
managed to evade my question, but after
a week or two her reserve thawed, and
I soon learnt how matters stood between
her and Luke Armstrong.

They were not engaged—she would
not allow that for a moment. Why,
what would father and Molly say if she
were to promise herself to a young fellow
who only earned enough for his own
keep? for Miller Armstrong was that
close that he only allowed his youngest
son enough to buy his clothes, and took
all his hard work in exchange for food
and shelter; while Martin could help
himself to as much money as he chose,
only he was pretty nearly as miserly as
his father. Molly was always going on
at Luke to leave Scroggins’ Mill and
better himself among strangers, and
there was some talk of his coming nearer
London, only he was so loath to leave
the place where he was born. Well, if
she must own it, Luke and she had
broken a sixpence between them, and
she had promised Luke that she would
not listen to any other young man; and
she had kept her word, and she was
saving her money, because, if Luke
ever made a little home for her, she
would not like to go to it empty-handed.
All the girls were saving money. Lydia
had quite a tidy little sum in the savings
bank, and that is what made Martin
want her for a wife; for though Lydia
had saving qualities, she was even
plainer than Molly, and no one expected
her to have a sweetheart.

I am not ashamed to confess that
Hannah’s artless talk interested me
greatly. True, she was only a servant,
but the simplicity and reality of her
narrative appealed to my sympathy; the
very homeliness of her speech seemed to
stamp it more forcibly on my mind. I
seemed to picture it all; the low-ceiled
attic crowded with girls; the honest
farmer and his strapping sons; hard-featured
Molly milking her cows and
feeding her poultry; young Luke Armstrong
and his dog Rover, strolling down
to Wheeler’s Farm for a peep at his rosy-faced
sweetheart. Many an evening I
banished the insidious advances of homesickness
by talking to Hannah of her
home, and there were times when I
almost envied the girl her wealth of
home affection.

It seems to me that we lose a great
deal in life by closing our ears and hearts
to other people’s interests; the more we
widen our sympathies, and live in folk’s
lives, the deeper will be our own growth.
Some girls simply exist: they never appear
to be otherwise than poor, sickly
plants, and fail to thrust out new feelers
in the sunshine.

In those quiet evening hours when I
had work to do for my children, and
dare not indulge myself in writing to
Aunt Agatha, or reading some deeply
interesting book that Travers had procured
for me that morning, Hannah’s
innocent rustic talk seemed to open a
new door to my inner consciousness, to
admit me into a fresh phase of existence.
A sentence I had read to Aunt Agatha
that Sunday afternoon often haunted me
as I listened. “Behold, how green this
valley is, also how beautiful with lilies.
I have known many labouring men that
have got good estates in this Valley of
Humiliation,” and I almost held my
breath as I remembered that our Lord
had been a labouring man.

Hannah never encroached in any way;
she always tacitly acknowledged the difference
in our stations, and never presumed
on these conversations, but she let me
see that she was fond of me by rendering
me all sorts of little services, and on
my side I tried to be useful to her.

She was very clever at work, and I
taught her embroidery. Her handwriting
and reading were defective—she had
been rather a dunce at school, she told
me; and I helped her to improve herself
on both these points; farther than
this I could not go.

I shall never forget my shame one
evening when she came into the
nursery and found me writing a letter
to Aunt Agatha with a dictionary beside
me, for there was no trouble to which I
would not put myself if I could only
avoid paining those loving eyes.

“Why, miss,” she exclaimed in an
astonished voice, “that is what I am
obliged to do when I write to father or
Molly! Molly is a fine scholar, and so
is Lydia; the hardest words never puzzle
them.”

I must confess that my face grew hot
as I stammered out my explanation to
Hannah. I felt that from that night I
should lose caste in her eyes, for only an
enlightened mind could solve such an
enigma; but I need not have been afraid,
truth is sometimes revealed to babes.

“I would not fret about it if I were
you, miss,” observed Hannah, pleasantly;
“it seems to me it is only like
St. Paul’s thorn in the flesh. Molly
says sometimes, when father worries
about the cattle or the bad harvest,
‘that most people have a messenger of
Satan to buffet them;’ that is a favourite
speech of Molly’s. We should not
like to be born crooked or lame, as she
often tells us, but it might be our lot for
all that, and we should get into heaven
just as fast. It is not how we do it, but
how we feel when doing it—that is Molly’s
proverb, and the most of us have our
burthen to carry some part of the way.”

“True, Hannah, and I will carry
mine;” but as I spoke the tears were
in my eyes, for though her words were
true, the thorn was very piercing, and
one had to get used to the smart.

(To be continued.)

THE PARTHENON.

GREEK AND ROMAN ART AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

By E. F. BRIDELL-FOX.

PART I.

THE ELGIN MARBLES.

The Elgin Marbles
are the
remains of the
sculptures
which once
adorned the
Temple of Minerva
at
Athens,
known as the
Parthenon, of
world-wide
fame. Brought
from Athens
to England at
the beginning
of the present
century, they
are now placed where they can be seen of
all sightseers, and studied by all lovers of
art, in a long, well-lighted room at the British
Museum, popularly known as the Elgin
Room.

As we take our stand in this room, and
gaze round us at these grand fragments—for,
alas! fragments only are they now—our mind
strives to restore the mutilated forms of these
marble “men and women of more than mortal
mould,” that seem to repose or move before
us in their grand statuesque dignity. And,
broken and damaged as they indeed have
become by time and exposure, many without
heads, or hands, or feet, yet we cannot
gaze upon them and consider them attentively
without feeling more and more impressed
by their heroic proportions and stately
attitudes. We may well feel that we are justified
in this impression, when we learn that these
sculptured fragments are the remains of what
is universally considered to have been, when
perfect, the finest work of the best masters
at the time of the highest development of
Greek art.

Let us turn for a moment from the large
figures that occupy the centre of the Elgin
Room, to the bas-relief of smaller figures
that seem to follow each other with living and
rapid movement round the whole length of
the walls of the room; horsemen on prancing
steeds, charioteers in their chariots, animals
driven to sacrifice, maidens bearing vases, succeed
each other in quick succession; and the
conclusion dawns upon us that this must surely
have been intended to represent some stately
procession, held in honour of those central
heroic figures.

We ask, Whence come these people of
stone? Who were they meant for? What
are they supposed to be doing or celebrating?

Let us first devote a few words as to the
place whence they came.

They must carry us to Athens, and, with
them to lead us, we must travel back through
the long ages to the world’s golden youth in
Greece—Greece, whose poetry speaks to us
from wood, and cave, and ocean—whose
mythic heroes are associated with the stars
themselves. Turn our thoughts, then, to
Greece, and to Athens, its pearl of cities, of
which our own Milton writes so lovingly—

to Plato in the gardens of the Academe, and
the bees murmured on the fragrant slopes of
Mount Hymettus, as they gathered their sweet
honey from its scented flowers, in times long
past and gone.

We refer to the time of Plato and Socrates,
when, under Pericles, “wisest of rulers,” the
arts of poetry and sculpture sprang into
glorious perfection, and the great name of
Pheidias rose.

This was the time of that great war when
the Greeks, with Athens at their head, beat
back the invading army of Persians, and preserved
civilisation for Europe. In that war,
Athens itself (with all its beautiful buildings,
its theatres, its temples, even its very walls)
was levelled to the ground by the invaders;
and it was immediately after their glorious
success, when the brave little nation had
stemmed the tide of Asiatics under Xerxes
with his

that Pheidias, the architect and sculptor, was
called upon, in commemoration of the victory,{101}
to build a temple to the patron goddess of
Athens, and to adorn it with sculpture which
should be worthy alike of the occasion and
the divinity.

The Temple.—In the centre of the city of
Athens rises the bold rocky eminence known
as the Acropolis, in earliest prehistoric days
the citadel and stronghold of her kings, but
long since given up exclusively to her temples.
From this commanding height might be seen
the city stretched below, the fertile plain
beyond, enclosed by the two winding streams,
the Illissus and the Cyphissus, which spread
verdure and abundance as they flowed on into
the blue Ægean sea. The view was bounded
on the south by the dark waters of that sea,
while the distant mountains skirted the plain
on the north, and varied the beauty of the
scene.

On this rocky height, and on the highest
part thereof, was erected the new temple,
built entirely of white marble. It was called
the Parthenon, and was dedicated to Pallas-Athéné,
the patron goddess of Athens. The
same divinity was worshipped by the Romans
under the name of Minerva. For, just as
Ephesus is known to have worshipped
especially the great goddess Diana, so Athens
devoted herself to the worship of Pallas-Athéné,
the goddess of wisdom, the virgin
daughter of Jove. She was one of twelve
chief gods who were worshipped throughout
Greece, but was held as more peculiarly the
protecting deity of ancient Athens. A temple
to this goddess had stood on the self-same
spot before the war, which the Persians had
destroyed. The former one was called the
Hecatompedon, referring to its size.[1] The
new one, the Parthenon, was the house (or
chamber) of the virgin.[2] It was to be used
for festivities and ceremonies in honour of the
goddess, rather than for worship. It was of
the same size as its predecessor, and was for
that reason occasionally, but very rarely,
called by the older name. The building of
this temple was commenced 445 B.C., soon
after the happy termination of the Persian
war, while peace and prosperity ruled in the
land. It took ten years to complete, and
was accordingly finished in 435 before the
Christian era. The times were therefore
pagan times; but a great wave of civilisation
passed over the favoured land of Greece, to
which all modern art and literature owes so
much; and the worship of Athéné, the goddess
of wisdom and activity, takes its place amongst
the purest and most elevating of the heathen
religions.

It is, then, with Athéné and her worship
that we have now to do.

Athéné.—We must pause to devote a few
words to the description of the qualities and
attributes of this goddess who inspired these
works of art, once so perfect. Athéné (or Pallas-Athéné,
as she is frequently called) was the
fair daughter of Zeus or Jupiter.[3] In her,
“power and wisdom were harmoniously
blended; she appears as the preserver of the
State, and of everything which gives to the
State strength and prosperity. She was the
protectress of agriculture.” With the Greeks,
those most superstitious people, every fresh
invention that led the way for the arts of
civilisation was at once attributed to the inspiration
of a god, thus “Athéné was said to
have invented the plough and the rake, and
to have created the olive tree”—that tree of
so much importance in all Eastern countries,
where the fruit is often an article of daily food,
and the oil extracted from the olives is
also serviceable for domestic purposes. As
Apollo is associated with the sun, so Athéné
is associated with the dawn, which wakes men
from their slumbers when there is work to be
done. She is therefore the goddess of
industry and work, which daylight brings to
all mortals. Athéné was thus the goddess of
industry in every form. Besides agriculture,
she was the patroness of arts and artificers, of
embroidery and spinning, and all kinds of
women’s needlework. Also of intelligent and
scientific warfare, as opposed to Ares (or
Mars), the other Greek god of war, who was
the god of “blind brute force,” while she is
called the “preventer of war,” “the defender
of towns.” She protected the State from
outward enemies, and, as the patron divinity,
she maintained the authority of law and order
in the courts of the assembly of the people.
It was she who was believed to have instituted
the Court of the Areopagus, the Court of
Justice, at Athens. She was, moreover, good{102}
and pure, a virgin deity whose heart was inaccessible
to the passion of love.

Such are the many attributes of this beneficent
goddess—ever young and ever strong,
but thoughtful and serious—the beautiful,
blue-eyed Athéné. Sometimes she is represented
by artists in her warlike character;
she then wears a golden helmet adorned with
sphinxes, a breastplate of armour over her
woman’s drapery, the terrible snake-wreathed
Medusa head in the centre, which turned to
stone all who looked on it; she grasps her
long spear in one hand, and holds her shield
with the other. But, as often, we meet with
her in her character of goddess of the peaceful
arts. Then, her hair waves in long curls
over her shoulders from beneath her helmet,
but her dreadful corslet is put off, and instead
of the spear she carries the spindle, emblem
of domestic work, or feeds the serpent of
Æsculapius (god of medicine)—type of the
kindly acts of peace.

We shall find that she appears in both
these capacities among the sculptures on her
beautiful temple, the Parthenon. The two
chief incidents of her fabled story were represented
in the two pediments—the long,
triangular spaces at the east and west ends
of the building. The grand broken fragments
are all that now remain to the world of those
majestic figures; while the chief ceremonies
yearly performed in her honour by her worshippers,
are depicted in the bas-relief of the
procession, which ran continuously round the
outer wall of the temple, under the colonnade.
The delicate forms were here protected from
inclement weather, and the work was seen in
pleasant, subdued, reflected light. The effect
was enhanced by delicate tinting, both of flesh
and drapery, against a background of blue;
also by points of judicious gilding here and
there—for instance, on the spear of Athéné,
the harness and trappings of the horses, the
olive-branches borne by the farmers. Holes
are plainly visible in the marble, where these
gilt or bronze additions were made.

The Procession.—This sculptured procession
represents the final act of the chief
national festival, which lasted for twelve days.
The festival was called the Pan-Athenæa; it
was celebrated every year, but in its full splendour
only every fourth year.

The word pan means all, and Athenæa,
Athenians. It was so named because all free-born
Athenian citizens were bound to appear
in it, but none others were allowed that
honour. Accordingly, in this bas-relief we
see marshalled in procession all the various
people in whose occupations “the blue-eyed
goddess”[4] was supposed principally to interest
herself. As we approach the temple
from the western end, first appear in long
array the horsemen, the knights of Athens,
the flower of her young nobility, on their
prancing and curvetting Thessalian steeds,
the defenders of their country in times of
peril. Most of these are dressed in light
armour. We note both horses and men;
how wonderfully instinct with life and movement
they are, yet each one different! Next
advance the warriors, in their light, open,
two-wheeled chariots, every one with his
attendant driver beside him.

Marshals at intervals turn to the advancing
throng to regulate the order of march, spirited
figures that seem greatly to add to the reality
and movement of the scene.

Next come the aliens—that is, foreigners
resident in Athens who, in acknowledgment
of the great favour of being allowed to reside in
that proud city, and as a return for her protection,
had to carry the heavy pitchers of water and
great vases of wine, to be used in the sacrifices.
Their wives also walked in the procession,
and carried sunshades, (I mean parasols), for the
freeborn Athenian ladies, in order to remind
them of their dependent position. These so-called
aliens were probably well-to-do merchants,
either from the Greek colonies or from
some neighbouring state, they themselves and
their wives in every way as much considered
in their own city as the Athenians in theirs.

Next came the musicians, with flutes and
lyres, instruments that the “fair goddess”
was said to have herself invented.

Then came the farmers from the Attic plains,
the worthy countrymen who cultivated the
olive orchards that yielded the special harvest
of the country; they bear boughs of the tree
that Athéné herself was supposed to have
planted, the growth of which had so largely
conduced to the prosperity of the land.
Lastly, come the colonists from all the
Athenian colonies, who were obliged to
contribute sheep, oxen, and goats for sacrifice;
these are accompanied by their officiating
priests.

At the head of the procession, with modest
air and downcast eyes and slow and stately
movement, walk the noble matrons and
virgins of Athens, carrying small vases, and
saucers called pateræ, for the libations
which were to be used in the sacrifices. A
marshal takes a roll from the foremost pair of
maidens, probably the hymn which has been
chanted on the way.

We now approach the climax. The people
of Athens do not come empty-handed to their
guardian patroness. They bring her a beautiful
dress or shawl, called in Greek the
peplos, which has been covered with richest
embroidery by maidens selected from the
noblest families. These Athenian girls have
plied their needles daily for many months, in a
room set apart within the precincts of the
temple, where they have worked under the
superintendence of the priestesses of Athéné.
The gorgeous embroidery represented the
fight with the giants, the brutal and lawless
powers of fabulous times, in which the goddess
of law and order had been victorious, and had
destroyed the monsters. The colour of the
dress was yellow, the colour of the sun;
by which it was evidently intended to
suggest the idea that the power of light,
physical and moral, would conquer the evil
powers of darkness.

It is the birthday of Athéné, the 28th day
of the Greek month, called Hecatombæon,
supposed to be our Midsummer Day, the day
of the sun’s summer solstice; and the beautiful
crocus-coloured peplus is her birthday present
from the city which she honours with her
patronage and mild sway. A young boy
bears it folded up in a large fringed square,
and presents it to the priest of the temple,
while the priestess beside him turns to receive
the sacrificial cakes which a maiden carries on
her head, on a tray covered with a cloth.

We have by this time come to the space
immediately over the main entrance to the
temple, at the east end; and here we see the
twelve gods of Greece ranged, six on each
side, over the doorway, the presentation of
the peplus dividing the two groups of gods.
Amongst them sits Athéné, as described in
Homer’s “Odyssey.”

“Like a fair virgin in her beauty’s bloom,”
a tall and simple maiden; her armour is cast
off, she does not even wear her helmet; a
golden spear formerly rested by her side, and
the snake, type of the native soil, coils round
her arm like a delicate bracelet.

The gay procession which this bas-relief
represents actually took place
every fourth year at Midsummer. The
festival lasted, as I have mentioned, for
twelve days, during which time various
games, or rather trials of strength and skill,
were performed, in which the bravest and
noblest of the Athenian youths eagerly
competed. Each day was held a different
game or contest. The procession and prize-giving
terminated the proceedings. None
but free-born Athenian citizens, however
noble they might be held elsewhere, were
allowed to take part. None others might
even walk in the procession, except, as we
have seen, in a servile capacity. The games
consisted of chariot races, races on horseback
and on foot; and musical contests, in which the
flute players, and the players on the cithæra
(or lyre) contended for pre-eminence.

On the last day of the festival the citizens{103}
met in the Agora, or market-place, where the
procession was formed in the early morning;
they wound round the city and across the
plain; and by noon they were streaming up
the steep hill of the Acropolis, their shining
armour of bronze flashing in the bright sunlight,
and their white or yellow holiday garments
brilliant against the blue sky of Greece,
as they paced along on the hill-top towards
their temple, chanting the praise and story of
their goddess as they went.

Arrived at the temple, sacrifices were offered
up to Athéné and her father, Zeus. This
ceremony was performed in a manner somewhat
similar to that used for burnt-offerings
in the Jewish Ritual, and described in Leviticus.
Certain portions of the victim were
burnt, another portion was set aside for the
priests, and the rest was afterwards eaten by
the common people. The Greeks believed
that their gods were actually nourished by the
fumes of the burning food.

I give a description of a Greek sacrifice from
Homer’s “Iliad”:—

While the priests offered up the victims on
the altar in front of the temple, the people
chanted hymns in honour of their goddess,
while they moved round the altar with slow,
rhythmic steps.

Immediately after the sacrifice of the burnt-offerings,
the awards to the victors in the
athletic games took place; the victors themselves
and their immediate friends were alone
admitted into the temple, where sat the
judges, the priests, and the chief officers of
state; the populace stood outside. There
were no money prizes. The honour was the
one thing they had striven for, and the crowns
of fresh leaves of oak or parsley, olive or bay,
were deemed an all-sufficient reward.

But the prize esteemed before all others was a
jar filled with the oil made from the fruit of the
olive-tree which grew within the precincts of
another and more ancient temple to Athéné on
the Acropolis. This tree was very old, and
was firmly believed by her worshippers to
have been the same that Athéné had herself
created, the first one known on Attic soil, from
which all the fertile olive-woods had sprung
that covered the plains. So highly did the
victors in the games treasure these vases that
they never parted with them during their lifetime,
and when they died they were placed in
their graves. From this custom of burying
treasured objects, many curious relics have
come down to us, and from it do we derive
much of our knowledge of antiquity. The
sketch given against our initial-letter is from
a vase found in the tomb of a Greek colonist
at Cyrene, on the north coast of Africa. Our
colonist, who laid his bones on the parched
and sandy soil of Africa, had evidently, in his
youth, been the proud victor in one of the
chariot-races in Athens, for we see depicted
on one side of the vase a chariot-race, while
a figure of Athéné, as the “warrior maid,”
appears on the other; the jar itself is inscribed
with the words (in Greek), “I am one of the
prizes from Athens,” of such a year, giving
the date. There are many of these interesting
prize-vases from various parts of the Greek
world now to be seen in the Vase Room in
the British Museum—links with the dead
past.

The judges who awarded the prizes to the
victors in the games sat within the temple,
in a row, on a raised platform at the foot of
the great statue of Athéné, which was considered,
for perfect beauty of proportion and
grand dignity of expression, one of the finest
works of art ever conceived. The expectant
crowd, collected outside the temple, could see
through the open doorway this gigantic figure
towering high above the row of judges. It
measured forty feet in height, and the golden
figure of the Victory, which is held in its outstretched
hand, alone measured six feet, the
height of an extremely tall man.

The goddess thus appeared to the multitude
to be presenting the prizes to the successful
competitors.

The Greeks aimed at cultivating the physical
powers up to the greatest possible pitch of
perfection, and in later times they gave the
same pains to cultivating the powers of the
mind. “Mens sana in corpore sano” (a
healthy mind in a healthy body) was one of
their favourite maxims. Their games and
feats of strength were to the Greeks, in their
day, a good deal what our Oxford and Cambridge
boat races, our Eton and Harrow
cricket matches, our Volunteer training, are to
us, which help to make our English lads such
fine spirited young fellows. In the early days,
before Pericles, the games consisted entirely
of trials of physical skill—foot races, horse
races, wrestling, boxing, throwing the discus
or quoit. But in the more cultivated times
of Pheidias, there were also trials of intellectual
skill.

It is recorded that Herodotus, the earliest
Greek historian (called the “father of history”),
read aloud his history to the assembled
Athenians at the Pan-Athenaic festival, 446
B.C. It was so greatly admired that the city
with one voice voted him a reward of ten
talents (a talent is worth about £240). While
at other festivals dramas were produced, and
the plays being acted in the great open-air
theatre at the foot of the Acropolis, the author
of the best play received a crown of laurel.

The plays then written, the subjects of
which were the popular Greek legends, still
rank, for grandeur of sentiment and nobility of
feeling, with the finest poetry the world
has ever produced. This proves to us that
the Greeks were a highly refined and cultivated
people. The Greek influence in art and literature
has left its own mark in civilising and
elevating mankind; but the belief in their
legends was doomed to fade away and vanish
utterly, “like an insubstantial pageant,” when
the truer light arose in Palestine which came
in after years to bless and illumine the world.

(To be concluded.)

EXPLANATION OF FRENCH AND OTHER TERMS USED IN MODERN COOKERY.

PART II.

Hors d’œuvres (hot).—A species of very
light entrées, such as small patties, ox-piths,
brains, cock’s combs, croquettes, etc.

Hors d’œuvres (cold).—Sardines, anchovies,
prawns, tunny, prepared herrings, savoury
butters, radishes, caviar, and many other things
are served as hors d’œuvres. They should be
eaten immediately after the soup and fish, as
they are considered as appetisers.

Jardinière.—A mixed preparation of vegetables
cut in dice or, more generally, fancy
shapes—small balls, diamonds, etc.—and
stewed in their own sauce, with a little butter,
sugar, and salt.

Julienne.—Vegetables cut in very thin
strips, and used for soup; also in some ways
of cooking fish and meat.

Jus.—The gravy that runs from roast meat,
or strong, good gravy made from meat.

Kilogramme is equal to two pounds and
one-fifth of a pound avoirdupois. It contains
1,000 grammes, so one generally takes 500
grammes as equal to one pound.

Laitance.—Soft rows of fish.

Larder.—Larder is sometimes confounded
with piquer. Larder is to stick pieces of ham,
tongue, truffles, or bacon into meat or poultry,
after making little holes in it to receive them,
so that when it is cut it looks marbled, and
the meat gains in flavour from the truffles or
whatever it may be that is inserted.

Lit.—A bed or layer; articles in thin slices
with seasoning or other things placed between
them.

Liaison.—Thickening. By this word is understood
a thickening made with one or more
yolks of eggs. They are used for many sauces
and some soups; sometimes a little cream or
milk is added to them.

Litre.—A French measure, equal to a pint
and a half English measure.

Luting.—A paste made of flour and water
only, and used for fastening down the lids of
fireproof pans and jars when preserving game,
etc., in them, so as to prevent evaporation.

Macaroncini.—A small kind of macaroni,
larger than vermicelli.

Macedoine.—Vegetables prepared and
cooked as for jardinière, but with the addition
of some white sauce to them.

Macedoine of fruit.—Mixed fruits in jelly.

Madeleine.—Very like queen cake.

Maigre.—Without meat; sauces, soups, or
broths made with vegetables, etc., but without
meat or meat stock.

Maitre d’hotel.—A sauce made with white
sauce, parsley, and lemon juice, if to use hot;
if cold, it is made by kneading butter, parsley,
and lemon-juice together. Made thus, it is
often put on fillet or rump steaks before they
are sent to table.

Manier.—This word is applied to the preparation
of butter or other fat used for making
different kinds of paste. It consists in pressing
the fat in a cloth until it is quite soft and
all the moisture is removed from it.

Massepains.—Sweetmeats made from almond
paste (similar to that put over wedding
cakes), cut or moulded into shapes, and glazed
on the outsides. They are easy to make, and
very nice for dessert.

Matelotte.—A rich and expensive fish stew,
made properly of mixed fresh-water fish, but{104}
sometimes of only one kind. Trout, eels, or
carp are most used. Wine enters largely into
the composition of this dish.

Marinades.—Cooked marinade is prepared
with vinegar, water, vegetables, parsley, herbs,
and bayleaves. If it is not cooked, it consists
of chopped onions, parsley, herbs, oil, and
lemon-juice, or vinegar. Marinade is a
pickle.

Mayonnaise.—Yolks of eggs worked into a
stiff cream by slowly dropping oil and vinegar
into them as they are stirred.

Mazarines.—Ornamented entrées made of
forcemeats, with either fillets of fish or pieces
of chicken or game.

Menu.—A bill of fare.

Meringue.—A kind of sweetmeat or icing,
made by beating whites of eggs and sugar to
snow, and then baking in a slow oven.

Mignonette Pepper.—A preparation of either
black or white peppercorns, which, after being
broken in a mortar to about the size of
mignonette-seed, is sifted to remove the dust
from it.

Minestrone.—Clear stock, with peas, rice,
carrots and tomato sauce in it, served with
grated Parmesan cheese.

Mirepoix.—A compound used to impart
flavour to braised meats.

Miroton.—Pieces of meat larger than collops,
such as would be put in a stew.

Mitonner.—Same as mijoter; to simmer or
cook very slowly.

Mouiller.—To add liquor to anything.

Nougats.—A mixture of baked almonds and
boiled sugar.

Nouilles.—Paste made of yolks of eggs and
flour, which is cut in fine strips like vermicelli.

Panada.—A preparation of sopped bread
wrung in a cloth, then cooked with butter,
or of flour, water, and butter. Panada of
bread or of flour is needed in the preparation
of many forcemeats.

Paner.—To cover meat or anything else
with very fine breadcrumbs before broiling,
frying, or baking it.

Panure.—Scollops, croquettes, cutlets, or
any other entrée that is breadcrumbed or
pané.

Papillottes (en).—Cooked in buttered
papers.

Piping.—This is the name given to the
sugar work used for ornamenting cakes, tartlets,
etc. It is done by working white of egg
and fine sugar together, and then pressing
the sugar through a sort of funnel. An india-rubber
implement is made for this purpose,
which is much easier to use than a tin one.

Piquer.—To lard; that is to say, to put
strips of bacon fat in a larding-needle and
draw the needle through the surface of the
meat or game, so that the two ends of each
strip of bacon stick out.

Pluche.—The leaves of parsley, tarragon,
chervil, lettuce, or sorrel broken or cut into
small pieces—not chopped. They are mixed
or used separately. The word is sometimes
spelled with an “s,” instead of a “c.”

Poivrade.—A sauce made with pepper,
vinegar, shalots, bunch of parsley, salt, and
broth.

Poelée, or Poële.—A braise or stock used for
boiling turkeys, fowls, sweetbreads, etc., to
render them less insipid. It is made from
suet, veal, vegetable, lemon-pulp, water, etc.

Poêle.—A pan, a frying-pan, or a stove.

Pot-au-feu.—Soup with boiled meat.

Potiron.—Pumpkin soup.

Profitrolles.—Pastry of a very light kind,
filled with custard, whipped cream, or prepared
chocolate, etc.

Purée.—Meat or vegetables that have been
sufficiently cooked and then rubbed through a
sieve. A purée retains its name when sufficient
stock is added to it to form a thick sauce
or soup.

Quenelles.—A delicate kind of forcemeat
used in the preparation of various entrées. It
is made usually of poultry, game, or fish, with
panada, rich sauces, or yolks of eggs, etc.

Ragoût.—A stew; sometimes a very rich
dish, sometimes little more than a hash.

Ravioles.—Kind of rissoles made in nouilles
paste, served with Parmesan cheese over them,
or in soup.

Ravigotte.—Mayonnaise with chopped cress,
parsley, tarragon, chervil, and chives added
to it.

Relevés, or Removes.—The dishes that,
when put on table, would take the places of
the soup and fish.

Rêmoulade.—A salad dressing made with
parsley, tarragon, chervil, chives, capers, anchovies,
mustard, oil, and vinegar.

Rissoles.—Light puff pastry filled with
meat, fish, or sweets, and boiled in fat of
some kind.

Roux.—Brown roux (used for thickening) is
made by frying butter and flour together
until of a nice brown colour. White roux is
made in the same way, but the flour must be
cooked well without being allowed to colour.
It is best made in a saucepan, and should be
stirred all the time over a moderate fire.
Sometimes flour is baked, then mixed with
butter, for roux.

Salpicon.—Poultry, fish, or other things
prepared with truffles, etc., for croustades,
timbales, croquettes, etc.

Salmi.—A highly-finished hash of cooked
game or wild-fowl, cut up and prepared with
rich sauce or made gravy.

Sauté.—To fry cutlets, scollops of game,
poultry, or fish, etc., lightly in butter.

Sautoir.—A very shallow stewpan used for
sautés.

Soufflé.—The word means something puffed
up. Soufflés are very light puddings. They
may be made with any kind of farinaceous substance,
with the addition of well-beaten eggs
flavoured with fruits, liqueurs, or essences.
They must be served the moment they are
ready. They can also be made with fruit. Iced
soufflés are made in various ways; but the
mixture is iced, instead of baked.

Sparghetti.—Naples vermicelli.

Stock.—Unthickened broth or gravy, with
which soups or sauces can be made.

Tartare.—Mayonnaise, with the addition
of chopped shalots, gherkins, tarragon, chervil,
and a little chili vinegar and mustard.

Tamis, or Tammy.—A cloth made for
straining through. It should be of goat’s
hair, but is frequently only woollen canvas.

Timbale is a sort of pie made in a mould
and turned out before it is sent to table.

Tourner is used for stir; but it also means
to turn—that is to say, to shape, as cutting
vegetables into the form of olives, balls,
pears, etc.

Tourte.—A delicate sort of tart, baked
usually in a shallow tin. It may contain fish,
meat, or fruit.

Trousser.—To truss.

Truffer.—To stuff with truffles. This is
generally for pheasants, turkeys, or capons.

Turbans.—Ornamental entrées made of
game, poultry, or fish, and forcemeats.

Velouté.—The white sauce used as a basis
for so many others. It is rich double stock,
made with veal, poultry, ham, vegetables, etc.,
and thickened with flour and butter. It must
always be white.

Vol-au-vent.—Puff paste of the lightest
kind, filled with a delicate ragoût or fricassée.
Fruit may also be enclosed in a vol-au-vent crust.

Vinaigrette.—Oil, vinegar, pepper, and salt
together.

Water-souchet.—A simple way of dressing
fish by boiling it with parsley roots and
leaves, and pepper and salt, and serving it in
its own broth, with plates of brown bread-and-butter.

Zeste.—Lemon rind. Sometimes orange and
Seville orange rind are called “zeste.”

Zita.—Naples macaroni.

THE BUILDERS OF THE BRIDGE.

By Mrs. G. LINNÆUS BANKS, Authoress of “God’s Providence House,” “The Manchester Man,” “More than Coronets,” etc.

CHAPTER I.

There is no part of inhabited
England,
rural or urban, to be
found precisely in
the same condition,
or presenting the
same aspect, as in
the days of King
Henry the Third.
And if the baronial
hall of the Bellamonts
is no longer to
be found in situ at Swarkstone, on the Derbyshire
banks of the Trent, the devastating hands
of Time and Warfare must be blamed, not the
present chronicler.

Besides the Danish Sverk or Swark’s tun
(or territorial enclosure), Sinfin Moor, Chellaston,
and all the lands down to the broad river,
had been included in the demesne granted
to his Norman follower and his descendants
by William the Conqueror, who took and
gave the property of the conquered with
a like lavish profusion. But the lands
have been denuded of wood, partitioned, bought,
sold, passed in heirship or exchange for centuries
since a Bellamont held sway over all.

The very eminence from which their
castellated hall looked down upon the distant
river has been levelled and ploughed up, as if
to score out all record of Bellamont possession.

Yet the Bellamonts left a memorial of their
occupancy which should have embalmed their
name in history, and kept it sweet and fresh
in the memories of men, had gratitude been
as vital or hereditary as a benefaction.

How many travellers from London, or Oxford,
or Leicester, or Ashby-de-la-Zouch, to
Derby, passing in all those centuries over
Swarkstone Bridge, have paused to ask when,
or why, or by whom it was there erected for
their convenience?

Tradition is best preserved when crystallised
in a story.

There were gay doings in the hall and the
villages around Bellamont in the June of 1258,
when a noble party of guests had assembled at
the hall to share the festivities at the forthcoming
marriage of the ladies Idonea and
Avice, the twin daughters of Richard Earl
Bellamont and his noble countess.

{106}

More than one disappointed suitor was
there amongst the party, either too proud
to show his wounds, or gallantly indifferent;
for as the earl’s only son had been drowned
in his childhood, the fair maidens were known
to be co-heiresses, and not a neighbouring lord
or knight but would have been well pleased
to add a slice of the Bellamont lands to his
own estate.

Then report said the sisters were wonderfully
fair and virtuous; that their lady-mother
had early initiated them into the mysteries
of good housewifery; and the learned Prior
of Burton (John de Stretton) had opened
unto them the still greater mysteries of reading,
writing, accounts, and religion—not least,
if last.

No wonder, then, that many a lance was set
in rest and broken in tilt or tourney for one
or other of the sisters, seeing they were
endowed with beauty, wealth, thrift, learning,
and the Christian graces.

Such prizes are not often offered for the
winning.

The Countess Joan would fain have given
one of her daughters to a kinsman, William
Harpur, of Ticknall, but fate, and, it may
be, Prior John, had determined otherwise.

Idonea had promised her hand to Sir Ralph
de Egginton; and Sir Gilbert Findern—in
whose gardens bloomed the fair blossoms his
father had brought from the Holy Land—was
the heart’s-chosen of sweet Avice.

“Two as gallant knights, my lady,” said the
earl to his busy spouse, “as father could
desire for the honour and protection of his
girls, when his own arm grows feeble, or his
grey head rests on a stone pillow. Methinks
thy kinsman, Will Harpur, covets most my
coffer and lands, he was so willing to bid
for Avice when Idonea said ‘nay’ to his
suit.”

However that might be, both he and the
prior joined the gay cavalcade that issued
from the triply arched gateway of the hall, bent
on flying their hawks on Sinfin Moor. Gay,
indeed, if brilliant apparel, buoyant hearts,
and bounding steeds might count for gaiety.
Luxury in dress was an enormity of the time,
as of this.

The young Ladies Bellamont, considering
their rank, made less ostentatious display of
wealth in their attire than any of their companions
that bright June morning. Each wore
a cyclas, or tunic of purple velours (velvet)
bordered with gold, over a tawny silken robe,
that hid the long points of their embroidered
shoes, as they reined in their palfreys, gracefully
seated on the new high-backed side-saddles,
the observed of all observers.

Yet they did not court undue observation.
Indoors the sunny curls of Avice or the darksome
tresses of Idonea flowed freely over their
shoulders, simply confined by a ribbon fillet or
a chaplet of fresh flowers. But then a kerchief
of white Cyprus-lawn, cunningly folded
as a wimple o’er the head, and a gorget round
the throat, served as a modest screen alike
from the ardent sun and the free glances of
strangers. And, as was their wont when the
year was in its prime, over her wimple Idonea
wore a chaplet of rare red roses, Avice one of
blushing white.

The earl was wont to call them his two
sweet roses and laughingly bid their wooers
beware the thorns. But little of thorns did
their favoured knights think as down the steep
hill they rode together, each displaying in his
velvet cap and cyclas of embroidered silken
samite the colour of his ladye-love.

Deep as the red heart of the rose was the
cyclas worn over the buff-leather surcoat of
Sir Ralph de Egginton, and a carbuncle blazed
in his dagger hilt. White as purity was the
samite cyclas of Sir Gilbert Findern, but it
was girdled by a leathern dagger-belt,
bestudded with pink coral and pearls, as was
the haft of his weapon, and in either cap or
bonnet was his lady’s symbol, in token the
wearer laid his life at her feet, and was equally
ready to live or die for her.

There was more thought of living than of
dying that bright morning, as, following
closely Prior John and the old earl, each
knight with his hooded sacret perched on his
hawking-glove, each lady with her merlin,
they laughed and jested merrily, or whispered
words of sweetness not for second ears; and
the happiness of the fine young couples, their
means and their future homes were freely
discussed behind them in the midst of
arguments on the merits of favourite falcons.

There was a motley following of esquires,
yeomen, pages, villeins on horseback and on
foot, with every species of hawk the law permitted;
grooms with dogs in the leash; but
chief of all the falconer, conspicuous in his
green cloth surcoat, with the square frame he
held around him, on which were perched and
held by silken jesses the peregrine falcons of
his master, and the sparrow-hawk of the
prior, who had doffed his cowl and frock for
the occasion, as freely as the earl and his
friends their rough-weather mantles.

On went they all at a gentle trot, with the
bright day before them, and were crossing the
common road which ran from Derby to the
river, some of the more eager galloping on
ahead to Sinfin Moor, when suddenly the loud
blast of a horn wakened the echoes, and
startled speech to silence.

It was not the horn of a huntsman, but a
sharp imperative blast that spoke of
emergency.

Again and again it was repeated. Horses
neighed, and eyes were turned to other eyes
in silent question. The lips of Avice turned
pale, the cheeks of Idonea flushed crimson as
her own roses, her heart beat quick as that of
her gentler sister seemed to stop its beating.

“What can it bode?” rose to the lips of
both in different intonations.

“No evil, Avice, rest assured,” answered
Sir Gilbert, cheerily, “and if there were, am
I not here to guard you with my life?” Yet
as he spoke he bethought him that a dagger
was but a sorry trust to warrant such high
words, and longed for his good sword.

The cavalcade had come to a standstill, and
the horses pawed the ground impatiently, the
hot-blooded earl chafing almost as impatiently
as his steed.

“Marry!” cried he, “for what are we
waiting here, like a brood of frightened chicks?
Let us on and meet the messenger, whatever
be his tidings.” And forward he went, with the
bold prior by his side, and the whole hawking
party after him—some brave, all curious.

Two minutes more, and a mounted herald
came in sight, guarded by four pursuivants;
their horses’ limbs and trappings wet, as if
they had forded the river, then lowered by
long draughts of the thirsty sun.

“Weareth he not the Earl of Leicester’s
badge and cognisance?” asked the earl. “My
old eyes are hardly to be trusted.”

“Aye, my lord, and he spurs as if in haste,”
replied the prior.

In haste, indeed! The herald bore a
double message from his noble lord, Simon de
Montfort, Earl of Leicester; first—without the
herald’s long preamble—as the mouthpiece
of their sovereign lord, King Henry, to
summon his loyal barons and knights to
assemble in a parliament at Oxford on the
eleventh of that same month of June; and
secondly from Simon de Montfort’s self, to bid
those same barons and knights come to the
Oxford parliament armed, and with armed
attendants, in order, if needful, to wrest from
the king the ratification of the great charter
they had obtained from his weak predecessor
by like means at Runnymede.

They were moreover bidden to meet for conference
in Leicester the following day. Desiring
first to learn how many of the county knights
were of the Bellamont company, so as to
spare him needless journeying, the herald then
set spurs to his steed, and was off with his
followers in all haste to Derby, urgency
serving as his excuse for declining the proffered
hospitality of the good earl.

Here was a summons as startling as it was
sudden and peremptory!

The falconer might carry his hawks back to
the mews. There was a duty more imperative
than filling the larder under the name of
sport.

Back went the gallant hawking party, in
more of haste and excitement, if less of glee,
than when they had left the great gateway at
a canter scarce half an hour before, by the sun.

The warder on the watch threw open the
great gates in consternation, certain some mischance
had happened.

Lady Joan left her housewifery, and was
there in her lap-cloth (or apron) to receive
them, with a face full of apprehension.

“There can be no hawking to-day, Joan,”
said her lord, “we must don harness and
speed to Leicester. The king hath summoned
a parliament to meet him at Oxford.”

“Arm! A parliament! Do parliaments
assemble in arms?”

“This will, good Joan, for so hath decided
Simon de Montfort. But never look so
scared, my lady. And you, my blooming
roses, need not droop; there will be no bloodshed.
You will have your gallant bridegrooms
back ere another week be out,” answered the
earl, cheerily.

“But the bridal—the banquet?” cried the
dame, in dismay.

The young knights helping their downcast
fair ones to alight, seemed each to put a like
question in an undertone, pressing the gloved
hands they were so loth to relinquish, even for
an hour.

“If the bridegrooms be impatient, and the
earl be willing, the bridal can precede the
parliament,” suggested the prior. “I am here,
and Father Paul”—referring to his attendant
priest—”can have his vestments and the
chapel ready long ere noon. What say ye,
Bellamont, and Lady Joan? And these fair
maidens, Idonea and Avice, what say ye?
Shall the church bind ye ere the bridegrooms
go?”

The damsels blushed; the two knights
looked eagerly for their replies.

Ere they could speak the old earl blurted
forth, “Nay, nay, Prior John, the nation’s
charter must take precedence of private contracts.
And whoe’er heard of a happy
wedding without a feast; a feast to rich and
poor. And, look up, my bonny roses, I will
bring your brave knights back ere this day
week. Say I not well? The banquet will
not suffer from delay.”

What could they say?

That was the ninth, the twelfth had been
appointed for the nuptials. Great were the
preparations. Their lady-mother would be
displeased if aught of state were wanting at
the ceremony or the banquet.

“Our private inclinations must give place to
duty,” answered Idonea, proudly, red as the
roses round her wimple.

“Be it as my good father and Sir Gilbert
will,” was the response of Avice, in lower and
milder tone.

“Be it as I will, children. And now, on
with your lap-cloths and away to help your
busy mother and her handmaidens to provide a
hasty meal, whilst we exchange our hawking-gear
for shirts of mail. And you, Prior John,
may say your Benedicite over our hasty repast,
to bless our enterprise. And I pray you, and
such of our friends as go not with us, of your
courtesy abide here our return. Will Harpur
here will do devoir for me.”

{107}

The two knights, conversing earnestly
apart, looked at each other with contracted
brows, as if Will Harpur were no favourite
with either.

The old earl turned to them. “Lack you
aught, sirs, that would call you to Egginton
or Findern ere you ride to Leicester, or go you
on with me?”

“With you, my lord,” replied Sir Ralph
for both. “We but seek to despatch a trusty
messenger to our homes to keep back preparations
there, and cool expectations.”

“Friar Paul will do your errand faithfully,
sir knights,” kindly volunteered the obliging
prior; “he starts in an hour with a scroll of
mine for the monastery, and can take Findern
and Egginton by the way.”

“Thanks, prior. Our own esquires and
foot-pages must follow us.”

With that the group dispersed, to add to
the general commotion. In the great hall
there was a hurrying of serving men from
kitchen and buttery with large dishes to cover
the boards on movable tressels, that did duty
as tables, already spread by dainty handmaids
with fair linen napery, and platters of
coarse bread (to serve afterwards as doles to
the poor). Solid joints and lighter dainties,
already prepared for the deferred wedding-feast,
were brought forward to grace this
parting meal—a parting meal, indeed, and it
seemed to cast a shadow on the hurried preparations
beforehand.

The lady was not pleased to surrender the
peacock with his outspread tail, or the plumed
cygnet for aught but the grand occasion, if
the lamb and the salmon had to share the fate
of the great joints; and when the bearer of the
great silver saltcellar (set midway on the
board to mark the bounds of rank from dependents)
stumbled and shed his precious condiment
upon the floor, she was as much disposed
to shed tears as to rate him for his clumsiness.

There were other moist eyes besides the
troubled dame’s. In the maidens’ bower the
gentle Avice scarcely could cast aside her
wimple, and don her lap-cloth for the tears
she shed, and stronger-nerved Idonea had
scarcely self-command to comfort her.

“I feel as if Sir Gilbert was leaving me for
ever,” said the former, through her tears,
“and there would be no bridal.”

“And what of Sir Ralph? Nay, Avice,
do not be cast down. We must show braver
faces to our betrothed, or we may dishearten
and unfit them for the work before them.
Come, dry your eyes, and haste with me to
relieve our dear mother of her many cares.”

There was a clink of metal everywhere, a
running to and fro of foot-pages, with casques
or coats of mail, a clank of hoofs and hammers
in the courtyard and the blacksmith’s shed,
the rivetting of armour, the nailing of horseshoes,
the harnessing of steeds; and then the
clangour of a bell to announce refection ready.

It was a hurried repast, partaken of by mailed
knights, lacking only gauntlets and helmets to
be fully armed, as were their attendant esquires
and pages. And as none knew if the parliament
so attended would pass peacefully, it was
aught but a gladsome gathering.

As was the custom, the ladies shared the
platters of their spouses or betrothed, and so
there were opportunities for hopeful or consoling
words between the lovers; and then
with full cups drained to “The King and Magna
Charta!” earl and knights were up with the
rest. Idonea and Avice clasped on the
casques of their lovers, and were gallantly
repaid.

A fatherly kiss from the earl, and he was
off with a goodly train of armed knights and
esquires, two of whom carried symbolic roses
in their casques, the spoil of maidens’
chaplets.

A pattering of young feet up the oaken
stairs, a straining of eyes and waving of kerchiefs
from the bower-window. Soon the
party was seen to cross the Swarkstone ford,
the sun shining on helms of gold and silver
and steel, on lance-heads and waving pennons,
and then—and then—came the waiting, whilst
Prior John discoursed to them of Christian
hope and trust, and William Harpur dwelt on
the probability of strife and bloodshed, and
my lady called on them for help to entertain
such guests as still remained at Swarkstone
Hall.

(To be concluded.)

WINTER

WINTER

AN OLD MAN’S VISIONS IN THE FLAMES.

By JOS. CULLEN SAWTELL.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

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

CHAP. VII

JACK’S SMOCK-FROCK

“WADING ACROSS THE ANGRY BOURNE.”

Fairy’s education had been a
puzzle to Mrs. Shelley, though
at first Jack had taught her
to read and write, until she
was five years old, when the problem had
been solved by the rector, Mr. Leslie,
who had always taken a great deal of
notice of the pretty child, offering to let
her learn with his girls of their governess,
who was a Frenchwoman, and from
that day Fairy’s mornings and afternoons
till four o’clock were spent at the
rectory, and in the evenings Jack helped
her to prepare her lessons for the next
day.

By this means Jack learnt French,
and had access to many books which
would otherwise have been impossible
for him to get hold of. He made the
most of his opportunities, and was
always far ahead of Fairy in all her
studies except French, and in this Fairy
was the teacher, and her silvery laugh
was often heard to ring out merrily at
Jack’s English accent, for she had
begun to learn it so early that her accent
was perfect; indeed, she seemed to have
a gift for languages, so quickly did she
pick up French; but then she had a very
quick ear and a talent for mimicry,
both of which are great helps in learning
a foreign language.

Once or twice John Shelley—who had
a great dread lest his eldest
son should spend too much
time over books, time
which, unless the book was the Bible, the
simple shepherd thought wasted—had
suggested that Charlie should help Fairy,
and Jack look after the sheep, but Fairy
soon settled this; Jack could not follow
the sheep in the evenings, and as for
Charlie, he could read and write and do
a little ciphering, but he hated books,
and was no use to her at all. The three
boys had only been sent to the village
school till they were twelve years old,
when Jack had been taken away to
follow the sheep and learn a shepherd’s
duties, Willie had gone to sea, and
Charlie, for the present, worked in the
garden, looked after the pigs and
poultry, and helped his mother in various
ways.

“When will Jack be in, John? I want
him to do my arithmetic for me,” said
Fairy, helping herself to a kind of
harvest cake, called in Sussex plum-heavy,
a dainty that was heavy by
nature as well as by name, and the way
in which the shepherd and his boys
devoured them spoke well for their
digestive organs.

“As soon as he has folded the sheep—that
is, about eight o’clock,” said the
shepherd.

And a little after eight, just as Fairy,
after a deal of puckering of her pretty
brows, had given up her sums in despair,
Jack came in. He was a tall, fine,
handsome lad of seventeen, darker than
his brothers and more like Mrs. Shelley
than the shepherd in appearance, with a
look of keen, quick intelligence in his
brown eyes, and a sweet smile which
lighted up his whole face. He was
quick in all his actions, and had laid
aside his hated crook and changed{109}
his clothes, and washed and seated himself
by Fairy’s side before he had been
ten minutes in the house. Mrs. Shelley
looked with pride at her darling son as
he bent his curly brown head over
Fairy’s slate, and in his clear voice,
quite free from the Sussex brogue in
which his parents and brothers spoke,
explained decimal fractions to her.

Jack’s manner to Fairy was rather a
puzzle to his mother, for while it was
more deferential than the shepherd’s
and less familiar than Charlie’s, who,
when he was clean, Fairy allowed to be
on brotherly terms with her, at the same
time he assumed a tone of intellectual
superiority which Fairy quite acquiesced
in and seemed to think quite natural,
and yet she ordered him about just as
she did the other boys, and he was
certainly never so happy as when in her
presence and doing her bidding.

Sometimes Mrs. Shelley feared for
her boy’s happiness, for though Fairy
was only a child in age and everything
else, Jack was five years older, and
already his mother dreaded lest his
affection and admiration should develop
into a stronger feeling, although, for
she was very ambitious for her boy, if
she could know that in the far future
Fairy would respond to the feeling, hope,
and not fear, would have been the feeling
with which she watched them.

When the sums were finished, Mrs.
Shelley laid the cloth for supper, while
Jack and Fairy discussed their plans
for the next day.

“Where is father?” asked Jack,
suddenly.

“Now coming in to supper; he is
cross with you, you naughty boy, because
you have not set the wheatear traps
properly, and he only caught two dozen,”
said Fairy.

These wheatear traps are excavations
in the turf, about a foot long, in the shape
of a T. The birds run up the trenches
and get entangled by the head in a
noose.

“Well, that is five or six shillings,
and there’ll be another two dozen poor
little things snared to-morrow,” said
Jack.

“More, I expect, Jack; your father has
been after the traps himself this evening;
but here he is, so don’t mention them
unless he does. Look what Fairy and
I have been making for you, Jack. Show
him, Fairy,” said Mrs. Shelley, who was
making a huge hasty pudding over the
fire for supper.

“Yes, look here, Jack: a beautiful
smock, a real smock! Isn’t it lovely?
John insisted on your wearing one, so
we made it for your birthday; but don’t
look so unhappy, I have got a prettier
present for you to-morrow,” said Fairy,
holding the heavy smock up in her tiny
fingers.

“But why did you make me such a
thing, mother? You might have known
I could not possibly wear it,” said Jack,
flushing angrily, and ignoring Fairy’s
part in the manufacture of the unwelcome
garb.

“Not wear it! What do you mean,
Jack?” asked the shepherd, as he came
in, followed by the other boys.

“Here’s a joke! we shall have a row
now,” said Charlie, in an undertone, to
Willie, boy-like, rejoicing in the prospect.

“I back old Jack to win this time,”
whispered Willie.

“Mean, father? Why, what I say. No
power on earth shall induce me to wear
a smock frock,” said Jack, infusing all
the scorn he could muster into the
objectionable name of the still more objectionable
thing.

It was some minutes before the
shepherd could take in the full meaning
of his son’s words. He supposed there
was some objection to this smock in
particular, for as he wore a smock himself,
and his father and grandfather and
great-grandfather had done the same
before him, it never occurred to him that
Jack could object to smocks in general.
Shepherds wore smocks; Jack was
of course a shepherd because he, John
Shelley, was a shepherd, therefore Jack
must wear a smock.

“What is the matter with this smock?
Is it too big, or too small, or what?”
he asked, slowly.

“I don’t know, I am sure, what size it
is; I only know it is no use to me.”

“But if you have not tried it on, how
can you possibly tell? Put it on and
let’s see,” said the shepherd, taking the
smock from Fairy and handing it to
Jack.

“I tell you, father, I won’t wear a
smock; it is bad enough to have to be
a shepherd; wear a smock I won’t,”
cried Jack, his eyes flashing dangerously.

John Shelley began to understand
now; it was pride which was at the
bottom of it—pride sprung from all this
book-knowledge, which he had always
prophesied would lead to no good, and
pride which must be trampled upon at
once. John had never understood his
eldest son, and he could no more enter
into the feeling which prompted Jack to
shrink from wearing this badge of his
lowly calling than he could understand
his objection to snaring wheatears.

“And I tell you, Jack, I will have no
more of this folly. It all comes from the
books you are always poring over instead
of attending to your work.”

“When have I ever neglected my
work? Summer and winter alike, from
five in the morning till sunset, am I
following the sheep,” interrupted Jack,
passionately.

“Hush, Jack, dear, hush!” whispered
Mrs. Shelley.

“Remember you are speaking to your
father; and now no more of this. I order
you to put on that smock at once, and
sit down and get your supper in it.”

“And I refuse ever to put it on,”
replied Jack.

The shepherd advanced a step towards
the angry lad; but Fairy, trembling
for the consequences, caught hold
of John’s arm and held him back, while
Mrs. Shelley stood between her husband
and Jack, who was shaking with suppressed
passion.

“Do you mean you refuse to obey
me?” asked the shepherd.

“Yes, in this I do,” answered Jack,
fiercely.

“Then leave the house until you
know how to behave,” said the shepherd,
seating himself quietly at the supper-table.

No need to tell Jack twice to go.
Hungry as he was, having had nothing
to eat since his early dinner, he turned
at once on his heel, and muttering something
about never entering it again, he
went out and banged the door after him.
The next moment Fairy was running
after him, her lovely hair floating in the
evening breeze as she hooked her arm in
his and tried to keep up with his great
hasty strides.

For ten minutes Jack stalked angrily
along, so fast that Fairy had almost to
run to keep up with him. He had
turned sharp to the left on leaving the
field in which the shepherd’s house
stood, and where he was going Fairy
could not think, for the road they were
in was only a kind of cart-drift leading
to a stream which sprung out of the
chalk hills, called the Winter-bourne, a
mere tiny brook, which Fairy could leap
dry-shod in summer; it was an angry
rushing torrent in winter. It was a
lovely July evening; the sun had set, but
the after-glow still lingered in the
western horizon; the pale blue sky was
cloudless, and melted away into a
delicate green and gold over the purple
downs, which caught the golden reflection,
and looked like golden hills in the
evening light. About two miles to the
left of Jack and Fairy lay the picturesque
old town of Lewes in an amphitheatre
of hills, the grand old castle and its ivy-covered
walls forming the most attractive
object in the picture; behind them,
lay the soft rounded outlines of the range
of downs, cold and grey under the
darkening eastern sky. But Fairy was
not much given to admiring sunsets or
going into raptures over the Southdown
scenery. She was hungry, and wanted to
get back to supper as soon as she could
persuade this tiresome angry Jack to
come with her; and how to accomplish
this was the problem she was anxiously
trying to solve as she panted along by
Jack’s side. Her task would be only
half done when she had succeeded in
this, but this was the worst half. If she
could only bring Jack to reason, she
would soon persuade the shepherd to
capitulate; he had never refused her
anything in her life; many a time had
she saved the boys from punishment;
she was quite certain he would listen to
her now. But Jack! She was by no
means so sure of him; he required very
delicate manipulation.

At last she stopped just as they
reached the Winter-bourne, a harmless,
innocent-looking little brook,
whose violence in winter would have
seemed incredible to Jack and Fairy if
they had not once had a terrible experience
of it.

It was when Fairy and Charlie were
eight years old. Charlie having seen the
brook the day before, swollen and rushing
wildly along, challenged Fairy to
wade through it; she, unconscious of the
change, and remembering it only as a
tiny stream which barely covered her
little feet, accepted the challenge, declaring
it was the easiest thing in the
world to do; and the more Charlie protested
she would never be able to succeed,{110}
the more determined Fairy was to
try. But when they reached the bourne
and Fairy saw, instead of a tiny brook,
an angry stream thirty feet wide, rushing
along, and disappearing under the turf,
to rise again further on, and, as Charlie
told her, run through the priory grounds,
where it was deep enough to drown a
cow, her heart sank within her.

“I told you so,” said Charlie; “I
said you could not do it, but you would
not believe me.”

“But I will do it. Look here, Charlie,
it is not deep here, is it? It can’t be,
you know, we have often played at mud
pies where it is now running; it won’t
come much above my knees,” said
Fairy, taking off her shoes and socks.

“You had better not go, Fairy. It
mayn’t be deep, but it is very rapid;
you may be carried away with it,” urged
Charlie.

“Bah!” laughed Fairy, dipping her
pretty feet into the cold water, and
shrieking with delight.

“Well, wait a minute till I have
taken off my shoes, and we’ll go together.
It will be up to our waists in
the middle, I believe,” said Charlie; and
the next minute the two children were
wading across the angry bourne, laughing
and screaming with delight, as each
step they took the stream ran stronger
and deeper.

But as they neared the centre of the
stream the laughter ceased, and suddenly
a wild shriek from Fairy, who
was taken off her feet, rent the air, and,
to Charlie’s horror, he saw her carried
away by the angry stream towards the
spot where it disappeared under the
turf, a horrid, dark-looking ditch. He
rushed back to the shore, hoping to have
time to lean over the ditch and catch
her before she disappeared under it, but
as his feet touched the dry land Jack,
who luckily had seen the pair going towards
the Winter-bourne from the down
where he was watching the sheep, and
knowing it to be a dangerous place, had
come to order them home. Jack now
rushed to the spot, and leaning over the
mouth of the ditch, caught Fairy before
she was carried under it. Luckily for
Charlie, Jack had left his crook behind
him, or there is no telling what harm
he might have done to the child in his
rage; as it was, he seized him, and would
have beaten him unmercifully only Fairy
cried to him to come and wring the
water out of her clothes for her.

She was none the worse for her adventure,
since Jack, in spite of all their
entreaties, remorselessly led the culprits
home at once, and, in answer to their
fears that Mrs. Shelley would be very
angry, only hoped she would, and was
even cruel enough, as Fairy told him, to
say it served them right when the culprits
were sent to bed as soon as Mrs.
Shelley heard what had happened.

It was at this bourne that Fairy now
stopped Jack, panting, and exclaiming,
“Oh, Jack, do stop; I am so hot and
tired, I can’t walk another step.”

“Fairy, why didn’t you tell me before,
child, and why did you come at all?”
asked Jack, reproachfully, though in his
heart pleasure at Fairy’s coming was
almost stronger than his anger with his
father, which by this time had nearly
vanished, for Jack’s temper was as
quickly over as it was roused.

“Why did I come? To bring you
back to supper, of course; and why
didn’t I tell you before to stop? Because
you would not have listened if I had
when you were in such a rage, you tiresome,
cross boy, you.”

“I am not in a rage now, Fairy, only
I am not going to wear a smock. But
where is your hat? You will catch
cold.”

“Of course I shall; I feel rather chilly
now. Do take me home, Jack, before
it comes on bad,” said the little hypocrite,
who never caught cold by any
chance.

“I’ll go back to the house with you,
Fairy, but I can’t come in, you know.
Father has turned me out.”

“Oh, I know; John is as bad as you.
Between you both you’ll bring me and
mother to a sick bed, quarrelling in this
way. You ought both to be ashamed of
yourselves, and all about a stupid smock
frock. I don’t know which is the silliest
about it, you or John.”

“I am sure, Fairy, you would not
like to see me in a smock,” interrupted
Jack.

“I never said I should, but you need
not have put yourself in such a temper
about it, worrying me in this way, and
teasing me when I am so hungry. Aren’t
you very sorry, sir?”

“Yes, you know I am, Fairy, but I
can’t and won’t wear that smock. I’ll
keep it all my life, because you made it,
but I will never——”

“Oh, do stop; I am so tired of that
‘I won’t wear a smock.’ We will write
a song for the next sheep-shearing, and
that shall be the chorus. I am sure you
will sing it most lustily. Now there’s
John to manage. Now, will you promise
me faithfully to wait out here in
the garden while I go and talk to him?”

“Yes, I promise,” said Jack, as they
reached the shepherd’s house, and
Fairy, leaving him outside, went in to
propitiate his father.

The others were at supper, or at least,
Mr. and Mrs. Shelley were sitting at the
table; the boys had gone to bed.

“Where is Jack, Fairy?” asked Mrs.
Shelley.

“He is outside, waiting for John to
go and bring him in to supper, and I
am so hungry; do go, John,” said Fairy,
putting one of her slender arms round
the shepherd’s neck.

John put up one of his brown weather-beaten
hands, and took hold of the little
delicate white hand resting coaxingly on
his shoulder as he answered, “Fairy,
Jack has behaved very badly.”

“Perhaps he has, but he is very
sorry,” whispered Fairy.

“Well, for your sake I’ll forgive him,
then,” said the shepherd, rising from
his seat.

“Yes, but wait a minute, John. He
is very sorry, but he won’t wear a smock,
so it won’t be the least bit of use your
asking him,” said Fairy.

“I knew he wouldn’t, and if Fairy
can’t persuade him it is no use your
making any more fuss about it. Do, for
goodness sake, drop it, John, and fetch
the lad in to supper. You can’t force a
boy of his age as a child of twelve,
and, after all, he does his work just as
well without a smock as with one, so do let
us have peace,” said Mrs. Shelley, who
had been arguing the vexed question
with her husband during Jack’s absence.

“That is not the point. The question
is, who is to be master in this house,
Jack or I?” said the shepherd, seating
himself again.

“Nonsense! the only question is, are
you going to drive your son, as good a
son as man can have, away from his
home to rack and ruin for the sake of a
whim of yours? Times have changed
since you were young; people don’t do
as they did. My mother followed the
sheep in shearing-time, but that is no
reason why I should do the same.”

“Times may have changed, but sons
still obey their fathers, and a man is
still master in his own house, and if not
he ought to be; at any rate, I mean to
be master in mine,” said John.

“And I mean to be mistress, and I say
Jack shan’t wear a smock. I hate the ugly
things, and if Jack goes away I’ll go
away too,” burst out Fairy, stamping
her little foot, and then, as if half-alarmed
and half-afraid of the effect of her words,
she threw herself into Mrs. Shelley’s
arms, sobbing out, “and you are very
unkind to me, as well as to Jack.”

Fairy’s violence surprised the shepherd
into rising from his seat, but when
she burst into tears he laid his hand on
her golden head, and saying, “Well,
well, well, we won’t say any more about
it,” he went out of the house.

What passed between the shepherd
and his son no one ever knew, but they
came in to supper together a few minutes
later, both of them rather grave, but
on good terms with each other. And
Jack never wore the smock.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

Selfish Man!

“My darling little wife,” said a husband,
“you will be pleased to hear I have just insured
my life.”

“Yes, of course,” replied the wife, “there
it is again—another proof of how utterly selfish
and inconsiderate men are, always thinking of
themselves. Naturally, it never occurred to
you to insure my life.”

A Lesson in Courtesy.—”My child,”
said a father to his daughter, “treat everybody
with politeness, even though they are
rude to you. For remember that you show
courtesy to others, not because they are ladies,
but because you are one.”

Snail Cough-mixture.—The following
glimpse of an old lady’s pharmacopœia in the
middle of last century is got from a letter of
Mrs. Delany’s written in January, 1758:—”Does
Mary cough in the night? Two or
three snails boiled in her barley-water or tea-water,
or whatever she drinks, might be of
great service to her; taken in time they have
done wonderful cures. She must know nothing
of it. They give no manner of taste.
It would be best nobody should know it but
yourself, and I should imagine six or eight
boiled in a quart of water and strained off and
put in a bottle would be a good way, adding
a spoonful or two of that to every liquid she
takes. They must be fresh done every two or
three days, otherwise they grow too thick.”

The Truth about Wives.

—Pope.

A Novelist’s Tale.—Why is a novelist
an unnatural phenomenon? Because his tale
comes out of his head.

Sunshine at Home.—No trait of character
is more valuable in a woman than a sweet
temper. Home can never be made happy
without it. It is like the flowers that spring
up in our pathway, reviving and cheering us.
Let a man go home at night, wearied and
worn by the toils of the day, and how soothing
is a word dictated by a good disposition! It
is sunshine falling on his heart. He is happy,
and the cares of life are forgotten.

“What Does Yf Spell?“

“Bad spelling,” says Benjamin Franklin in
one of his letters, “is generally the best, as
conforming to the sound of the letters and of
the words. To give you an instance: a
gentleman received a letter in which were
these words, ‘Not finding Brown at hom, I
delivered your meseg to his yf.’ The gentleman,
finding it bad spelling, and therefore not
very intelligible, called his lady to help him
to read it. Between them they picked out the
meaning of all but the yf, which they could not
understand. The lady proposed to called her
chambermaid, ‘because Betty,’ says she, ‘has
the best knack at reading bad spelling of
anyone I know!’ Betty came and was surprised
that neither sir nor madame could tell
what yf was.

“‘Why,’ says she, ‘y—f spells wife; what
else can it spell?’

“And, indeed, it is a much better, as well
as shorter, method of spelling wife than
doubleyou-i-ef-e, which in reality spells double-uifey.”

The Height of Woman.—Given sixty-six
inches as the average height of a man, the
average height of a woman is sixty-three
inches.—Charles Blanc.

Little Minds.—It is the characteristic of
little and frivolous minds to be wholly occupied
with the vulgar objects of life.—Blair.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

ART.

MUSIC.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Gwen H. M.—Express your regret at having forgotten
yourself and spoken in temper disrespectfully to your
mistress. You can do no more; but she can be compelled
to give you a character, although giving her
own version of the cause of your dismissal.

Inquisitive.—The 18th of January, 1872, was a
Thursday, and the 14th of March a Thursday.
Reverse the method you have adopted of making
heavy upper strokes and light down ones.

Dots.—The words “speciality” and “specialty” are
synonymous, and may both be used; but the former
is adopted by our best writers—as, for example, the
novelists Bulwer-Lytton, and Dickens, the poet
Elizabeth B. Browning, and the theological historian,
Hooker. Nevertheless, Shakespeare says “specialty,”
but that may have been the old word of a former
age, and such could not govern modern usages.

Regretful need not feel unhappy about a kindly act
of sympathy. The letter was doubtless written in
suitable terms. Her verses have a good deal of
prettiness and sweetness about them; but she needs
to study the rules of metrical composition, as a good
many errors appear in her lines. We direct her
attention to previous answers.

A. M. L.—1. We are perpetually telling our girls that it
is very unladylike for them to walk out alone with
men unless engaged to them, and with the knowledge
and consent of their parents. Even if you
could not take the trouble of reading out answers to
other girls on this subject, why do you not ask the
opinion and advice of your mother or aunt, or any
lady possessing ordinary common sense and acquaintance
with the general rules of propriety. 2. Clean
brass with cream of tartar made into a wet paste;
brush off when dry, wash in boiling water, and rub
with a chamois leather.

Little White Oss.—To remove grease from dresses,
rub the spots with benzoline and hang them in the
air. The word “catechism” is derived from the
Greek, and signifies a form of oral instruction in the
rudiments of knowledge by way of question and
answer. The oral instructions delivered by the early
Christian priests to their converts were written down
first in the eighth or ninth centuries, the present
Church of England Catechism in 1551, and was
added to and altered in 1604 by the order of James I.
We do not admire your selection of a name. “White
Rabbit” or “White Mouse” would have been preferable.

Twenty.—Write to our publisher, Mr. Tarn. The
Editor has nothing to do with the publishing department.

{112}

Cecilia.—Good Friday is a Bank Holiday, also
Easter Monday, Whit Monday, first Monday in
August, Christmas Day, and the day following, or,
if that be a Sunday, then the Monday following. In
Scotland the holidays are different, being New Year’s
Day, Good Friday, first Monday in May, first
Monday in August, and Christmas Day.

White Violet.—September 21st, 1869, was a Friday;
June 27th, 1867, was a Thursday. Your other query
has been recently answered.

Picaninny.—We are glad to hear you have found the
G. O. P. so useful. Use gloves.

Ira.—We are much obliged, and regret we cannot
make use of them.

Little Woman.—We think you had better let
matters take their natural course. Such a long and
intimate acquaintance would be the best commencement
for married life, which is too often hastily
entered into, and thus ends in disappointment from
lack of knowledge of each other’s characters and
habits.

Lizzie F.—An answer has been given to your question
very lately.

English Girl should wear a veil in the summer if she
fears freckles, and in winter also if her skin be so
tender.

An Anxious One (Leeds) should consult a doctor
without delay.

H. A. Chart must send to Mr. Tarn, 56, Paternoster-row,
E.C., for the index and plates, 1s. being
required, and postage.

Troublesome One.—If you meet a funeral procession
accompanying a deceased person, it is in good taste
to stop while it passes, and for a man to take off his
hat. You do not stop if it merely overtake you,
travelling the same way,
nor need you to stop, whether
riding or driving, if the hearse
be empty. The rule is, that
all respect be shown to the
dead and the grief of the
mourners.

Isca Wellesley.—How could
you so far forget yourself as
to send flowers to a strange
man? You cannot bow to
any man, “peculiar” or not,
if he have not been introduced
to you. Is it possible that
you thought of bowing to a
man with whom you were not
acquainted? We think your
mother would feel tempted to
box your ears if she knew
that you did!

A Hybrid Lass(?).—The three
days immediately preceding
the Feast of the Ascension
were so named because on
them litanies were recited by
the clergy and people in procession,
a custom of which
the “beating of bounds” is
a relic. Their institution is
ascribed to Mamertius,
Bishop of Vienna in the
fifth century.

Chiesa had better consult a
doctor, as such things are
dangerous for unskilled
hands to meddle with. We
do not recognise the poem.

Azalea.—Such matters must
be referred to the decision
of each individual conscience,
for what one person might
consider an enjoyable relaxation
another might think wrong. But we must not
judge anyone, only act for ourselves, in the fear and
love of God.

Excelsior.—The line—

“Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand”

is by Tennyson.

Annie’s verses are very good for ten years old, but
she will probably improve on them before she is
twice ten.

A. J. M.—The certificates are all dated Lady Day,
1886. You make a mistake. We think it unnecessary
fault finding.

Little Gherkins.—1. Although your verses are rather
too irregular to be put into the G. O. P., there is
much humour about them, and they afforded us a
good laugh, for which we thank you, and wish you
health to enjoy the paper we provide for you for
many a day. 2. Write to the secretary of the convalescent
home at Walton-on-Thames, at the office,
32, Sackville-street, W. Admission is free. Get a
letter from your doctor to recommend you, and they
will take you in for three weeks’ change of air.

Scotia.—1. It is impossible to make smoke pictures
indelible. They should be mounted in deep mounts
and framed if worth preserving. 2. The origin of
acting as “gooseberry” is found in the unsatisfactory
office of a gooseberry gatherer, who undertakes
the trouble and bears all the scratching from
the thorns for the delectation of others. Thus, the
“gooseberry” is the person who, for propriety sake,
accompanies two lovers, and is expected to hear,
see, and say nothing—i.e., have all the toil and the
dulness without the pleasure of companionship.

Lollo.—The address of the Governesses’ Benevolent
Institution is 32, Sackville-street, London. Apply to
the secretary for information.

Evangeline Grace.—Gather leaves in the early
autumn when touched, but not faded, by the frost;
dry them thoroughly, and preserve them from decay
by giving them a slight coat of varnish.

Grace Noel.—We are obliged for your communication
about the Colonial Exhibition, and regret that
we have not space to publish it. We consider it a
very creditable production for a girl of twelve
years old.

Hattie is probably diminutive for Harriet. We do
not understand your question.

Janet C.—You had better take your Bible and look
out all the places where dreams are mentioned.

A. E. T.—The present King of Greece ascended the
throne, 30th March, 1863, and married, 27th October,
1867, Olga, eldest daughter of the Grand Duke
Constantine of Russia, the present queen. We do
not think there is any such word in the dictionary,
or out of it.

Tie.—The Italian for “How do you do” is “Come
sta?” the French, “Comment vous partez-vous?”
the German, “Wie befinden sie sich?” The translation
of the Latin, “De mortuis,” etc., is, “Of the
dead say nothing but good.”

Katrina S.—Some articles on riding were given in
the G. O. P. The dress consists of habit, trousers,
and low stays.

Alice.—Intimate friends and relations give presents
at such events as silver weddings, but no others are
expected.

CONVALESCENCE.

Pseudo (Worthing).—1. Not less than eight or nine
hours’ sleep is needful for young people, so do not
stint your rest; get to bed early, and rise at 6.30
or 7 a.m. 2. A very good book on how to teach arithmetic
is published by Moffat and Paige, 28, Warwick-lane,
Paternoster-row, E.C., price 2s. 6d., as well as
other useful manuals for the teacher.

Ruth (West Indies).—The account you give of the
condition of both head and hair is quite shocking.
You had better cut it short, and then wash your
head well with plenty of soap, and keep it clean
always. Possibly, however, not dirt, but some disease
of the scalp may be the cause of the condition
you describe. If so, you had better show it to a
doctor. But, in any case, you had better cut it
short for a time.

White Rose (Shepherd’s Bush).—You are not too
young to be a godmother, but your services to the
child will probably be superfluous, as the parents—or,
at least, the mother—will see that the child is
taught the Lord’s Prayer, Creed, and Ten Commandments,
and will see that it be confirmed at a
suitable age. But you must take care that while
praying for the child you are also to set it, and all
who know you, a good Christian example of keeping
your own vows to God. In ancient times Christian
parents were often martyred, and then the responsibility
of the child’s religious education devolved on
the godparents.

Mate.—It is not incumbent on a man to call his wife’s
father and mother by those titles. Many only address
them as “Mr.” and “Mrs.” Nevertheless, it is
desirable to do all things that tend to make peace
and a friendly feeling rather than the reverse.
When a man likes his mother-in-law he sometimes
has a pet name for her, such as “Mum” and
“Mumsey.”

May.—You seem to work rather beyond the strength
of a girl of fifteen; but, of course, you have not got
to “wash for eleven children every day,” nor “clean
five bedrooms.” The cheap velvet slippers you name
might wear fairly well in the house.

A Youthful Poet finds herself plunged in great
difficulties in the midst of some most obdurate
verses, two of which will not accommodate any last
line. She writes about “cricket,” and about the
necessity of being “in her place by the hour” at
school, or “get punished in some way not so extreme
as a wacking.” If this youthful poet mistakes us for
her muse, and depends on us to inspire her, or to
write her verses for her, we can only decline, with
thanks for the honour done us. In return, we must
strongly recommend her to improve her writing.

Bluebell.—In reply to your query, “Why, in sailing
round the world eastward, twenty-four hours are
gained?” we may explain the fact thus. The world’s
rotation takes twenty-four hours. If, now, a person
be travelling in the direction of rotation, an amount
of time is gained proportional to the distance
covered. Therefore, in travelling round the equator
in the direction of rotation, the total time gained
will be proportional to the earth’s circumference—in
other words, to the distance travelled. Of course,
if travelling much below or above the line, the circumference
would be less and the result affected.

A Male Reader.—You will find our articles on
women’s Christian names in vol. iv., the parts for
October and November, 1882, and for January and
March, 1883. Harriett, like Henrietta, is the feminine
for Henry, and means “noble,” and Emma is
the Gothic for “mother.”

A. L. W.—Yes, seashells are found far inland and high
above the present sea-level.
In Sweden there are great
beds of them, and even barnacles
on some of the rocks
at Udevalla, fifty miles from
the North Sea and seventy
from the Baltic. The whole
of Scandinavia is rising, and
North of Stockholm at the
North Cape, at the rate of
some six feet in a century.

Dolgelly.—We should always
regret that the smallest annoyance
was caused by any
writer in this paper on the
characteristics of a county
or province of the United
Kingdom, and we are not
pledged to the opinions
gathered by our story-writers,
formed from their own experience
when resident in
such localities. Did “Dolgelly”
read the declarations
recently made by one of our
judges in a court of assize
held at Chester?

Discontented should not
worry herself over little disadvantages,
for which she is
in no way responsible. If
so plain as she imagines, it
would be well to cultivate
beauty in the character, the
temper, and the manners.
Many plain people make
themselves most attractive
by the sweetness of their
expression and the kindliness
of their actions, small
as well as great. See page
348, vol. i. 2. Cut your nails
once a week.

A Foreigner.—You should make your arrangements
with a German publisher to translate any English
work into German that he may require. Get an
introduction to one or more in Germany.

Tyza Worrall.—1. If the audience thank you after
singing at a village concert, you should thank them
by bowing. 2. To lay the tea-things on a coloured
cloth is only a piece of economy, not fashionable nor
nice. If anything be spilt upon it, it remains dirty,
as it cannot be washed on every such occasion like a
white linen one. Better to lay the tea on the bare
mahogany or oak table. Coloured woollen or cotton
cloths have a fusty appearance as connected with
meals. We regret your answer should have been
delayed.

H. G. C.—Write to the hon. secretary, Mrs. Paterson,
of the Woman’s Protective and Provident League,
36, Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s Inn, W.C. The
league has a register of work and workers, and
protects the trade interests of women.

Caprice had better write and inquire about an English
translation from the gentleman who edits the French
editions in England. The eagle is emblematic of
St. John the Evangelist, because he looked on “the
Sun of Glory,” like the eagle, with undazzled eyes.
The eagle was one of the four figures which made up
the cherub (Ezek. i. 10). The two outspread wings
of the eagle represent the two Testaments, and the
use of the eagle to support the lectern was because
the eagle is the natural enemy of the serpent.

“The Campbells are Comin’.“—The motto of the
Campbells is Ne obliviscaris, “You must not forget,”
or “Do not forget.”