THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

THE PRIMROSE GATHERER.

From the Painting by W. A. Menzies.

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

“OUR HERO.”
THE PRINCESS OF WALES’S DAIRY AT SANDRINGHAM.
HIS GREAT REWARD.
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.
VARIETIES.
HERB-PATIENCE.
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THE “BIKE.”
DOUBLE ACROSTIC I.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Princess of Wales’s Dairy. Sandringham.

{354}

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XXIII.

LIFE IN A FRENCH
DUNGEON.

ight long
long months
at Bitche!

No wonder
Roy Baron
was altered.
He had left
Verdun a
careless and
light-hearted
lad; almost
a child still; young
in many respects
for his age. Eight
months at Bitche had
snuffed all remnants of
childishness out of him.

Sometimes he caught himself
wondering if he really
were the same Roy Baron,
who once had lived in a happy
London home, with never a
care or a trouble; who had
wept salt tears in a Paris
bedroom, because Denham
had to leave him behind for
a few days; who had carried
himself with a gay heart through more
than three years of Verdun captivity.

The weight of the last eight months
amounted to far more than all that had
gone before.

Not that the whole of that time had
been spent in the great crowded dungeon
below. The gendarmes knew
better, when a prisoner possessed a
little money. The very first morning
after Roy’s arrival, he had been conducted
above ground, glad enough to
go, though grieved to leave little Will
Peirce behind; and it had been intimated
to him that, if he chose to pay
for the benefit, he might be put into a
room with a few other prisoners of a
better grade. Roy had thankfully
availed himself of the chance, and he
had done his best to get Will brought
up also, but there he had failed.

During more than four months he had
lived, monotonously enough, in a barely-furnished
room, with half-a-dozen companions—an
elderly Naval officer of the
rougher sort, a half-pay Colonel, a
musician who solaced his own imprisonment
and made worse that of others by
incessant piping upon a flute, and three
well-to-do men in the merchant line. It
was a lonely existence for the boy. The
men were kind to him, but utterly uncongenial,
and they spent most of their
time in high play. Roy had no interests,
no employments, nothing in common
with these men, among whom his
lot was cast. The temptation to be
drawn in, to find relief from his own
thoughts in the excitement of gambling,
was often terribly severe; but he remembered
always his own reiterated
promise to Denham in the past, and he
resisted manfully. He was not conquered;
and through all his after life
Roy Baron was the stronger man for
that successful fight in his boyish days.
Every victory makes one stronger, every
defeat makes one weaker, for the years
to follow.

By the end of about four months and a
half his money, though carefully husbanded,
came to an end; and more had
not reached him, as he had confidently
expected. He had written repeatedly to
his parents and to Ivor; but no answers
arrived, and he could not know whether
any of his letters had reached their
destination. It was as likely as not
that all had failed to do so, and that
money, sent to him by his father, had
been seized en route.

So soon as his means of paying the
gendarmes for better prison accommodation
ceased, Roy was remanded to the
great dungeon.

He took it more quietly than at the
first. He was by this time in a manner
used to close captivity. Will and the
other middies welcomed him warmly;
and soon he found that a plan for escape
was brewing among them.

No wonder prisoners sought to get
away. The life in those dungeons—there
were more than one at Bitche—must
have been fearful. We, in this
more humane age, find it difficult to
believe that only ninety years ago imprisonment
in noisome dungeons was
still in full swing, even in so civilised a
country as France. The close damp
atmosphere, the crowded space, the
lack of quiet, the incessant noise, the
absence of subordination among the
worse characters of those herded indiscriminately
together—all these things
were hard to bear.

From eight at night until eight in the
morning the three or four hundred
prisoners were locked up in their dungeon.
At eight in the morning they
were turned out—like sheep turned from
a pen—into the “yard,” a place about
one hundred and thirty paces in length
by some thirty in breadth. There they
remained until noon, getting what air
and exercise they could. At noon once
more they were mustered in the dungeon,
and at two o’clock they were again
turned out into the yard, until the evening.
And this is no fancy picture of
what went on.

The yard was well known to Roy,
since, while living upstairs, he had gone
out there daily, meeting many other
English prisoners from other rooms, but
always at such times as the dungeon
inmates were locked in.

The very idea of possible escape from
such an existence was naturally welcomed,
even though every attempt to
get away meant danger to life. Many
had escaped; many more were likely
enough to do their best for the same
end. When Will Peirce, with the consent
of his friends, and under strictest
vows of secrecy, confided to Roy the
plan under discussion, Roy threw himself
into it with fervour. Anything to be
free!

He stood in the prison-yard one cold
day in late autumn, leaning against the
wall, with folded arms and abstracted
look. A grey sky was overhead, and
some drops of half-frozen rain had
fallen. Hundreds of prisoners were
assembled there; some walking about
to keep themselves warm; some leaping
or wrestling; some fighting in good
earnest; others absorbed in games of
chance; while some lounged listlessly,
with no spirit to exert themselves. A
dull inertia, as of semi-despair, characterised
many present.

Yet on the faces of a few, notably on
that of Roy Baron, might have been
detected a gleam of something like
hope, carefully repressed. A blue-eyed
little middy was at his side, for he and
Will had drawn together, as they seldom
failed to do. Will’s high spirits
were as helpful to Roy now, as Roy’s in
the past had been to Ivor.

Despite that gleam Roy was changed.
He had grown taller, thinner, older,
than eight months earlier; and the
spirit of boyish fun seemed to have
passed into almost a man’s gravity.

Some weeks before this, three or four
middies had managed to get away, by
digging deep underground, undetected
by the gendarmes, till they lighted on a
subterranean passage, leading away
from the fortress. Through this, one
day, they had fled to the neighbouring
country, making good their escape. It
was known by many there that they
were gone; and it was conjectured that
they had not as yet been re-taken, since,
had they been, the whole body of
prisoners would certainly have been
informed of the fact.

The present scheme was different in
kind. About a dozen middies, besides
one young lieutenant in the Royal
Navy and Roy Baron, were in the plot—all
sworn to secrecy. None but
active and agile young fellows could
have hoped to succeed in what was
proposed. They had made a stout rope
out of such materials as they could
contrive to get together; and with this
their intention was to descend from the
high outer wall, which wall would first
have to be scaled from within. One or
two at least would have to reach the top
with no help from above, though when
they were up the rope could be lowered
for the others to use. On the other side
of the wall would lie fresh difficulties—watchful
sentries, perils of starvation,
dangers of being overtaken and of worse
treatment than before to follow. Those
who failed to get away might expect to be
despatched to the fortress of Sédan, for
solitary imprisonment. But with the
hope of liberty to cheer them on, not
one of the number hesitated.

“Two days more of this! Only two{355}
days more!” Roy was saying to himself.
He hardly dared to look up, when
anybody not in the secret came near,
so much he feared to suggest by
even a cheerful glance that hope had
dawned.

“I know what you’re thinking, Roy,”
Will muttered, under cover of a noisy
fight twenty paces off of a couple of
imprisoned professional boxers.

“I’m thinking that this is an awful
place!”

“It was a lot worse when you weren’t
here. I say!”—lowering his voice—“Just
listen. Don’t look as if we were
saying anything particular. I say, Roy,
mind we keep together. And if—you
know what I mean—if——”

Roy made a hasty comprehending
gesture.

“Yes—if—” he said, taking up Will’s
words—“then you tell my people all
about it. And if—if it’s the other way—then
I tell your people. Eh?”

“Tell ’em I tried to do my duty, all
along,” Will said, as manly a note
breathing through his hushed tones as
if he had measured six feet in length.
“And Roy—mind you tell my mother”—the
blue eyes showed a sudden
moisture—“mind you tell her—I’d
never funk anything, if it wasn’t doing
what’s wrong. And I haven’t forgot
what she said to me when I was leaving
home. Tell her that. And I’ve got
the little Bible she gave me, and I’ve
said my prayers too. I don’t mind
telling this to you, because you’re not
the sort to jeer at a fellow. Mind, Roy,
don’t you forget.”

“And, Will, if it’s the other way—you’ll
tell my people—tell ’em I’ve tried
too——”

Roy’s voice broke.

“Yes, I know. I’ll tell ’em. I’ll say
you’re as brave a chap as any officer in
his Majesty’s Navy. Couldn’t say
more than that, could I?”

“Only that I’ve tried—that too, you
know. And my mother and father—and
Molly—and Denham——”

Somebody came nearer, and they
dashed into careless talk about nothing
in particular.

As it grew dark they were ordered in—all
of them—to the dank damp oppressive
dungeon, which for several
weeks had been Roy’s habitation.

He looked round that night, with a
strange moved gaze, when the bulk of
the prisoners were asleep, sitting up and
clasping his hands round his knees.
One more night beside this—only one!—only
one!—and then away and away for
dear old England, for the land of
freedom!

It was worth while making the
attempt, even though in that attempt he
should die instead of getting away. He
was so sick and weary of this long
close captivity. He had the craving of
a caged bird for light and air, for
exercise and active life. At the bare
notion of liberty once more, his heart
danced and sang. Then he bowed his
head on his knees, and he prayed
passionately that—if only it might be—he
should succeed, and should find his
way home—home to Molly, to the dear
old country! O the rapture of it!

“For Christ’s sake—for Christ’s sake—O
God, let me go; do not let them take
me!” he implored.

But prayer, though heard, is not
always instantly answered in the manner
wished; and sometimes one has to wait
a little to know the reason.

Morning dawned, and half of another
slow day passed. How slow those
unoccupied and dreary days were! Roy
could do nothing but hang listlessly
about. He could think of nothing but
the coming nightfall, when, after dark
but before they were ordered back into
the souterrain for the night, he and his
companions would steal softly away to
that high outer wall, and would scale it.
All details of the plan thus far had
been carefully thought out and arranged.
Beyond that most of them
were trusting largely to what is called
“the chapter of accidents.”

To be free again! O to be free!—free
under the blue sky, free to breathe
heaven’s breezes, free to sun himself in
heaven’s smile, free to stretch his limbs,
free to be a light-hearted English boy
once more, instead of a careworn man
before his time. Roy flung his arms
out and clutched the prison wall, in that
craving to be away.

Mid-day came, and the crowd of
prisoners were ordered in. A hand
touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered
him to follow.

Roy faced the gendarme. “Where?”
he demanded blankly, in a moment
realising what this might mean.

No answer was vouchsafed. These
gendarmes were for the most part surly
fellows, though even among them gleams
of kindness towards the prisoners were
not wholly unknown.

Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistence
would have done himself no
good, and might have drawn suspicion
upon his comrades. The man laid a
grip upon his arm, and led him, not
down but up, past the ground floor,
ascending to the floor above. At the
end of a long passage he paused at a
door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The
door was shut, and the lock snapped.

Roy found himself alone in a small
prison-like cell, with stone floor, stone
ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred
window, deeply embrasured, and
a single wooden bench. On the bench
lay a folded blanket. Beside the bench
were a jug of water and a hunch of
bread, with cheese.

Was he now to be condemned to
solitary imprisonment—perhaps for
weeks, perhaps for months, perhaps for
years? And for what? What had he
done to bring this upon himself?

Roy’s head seemed to be bursting.
But for the planned escape, so near at
hand, he might have welcomed almost
any change from the dungeon and its
horrors. Now, however, now, with freedom
in sight, to be carried off, to be
placed where he was debarred from
every hope of liberty, this was heart-breaking.

He flung himself upon the ground,
hid his face on his crossed arms, and
gave himself over to despair.

Would he never leave this awful
place? Was this the way in which his
prayers and his mother’s prayers were
to be answered? If so, what was the use
of praying? He would give it all up.
He would never pray again. It was
no use. Nothing was of any use.

Hours passed in one long agony. All
that day he was left alone. At nightfall
a gendarme brought him his allowance
of coarse food, and left him again. Roy
drank the water, and pushed the rest
aside, too sick with misery to care to
eat. The boys would now be escaping.
He followed every step of theirs in
imagination, envying them bitterly.
That they should be on their way to
dear old England, and that he should be
cut off! It was too terrible—too awful—too
cruel.

He had no sleep that night; and he
could not see the pitying angels who
hovered over him. He could not know
what was going on in another part
of the fortress, or guess how some of his
comrades won their freedom.

All the next morning he lay on the
ground, listless, hopeless, careless of
what might happen next.

At mid-day he was ordered to go
down into the yard. That was the hour
when the subterranean prisoners retired
into their dungeon, and when the better
class of prisoners might take their turn
of fresh air—if any air could be fresh,
which had just been breathed by hundreds
of men. Roy wondered languidly
at being treated thus. He had expected
to remain in his cell. It mattered little
either way, he said to himself, as he
found his way thither. All hope for the
present was at an end.

On reaching the yard, his first impression
was of an unusual gravity,
among even the gravest of the prisoners
there before him. One or two of them
half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking
from his look that he already knew, that
he would not be taken by surprise; and
so he was allowed to pass on, unhindered.
He saw the expression in their
faces, and he wondered a little,
indifferently.

Then indifference fled, and a dazed
bewilderment took possession of him.
His brain swam, and he staggered to
the wall, clutching it for support,
staring and shuddering.

His eyes had fallen on something unexpected,
on—what was it? What
could it mean?

A row of boys, lying on the ground,
peacefully asleep. Ah, so peacefully!
so awfully white and still, in their brave
blue uniforms; some of them spattered
with blood. But they did not seem to
mind. A smile was on one quiet face:
and another had a look of high repose;
and one or two carried a defiant frown,
as if at the last moment they had known
what was come to them; and another
was a little grieved, but not much. And
all were free. They had won their
liberty, though not the liberty for which
they had craved and striven, but, it might
well be, a better freedom. Only, the poor
mothers of those lads, away at home—what
would they have thought to see
their boys lying here?[1]

Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart{356}
beating in heavy strokes, while his head
again seemed to be bursting open. Yes,
these were the boys with whom he was
to have made his escape—some of them,
at least. And here was little Will
Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying
in the placidest sleep, smiling to himself,
in a calm waxen whiteness. He
had tried to do his duty to the last.
Brave little Will!

Roy caught his breath in one hard
moan of bitter pain.

“Come away,” a voice said; and
somebody drew him, unresisting, to the
further side of the yard. Roy vaguely
knew that it was an elderly English
officer, one of the quietest and most
retiring of the prisoners, seldom heard
to speak. He made Roy sit down;
and as the boy hid his face, a kind
hand was on his arm.

“I know! You were with them, I
believe. Don’t look any more. No
good. It’s over for them.”

A sound asked the question which
Roy could not put into words.

“It was last night. They tried to
escape over the wall. It seems to have
been planned for some time. But they
were overheard and betrayed by a
fellow-prisoner—the scoundrel! They
got away safely to the top of the wall,
and let down the rope. Their plan had
been to descend one by one, I believe;
but they found that too slow, and time
was short. So when they had fastened
the rope, they got upon it all together.
A French officer was watching, and he
seized that moment to cut it above.[2]
The miscreant!—the hound!—he’ll have
his deserts some day! They all fell.
Several were killed instantly—as we see.
Some with broken limbs are in hospital.
This is not the first time that an escape
has ended thus. The bodies are always
exposed next day.”

Roy shuddered.

“You may be thankful that you were
not among them.”

Another shudder.

The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely
towards him.

“If any friend of yours is there, do
not grieve too much, my boy. Some of
us might well be disposed to envy them.
They are in God’s Hands now; and
that is well. God is kinder far than
man.”

He might indeed say so, looking
across the yard. Roy lifted his face, as
if in bitter protest. Was man kind?
if man could do such deeds as this!
And then he thought of Ivor—of his
father—of Sir John Moore.

There may be very demons in human
form upon earth; yet man was made in
the Image of God; and all the kindliness
that is seen in the best of men is a
glimmer of that Image.

(To be continued.)

THE PRINCESS OF WALES’S DAIRY AT SANDRINGHAM.

The Princess of Wales’s Tea Room at Sandringham Dairy

{357}

Let us start from the pretty little “Feathers
Inn” at Dersingham, which, by the way, is
the only house of entertainment for strangers
allowed on the Prince’s estate, for the reason
that H.R.H. very wisely objects to colonies
of observation being posted on the confines of
his beautiful country home.

We first turn to the right, past some trim
allotment gardens, then a sharp bend to the
left brings us to the grand, wide, straight road
which leads to the Norwich gates of Sandringham.
Here on either side are grouped
the fine old trees and leafy coverts, where the
guns are usually placed for the last drive in
the Prince’s big “shoots.” This, too, is the
road down which, day after day, without state
or ceremony, her only escort a smart young
groom (or phaeton boy, as he is called in the
stables), her usual equipage a tiny pony and cart,
this latter familiarly known as the “Blues”
cart, drives the sweet Princess with
the noble face on her errands of grace
and charity. Possibly the time may
be about five o’clock, when the little
dots of children are toiling along the
sandy roads from school. Up pulls
the little cart, down drops the smart
groom, into the tiny vehicle are
crammed as many of the lucky
youngsters as can be compressed
into so small a space. On go the
happy load, each item to be duly
delivered at its parents’ door with a
pleasant smile and a pretty word of
farewell from our gracious Princess.
Or it may be that the call comes
from age or sickness or sorrow. ’Tis
all the same. At the door of the
stricken cottage stands the same
little cart, while within is the noble
mistress administering with ungrudging
hand the remedies, whether
mental or physical, which she knows
so well how to dispense. In sickness
nothing is left to the underlings’
care. That which is adjudged best
for the sufferer goes with the royal
lady, and is dispensed by her own
fair hands. So might it be with all
our poor!

Past the Norwich gates, almost the
only emblem of royalty at Sandringham,
we turn to the left by the East
Lodge, a lovely little vision of living
greenery, the pillars of its rustic porch
being entirely composed of living box,
and the building entirely hidden by
ivies and Virginian creepers.

Pretty as the picture is, we must
turn away from it again to the left,
and cross the road to get to our
object, the dairy. Through the fruit
and flower gardens, up the centre
walk all ablaze with light and colour,
with a great curious fountain in its
centre, we go, past the long ranges
of glass-houses with their luscious
contents, the apple-trees trained to
a tall cone shape on iron hoops, and
their cousins the plums representing
immense fans on a background of
rich red-brick wall, until we arrive
at a little secluded garden encircling
the rustic dairy.

The dairy, which was built some
time in the eighties, is, or rather was,
of Swiss design, but mother Nature
has of late so bedecked it with
climbing plants that it is difficult to
detect the handiwork of man under
its dainty mantle of greenery. Entering
first the dairy proper, one sees
a beautifully cool, lofty room some
twenty odd feet square, with a plain
tiled floor, and a handsome high
dado of rare old blue and white
Indian tiles, which were specially
sent from India to occupy their present position.
A row of tables surrounds the room,
and a most welcome sight after the walk in the
blazing sun these are, at present occupied by
some thirty or forty flat pans of such milk as
we London folk only dream of.

After a somewhat critical discussion on the
quality of the milk, we turn to notice its
surroundings. Over the triple window which
faces the door as one enters there hangs on a
shield the handsome head of “Jewess the
Fourth,” who won the champion prize at the
Cattle Show in 1874 for her owner, H.R.H the
Prince of Wales; beneath this stands a present
from H.R.H. in the shape of a finely modelled
bronze statuette of a Jersey champion bull. In
front of the bull is a replica of Focardi’s ever
welcome statuette “You Dirty Boy.”

In the centre of the dairy is a two-tier
white marble and iron table, bearing some
handsome coloured German drinking-glasses,
a few small china ornaments, some silver
cream ewers and spoons, and the Princess’s
own dainty little strawberry dish. This last
is made of white glazed porcelain, with a
strawberry plant in its proper colours entwined
about the dish and handle.

The Princess of Wales’s Dairy. Interior.

One may mention here for the encouragement
of lesser lights that both the Princess
and her daughters have a thorough technical
knowledge of dairy work, and it is no uncommon
occurrence for H.R.H. to notice any
defects in the produce of her dairy, and also
to suggest methods for their remedy. In
their younger days the royal princesses and
their brothers were constant patrons of the
dairy produce, and many a pleasant tale has
the dairywoman to tell of the kindness and
courtesy of the late Duke of Clarence, with
her, as with all on the estate, a prime favourite.{358}
The young princesses also, in days of yore, as
they skimmed the cream from the dishes of milk
for their own consumption, would laughingly
remark on the superior advantages of helping
oneself. “We can have as much as we want
here, at home we get so little.”

JERSEY COWS BELONGING TO THE
PRINCESS OF WALES.

Passing by the pretty little fountain
supported by a china stork standing amid
rushes, which so pleasantly cools the dairy, we
next come to the “butter-room,” the walls of
which are entirely covered with plain blue
glazed tiles, and the floor with Indian matting.
Along the window end of the room runs a
broad shelf, which literally bends with the
weight of a perfect menagerie of china
animals; cats, dogs, hares, bulls, etc., are
mixed up in bewildering profusion with every
kind of jug, the Brown Toby in all its
varieties being conspicuous in this latter class.
The place of honour is held by a group of
cats, in which sentimental Tommy, with one
paw round the waist of Tibbs, is delicately
trimming with the other the whiskers on her
half-averted but not too shy face.

On the right-hand wall are to be seen four
Jersey creamers with which is made the
“Devonshire” cream for winter use. In
addition to the “Devonshire,” butter and
cream cheese are made here in sufficient
quantities for the use of the Royal Family,
whether residing at Sandringham or Marlborough
House. To the latter the dairy
produce is regularly forwarded by an afternoon
train in special receptacles duly marked
with the Prince’s crest.

“CUSH,” A PEDIGREE BULL AT SANDRINGHAM.

The dairy in former days was frequently
visited by H.M. the Queen, who, in comparing
it with her own magnificent dairy at Windsor,
which was designed by the late Prince
Consort, has always remarked on the completeness
of its arrangements and management.

The dairy herd consists of some twelve cows
of the Prince’s own breeding. Needless to
say, they are models of their species. They
are accommodated, when not out at pasture, in
the very completely filled range of cow-houses
which surrounds a square courtyard in the
immediate neighbourhood of the dairy. Here
one may usually see in addition one or two
fine specimens of bulls, and also, in the
proper season, some lovely calves, which
delight to frisk about in the knee-deep straw
with which the courtyard is bestrewn.

Last of all, if furnished with the proper
credentials, one may see the sanctum sanctorum
of the dairy; this is the Princess’s own tea-room.
It is a small sunny room of about
sixteen feet square, with a large bay window
overlooking a pretty little garden. The floor
is covered with a plain felt carpet of a dull
bluish colour, on which are strewn some of
the Prince’s Indian trophies in the shape of
tiger, leopard, and other skins. The walls
are divided into panels by black-edged
mouldings of unpolished oak, the interior of
each panel being painted with blue-green
flatted paint to match the floor. This forms
a perfect background for the specimens of china
with which the walls are almost
covered. Apropos of this china,
it may be mentioned that it nearly
all consists of presents from personal
friends of the Princess, and also that
the greater number of the pieces
were painted for the purpose by some
of the greatest ladies in England.

One particularly notices, at the
top of the low dado surrounding
the room, a row of china tiles framed
in oak, with some capital reproductions
from Caldecott, Kate Greenaway
and others, each tile being
painted and presented by a different
lady. A circular china plaque,
with a portrait of the Princess as
Queen Elizabeth hangs above one
of the doors, and is faced by one
of the Prince as Henry VIII. over
the other entrance. These same
oaken doors, with their handsome
old wrought-iron hinges and fittings
must also be noticed for their beautiful
panels made of slate and covered
with designs of Cupids sporting
amid flowers, which were painted and presented
by the Duchess of Devonshire. The
plain white marble chimney-piece, draped with
olive velvet, is surmounted by a mirror in a
massive ebony frame, which is surrounded by
some very rich blue plates and vases. The
centre of the mantel-shelf is appropriately
occupied by a bust of
H.M. the Queen. Any artificial
light required in the tea-room is
supplied by candles only, in connection
with which we notice
the handsome brass candelabrum,
brought by the Princess from
Denmark, which hangs from the
ceiling.

The furniture of the pretty little
room is of the plainest. It is
framed in light oak, and is covered
in a small pattern damask. Here
and there in the room and the
adjoining corridor are some small
cabinets containing very fine specimens
of old and modern china:
Sèvres, Worcester, Chelsea, and
Derby, with many others, being
represented.

In one corner cabinet stands
a quaint old tea service, the
cups being made without handles.
This is watched over by a most
eccentric-looking cow, which has flowers
painted all over her body. On a small whatnot
is the afternoon tea-service presented by
the Queen, a fine specimen of modern work,
printed with orchids enclosing views of
Balmoral and Windsor.

The large round table is covered by a piece
of Indian embroidery, and bears yet more
china, an album of dried New Zealand ferns,
and another of orchids. The ebony-framed
screen, which encloses the table was another
present, and is painted with a design of
birds and flowers. The curtains and hangings
of the room are of similar material to
that with which the furniture is covered.
A cuckoo clock hangs by the side of the
fireplace.

A narrow corridor leads from the tea-room
to the garden, and its entrance is known as
the Princess’s door. This corridor has for
ornament some fine Indian blue-and-white
china, and some old Chinese vases. The
rustic seats under the verandah front of the
dairy are the favourite resting-places of the
Princess and her daughters in the summer
weather.

The tea-room and the dairy are in constant
use when the family are in residence at
Sandringham. About four o’clock (all Sandringham
clocks are kept thirty minutes in
advance of London time) the Princess and her
guests make their way on foot or by pony
carriage usually along the pleasant road
through the fruit gardens to the rendezvous.
Should the Prince arrive before the Princess,
he invariably awaits her arrival before
entering.

A BULL CALF AT SANDRINGHAM.

Of whatever number the party may be composed
the services of one attendant (a footman)
only are utilised.

Fruit having been sent from the neighbouring
garden, tea is served at half-past five o’clock,
the party rarely separating until it is time to
dress for dinner at seven-thirty. But not to
Royalty and its guests alone go all the niceties
produced at the dairy. When one hears that
some hundreds of persons are employed on
the estate, that there are workmen’s clubs,
schools, almshouses, and cottage hospitals, all
erected and cared for by the Royal owners,
that there are no unemployed, work being
found for everyone, that the fortnightly bill
for wages alone is some six hundred pounds,
it is easy to see that in a colony of this size
there must always be a proportion of ailing
and delicate. And with such a Princess as
ours, having the able assistance of Miss
Knollys and Sir Dighton Probyn, it is equally
certain that no call is neglected and no want
left unsatisfied.

Ernest M. Jessop.

{359}

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER I.

sharp ring
at the door-bell
made
Mrs. Duncan
start
from her
seat, with
the exclamation, “I
really believe I was
nodding!” Slipping
out of the room she
said in a whisper to
the maid who passed
on her way to the
hall door, “The
doctor is out if it is
anyone to see him,
Janet, and Mr. Magnus
will not be in for
half an hour yet;”
then quietly and quickly
returned to her seat by
the fire, and picked up
her knitting, over which
she had so nearly dozed
off to sleep.

A cheery voice asking
if Mrs. Duncan was at home made her look
up with a pleased smile of expectation on her
sweet face, and in another moment the door
opened to admit a silver-haired old gentleman,
with kindly blue eyes and a most benevolent
expression.

“Mr. Mellis!” announced Janet, and withdrew.

“How good of you to come and see me,
dear friend!” exclaimed Mrs. Duncan, as she
shook hands with her visitor; “and on such a
day too! I declare it makes me shiver to look
out of the window even.”

“I suppose that is why you draw your
curtains so early, then,” replied the Rector
of St. Jude’s, as he settled himself in the
comfortable chair his hostess pushed towards
him. “Well, I must say you look cosy
enough in here,” surveying the pretty lamp-lit
room with its ‘homey’ look (if I may coin a
word).

It was a most inviting room, pretty enough
for anything, yet totally devoid of that stiff
starchy look one so often sees in drawing-rooms
which are scrupulously kept spotless,
but not used.

Now Mrs. Duncan’s drawing-room was in
daily use, and perhaps that was one reason
why it always looked so comfortable. Her
husband and big son Magnus, both doctors
and now partners, used to say they found it
more refreshing than anything after a long
hard round of visits to drop into a chair
beside “little mother” in the drawing-room,
and just listen to the click of her knitting-needles
as she chatted away until tea was brought
in. And no tea, Dr. Duncan was wont to
declare, ever tasted half so good as that
brewed by his wife’s fair hands, for Mrs.
Duncan would always have a small copper
kettle brought in, so that she could make the
tea herself.

I do not believe there is one man in a
thousand who does not like the sight of a
kettle steaming and hissing merrily on the fire,
but whether this had anything to do with the
flavour of the tea or not I leave my readers to
decide for themselves.

“A charming picture,” was Mr. Mellis’s
thought, as his gaze fell upon the pale-tinted
walls with their choice engravings, the overmantel
with its old china, the soft-hued
furniture and draperies lit up by a pink-shaded
standard lamp, and finally upon the little
slight fair woman who rose to ring the bell
for tea.

“And how are my medical friends?” asked
Mr. Mellis.

“Very well, I am glad to say,” responded
Mrs. Duncan, while a tender smile played
round her lips. It was easy to see what a
wealth of love was centred in the absent
husband and son.

“It is not every household that can boast
of two doctors,” went on Mr. Mellis, smiling.
“You ought to be doubly secure against
illness.”

“And yet the skill of all the medical men
in the world could not save my Muriel for
me,” sighed Mrs. Duncan; and her eyes grew
dim as she thought of the dear sixteen-year-old
daughter who had been laid to rest in the
lovely “God’s Acre” a few miles outside the
great city, just two years before.

“No, true. I forgot for the moment,”
observed the Rector sympathetically, and a
short pause ensued, which was broken by the
entrance of Janet with the tea-things.

Outside the rain fell heavily in the dirty
streets, which were, however, brilliantly
lighted, for if there was one thing above
another on which the great city of Manningham
prided itself, and justly, it was upon its
lighting arrangements in general.

Inside comfort reigned, but not even the
shutters and closely-drawn curtains and the
fact that Dr. Duncan’s house stood some yards
back from the road could altogether drown
the noise of the traffic in the street without,
which was one of the principal thoroughfares
of the city. As she handed him his tea, Mr.
Mellis suddenly remembered what had been
his special reason for calling on Mrs. Duncan
that Friday afternoon.

“By the way,” he began, “I hope I shall
see you at church on Sunday evening. I know
the damp weather prevents your attendance
at times, but come if you possibly can.”

“So far as I know,” answered Mrs.
Duncan brightly, “I shall be there. But why
specially next Sunday? Is there anything
out of the common going to take place?”

“Only this,” replied the Rector, stirring
his tea, “that a newly-come member of our
congregation has promised to sing for us.
She, for it is a lady, is a professional vocalist,
and when I called on her mother some weeks
ago, Miss Heritage told me that if ever she
could help me by singing in the church at any
time, she would most gladly do so. I thought
it so kind of her, for indeed I should not have
liked to ask such a thing. It seems like
imposing on people’s good nature.”

“I agree with you there, Mr. Mellis, and it
was a graceful thing in this lady to place
herself at your disposal. What did you say
her name was?”

“Heritage—Marielle Heritage.”

“What a pretty name!” exclaimed Mrs.
Duncan.

“Yes, and a pretty girl too, you will say
when you see her,” added the Rector.

“Hallo, little mother, and who is this pretty
girl you are discussing?” said someone who
had quietly entered the room.

“Dear me, Magnus, what a start you gave
me!” said his mother, stooping to pick up a
tea-spoon which, in her fright, she had let
fall.

“Here, let me do that for you, dear.
There it is. How d’ye do, Mr. Mellis? Wet
day, isn’t it?”

Magnus shook hands with the old man, then
turning to his mother, gave her a bear-like
hug and hearty kiss, making her face flush
with pleasure and her sweet eyes shine brighter
than ever as she surveyed the tall, handsome
figure of her son. Clean-shaven, with crisp,
curly, dark hair, cut very short, and with
steady deep blue eyes, Magnus Duncan,
though not exactly good-looking, had a face
that inspired confidence at once. He was
more like his father than his mother, yet he had
the latter’s sweet expression and smile, which
lit up his otherwise rather sombre features,
giving a rare charm to his clever face.

“Now for some tea, little mother, please,
and then tell me what all the talk was about
when I came in and interrupted you.”

Just then entered Dr. Duncan, senior, and
it was some few minutes before Magnus
gained the desired information.

“Oh! I see. How nice of her! And
what is she going to sing?” asked Magnus,
who was passionately fond of music.

“I really did not ask her. She said she
would sing some solo in place of the anthem,
and I left it to her to choose what, and to
arrange for a rehearsal with the organist,”
replied Mr. Mellis.

“Oh! well, we’ll go, won’t we, dad?”
said Magnus, turning to his father.

“Yes, my boy, if only we are not called off
to see a patient, which is our usual luck if
ever we specially want to go anywhere,”
laughed Dr. Duncan.

“Before I take my leave,” said Mr. Mellis,
rising and addressing his hostess, “I want to
say that it would be a kindness if you would
call upon the Heritages. They have not been
long in this neighbourhood, and are rather
lonely. Their old friends live a good way off,
and they themselves used to have a big place
out near Huntsford; but six months ago Mr.
Heritage died suddenly, a great deal poorer
than was anticipated; in fact, it became
evident that he had been living beyond his
income for some years past, so that instead of
being well off, his widow and daughter have
only a tiny income on which to subsist. So
Miss Marielle Heritage decided to make a
practical use of the fine vocal training she had
received. She has already appeared at the
‘Thursday Classical Concerts,’ and her
appearance was followed, fortunately, by a
fair number of pupils. She meets them at
Forman’s, she tells me” (naming a large
music-shop in the city), “and it is in order to
be handy for the trams to town that they
have taken up their abode in York Road.
Number twenty-seven is the house. There
now, I really must go!” wound up the Rector,
and a few minutes later the hall door closed
behind his retreating footsteps.

When all the paraphernalia of afternoon
tea had been removed, Magnus recounted to
his mother any little incidents in the day’s
work which he thought would interest her.
Dr. Duncan, senior, had been called away into
the surgery to see an old friend and patient,
so mother and son were alone.

Time passed quickly away, and it was a
surprise to both when the clock chimed the
half-hour after six. Mrs. Duncan bustled
away to change her toilet, leaving Magnus
still lying back in his easy-chair, gazing into
the fire with his hands clasped behind his
head.

The subject of his meditations might have
been guessed from the following words, had
anyone been there to hear them.

“Marielle Heritage! What a pretty
name!” said he softly to himself. Then
rousing himself with an impatient shake, he
rose out of his chair, and in his turn went
upstairs to get ready for dinner.

(To be continued.)

{360}

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART III.

f making many
books
there is
no end,”
said the
Sage
of old.
What
would he
say could
he re-visit
the world
at the present moment?
The very multitude of
aids to self-culture is, as
Frederick Harrison remarks,
a serious drawback in
the way of those who attempt
it. Books may be cheap, free
libraries may abound, but where
shall the eager student begin?
On every hand voices call to
her, urgently claiming attention,
until at last, distracted by the
various appeals, she is fain to
cover her ears with her hands
and remain deaf to all alike.
Or to change the figure, those
who wish to tread the path of
self-culture are like wanderers
in some vast unknown forest.
Paths cross and re-cross one
another in every direction, and
industry in plodding forward is
vain without a guiding clue or sign.

It is true that a girl who has free access to
a good library, a love of books, and ample
leisure, will not in all probability go very far
wrong. When a lad, Dr. Johnson imagined
that his brother had hidden some apples behind
a large folio upon an upper shelf in his father’s
shop. He climbed up to search for them;
there were no apples, but the large folio
proved to be Petrarch. He sat down with
avidity and there and then read a great part
of the book. During two years which he
spent at home he read and read as the fancy
prompted him, and when he went to Oxford
Dr. Adams, a great authority, told him he
was the best qualified student who had ever
come there.

Perhaps this experience is what prompted
Dr. Johnson’s dictum, “Read anything for
five hours a day, and you will soon be
learned.”

The great majority, however, of the girls
who scan this page have not “five hours a
day” to spend in pasturing among books, and
need advice how to parcel out the very
limited leisure they possess to the best
possible advantage.

How shall they read? This is to the full
as important a question as the one which
follows—What shall they read?

To begin with; they should husband the
precious moments for reading. You daughters
in leisurely homes who are conscious now and
then of a vague desire for more mental
resources—your moments are not precious!
You pass your days from morning to night in
doing “nothing particular.” Are you making
the best use of your time in this respect?
How many hours a week do you spend in
reading—that is, of reading what is not
entirely ephemeral? Are you not content to
“take as read” the great mass of English
literature? And yet, do you know how far
you have it in your own power to add to the
delight and worth of life?

The days of many girls at home must
needs be desultory—a little practising, a little
housekeeping, a little bicycling, a little visiting
and seeing visitors, a little shopping and
attention to dress—and the evening comes,
and not a page has been read or a new idea
gained. An infinity of trifles makes up the
day’s routine—the girl is always busy, and yet
at the close of the week she seems to have
accomplished nothing.

To such a girl we may commend the advice
of Matthew Arnold, quoted in our last paper,
to make a space for reading, and keep to it,
in spite of all interruptions. But to the
larger class who crave for self-culture and
have only a little leisure, we would say with
deep sympathy—make the most of what you
have. On your way to and from your daily
work, in odd moments of freedom, you will
find it a delightful rest and refreshment to
turn to some favourite volume. It is a truism,
but is by no means thoroughly understood
even yet, that a startling amount can be
accomplished in odds and ends of time. One
of the best read men we know is a busy
lawyer. From morning to night he is at his
office; in the evening he is often engaged in
philanthropic work; but he always carries a
small volume about with him and has learnt
to make the most of odd moments. That is
the way to become a great reader. The wish
to read is the one necessary element in the
matter; then the habit grows with exercise.

People generally do manage to obtain
that on which they set their heart of hearts.
The writer has observed that, however poor
her young friends may profess themselves to
be, they never seem debarred by straitness of
cash from acquiring a bicycle; however poor
and abject a man may be, he never seems too
poor to become tipsy, if he is so inclined; and
few people who wish to read will be too poor
in time or cash to indulge the taste.

The biographies of great men are full of
what can be accomplished by treasuring spare
moments. Dr. Mason Good, a doctor in full
practice, translated Lucretius while driving
in his carriage through the streets of London.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin composed all his works
in the same way in the country, writing down
his thoughts on little scraps of paper. Kirke
White learned Greek while walking to and
from a lawyer’s office. Elihu Burritt, who
was a well-known character in his day and
lived as United States Consul for twenty-two
years in Birmingham, was only a blacksmith
to begin with. While working at his forge
he mastered some eighteen ancient and modern
languages and twenty-two European dialects.
Afterwards he made translations from the
Icelandic, Arabic and Hebrew.

“All that I have accomplished, or expect,
or hope to accomplish,” he said, “has been,
and will be, by that plodding, patient, persevering
process of accretion which builds the
ant-heap—particle by particle, thought by
thought, fact by fact. And if ever I was
actuated by ambition, its highest and warmest
aspiration reached no further than the hope
to set before the young men of my country
an example in employing those invaluable
fragments of time called ‘odd moments.’”

Are not these, and many other such
examples, written in the pages of “Smiles”?
Rather startling and dismaying to the ordinary
reader, we may confess them to be! Nor do
we suppose that any of our girl readers will
emulate them. We simply quote them to
show that “lack of time” need not be a valid
reason, with the majority of busy people,
against self-culture.

To those who have leisure, the practice of
occasionally writing a short synopsis of a
book they have read is to be very strongly
recommended. This helps to fix the contents
on the memory; and if there is anything
difficult to understand, the reader will see
whether she has clearly grasped it or not when
she comes to explain it to herself in black and
white.

It is also of the very greatest importance in
reading not to pass by words and allusions
without understanding them. There are many
correspondents of The Girl’s Own Paper,
who, for example, in reading Tennyson, cannot
rest without knowing who is meant by—

“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,

And most divinely fair,”

or by—

“Him who sings

To one clear harp in divers tones.”

(And we are always glad to see questions
of that nature sent to the correspondence
column, because it shows a literary interest
is alive.) This sort of allusion is a difficult
one to understand without a liberal education;
but of course there are many others which can
be explained by consulting books of reference,
classical or biographical dictionaries, or by
asking questions. It is a great blessing not
to be too proud to confess ignorance. No one
despises the inquirer; but shallow pretence is
very apt to be found out.

A book of travels, for instance, should never
be read without the map of the country near
at hand for reference; or such a work as a
translation of the “Odyssey” without a classical
dictionary. In short, reading should be
intelligent, not merely formal.

People differ very much as to the speed at
which they can read. Some will grasp the
whole meaning of a page at a glance; others
toil through it sentence by sentence. No rule
can be laid down. Only it may be said that
the modern habit among well-to-do young
people with plenty of books, of skimming
through a volume in an hour or two and never
looking at it again, is not to be commended.
How often one is met by the reply, on offering
a book to occupy vacant hours, “Oh, I’ve
read that!” And, however delightful or
charming the book may be, the very fact of
having read it is an effectual deterrent from
opening its pages any more.

A generation or two ago, when books for
young people were very few, they were read
and re-read with an avidity that would astonish
a modern reader.

“If a book be worth reading once,” says
Emerson, “it is worth reading twice; and if
it stands a second reading, it may stand a
third.”

Ruskin puts it more strongly. “No book
is worth anything until it has been read and
re-read and loved and loved again; and
marked, so that you can refer to the passages
you want in it, as a soldier can seize the
weapons he needs in an armoury, or a housewife
bring the spice she needs from her
store.”

There are two ways in which self-culture by
the aid of reading may be sought—by taking
books and by taking subjects. Some deem it
best to read “the best books” or the best
authors straight away; and as we write these
pages the eager application by the public for
the “Hundred Best Books” (so-called) is
significant. The other method is, to read by
subjects—to take up, for example, some one
period of the world’s history, and see what
different writers have said or thought about it.
The latter method may be very good, but
implies a great deal of time, and access to a
great many books.

PODOBIZNA.

What of attending lectures as a means of
culture? There are few towns at the present
day where there are not facilities for the{362}
would-be student to avail herself of “a
course” on some subject or another, even if
there is not “a centre.”

Much scorn has been lavished on the
“University Extension” movement, and we
are told of the working man who inquires,
“Which d’yer like best, ’Omer or Hossian?
Hossian’s my man; ’e knows a deal about
natur’, does Hossian.”

It requires strong faith to believe in that
working man. The whole question of the
advantages of the movement, and the appropriateness,
or absurdity, of its title, cannot of
course be examined here. But if any girl
reader has the opportunity of attending a
series of lectures on some subject in which she
is, or ought to be, interested, we may offer her
a few hints.

Go by all means; but do not sit in the
lecture hall week by week, and expect the
words of the speaker to do everything that is
needful. Study the books he recommends to
you diligently and conscientiously. Do not
be so much occupied in trying to scribble
down what he says verbatim in your notebook
that you are left far behind in hopeless
bewilderment at an early stage of the proceedings;
but listen attentively, and above
all do the paper work set every week. When
you have accomplished this much, do not be
deterred by the alarms of wounded vanity from
going in for the examination at the close of
the course. You need not, and will not if you
are sensible, suppose that you have received
in any sense a university education; but you
will, especially if the lecturer be one of the
noted men we could name, have acquired a
distinct addition to your mental store of
wealth; and this is no slight advantage, for it
may urge you to go on and on acquiring more
and more.

“’Tis the taught already that profits by teaching,”

as Browning says.

The “University Extension” movement has
been touched upon because these lectures
seem to appeal specially to girls who wish
somehow or other to “take themselves in
hand.” But, after all, the main instrument
of self-culture must be reading, and, before
turning to the question of what books shall be
chosen, we may repeat Carlyle’s words—

“Learn to be good readers—which is perhaps
a more difficult thing than you imagine.
Learn to be discriminative in your reading; to
read faithfully, and with your best attention,
all kinds of things which you have a real
interest in—a real, not an imaginary—and
which you find to be really fit for what you
are engaged in. The most unhappy of all
men is the man who cannot tell what he is
going to do, who has got no work cut out for
him in the world, and does not go into it. In
work is the grand cure of all the maladies and
miseries that ever beset mankind—honest work
which you intend getting done.”

Lily Watson.

(To be continued.)

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART V.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—I am sorry that you
should have had so much trouble about your
luggage; it must be very annoying to be
deprived of one’s things, quite apart from all
consideration of their value, and I can quite
appreciate the amount of trouble and inconvenience,
to say nothing of expense, which
you have been put to by the loss of your
portmanteau.

I am happy to say, however, that I can give
you a certain amount of comfort. The Company
are clearly liable and will have to compensate
you for its loss.

If you leave your luggage at a railway
station, on the platform or in a waiting-room,
telling a porter to keep an eye on it, and your
luggage is lost or stolen, the Company will not
be liable for its loss, because it is not part of
a porter’s duties to act as a quasi-policeman
or detective, and moreover the Company
provide a place where such luggage can be left
with safety, viz., the cloak-room. But your
case is quite different, you gave your portmanteau
into the Company’s charge at
Brighton, to deliver to you in London, and
the Company became responsible for its safe
delivery to you the moment it was given into
their possession.

I will give a categorical reply to your
queries.

1. If the box is lost, you can claim compensation
for the value of the box and its contents.

2. If the box is not lost and is restored to
you, you can still claim compensation for the
expense you have incurred in buying new
clothes, etc.

3. In either case you can claim damages for
the trouble and annoyance caused by the
Company’s detaining your portmanteau for
nearly three months.

4. As the matter arose between Brighton
and London, you could enter the action at
either place; you will, of course, enter it in
London.

5. If Gerald can give any information, he
will have to appear as witness, in which case
he will get his expenses as a witness, but he
cannot claim compensation because he happens
to be away at work in the country, and it may
be inconvenient for him to come up to town.

6. Yes, you will have to appear as plaintiff,
to give evidence of the value of the portmanteau
and its contents, and also of the date and
other particulars of its being given into the
charge of the Company.

Lastly, I do not suppose the Company will
pay much attention to any letters which you
or Gerald may write on the subject, but a
letter from a lawyer will probably bring them
to the point, and so you had better “screw up
your courage to the sticking point,” and
consult a respectable lawyer.

I may tell you that if your box was stolen
and the railway company get hold of the thief,
you will not be obliged to prosecute him—the
Company will do that for you—but you will
have to appear as a witness.

I think the cabman was quite within his
rights in claiming twopence for the bag which
was placed upon the footboard of the hansom.
The Act says “outside,” and the footboard of
the hansom is just as much the “outside” as
the roof of the cab. I am aware that a
metropolitan magistrate decided quite the
contrary way the other day, and dismissed the
claim of a cabman, who sought to charge a
lady twopence for a bag which was carried on
the footboard, but I confess I read the report
of the magistrate’s decision with considerable
surprise and it does not make me alter my
opinion; the magistrate was wrong, and the
cabman was entitled to his twopence.

It is not necessary for Gerald to take out a
gun licence because he has come into the
possession of a gun left him by his uncle; the
mere fact of having a gun does not make it
imperative for its owner to have a gun licence.
It differs in this respect from the licence for
armorial bearings; but if he wishes to use the
gun, he must take out a licence to carry one,
and if he intends to shoot game with it, then
he must take out a licence to kill game.

It really comes to this, unless a man has
opportunities for a good deal of shooting, it is
not worth his while to take out these licences
which are fairly expensive.

I have a gun, but I have never yet taken out
a licence to carry it, because I don’t carry it,
I keep it at home in its case. One of these days
when I have a “shoot” of my own, I shall take
out the necessary licences and advise Gerald to
do the same.

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

VARIETIES.

The Master of All.

There is a pithy epigram in the Greek
Anthology on a statue of Cupid; its translation
is to this effect—

“Whoe’er thou art, thy master see—

He was, or is, or is to be.”

Life is a Mystery.—Life is indeed a
mystery, but it was God who gave it, in a
world wrapped round with sweet air, and
bathed in sunshine, and abounding with
interest, and a ray of eternal light falls upon
it even here, and that light shall wholly
transfigure it beyond the grave.

The ways of Providence.

“Providence for us, high, infinite,

Makes our necessities its watchful task,

Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,

And e’en, if it denies what seems our right,

Either denies because ’twould have us ask,

Or seems but to deny, and in denying grants.”—Leigh Hunt.

Qualified Praise.—The meanest kind of
praise is that which first speaks well of a girl
and then qualifies it with a “but.”

Mottoes for Clocks.

Time trieth truth.

Time and tide wait for no man.

Time conquers all and we must time obey.

Sleeping or waking time passes with all.

We take no note of time but from its loss.

A Wise Girl.—To communicate her
knowledge is a duty with a wise girl; to learn
from others is her highest gratification.

Sobriety.—Modesty and humility are the
sobriety of the mind: temperance and chastity
are the sobriety of the body.

{363}

HERB-PATIENCE.

By NORA HOPPER.

“Herb-patience grows not in all men’s gardens.”—Danish Proverb.

las, that sweet herb-patience grows

No more in every garden-close!

We set the rose and gather rue,

And for each weed we sow grows two.

But though we seek with eager pain,

We find not under sun or rain

Herb-patience!

We do not know what tint or weed

Herb-patience weareth, nor indeed

If green her leaves, or gold, or grey,

Can any cunning gardener say.

She grew in Eden garden: Eve

That sowed her, stole, we half believe,

Herb-patience.

Herb-patience, does your blossom grow

From grass that Adam lies below?

Or do you open flower and leaf

In the walled garden of grey grief?

Or seeking, will you not be found

In any earthly garden-ground,

And only in the fields of heaven

To seeking hands there shall be given

Herb-patience?

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THE “BIKE.”

By “MEDICUS” (Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.).

If the hints on cycling which follow are
worth anything, it is because they are written
by a man who has been a devotee to the
wheel for more years than he cares to think
about, and who has studied anatomy, physiology,
and medicine. That is all I lay claim to,
for of course a mere man is nobody nowadays.
The ladies are cropping up and coming to the
front every day, and doing something fresh and
startling, so that we poor little chaps of men-people
have to take a back seat, or about three
inches each of the outside of a front one—by
permission only.

Well, in this paper I believe that some useful
hints may be found. Not on the bicycle
itself—O, no, I wouldn’t dare to lecture a lady
on that subject, for although I have ridden for
twenty years and over on all sorts of machines,
my youngest lassie Ida thinks she knows a
good deal more than her daddy. Heigho!
perhaps she does. But I’ll tell you what I
have done, girls, which I am sure you haven’t.
I have studied cycling from a health point of
view, and I am going to impart a little of the
knowledge I have gained to you, in the hope
that it may be of use in the coming cycling
season.

Well, now winter is passed, at all events,
and although the roads may not have dried up
everywhere, they soon will, so it is time for you
to see to your cycle. I don’t suppose, however,
that in the end of autumn you rolled it up in
cotton wool and stowed it away in a drawer or
in the wardrobe. It is so hard to give up
cycling even for a few months and be reduced
to walking again. If one is going anywhere,
even if only a distance of two miles, it seems
such a long way to walk; the trees won’t meet
you fast enough, and the silly sticky road seems
bent upon stopping your progress, and you are
certain you shall feel terribly tired and absurdly
stupid, when you do reach your destination.
But mount your dear little wheel, and, hey,
presto! you are there.

Yes, indeed, the cycle is a glorious institution,
and we may thank, not only the man who
invented it, but the men who are constantly
improving it. I daresay that, in one form or
another, it is as old as the Highland hills,
though I never read anywhere that Adam went
out for an airing on one. But I’ll warrant
that if he rode one she wasn’t going to be a
long way behind him. If he was going to be
the peacock, she would be the peahen. For
Eve was a woman, you know.

Somewhere in the haystack of my library I
have an old book in which two exquisites,
dandies or “mashers” (horrid word!) are
depicted riding a bicycle of a bygone age.
How gay they look in their long-tailed coats,
knee-breeches, and faces beaming with smiles
beneath their broad silken hats! And they
wear their beards and moustachios in precisely
the same style as that which seems now
becoming fashionable, that is, nowhere at all.
But their bicycle? Why, a boneshaker much
the same shape as ours, that is, it went with
one wheel in front and had another coming up
behind, the saddle in the centre, and no gear
or machinery of any kind bar a rudder. Their
lordships’ legs are on the ground. They just
give a kick first to one side and then to the
other and off they go. Cycles have improved
since then.

But regarding your own particular bike,
unless it is especially good, send it to be overhauled.
Ask the man what it will cost, else—well,
he won’t cheat himself, anyhow. But it
is better to start your season with a neat turnout,
and when you get it home do please take
care of it. A new bicycle is as handsome and
pretty as a new binnacle, but both need attention,
which the binnacle always gets, the poor
bike all too seldom.

Last summer two “G. O. P.” girls visited
my caravan, and one asked if I could tell her
fortune.

“With pleasure,” I said.

I examined the lines on her lily hand, and
gave her a fortune that I thought was sure to
please her, even throwing in the tall dark
woman that was to cause some little trouble,
all in true gipsy fashion.

“Now,” she said, “can you tell Letty’s
character and mine?”

“I have invented a new science,” I replied,
“and I call it ‘Bikeology.’ Show me your
bike and I’ll read you your character.”

But it was a dusty day and neither she nor
Letty would.

Who Should Ride the Bicycle?

Well, there is a lady up north ninety years
old who rides nimbly enough, and plenty of
girls of nine ride. But only yesterday I saw a
little tot of not over five mounted on a miniature
machine. It is all downhill with the old
lady, but to let a mere infant ride is the greatest
of cruelty. It may bandy her legs and deform
her in ways worse than that. Really, no child
should be allowed to mount till eight or ten.

All else who are in fairly good form may
ride—nay, but ought to ride. I’d like the
whole of Great Britain on wheels, and a
beautiful cinder path to stretch all the way
’twixt London and Edinburgh. Ten miles
might be laid down first on trial, and no doubt
it would pay. No racing should be allowed
on this splendid road of mine; the pace
should be regulated; a fee charged, and cosy
little inns erected here and there along the
course where one could dismount for light
refreshment; but—I fear the world is hardly
old enough yet for such a dream. “The
Anglo-Caledonian Cinder Course Company.”
It sounds well, doesn’t it?

Remediable Ailments.

The ailments which judicious cycling can
either banish entirely or assist in curing are
many and varied. I wish to head the list with
chronic rheumatism, because but for the cycle{364}
I should not be writing in my wigwam at this
moment, nor able to get up at five on a dark
snowy winter’s morning and plunge into the
coldest of baths. In the preface to one of my
books on the wheel, I mention that, “after
nine years of hard sea-service in the Royal
Navy, including months in an Indian hospital
suffering from acute rheumatism, I was a
second time struck down with the disease in a
chronic form, and left Haslar (invalided on
half-pay) tottering painfully on a stick.” This
is only a portion of the truth, for I was
weak all over. Soon, however, I took to
gentle exercise on the cycle. In six months I
was as strong as ever, and have never had a
return of my old enemy.

Here is an anecdote which may seem
astonishing. A man of fifty suffering from
stiff joints took to our friend the bike. It was
uphill work. His highest record a day during
the second year was only seven miles. He
grew rapidly well now, and in one year
covered 4,000 miles, and in a single day did
80 miles. So there is hope for two classes of
sufferers.

Nor would age seem to be a drawback, for
we read of a man of seventy riding nearly
ninety miles in a day.

People with delicate chests, if not consumptive,
are often cured by cycling. My advice is
first to consult a doctor, or, if not, to begin
with very, very easy records and increase only
as the strength increases. At the end of six
months you may be astonished at your strength,
the ease and freedom with which you can ride,
walk, and breathe, and at your ability to sleep
soundly. Yes, as a cure for sleeplessness,
cycling beats all the medicine in the world,
because, see, even the safest of sleeping
draughts only removes a symptom, while riding
strikes at the very root of the trouble.

Nervousness soon flies when one begins to
cycle. In fact, you forget all about it. You
ride right away from it, and it isn’t fast enough
to follow you.

Anæmia. This is another ailment which
biking banishes. Of course a pale bloodless
lassie must take care how she does ride at
first. She must not attempt to go fast nor to
go out with any companion who recklessly
tries to break records. But the fresh air
purifies and thickens the blood; the riding
puts every organ of the body into gentle play,
and in a few months she will be able, in all
probability, to keep the pace with her
neighbours.

In a word, there is no chronic ailment which
I can remember at present, which cycling
(always gentle at first) cannot remedy.

I have said already that the delicate ought
first to consult the family doctor. If he is a
cyclist himself he will let you mount. If not,
he may advise walking or carriage exercise.
But who that can ride would care to loll
lazily in the best carriage ever drawn by
horses?

Opinions of Others.

Says Abbott Bassett, “Believe me, ladies,
if your health and strength leave something to
be desired, if you feel the need of exercise in
the fresh air; if you suffer from that terrible
scourge which overcomes your sex, sick headache;
if you wish to strengthen yourselves
morally, and accumulate a store of agreeable
reminiscences, ride a cycle. Believe me, you
will never forget it; from henceforth you will
always be happy. You will laugh, eat, and
sleep.” (Vide Cycling and Health, by Dr.
Jenner of Paris. Translation published by
Iliffe and Sons.)

“When one is in the saddle,” says a Boston
lady, “and flying over a good road, one
experiences what a bird may feel; in fact, the
weight of the body is so well disposed on the
machine that it is not felt.”

Says another lady, “Four or five years ago
I was in very delicate health and unable to
bear the slightest fatigue. Now I do seventy
miles a day without fatigue.”

One more quotation. It is from the pen of a
lady-doctor. “Cycling is of the highest value
to women from a health point of view, and is
suitable for middle-aged persons bordering on
stoutness and not able to walk far. Delicate
girls also derive great benefit from the
exercise.”

These ladies speak from experience and
quite bear out my own views.

Torpidity of the liver is all too common,
even among girls, nowadays. It is characterised
by headaches, low spirits, and a dull,
sleepy feeling, with many more symptoms I
need not mention, all of which soon disappear
if a regular course of not too hard cycling be
adopted. But one must be careful not to give
in too much to the appetite the bike will
create, else matters may become worse instead
of better.

When the cycle is used as a curative agent,
it is well to aid the remedy by the judicious
use of medicines suitable for the complaint.

Anæmic or bloodless girls, for instance, may
take tincture of iron, five drops in a wineglassful
of water three times a day just after food.
This is an almost homœopathic dose; but it
can be continued for a month or two, whereas
larger doses are apt to heat the blood.
Remember, however, that a drop from a tiny
bottle is not a full one. About eight or ten
small drops would not hurt.

Aperients (Friedrichshall water or Pullna)
will be needed in cases of threatened obesity.

In liver trouble these may also be used, and
a tonic of quassia solution, with ten drops of
dilute nitro-murietic acid to each dose. This
is a very excellent tonic, and should be taken
about ten minutes before meals.

If a girl has a cough she must not ride too
hard. Some chlorodyne lozenges are good
things to take on the road.

Hints about Riding.

You will soon manage to adjust the saddle
to a comfortable height. I myself would
rather have this an inch too high than an inch
too low.

From the very commencement cultivate a
graceful pose. If you have a good bike, there
is seldom any need to bend over the bar as
men do. When you come to a hill that is
difficult to negotiate, jump off and walk.

Spurting or going at a great pace is not for
the fair sex. By doing so even once you may
hurt yourself so that you will repent of it all
your life.

If you do not feel over strong, never ride with
those who are. You cannot keep up at their
pace without danger, though the excitement
may cause you to try.

Invalids should not talk much while riding
with a friend; talking congests the head and
undoes all the good the cycling may be doing
them.

Girls do not care to enter inns on the road
even for the questionable refreshment of ginger-beer
or lemonade, but a glass of water from
what the poets call a “murmuring rill” often
does much good, and a portable paper folding-tumbler
should be carried if the journey is to
be of some length.

A few tiny biscuit-sandwiches, with bovril
instead of meat, is a splendid pick-me-up.

Weakly girls perspire a good deal when
riding, and this may prove a source of great
danger if they dismount anywhere and stand
in a draught. On returning, if the underclothing
be damp, it ought to be changed, and
it is just then that a cup of good tea or coffee
proves so refreshing.

I have nothing to say regarding dress except
this, that tight lacing is dangerous. Only the
lightest and easiest of clothing should be
worn and nothing heavy.

Wool should always be preferred to cotton.

On the whole, and from all I have seen, I
think the rational cycling dress has yet to be
invented. It might be most graceful and
becoming, as well as healthy, and I’m sure it
would save many a life.

In conclusion, remember that our mutual
friend the bike may be either a friend or a foe.
It can kill as well as cure. The evil effects of
hard riding are seldom felt at the time, but
they may produce the bicycle heart, to say
nothing of the bicycle face and a ruined
complexion.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC I.

How much the first the second doth excel.

The student of the Bible knows full well.

1. Seek me through desert sands, ’mid treeless waste,

And let the traveller cooling water taste.

2. For miles when tracked the river’s rippling light,

Through willowy meads, past many a wooded height,

Opens this lake’s calm beauty to the sight.

3. What is this light illuminating night?

So clear, so perfect, so intense, so white.

4. Here sit the conquering lords, and here receive

Their subjects’ homage or their woes relieve;

And here assemble, for affairs of State,

The dusky, jewelled chiefs in high debate.

5. A secret Brotherhood in virtue’s cause,

Ruled by morality and reason’s laws;

Yet governments are often most unjust,

And ours looked on our meetings with distrust.

The air was full of revolution’s fire,

Men’s hearts were trembling with forebodings dire,

And, from a terror deep but unconfessed,

Our Brotherhood by edict was suppressed.

6. A stormy reign was mine; my father’s hand

Gathered the strife-rent kingdoms of the land

And held the reins; these cares devolved on me,

While, in addition, from beyond the sea

Adventurers came in swarms to claim my right,

And many a furious battle did we fight.

Little am I remembered now! My fame

(If any) centres in my son’s high name,

Who, student, warrior, legislator, rose

Supreme o’er native chiefs and foreign foes.

Peace shed her blessings where his footsteps came,

And still his country cherishes his name.

7. An old French town, once fortified, whose name

Looks very English, and it sounds the same;

Before its walls in war, so histories tell,

The wealthiest reigning prince in Europe fell.

8. A soft material, made for woman’s use,

Named from the town whose looms the web produce.

9. One of three sisters, shedding kindly words

With all the aid that sympathy affords;

In youthful loveliness, their looks benign,

With purest charity and kindness shine.

Ximena.

{365}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

CHAPTER XXII.

was fully
half an
hour later
when
Peggy
crept
along the
passage,
and took
advantage
of a
quiet moment
to
slip into
the room
and seat
herself in
a sheltered
corner.
Quick as
she was,
however,
somebody’s eyes were even quicker, for
a tall figure stepped before her, and an
aggrieved voice cried loudly—

“Well, I hope you are smart enough
to satisfy yourself, now that you are
ready! You have taken long enough,
I must say. What about that first
waltz that you promised to have with
me!”

Peggy drew in her breath with a gasp
of dismay.

“Oh, Rob, I am sorry! I forgot all
about it. I’ve been so perturbed.
Something awful has occurred. You
heard about it of course——”

“No, I didn’t! What on earth—”
began the boy anxiously; but so soon
as he heard the two words “Rosalind’s
dress!” he shrugged his shoulders in
contemptuous indifference. “Oh, that!
I heard something about it, but I didn’t
take much notice. Spilt some ink,
didn’t you? What’s the odds if you
did? Accidents will happen, and she
has a dozen others to choose from. I
don’t see anything wrong with the
dress. It looks decent enough.”

Peggy followed the direction of his
eyes and caught a glimpse of Rosalind
floating past on the arm of a tall
soldierly youth. She was sparkling with
smiles, and looking as fresh and spotless
as on the moment when she had
stepped across the threshold of her own
room. Neither face nor dress bore
any trace of the misfortune of an hour
before, and Peggy heaved a sigh of
relief as she watched her to and fro.

“Jolly enough, isn’t she? There’s
nothing for you to fret about, you see,”
said Rob consolingly. “She has forgotten
all about it, and the best thing
you can do is to follow her example.
What would you think of some light
refreshment? Let’s go to the dining-room,
and drown our sorrows in strawberry
ice. Then we can have a waltz,
and try a vanilla,—and a polka, and some
lemonade! That’s my idea of enjoying
myself. Come along, while you get the
chance!——”

“Oh, Rob, you are greedy!” protested
Peggy; nevertheless she rose
blithely enough, and her eyes began to
sparkle with some of their wonted
vivacity. There was something strong
and re-assuring about Robert’s presence;
he looked upon things in
such an eminently sensible, matter-of-fact
way, that one was ashamed to
give way to moods and tenses in his
company.

Peggy began to feel that there was
still some possibility of happiness in
life, and on her way to the door she
came face to face with Lady Darcy,
who re-assured her still further by
smiling as amiably as if nothing had
happened.

“Well, dear, enjoying yourself? Got
plenty of partners?” Then in a whispered
aside, “The dress looks all right!
Such a clever suggestion of yours.
Dear, dear, what a fright we had!”
and she swept away, leaving an impression
of beauty, grace, and affability,
which the girl was powerless to resist.
When Lady Darcy chose to show herself
at her best, there was a charm
about her which subjugated all hearts,
and from the moment that the sweet
tired eyes smiled into hers, Peggy
Saville forgot her troubles and tripped
away to eat strawberry ices, and dance
over the polished floor, with a heart as
light as her heels.

One party is very much like another.
The room may be larger or smaller, the
supper more or less substantial, but
the programme is the same in both
cases, and there is little to be told
about even the grandest of its kind.
Somebody wore pink; somebody wore
blue; somebody fell down on the floor
in the middle of the lancers, which are
no longer the stately and dignified
dance of yore, but an ungainly romp
more befitting a kitchen than a ballroom;
somebody went in to supper
twice over, and somebody never went at
all, but blushed unseen in a corner,
thinking longingly of turkey, trifle, and
crackers; and then the carriages began
to roll up to the door, brothers and
sisters paired demurely together, stammered
out a bashful “Enjoyed myself
so much! Thanks for a pleasant evening,”
and raced upstairs for coats and
shawls.

By half-past twelve all the guests
had departed except the Vicarage party,
and the sons and daughters of the old
Squire who lived close by, who had been
pressed to stay behind for that last half
hour which is often the most enjoyable
of the whole evening.

Lord and Lady Darcy and the grown-up
visitors retired into the drawing-room
to regale themselves with sandwiches
and ices, and the young people stormed
the supper room, interrupted the servants
in their work of clearing away the good
things, seated themselves indiscriminately
on floor, chair, or table, and despatched
a second supper with undiminished
appetite. Then Esther mounted
the platform where the band had been
seated, and played a last waltz, and a
very last waltz, and “really the last
waltz of all.” The Squire’s son played
a polka with two fingers, and a great
deal of loud pedal, and the fun grew
faster and more uproarious with every
moment. Even Rosalind threw aside
young lady-like affectations and pranced
about without thinking of appearances,
and when at last the others left the
room to prepare for the drive home she
seized Peggy’s arm in eager excitement.

“Peggy! Peggy! such a joke. I
told them to come back to say goodbye,
and I am going to play a twick!
I’m going to be a ghost, and glide out
from behind the shwubs, and fwighten
them. I can do it beautifully. See!”
She turned down the gas as she spoke,
threw her light gauze skirt over her head,
and came creeping across the room with
stealthy tread, and arms outstretched,
while Peggy clapped her hands in
delight.

“Lovely! lovely! It looks exactly
like wings. It makes me quite creepy.
Don’t come out if Mellicent is alone
whatever you do. She would be
scared out of her seven senses. Just
float gently along toward them, and
keep your hands forward so as to hide
your face. They will recognise you if
you don’t.”

“Oh, if you can see my face, we must
have less light. There are too many
candles. I’ll put out the ones on the
mantelpiece. Stay where you are and
tell me when it is wight,” Rosalind cried
gaily, and ran across the room on her
tiny pink, silk slippers.

So long as she lived Peggy Saville
remembered the next minutes; to the
last day of her life she had only to shut
her eyes and the scene rose up before
her, clear and vivid as in a picture.
The stretch of empty room, with its
fragrant banks of flowers; the graceful
figure flitting across the floor, its outline
swathed in folds of misty white;
the glimpse of a lovely, laughing face as
Rosalind stretched out her arm to reach
the silver candelabra, the sudden flare
of light which caught the robe of gauze,
and swept it into flame. It all happened
within the space of a minute, but
it was one of those minutes the memory
of which no years can destroy. She had
hardly time to realise the terror of the
situation before Rosalind was rushing
towards her with outstretched hands,
calling aloud in accents of frenzied
appeal—

“Peggy! Peggy! Oh, save me,
Peggy! I’m burning! Save me! Save
me!”

(To be continued.)

{366}

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

The Examiners report on the First Twenty-four Questions.

This competition has been taken up with
enthusiasm, and such a number of carefully-prepared
papers have been sent in, covering
questions 1-24, that we anticipate that this
will prove one of the most successful trials of
ability and perseverance we have had for a
long time.

It is very gratifying, for a girl who takes
part in it not only gets to know a great many
facts of interest, but has excellent practice
in the useful art of finding out—an art which
she will discover many opportunities for
exercising in after life.

That the competition may prove still more
serviceable, we give here a series of notes on
each of the twenty-four questions sent in up
to December 30th. Girls will be able in this
way to make out when they answered rightly
and when wrongly, and, when they did not
answer at all, what they might have answered
had they only known.

General remarks on the competition and
on the competitors must, of course, be delayed
till all the papers have been sent in and been
examined.

1. Did a Queen ever voluntarily
lay down the sceptre and retire into
private life?

Several competitors left this query unanswered.
One girl frankly declared, “I do
not think that any woman, once having tasted
the sweets of power, would ever give it up!”
The most frequent name given erroneously
was that of Lady Jane Grey, the unfortunate
nine days’ queen. Those girls answered
correctly who gave the remarkable abdication
of Christina, Queen of Sweden, who of her
own free will retired from regal business in
1654, heartily sick of the “splendid slavery
of royalty.” The leading incidents of her
eccentric career were well given in few words
by many competitors.

2. What stone is said to endow
whoever kisses it with wonderful
powers of speech?

Few had any difficulty about this question,
and many gave answers abounding in interesting
details. The competitor who simply
answered, “The Blarney Stone,” was right
enough, but was quite an exception in being
sparing of her words. Almost everyone knew
that the stone was at Blarney Castle, near
Cork. Some explained how to kiss it in the
proper manner, and nobody disputed the
saying that, when one’s lips have once touched
it, the power of persuasive speech is sure to
follow.

“There is a stone there

That whoever kisses

Oh! he never misses

To grow eloquent.”

3. How is it that, though the moon
turns round on its axis, we never see
the other side?

Almost everyone tried to answer this query,
but a good many—especially among our
younger contributors—failed; not for want
of originality—oh, no!—but for want of
information. One, for example, put it that
it was because the earth turned round as well
as the moon, another asserted that it all arose
from our never seeing the moon in the daytime—“the
sun’s rays are so strong then
that they hide it.” The right answer is that
it results from the moon turning round only
once on its own axis in the same time that it
takes to journey round the earth.

For the general good, let us quote an
illustration given by a competitor, which
makes this very clear: “Place a vase of
flowers,” she says, “on a table, take up your
position opposite the window, and then walk
round the table, keeping your face to the
flowers. When you are half-way round, you
will have your back to the window; but, on
reaching the starting-point, you will find you
have your face to the window again. You
will have turned completely round (on your
axis) once yourself, and at the same time have
gone round the table, yet never have shown
your back to the flowers.” Now the table
is the earth; you are the moon; your face
stands for the moon’s shining countenance;
and your back for that unknown side which
the earth never sees.

4. Why is hard water very unsuitable
for cooking and washing?

As was fitting with sensible girls, we had
numerous and intelligent answers to this
question. There was a knowing air about
them. A strong case was made out against
hard water—a waster of fuel, a waster of time,
a waster of tea, a destroyer of the colour of
vegetables, a waster of soap, an enemy to the
skin. Poor hard water!

5. What celebrated work was written
in a week to defray the cost of the
funeral of the author’s mother?

Rather more skipped this question than
gave the go-by to our first one; but nearly all
who attempted an answer gave the right one.
And, indeed, it is one of the familiar facts of
literary history that Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote
his “Rasselas” in a week for the purpose of
defraying the expense of his mother’s funeral
and paying some small debts she had left
behind. How did one competitor make it
out to be “The Task” by Cowper, and
another Sir Walter Scott’s “Legend of
Montrose” and “Black Dwarf”? As a
curiosity we may mention that a competitor
who gives an account of Dr. Johnson all
right, says she has got her information from
her grandfather, “who knew him.” As
Johnson died a hundred and fifteen years ago,
our friend must have a remarkably aged
grandfather!

6. How did the thistle come to be
the emblem of Scotland?

In a matter of legend we did not expect all
to tell the same tale, neither did they. Most
girls, however, had it that the thistle was
raised to this proud position out of national
gratitude, and gave the story of the Danes
trying to surprise the Scots by night, when
one of them set his foot on a thistle and gave
such a yell that he roused the Scots, who
thereupon repulsed their foes. This was a
question very well answered on the whole.

7. What sea has water so thick that
you can move in it with difficulty?

The greater number of competitors gave
the right answer—the Dead Sea, the density
of the intensely salt water of which is so
great that the human body will not sink in it.
A good number, however, gave the Sargasso
Sea in the North Atlantic, the remarkable
feature there being the presence of an
enormous mass of gulf weed. But it is the
weeds that are thick there, not the water, and
we said, “water so thick.” In the same
way the girls who mentioned the Arctic Sea
because of the ice should have taken note that
we did not speak about “ice so thick.”

8. What are the characteristics of
the music of Chopin?

Music being a girl’s subject, we naturally
looked for good answers to this question.
Good they were, the marked features of the
music of this “bold and proud poetic spirit”
being well indicated—his romance and sentiment,
his refined harmony, his care to avoid
commonplaces, his triumphs in the technical
treatment of the pianoforte, and many other
points illustrating how, as someone says,
“he spoke of new things well worth hearing
and found new ways of saying such things.”

9. Who is the greatest poetess the
world has ever seen?

There was room here for differences of
opinion. Sappho, Mrs. Browning, Vittoria
Colonna, Christina Rossetti, Jean Ingelow
and Mrs. Hemans all found advocates, but
the majority said Sappho, whilst Mrs.
Browning made a good second. Certainly,
Sappho, “the tenth muse,” has the advantage
in world-wide fame. To quote a sensible
competitor, “Perhaps the dimness of distant
ages clinging to her and her poetry spread a
romantic glamour over her works; still, duly
considering all these points, we, though
hesitatingly, concede the palm to Sappho.”

10. How is a rainbow a sign of bad
weather in the morning, and a sign of
good weather in the evening?

One of the last papers we looked at ventured
on the assertion that this is a “popular
delusion.” However, almost all our competitors
were on the other side and gave
reasons for the fact. It was a query that had
been taken pains over. The reasons, it should
be added, were in some cases not very firmly
grasped, so it may be useful to everybody—the
“popular delusion” competitor included—if
we quote the following from the “Salmonia”
of Sir Humphry Davy:—

“A rainbow can only occur when the clouds
containing or depositing the rain are opposite
to the sun; and in the evening the rainbow is
in the east and in the morning in the west;
and as our heavy rains in this climate are
usually brought by the westerly wind, a rainbow
in the west indicates that the bad weather
is on the road by the wind to us; whereas the
rainbow in the east proves that the rain in
these clouds is passing from us.”

11. Has a besieged town ever been
saved by a pig?

This was a stumbling-block. We are within
the mark in saying that a hundred and
fifty competitors did not answer at all. A
good many others answered wrongly, and one
girl frankly denied that such an incident ever
took place. “A besieged town,” she says,
“never has been saved by a pig.” The pig
story we had in view in framing the question
was connected with Taunton. When that
town was besieged during the Civil War, the
garrison of the Castle were at last reduced to
a single pig. “As, however, they wished to
persuade the besiegers that they were well off
for provisions, they drove the solitary and
unfortunate animal round the ramparts,
pricking it occasionally to make it squeal.
The enemy soon retired, naturally thinking
there was no chance of starving out a garrison
who had such an unlimited supply of bacon.”

Another pig story was given by several
competitors, connected with the siege of
Rennes in Brittany by the English about the
middle of the fourteenth century. In this case
a pig was used to decoy into the besieged town,{367}
that they might serve as food for the famished
inhabitants, a large herd of swine, regarding
which the English foe had quite other
intentions.

12. How fast can an expert penman
write?

Many good answers were given to this
question, the best being those in which girls,
not satisfied with information derived from
books, showed they had experimented for
themselves. “I wrote the so-many words of
this answer in so-long,” was a reply of the
right sort, especially when the handwriting
looked like that of an expert, and the rest of
the information like that of a girl of sense.
Forty words a minute seemed to be considered
a good pace, but it could not be kept up
for long. A great deal of dexterity, not to
say perseverance, would be needed to write by
the hour at a faster rate than about twenty-six
words in a minute. It is different, of course,
with shorthand, by means of which expert
writers can write legibly as fast as anyone can
speak.

13. When did the pianoforte first
come into use?

The number who did not attempt answering
this question was so small as to be not worth
speaking about. Girls found out that, whilst
the subject was a little obscure, it was generally
agreed that Bartolommeo Cristofori, a harpsichord
maker of Padua, was the man of genius
who invented and produced the pianoforte in
the beginning of the eighteenth century. It
was not, however, until the present century
began that the use of the instrument became
at all general.

14. What is the most polite nation
in the world?

Almost everybody had something to say on
this question, to which many answers were
possible, depending on what one thought true
politeness. Most gave the first place to the
French, whilst a few named the Italians and
the Spanish. Of people farther a-field the
Chinese and the Japanese got the preference
with some, especially the Japanese. There
were reasons given for the choice in many
instances, and some philosophy was occasionally
thrown in, as when a girl added a good
word for the comparatively blunt and unpolished
ways of John Bull: “A rough
exterior with a true heart beneath it,” she
says, “being better than a veneer of politeness
without any depth.”

15. What is the nearest star to the
earth?

This is the sun, regarding which we may
quote from Mr. J. Norman Lockyer. “The
sun is a star, bigger and brighter than the
other stars, not because it is unlike them but
simply because it is so near us.” A good
many gave what was equivalent to this answer
but more did not. There was a confusion too
in some minds between stars, planets, and
satellites, which led competitors into mistakes
that would have otherwise been avoided. But
let not those who went outside our solar
system and said Alpha Centauri concern
themselves; it was, in its way, a good answer,
though the distance of α Centauri exceeds our
sun’s distance 230,000 times!

16. What philosopher of antiquity
married a shrew?

This poor unfortunate man, nearly all seemed
to know, was Socrates, not the worst part of
whose wisdom was shown in the patience
with which he endured the temper of his wife
Xanthippe. But we would like to know why
after being asked about an ancient philosopher
one girl gave as an example, Richard Hooker,
the theologian, who was not ancient; and
another, Ben Jonson, the dramatist, who was
not ancient either; and a third, James
Ferguson, the astronomer, who died little more
than a century ago.

17. What flower in the middle of the
seventeenth century became the subject
of a popular mania?

No, it was not the white rose, or the orange-lily,
or the tobacco plant, or the hyacinth,
as some competitors had it; it was the tulip.
Whilst the tulipomania lasted—and it was
specially prevalent in Holland—quite fabulous
prices were paid for bulbs. But it was really,
as one girl points out, a form of gambling in
which admiration of the flower and interest
in its culture were very secondary matters.
Many correct replies were received to this
question.

18. Which is the best soil on which
to build a house?

This drew forth many sensible replies,
indicating that girls fully realised that the soil
must be a good one, dry and wholesome, or
the house built on it cannot be healthy.
Sometimes a girl inserted a bit of local colour;
a girl, for example, writing from Worcestershire,
whilst praising gravel as forming the
best soil on which to build, says that in her
county, what is locally called “cat’s brain” is
preferred to pure gravel—cat’s brain being a
mixture of gravel and a little loam.

19. Did anyone ever swim across the
Channel from England to France?

Here was an easy question. Girls apparently
had found little difficulty in learning all about
Captain Webb, who in August, 1875, performed
the marvellous feat of swimming across the
Channel without once touching a boat or
artificial support of any kind.

20. What great lady once, in a
temper, cut off her long and beautiful
hair and flung it in her husband’s
face?

This query was a puzzler. Even more failed
to answer it than failed to reply to our number
eleven. The lady in question was the famous
Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, at one time
friend and favourite of Queen Anne. Many
girls who gave a correct answer referred as
their source of information to The Girl’s
Own Paper, an article on that extraordinary,
eccentric and imperious woman having appeared
in our pages several years ago.

21. What is the origin of the name
foolscap as applied to paper of a
certain size?

There was room here for several different
statements. According to some, what is now
known as foolscap, had before the Commonwealth
time the watermark of a King’s crown,
but Cromwell, to show his dislike to everything
connected with royalty, directed a fool’s cap to
be put in place of the crown. Others had it that
Charles II. was the first to give it the name of
foolscap, the cap put on by Cromwell being
intended by the Protector to represent a Cap
of Liberty. One legend is good till another
legend is told.

22. Have flowers ever been used as
time-keepers?

This called forth answers packed with
information, few girls failing to say something
on the subject. Many showed that it is quite
possible to so arrange flowers in a garden that
approximately all the purposes of a clock will
be answered. One pointed out that as long
ago as the time of Pliny forty-six flowers were
known to open and shut at certain hours of
the day, and that this number has since been
largely increased.

23. What famous relic of antiquity
on its way to this country nearly
found its last resting-place at the
bottom of the sea?

Well answered, nearly everybody! Yes,
the relic was the famous Cleopatra’s Needle,
now standing on the Thames Embankment,
which, when being brought from Alexandria
in the latter part of 1877 to England, was
nearly lost in a terrific storm.

24. Who was the famous carrier
who gave rise to a proverb by always
making his customers take the horse
nearest the stable door?

About twenty per cent. of our competitors
failed to find out that this was Thomas Hobson
of Cambridge, the celebrated University carrier
who died in 1630-1, and who had the honour
of two epitaphs written upon him by Milton.
In Addison’s Spectator, No. 509, “Tobias” is
given instead of “Thomas.”

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

From the South.—Your cheeks burn after meals
because you have indigestion. If you pay attention
to your digestion your trouble will soon cease. Do
you masticate your food properly? and do you
rest after meals? These are two of the cures of
indigestion—and they are generally overlooked.
You should wear a veil when you go out, for cold
winds of themselves may make the cheeks burn.
A veil does a great deal to temper the severity
of the wind.

Little Pussy.—Your complaint is by no means uncommon.
Thousands, we might almost say millions,
of girls suffer from the same form of nervousness
as you do. A short time back we published
an article on this complaint, which deals specially
with that form of nervousness from which you
suffer.

Peggie.—It is very common for persons, especially
children, to grind their teeth during sleep. There
are many things which can account for the habit.
Errors of diet are the chief of these. Late, or
large suppers are very potent causes. Another
cause is irritation about the face or head. The
presence of bad teeth, of enlarged tonsils, or
adenoids, or of anything hindering free respiration
through the nose are also very apt to cause tooth
grinding during sleep. The treatment for it is to
breathe through your nose, or if you cannot do so
now, have your nose seen to so as to enable you to
breathe properly, and avoid late suppers. You
should also be careful not to sleep upon your back.

A. M. O. L.—Yes; sulphur soap and sulphur ointment
used as we advised “Fair Isabel” to use
them in last year’s volume, page 448. Whatever
you do, be very careful of the soap you use for your
face.

Dilly.—You are quite right in persevering in the
treatment of acne. What troubles you now is
really a very simple matter. The sulphur kills the
outer layer of the skin and that causes the flaking
and cracking of the skin which annoys you. Now
what you should do is to leave off the ointment for
a fortnight or more and see how you get on. If the
acne gets worse, then return to the sulphur ointment,
only use it diluted with an equal quantity of
lanoline or vaseline. Your face will soon get right
again. Wear a veil when you go out, and apply a
little glycerine and rose water (a dram of glycerine
to an ounce of rose water).

Alma.—Do not let your daughter grow up with a
hare-lip. This hideous deformity is readily cured
by a small operation. Nothing is left of it but a
small scar to mark the site of the operation. The
earlier the operation is done the more excellent
will be the result.

{368}

Belle.—Undoubtedly the use of tight corsets is a
very fertile cause of indigestion. And, indeed, it is
a potent factor of that terrible form of indigestion
associated with ulceration of the stomach. Some
of the greatest medical authorities aver that the
reason why that most serious disease is so far
more common in women than in men, is because
the former wear corsets. Be this as it may, it is
an absolute fact that it is quite impossible to cure
indigestion if the sufferer wears tight corsets. There
is no necessity to abandon corsets altogether, but
you must wear them loose. And why should you
not wear them loose? It is no longer fashionable
to have a waist like a wasp!

Vega.—Your condition is one of the commonest
which the aural surgeon is called upon to treat.
You have done perfectly right and you have been
well treated. You really have no cause to complain,
for it is a condition which often requires
years of treatment to completely cure. The giddiness,
after syringing, is usually due to injecting
the fluid too forcibly. What kind of syringe do you
use? You must go on with the treatment. You
suggest that the syringing increases the discharge,
because since you have left off treatment the discharge
has stopped. But you are labouring under
a great fallacy. The discharge has not stopped,
but it has caked in the ear and cannot find an exit.
You must be very careful to guard against this, as
it is a dangerous condition. There is, or rather
there may be, a connection between the discharge
from your right ear and the weakness in your right
eye. Without a knowledge of anatomy and medicine
you could not appreciate this connection if we
were to describe it. Suffice it to say that the connection
is through the nose. Both the ear and the
eye have tubes ending in the nose.

S. G.—We really cannot give you much advice without
further information. You say you have had
“inflammation.” Where? When? And of what
kind? More than three-quarters of the diseases
of man are due to inflammation. What we believe
is the matter with you is anæmia and debility.
And the treatment we advise is plenty of good food
and outdoor exercise, or as much of these two as
you can get. A short course of a mild preparation
of iron would probably do you good. But we think
that cod-liver oil or malt extract would be better
still.

Vegetarian.—Vegetables vary very much in the ease
with which they can be digested. There are very
few vegetables indeed which are really easily digested.
Potatoes, parsnips, uncooked celery and
salads, artichokes, and to these we would add the
green vegetables, give difficulty to the digestion,
though they should certainly not be excluded from
the dietary. Dried peas, Indian corn and haricot
beans are about as difficult to digest as paving
stones. Indeed, by actual experience, we have
proved that paving stones are more soluble in the
gastric juice than is Indian corn! Tomatoes are
fairly easy to digest, but are liable to produce
acidity and heartburn. Carrots, turnips, green
artichokes and asparagus are moderately easy to
digest.

Amelia.—Read the answer we gave to “Vegetarian.”
The old saying that—

“An onion a day

Keeps the doctor away.”

is moderately accurate. Onions will keep away
the doctor as they will everyone else who possesses
an “æsthetic olfactory apparatus.” But, apart
from that, raw onions are indigestible. There is a
popular idea that onions only scent the breath if
they disagree, but this is incorrect. The reason
why the breath of persons smells after eating onions
is that the vegetable contains a large quantity of
an aromatic oil which is excreted by the breath.

Harrow.—We cannot give you the address of any
person who removes superfluous hair by electrolysis.
For, in the first place, we will advertise no
one. In the second place, except in very few cases,
we disapprove of electrolysis; and, in the third
place, electrolysis being a surgical procedure, it is
strongly against our principles to allow any but a
surgeon to perform it. If therefore you wish to
have your hairs removed, and you think that possibly
electrolysis may effect this, at all events,
temporarily, you must go to a specialist in skin
diseases. You will have to pay highly, but no
higher than you would have to pay a so-called
“professional epilator,” and you can have the
assurance that the surgeon will not consent to the
procedure unless he himself thinks that the treatment
will prove of value.

Turquoise.—Rare as Méniere’s disease is, we know
it, alas, too well! It is one of those diseases which
baffle medicine. There are very many excellent
physicians in Dublin, and the reason why they will
not express a definite opinion as to the curability
of your friend’s case is because they do not know.
We do not know—nobody knows how long the
disease will last, or if it can be cured. Some cases
recover spontaneously, others recover after medical
treatment, others after a severe surgical procedure,
others again never recover. We suppose your friend
has been to an aural specialist. We advise her to
go again, and tell him that her hopes are beginning
to sink, and that lately she has become despondent.
Perhaps then he may suggest some further and
more radical attempts to relieve her.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

Firenze (Dressmaking in Paris).—We fear it would
be by no means easy to obtain employment in a
Parisian dressmaking firm. The French are not
so eager to employ English dressmakers as we in
this country are to engage French women. On the
other hand, English tailoring is very fashionable in
Paris. If you do go to Paris, you had certainly
better ask the Girls’ Friendly Society beforehand
whether you could be received into the Home at
48, Rue de Provence.

E. W. (Dispensing).—The course of preparation for
a dispenser is a long one, and also somewhat expensive.
In the first instance you would need to
pass the preliminary examination of the Pharmaceutical
Society, Bloomsbury Square, London.
For this, as you suppose, you would require enough
Latin to pass an examination in the first books of
Virgil or Cæsar. You would also be examined in
arithmetic and in English subjects. Having passed
this, you must be trained for three years in a dispensary
or chemist’s shop. If you select a dispensary,
you might apply to become a pupil at the
New Hospital for Women, Euston Road, London,
or at the Ryde Dispensary, Isle of Wight. A course
of study must also be followed either in the
Pharmaceutical Society’s classes in Bloomsbury,
or in certain other centres of teaching, such as
Owen’s College, Manchester. At the end of three
years’ training (which, exclusive of board and
lodging, would cost about £70), you would take the
Minor Examination. The Major Examination is
usually only taken by those persons who wish to
set up shops as pharmaceutical chemists.

RULES.

I. No charge is made for answering
questions.

II. All correspondents to give
initials or pseudonym.

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

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

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

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

N. L. and Ma Belle (Hospital Nursing).—You will
need to wait till you are twenty-one before you can
be admitted to any hospital, and the majority of
hospitals demand that probationers shall be not
less than twenty-three. At twenty-one you might
possibly be admitted to the Chelsea Infirmary, or
to one or two of the children’s hospitals. You
should address your application to “The Matron,
—— Hospital.” An infirmary is to be recommended
in cases where girls are not able to pay to
be trained, but require to earn something from the
first. It may be worth while to add that a large
infirmary is being erected in connection with the
Bethnal Green Union, and there will be openings
in it for a certain number of probationers.

E. D. H. B. (Telephone Service).—You are unfortunately
too old to enter the service of the National
Telephone Company. The limits of age for clerks
entering the service are from seventeen to nineteen.
A doctor’s certificate is necessary, and girls must be
not less than 5 ft. 3 in. in height. Altogether it is
clear that you must turn your attention to some
other occupation. Much walking or standing
would probably not be advisable for you. Some
sedentary work, such as millinery or dressmaking,
would seem to be preferable if you could do it.

May (Post Office Clerkship).—You ask whether it is
better for your future to enter as a girl clerk
between the age of sixteen and eighteen, or as a
woman clerk between eighteen and twenty. The
general opinion is that it is decidedly better to
enter as a girl clerk. The vacancies for women
clerks that are thrown open to competition, become
fewer in proportion as girl clerks are promoted
to fill them. We have never heard that copies of
questions set in past examinations were published
regularly; but specimens are, we believe, sometimes
given in the handbooks of Civil Service
coaches. If you attended classes at the Birkbeck
Institute you would probably be taught all that is
requisite for the examination.

Tulip (Kindergarten Teaching).—Had you not
expressed an unwillingness to come to London, we
should have advised the Froebel Institute, West
Kensington, as one of the best places in which to
be trained for Kindergarten work. But since you
do not wish to leave your home near Cheltenham,
we would suggest that you inquire whether training
could be given to you at the Kindergarten
which exists in connection with the Cheltenham
Ladies’ College. Otherwise we know of no place
in your neighbourhood where a young teacher could
be trained.

Masseuse (Registry Office Wanted).—A registry
is carried on by the Society of Trained Masseuses,
12, Buckingham Street, Strand. You should apply
to the Secretary, and give at the same time a full
account of your qualifications as a Swedish
masseuse.

Marie (The Stage).—Your description of your friend
is hardly definite enough for us to judge of her
chances as an actress. We would recommend her
to ask for advice from the Actors’ Association, St.
Martin’s Lane, Trafalgar Square. To be “pretty”
is a help, no doubt, but it is by no means enough.
So many English girls are pretty, or at all events,
can look pretty when nicely dressed. It is the
aptitude for acting that is all-important. You say
that she wishes to learn some instrument; but
not the piano or the violin, neither of which she can
play. Also that it must be an instrument to which
she need not sing. Really we are quite at a loss.
We have known a lady play the clarionet, but
it is an instrument calculated to prove decidedly
“trying” to the appearance of the performer.

Mayflower (Dressmaking).—The Paris firm you
mention has no shop in London.

C. J. M. (Starting a Servants’ Registry).—Before
starting a registry you should acquaint yourself
with the terms usually charged by good registries.
It is becoming very much the practice not to charge
either servants or employers until an engagement
is effected; but then, of course, to make a tolerably
high charge, and one proportioned to the amount
of wages offered. You should also try to secure
the interest of as many ladies as possible, and especially
of the wives of country clergy, who are in the
way of hearing of girls who desire to enter service.
When your registry is established it would be advisable
to make application to the Secretary of the
Associated Guild of Registries, to have it enrolled
upon the list of registries which the Guild recommends.
This would be considered a guarantee of
your registry’s bonâ fide character. The Associated
Guild may be addressed, care of the Girls’
Friendly Society, 39, Victoria Street, Westminster.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Constant Reader.—Polish the cocoanut shells with
glass-paper, and then rub with French polish.
They might be fitted into a small stand, like that
of a wine-glass only larger, made at any ordinary
turner’s for a trifling sum, and glued in, and then
it would be of use as a flower vase.

Inquirer.—It matters nothing in any legal transaction
by what fancy name you may be known
amongst your friends. It is your baptismal name,
duly registered, by which you must be called in the
banns. If anyone should question your individuality,
they have only to inquire at the church
vestry.

Alpha.—To make Scotch shortbread, take two pounds
of flour, one pound of butter, and six ounces of
loaf-sugar. Rub these into a stiff paste; cut into
square or oblong cakes of about half an inch thick,
pinch along the edges to make a border, and put
them on a baking-tin, buttered first of course,
and bake in a moderately hot oven till of a light
brown.

Heather.—We see no reason why you should not
accept the invitation of the Vicar’s family to call
on their “at home” day. As your mother cannot
call, take her card and go with your sisters as
desired.

Mabel.—We are sorry for you; but unless personal
violence be offered, or you have reason to know
that some other person has supplanted you, you
have no legal ground for a separation. Incompatibility
of temper is sometimes a mutually agreed-upon
excuse for living apart. In your case, we
think you might confide in your parents, and ask
their advice, for the question is a very grave one,
and your father might see fit to represent to his
son-in-law that his daughter’s health was suffering
from unhappiness through something amiss between
them, and express his wish to promote more
pleasant relations and a better understanding
between them. Are you sure that you are doing
your best to make your husband’s home comfortable
and cheerful? If he comes home to see you
with red eyes and a doleful face, and see no attempt
to make his home bright and attractive, then some
of the blame lies on your own shoulders. Ask God
to show you any errors of your own, and to guide
you in the path of duty.

Fan.—The origin of wearing a widow’s cap appears
to be Eastern, where the shaving of the head and
covering it is a token of mourning. The Romans
instituted a cap for widows, and obliged them to
wear weeds for ten months; and they were forbidden
to marry again under a year.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] True.

[2] True.

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER I.

PART III.

PART V.

CHAPTER XXII.

MEDICAL.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER