THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

“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.

“A FAIR, CURLY HEAD POPPED UP.”

All rights reserved.]

{2}

CHAPTER I.

IF WAR SHOULD BREAK OUT.

“You don’t mean to say it,
my dear sir! You’re
absolutely jesting.
I’m compelled to believe
that you are
pleased to talk nonsense.
To take the
boy! Impossible!”

“I never was more sober
in my life, I do assure you,
ma’am.”

“The thing is incredible.
No, sir, I cannot believe it.
‘Tis bad enough that you
should be going abroad at all at this
time, you and your wife. But to place
an innocent babe of eleven years in
the power of that wicked Corsican——Close
upon thirteen, say you? Well,
well, twelve years old! ’tis much the
same. My dear sir, war is a certainty.
We shall be embroiled with France
before six weeks are ended.”

“That is as may be. We intend to
be at home again long before six weeks
are gone by. A fortnight in Paris;
nothing more. The opportunity is not
to be lost; and as you know, all the
world is going to France just now. So
pray be easy in your mind.”

Colonel Baron adjusted his rigid
stock, and held his square chin aloft,
looking over it with a benevolent though
combative air towards the lady opposite.
Mrs. Bryce was a family friend
of long standing, and she might say
what she chose; but nothing was
farther from his intentions than to alter
his plans, merely because Mrs. Bryce
or Mrs. Anybody-Else chose to volunteer
unasked advice. There was a
spice of obstinacy in the gallant
Colonel’s composition.

Despite civilian dress—swallow-tailed
coat, brass buttons, long flapped waistcoat,
white frilled shirt-front, and velvet
knee-breeches, with silk stockings, the
Colonel was a thorough soldier in appearance.
He had not yet left middle
age behind, and he was still spare in
figure, and upright as a dart.

Mrs. Bryce, a lively woman, in age
perhaps between thirty and thirty-six,
had bright twinkling eyes. She was
dressed much a la mode, in the then
fashionable figured muslin, made long
and clinging, her white stockings and
velvet shoes showing through it in
front. The bonnet was of bright blue;
and a silk spencer, of the same colour,
was cut low, a large handkerchief
covering her shoulders. A short veil
descended below her eyes. She used
her hands a good deal, flirting them
about expressively as she talked.

Upon an old-fashioned sofa, with
prim high back and arms and a long
“sofa-table” in front, sat the Colonel’s
wife, Mrs. Baron, a very graceful figure,
young still, and in manner slightly
languishing. Though it was early in
the afternoon, she wore a low-necked
frock, with a scarf over it; and her
hands toyed with a handsome fan. A
white crape turban was wound about
her head. Beside her was Mr. Bryce,
a short man, clothed in blue swallow-tailed
coat and brass buttons—frock-coats
being then unknown. His face
was deeply scored and corrugated with
small-pox.

The wide low room, with its large
centre-table and ponderous furniture,
had one other inmate; and this was a
lovely young girl, in a short-waisted
and short-sleeved frock of white muslin.
A pink scarf was round her neck;
dainty pink sandalled shoes were on her
small high-instepped feet; long kid
gloves covered the slender round arms;
a fur-trimmed pink pelisse lay on a chair
near; and from the huge pink bonnet
on her head tall white ostrich-feathers
pointed skyward. Polly Keene was on
a visit to the Barons, and she had just
come in from a stroll with Mr. and Mrs.
Bryce. Young ladies, ninety years ago,
did not commonly venture alone beyond
the garden, but waited for proper protection.
Polly had the softest brown
velvet eyes imaginable, a delicate blush-rose
complexion, and a pretty arch
manner.

Upon a side table stood cake and
wine, together with a piled-up pyramid
of fruit, for the benefit of callers. Afternoon
tea was an unknown institution;
and the fashionable dinner-hour varied
between four and half-past five o’clock.

“A fortnight in Paris! And what of
Nap meanwhile?” vivaciously demanded
Mrs. Bryce. “What of old Boney?
That is the question, my dear sir. What
may not that wicked tyrant be after
next?”

In those days even old friends and
relatives used the terms “sir” and
“madam” very often one to another.

“Buonaparte has a good deal to
answer for, ma’am, but really I do not
imagine that he will have the responsibility
of hindering this little scheme of
ours,” Colonel Baron replied.

Mrs. Bryce turned herself briskly
towards the sofa.

“If I were you, Harriette, I’d refuse
to go. Then, at least, you wouldn’t
have it on your conscience if everything
gets into a muddle.”

Mrs. Baron’s large languid grey eyes
opened rather more widely than their
wont.

“My dear Harriette, wake up, I entreat
of you. Pray listen to me. Doubtless
all the world is going to France.
Nothing more likely, since half the world
consists of idiots, and another half of
madmen. That is small reason why you
two need comport yourselves like either.”

“Do you really suppose there will be
war again so soon?” asked Mrs. Baron
incredulously.

“Do I suppose? Why, everybody
knows it. Jim knows it. Your husband
knows it. There can’t be any
reasonable doubt about the matter. The
treaty of Amiens is practically at an
end already. Nap has broken his
pledges again and again. And this
last demand of his—why, nothing could
be more iniquitous.”

“Dear me; has he made any fresh
demand?” Mrs. Baron’s eyes went
in appeal to her husband, for she had
no very great faith in Mrs. Bryce’s
judgment. The Colonel had no chance
of responding.

“Even you can’t surely have forgot
that, my dear Harriette. He desires
that we should give over to his tender
mercies the unfortunate Bourbon Princes,
who have fled to us for refuge: and no
doubt in the end he would demand all
the refugees of the Revolution. He
might as well demand England herself.
And he will demand that, in no long
time. ‘Tis an open secret that he is
already making preparations for the invasion
of our country.”

“Boney doesn’t believe that England,
single-handed, will dare to oppose him,”
remarked Mr. Bryce. “He thinks a
nation of seventeen million inhabitants
is certain to go down before a nation of
forty millions.”

“Let him come, and he’ll soon learn
his mistake,” declared Mr. Bryce’s
valiant better half. “But you, Harriette—with
public affairs in this state—you
positively intend to let your crazy husband
drag you across the Channel?”

“But I do not think my husband
crazy, and I wish very much to go,”
she said, slightly pouting. “I have
never been out of England. The wars
have always hindered me.”

“And you absolutely mean to take
the young ones too!”

“We intend to take Roy,” the
Colonel said, as his wife’s eyes once
more appealed to him. Children in
those days seldom travelled, unless as
a matter of necessity; therefore the
Colonel’s voice was proportionately determined.

“I never heard such a scheme in my
life. To take the boy away from his
schooling——”

“No; his school has just broken up
for some weeks. Several cases of small-pox;
so it is considered best. Roy has
not been in the way of any who have
sickened; therefore he is all right. We
mean to have him with us.”

“And Molly? Not Molly too?”

“No, not Molly. One will be enough.”

Colonel Baron did not wish to betray
that he had strenuously opposed the
plan, and had given in with reluctance
to his wife’s entreaties.

“I thought the two never had been
parted?”

“That has been folly. It is time such
fantasies should be broken through.
Roy must go to a boarding-school in the
autumn; and this will pave the way.”

Mrs. Baron lifted a lace handkerchief
to her eyes.

“My dear heart—a school five miles
off. You will think nothing of it when
the time arrives,” urged the Colonel,
who till then had gone against his own
better judgment, keeping the boy at
home and allowing him to attend a day-school.
He had won his wife’s consent
to the boarding-school in the autumn
only that morning, by yielding to her
wish that Roy should go to Paris. The
Colonel’s graceful wife was something
of a spoilt child in her ways; and resolute
as he could show himself in other
directions, he seldom had the will to
oppose her seriously.

“Indeed, I should say so too,” struck
in Mrs. Bryce. “You don’t desire to
turn him into a nincompoop; and between
you and Molly, my dear Harriette,{3}
he hasn’t a chance. School will make
a man of him. And what’s to become
of Molly?”

Mrs. Baron was still gently dabbing
her eyes with the square of lace, and
the Colonel answered—

“My wife’s step-mother wishes to
have Molly in Bath for a visit. She will
travel thither with Polly early next week.”

“Too much gadding about. Not the
sort of way I was brought up, nor you
either. But everything is turned upside-down
in these days. And you’ve
persuaded Captain Ivor to go too?”

“He will go with us to Paris.”

“And you’re quite content to put
yourselves into the clutches of that
miserable Boney!”

“My dear madam, the First Consul
does not wage war on unoffending
travellers. Even supposing that hostilities
should break out sooner than
may reasonably be expected, we have
then but to hasten home.”

“Boney doesn’t care what he does, so
long as he can get his own way.”

“He will, at least, act in accordance
with the laws of civilised nations.”

“Not he! Boney makes his own laws
to suit himself.”

“Well, well, my dear madam, we
view these things differently. And
since I have fully made up my mind,
all this discussion is a waste of good
breath. My wife has never been into
France, and I desire that she should go.
We may not have another opportunity
for many years to come.”

“Likely enough—while the Corsican
lives!” muttered Mrs. Bryce.

The end window opened upon a kind
of verandah, and just outside this window,
which had been thrown wide open—for
it was an unusually hot spring day—a
boy lay flat upon the ground, shaping
a small wooden boat with his penknife.
At the first mention of his name, a fair
curly head popped up and popped down
again. A recurrence of the word “Roy”
brought up the head a second time, and
two wide grey eyes stared eagerly over
the low sill into the room. He might
have been seen easily enough, but that
people were too busy to look that way.
Then again the head vanished, and its
owner lay motionless, apparently listening
for two or three minutes, after which he
rolled away to a short distance, jumped
up, and scampered off to the schoolroom
at the back of the house.

It was a good-sized house, with a
nice garden, in the then outskirts of
London—a much more limited London
than the great metropolis of the present
day, though even then Englishmen were
wont to describe it as “vast.” Where
Colonel Baron’s house stood, with fields
and hedges near at hand, miles of streets
now extend in all directions. Trafalgar
Square and Regent Street were unbuilt;
Pimlico and Moorfields alike consisted
mainly of bare rough ground; and the
City was still a fashionable place of
residence. These facts serve to show how
small a London existed in those days.

Roy Baron was a handsome well-set-up
lad of about twelve, and he had on a
blue cloth jacket, with trousers and
waistcoat of the same material. Knickerbockers
were unknown. Children and
bigger boys wore loose trousers, while
tights and uncovered stockings were
reserved for grown-up gentlemen. In a
few weeks Roy would exchange his cloth
waistcoat and trousers for linen ditto,
either white or striped. Boys’ hair was
not cropped so closely in the year 1803
as in the Nineties, and a mass of close
little curls grew all over Roy’s head.

The year 1803. Think what that means.

Napoleon Buonaparte was alive—not
only alive, but in full vigour; and he
had entered on his career of conquest,
and the world was in terror of his
name. Nelson was alive, and five years
earlier he had won the great battle of
the Nile; two years earlier the great
battle of Copenhagen; though his crowning
victory of Trafalgar had not yet
finally established British supremacy
over the ocean. Wellington was alive,
but his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley
had not yet become widely famous, and
no one could guess that one day he
would be the Iron Duke of world-wide
celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future
Hero of Coruña, was alive, and, though
not yet knighted, was already “the most
renowned military character of his age.”[A]

Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the
French. He was only climbing towards
that goal, and thus far he had not advanced
beyond being First Consul in the
Republic. By English people generally
he was viewed with a mingling of detestation
and disgust, dread and disdain,
varied in some quarters by a certain
amount of admiration.

The peace between England and
France, lasting somewhat over twelve
months, had been hardly more than an
armed and uncertain truce, a mere slight
break in long years of intermittent warfare.
As the old king, George III.,
remarked at the time, it was “an experimental
peace,” and few had hopes
of its long continuance. For the Firebrand
was still in Europe, and barrels of
gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before
the peace began, and also while it continued,
Napoleon indulged in many
speculative threats of a future invasion
of England, and preparations were at
this date said to be actually begun.

England alone of all the nations stood
upright, and fearlessly looked the tyrant
in the face. And Great Britain, with all
her pluck, had then but a small army, no
volunteers, and few fortifications, while
her chief defence, the fleet, though
splendidly manned, was weak indeed,
compared with the mighty armament
which she now possesses.

Whether the peace should last, or
whether it should speedily end, depended
mainly on the will of one man,
an ambitious and reckless despot, who
cared not a jot what rivers of French and
English blood he might cause to flow,
nor how many thousands of French and
English widows might break their hearts,
so long only as he could indulge to the
full his lust of conquest, and could obtain
plenty of what he called “glory.”
Another and truer name might easily
have been found for the commodity in
question.

Yet it is impossible not to accord
admiration to this man’s transcendent
genius, and even Napoleon was not
altogether bad. Perhaps, in the bitterness
of incessant war, even he sometimes
was more harshly judged than he fully
deserved. But if so, he brought the evil
upon himself.

(To be continued.)

THE MESSAGE OF THE MARGUERITES.

(See Coloured Frontispiece.)

This “ladie fayre” ascending the stairway
of the old Castle of Blois in France gives us
a glimpse of the prevailing fashion of towering
head-dress worn in the fifteenth century.
Addison satirically remarks that, “Women in
all ages have taken more pains than men to
adorn the outside of their heads.” This
adornment surely reached its culmination
when ladies adopted these wonderful erections
called fontanges, which, we are told by an
ancient writer, were “like pointed steeples,
with loose kerchiefs atop hanging down sometimes
as low as the ground.”

As we look at the cooing doves in the
castle window, we see an indication of a
weighty matter which rests upon the lady’s
mind. She is gazing out over the distant
woods to catch a glimpse of her lover returning
from the chase. She would fain believe
that her true knight cares for no one but herself,
but how can she be sure?

In the castle garden she has culled a bunch
of marguerites, and now she is on her way to
her own secret bower there to try her fortune.
As she pulls to pieces the fateful flowers she
will murmur softly, “He loves me a little, he
loves me much, he loves me passionately, he
loves me not.”

Let us hope the message will be propitious,
and that when she descends the stairs it will
be to receive her lover with a smiling trustful
face, and that he will prove worthy of one so
fair and sweet.

GIRL’S OWN PAPER. Orford Smith, L^d. S^t. Albans. LONDON.

The message of the Marguerites.

From the Painting by COMTE.

ABOUT SOME NORMANDY DAIRIES.

By LADY GEORGINA VERNON.

Soft grey days, with rolling misty clouds,
southerly winds crooning pathetic farewells to
the departing summer; such is October in
Normandy, alternated with brilliant days,
flashing golden glory over the myriad tinted
orchards, such a strange mixture of grey and
gold, of fading pasture and scarlet leaves,
early mornings calm and still with every blade
of grass heavy with dew, while the burning
mid-day glows with summer splendour, and
days like these in autumn have a brilliancy
and a power of touching one’s heart that no
summer day possesses; and in Normandy
Nature seems to paint her beauties with more
lavish hand than in our northern climes.
Scarlet and amber, crimson and madder deck
each tree and hedge, and even if there are
grey days they only seem to bring out more
vividly the autumnal glories. October is a
busy month for farmer and dairy-man here,
because one of the chief industries, that of
soft cheese-making, can only be sparingly
carried on during the hot summer months;
and in October the manufacture of Camemberts
especially is at its height.

MANOIR-FERME OF S. HYPOLITE, NEAR LISIEUX.

I should strongly advise any one who is
interested in dairy-work to make a trip to
Normandy during this month, for they could
pass a delightful time studying the various
methods of soft cheese-making.

This is an industry I have long wished to
see carried to greater perfection in England.
It is work so eminently suited for women,
and could be undertaken by any one with
a dairy, of even eight or ten cows, with very
little expense. I have lately been making
a very careful study of this work, and visiting
many of the largest dairies round Lisieux,
which is the centre of the Camembert and
Pont Evêque cheese factories, and I have
been much struck by the simplicity of the
process and the slight expense that the plant
would cost for the production of these and
kindred cheeses.

There are great difficulties in the way of
thoroughly mastering the subject, because as
a rule the whole process is carried on by “rule
of thumb.” There are no thermometers, and
they boast that they never use one. The very
important subject
of the heat of the
milk at various
stages of manufacture,
the temperature
of the rooms
for ripening the
cheeses, are carried
out by guess-work
and feeling, and I
think that this is
one cause that
these cheeses vary
so much in different
localities. I should
strongly urge that
any one desirous of
becoming an adept
at this work should
endeavour to get
herself taken as a
pupil at one of
the smaller farms.
They will not take
pupils at the large
manufactories, as
it is not worth their
while, but at some
of the smaller
places, I think, if a
pupil was willing
to pay a premium,
she might get taken
on. I spoke to one
farmer who makes
about four hundred
to six hundred Camemberts daily in his small
dairy, and he thought it was quite a possible
plan. An intending pupil should provide
herself with two thermometers, one to hang
up in the dairy and one to test the heat of the
milk. My own feeling inclines me to advise
the taking up of
the Pont Evêque
cheeses more than
the Camembert;
they are not so
difficult to ripen,
and I think are
more suitable to
English taste, and
should command a
ready sale.

Now if any one
feels fired by a
spirit of enterprise
to take up this interesting
work, I
could promise her
that much pleasure
could be derived
from such a trip,
and if such a one
is a cyclist, it could
be carried out at
a very small cost.
The roads in Normandy
are splendid,
with a surface
that even after
heavy rains dries
quickly, and one
can always find
little country inns
or auberges, where
good food and
cleanliness can be
insured, if not luxury. And I think the most
agreeable way of making a cycling tour is not
to make any very hard-and-fast rule as to
stopping-places, but let it depend on the
weather and one’s own feelings, as some days
a run of forty miles is easily accomplished, and
yet on another, with a hot sun and many long
côtes to climb, one is sufficiently tired after
twenty-five miles to greet with pleasure the
little brick-floored cool parlour of the wayside
inn, and relish the excellent coffee, even without
milk, and the rolls and lovely butter that
are always provided.

FALAISE.

To reach Lisieux, which I warmly advise as
headquarters, a very delightful route for a
cyclist is the following:—

Go over to Dieppe by the day boat, reaching
about 4 P.M. At the Hotel de Paris prices
are very reasonable (which is more than can
be said for some of the hotels). Next morning
start early, before the heat of the day, and
take the road which leads by the station up a
long hill and then through a very pleasant
country of green fields and high hedges and
running streams, past the villages of Longueville,
Auffay and Clères, which is twenty-five
miles from Dieppe, and where there is a
nice little inn. This is the Rouen Road, and
if a forty-mile journey is not too long, then
Rouen can be reached without difficulty, as
the roads are good and there are no long
hills, but if a very small village inn is not
objected to, I should advise my cyclist to stop
at Malaunay (twenty-three miles) at the Hotel
de la Poste, where, though one has to pass
through the kitchen to one’s brick-floored
little bedroom, I think the sight of the charming
methods carried on in even such a modest
French kitchen is quite enough to give one an
appetite for dinner, and a desire to possess just
such a stove and such shining pots and pans
and delightful brown earthenware “marmites.”
We will then suppose our cyclist elects to rest
at Malaunay. Next day again start early, as
there is little to see there except a sight which
filled me with horror, namely, a “margarine{5}
fabrique,” specially for export to England;
that wide mouth which seems ready to take
all that other countries will send, bad or good.

From Malaunay, take the road for Maremme,
turn to the right up a long steep hill, and then
a pleasant road through woods and valleys
brings one to the Seine at Duclair (sixteen
miles). Along this district, one first makes
acquaintance with the charming black and
white cottages thatched with straw, with the
top of the roof bound firm by iris planted all
along the ridge. When I was there in May,
these purple-roofed cottages were most picturesque.
I should advise any one who has the
time to turn off the main road two miles to
Jumièges and visit those grand old ruins
which stand in one of the promontories made
by the winding Seine. From Duclair a flat
road leads to pretty Caudebec (nine miles);
here the Hotel de la Marine offers inexpensive
comfort.

Make an evening visit to the great cathedral,
which seems so out of proportion to the size
of the small riverside town, and you will be
fortunate if you come in for such a sweet,
solemn service as I did this year. There were
only a few scattered lamps here and there
hung in the great arches, the light barely
illuminating the central aisle, but a brilliant
light just outside the altar rails brought into
full relief a group of maidens, who were
pouring forth the sweetest cantique of love
and devotion to “Marie, notre Mère;” while
far away in the half gloom shone out the
never dying lamp opposite the tabernacle, and
then, as the hymn died away, the priests’
voices rose and fell, and the bell rang at the
sanctus, and on the whole congregation came
the wonderful peace and quiet of the hour of
benediction. And later, as I passed out into
the dim silence of the spring evening, I noted
how there were rough men from the boats on
the river, and gipsy women from a little
encampment close by, and white-capped
mothers with their children and the wooden
sabots clattered down the dark streets, and all
was quiet.

MARKET-PLACE.

If the next day should be the market day, the
picturesque confusion of the great square under
the shadow of the cathedral, makes a scene
not easily forgotten—white tents and big blue
umbrellas sheltering piles of red carrots and
cartloads of green cabbages, while the stalls
are decorated with huge bunches of pale-blue
forget-me-nots and sweet white pinks. Here
you will make your first acquaintance with a
Normandy cheese stall, and I must confess
the cheeses one meets at the country markets
are not inviting,
but to the intending
cheese-maker
they are most interesting.

There are two
routes to choose
from by which to
reach Lisieux from
Caudebec. The
shortest is to cross
the river by the
ferry, and it is only
nineteen miles to
Pont Audemer,
but the prettiest
road is by Lillebonne
and Quillebœuf,
where one
takes the ferry,
and through a rich
pasture country
one reaches Pont
Audemer, about
twenty-two miles.
Here the tourist
had better rest for
refreshment. The
remainder of the
road to Lisieux,
another twenty-two
miles, is
through rather a
hilly country, but
there are no very
steep hills, and one finishes by a two-mile run
down into Lisieux, which lies in a deep valley.

There are several good hotels here, but I can
name Hotel d’Espagne as comfortable and
reasonable in prices, while the landlord is
always ready to give advice as to the best
farms to visit and the nearest roads.

When arrived at Lisieux, I advise that all
the larger farms and dairies should be visited.
I met with the greatest courtesy, and I found
none of the extreme reluctance to tell one the
secrets which I had
been led to expect.
On the contrary, I
was able to see each
step of the various
processes of the
making of Camembert,
Pont Evêque
and Livarot. The
simplicity of the
work of making
these soft cheeses
is such, that I can
only attribute the
great difficulty experienced
in England
to produce
Camemberts in
perfection to the
herbage and the
difference of atmosphere.
One of
the largest makers
and exporters of all
the various kinds
of these cheeses is
Monsieur Brière, at
Mesnil Guillaume,
some four miles
from Lisieux.
Here, if he will be
good enough to
show his manufactory,
as he did to
me, the work can
be seen to its greatest perfection—from the
first turning of the milk, through the various
stages of the drying of the cheeses, to the
final business of packing for export. Monsieur
Brière in the month of May, which is accounted
as la saison morte for Camembert, was sending
away one thousand five hundred daily.

He makes also Pont Evêque and every
variety of these French cheeses. I should,
however, recommend that a visit be paid to
one of the farms nearer Pont Evêque, where
this is made a speciality.

Pont Evêque lies about thirteen miles from
Lisieux. A large quantity of these cheeses
are made on small farms and sent en blanc,
that is after three or four days, to some of the
larger factories, where they are finally salted
and dried and packed for export.

A very excellent variety of Camembert is
made by Monsieur Chiffeman, but his dairies
are not near Lisieux, although he is one of the
largest buyers and exporters, and a most kind
and courteous adviser I found him as to the
best dairies to visit.

A SUNNY DAY.

The whole neighbourhood of Lisieux is full
of interest not only to the would-be cheese-maker
but to the lover of architecture. Its
quaint, narrow streets and houses, enriched
with carving up every beam, and its fine
churches, make it one of the gems of Normandy
towns, while within easy distance on
almost every side may be found delightful
specimens of old chateaux and of Manoir-Fermes
surrounded by a whole array of
picturesque half timbered farm buildings, all
so arranged that the master’s eye can be upon
everything, the whole nestling in rich orchards
which are one of the greatest sources of wealth
to these proprietors, while herds of the handsome
Cotentin cows graze knee-deep in the
rich grass—these cows are a breed of which
the farmers are justly proud, somewhat resembling
large Ayrshires but stronger in make
and bone—they consider them better than the
Channel Islands breeds for their purposes. I
must not omit to mention among other
cheeses the Livarot, which really haunts one
in market, hotel, and factory, the strong
pungent smell being very disagreeable to our
English ideas. Livarot is made from skimmed
milk, mostly in the smaller dairies, and is
eaten by the poorer people. It is not a cheese{6}
which could ever find a sale in England.
The little town of Livarot lies about twelve
miles from Lisieux, and is worth a visit for the
sake of its curious old houses.

Charming excursions can also be made
from Lisieux to Falaise (27 miles), with its
grand castle, the birthplace of William the
Conqueror, Caen (28 miles) with its magnificent
abbeys, Bayeux (18 miles further) with
its fine cathedral and interesting tapestry.

If a longer excursion than I have named
can be taken, I should strongly recommend
my cyclist to take a run into Brittany, and visit
the farms round Rennes, where the Port du
Salut cheeses are made. I could not visit
these manufactories myself, and I can give
little advice on the subject, but I know the
roads round Rennes and they are good and
it is not very hilly, while the Port du Salut is
a cheese which is always sought after in
England. It is one of the cheeses known as
“Fromages cuits,” and for all these the plant
required is costly. Another cheese, almost
similar, is known as La Providence, or Bricquebec,
because it is made at a convent of
that name near Cherbourg. I do not know
whether the sisters at the convent could be
induced to show their “fabrique.”

I must not lengthen this article further,
except to conduct my intending cyclist home!
And I think any one would find the road from
Lisieux by Bernay, 20 miles, and on to
Evreux, 36 miles, visiting there the celebrated
cathedral, and then up straight north to the
Seine, one of the prettiest roads. Vernon,
25 miles, is easily reached from Evreux, and
few or many days can be happily spent along
the ever changing and delightful scenery of the
silvery Seine, while here and there one comes
upon high chalk cliffs, honey-combed with
caves, which are fitted with doors and windows,
and which form the dwellings of many families.

From Vernon by le Petit Andelys and Pont
de l’Arche to Rouen is about 40 miles, but I
would suggest breaking the journey at Pont de
l’Arche, where there is a comfortable little inn
close to the bridge and an interesting church.

I think no tour in Normandy can be more
appropriately finished than by a sojourn at
Rouen, that home of all that is most fascinating,
in rich, if somewhat over ornate architecture.

I have not, in this article, touched upon
the question of Normandy butter, which has
become such a formidable competitor with
English markets, but to diversify the road to
Dieppe, let our cyclist take the road by
Gournay through Neuchâtel-en-Bray, and visit
on a Tuesday the butter-market. I think
when one sees the uniformity of the splendid
quality of butter in that market, and the
severe scrutiny to which it is subjected by the
merchants, one realises partly why Normandy
butter has such a high character. Some
thousands of pounds of butter change hands
there in a day.

Gournay is not only the centre of the butter
market, but here also are made the well-known
Pommel and Gervais cheeses, of which the process
is well taught in some of our own English
Dairy Schools—so at the British Dairy School
at Reading.

No stranger is allowed to enter any of the
factories at Gournay, and the greatest secrecy
is observed, but I think that possibly, armed
with introductions, one might obtain an
entrance, and then I am sure many valuable
hints could be got.

I hope anyone who undertakes the little
trip I have described will enjoy both the
country and the dairies as thoroughly as I
did, and come home feeling that they have
gained a considerable amount of knowledge
and of interest in all dairy matters, besides
having their memories stored with happy recollections
of many sunny days spent amongst
courteous Normandy folk.

SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART I.

THE COMPLEXION.

It has been stated in the papers
lately that the Amsterdam
physician to the poor, late
Empress of Austria did much
by his prescriptions to maintain
the beauty of that most
beautiful and accomplished
lady. And yet the Empress
was by no means a vain woman, and this is
proved by the fact that, now she is gone, there
has been no photograph of her taken these
twenty years.

I thought that I might state as an axiom
that beauty is impossible without a fair
amount of health. That for instance, a
beautiful complexion was incompatible with a
very serious disease. But I find that here I
am mistaken. “I want a complexion like a
girl in a decline,” a woman said to me the
other day. I wonder if she had ever seen a
girl in “a decline.” To me the dull purple
cheeks and lips of advanced consumption are
most ghastly. Other women strive after a
dead white face, and poison themselves with
arsenic to try to obtain it.

The beautiful shades of red and white
which are admired by most persons are, however,
impossible without good health. Late
hours, indigestion, lack of exercise and the
use of cosmetics will destroy a good complexion,
and when once it has gone it is by no
means easy to regain.

Of course I do not know, but I strongly
suspect that every girl who has a good complexion
is too careful of her appearance to
need any of the crude hints that I can give
to her less favoured sisters about improving
their complexions.

The best complexions to be found are not
in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair but in the
slums of Whitechapel. Many dirty little
ragamuffins have far finer complexions than
any of the leaders of fashion. This is sufficient
proof that soap and water are not the
causes of a fine cheek. Rather is it the outdoor
life, the not too liberal diet, the absence
of stimulants, the early hours and the loose
clothing of the urchin that give her her good
complexion.

All soap used for washing the face should
be of fine quality. You should never wash
your face in very hot water. You should not
go out in a wind without a veil, and you
should never lace tightly if you wish to have
a good complexion. When the face gets
rough, as it is apt to do after a walk in the
wind, a very little glycerine and rosewater or
glycerine and cucumber will help to keep the
face clear and soft. Cosmetics are undoubtedly
a fertile cause of the bad complexions
so common among the upper middle
classes, and though by no means all cosmetics
are harmful, you should be very careful what
you put on your face.

Freckles are very annoying to some girls.
They are caused, as you doubtless know, by
the sun. It is not the heat, but the light of
the sun that causes freckles, and it is the
violet of the light that causes them. The
colour red absorbs the violet rays of the sun,
and therefore a red veil or a red parasol
should be used by women who are very prone
to become freckled. I am not going to say
that a red parasol will entirely prevent freckling,
but it does very materially lessen it.

Many persons, who would otherwise have a
good complexion, are marred by what are
called “birth-marks.” These are of three
kinds—moles, port wine stains and “spider
nævi.”

A mole that is small and not very disfiguring
should be left severely alone. You can
do great harm by meddling with it, and not
uncommonly it is made very much worse by
caustic or poisonous applications. If you
have a large and really disfiguring mole on
your face have it removed by a surgeon. The
younger you are the better will be the result of
the operation. A minute scar will be left
where the cut was made, but if the mole was
removed early in life the scar will be a small
linear mark often quite unnoticeable. These
big moles are, in themselves, somewhat
dangerous, for in elderly people they occasionally
develop into cancers.

Moles not removed are to be left alone.
But to this there is one exception. If hairs
grow upon the moles, they must be removed
if possible. The only safe way (excluding
electrolysis which is rarely called for) to treat
the hairs on moles is to cut them short. You
should never irritate a mole by pulling hairs
out. The soft, downy hair so common on
small moles may be bleached with peroxide
of hydrogen if very noticeable.

Can anything reasonable be done for port
wine stains? Yes, if they are small. Tattooing
with the electro-cautery is a fairly efficacious
method of treating these disfiguring
marks. Electrolysis is quite useless for this
purpose. No other treatment is satisfactory
except removal, where this is practicable.

The “spider” nævus is a small dilated vein,
usually situated on a very conspicuous part of
the nose. It looks just like a little red spider,
and can be readily removed by plunging a
tiny electro-needle into the body of the
“spider.”

Wounds on the face, as elsewhere on the
body, do not leave a scar unless they go right
through the skin. Serious wounds of the face
always leave scars, and the scars will be
prominent in inverse ratio to the skill with
which the original cut was treated. All considerable
wounds of the face should be stitched
up with horsehair and treated on rigid antiseptic
principles so as to obtain rapid healing.
The more rapidly a wound heals the less disfiguring
will be the resulting scar.

Many women complain very bitterly of a
dark ring round their necks. It is natural for
the skin round the neck to be darker in
colour than that on the face or chest. If the
ring is really very dark and conspicuous, carefully
applying a little peroxide of hydrogen
will often make it less noticeable.

I will not say much about face powders
save that those containing any colouring
matter, lead or arsenic, should never be used
by any one. Where there is a tendency to
acne, powder must only be used with extreme
caution. Unquestionably powder of any kind
is a mistake.

(To be continued.)

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE.

By the Author of “How to be Happy Though Married,” etc.

A minister of one of the
many denominations
once began an extempore
marriage service
with these words, “My
friends, marriage is a
blessing to a few, a
curse to many, and a
great uncertainty to all.
Do ye venture?” When no
reply was forthcoming he said,
“Let’s proceed.” Now I think
that it is only those who are
wickedly careless, or so stupid
that they are without anxiety,
who make this venture without due preparation,
and this preparation should begin, as it seems
to me, with our earliest years. Not, of course,
that little boys and girls should be always
thinking of and planning for marriage, but that
their parents and guardians should remember
that this is a fate in store for them, and that
one day these children will have homes of
their own which they will either curse or
bless.

That some preparation is required for marriage
was authoritatively recognised by the
ancient state of Belgium, as I gather from a
picture which I once saw in the Historical
Society’s collection of paintings in New
York. The scene is the inside of a peasant’s
house in Belgium. On an easy chair sits a
fatherly old priest who is catechising a shy,
awkward-looking country bumpkin. Near him
is his lady-love. She would gladly prompt
him only the priest is keeping a sharp eye
upon her. In the background is the girl’s
mother preparing a wedding repast in case the
young people pass their qualifying examination.
Underneath is the name of the picture—”Catechism
before marriage according to
the ancient State of Belgium as necessary for
state and matrimonial security.” Now we
think that this was a very good rule, which
provided that before young people should
take upon themselves the great responsibilities
of marriage, they should have learned at least
this much of the catechism, how to do their
duty to their neighbour. Of course husband
and wife are more to each other than mere
neighbours, but they are that at least, and if
they do not do their duty towards each other,
homes will be wretched, and where homes are
miserable the state cannot but be weak, so we
see that it was a matter for state control.

Suppose a man spends his youth not in
settling his habits, which is what we ought to
do when young, but in sowing wild oats, do
you not think that he will reap a crop of wild
oats in his domestic life?

Who, on the other hand, is a miserable husband?
He who cannot bring to his marriage
a clean bill of moral health, who cannot
make upon his wife the best of all marriage
settlements, the settlement of habits in the
right direction. And even young ladies require
some preparation for marriage. If they
are frivolous and flirty and have no higher
notion of worship than to burn incense to
vanity, they will not be happy themselves in
married life and assuredly they will not make
their husbands happy.

Then there is physical or bodily health to
be considered. Mr. Herbert Spencer says
that the foundation of all success in life is to
be a good animal. If a young man is always
ailing (sometimes the consequence of ale-ing)
he will not be capable of supporting his wife
and children, and if a woman have a chronic
sofa complaint, she may be a very good
woman, but she has mistaken her vocation
when she became a wife. The doctor’s bills
too have to be considered, and the effect upon
children of hereditary complaints. On one
occasion as Dr. Johnson and a young man
were waiting in Mr. Thrale’s drawing-room
before dinner, the young man asked the doctor
if he would advise him to marry. Nettled
at the interruption the doctor replied, “Sir, I
would advise no man to marry who is not
likely to propagate understanding.” This
was a wise answer, for people should not
marry if they are likely to have children who
will be diseased in soul, mind or body. It is
said that money is a root of evil, but it is not
a bad thing to have a little bit of this root
with us when we go shopping, and some of it
is also required when we go marrying, unless
we are to think that mortality is one of the
effects of matrimony as a certain servant girl
seems to have thought. The mistress with
whom she last lived meeting her one day
asked, “Well, Mary, where are you living
now?” “Please, m’am, I’m not living anywhere
now I’m married.” Some of us who
are married find that we have survived the
operation and also that we require a certain
amount of money to live upon, and therefore
we can sympathise with the sensible girl
who, having tried a rigorous love-in-a-cottage
dietary gave it as her experience that a kiss
and a cup of cold water make a poor breakfast.

At the same time it is quite possible to
exaggerate the amount of money necessary for
marriage. Show me a couple who are miserable
on account of straitened circumstances,
and I will show you a dozen couples who are
unhappy on account of other circumstances.
I suppose we all know old bachelors who have
plenty of money for marriage but they have
not enough courage, and they make, “I can’t
afford it” a mere excuse. This was the case
with Pitt. When he was Prime Minister of
England and had from all sources an income
of about £30,000 a year he used to say that
he could not afford to marry, and then
some one calculated that in his household
about sixty pounds of meat was allowed for
each man and woman. For the more economical
arrangement of his domestic affairs, if
for no other reason, he ought to have married.
I sometimes say to young officers who are
inclined to be extravagant, “I wonder how
you can afford not to be married, I could not.”
Certainly if a young man will smoke the best
cigars and will give expensive drinks to every
one who claps him upon the back and calls
him “Old Man” he cannot afford to marry—why?
Because he will not deny himself small
and not very elevating luxuries for the sake of
obtaining the great luxury of a good wife.
Then if a man has a small income he must
choose for a wife a girl with a slender waste,
not one, that is to say, who has made her
waist small by health-destroying corsets, but
one who can manage her husband’s income
with the least amount of waste.

“Why don’t the men propose?” is a
question which is often asked. One reason
why some of them do not do so is because
they are afraid of the possible extravagance of
wives. I gather this from a question which
was lately overheard in a ball-room. A lady
of a not very retiring disposition asked a
middle-aged gentleman with whom she was
dancing, “Why don’t you marry, can’t you
afford to support a wife?” “My innocent
young thing,” was the reply, “I can afford to
keep ten wives, but I can’t afford to pay the
milliner’s bills of one.” This matter is more
in the hands of the ladies than they seem to
think, and things would be greatly helped if
mothers, instead of seeking only to marry
their daughters to rich men, would educate
these young ladies in such a way that men
who are not wealthy could afford the luxury
of marrying them. I know a mother who got
a large family of daughters off her hands by
telling prudent young men in confidence
that the puddings they tasted at her house
were all concocted by her daughters, and that
the dear girls made their own dresses and
hats.

At what age should men marry? I have
heard of them doing so as young as twenty,
but it is useless to argue with people like this
who may be said not to have come to years
of discretion. A man who lived to a very
advanced age accounted for his doing so by
saying that he had never stood when he might
have sat, that he married late, and was soon
left a widower.

When two very young people marry, it is
as if one sweet pea should be put as a prop to
another. Of course much depends upon the
young man. Some men are better fitted to
take upon themselves the duties of marriage
at twenty-five than are others at thirty-five.
Between these two ages is the usual time, and
if men put off much after the last-mentioned
age they are likely to get into the habit of
celibacy which, like all other bad habits, is
difficult to break away from. In this habit
they will continue till they are about sixty
years of age, when a terrible desire to know
for themselves what matrimony is like will
seize them and they will propose right and left
to every eligible lady, until at last they are
picked up, not for themselves but for their
money or their position, or because some one
is tired of being a Miss and wants the novel
sensation of putting “Mrs.” before her name.
It is not natural for a young woman to wish to
marry an old man. “When it is time for
you to marry,” said a father to his daughter,
“I shall not allow you to throw yourself away
upon one of the frivolous young fellows I see
about. I shall select for you a staid, sensible,
middle-aged person; what do you say of one
about fifty years of age?” “Well, father,”
was the reply, “if it is just the same to you,
I would prefer two of twenty-five.”

As to the age women should marry—I don’t
like to burn my fingers with that question.
All I shall say is that if there are some of
them—as it is said there are—not worth looking
at after thirty years of age, there are quite
as many not worth speaking to before that.
Please yourself then, young man, only do not
choose one who is either a child or an old
woman.

AUTUMN.

Envoi.

LILIAN’S FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.

“Now then, jump in, Lil! Hurry up,
young woman! What is the matter
with the girl! Has not the guard just
told us that the train is crowded, and
that there is not another seat?” and
Ralph Moore took hold of his sister’s
arm rather impatiently. Lilian had her
foot on the step; but she still hesitated,
and there was a decided frown on her
pretty face.

“It is quite full too,” she said, rather
crossly, “and it is so hot and stuffy;”
and indeed, a crowded third-class compartment
on a sultry August day is not
a desirable locality; and Lilian’s distaste
and reluctance were only natural
under the circumstances.

“There’s no help for it—in you go!”
muttered Ralph, in a gruff voice, and a
pair of muscular arms lifted the girl in;
and the next moment the guard gave
the signal, and the train moved slowly
away. Ralph grinned triumphantly, as
he lifted his straw hat a little derisively
to his sister. Sheer muscular force of
argument had prevailed over a girl’s
contumacy.

“Little stupid!” he said to himself, as
he whistled to his dogs. “I do believe
she would rather have lost the train
than put up with a little discomfort on
the way.”

Lilian stood helplessly for a moment
with her small Yorkshire terrier under
her arm. No one moved or made room
for her, until a cheery voice from the end
of the compartment broke the silence.

“There is lots of room, miss, between
those two ladies. Let me hold your
basket, ma’am, until the young lady is
settled,” and then, with a discontented
expression, Lilian wedged herself into
the fraction of space assigned for her
use.

“It is too bad of Ralph,” she thought.
“I shall get out at the next station; it
is like the Black Hole in Calcutta; it
is worse than a cattle-pen.” On one
side of her was the inevitable fat
woman with a basket; on the other a
shabby, red-faced widow, with a fretful
baby; then came a couple of loutish-looking
lads. On the seat opposite her
there was a surly-looking man, and an
old labourer in corduroy; two young
market-women, with bundles of vegetables,
and then the owner of the voice.
Lilian regarded him with youthful arrogance
and distrust. He looked like a
shopman; he was a small, undersized
young man, with a round boyish face.
He had a thick crop of red hair, and
looked as spruce as though he was out
for a holiday; his red silk tie and the
scarlet geranium in his buttonhole
seemed to make a flaming spot of
colour in the carriage.

“The sun is in your eyes, miss,” he
observed the next moment; “the curtain
has got wrong somehow; but if
one of you ladies could oblige me with a
pin, I will soon fix it,” and he regarded
Lilian with an affable smile.

{9}

[From photo: Photographic Union, Munich.

“RAINBOW GLORIES FLOODING
FOREST, HILL AND VALE.”

{10}

“It is of no consequence,” she returned
stiffly, drawing herself up. “Please do
not trouble.” In her present temper she
would have rather endured any amount
of discomfort than be indebted to that
very officious, vulgar young man.

“Oh, it is no trouble”—with beaming
good nature. “Thank you, ma’am”—as
the widow gloomily produced a pin—”I
will soon have things ship-shape.
There, miss, you are more comfortable
now.”

But though Lilian thanked him with
some outward show of civility, she was
inwardly chafing under what she chose
to consider his impertinent freedom of
address. She had done her duty and
thanked him, and now she meant to
ignore his existence; but she had
reckoned without her host.

“Beg your pardon, miss,” the brisk
voice began again, “is your little dog a
Yorkshire terrier? I never saw such a
small one before.”

“Yes.” Just this monosyllable and
nothing more. She would keep him in
his place; she was determined on that.

“He’s a real beauty, if I may make
so bold. May I ask his name? I am a
dog-lover, miss, and always was.”

“Her name is Musüme.”

“Eh, what?” A pair of bright blue
eyes regarded her and the dog with
some perplexity.

“Musüme,” dropped from Lilian’s
lips, but she frowned again.

“Is that Latin, miss? It ain’t a word
I know.”

Then Lilian turned almost fiercely
on her tormentor.

“No; it is Japanese.” But her
manner was so repressive; it said so
plainly, “How dare you address me in
this familiar way?” that the young man
flushed and looked a little disconcerted.
This pretty young creature in the white
dress had a decided temper.

“Beg pardon,” she heard him mutter.
“No offence, I hope.” But the next
moment he was on his feet again. The
dust was dreadful; he must close the
window. They were coming to Layton
tunnel; he hoped the ladies would not
be nervous, for he had discovered there
was no light. Here Lilian glanced
furtively at the gas-lamp overhead.
Even when they had entered the tunnel
the voice was still audible at intervals.
“Beg pardon, ma’am.” He had evidently
trodden on the fat woman’s toes.
“Great Scott!” as a shrill whistle
nearly deafened them, and one of the
young market-women called out: “Bless
your heart, ma’am, they are only a-clearing
the way. There is no call to be
frightened. Makes you feel a bit jumpy
in the dark, so it does. Here we are in
the light again, and we are slackening
for the station. Shall I put down the
window for a moment, miss, just to give
us an airing?” But Lilian took no
notice, and the next moment the train
stopped.

The carriage seemed emptying.
First the loutish lads and the surly man
got out, then the labourer and the red-faced
widow, the fat woman and the
two young market-women followed, and
yes—oh, the joy of it!—her red-headed
tormentor was getting out too.

Lilian put down Musüme that she
might stretch her little legs, then she
established herself in the fat woman’s
corner, and pulled the curtain across
the dusty window—the heat would be
more bearable now. Then Musüme
uttered a shrill little bark and fled
growling to her mistress as some one
entered with a flying leap. It was the
red-headed young man. Lilian nearly
gasped, but there was no time to leave
the carriage, for the whistle had already
sounded.

“Just saved myself by the skin of my
teeth,” observed the young fellow, in his
chirpy voice. He had a Graphic and a
bag of greengages, and seemed more
cheerful than ever.

“Like to see the Graphic, miss?”
holding out the paper with an ingratiating
smile that seemed to say, “Let’s be
sociable.”

“Thanks very much, but I’ve seen
it”—distinctly a white lie.

“Dear, what a bad job”—in a disappointed
tone. “I could easily have
got Black and White or the Sketch.”

“Thank you”—in a freezing tone.
“I do not care to read.”

“Ah, you prefer to look at the scenery;
know every yard of it myself between
Layton and Brocklebank. My old mother
lives at Brocklebank.” (Lilian had a
mother, too, at Brocklebank, but she
kept this fact to herself.) “Beg pardon,
may I offer you some greengages?
They are very sweet and juicy.”

“No, thank you,” and then Lilian attempted
a yawn and closed her eyes.
Sleep was never farther from her, but
she saw no other way of reducing him
to silence, absurd and officious as he
was; she had no wish to quarrel with
him; it was evident the poor creature
knew no better, she said to herself, with
a superb tolerance.

Once when the silence had lasted a
long time, she peeped through her fingers
at him.

He was in a high state of enjoyment;
he had the Graphic on his knee, and
the open bag stood at his elbow; his
hat was off, and his red crop gleamed
in the sunshine, his round face and
wide open blue eyes made him look like
a radiant infant.

“I don’t believe there’s any harm in
him; he can’t help being vulgar,”
thought Lilian. “It was really very
good-natured of him to offer to share
his fruit with me; there goes another
stone. Mr. Redhead evidently has a
fancy for greengages.”

Lilian’s sense of humour, always her
strong point, was overcoming her moodiness.
She was just then thinking how
she would dramatise the situation for
Ralph’s benefit, when a sudden shock
hurled her to the other end of the
carriage.

“Beg pardon—hold on, miss—I believe
we are in for a scrimmage, as sure
as my name’s Tom Hunter,” but before
the words were out of his mouth, there
was a second shock; then darkness,
a crash, terrified screams, and then
Lilian heard no more.

“Beg pardon, miss, but if you are
alive——” These were the first words
that greeted Lilian on her return to
consciousness. Where was she? Where
had she heard that voice? Why was
it dark? had she fainted? What was
that heaving substance under her?

“Beg pardon, but if you could move a
little, miss. I am a bit crushed and
numb-like.”

Then recollection returned to the girl.
There had been a railway accident.
They were in it. That poor fellow was
under her. If she could only raise herself;
if she could reach the window.
What was it over her head? Then as
the light of a friendly lantern flashed
across the carriage she screamed loudly,

“Help—help, for mercy’s sake!”

“Shift that lantern, Jones, there is
some poor body here,” exclaimed a voice
near them. Then the door was wrenched
open and strong hands grasped the
girl and lifted her out. “There’s
another down there. I am afraid he is
badly hurt. You had better hail the
chap who says he is a doctor.”

“Come along with me, miss,” said a
second voice; “we are just at the
mouth of the tunnel, but you will have to
clamber a bit over the wreckage. Can
you walk—all right, we’ll be out in a
minute.”

But it looked longer than that before
Lilian saw the blessed sunshine again.

“Then you can sit on the grass,”
continued the friendly porter, “while we
bring the young man round. You are
not much hurt, miss; that’s a blessing.”
And then he hurried off, and Lilian,
shaken and miserable, and bruised all
over, sank down on a patch of long
grass.

She remembered afterwards how gay
the poppies looked, then she hid her
eyes and sobbed, as a broken inert form
was carried past her.

“In the midst of life we are in
death.” The words came to her, and
she said them over and over again. “In
the midst of life we are in death.”
Slow, stumbling footsteps approaching,
but she dare not look up. How could
she know what ghastly burden they were
carrying.

“Steady, you fellows. Lay him down
and put something under his head.
No, there is nothing to be done; but,
poor chap, he will not suffer. I must
see to that broken leg now.”

“Perhaps this young lady will stop
a bit,” observed the friendly porter.
“Help me a moment, mate, while I
shift this ‘ere jacket under his head.
If we had only a drop of something—not
that it would be any good.”

Surely they were not leaving her alone
with a dying man. Lilian started up
in sudden terror; then a feeble voice
arrested her.

“Don’t go, miss—please don’t leave
me; you heard what that chap said”—and
here a pair of boyish blue eyes
looked pitifully at her; then a great
wave of womanly sympathy made Lilian
forget her bruises and nervous fears.

Could that rigid-looking figure—that
colourless face with the grey shade of
death already stealing over the features—be
her light-hearted and officious fellow-traveller?
A sob broke from Lilian’s
lips.

{11}

“Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry!”

“Don’t take on, miss—I ain’t in pain—only
numb and curious-like; but it seems
hard, don’t it”—his dry lips twitching
as he spoke—”that a fellow’s holiday
should end like this.”

“Yes, yes, terribly hard! Is there
anything I can do for you?” And
Lilian knelt beside him, and the tears
were running down her face—some of
the warm drops fell on the motionless
hand.

“Beg pardon, miss, but there’s my old
mother and Susie—Susie is my girl, you
know—she is stopping along of mother
just now”—here the panting voice grew
fainter.

“Tell me your mother’s name. I will
go and see her.”

“Will you now”—rousing up—”I
call that real kind. Mrs. Hunter; she
keeps the sweet-shop in Market Street,
Brocklebank. I am her only son, miss,”
and then almost inaudibly, “she is a
widow.”

“Yes—yes—I will find her. I live at
Brocklebank. Give me your message
please?”

“Tom’s love. And do you think,
miss, you could put your hand in my
pocket, there’s the Testament mother
gave me when I went up to London”—and
then with some difficulty Lilian extracted
a little red book. “Tom’s love, and
tell mother, please, that I minded her
words and read a few verses every day,
and that it helped me to keep straight.”

“I will tell her, Tom—every word.”

“And there’s Susie, miss—I bought a
bit of a brooch for her; it is in my waistcoat
pocket—tell her not to fret; for I
loved her true—aye, I loved her true!
How dark it is getting, miss! Perhaps
you could say a prayer for me?”

“My poor fellow—yes—shall we say
the Lord’s Prayer together.” But after
the first petition Lilian said it alone, the
blue eyes were growing filmy, the hand
she held felt cold to her touch. The
porters had come back and were standing
near, cap in hand; one of them had
tears in his eyes. “Poor chap, he is
going fast, mate,” he whispered. Lilian
heard them, and her voice shook with
intense emotion. “Oh, Saviour of the
world,” she prayed, “who by Thy cross
and precious blood has redeemed us,
save him and help him, we humbly beseech
Thee, O Lord.”

“That is all; every word, Mrs. Hunter.
Does it not make you happy to
know that he read his Bible and kept
straight?” And Lilian looked anxiously
into the mother’s wrinkled face. Tom
had got his blue eyes from his mother.

“Aye, the Lord be praised for that;
but I never feared for Tom. He was
always straight. It seems to me that
he was better than other boys. Never
was there a sweeter-tempered lad,” murmured
Mrs. Hunter. “Susie there will
tell you the same. He was never happy
unless he was doing kind things. Even
as a baby he would give me his crust if
I asked for it. It did not seem as though
he could keep anything to himself.”
And here the widow sobbed and put her
apron to her eyes. “And to think that
my boy, my Tom, was to have his dear
life crushed out of him in a railway
accident! That is what Susie and I
have been saying. If he had only died
in his bed.”

“It seems hard, Mrs. Hunter, almost
cruel, does it not?”—and here there was
a lump in Lilian’s throat. “It was his
holiday, and he was going home to
his mother and sweetheart, but God
called him and he went straight to his
Father’s house instead. Perhaps there
was work for him to do up there. Oh,
we cannot tell, but God knows best, and
he will be waiting there for you and
Susie. You believe that, do you not,
dear Mrs. Hunter?” And then she
added solemnly, “Weeping may endure
for a night, but joy cometh in the
morning.”

INVALID COOKERY.

Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—One pound of shin of beef, one
pint of water, a little salt, a few drops of lemon
juice.

Method.—Take away all skin and fat from
the beef, and shred it finely, putting it as you
do so into a jar with the water, lemon juice,
and salt; put on the lid and let it stand half
an hour; stand the jar on a dripping tin with
cold water, and put it in the oven for two
hours. Stir up, pour off against the lid and
remove any fat with kitchen paper.

Quick Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—Same as preceding.

Method.—Cut the meat up small and let it
stand in the water twenty minutes; put in a
saucepan and let it just heat through, pressing
the pieces against the side with a wooden spoon.

Raw Beef Tea.

Ingredients.—Same as preceding.

Method.—Prepare as in the first recipe for
beef tea; cover closely and let it stand for two
hours; stir up and pour off. This must be
made fresh often as it soon turns sour.

Strengthening Broth.

Method.—Take equal quantities of beef,
mutton, and veal, and prepare in the same
way as ordinary beef tea.

Mutton Broth.

Ingredients.—One pound of scrag of mutton,
one pint of water, two ounces of pearl barley,
salt, a blade of mace, a little chopped parsley.

Method.—Cut as much fat as possible from
the meat; cut the meat up small and chop the
bones; put the meat and bones in a saucepan
with the water, mace, salt and barley, which
should be blanched (see “Odds and Ends”).
Put on the lid and simmer very gently for two
hours. Stir up and pour off against the lid
into a basin; stand in cold water in a larger
basin for the fat to rise, skim well, re-heat
and add a little chopped and blanched parsley.

Essence of Beef.

Ingredients.—One pound of shin of beef, two
tablespoonfuls of water, a little salt, a few
drops of lemon juice.

Method.—Scrape the meat, put it in a jar
with the water, salt, and lemon juice; put on
the lid and stand the jar in a saucepan of
boiling water; let the water boil round it four
hours. Stir up and pour off.

Raw Meat Sandwiches.

Method.—Scrape a little raw beef finely and
put a little piece in the middle of some tiny
squares of thin bread, cover with other squares
and press the edges tightly together with a
knife so that the meat may not show.

Meat Custard.

Ingredients.—One large egg, half a gill of
beef tea.

Method.—Beat the egg and beef tea together
and steam in a buttered teacup for twenty
minutes.

A Cup of Arrowroot.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, one
ounce of arrowroot, one ounce of castor-sugar.

Method.—Mix the arrowroot smoothly with
a little cold milk; boil the rest of the milk and
stir in the arrowroot; stir and boil well, taking
care it does not burn.

Cornflour Soufflée.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, one egg,
one ounce of cornflour, one ounce and a half
of castor sugar, one bay leaf.

Method.—Mix the cornflour smoothly with
a little cold milk; boil the rest with the bay
leaf and sugar; stir in the cornflour and let it
thicken in the milk; separate the white and
yolk of the egg and beat in the yolk when the
cornflour has cooled a little; beat the white
very stiffly and stir it in very lightly. Pour
into a buttered pie-dish, and bake in a good
oven until well thrown up and a good light
brown colour.

Custard Shape.

Ingredients.—Half a pint of milk, two eggs,
quarter of an ounce of gelatine, two ounces of
castor sugar, vanilla.

Method.—Beat up the eggs with the sugar
and milk; pour into a jug, stand in a saucepan
of boiling water and stir with the handle
of a wooden spoon until it thickens; dissolve
the gelatine in it, flavoured with vanilla, pour
into a wetted mould and turn out when set.

Sponge Cake Pudding.

Ingredients.—Two stale sponge cakes,
three eggs, half a pint of milk, two ounces of
castor sugar, a piece of thin lemon rind.

Method.—Boil the milk with the rind and
the sugar; let it cool a little and add the eggs
well beaten; cut the sponge cakes in pieces
and lay them in a buttered tin, pour the
custard over and bake gently until set. Turn
out and set cold.

Lemonade.

Ingredients.—Two large lemons, one quart
of water, a quarter of a pound of castor sugar.

Method.—Pare the lemons very thinly, so
that the rind is yellow both sides, put the rind
with the sugar and the lemon-juice in a jug,
pour boiling water on it, and let it stand till
cold, strain and use.

Barley Water.

Ingredients.—Two ounces of pearl barley,
one quart of water, a small piece of lemon
rind, one ounce and a half of castor sugar.

Method.—Blanch the barley; put it in a
saucepan with the lemon-rind and sugar, and
simmer gently one hour. Strain and use.

Toast and Water.

Method.—Toast a piece of bread until
nearly black. Put it in a jug and pour cold
water on it.

ART IN THE
HOUSE.

HOW TO DECORATE
AND FURNISH A
GIRL’S BED SITTING-ROOM.

PART I.

Doing up old Furniture.

I want to make these articles
entirely practical and within the
scope of the readers of The
Girl’s Own Paper, so I take
a girl’s room—a bed sitting-room,
because I feel sure that I
shall appeal to a wider circle
than if I merely dealt with the
decoration of a sitting-room only,
and I shall hope to show her
how much the girl owner may
do herself in the beautifying of
her “den.” I want to avoid
launching into expense, so I shall
first of all deal with the doing
up of old furniture, for in every
house one finds what may be
called derelicts, articles of furniture
which have outwardly at
least had their day, and yet like
many an old weather-beaten
craft there is a lot of good work
still in them if one takes a
little trouble and spends a
little time in putting on a coat
or two of paint and a little
varnish.

I had myself three such derelicts,
one a chiffonier which had
originally been grained in imitation
of mahogany, but which
had got chipped and worn until
it looked worth nothing more
than firing. Yet as a piece of
woodwork it was in good condition,
for I daresay it was fifty
years old, when furniture was
much better made than it is now.
The first thing was to clean it
thoroughly, and to this end I
got some soft soap and an old
painter’s brush (a good scrubbing
brush will do), and with some
boiling hot water gave it a
thorough cleansing. It took
some time to do this, for the
dirt had collected in the corners,
and the grease from two generations
of dirty fingers had to be
removed. It is most important
where you are going to paint to
have every vestige of grease removed;
otherwise your paint
will not dry. While you are
washing it have a piece of
pumice-stone (procurable at a
good oil shop or decorator’s
colourman), and thoroughly rub
down all the old paint so as to
remove any roughnesses, blisters
or other blemishes, and obtain
a nice smooth surface. Don’t
hurry this part of the work, as
much of the after success depends
upon your preliminary
efforts. Give the furniture a
rinse in clean hot water and
then wipe it dry with an old
towel. The next day or within
an hour or two it is ready for
the first coat of paint.

FIG. 1.—Chiffonier painted white and decorated with stencilling.

{13}

Plain Painting.

I like white painted furniture, so I shall
assume here that you will also paint your
furniture white or cream, and I shall reserve
my remarks on painting in darker tones of
colour for another occasion. White goes
with anything and is easily decorated, as I
shall hope to show. For a girl’s room it
looks cool, clean and dainty. White paint
can be bought ready mixed, either in tins or
by the pound, and if you know a reliable
decorator you might purchase some off him
ready for use, but of course you have to pay
him for his trouble, and what you buy in tins
is not only much more expensive than if you
mix it up yourself, but is often adulterated.
It is very little trouble to mix it yourself, and
about half the price, so I will tell you how to
set about this. Buy at some good oil shop
or decorators say a couple of pounds of white
lead ground in oil, a pint of best linseed oil,
a pennyworth of patent driers and a pint of
turpentine. The whole lot will cost you
about 1s. 1d. A patent tobacco tin with a
lid is a useful thing to keep your paint in, as
when not in use the lid will keep it air-tight,
and your paint will keep for a long time if
not exposed to the air. Cover the lead with
oil and if it is in a pound tin the oil should
be an inch or more above the lead. Stir up
with a palette knife to allow the oil to mix
with the white, and add a tablespoonful or so
of turps, and in a few hours the white will
become the consistency of cream. If you find
it too thick add more oil and a little turps
and the driers, and proceed to strain through
a piece of muslin. If you have another
empty tin strain your paint into it by putting
the muslin loosely over the empty tin, pouring
some colour into the muslin and working it
through by brushing it every now and again
with a hog hair brush. The paint will
gradually pass through the muslin, leaving
any sediment or bits behind, and you then
pour out a little more colour and work
through, and so on until all is strained. You
can finally squeeze the muslin with your
palette knife against the side of the tin, but
be careful not to allow any of the bits to
pass through into your strained paint. The
proportion of turps to oil should be one of
former to three of latter, and of driers a
piece the size of a walnut to the pound, but
the tradesman of whom you buy your colour
will tell you this. The paint for use should
be the consistency of cream (not clotted or
thickened) and should be put on evenly with
a good brush, so you put enough oil and turps
to make it this consistency. The brush is a
very important item, and this is why amateur
painters so often fail; they haven’t a decent
brush to work with. A good house painter’s
brush which has been in use some time is the
ideal tool, and if you can borrow or hire such
a one do. A wide, flat hog, say three inches
wide will do, but it will not hold the colour
that a house painter’s brush will, and the
constant filling of it adds to the labour of
painting. Your brush should carry its colour
so that you only have to use force enough to
work the colour out on to your surface.
You don’t try to load the furniture with
colour, but get on so much as easily passes
from the brush to the wood. In filling your
brush only dip the end into the paint, and
then knock it against the side of pot or tin
so as to distribute it through the hair and then
it will not drop about when you use it. So
many amateurs try to get a lot of colour on
at once, and so get it on too thickly in
places. Remember that you can only get
a good surface by applying some
three or four coats. Your first
coat, as the under colour is dark,
will look very dirty and thin,
but this first coat is only
a grounding one. The
second coat, which must be applied when the
first is quite dry, say in two days, will look
much better, while the fourth coat ought to
look nice and white. A painter to get a good
surface keeps his paint the way of the grain
of the wood. Thus the panel of the door
would be vertical in grain, the drawer front
horizontal. Take the panel for instance. You
will get your colour on using your brush up
and down. When it is covered “stroke” the
paint evenly from left to right, and then
“stroke” it again up and down. This will
distribute the colour evenly, and if you do this
carefully you will obtain a good surface.

Allow plenty of time between each coat,
as to paint over a surface not quite hard will
cause your paint to crack. If you find after
your first coat that there are any cracks or
holes in the old paint take a little of the stiff
white lead, and with a little driers added to it
use it as putty and stop up any places, levelling
it over smoothly with a knife. By the
time your last coat is on such defects ought
not to show. If you decide not to decorate
your furniture, as I have shown in illustration,
then instead of using paint for the last coat
buy a tin of white, ivory or cream enamel and
use to finish. The enamel is not so easy to
get on as paint owing to its sticky nature.
You must apply it freely, but don’t load it on,
for the more evenly you apply it the better
will it look. One coat will suffice if you have
three good coats of paint underneath. When
your brushes are not in use put them into a
gallipot or other vessel half filled with water.

(To be continued.)

FIG. 2.—Top of chiffonier decorated with stencilling. The two plants used are the dandelion and cyclamen.

A NEW PRIZE COMPETITION

A NEW PRIZE COMPETITION

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

BEING
Our Own School of Interesting Information.

Let every girl who wishes for the
next three months to have something
pleasant to think about, and something
sensible with which to occupy her
leisure, read the following—

*     *     *     *

We now start a New Competition
of remarkable interest, and likely,
we believe, to be of great profit to all
who take part in it.

The Subject of it is to be

A Series of Questions and
Answers,

the questions being proposed by the
Editor of The Girl’s Own Paper
and the answers being furnished by our
Readers themselves.

The Competition will extend
over three months, during which time
twelve questions will appear in The
Girl’s Own Paper every other week.
This will give one question to be
answered for every working day, which
should not, we think, prove much of an
exertion for anybody.

*     *     *     *

Prizes and Certificates of Merit
will be awarded to successful competitors.

The Prizes will be worth struggling
for. There will be fifteen of them in all.
Every girl will have a fair chance, and
we have tried to plan so that no one
will have to compete against others who
in age—and for that reason possibly in
information—are greatly superior to
herself.

The Value and Distribution of
the Prizes are here shown—

The Certificates of Merit will be
given to girls of any age who gain the
necessary number of marks. They will
be first, second and third class. The
total number of marks being reckoned
at fifty, all who gain over forty will be
first class; between thirty and forty,
second class; and between twenty-five
and thirty, third class.

These certificates are an important
feature. A girl who gains one of
them—even though she may fail to win
a prize—will have many reasons for
feeling pleased. It will be something
she can take a pride both in showing
and preserving. And when she goes
out into the world, it may be useful as a
proof that she is painstaking and persevering—essential
qualities for all who
would succeed in life.

*     *     *     *

Aim then, girls, first at taking a
prize, and, failing that, a Certificate of
Merit.

But even if you obtain neither,
your work will not be lost. Prizes and
Certificates are of secondary importance
compared with the mental benefit
which will fall to the share of every
competitor, no matter who she may be
or what abilities she may possess.

You will in any case add to your
stock of information; your life will be
richer because of the something you
have stored away in your “knowledge-box;”
you will be brighter because
your mind has been active; and you
will get some laughing into the bargain,
because we must go cheerfully and
happily about everything.

Are not these reasons enough
why girls should enter upon this competition
with energy and enthusiasm?

*     *     *     *

All our readers are cordially
invited to take part. It makes no
matter whether they are regular subscribers
or only occasional readers—all
are welcome.

*     *     *     *

The queries will be of the most
varied kind, and no one need hold aloof
on the ground that the competition will
contain nothing of special interest to
herself. She may count on its containing
something, no matter whether her
tastes run on housekeeping, history,
biography, literature, music, art, or
anything else.

*     *     *     *

For information on which to
base their answers competitors may
go to any sources they please. All we
are particular about is that they put
the answers in their own words and in
their own way.

When it is possible competitors
will, at the foot of each answer, give the
source from which their information is
derived.

No; girls are not forbidden to
ask their friends. In fact, the Competition
may supply subjects for much
useful and entertaining talk, and in this
way be a real boon in many a friendly
circle.

*     *     *     *

A girl may not be able satisfactorily
to answer all the questions—we
shall be surprised if any one is able to
do that. But if a Competitor cannot
answer all let her answer as many as
she can, remembering that to do a little
well is much better than to do a great
deal in a slipshod manner.

*     *     *     *

In judging of the Answers we
shall take note, first of all, of the sense.
First, then, girls, see that the sense is
all right. Next, we shall observe
whether the sense is well expressed.
Be sure you look to that too. Lastly,
the neatness with which the papers are
written will count. It is a matter of
some importance, so don’t forget that
either.

*     *     *     *

The length of the Answers.
The answers are not in length to exceed
one hundred and sixty words, but, if
they only observe this restriction, competitors
may, in the matter of length,
please themselves. We do not, however,
want too brief replies, say a mere
name or date, a yes or a no. Economy
of speech is good sometimes, but not
always.

*     *     *     *

For Example, supposing the question
to be—”Are waves ever really
‘Mountains high?'” It would be
truthful enough, by way of answer, to
write an emphatic “No,” but it would
hardly be a satisfying reply or one of
much value to anybody.

We should all think it much better if
the answer ran, say—

“ARE WAVES EVER REALLY ‘MOUNTAINS
HIGH?’“

“Waves never roll ‘mountains high,’
except by poetic license. As a matter
of fact, it is very rare for waves at sea,
even in furious weather, to exceed thirty
feet in height.

“At Wick, in the far north of Scotland,
where the sea sometimes displays wonderful
energy, waves of about forty feet
in height have been seen to strike the
breakwater.

“The highest waves, however, which
have been accurately measured, had
their dimensions taken by Dr. William
Scoresby, the well known Arctic explorer
and physicist, who made some
valuable observations on the subject in
the Atlantic. He found that they
reached the height of forty-three feet
above the hollow.

“A foreign writer quotes the observations
of others to the effect that waves
have been seen from sixty to a hundred
and eight feet high, but the
evidence may not be trustworthy, at any{15}
rate he does not say how the heights
were ascertained.”

*     *     *     *

A number will be prefixed to
each question—the numbers will run
from 1 onwards—and each answer must
be preceded by a corresponding number.
After giving the number competitors
must also quote the subject of the
query.

*     *     *     *

Every query must be answered on
a separate sheet or sheets of paper—the
writing being on one side of the paper
only—and the sheets when sent in must
be fastened together at the left hand top
corner.

*     *     *     *

About sending in the Answers.
During the course of the competition
answers are to be sent in three times;
the first time the answers from Nos.
1 to 24; the second time those from
Nos. 25 to 48; and the last time those
from No. 49 to the end.

*     *     *     *

When a Competitor sends in her
second instalment of answers she will
kindly place at the head of the first
page—”Answers 1 to 24 sent” (giving
the date), and on sending the third instalment
she will write “Answers 25 to
48 sent” (giving the date).

*     *     *     *

The Time when papers are to be
sent in. Answers to queries are to be
forwarded on or before the last day of
each month during the currency of the
competition. The date however will be
found given at the foot of each set of
queries so that competitors need have
no uncertainty on this point.

As a general rule, subscribers to the
monthly parts will find they have one
clear month for answering each set of
24 queries, and those who take in our
weekly numbers will find they have
longer.

*     *     *     *

The full name, age, and address
of the competitor must be put on the
back of the last page of each instalment.
Should the competitor not wish her name,
age, and address to be printed, she
should add the name of her favourite
flower instead, and this alone would be
published in the pass lists.

*     *     *     *

The papers must be sent by post,
addressed to The Editor, The Girl’s
Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row,
London, E.C.

*     *     *     *

At the left hand top corner of
the envelope or wrapper must be clearly
written the words “Questions Competition.”

*     *     *     *

No papers can in any case be
returned.

Here are the first twelve
Questions:—

The Girl’s Own Questions
and Answers.

Questions 1-12.

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

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

*     *     *     *

12. How fast can an expert penman
write?

The Answers to these Questions,
Nos. 1-12, together with the Answers to
Questions, Nos. 13-24, which have yet to
appear, must be sent in on or before the
30th of December.

VARIETIES.

A great Characteristic of the Bible.

Writing of the poetry and allusions of the
Bible, Dr. Cunningham Geikie points out
one of the great characteristics of the sacred
volume.

“It is not,” he says, “the production of
cloistered ascetics, but breathes in every page
a joyous or meditative intercourse with
nature or mankind. The fields, the hills, the
highway, the valleys, the varying details of
country scenes and occupations are interspersed
among pictures of life from the
crowded haunts of men.

“The sower and the seed; the birds of the
air; the foxes; the hen and its brood; the
lilies and the roses; the voice of the turtle;
the fragrance of the orchard; the blossom of
the almond or the vine; the swift deer; the
strong eagle … the hiring of labourers;
the toil of the fisherman; the playing of
children; the sound of the mill; the lord and
his servants; the courtier in silken robes, and
a thousand other notices of life and nature,
utilised to teach the highest lessons, give the
sacred writings a perennial freshness and universal
interest.”

Delight in Praising.

Walter S. Landor.

A Greek Opinion on Women.

The Greek philosopher, Aristippus, was
once asked by a friend what sort of a woman
he ought to choose for a wife.

His answer was, “I cannot recommend any
sort, for if she is fair she will deceive you; if
plain, you will dislike her. If she is poor
she will ruin you; if rich, you will be her
slave. If she is clever, she will despise you;
if ignorant, she will bore you; and if she is
spiteful, she will torment you.”

Perhaps this opinion of the Greek sage
should be taken with a grain of salt, as the
great thinkers of Greece entertained such perverse
notions of woman’s character that the
question was actually raised among them
whether women had souls!

Tall Men.

“Exceedingly tall men have ever very
empty heads,” writes Lord Bacon.

Thomas Fuller writes more warily. “Often
the cockloft is empty in those whom Nature
hath built many storeys high,” a metaphor
seemingly borrowed from Bacon’s “Nature
did never put her precious jewels into a garret
four storeys high.”

Compare Fuller’s moderate “often” with
Bacon’s sweeping “ever” and “never”
which surely smack of some personal ill-will.
Can it be that the “wisest, brightest, meanest
of mankind” was dealing a side-thrust at
Elizabeth’s tall favourite, my Lord of
Leicester?

The Best Sauce

A prince, overtaken in his walk by a shower,
sought refuge in a wayside cottage. The
children happened to be sitting at table with
a great dish full of oatmeal-porridge placed
before them. They were all eating with a
right good appetite, and looked, moreover, as
fresh and ruddy as roses.

“How is it possible,” asked the prince of
the mother, “that they can eat such coarse
food with such evident pleasure, and look so
healthy and blooming withal?”

The mother answered, “It is on account of
three kinds of sauces which I put into the food.
First, I let the children earn their dinner by
work; secondly, I give them nothing to eat
out of meal-time that they may bring an
appetite with them to table, and thirdly, I
bring them up in the habit of contentment, as
I keep dainties and sweetmeats out of their
way. ‘Seek far and wide, no better sauce
you’ll find than hunger, work and a contented
mind.'”

A Plain-looking Poetess.—”Mrs.
Browning,” says a friend who knew her in
Florence, “was the tiniest of women. There
was something elfish in her bird-like face and
masses of black hair. But she had probably
in her childhood bidden good-bye to the hope
of beauty and had forgotten all about it.
Hence, when her soul looked directly through
the pinched features into yours, what did you
care how plain they were?”

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TO
CORRESPONDENTS.

RULES.

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II. All correspondents to give initials or
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III. The Editor reserves the right of declining
to reply to any of the questions.

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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.

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any other matter of the nature of an advertisement
will be inserted.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

MISCELLANEOUS.