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.

“I WISH THEY WERE ENGLISH.”

All rights reserved.]

{98}

CHAPTER VII.

ON PAROLE.

If the shock of this abrupt arrest of the
whole body of English travellers, who
happened to be within reach of the First
Consul, fell sharply on those at home, it
fell at least no less sharply on those who
were arrested.

An official notice was served upon all
who could, by the utmost stretching, be
accounted amenable to the act. In that
notice, received alike by Colonel Baron
and by Denham Ivor, they were informed
that—”All the English enrolled
in the Militia, from the ages of eighteen
to sixty, or holding any commission
from His Britannic Majesty, shall be
made prisoners of war;”—the reason
given being the same as was alleged in
the version which speedily appeared in
English papers.

The mention of the Militia was, however,
additional; and there was something
else also. It might fairly have
been argued that professional men, men
of business, and men of no particular
employment, could not be included in
the above statement. To guard against
such reasoning the document went on
to explain—”I tell you beforehand that
no pretext, no excuse, can exclude you;
as, according to British law, none can
dispense you from serving in the Militia.”

This notion was made the basis for a
far more sweeping arrest than had at
first been supposed possible. Not only
officers in the Army and Navy, who were
then in France or in other countries
under the dominion of Napoleon, not
only men who had served or who might
be called upon to serve in the Militia,
but lawyers and doctors, clergymen and
men of rank, men of business and men
in trade, all alike were detained, all
alike were forced immediately to constitute
themselves prisoners of war upon
parole, with only the alternative of becoming
prisoners of war in prison, instead
of upon parole.

Those who consented to give their
word of honour not to attempt to escape
were allowed to remain at large, and to
lodge where they would, under certain
limitations. That is to say, they had to
live in specified places, where they were
under the continual inspection of the
gendarmerie, and where they had at
regular intervals to report themselves.
Whether they were soldiers, sailors,
clergymen, or business men, they were
thus at once cut off from their work in
life, and many were debarred from their
only means of livelihood.

As a first move, the mass of the Paris
détenus were ordered to Fontainebleau;
and thither Colonel and Mrs. Baron had
to betake themselves. Thither also
Denham Ivor would speedily have to
follow: though, on the score of danger to
others from infection, a few days’ delay
was permitted.

The question had at once arisen
whether Mrs. Baron should not be sent
to England with Roy, as soon as the
boy might be fit to travel, since women
were theoretically free to go where they
would, provided only that they could
obtain passports. But Mrs. Baron refused
to consider any such proposal.
She could not and would not be
separated from her husband. “Of
course I shall go to Fontainebleau,” she
said decisively. “It cannot be for
long. Roy must come to us there. It
only means leaving his schooling for a
quarter of a year; and he will not be
strong enough for lessons at present.
Something is sure to be arranged soon,
and then we shall all go home together.”

Others were less sanguine of a quick
release; but Colonel Baron could seldom
stand out against his wife, when
she set her dainty foot down. He made
a half struggle, and won from her a
promise that, if he should be ordered
farther away, she would then consent to
Roy’s being sent home. Beyond that
he failed to get his own way.

Long before Roy could be counted
safe for even the short journey to Fontainebleau,
Denham had an intimation
that his going thither might be no
longer deferred. Thus far he had not
thought it needful to tell the boy what
had happened; but now the telling had
become a necessity.

“Den, I want to look out of the window.
Oh, let me look out,” entreated
Roy, as the heavy beat of a drum
sounded. He wriggled on the hard
sofa, where he had begun to spend a
part of each day. Roy had grown thin,
and his eyes blinked weakly when
turned to the light.

“You want to see the soldiers?”

“Yes. Do let me. May I try to
walk to the window all alone? I know
I can.”

Ivor laughed, though not mirthfully.
“Try!” he answered, and Roy made a
brave attempt, actually reaching the
window without being helped.

“Come, that was good. You are
getting on nicely. Now sit down, and
look out for the soldiers. I think they
are coming this way.”

The boy gazed eagerly, flushing.

“I wish they were English,” he said.
“I wish I was in England. When are
we going home, Den? And when may
I see my mamma? I do want to have
Molly again. It’s ages since I saw
Molly—and I want her!”

Denham was silent.

“It was stupid of me to be so glad to
come away from Molly. Nothing is
half nice without her.”

“I am glad you have found that out.
She is a dear little sister, and she would
do anything in the world for you.”

“Oh, well, of course, I know she
would,” assented Roy. “And I always
was fond of Molly too. She gets cross
sometimes, though.”

“Roy never gets cross, I suppose?”

Roy laughed rather consciously, and
then gave vent to a sigh. “Oh, dear, I
don’t like this chair. Not half so much
as the sofa. It makes me tired. I wish
nobody ever had the small-pox. When
shall I be all right again, I wonder? I
do hate being ill such a tremendously
long time.”

Denham picked him up bodily, as if
he had been an infant, carried him
across, and deposited him where he had
been before.

“You have done about enough for
one day. Oh, you will soon be well now;
no fear! And you may count yourself
fortunate, not to have been much worse.
Yours has been a slight attack, compared
with what many people have.”

“I don’t call it slight. I call it a
most beastly horrid illness. Den, when
shall we go home? I want Molly.”

Denham took a seat by his side.

“I am not sure. It may not be just
yet.”

“Why not? I thought we were going
as soon as ever we could.”

“As soon as possible; yes. The
question is, how soon that will be.
Some of us are not able to go yet; but
I am hoping that your father will send
you home, and not let you wait for him
and me.”

“Why, Den?” Roy twisted round
to gaze in astonishment. “Why, Den!
I thought you were all waiting, only just
till I should get over this. I didn’t
know there was anything else. Is there
anything else? Has something happened?
Do tell me.”

“You and your mother are free to go
back to England, as soon as she is
willing to do so. Your father and I are
not free.”

“Aren’t you? Why not? What is
the matter with papa?”

“Nothing is the matter with him, so
far as health is concerned. Only, he is
not free and I am not free. We are
both prisoners.”

Roy’s large grey eyes grew bigger
and rounder.

“Den! Why—Den—what can you
mean? Prisoners! You and papa
prisoners! Why, you haven’t been
fighting.”

“No, we have not been fighting. We
ought not to be prisoners. Such a thing
has never happened before, in any war
between civilised countries. But war
has been declared, as you know was expected
before you were taken ill. And
one of the first things that Napoleon
did, directly war broke out, was to make
all English travellers prisoners of war.”

Roy clenched his fist.

“He professes to have had provocation.
There were French vessels in our
ports, and these were seized, as soon as
our Ambassador had been ordered to
return home. But that was in accordance
with a very old custom—centuries
old. Napoleon’s act of reprisal is altogether
new. It is a thing unheard of—making
war on travellers and peaceful
residents; a disgrace to himself and his
nation. You know what is meant by
‘reprisals’ in war. This is his ‘reprisal’
for the vessels seized. Every
Englishman in France, or in any country
under Napoleon’s sway at this moment,
is declared to be a prisoner.”

“Then I’m a prisoner too.”

“You are under age. Some boys of
your age have been arrested, I believe,
but only because they hold His Majesty’s
Commission in the Navy. Otherwise,
under eighteen you are free.”

“But you are not in prison.”

“I am on parole. I have given my
word of honour not to try to get away.”

“Then you mustn’t escape, even if
you can?”

“No. If I had refused to give my
parole, I should have been at once sent{99}
to prison—probably have been thrown
into a dungeon.”

The boy was as white as a sheet.

“And papa——?”

“Has given his parole also.”

“And—mamma?”

“Your mother is at liberty to go
home, and your father wishes her to do
so, and to take you; but she says she
will not leave him. One can understand
her feeling, and yet it is a pity. In
England she would be safer and better
off. But you know how unhappy she
always is, if she is away from your father
even for a few days. You, of course,
will have to be sent home soon, so as to
go on with your schooling; but at first
you will join us at Fontainebleau. We
hope to be all released in a very little
while. The thing is so disgraceful, that
Napoleon can hardly persevere in it—so
most people say. But we shall soon
see. If we are not soon set free, your
father will no doubt try to persuade your
mother to take you home.”

“Where is Fontainebleau?”

“Some distance from Paris. Don’t
you know the name? Your father and
mother are there already, and now I
have to go too. I have only been
allowed to wait for a few days, because
of your illness, and I must not put off
any longer.”

“Are you going soon? Will you
take me?”

“Not just yet, my boy. You are
hardly fit for the journey. A chill
might lay you by again; besides, other
people might catch the small-pox from
you. So I have settled to leave you here
a little longer, in charge of kind Mademoiselle
de St. Roques. She and
Monsieur and Madame de Bertrand will
see well after you.”

Roy looked very doleful.

“When are you going?”

“I am afraid—to-morrow. But for
that I would not have told you quite so
soon. But you will keep up a brave
heart. You are a soldier’s son, you
know, so you mustn’t give in.”

Roy’s face worked.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.
“That horrid old beast of a Napoleon;
I wish somebody or other would guillotine
him—that I do! He deserves it richly!
Must you go?”

“I’m afraid I have no choice. The
gendarmes have been looking me up;
and if I put off any longer I shall get
into trouble with those gentlemen. I’m
bound to report myself at Fontainebleau
before the evening of the day after
to-morrow. But you will soon come
after me. Why—Roy!”

“I can’t help it. It’s so horrid,”
sobbed Roy, direfully ashamed of himself.
“I—don’t like you to go. I
don’t like you and papa to be prisoners.
And oh—poor little Molly! What will
she do! Den, why does God let such
wicked men be in the world? I wouldn’t.
I’d kill them right off.”

“One can’t always see the reason.
Some good reason there must be.”

“I don’t know how there can be! It’s
all as horrid as horrid, and everything
is miserable!” The boy rubbed his
coat-sleeve across his eyes, only to burst
out sobbing afresh. “I can’t help it,”
he gasped. “Oh, please don’t ever tell
Molly.”

“No, I will not. But Molly would
understand. It is only that you are
pulled down and weak. In a few days
you will not feel inclined to cry. Never
mind, Roy, things will be better by-and-by.
You see, you and I can’t help what
Buonaparte does. He has to answer
for himself. You and I have only to
see that we do our part in life bravely
and rightly and truly. This is rather
hard to bear, but it has to be borne, and
we must try and be cheery for the sake
of other people. Don’t you see?”

Something in the young man’s voice
made Roy ask, “Do you mind very, very
much?”

“What do you think? Wouldn’t you
mind in my place? Roy—if you have
Molly at home, I have—Polly!”

“Oh, it’s just perfectly horrid!”
sobbed Roy. “It’s just as beastly as it
can be!”

Roy had good reason to talk of “poor
little Molly.” Molly’s state of mind
during many days bordered on despair—so
far as despair is possible to a healthy
child. The very idea that weeks and
months might pass before she could
again see her beloved twin-brother was
too dreadful.

“Roy will be sent home, of course.
It is out of the question that he should
be allowed to stay in France. Think of
the boy’s education,” Mrs. Fairbank
said repeatedly. But others were not so
sure.

There is much variety in the different
accounts given at the time, as to the
number of English subjects who actually
suffered arrest. Some estimates amount
to as high a figure as ten thousand, but
these appear to make no allowance for
the rapid homeward rush just at the
last. This assertion may be found in
Sir Walter Scott’s writings, which does
not settle the matter, since strict accuracy
was not his peculiar gift. Other estimates
give only a few hundreds as the
number detained, most of them belonging
to upper ranks in society.

A burning outburst of indignation
took place throughout England, and
the newspapers vied one with another
in wrathful condemnation of the “unmannerly
violation of the laws of
hospitality.”

One serious complication of affairs,
which perhaps had not been foreseen by
the First Consul, when he took this step,
was a deadlock in the exchange of
prisoners, usual in war between civilised
nations.

It was impossible for the English
Government to recognise that men so
unjustly seized were lawful prisoners of
war, by consenting to release, in exchange
for them, French prisoners
lawfully taken. Indeed, from that date
exchange practically ceased altogether;
English prisoners having to languish in
France, and French prisoners having to
languish in England, without this hope
of gaining their freedom before the close
of the war. Some few exceptions were
made in later years, but not many.

After a time an attempt was made by
the body of détenus themselves—this
being the name that they were known
by, in distinction from regular and
lawfully-made prisoners—to obtain their
release. They sent a carefully-worded
petition to the French Minister of War,
entreating to be set free, and offering,
if their petition were granted, to pay out
of their own pockets the value of those
vessels which had been first seized by
the English, as well as to do their
utmost to obtain the release of the
French sailors who had been on board
those vessels. This request was flatly
refused. The French Minister, in his
reply, plainly declared that the English
had not been detained merely on account
of those captured vessels, as was stated
in Napoleon’s manifesto, but for other
reasons as well.

War, once begun, was carried on with
energy by both the English and the
French. Napoleon marched his troops
about Europe, as it pleased him, meeting
with little or no resistance. Germany,
Austria, and other nations, all meekly
and tamely submitted; the only continental
power which had the pluck to
offer even a faint resistance at that date
being little Denmark. Great Britain
alone faced the usurper with a scornful
and fearless determination; and the most
ardent desire of Napoleon’s heart was
to crush the haughty island, which would
have none of his pretensions, and which
refused to bow before him.

As a first step, he did his best to
damage English commerce, by closing
continental markets against her—supremely
careless of the suffering which,
by this move, he inflicted on his own
friends and subjects. But at this particular
game England was the better
hand of the two. At that time ironclads
were unknown; and though the great
three-deckers, with their fifty or seventy
guns a-piece, could not be built in
a day, yet war vessels were of every
description, from such three-deckers
down to merchant ships, hastily fitted
with a few guns, and sent forth to do
their best. In a short time England
had about five hundred war vessels of
divers kinds, large or small, with which
she swept the seas, recaptured such
colonies as had been yielded to France
by the Treaty of Amiens, blockaded
harbours in countries subject to the
First Consul, and made descents upon
French ports, carrying off prizes in
the very teeth of French guns and
fortifications.

Napoleon’s next move was definitely
to announce his intention of invading
England, of conquering the country,
and of making it into a province of
France—a feat more easily talked of
than accomplished. But preparations
for this scheme were pushed forward on
a great scale. Huge flotillas of flat-bottomed
boats, to act as transport for
the invading army, were collected at
various places, more especially at
Boulogne; and at the latter spot a
camp was formed of about one hundred
thousand soldiers, to be in readiness for
the moment of action. Also a fleet of
French men-of-war was being prepared
to convoy the flat-bottomed boats full of
soldiers across the Channel.

(To be continued.)

{100}

HENRY PURCELL:
THE PIONEER OF ENGLISH OPERA.

By ELEONORE D’ESTERRE-KEELING.

On the 25th of November, 1680, there
appeared in the columns of the London
Gazette the following announcement:—

“Josias Priest, who kept a boarding-school
of gentlewomen in Leicester Fields, is removed
to the great schoolhouse at Chelsey that was
Mr. Portman’s. There will continue the same
masters and others to the improvement of the
said school.”

Leicester Fields was in 1680 the name of
that part of London now known as Leicester
Square, and the removal of their school from
this central position to the
village of Chelsea, at two
miles distance, must have
made a considerable difference
in the lives of the
young gentlewomen who
had been confided to the
care of Mr. Josias Priest.
But preparations were just
then being made for a great
event, and the wily dominie
doubtless knew what he
was about when he chose
the drear month of November
for his flitting.

In the great schoolhouse
which had been Mr. Portman’s
there was to be such
a Christmas “break-up”
as had never been known,
and the young gentlewomen
of Mr. Priest’s establishment
had no leisure
to lament the gaieties of
London life, for their
thoughts were fully occupied
by the practising of
their music and their steps,
not to mention such frivolous
matters as the trying-on
of fancy costumes and
the twisting of bright
English tresses into the
coils which should surmount
the dainty heads
of maids and matrons of
classic Carthage.

The new Chelsea school-master
was nothing if not
ambitious, and no less a
thing would satisfy him
than the performance of
an original opera by the
young gentlewomen of his
establishment. To realise
the full extent of this
ambition one must remember
that up to this time
(1680) opera was unknown
in England. The first opera ever written was
Peri’s Dafne, and this had been privately
performed in Florence in 1597. The same
composer’s second opera, Eurydice, was the
first work of the kind to receive public support,
it being performed in 1600, also at Florence.
Opera now slowly found its way across Europe,
reaching Germany in 1627, when Heinrich
Schutz’s Dafne was given at Torgau; and
arriving at Paris in 1659, in which year La
Pastorale, by Robert Cambert, was sung before
a public audience. From this time it made
rapid strides in the French capital, and Lully’s
operatic compositions were regarded as masterpieces.
England, however, still hung back,
not because there was any lack of excellent
musicians in the country, but because the
sympathy and encouragement which are
necessary to the advancement of any art were
not forthcoming.

Under the stern rule of the Puritans, music
had been rigorously suppressed, and the compositions
of our older masters, existing only in
precious manuscripts, had been torn up and
trampled under foot. The destruction of
singing-books was so complete that very few
specimens of pre-Commonwealth music now
exist, and to add to the general ruin, valuable
organs were broken up, the one in Westminster
Abbey itself being pulled to pieces
and its pipes pawned at the ale-houses for
pots of ale.

HENRY PURCELL.

Although the work of destruction was being
thus drastically carried out by Cromwell’s
soldiers, the Protector was not himself without
a strong love for music, and one of the acts for
which musicians owe him gratitude was his
rescue of the organ in Magdalen College,
Oxford. This beautiful instrument he had
privately brought to Hampton Court and
placed there in the great gallery, in order that
he might listen to the music played on it by
his secretary, the poet Milton. After Cromwell’s
death it was returned to Magdalen
College, but eventually it was sold, and it now
stands in Tewkesbury Abbey.

The year of Cromwell’s death (1658) witnessed
the birth of England’s greatest composer.
In a small back street of Westminster, St.
Ann’s Lane, Old Pye Street, there was living
at this time a clever musician called Henry
Purcell. At the Restoration he was made
Gentleman of the Chapel Royal, and in this
capacity he sang at the coronation of Charles
II., when, in order to do honour to the
occasion, he, in common with his colleagues,
received “four yards of fine scarlet cloth to be
made into a gown.” He was also elected
singing-man of Westminster Abbey, and
Master of the Chorister Boys, as well as music-copyist.
This last was
deemed a very honourable
position, and owing to the
wholesale destruction of
church music-books during
the Commonwealth, it was
no sinecure; for it must be
remembered that in those
days there were no cheap
editions of printed music,
and every composition had
to be laboriously transcribed
by hand, printed
copies being very rare and
expensive.

Little is known of the
private life of Henry Purcell,
senior, beyond the
fact that his wife’s name
was Elizabeth, and that
he was the father of the
greater Henry Purcell, the
child whose birth occurred
in the very year in which
his father’s fortunes began
to look up; and in which,
by the accession of
Charles II., there was
given to music an impetus
that was significantly foreshadowed
by the advent
of England’s greatest
musician.

Beneath the grey walls
of Westminster Abbey
little Henry passed the
first years of his life, the
sounds of music constantly
in his ears and in his heart,
and so well had his sweet
baby voice been trained
that, at the death of his
father, when he was but
six years old, he was admitted
as a chorister of
the Chapel Royal. His
father’s brother Thomas,
also a gifted musician,
henceforth took care of the
boy and superintended his education with
watchful tenderness. His teacher at this time
was Captain Cooke, an old man, who had
belonged to the chapel of Charles I., and
who, on the breaking out of civil war, had
turned soldier and fought on the Royalist
side. He had won a captain’s commission,
and now, as a reward for his loyalty, he
was appointed by Charles II. Master of the
Children of the Royal Chapel. Many of the
anthems composed by Purcell, and still in use
in our cathedrals, date from this time, and he
was only twelve years old when he wrote the
ode which he called “The Address of the
Children of the Chapel Royal to the King and
their Master, Captain Cooke, on his Majesties
Birthday, A.D. 1670, composed by Master Purcell,
one of the Children of the said Chapel.”

{101}

At sixteen our composer became a pupil of
the famous Dr. John Blow, one of the greatest
musicians of this time; and now his genius
developed with marvellous rapidity.

Amongst the minor canons of Canterbury
Cathedral, there was one John Gostling, the
fortunate possessor of a bass voice of extraordinary
compass. This man was a great
favourite with Charles II., and on one occasion
the King, having arranged a pleasure trip in his
new yacht, The Fubbs, round the Kentish
coast, desired Gostling to join the party “in
order to keep up the mirth and good-humour
of the company.” The boat had not gone very
far when a terrible storm arose, and the danger
became so imminent that the King and the
Duke of York had to work like common sailors
to help keep the vessel afloat. They escaped,
but the impression made on Gostling was so
profound that on his return to London he
selected those passages from the Psalms which
declare the wonders and terrors of the deep,
and gave them to his young friend Purcell to
compose, the wonderful anthem “They that
go down to the sea in ships” being the result.

It was with reference to this singer that
Charles II. made the bon mot, “You may talk
as much as you please of your nightingales,
but I have a gosling who excels them all!”

In 1680 Dr. Blow resigned his position as
organist of Westminster Abbey in favour of
his young pupil, and thus at twenty-two years
of age, we find Purcell in possession of the
most important musical appointment in the
kingdom. His fame was already secure, but
this year was to put the crown on all his
former achievements, and this crown was to
be twined for him by English school-girls.

Here lyes
HENRY PURCELL Esqr
Who left this Life,
And is gone to that Blessed Place
Where only his Harmony
can be exceeded.
Obijt 21^mo die Novembrs
Anno Ætatis suæ 37^mo
Annoq Domini 1695

In this year Mr. Josias Priest moved his
school for young gentlewomen to Chelsea. In
this year also he conceived the bold idea of an
English opera, and having chosen his subject,
the classic history of Dido and Æneas, he had
commissioned Nahum Tate, a native of Dublin,
who was already known as
co-author (with Nicholas
Brady) of the metrical version
of the Psalms, to prepare
the book. The brilliant
young organist of Westminster
Abbey was engaged
to compose the music, and
so heartily did he throw
himself into the work that
an opera was produced
which could measure itself
against the best existing
productions of Italy, France,
or Germany.

Purcell’s
House

That the music should
have been so surpassingly
beautiful is the more surprising
when we remember
the limitations imposed
upon its creator. With the
exception of the part of
Æneas, which was given to
a tenor, all the parts were
written in the G, or treble,
clef as being the easiest for
young gentlewomen; and
the orchestral accompaniments
were confined to two
violins, a viola, bass, and
harpsichord.

The composer himself played the harpsichord
parts on this first occasion, and the audience
seems to have consisted, as is usual in such cases,
of the parents and friends of the young performers.
The entertainment was pronounced an
unqualified success, and it would indeed have
been a crabbed auditor who could have remained
unmoved while Queen Dido confided
the story of her love to her trusty Belinda, or
listened to the protestations of the faithless
Æneas. Bands of shepherds and shepherdesses,
enchanters and sorceresses, varied the solo
parts with choral song and dance, and towards
the close came that incomparable death-song,
the exquisite pathos and beauty of which still
strike home to every listener. “Remember
me,” sings the forsaken and dying queen to her
faithful Belinda, “but oh, forget my fate!”

Mr. Fuller Maitland says in connection with
this song:—

“It is an inspiration that has never been
surpassed for pathos and direct emotional
appeal. It was this directness of expression
rather than his erudition that raised Purcell to
that supreme place among English composers
which has never been disputed. The very
quality of broad choral effect which has been
most admired in Händel’s work was that in
which Purcell most clearly anticipated him.
In actual melodic beauty Purcell’s airs are at
least on a level with Händel’s.”

{102}

At the close of the performance, the Lady
Dorothy Burk, one of the young gentlewomen
of Mr. Josias Priest’s school, recited an epilogue,
written for her by Thomas D’Urfey.
It is too long to quote entire, but the following
extracts from it may interest our girls of to-day.

Dido and Æneas was not printed until
1840, and even then it was but an imperfect
version of the opera that was given to the
world. Since 1895—the bi-centenary of the
composer’s death—the Purcell Society has
been issuing a complete edition of the works
of the “English Orpheus,” and Dido and
Æneas has now at last come into its right.
During Purcell’s lifetime opera was not held
in high favour in this country, a fact which
is significantly proved by the circumstance
that Dido and Æneas had no successor. In
the Gentleman’s Journal for January, 1691-92,
we find this quaint statement: “Experience
hath taught us that our English genius will not
rellish this perpetuall singing.” Henceforward
our first opera composer confined himself
to incidental music introduced into spoken
drama. A poor perversion of The Tempest,
by Shadwell, was honoured far too highly by
being set to music by him, and only those
parts of the music which were associated with
Shakespeare’s words, such as, “Come unto
these yellow sands,” and “Full fathom five,”
have survived.

An adaptation of Beaumont and Fletcher’s
Dioclesian has fared no better, but it attained
the honour of print during its composer’s
lifetime. It was dedicated to the Duke of
Somerset, and was accompanied by an address
to his Grace containing the following passage,
which is of interest to us to-day, as showing
the respective positions of the sister arts at the
close of the 17th century.

“Music and Poetry have ever been acknowledged
Sisters, which, walking hand in hand,
support each other; As Poetry is the harmony
of Words, so Musick is that of Notes; and, as
Poetry is a Rise above Prose and Oratory, so
is Musick the exaltation of Poetry. Both of
them may excel apart, but sure they are
most excellent when they are joyn’d, because
nothing is then wanting to either of their
Perfections: for thus they appear like Wit and
Beauty in the same Person. Poetry and
Painting have arriv’d to their perfection in our
own Country. Musick is yet but in its Nonage,
a forward Child which gives hope of what it
may be hereafter in England when the Masters
of it shall find more Encouragement. ‘Tis
now learning Italian, which is its best Master,
and studying a little of the French Air, to give
it somewhat more of Gayety and Fashion.”

Dioclesian, backed by the Duke of Somerset,
was successful. It was performed in 1690,
and was said to have “gratify’d the expectation
of Court and City, and got the author
great reputation.”

In the following year Purcell wrote the
music to King Arthur, the work which, next
to Dido and Æneas, holds the highest rank
amongst his secular compositions. The drama
had been written by Dryden, but the entire
plot had to be so changed, owing to the
altered political situation, that the poet, in his
preface, after lamenting the destruction of his
verse, goes on to say—

“There is nothing better than what I
intended than the Musick; which has since
arriv’d to a greater perfection in England than
ever formerly; especially passing through the
artful hands of Mr. Purcell, who has compos’d
it with so great a genius, that he has nothing
to fear but an ignorant, ill-judging audience.”

The immediate success of King Arthur
seems to have been great, though it did not
long hold the stage. The time for works of
this kind was not yet come; in 1770 it was
revived at Drury Lane, with a considerable
access of popularity. Since that time it has
been heard at tolerably frequent intervals, and
a masterly performance was given under the
direction of Dr. Hans Richter at the Birmingham
Festival in October, 1897.

Though Purcell’s life only extended over
thirty-seven years, he had the composition of
odes, on various occasions, for no less than
three English sovereigns. In addition to his
numerous contributions in honour of Charles II.,
some of which have been noted here, he wrote
for the coronation of James II. the two splendid
anthems, “I was glad,” and “My Heart is
inditing.” He also wrote for James an ode
beginning, “Why are all the muses mute?”
There seems to be something of irony in the
fact that he should likewise have been the
author of a melody which, according to
contemporary writers, did more than anything
else to “chase James II. from his three kingdoms,”
but though Purcell certainly wrote
the music ultimately sung to Lilliburlero, it is
no less true that he had no knowledge of the
use to which his melody would be put.
Amongst his minor compositions of this time
were a march and a quickstep, and the Irish
Viceroy, Lord Wharton, was discriminating
enough to recognise that the tune of the
latter, wedded to words by himself, in which
the king and the Papists were held up to
derision, would have an extraordinary effect
upon the masses of the people. The event
proved that he was right. According to
Bishop Burnet, “the impression made on the
army was one that cannot be imagined by
one that saw it not. The whole army, and at
last the people, both in city and country, were
singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had
so slight a thing so great an effect.”

The tune is a bright, gay one, and is now
put to a harmless use by being sung to the
nursery rhyme—

It is also sung by young girls in the south
and south-east of Ireland, while reaping in the
fields, to the words—

and usually has reference to one of their number
who is less nimble than her companions.

James having fled, it was next Purcell’s
duty to compose an ode in commemoration of
the accession of William and Mary. This
was performed at the Merchant Taylor’s Hall,
at a gathering of Yorkshiremen, for which
reason it is now known as the “Yorkshire
Feast Song.”

He wrote odes to St. Cecilia, which were
used at the festival of St. Cecilia’s Day for
several years, the finest of them being the last,
the magnificent Te Deum and Jubilate, written
in 1694. It was the first work of this kind
that had ever been heard in England, and
from the date of its composition till 1713 it
was performed regularly every year. Then
Händel’s great Te Deum and Jubilate for the
Peace of Utrecht was composed, and was performed
alternately with the work of the English
musician until 1734, when Händel’s Dettingen
Te Deum displaced both its predecessors.

In December, 1694, Queen Mary died, and
Purcell composed the music for her funeral.
There were two new anthems, “Blessed is the
man that feareth the Lord,” and “Thou
knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts.”
We have the testimony of one who was
present in the choir on this solemn occasion
as to the effect produced by the noble music.
“I appeal to all that were present,” says this
authority, “as well such as understood music,
as those that did not, whether they ever heard
anything so rapturously fine and solemn, and
so heavenly in the operation, which drew tears
from all, and yet a plain, natural composition,
which shows the power of music, when ’tis
rightly fitted and adapted to devotional
purposes.”

The second anthem, “Thou knowest,
Lord,” has been sung at every choral funeral
in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s from
that day to this, for Dr. Croft, who set the
Burial Service to music, abstained from setting
these words, declaring that the music left by
Purcell was unapproachable.

Only a few months after Queen Mary’s
death the composer also passed away to “that
place where alone his harmony could be
excelled,” and the solemn strains of the
anthem but lately written for the dead Queen
were sung by his friends and colleagues as
they laid the loved master to his rest beneath
the shadow of that organ on which he had so
often played.

Dr. Blow, who had stood aside to let the
younger musician take his place, now resumed
his appointment as organist of Westminster
Abbey; and, facing the memorial tablet
raised there to Henry Purcell, we may see
one placed to the memory of Blow, recording,
amongst other tributes to his mind and heart,
that he was “the master of the famous Mr.
Henry Purcell.”

A collection of “Choice Pieces for the
Harpsichord,” by Purcell, was published by his
widow after his death, as well as two books of
songs called Orpheus Britannicus. Prefixed to
the second of these volumes is an ode from
which, in conclusion, I give a short extract.

{103}

WORDS TO THE WISE OR OTHERWISE.

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

The sunsets at Nairn, N.B., are often beautiful
in the extreme. Last night, however, was
probably an exception, for the sun gave just
one yellow uncertain glare across the wind-chafed
waves, then sank behind a bank of sulphureous-looking
clouds. Darkness came on
a whole hour before its time, and though an
almost full moon was in the sky, the rolling
cumulus eclipsed it. And such awful cumulus
I have never seen before; so black, so beast-like
in shape. To gaze up into the heavens
was like catching a glimpse of some scenes in
Dante’s Inferno.

Then high and higher rose the wind, howling
and “howthering” from off the stormy
Nor’ lan’ sea. Although my caravan is well
anchored down in the wide green meadow in
which I lie, she pulled and dragged at her
hawsers, and swung and rolled like a ship in
the chops of the Channel. But a wild
wind and a van that rocks, bring sweetest
slumbers to the brain of the poor wandering
gipsy, and it was well-nigh six this morning
before I opened my lazy eyes.

The sea out yonder is an ocean of blue ink
flecked with snow-white foam; for the storm
still blows, though less fiercely. Beyond the
Moray Frith sunshine and shadow are playing
at hide-and-seek, and so bright are the colours
of woodland and fields, their deep dark
greens, their yellows and the touches of
crimson on the beetling cliffs, that they bring
vividly to my recollection the awful pictures I
used to paint when a boy of eight or nine.

It is already well on in the fa’ o’ the year,
and I am still 700 miles from my English
home. But there is a sting in the air now,
both morn and even, which sharply touches
up one’s kilted knees. Wonderfully bracing,
however; there is health in every breeze, and
I believe my girl-readers, who happen to
possess anything having the slightest resemblance
to a constitution, should go out for
exercise in all weathers.

And now let me give a few hints in paragraphs,
which I feel certain will appeal to
many of my readers.

Unnatural Deformities.

By this I mean those which are not
congenital, such as club-foot, for instance;
deformities, in fact, that girls bring on themselves.
I will go down as low as the feet
first. Well, it is, of course, greatly to be
deplored that Providence did not give you
feet to fit your shoes; but really, to compress
the feet means perpetual discomfort and
danger. Cases of headaches and extreme
nervousness may often be traced to the
wearing of tightly-fitting boots or shoes.
Pimples or acne, red nose, dyspepsia and
varicose veins may also be produced through
the same cause. Nearly all deformities of
the feet can now be removed by surgical
appliances. Flat foot, or want of arch, is one
of these. It is not only remediable, but it
should be remedied.

The toes ought to have play in a shoe, else
girls can never walk, or dance, or play tennis,
or golf gracefully. God never meant your
foot to be all one solid lump squeezed into a
shoe three sizes too small for you, or depend
upon it He never would have given you toes.

Corns will not form—whether hard or soft—on
the foot that wears a nice smooth stocking
and an easy-fitting boot. The nails should be
attended to every morning or evening after
the bath, and ought to be cut square off, and
not down the sides, else the consequence may
be an in-growing nail and painful ulceration.

Never sit long with your legs crossed one
over the other. It interferes greatly with the
circulation, and may cause varicose veins.

Bent spine.—This is preventible in many
ways. When writing, reading or typing do
not lean forward; sit erect, and keep even the
neck straight. Throw the shoulders well back,
and thus will you expand chest and lungs.
The same rule holds good if cycling. All
kinds of exercises should be taken that tend
to develop the muscles of the chest and give
plenty of room for heart and lungs. Tight-lacing
causes shocking and dangerous deformity,
displacing all the internal organs and
interfering with their work, so that your
tight-laced girls are at best but hanging to
life by the eyelashes, and the man who marries
such a one is no better than a fool.

Pure Blood.

Blood purifiers sold in shops are one of the
swindles of the age, and the time is not far
distant, I hope, when quackery will be
banished entirely from the British Isles.
Meanwhile beware of everything you see on
a chemist’s counter that bears a government
three-halfpenny stamp.

You cannot be happy, it is true, if the
blood be impure, and moreover, while it is
so you are far more liable to catch colds and
coughs and any ailment that may be epidemic,
such as influenza.

Rules for Keeping the Blood Pure.

1. Never eat to repletion. If you eat
slowly you will not do so.

2. Avoid too much sugar and pastry,
especially if you have a slight leaning towards
embonpoint. The lean may use sugar, but
not the round-faced and obese.

3. Good ripe fruit before breakfast.

4. The morning bath to keep the skin
pores open, and thus reduce the work of
the internal excreting organs.

5. A large tumblerful of hot water with a
squeeze of lemon in it, after the bath.

6. No tea in the morning, but coffee,
cocoa, or hot milk.

7. Eat slowly, masticate well. Never get
into an exciting argument at table.

8. Be regular in all your habits, and sleep
with your windows open.

Thus shalt thy blood be pure.

The Eyes.

Now that the nights are getting long, and
we have to read by lamp-light, by electric,
or gas-light, a word about the eyes may be
opportune. Don’t therefore try or tire your
eyes too much. Read in a good light.
Remember that tiring the eyes means tiring
the brain, for the nerves of sight issue therefrom.
Students should frequently bathe brow
and eyes in the coldest of water, and rest
awhile on the sofa with a newspaper over
the face.

Eyes and health go hand in hand, and if
your liver or stomach be out of order, the
eyesight will become more or less dim for a
time. It is most important therefore that
girls engaged in study, or who do office work,
should make a point of keeping their health
well up to the mark.

Cycling for Young Girls.

Cycling is revolutionising the kingdom,
partly for good, partly, alas! for harm. But
I want to warn parents against permitting
children of too tender years to cycle. Remember
I myself might be called a cyclomaniac.
Many is the article and many the
book I have written on this charming method
of pedal progression, but I never have been
a scorcher.

I say, and fear no contradiction, that no
girl should be permitted to mount a bike,
until she is eleven or twelve years of age,
and even then she must ride in moderation.
Else years and years of ill-health and trouble
are in store for her in after-life. Children
should be taken good care of when out
cycling, and those with them should ride in
moderation, else the child will kill herself in
trying to keep up.

The same may be said about club-cycling
for young men. Just as there is always a
tiny wee “drochy” in a litter of pigs, so in a
club out for a spin there is always one or
more poor white-faced visions of lads that a
Chinaman could whip, and it is pitiful to
gaze on their weazened white bits of perspiring
faces as they bend over their bars and
try to keep up. Such brats often smoke too.
Alas! alas! but there is one consolation,
they soon sink into their morsels of graves,
and the world wags better without them.

Poverty of Blood.

This is usually called “Anæmia.” The
words of a fellow-practitioner in a recently
published medical journal are so good that I
make no apology for transcribing them for
your benefit.

“It is doubtful, in my mind, whether the
average doctor realises the frequency of
anæmia. I am sure that if the general
practitioner gave due attention to the factor
anæmia, we should have comparatively few
cases of disease extending into the chronic
stage. Too few physicians are accustomed
to take into account all the elements of every
case, including this, the most prevalent and
essential of all. Any disease that depletes
the system and draws largely on the vital
forces will involve the condition we call
anæmia. On all such occasions, it is of the
first importance for the doctor to be constantly
on the look-out for this condition.
The best means of diagnosis is microscopic
examination of the blood, to determine its
quality from the number of red corpuscles
and the proportion of hæmaglobin, and also
as to its freedom from bacteria.

“As to the treatment of anæmia, blood,
in my opinion, is undoubtedly the only agent
that can absolutely restore the normal condition
of blood. Iron has long been the
favourite remedy with the profession for the
treatment of anæmia. But a careful study of
clinical cases, and careful perusal of the
opinions of the most intelligent medical
men, will elicit the fact that this remedy will
not all the time produce the most satisfactory
results. In fact, the majority of physicians
will tell you that iron will act favourably up
to a certain point only. Why is this? It is
because iron preparations are not readily
absorbed, and because they can only stimulate
cell proliferation, but cannot help the deficient
nutrition of the proliferating cells.
It is for this reason that, as much clinical
experience has proved to me and many others,
patients put on iron and other so-called
blood tonics seldom make any permanent
improvement. The agent that brings results
clinically is one that not only causes rapid
cell proliferation, but supplies the new-born
cells with direct nutrition, thereby causing
them to proliferate in turn; thus finally restoring
the blood to the normal standard.”

Well, au revoir, girls, till we meet in bleak
December. And just let me thank the
G. O. P. lasses who visited my caravan this
year in Scotland, and brought me smiles and
pretty flowers.

{104}

THE NEW SOPRANO.

{105}

ORPHEUS.

By “A. N.”

FATHER ANTHONY.

By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY.

CHAPTER II.

Sixteen years had sped by, leaving their
footprints behind them. Sir Ralph Travers
was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his
stead at Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and
with her, almost as a daughter, the little
Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech
tree, but now grown into a graceful young
woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of
the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion
of the niece, whose loving care and
attention was the more appreciated now that
the mainstay of the house was often away at
his duties. Hugh was an officer in the army,
and, like his father before him, had sided with
his king, and more recently with that unfortunate
monarch’s son. But at this moment
the affairs of royalty were not prospering.
The fatal fight at Worcester had taken place
the previous day, and already rumours had
reached Combe as to the result. A packman
had arrived at the village, and had told how,
on his journey that morning, he had seen
parties of Cromwell’s Ironsides searching the
country for remnants of the royal troops. The
news had quickly been carried to the Abbey,
increasing the already terrible anxiety of the
two ladies. They were well aware that Hugh
was in the battle, for he had sent them word,
by one of his troopers, only a few days previously
as to his whereabouts. But what was
his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a
fugitive? Was he killed? Lady Travers, as
she sat alone in her chamber asking herself
these questions, felt that definite news, even if
it were the worst, would be better than the
fearful uncertainty that was crushing her.
Cecily had been with her, doing her best to
appear cheerful and minimise the perils of
the situation, though the part she played was
that of a would-be deceiver as far as her own
convictions went. She knew Hugh would
be no lag-behind where danger threatened.
He was not one to hang back when his right
arm was needed, and she felt that if he had
escaped a soldier’s fate it was only through the
intervention of Providence, and not from any
regard for his own safety. She had striven to
put a bold face on the matter, but the terrible
anxieties of the mother had communicated
themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on
that September evening she found it impossible
to remain longer without breaking
down, and on some trivial plea had quitted
the room. Passing down the broad oaken
staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping
herself in her cloak, which she had that
morning left on one of the chairs, she drew the
hood over her head and went out into the
garden. She felt she could breathe more
freely there, and relax the strain on her
countenance, since there was none to watch
her. But her anxiety was not relieved by one
tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less
heavily on her here beneath the shy stars that
were just beginning to peep than in her lady
aunt’s chamber. Her heart and her thoughts
were with her soldier cousin, and once and
again she paused in her walk to listen, as she
fancied she caught the sound of galloping
hoofs and the clatter of steel in the village
below. But all seemed at peace. The wind
had sunk with the sun, and hardly a leaf
stirred. The sounds that met her ears were
only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and
labourers discussing the news of the day in
front of the tavern door. Her steps had led
her some short distance from the Abbey among
the clumps of evergreens that formed a screen
on its eastern front. It was darker there, and
the loneliness and gloom suited her state of
mind. She wandered on with bent head, lost
in thought, until the cracking of a dry twig{106}
recalled her to herself. She looked up, and
fancied she could see the boughs of a laurel on
her right move. The next moment she heard
her own name whispered—

“Cecily!”

She started back frightened, and would
have turned and fled, but the next words
reassured her.

“‘Tis I—Hugh—make no sound!”

“Hugh? And you are in danger! I know
it—we have heard all”; and the girl stepped
forward and thrust her hand among the
branches, when it was seized and held.

“Yes, they are after me—hunting me down
as though I were some red deer. They will
soon be here. It was my last chance or I
would not have come, bringing peril to my
mother and you.”

“No, no; ’tis your home. It was right you
should come; we may help you—you must
hide; but where? I know of no spot in
the house which would not be instantly
discovered.”

“The house will not do. I must not be
seen by a soul but you. No one must know I
am near the place. Hark!”—and far away in
the distance could be heard the clatter of
galloping horses and the rattle of steel.

“Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can
we do—what can we do?”

For answer the young man pushed his way
through the branches, and, standing beside his
cousin, said:

“What is this you are wearing, child?”

“My cloak.”

“The very thing! Give it to me”; and as
he took it off her shoulders, “Now go and see
that there is no one in front of the house. It
will be in shadow at present, till the moon is
higher, and, thank God, there will not be
much of that this night, for she is yet but
young; if none be about, then raise your
kerchief to your face and continue your walk.”

“And you?” asked Cecily, as she turned
back down the path.

“Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the
horses rising the hill.”

Cecily made her way along the front of the
Abbey, and then, turning, retraced her steps
with her handkerchief held to her face. She
did her best to assume the manner of a person
taking a careless evening stroll, but at the
same time her eyes were on the alert, and she
could just discern the figure of her cousin
creeping along close to the wall of the Abbey,
until her steps carried her beyond, and she
dare not turn her head for fear the simple
movement might be seen by someone and
attract attention. In a few minutes she had
reached the evergreens again, and here she
once more turned, and again passed in front of
the Abbey; but, though she scanned the building
as well as she was able through the
gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.

Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What
had become of him? There was no door
near through which he could have entered the
house, and the cessation of the slight scrunching
of the gravel beneath his feet had told her
that he had not proceeded further. But she
had small space for conjecture, for there were
galloping steads on the drive leading to the
house, and the next moment she found herself
surrounded by a number of the dreaded
Ironsides.

“Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that
maiden, and bring her within the house; she
may possess the information we desire.
Sergeant Piety, follow me with six men. The
rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround
the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go
out or come in, and search the bushes and
thickets.”

“What is the meaning of this, sir?”
inquired Cecily, assuming an indignant and
surprised air, in answer to the commands
given by the leader of the party.

“I wot ye know full well already, maiden;
but if it be otherwise, ye shortly shall know.
Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to
your duties.”

Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was
led back into the house, and here the leader
took up his position in front of the huge
fireplace and kicked the logs on the hearth
into a blaze, as he indicated the spot where
his prisoner was to stand. After warming his
hands a moment or two in silence, he turned
about and said:

“One of you remain here with the maid
and me; the rest search the house, and mind
ye find him, for he is here. We have certain
knowledge of the fact. Leave no hole or
corner unvisited, but bring him before me
alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what
gentle means may do in this direction”—nodding
towards the girl.

The troopers separated, some making their
way to the kitchen and chambers on the
ground floor, while others mounted the stairs
to the upper rooms and attics.

Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in
face of the peril. In after times when she
came to think it all over she wondered at herself,
but she recalled the fact that at the moment
she was well-nigh certain her cousin was not
on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the
Abbey, and she had felt that if there were a
safe hiding-place to be found his intimate
knowledge of his own home would stand him
in good stead in the emergency.

“Well, maiden, where is this traitor?
You had best speak at once, and save time
and trouble, for I doubt not you are well
informed of his movements.”

“We have no traitors among the dwellers
at Combe Abbey, sir, and if there be any here
now they are no welcome guests, I promise
you,” replied the girl calmly, looking the
officer straight in the face.

“I would have you keep a civil tongue in
your head, as becomes a modest maid,”
replied her interrogator. “Tell me at once,
where is this pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?”

“I know of no ‘pestilent rogue’ of that
name, though that same name is the property
of my cousin and the owner of this house.”

“And he is here at this moment.”

“Is he? Then why detain and question me,
since you are so well informed? Permit me
to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who
is but poorly, and who will be disturbed by
this unwonted turmoil, for Combe Abbey is a
peace-loving house.” And Cecily made as
though she would cross the hall and mount
the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid his
hand on her arm and detained her as the
officer continued:

“Stay where you are, wench; this giddy
talking will avail you nothing.”

“Sir, methinks those that preach would do
well to set an example,” said Cecily, with a
slight curl of disdain on her lip.

“Ah, in what way mean you?”

“Those that prate of civil tongues should
be possessed of the same.”

“Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy
slut!”

“After that I listen to no more of your
instructions, sir. I will not have you as my
master”; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference
to the officer, who, losing his temper,
said loudly—

“A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh
Travers?”

“I know not.”

“But he is here.”

“So you tell me.”

“You have seen him.”

“So you say.”

“I will have him!”

“That is as may be. Can I tell you ought
else?”

“I can tell you that it will be the worse for
all here if he be not given up at once. The
Lord Protector has his eye upon this house.”

“Then I wonder he has not seen the
owner, since you say he is here.”

“Faugh! ‘Tis folly to bandy words with a
woman! Ah, here is something!”—as a
trooper was seen coming down the stairs
leading Lady Travers.

At the sight Cecily broke away from her
captor, and, running to meet her aunt, offered
her arm as a support.

“What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?”
asked the old lady.

“It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman
has brought us news of Cousin Hugh, since he
asserts that he is here.”

“Hugh—here? Where? Why was I not
informed?”

“Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready
with her tongue, and by verbal quips has been
endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin’s
presence here.”

“Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I
have not seen my son for this many a long
day. Would God I had! But that he was
with the army at Worcester we know full well,
since he sent us word of the fact but a few
days since.”

“You hear, sir?”

“Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and
I will——”

“As you will, sir. The word of a lady
counts nought with a soldier nowadays, it
seems.”

The officer gave a glance at the young girl
as if about to frame a retort, but it may be
the presence of Lady Travers deterred him,
for with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to
the troopers and bade one of them follow him
upstairs, while the other remained as a guard
over the ladies. This latter man—the one
who had brought Lady Travers from her room—appeared
to possess some shade of good
feeling, for as soon as his officer had disappeared
he withdrew to the other side of the
hall, leaving the ladies practically alone in
front of the fire, where they could converse
undisturbed.

Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear
as unconcerned as possible, informed her aunt,
in a tone that could easily reach the sentry’s
ears, how her evening stroll had been so rudely
interrupted by the soldiers, and how she had
been made a prisoner and detained in the hall
while the house was being searched. Lady
Travers, being totally unconscious of the near
presence of her son, had nothing to conceal,
and therefore, all unknowingly by what she
said, ably seconded Cecily’s efforts. It was
in this way the ladies conversed for some time,
until the captain descended the stairs after
what, from his manner, had evidently been an
unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied
him with questions as to her son’s fate. These
he answered grudgingly, as though doubting
their genuineness.

Meanwhile the servants had been driven
into the hall like a frightened flock of sheep,
and were each interrogated in turn; but their
answers threw no light on the subject, and the
officer’s expression at the conclusion of the
examination was more puzzled than at the
commencement. He sent for Lieutenant
Champneys, and on his arrival he could report
no better success than had attended his
captain. Not a soul had been seen outside
the building, save the grooms in the stable-yard;
the gardens, the park and the plantations
had been searched without a trace being
found. There were no suspicious circumstances;
no one seemed to wish to conceal
anything; no obstacles had been placed in
the way, and yet, from certain information
possessed by the officer, he knew that Hugh
Travers, if he had not actually been in the
house or grounds, had been very close to them.
He was baffled. He had anticipated an easy{107}
capture, but instead of that the chances of one
seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh
Travers was not the only fugitive on whose
head was set a price; there were others
suspected of being in the neighbourhood, and
it would be folly to sacrifice all for the sake of
this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was
piqued by Cecily’s taunts, and loth to own himself
defeated. At any rate, he would make
one more effort. He himself would go round
the outside of the Abbey, and Cecily should
accompany him. The moon had risen by this
time, and there was more light than when
he had arrived. He might possibly to able
to discover something, or the girl might
betray herself in some way, though he was by
no means so certain now as he had felt at
first that she had anything to betray.

Cecily offered no objection to his request
for her company, and, having sent one of the
maids for a wrap, they set out together. At
first little was said by either of them, but then
it occurred to the girl that the sound of her
voice might act as a warning of danger to her
cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at
hand, and she commenced to talk loudly and
rapidly about anything that came into her
mind.

They were passing the front of the Abbey,
and, as the faint moonlight fell upon the grey
stone face, making the shadows that lingered
in the corners still more deep, Cecily was
pointing out the windows of the various
rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved
above the doorway. “And higher up,” she
continued, “are two niches, in the one stands
the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of
the house, for, as its name must have informed
you, sir, it was formerly a religious house, and
I trust it is worthy of the designation now,
though in a slightly different sense; and in
the other—— Oh!”—and Cecily swayed, and
almost fell, but the next moment caught the
arm of her companion and steadied herself.

“Ah, what is it?” exclaimed the officer,
looking round suspiciously.

“Forgive me,” said Cecily, looking on the
ground as if seeking something. “It was
very sharp at the moment. A newly broken
flint, I suppose. May I take your hand for
a minute? It is hard to see where one puts
one’s foot in this light.”

“Certainly, madam,” said the officer, rather
pleased than otherwise; for, though a Puritan,
he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially
when no one was by to see him. “I trust you
feel better already?”

“I thank you, sir—yes.”

“You were saying——”

“Ah, yes—about the niches. In one was
placed the figure of Abbot Swincow, and in
the other that of a Father Anthony, who was
supposed to have aided him in the building
and institution of the house. But they have
suffered much through time and weather, and
now bear but small resemblance to the originals,
I trow.”

“As a true servant of the Lord Protector it
is my duty to destroy such images, as contrary
to the tables of the law, and being the
work of men’s hands, but other business is
to the fore at the moment, and the capture of
rebels is a more meritorious employment than
knocking off the heads of statues.”

“Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your
time, seeing it is some hundreds of years since
they took up their position.”

“Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks
are not seemly in a woman, nor in a man
either, seeing the days are evil. You and I
have got on better since you have bridled
your tongue.”

“As you will, sir; and now, if it be your
pleasure, I will lead you to the gardens and
stables.”

“Ah, trooper! Any news?”—as a figure
approached them from out the gloom.

“None, captain—not a living soul—not so
much as a rabbit has crossed my path.”

“Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your
ears and eyes open, and we may yet prevail.
Lead on, maiden.”

Round the gardens, through the stables, up
into the loft and store chambers went the
captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the
time, but in a lower tone and far more
naturally than before the stumble on the
gravel in front of the Abbey.

At length the round was completed, and as
the officer again entered the hall with Cecily,
he said—

“Well, all has been done that can be done.
The man I want is not here. He must have
passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot
wherein to rest. But I’ll have him yet.”

“That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case,
I trust that you will not deem either my aunt
or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you
all the help in our poor power in your search.”

“Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have
done all you can to aid the ruler of this realm.
You have done your duty.”

“I have,” thought Cecily, though she
merely bowed modestly and kept silence.

“Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the
men together; we must away.”

“Not before you have supped with us, sir?”
said the courteous Lady Travers. “Combe
Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were
he friend or enemy.”

“I thank you, madam—not to-night. There
is work to be done, and the soldiers of the
Lord think less of their stomachs than their
duty.” And going to the door, the officer
watched the mounting of his men.

It was then that Cecily found the opportunity
to whisper to one of the serving-men.

“Count how many there be, Roger, and then
away to the village through the orchard and
see if the numbers be the same there, and that
they have left none behind to spy. Bring me
word as soon as may be.”

A few minutes later, and with a farewell
salute, the officer led his men down the avenue,
and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.

It was after supper, and when Lady
Travers had retired, that Roger returned.

“The number was the same, mistress, and
I followed them a good two miles or more,
and none fell out.”

“That is well, Roger; then we may have
peace again for a time. And now to bed, for
we are all upset by this night intrusion.”

But there was little sleep for Cecily. When
all was quiet she stole down to the larder,
and made up a packet of food, and with this,
and a roll of twine in her hand, she quietly
made her way on to the leads. “Father Anthony
must be starving,” she said to herself,
as she fastened her parcel on to the string, and
then cautiously looked out over the parapet.
The whole world seemed asleep in the waning
moonlight. There was not a sound to be
heard; the lights in the village below were all
extinguished; it was as though she stood on
some eminence, gazing over an uninhabited
land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was
need of care, and it was scarcely above a
whisper that she breathed the words, “Father
Anthony!” as she leant forward, and looked
into the dark shadow below.

“A blessing rest on your head whoever
you may be!” were the words that came upwards
in reply, almost like an echo.

“It is I—Cecily. And I have somewhat for
your sustenance, father, since vigils such as
yours cannot be maintained without support.”

“And ’twill be right welcome, for I am
famished and cold and cramped to boot.”

The parcel was lowered, and again for a
time there was silence, until at length came
the direction—

“Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have
finished, and now must away. The place is
clear of the bloodhounds?”

“Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger
watched them half-way to Meerdale.”

“Then I will double back on their tracks,
and may yet get off with a whole skin.
Think you Roger could bring a suit of
peasant’s clothes to the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow
evening?”

“Of a surety, yes.”

“Then bid him place it in the rafters above
the door and return at once. He will not
see me.”

“It shall be done.”

“My mother—does she know I am here?”

“No one knows but me.”

“Then tell her not of my coming. I hope
to reach France, and if so will send you
word. Till then tell her nothing. And now
go; you must be nigh spent with what has
taken place to-night. But ’twas bravely
done, and has saved my neck. I heard every
word as you led that bear on his wild-goose
chase. And you uttered no wiser one than
the ‘Oh!’ as you feigned to tread on something
sharp and hurt your foot. But away
with you. We will talk of all this in happier
days to come, please God. I would I could
kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a
brave heart, little girl, and Father Anthony
shall enjoy his own again in good time.”

“Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints
have you in their keeping!”

And again there was silence over Combe
Abbey, save for a rustling in the ivy.

More years have passed, and merry England
is itself once more. Laughter and mirth
have ascended the throne side by side with
the restored king. And nowhere in all the
land is there more happiness than at Combe
Abbey in the “West Countree.” The lord of
the soil is home again, and the villagers are
busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on
the morrow he takes to wife his cousin,
Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple,
seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath
the copper-beach, gaze on the old grey Abbey
and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to
the night when it afforded shelter to the
second Father Anthony.

[THE END.]

{108}

CHINA MARKS.

ENGLISH PORCELAIN.

PART II.

The Swansea Works.

The introduction of porcelain manufacture
into the earthenware factory of Swansea was
due to Messrs. Hains & Co. towards the
close of the last century; but it was of an
inferior kind. In 1802 Mr. Dillwyn purchased
the works, and in 1814 they had arrived at
great perfection under the management of
Billingsley. The former retired in 1813 and
was succeeded by his son. The next year the
porcelain manufacture was revived and carried
on for about seven years very successfully;
Baxter, an accomplished figure painter, having
entered the service of Mr. Dillwyn, junior,
and continuing with him for three years, but
returning to the Worcester works in 1819.

Dillwyn’s china seems to have been, as a
rule, distinguished by the impressed or stencilled
name (in red) “Swansea,” also the
tridents, as illustrated.

The factory was closed about the year 1820,
John Rose of Coalport having purchased the
plant and removed it to his own works.

Sometimes the name “Swansea” is stencilled
in red and sometimes impressed only.
A very scarce mark is “Dillwyn & Co.”; also
the two words stamped in capitals are enclosed
in lines all round.

Derbyshire Works.

Derbyshire porcelain represents four different
periods, the manufactory having been founded
by William Duesbury, of Longton, Staffordshire,
in 1781. It was formed from the Bow
and Chelsea china, the founder having purchased
part of the plant of the former factory
and the whole of the works of the latter,
carrying on the Chelsea and Derby works
simultaneously. His son succeeded him in
1788, taking Michael Kean into partnership;
who ultimately disposed of the works to
Robert Bloor (in 1815), at whose death they
were closed. But a small factory was opened
by Locker, Bloor’s manager, which afterwards
passed into the management of Messrs.
Stevenson, Sharp, & Co., and then Stevenson
& Hancock. In the hands of Robert Bloor
the manufacture declined in excellence.

The earliest mark is a “D” or the name
“Derby” incised or painted in red. On the
union of the works with those of Chelsea and
Bow there was an indication of the combination
as seen in the second and third illustrations
given (a “D” crossed horizontally by an
anchor), and the crown was added above the
anchor after the Royal visit in 1737, the
mark being, as a general rule, painted in blue.
The crown, crossed batons, dots, and letter
“D” were painted diversely, sometimes in
gold, blue, or puce, and subsequently in
vermilion. Later on three Chinese marks
were employed, known as “the potter’s
stool,” the Sèvres mark (a “D” in the centre
and crown above), and the crossed swords of
the Meissen factory. The batons in early use
are now transformed into the swords by the
present manufacturers, Stevenson & Hancock,
and they have added their own initials; the
whole device (crown, swords, dots, and
initials) surmounting the letter “D,” as will
be seen in the last illustration.

It was in the third epoch of the manufacture
of what is distinguished as the “Crown
Derby,” that porcelain works were established
in the same county by John Coke at Pinxton
(near Alfreton), 1793-5. Fine transparent,
soft paste was used there; but the factory
was closed in 1812. The patterns distinguishing
this ware was a small sprig copied from
the Angouleme porcelain—such as a blue
forget-me-not, or cornflower, and a gold sprig.
At Church-Gresley and at Winksworth (in
the same country) there were other factories
connected with the name of Gill, but undistinguished
by any special marks.

The counterfeit mark employed at times on
the Worcester china was likewise used on
genuine Derby work, a sign borrowed from
the Meissen factory to which reference has
been made. The Duke of Cumberland, Sir
F. Fawkner, and Nicholas Sprimont (a
Frenchman) were amongst the first proprietors,
and were succeeded by the latter
(Sprimont).

As I observed, the Derby china manufacture
passed through four periods or states of artistic
development, the Duesbury being the first and
best (1749), and then the younger Duesbury
and Kean. Under the Bloor direction—lasting
from 1815 to 1849—for some reason
or other the artistic excellence declined.

Bloor’s agent, Locker & Co., Stevenson,
Sharp & Co., and Courtsay marked their
work with their own names. The proprietors
at the present time are Messrs. Stevenson &
Hancock, and they have ceased to use the old
mark as regards the batons, and now employ
hilted swords, and have added their initials
(“S” and “H”) one on either side, as will
be seen in the illustration. It may be well to
observe that a six-pointed star, stamped in the
centre, at the bottom of any article may be
accepted as a Crown Derby mark. The porcelain
produced by Mr. Duesbury resembled the
Venetian in the Cozzi period.

It would be impossible to enter into a
detailed account of all the various marks that
distinguish the Derby china; but I may
observe, as regards the last given (in a square
form), that it appears on a plate of Oriental
pattern, the crown and letter “D” painted in
red. The square is not always surmounted by
the crown. The capital “D” in italic lettering
surmounting the written name “Derby”
is the early mark used before 1769, and is
found on very old china. The “N” is an
incised mark and is probably an indication{109}
that the porcelain was produced in the old
works in Nottingham Road; and when in
1769 the Chelsea works were united to those
of Derby, the union was indicated by the
anchor of Chelsea crossing an italic capital of
the letter “D.” Derby figures are generally
very roughly marked with three round blotches
underneath them and the number scratched
on the clay.

The Liverpool Works.

To Mr. Richard Chaffers—contemporary of
Josiah Wedgwood—we owe the introduction
of porcelain ware into the pottery factory in
Liverpool in 1769. Of him, the latter said,
“Mr. Chaffers beats us in all his colours.”
After ten years’ work, having caught a fever
from his manager Podmore, he died.

Philip Christian became the leading potter
after that, and he produced large china vases
equal to Oriental work and of great perfection.
His china is marked “Christian” in capital
letters.

John Pennington was specially celebrated
for beautiful punch-bowls and for a very fine
blue, for the recipe for making which he
refused 1,000 guineas from a Staffordshire
house. His business began in 1760 and
lasted for thirty years. His mark was “P”
“p” or his name in capital letters. He had
been apprenticed to Josiah Wedgwood, thence
he went to Worcester as foreman and chief
artist to Flight & Barr, before he conducted
the works at Liverpool.

Pennington carried on the china manufacture
in Liverpool from 1760 to 1790. And, prior
to him, I may name the factory of W. Reid
& Co., of Castle Street, Liverpool, whose
principal manufactures were in all descriptions
of blue and white said to have been as good
as any produced elsewhere in England.

Chaffers was drawing soap-rock from Mullion
(Cornwall) in 1756 in preparation for the
manufacture, even before Cookworthy of
Plymouth had produced his hard-paste porcelain.

Besides the Penningtons and Philip Christian,
Barnes, Abbey, Mort, Case and Simpson
are all names celebrated in the Liverpool
factory and in the neighbourhood.

The Lowestoft Porcelain.

The Lowestoft manufactory in Suffolk was
founded by Hewlin Luson, Esq., in 1756 and
erected on his own estate in the first instance
at Gunton Hall.

In 1775 the Lowestoft porcelain had attained
great perfection. Hard paste was then introduced,
after a period of twenty years of the
use of the soft, which was of fine quality. The
hard was of very thick substance, but with a
fine glaze.

So close was the resemblance acquired to
Oriental porcelain at this factory that it was
difficult for the general observer to distinguish
between them, which difficulty was enhanced
by the fact that no mark was ever used as it
was an object with the proprietors to make
their work pass for genuine Oriental ware.
Yet there were certain peculiarities in style
and colouring which were sufficient to betray
their origin. Amongst these the prevalence
of the rose in the declaration of a very large
proportion of the china often served to identify
it, being painted by Thomas Rose. The
flower was generally pink and represented as
having fallen from the stem. The most
difficult of recognition amongst the varieties
of Lowestoft china are the examples in white
and blue.

Amongst other designs, the “fan and
feather” pattern was striking in character in
imitation of the Capo di Monte; painted in
blue, purple, and red, and often in diaper
work in gold and colours. Here also a very
fine egg-shell china was produced bearing
delicately-painted ciphers, coats of arms, crests
and scrolls, and designs in pink camaieu,
with highly-finished gold borders, pearled with
colours; also dessert services with raised
mayflowers on blue and white grounds and
pierced sides; transfer-painting being also
in use.

As every description of device taken from
nature, including Oriental figures and other
designs, was produced at this factory, it is
impossible to describe them all. I may here
observe that a china teapot of the distinctive
“owl service” pattern was recently sold for
upwards of £50.

The revival of the works after the opposition
raised to them in Luson’s time by the London
manufacturers was due to Messrs. Walker,
Browne, senior and junior, Aldred, and Richman,
and Allen, who carried on a large trade
with Holland.

The ultimate closure of the works was due
to a disastrous combination of circumstances,
which took place about 1803-4. There was
a decline in the art some few years previously.
It became too showy and over-gilded.

I said that the Lowestoft manufactory had
no distinctive mark, nevertheless some pieces
may be found bearing the painted initials
“F. R.” in capital letters, standing for
“Frederick Rex” (the Great), and two other
examples of marking are those of a head of
Christ, which is inscribed “R. Allen, Lowestoft,
aged 88, 1832,” and a teapot (in hard
paste) of Oriental design has the name
“Allen” surmounting “Lowestoft,” painted
in red underneath it.

(To be continued.)

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER VI.

A week after
this, Mrs. Saville
came to
pay her farewell
visit before
sailing for
India. Mother
and daughter
went out for a long walk
in the morning, and retired
to the drawing-room
together for the
afternoon. There was
much that they wanted
to say to each other,
yet for the most part
they were silent, Peggy sitting with her
head on her mother’s shoulder, and
Mrs. Saville’s arms clasped tightly round
her. Every now and then she stroked
the smooth brown head, and sometimes
Peggy raised her lips and kissed the
cheek which leant against her own, but
the sentences came at long intervals.

“If I were ill, mother—a long illness,
would you come?”

“On wings, darling! As fast as boat
and train could bring me.”

“And if you were ill?”

“I should send for you if it were
within the bounds of possibility, I promise
that! You must write often,
Peggy—long, long letters. Tell me all
you do, and feel, and think. You will
be almost a woman when we meet again.
Don’t grow up a stranger to me,
darling.”

“Every week, mother! I’ll write
something each day, and then it will be
like a diary. I’ll tell you every bit of
my life….”

“Be a good girl, Peggy. Do all you
can for Mrs. Asplin, who is so kind to
you. She will give you what money you
need, and if at anytime you should want
more than your ordinary allowance, for
presents or any special purpose, just tell
her about it, and she will understand.
You can have anything in reason; I
want you to be happy. Don’t fret,
dearie. I shall be with father, and the
time will pass. In three years I shall
be back again, and then, Peg, then,
how happy we shall be! Only three
years.”

Peggy shivered and was silent. Three
years seem an endless space when one
is young. She shut her eyes and pondered
drearily upon all that would
happen before the time of separation was
passed. She would be seventeen, nearly
eighteen—a young lady who wore dresses
down to her ankles, and did up her hair.
This was the last time, the very, very
last time when she would be a child in
her mother’s arms. The new relationship
might be nearer, sweeter, but it
could never be the same, and the very
sound of the words “the last time”
sends a pang to the heart.

Half an hour later the carriage drove
up to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Asplin
came into the room to say a few words
of farewell, and then left Peggy to see
her mother off. There were no words
spoken on the way, and so quietly did
they move that Robert had no suspicion
that anyone was near as he took off his
shoes in the cloak-room opening off the
hall. He tossed his cap on to a nail,
picked up his book, and was just about to
sally forth, when the sound of a woman’s
voice sent a chill through his veins.
The tone of the voice was low, almost a
whisper, yet he had never in his life
heard anything so thrilling as its intense
and yearning tenderness. “Oh, my
Peggy!” it said. “My little Peggy!”
And then, as in reply, came a low moaning
sound, a feeble bleat like that of a
little lamb torn from its mother’s side.
Robert charged back into the cloak-room,
and kicked savagely at the boots
and shoes which were scattered about{110}
the floor, his lips pressed together, and
his brows meeting in a straight black
line across his forehead. Another minute
and the carriage rolled away. He
peeped out of the door in time to see a
little figure fly out into the driving rain,
and walking slowly towards the school-room
came face to face with Mrs.
Asplin.

“Gone?” she inquired sadly. “Well,
I’m thankful it is over. Poor little dear,
where is she? Flown up to her room, I
suppose. We’ll leave her alone until tea-time.
It will be the truest kindness.”

“Yes,” said Robert vaguely. He was
afraid that the good lady would not be
so willing to leave Peggy undisturbed if
she knew her real whereabouts, and was
determined to say nothing to undeceive
her. He felt sure that the girl had hidden
herself in the summer-house at the
bottom of the garden, and a nice damp
mouldy retreat it would be this afternoon,
with the rain driving in through the open
window, and the creepers dripping on
the walls. Just the place in which to
sit and break your heart and catch
rheumatic fever with the greatest possible
ease and comfort. And yet Robert
said no word of warning to Mrs. Asplin.
He had an inward conviction that if any
one were to go to the rescue that person
should be himself, and that he, more
than anyone else, would be able to
comfort Peggy in her affliction. He
sauntered up and down the hall until the
coast was clear, and then dashed once
more into the cloak-room, took an
Inverness coat from a nail, a pair of
goloshes from the floor, and sped rapidly
down the garden-path. In less than
two minutes he had reached the summer-house
and was peeping cautiously in at
the door. Yes; he was right. There
sat Peggy, with her arms stretched out
before her on the rickety table, her
shoulders heaving with long, gasping
sobs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched
themselves spasmodically, and
the smooth little head rolled to and fro
in an abandonment of grief. Robert
stood looking on in silent misery. He
had a boy’s natural hatred of tears,
and of anything like a scene, and his
first impulse was to turn tail, go back to
the house, and send someone to take
his place, but even as he stood hesitating
he shivered in the chilly damp, and
remembered the principal reason of his
coming. He stepped forward and
dropped the cloak over the bent shoulders,
whereupon Peggy started up and
turned a scared white face upon him.

“Who, who—oh! it is you! What
do you want?”

“Nothing. I saw you come out, and
thought you would be cold. I brought
you out my coat.”

“I don’t want it; I am quite warm.
I came here to be alone.”

“I know; I’m not going to bother.
Mrs. Asplin thinks you are in your room,
and I didn’t tell her that I’d seen you go
out. But it’s damp. If you catch cold
your mother will be sorry.”

Peggy looked at him thoughtfully, and
there was a glimmer of gratitude in her
poor tear-stained eyes.

“Yes; I p-p-romised to be careful.
You are very kind, but I can’t think of
anything to-night. I am too miserably
wretched.”

“I know; I’ve been through it. I
was sent away to a boarding-school
when I was a little kid of eight, and I
howled myself to sleep every night for
weeks. It is worse for you, because you
are older, but you will be happy enough
in this place when you get settled. Mrs.
Asplin is a brick, and we have no end of
fun. It is ever so much better than
being at school, and, I say, you mustn’t
mind what Mellicent said the other night.
She’s a little muff, always saying the
wrong thing. We were only chaffing
when we said you were to be our fag.
We never really meant to bully you.”

“You c-couldn’t if you t-tried,” stammered
Peggy brokenly, but with a flash
of her old spirit which delighted her
hearer.

“No; of course not. You can stand
up for yourself; I know that very well.
But look here, I’ll make a compact if
you will. Let us be friends. I’ll stick
to you and help you when you need it,
and you stick to me. The other girls
have their brother to look after them, but
if you want anything done, if anyone is
cheeky to you and you want him kicked,
for instance, just come to me and I’ll do
it for you. It’s all nonsense about being
a fag, but there are lots of things you
could do for me if you would, and I’d be
awfully grateful. We might be partners
and help one another——”

Robert stopped in some embarrassment,
and Peggy stared fixedly at him,
the pale face peeping out from the folds
of the Inverness coat. She had stopped
crying, though the tears still trembled
on her eyelashes, and her chin quivered
in uncertain fashion. Her eyes dwelt on
the broad forehead, the overhanging
brows, the square, massive chin, and
brightened with a flash of approval.

“You are a nice boy,” she said
slowly. “I like you! You don’t really
need my help, but you thought it would
cheer me to feel that I was wanted.
Yes; I’ll be your partner, and I’ll be of
real use to you yet. You’ll find that out,
Robert, before you have done with me.”

“All right, so much the better. I
hope you will, but you know you can’t
expect to have your own way all the
time. I’m the senior partner, and you
will have to do what I tell you. Now I
say it’s damp in this hole, and you
ought to come back to the house at
once. It’s enough to kill you to sit in
this draught.”

“I’d rather like to be killed. I’m
tired of life. I shouldn’t mind dying a
bit.”

“Humph!” said Robert shortly.
“Jolly cheerful news that would be for
your poor mother when she arrived at
the end of her journey. Don’t be so
selfish. Now, then, up you get. Come
along to the house.”

“I wo——” Peggy began, then suddenly
softened, and glanced apologetically
into his face. “Yes, I will, because
you ask me. Smuggle me up to my
room, Robert, and don’t, don’t, if you
love me, let Mellicent come near me!
I couldn’t stand her chatter to-night!”

“She will have to fight her way over
my dead body,” said Robert firmly, and
Peggy’s sweet little laugh quavered out
on the air.

“Nice boy!” she repeated heartily.
“Nice boy, I do like you!”

(To be continued.)

“IN MINE HOUSE.”

By LINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of “The King’s Daughters,” etc.

PART I.

ITS CUPBOARDS.

Mine house is not an old-fashioned, picturesque
one; it boasts of no mullioned windows
or deep embrasures. It is like hundreds of
others to be found scattered over England—built
after the same plan and decorated after
the same fashion. It stands in a street, and
is reduplicated on every hand like a cardboard
expanding toy. It draws a peaked gable roof
over its red brick face, and has no originality
to awake attention.

In one thing only is mine house unique.
Its general architecture it owes to its builder,
its cupboards to a certain little old lady who
lived therein for many years. Every spot has
been utilised, and I rejoice in the most comfortable
interior it is possible to imagine.
“A place for everything and everything in
its place” is a motto easily followed in this
mine house.

Nowadays most matrons have wakened to
the delights of a well-cupboarded “manio,”
or abiding-place. The first thing looked for
in taking a new house is its capabilities in this
direction. The long-headed woman values
every recess and corner as a possible press.
She knows a few shillings spent in pine-boards,
hooks, curtains, and locks, can transform
dust-collecting angles into dust-resisting
receptacles. With a little forethought and
contrivance, our carpenter can be so superintended
that such work need not be made
into “fixtures”—sliding grooves and panels,
a few staples and screws, insure easily taken-down
wardrobes, and need not strain the
purse of even a frequent flitter.

The first necessary cupboard in mine house{111}
is the linen press. This should, if possible,
be built over those unseemly hot-water pipes
which supply the bath from our kitchen
boiler. There should be graduated shelves in
it—wide ones to hold sheets, narrow ones for
table napkins, d’oyleys, etc. Every shelf
should be neatly lined with white paper, and
one at least must have linen laps to tie over
our least-used napery. Plenty of lavender
bags—measuring the length of the press—should
be placed everywhere; not tiny satchel-like
things, which rumple into corners and
get mislaid, but at least a yard in length and
just as wide as each shelf.

On the door should be pasted a list of the
linen stored in this our press. This list varies
much in each house; but I will tell you what
I consider absolutely necessary only. First,
there should be six Irish linen tablecloths for
parlour use and three breakfast cloths; six
fine table-napkins for every member of the
family. For kitchen wear, three smaller
coarser cloths are required, and, if you wish
to inculcate habits of nicety in your maids,
three napkins apiece must be provided. This
allows for one in use, one at the laundry, and
one in reserve. Half-a-dozen fringed tea-cloths,
half-a-dozen sideboard slips, a couple of
dozen oval, round, and square d’oyleys, and the
embellishment of the dining-table is secured.

We next come to the sleeping rooms. In
our press we must number three pair of sheets
for each bed—each upper one frilled and
embroidered with our monogram. These
sheets may be of twilled cotton, but their
accompanying fellow slips must be of linen.
Linen wears better, looks better, and feels
nicer than cotton. There should be six to
each single bed. Cash’s hem-stitched frilling
gives a dainty finish to these slips, and will
wear as long as the linen. Beside the bed-linen
should lie chamber-towels; of these it is
nice to have several dozen, with different
borders, when possible, so that each room
may keep to its own set. Cheap towels are
most expensive in the long run; those flimsy
honeycomb ones requiring incessant laundrying.
Buy good huckaback, or satin diaper,
and beautify them with marking initials in
cross stitch. This is easily done by tacking a
small square of coarse canvas into the corner
and withdrawing its strands after working.
Ingrain cottons of all colours can now be
bought for this work; the red wears and
washes best.

Our dressing-tables also claim a niche in
our linen press. Three sets of covers being
necessary for each.

At the very top of our press, it is well to
have some very wide shelves fixed. They will
be overhead, so may jut out into the room.
In this cupboard—lined with brown holland,
and scented with camphor balls—we shall do
well to store spare blankets in the summer,
down quilts when not in use, and any straw
pillows. They will always be warm and
ready for immediate service, as the hot-water
pipes will keep them well aired.

So much about furnishing our linen press.
The replenishment of it should be constant.
Even when we use our dozens of towels in
rotation, they will wear out, and it is necessary
to keep up the stock by occasional purchases.
Careful mending, too, is necessary. No
pillow-slips minus buttons or tapes, no tiny
hole in a tablecloth, should be seen in a well-kept
linen press. When sheets wear thin,
they should be split in half, sides brought to
the centre, and the worn edges hemmed.
When constant folding brings frays in a
tablecloth, the laundress should be directed
to fold them across instead of lengthways.
This will double the life of our finest diaper.
Towels, when ragged, can be doubled and
made into bath cloths and chamber rubbers;
loops of tape attached will be useful for hanging
in place.

The next cupboard claiming attention in
mine house is the crockery one. Here are
stored cups and saucers, plenty of spare glass,
water-jugs and crofts. It is well to keep in
this press extra lamp-chimneys and gas-globes.
Best dessert dishes, too, should be placed on
the top shelf and any ornaments not in daily
use.

Hanging presses are a great boon to the tidy
housewife. One for spare dresses should be
built on any landing large enough. American
pegs screwed into the wall over a sheet of
well-stretched holland answer the purpose of
skirt-hanging. To each of them should be
tied a double width of the same material
to wrap round our silk and muslin robes.
Sometimes bags, forty-six inches long, are
preferred to draw over the skirt and to hang
with it from a peg. With these bags it is
unnecessary to have doors to this cupboard,
as their use is a safeguard against dust, even
if a curtain only be hung in front of the
recess.

A remnant cupboard is not always met
with, but what a boon it is in mine house.
My old lady had one fixed in a spare room.
A top shelf is ready for rolls of wall paper,
remnants of curtains, calicoes, and flannels,
old square of blanket fit for scouring purposes,
old linen for dust-cloths fill its pigeon-holes,
whilst a rag-bag of red twill hangs below all,
and is stuffed with scraps too small to be
rolled or folded.

A medicine cupboard is a necessity in mine
house. One hung not higher than one’s head
is best. This should be divided in half; one
partition provided with a well-locked door, the
other protected only by a curtain. In this
latter portion may be kept narrow and wide
bandages, goldbeater’s skin, and sticking
plaster, cotton-wool, and a pair of scissors,
some strong thread and tape, vaseline and
powder. In the locked part all the family
pharmacopœia must be secluded. “Poisons”
should be printed legibly on the door, and the
key should never leave our own chatelaine.
Have in this a bottle of sweet nitre for
feverishness, and some pilules of aconite;
spirits of camphor for a cold, and a screw of
lump sugar; a two-ounce bottle of castor
oil with an old teaspoon near it, spongia,
Ipecacuanha wine, and syrup of squills ready
for croup; a tin of linseed, another of
mustard, a flask of sweet oil, a bottle each of
eucalyptus, camphorated oil and glycerine;
belladonna tincture for sore throats; carron
or green oil for a burn; and liquorice
powder or Cascara pellets for constipation.
In mine house all these things are necessary,
and should be found in the medicine
cupboard.

A jam press is a nice addition to our
housewife’s corner. Every pot of marmalade
or jelly should have a label on it stating when
it was made.

“Raspberry jam,
No. 1 boiling,
July 20th, 1899.”

In a dry situation there is no need to cover
each crock. If well boiled and made of fresh
sound fruit, it should “jell” enough to keep
without excluding air. A sheet of newspaper
laid over the rows of pots is all my old lady
ever thought necessary for her home-made
jam. But then her jam press had air-holes
bored in the door. These were masked with
finest wire netting, and effectually prevented
mouldiness.

A boot cupboard lengthens the lives of all
our bottines. Two shelves about two feet
apart should be protected in front with a
chintz curtain hanging from tiny rings to a
brass pole. Every pair of boots should be
kept here, protected from dust and ready for
wear. Trees fitted into each are really
economical, as they double the existence of all
outdoor footgear. Damp boots, too, can be
filled with oats, and dry slowly in this cupboard,
instead of being hardened and shrivelled
over the kitchen range.

Of course a store press is a sine quâ non
in mine house. I do not keep this locked,
for servants should be trusted in a family.
Here everything likely to be wanted in an
emergency is kept—tins of salmon, herrings
and tomatoes, collared head, pâte de foie gras,
corned beef, pickles and chutnees, potted
meats, bottled fruit for pies, capers, peppers,
spices, lentils by the stone, and all farinaceous
preparations; soap by weight cut up and
dried, currents washed and picked ready for
use, raisins, sultanas, soda in a sack, etc.,
etc. In order to keep these things really
nice and fresh, stone jars with covers are the
best to put them in. But when these prove
too expensive, wide-mouthed pickle bottles
may be used, labelled clearly so that their
contents are recognised at once. Flour should
be kept in a tub, apples and sugar in casks.
This store cupboard must be cleared out once
a month, its shelves swept down, and fresh
lining paper put there on them. It is easy
then to note where our supply is running
short, and to supplement it, easy to see where
a bag has burst, or bottle is leaking, and to
substitute other ones.

A multum in parvo cupboard is one of the
comforts in mine house. Here, under lock
and key, are kept spare dozens of cotton,
spools, papers of needles, boxes of pins, both
hair and dress, tapes and measures, paper and
envelopes, pens by the gross, and pencils by
the score. These can often be picked up at
sales for next to nothing, and a constant
supply of such necessities is at hand.

A carpenter’s cupboard is a boon to every
household. In mine house one is fitted up in
a tiny closet under the stairs. So many
little things go wrong in the framework of
our homes—locks grow stiff, handles come off,
window cords break, nails want driving.
How well it is when the mistress of a house
can wield hammer and gimlet and screwdriver;
and yet how often are such tools missing
when required. In my carpenter’s cupboard
there is always a heavy-headed, light-handled
little hammer for adjusting carpets or putting
in tacks; also a coal-hammer for heavier work.
Here a gimlet may be found, and several
different-sized screwdrivers, a box of assorted
nails; hooks and screws are also found there
when wanted. A small sharpening plate and
flask of oil for keeping the family couch in
easy trim, a smoothing plane and saw, wire
nails and coils of thin cord, a pair of pincers,
and a good knife. I find a stitch in time
in carpentering saves more than the proverbial
nine.

And now I think I have told you about
most of the cupboards in mine house, and
what is found therein. I have not described
the housemaid’s closet with its hairbroom, its
pope’s head, its twig, its besom, its dustpan
and brush, or its other et ceteras. Every
mistress of a family knows what is required
therein, only let me suggest that her usual
feather-head dusting-brush should be conspicuous
by its absence. Never was so senseless
a plan devised for flicking particles from
one place to another as that same feather
whisk. Let the housemaid have plenty of
damp dusters at hand, and germ-pregnant
dust will be effectually removed.

I have omitted, too, all account of the
butler’s pantry. Houses nowadays that keep
such an official are governed by a housekeeper,
and not by the mistress herself. Besides, I
am writing about small establishments in
which women do the work. For that reason,
my next paper will be all about the ingle-nooks
in mine house, and how to economise
these.

(To be continued.)

{112}

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.

Full details of this Competition, with its
prizes and certificates of merit open to all
readers of The Girl’s Own Paper, were
given on page 14.

Questions 37-48.

37. What famous musical composition came
to a violinist in a dream?

*     *     *     *

38. When did witchcraft cease to be recognised
as a crime by the law of England?

*     *     *     *

39. What famous book was mislaid when in
manuscript and partly written, and was only
discovered by the author nine years afterwards
in the drawer of an old writing-desk?

*     *     *     *

40. What English Cathedral was set on fire
and severely damaged by a man who was afterwards
found to be insane?

*     *     *     *

41. What is the best diet for brain-workers?

*     *     *     *

42. What saint was so able a musician that
according to tradition an angel descended to
earth enraptured with her melodious strains?

*     *     *     *

43. What is the origin of the three ostrich
feathers as a badge of the Princes of Wales?

*     *     *     *

44. When did ignorant people in this
country imagine they had been defrauded out
of eleven days by those in authority?

*     *     *     *

45. Who was the hermit who lived for over
thirty years on the top of a pillar?

*     *     *     *

46. What famous stone in this country is
said to have been Jacob’s pillow?

*     *     *     *

47. Why is the wedding-ring worn on the
fourth finger of the left hand?

*     *     *     *

48. How did the forget-me-not get its
name?

The answers to the above questions, Nos.
37-48, together with the answers to questions
25-36, which appeared on page 78, must be
sent in on or before January 27, 1899.

Address to The Editor, The Girl’s Own
Paper Office, 56, Paternoster Row, London,
E.C., and at the left-hand top corner of the
envelope or wrapper write the words “Questions
Competition.”