THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

“‘ARTHUR!—OH—ARTHUR!’ SHE GASPED.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XVI.

Lady Darcy left the young people by
themselves after luncheon, and as was
only natural, conversation at once turned
on the proposed visit to London. Peggy
was too much perturbed to speak, but
Mellicent put the very inquiry which
she most wished answered, being never
troubled with bashfulness in asking
questions.

“Has your mother’s tooth been hurting
her very much, Rosalind?”

“Tooth! what tooth? Oh, I think
she did have a little twinge one night;
but it’s not the dentist whom she is
really going to see. That’s only an
excuse. She really wants to go to some
parties,” said Rosalind lightly, whereat
her brother scowled at her under heavy
brows.

“What business have you to say
that? What can you know about it,
pray? If mother says she is in pain, it
is not for you to contradict, and make
up your own explanations. Leave her
to manage her own affairs——”

{258}

He spoke rapidly, but Rosalind only
shrugged her shoulders, and whispered
something in Max’s ear at which he
smiled and nodded his head, evidently
taking her part against her brother, to
Peggy’s intense indignation.

No words were exchanged between
the partners on the subject of the
calendar until they were once more at
home; when Robert took advantage of
the first quiet opportunity and came up
to Peggy with a face of set determination.

“Mariquita!” he said, “I am—not—going—to
give in! If you stick to
me, I think we can still manage to get
the calendar off in time. There are
twenty more quotations to be found.
I’ll sit up to-night and fix them off, and
go on writing as long as I can keep
awake, but I can’t take a dozen books
up to town with me, so I must leave it
to you to finish up. I’ll mark the
passages I choose, write the full address
on a piece of paper, and leave everything
ready for you to make up the
parcel. All you will have to do will
be to write the remaining cards, and
to see that it is sent off on Friday.
Five o’clock will be time enough, but
if you can get it off in the morning, so
much the better. You think you can
manage as much as that?”

“Oh, yes! I’d do anything rather
than give up now. It would be too
grudging. I am not afraid of a little
more work.”

“You have done more than your share
already. I am mad about it, but it
can’t be helped. I couldn’t refuse to go
with the mater, and I wouldn’t if I
could. She is really not at all strong,
and does not like the life down here. It
will do her good to have a few days’
change.”

Peggy looked at him steadily. She
did not speak, but her eyes grew soft
and shining, and there was something
at once so sweet, so kindly, and so
gentle in her expression that Rob
exclaimed in surprise—

“I say, Peggy, you—you do look
pretty! I never saw you look like that
before—what have you been doing to
yourself?”

“Doing!” Peggy straightened herself
at that, in offended dignity.
“Doing, indeed! What do you mean?
Don’t you think I am pretty as a rule?”

“Never thought about it,” returned
Robert carelessly. “You are Peggy—that’s
enough for me. A nice state I
should be in to-day if it were not for
you! You are the jolliest little brick I
ever met, and if I get this prize it will
be far more your doing than my own.”

Well, that was good hearing! Peggy
held her head high for the rest of that
evening, and felt as if nothing would
have power to depress her for the future.
But alas, when the pendulum is at its
highest, it begins to swing downwards.
Peggy’s heart sank as she watched
Robert drive away from the door the
next morning, and it went on sinking
more and more during the next twenty-four
hours, as she realised the responsibility
which weighed upon her shoulders.
When she came down to breakfast on
Friday morning the calendar was finished
and ready to be made up for the post,
but her head was splitting with pain as
the result of the long hours’ work stolen
from sleep, and a dead weight of
depression had settled on her spirits.
It seemed of a sudden that all this work
and effort was waste of time; that the
chances of being successful were infinitesimally
small; that even if it were
gained, the prize was of little value;
that if Robert’s absence for four days
made such a difference in the life at the
vicarage, it would become altogether
unbearable when he said good-bye at
the beginning of the year and went up
to Oxford; that she was a desperately
unfortunate little unit, thrust into the
midst of a family which was complete
in itself, and had only a kindly
toleration to offer to a stranger; that, in
all probability, there would be a war in
India, when her father would be killed,
her mother die of a broken heart, and
Arthur be called out to join the ranks
of the recruits. She conjured up a
touching picture of herself, swathed in
crape, bidding good-bye to her brother
at the railway station, and watching
the scarlet coat disappear in the distance,
as the train steamed away. It
was all most miserable and picturesque,
and outside the fog gathered, and the
rain poured down in a fine, persistent
drizzle. It was one of those typical
November days when it seems as if the
earth itself is in the blues, and that it
becomes everyone living on its surface
to follow its example.

When afternoon came Peggy curled
herself in an armchair in the corner of
the study, and stared gloomily at the fire.
It was four o’clock. In another hour the
postman would call for the letters and
she would deliver the precious packet
into his hands. She had made it up in
the dinner hour with some faint idea of
carrying it to the village, but she was
tired, the rain poured, and Rob had
said that the afternoon post would do.
She had given up the idea of going
out, and taken a nap instead on the top
of her bed. And now it was four
o’clock. Mellicent called out that she
was dying for tea-time to come; it had
seemed such a long, long day; they
really ought to have tea earlier on these
dreary, murky afternoons. “I want
my tea!” she chanted, in shrill, penetrating
tones, and instantly the refrain
was taken up by the other voices, and
repeated over and over again with ever-increasing
volume, until the mistress of
the house rushed in to discover the reason
of the clamour.

“Bless your hearts, you shall have
it at once!” she cried. “I’ll ring and
have it brought in, and ransack my
cupboards to see what treats I can give
you. Poor dears, it is dull for you
sitting indoors all day long. We must
think of some bright, exciting games
for this evening.” No sooner said than
done; she did not wait until Mary
appeared, but bustled off to meet her, to
enlist the cook’s sympathy, and put out
the promised delicacies, and when the
table was set she returned to the room
and seated herself, smilingly, in
Esther’s place.

“I am going to stay with you this
afternoon,” she said brightly. “Draw
up your chairs, dears, and let us be
jovial. There is no credit in being
happy when the sun is shining, as dear
old Mark Tapley would have said; but it
will really be praiseworthy if we succeed
in being festive this afternoon. Come,
Peggy dearie!”

Peggy turned her dreary little face
and stared at the table. From outside
came the sound of the opening and
shutting of the door, of footsteps in the
hall. She glanced at the clock, wondering
if it could possibly be the postman
already, found it was only ten minutes
past four, and dismissed the supposition
with a sigh. “I don’t—think—I
want——” she was beginning slowly,
when, of a sudden, there came a tremendous
rat-tat-tat on the schoolroom
door; the handle was not turned, but
burst open; a blast of chilly air blew
into the room, and in the doorway stood
a tall, handsome youth, with square
shoulders, a gracefully poised head, and
Peggy Saville’s eave-like brows above
his dancing eyes.

“Oh, what a surprise!” came the
cry in loud laughing tones. “How do
you do, everybody? Just thought I
would step in as I was passing, and have
a cup of tea, don’t you know.”

“My boy! My boy! Oh, how good
to see you!” cried Mrs. Asplin rapturously.
Mellicent gurgled with surprise,
and Peggy stood up by her chair
and stretched out both arms like a child
to its mother.

“Arthur!—oh—Arthur!” she gasped,
and there was a pathos, a longing, an
almost incredulous rapture in her voice
which made the tears start in Mrs.
Asplin’s eyes, and brought a cloud of
anxiety over the new-comer’s face.

“Why, Peg!” he cried. “My little
Peg! Is something wrong, dear? You
look as melancholy as——”

“Peggy has not been like herself for
the last few weeks. I think she has
had an attack of home sickness, and
longing for her own people. I’m so
glad you’ve come. You will do her
more good than a dozen tonics. Bless
the boy; how big he is! And how did
you manage to get away, dear, and how
long can you stay? Tell me all about
it. I am consumed with curiosity——”

“I can stay till Monday or Tuesday,
if you can put me up; and I came away
because I—I suppose I am not quite
up to the mark. My head bothers me.
It aches, and I see black specks floating
before my eyes. The doctor advised me
to knock off for a few days, and I
thought I would rather come here than
anywhere.”

“I should think so, indeed. Of
course we can put you up—proud and
pleased to do so. Well, this is a
pleasant surprise for a dull November
day! You couldn’t have had a better
one if you had had a hundred wishes,
could you, Peggy? You won’t feel
melancholy any longer?”

“I’m just enraptured! Saturday,
Sunday, Monday—three whole days
and two halves, as good as four days—almost
a week! It’s too delicious—too
utterly delicious to realise!”

Peggy drew deep sighs of happiness,{259}
and hung on to Arthur’s arm in an
abandonment of tenderness which
showed her in a new light to her
companions. She would not loosen her
grasp for a moment, and, even when
seated at the table, kept her fingers
tightly locked round his arm, as though
afraid that he might escape.

As for Arthur himself, he was in the
wildest spirits. He was as handsome a
young soldier as one could wish to see,
and his likeness to Peggy seemed only
to make him more attractive in the eyes
of the beholders.

“Hurrah!” he cried cheerily.
“Hurrah, for a good old vicarage tea!
Scones? that’s the style! Mary made
them, I hope, and put in lots of
currants. Raspberry jam! I say,
mater, do you remember that solemn
waitress you had, who told you that the
jam was done again, and when you
exclaimed in horror, said, ‘Yes, ’um,
it’s not a bit of good buying raspberry
jam. They like it!’ Ha, ha, ha, I’ve
often thought of that! That looks
uncommonly good cake you have over
there. Thank you, I think I will!
Begin with cake, and work steadily
back to bread and butter—that’s the
style, isn’t it, Peggums? Esther, I
looks towards you! Mellicent, you are
as thin as ever, I see. You should
really do something for it. There are
regular hollows in your cheeks.”

“Nasty, horrid thing! You are
always teasing! How would you like
it if you were struck fat yourself?”
cried Mellicent, aggrieved. But, in
spite of herself, her chubby cheeks
dimpled with smiles as Arthur rolled
his eyes at her across the table, for
there was something irresistibly fascinating
about this young fellow, and it
was like old times to see him seated at
the tea-table and to listen to his merry
rattling voice.

“The dominie must grant a general
holiday to-morrow,” he declared, “and
we will do something fine to celebrate
the occasion. We’ll have out this wonderful
camera in the morning and take
some groups. You and I must be taken
together, Peggy, to send out to the
parents. You promised to send me
copies of all the things you took, but
you are as false in that respect as the
whole race of amateur photographers.
They are grand hands at promising, but
they never, by any chance—— Hallo!
What’s that? My cup over? Awfully
sorry, mater, really! I’ll put a penny
in the missionary-box. Was it a clean
cloth?”

“Oh, my dear boy, don’t apologise!
I should not have felt that it was really
you if you had not knocked your cup
over! To see the table-cloth swimming
with tea all round, convinces me that it
is Arthur himself, and nobody else!
Tut, tut! What does a table-cloth
matter?” And Mrs. Asplin beamed
upon her favourite as if she were really
rather delighted than otherwise at his
exploit.

It was a merry, not to say noisy, meal
which followed. Peggy’s lost spirits
had come back with the first glimpse
of Arthur’s face; and her quips and
cranks were so irresistibly droll that
three separate times over Mellicent
choked over her tea and had to be
relieved with vigorous pounding on the
back, while even Esther shook with
laughter and the boys became positively
uproarious.

Then Mr. Asplin came in, and Arthur
was carefully concealed behind the
window-curtains, while he was asked
whom he would most like to see if the
choice were given him. In provoking
manner he mentioned at once a brother
in Australia, and when informed that
relations were not on the list, recollected
an old college chum who was out in the
Mauritius.

“Oh, dear, what a stupid man!”
cried his wife in despair. “We don’t
mean the friends of your youth, dear!
Think of the last few years and of your
young friends! Now, if you could choose
whom would you——”

“Arthur Saville!” said the Vicar
promptly, upon which Arthur made a
loophole between the curtains and thrust
his mischievous face through the gap,
to the Vicar’s amazement and the
uproarious delight of the onlookers. A
dozen questions had to be asked and
answered about studies, examinations,
and health, while Peggy sat listening,
beaming with happiness and pride.

It came as quite a shock to all when
the Vicar announced that it was time
to dress for dinner, and Mrs. Asplin
looked at Peggy with an apologetic
smile.

“We were all so charmed to see
Arthur that I’m afraid we have been
selfish and engrossed too much of his
attention. You two will be longing for a
cosy little chat to yourselves. If you
run upstairs now, Peggy, and hurry
through your dressing, there will be a
little time before dinner, and you could
have this room to yourselves.”

“Yes, run along, Peg! It won’t take
me ten minutes to get into my clothes,
and I’ll be here waiting for you!” cried
Arthur eagerly. And Peggy went flying
two steps at a time upstairs to her own
room.

The gas was lit; the can of hot water
stood in the basin, the towel neatly
folded over the top; the hands of the
little red clock pointed to six o’clock,
and the faint chime met her ear as she
entered.

Peggy stood still in the doorway, an icy
chill crept through her veins, her hands
grasped the lintel, and her eyes grew
wide and blank with horror. There, on
the writing-table lay a brown paper
parcel—the precious parcel which contained
the calendar which had been the
object of such painful work and anxiety!

(To be continued.)

TWO OF THE GREATEST AFFLICTIONS OF GIRLHOOD:

BLUSHING AND NERVOUSNESS.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

Some years
ago an enterprising
physician
discovered
that the
whole human
race
was insane.

This doctrine
naturally drew
forth from the
public considerable indignation.
We do not
believe that we are insane.
But the answer of the author
was concise: “You cannot
prove that you are sane, therefore you are
insane!”

And a large number took his word and
believed it. Nay; even now people are to
be met who believe that everyone is insane.
Nay—further! There are many persons who
not only believe everyone to be insane, but
believe that all physicians hold the same
opinion!

And yet, if you ask one of these philanthropists
if he thinks that he himself is insane:
“Oh, well—no; you see I am an exception.
I do not mean to say that I am better than
anyone else, but I am different from everybody
that I know. No, I do not think that I am
insane.”

Yesterday we were interviewing a gentleman
“lodger” in an asylum, who had come to the
conclusion that all the inmates of the house—nurses,
patients, physicians and servants—were
all insane, himself alone excepted. This
is a common creed in lunatic asylums.

No, everyone is not insane. The doctrine
is fallacious. But we all pass through phases
in our lives when our minds are not capable of
fully grasping every detail of the situation.
In other words, we are all liable to nervousness.

What is nervousness? Think for yourself
and try to answer the question. It is difficult,
we admit.

Is not nervousness a state in which the mind
does not rise to the situation? Is it not a
condition of uncertainty? Is it not, as it
were, a feeling that you know not what step
to take next or what answer to give to a
question? Is it not a conviction that you are
out of place?

Indeed, it seems to us that nervousness is
the expression of being mentally ill at ease.

Few persons realise what a terrible disease
nervousness really is. It is one of the greatest
annoyances of youth. It renders many girls
utterly miserable when they first “come out.”
It is most fearful suffering, and one which
brings many girls to a life of misery.

{260}

There is but one other condition which
troubles girls more than nervousness, and that
is excessive blushing, and blushing is but a
physical expression of nervousness.

It is commonly held that the work of
physicians is confined to the body, and that
they have no knowledge of the troubles of the
mind. It follows from this that the study of
the mind has been grossly neglected by medical
men, and even the simplest mental aberration
will baffle many worthy practitioners, simply
because they consider that the mind is not
their province.

We can delay no further and must get on
to consider the practical side of our task,
the causes and treatment of blushing and
nervousness.

We suppose that we must first mention the
physical causes of blushing and nervousness.
Many would consider these to be of the first
importance. They are not.

Blushing is a momentary relaxation of the
minute blood-vessels of the skin of the face,
caused by an impression received by the brain.
The vessels relax, they become distended
with blood, and the face becomes red, hot and
swollen.

If this phenomenon lasts but a minute it is
called a blush; if it lasts for a longer period it
is called a flush. The former is usually due
to mental causes, the latter invariably to
physical conditions.

Blushing is the direct effect of a more or
less powerful stimulus passing to the brain
from one of the special senses. Flushing is
the effect of a stimulus from one of the
internal organs, usually the stomach.

Anæmia, indigestion, constipation, and
various other ailments cause flushing, and very
rarely they produce blushing.

This is all we have to say of the physical
causes of blushing and nervousness, except
that people who are ill or run down are often
irritable and nervous. But the illness is not
the cause of the nervousness, it only paves
the way for it to become manifest; it only
reduces the force by which nervousness is
normally overcome.

It is in the workings of the mind that we
must seek the causes of nervousness.

We are not all born with the same mental
powers. Each inherits from her parents
certain hereditary tendencies. We all know
that insanity runs in families; so does
nervousness; so does every kind of mental
inclination, but only to a certain extent.
We do not inherit the virtues, the vices, the
powers or the mental shortcomings of our
parents; we inherit a tendency to them—a
tendency which may develop and reproduce in
us the minds of our fathers. Or these tendencies
may be modified or suppressed by
education; or they may be overwhelmed by
some individual peculiarity which we have not
inherited from our parents, but which had its
beginning in our own minds.

The mind of anyone is an individual in
itself. It has its own passions and inclinations
different from those of any other, but
it must be educated. Each of us must have a
solid basis of general knowledge ere she can
use her mind. In other words we must all be
educated.

And in education, or rather in the lack of
some portion of education, you will find the
causes of blushing and nervousness.

Nervousness is more common amongst the
highly educated classes than amongst others.
And yet you say that nervousness is caused by
defective education. How can this be?

You have not got a true notion of education!
You say education but you mean
study; you confine the term to that part of
education which is learnt at school and from
books; you have fallen into the common error
of the age by supposing that education is
synonymous with schooling!

At school we learn to read, to write. We
learn a little science, perhaps a smattering of
art and the elements of a language or two.
Is this all the education required by man?
Is this sufficient food for the mind of man for
threescore years and ten? Do you learn
nothing else in your life than this little handful
of unimportant subjects? No, you do not!
Far more than nine-tenths of your education
is gained without your knowing how: not
without effort, but without your knowing that
you are educating yourself.

Our forefathers had no books; they never
went to school; they knew but little of art or
science, and their technical skill was of the
rudest. We call them barbarians, but why?
They had their passions as we have them;
they had their joys and their sorrows; they
had their thoughts; they were educated. The
viking of old was a man with a highly wrought
mind. Though differing in detail, his education
was the same as ours. It was the study
of himself and his companions.

Let us glance a little into these defects of
education which cause nervousness.

From what has been said, the reader will
perceive that the lack of knowledge of herself
or her companion is the commonest cause of
nervousness; this indeed is the case. The
girl who leaves the nursery for the first
time is shy and retiring: she cannot speak to
anyone without confusion; she has no experience
of life. A new episode has occurred
and she cannot at once rise to the situation.
She is not at home; she is nervous.

And so if you think over the position in
which you have been nervous, you will see
that in the majority of cases, your trouble
was due to inexperience.

The girl who has never spoken to anyone
except her own friends is nervous when she
first speaks to a stranger. After she has been
introduced to one or two persons her nervousness
vanishes, for she has become used to her
new situation.

Who has not felt nervous when she first
appeared in public? Who has not felt most
unpleasant sensations when she first sang or
played before an audience? Yet after her
second or third appearance all traces of
nervousness vanish, because now she is accustomed
to her surroundings.

The warrior who will face death on the
field without compunction may fly in terror if
he hear the buzz of a moth. Or if he is
unused to feminine society he will be completely
cowered by a single woman.

The scientist who has astonished the world
with his inventions is yet too nervous to
deliver a lecture to half-a-dozen students, for
he is used to his laboratory but is a stranger
to the lecturer’s chair.

These are examples of what may be called
healthy nervousness. They are transient and
can be overcome by the will. We will now
talk of some more complicated causes of
nervousness.

There are many girls who have the misfortune
of having been spoilt during their
childhood, and who as girls have had every
wish gratified. When these girls go into the
world they often become irritable and impertinent,
or shy and retiring, or excessively
nervous and bashful.

There are girls (and we are sorry to say
there are a great many of them) who between
the ages of fifteen and twenty do nothing
but loll on a sofa and read cheap novelettes
and other wretched and unwholesome literature.
These persons usually blush like beetroots
when spoken to. They are always
nervous and usually silly and rude.

Self-consciousness is one of the greatest and
most important causes of nervousness. The
fear of “giving oneself away” is a very potent
factor in the causation of nervousness.

Some people confuse self-consciousness with
self-conceit. But they are diametrically
opposite conditions. The self-conceited girl
believes herself perfect. She cannot make a
mistake. What she says must be right. She
has no fear of committing herself. Why
should she ever be nervous? And she never
is nervous.

The self-conscious girl is the reverse of this.
Not only does she know her shortcomings,
but she takes an exceedingly gloomy view of
everything. Truly she is always thinking
about herself, but her thoughts are not
flattering. She puts herself in the worst
light and imagines that everyone else sees
her in the same way. She imagines everyone
is laughing at her. She is confused. She is
nervous.

Not all girls are nervous or blush from the
same cause, nor are they nervous in the same
way nor in the same situations. Some girls
blush only when in the company of strangers,
others even when speaking to their greatest
friends. Some blush or are nervous only
when talking to persons of the opposite sex,
others when talking to anybody.

We can divide the various kinds of nervous
girls into the following groups—

There are many other kinds of nervousness,
but we cannot enter into the discussion of
them here.

To everyone who glances down this table
it will be apparent that the same explanation
will not accord for all these conditions. Such
diametrically opposite states as that of Nos.
4 and 5 cannot be due to the same cause.
We must therefore briefly describe the various
mental states on which each form of nervousness
depends.

The first case, girls who blush or are
nervous when talking to strangers but are
perfectly at home when talking with their
friends, is one of the commonest of the eight
types of nervousness. This is the purely
natural result of inexperience.

The very many girls who are exceedingly
annoyed to find that they cannot be introduced
to anybody without blushing or stammering
or vainly trying to break a distressing silence,
may be comforted by the assurance that ere
many months are passed they will have
become more accustomed to the very strange
conditions imposed upon us by social usage
and to abruptly starting a conversation with
a person whom they have never seen
before.

To some girls it may be a relief to know
that young men are very much more bashful,
more inclined to blush, and find much greater
difficulty in starting a conversation to the
first person to whom they are introduced than
girls do. The news will certainly be well
received by all girls suffering from this form of
nervousness that a very short space of time
will see the end of their annoyance.

The sixth division of nervousness, that{261}
condition in which girls are only nervous
when talking to persons of the opposite sex,
is only a mild form of the first and, like it, it
is a very transitory state.

The second class of nervous girls is that in
which the members are nervous when talking
to friends as well as to strangers. This is the
most numerous class of all. This form of
nervousness is sometimes due to indigestion
or other derangements of health. It is
to this class that we shall more especially
refer when considering the treatment of
nervousness.

That form of nervousness in which the
sufferer is perfectly at ease in the excitement
of a crowded room but who cannot endure to
talk with one person alone is a comparatively
rare condition. It is typically met with in
cases of nervous exhaustion. It is tolerably
common in persons who have just recovered
from some forms of depressing diseases.

The fifth class contains two very distinct
groups of cases. There are many people who
are distressed in a crowded place. Many
persons who are not feeling up to the mark
are often depressed and get a headache in a
crowded place, even where there is no noise
or conversation going on. This is a form of
nervousness that is almost exclusively met
with in elderly or middle-aged persons.

It is in the second of the groups of people
who are nervous in large assemblings that we
see the most advanced grades of self-consciousness.
We have seen girls in drawing-rooms,
at concerts, and even in church, suffering
from this malady (for though it appears as
vanity or self-conceit, it is neither one nor the
other, but a true disease). They shift about,
looking from one person to another, wondering
what the various members of the assembly are
thinking about them. If anyone happens to
turn his glance in the direction of a girl with
this form of nervousness, a regular outburst
occurs; she blushes and perspires profusely,
putting her hand up to her hat or fringe or
rearranging some part of her dress, wondering
what can be a amiss, or she wipes her nose
with her handkerchief, thinking that there
must be a smut there to cause the unknowing
agitator to turn round and look at her. It
will never strike her that the unwelcome gaze
of the stranger is purely accidental, or may be
excited by the elegance of her dress or person.
No, there must be something “funny” for
anybody to turn round and stare at her like
that!

The two last divisions of nervousness need
but little comment. They are due to bodily
ill-health and are part and parcel of physical
weakness.

We must now turn to the most important
and most difficult part of our task—the
description of the means by which these
various forms of nervousness may be overcome.
We have several times mentioned that many
forms of nervousness are commonly caused by
ill-health, and we may now state that all forms
are rendered worse by any departure from
physical health. It is therefore obvious that
if the sufferer is anæmic or has indigestion,
or any of the other ten thousand diseases
to which we poor humans are subject, it is
essential that the unhealthy state of her body
should be cured ere she should try the special
methods of treatment to cure herself of
nervousness.

As nervousness is so frequently the result of
a one-sided education and lack of experience,
we would expect that persons who have
secured a varied tuition would be less subject
to nervousness than their less widely but
perhaps more deeply educated sisters. And
this we find to be the case. It is a knowledge
of a wide scope of learning, of the little ins
and outs of our very elaborate social customs,
of a more or less superficial knowledge of
current views and events, which will help a
girl to be at home in society, rather than a
deep knowledge of any one subject. This is
the proper place to point out that the popular
idea that nervousness is due to a feeble
intelligence is totally untrue. It requires a
considerable amount of mental power to be
able to be nervous. Some of the greatest
men in history have been conspicuously
nervous.

The girl who rapidly falls in with social
customs, who can join in conversations on the
ordinary subjects of talk, and who can grasp
and retain the little ways of society which she
cannot fail to observe, need never fear of
retaining any temporary nervousness she may
have experienced when she first “came
out.”

Since experience is so antagonistic to
nervousness, it follows that the pursuit of
experience is a very necessary point in the
treatment of nervousness. Of all ways of
acquiring experience none can equal travelling;
for the experience gained by moving from place
to place is exceedingly varied, and it is this
varied experience that is needed to cure
nervousness.

Often when nervousness is so intractable
that it cannot be cured by other means, we
advise the subjects to leave society for a year
or two, to travel, if possible, or else to gain
an insight into the ways and working of the
world before again attempting to face the
terrors of social life.

In many parts of this article we have
maintained that self-consciousness was an
exceedingly common and important factor of
nervousness and blushing. If we could
remove self-consciousness we could cure most,
if not all, forms of nervousness.

Suppose that a girl is self-conscious and she
enters into conversation with another girl who
is not self-conscious. The question is
broached by the healthy-minded girl. She
asks—

“Do you think that Mr. Jones’s French
poodle would look better if he were shaved?”

The nervous girl will undergo severe agitation
as to what she ought to answer. “You
see, if I say ‘no,’ it may show that I do not
know anything about dogs. In fact, I must
be very careful not to give myself away as
an ignoramus.”

As a matter of fact neither of these girls
knows much about dogs, perhaps neither
would recognise a French poodle if she saw
one. The questioner, still waiting for the
simple reply which her question needs, looks
into the face of her nervous companion, and
at once the latter’s wits desert her altogether.
“Why did she look into my face? I must
be looking very ugly to-day? I know my
dress is old-fashioned, but it is very rude of
her to notice it!” etc., etc. This poor girl
cannot bring her mind to bear on the subject
of the conversation; she is eternally thinking
of herself. If she would only think about
what her questioner is talking of, instead of
thinking about what her companion is thinking
about her, she would no longer be self-conscious,
no longer nervous.

The conversation concerning the French
poodle has upset her altogether; she leaves
her first companion and seeks another. But
here she can boast no greater success. Perhaps
she will brave a third effort at conversation,
but it is all to no purpose; she is either too
fearful of committing herself or saying something
unseemly, or else she knows that her
companion is secretly laughing at her. Utterly
downhearted she eventually sits down in a
corner and remains silently agitated for the
rest of the evening.

What a terrible state is that of self-consciousness,
and yet how common! And yet
of the large number of persons who suffer
from it how many try to overcome it?
Because it is far easier to foster than to
subdue these feelings is no reason for not
making any attempt to quell them.

A very important piece of advice to give to
all nervous girls is to avoid all trivial conversations,
especially talking scandal. It is
unfortunately a fact that nervous girls are often
quite themselves when discussing the weaknesses
of their friends and neighbours, but
such conversation begets a distrust of their
friends, and we have no doubt that the habit
of talking against one’s neighbours is sometimes
a direct cause of that form of nervousness
in which girls cannot talk to their own friends
without blushing. They know what their
friends say about others behind their backs,
and they fear that they too will be discussed
in their absence. To such girls as these we
may say, give over such worthless friends and
try to know others who use their tongues to a
more proper purpose, and never, under any
circumstances, talk scandal yourselves.

Self-conscious girls must get out of the
habit of revolving in their minds what answer
to give to a simple question. When you are
talking socially, it is really of very little
consequence whether your answer is correct or
not. You should indulge in conversation with
everybody whom you wish to know, and with
whom your parents or guardians wish you to
be intimate. You must not sit in a corner
and mope because you thought that Miss
Smith was criticising your dress when you
were trying to converse with her. Be a
woman and bravely attempt to join in conversation.
It does not matter if you make
mistakes. We are all human. We all make
mistakes. But it would indeed be a funny
world if we never attempted to open our
mouths lest we should say what is indiscreet
or fallacious. Remember that when you have
once braved your inclination to sit down and
be silent, half the battle is over and you will
soon grow to look with astonishment at your
foolish behaviour of some weeks back. Since
experience is the great cure for nervousness,
gain all experience you can both by reading,
by the study of the arts and sciences and by
observation of the doings of others and the
working of this great world. Keep your eyes
open and look around you. However limited
your own circle may be, it still contains more
to be studied than you can learn in your
lifetime. Trivial literature, and especially
cheap novelettes, should be avoided, for they
give you a false notion of life and deal with
silly and impossible predicaments.

There are doubtless many people who think
that nervousness can be cured by diet,
exercise and drugs. To such as hold this
view we readily admit that when nervousness
is caused by bodily ill-health, or by lack of
precautions to the laws of well-being, such is
the case. But the true nervousness, seen so
commonly in perfectly healthy persons, who
rigorously follow all the laws laid down by
physicians and general experience, is totally
uninfluenced by physical treatment of any
kind.

Blushing, which is one of the forms of
nervousness most frequently due to physical
causes, is often to be cured by careful diet and
other therapeutical measures. There is one
drug which is often of use in this condition.
Ichthiol taken in 2½-grain doses will often
help to cure blushing due to physical causes.
No drug whatever is of use in “nervousness.”

We have now finished our account of
nervousness. If it has been somewhat lengthy,
it is nevertheless extremely brief when the
gravity and complexity of the subject is
considered. We have not described all forms
of nervousness, nor do we expect to cure
all persons suffering from those varieties that
we have described. But we hope and trust
that those who suffer from these most distressing
ailments will derive some benefit from
our task.

{262}

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE YEAR 1807.

More than eighteen
months had slid
away since the day
when Denham Ivor
had been summarily
despatched with
other détenus to
Valenciennes. Once or
twice a letter from him
had reached the Barons,
but it was now long
since the arrival of the
last. Whether Denham
remained yet at
Valenciennes was a
matter of supposition,
not of certainty. For aught that his
friends knew to the contrary, he might
have been passed on to the grim fortress,
Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

Roy continued to live at Verdun with
his parents, for the long-desired passport
to England had never been granted.
Though not compelled to give his parole,
or to sign his name twice daily at the
maison de ville, as were all détenus
who did not care to pay a monthly tax
for freedom from this bugbear, he was
practically as much one of Napoleon’s
prisoners as any man in the place.

One day in the spring of 1807 he
stood upon the ramparts, gazing eagerly
towards the nearest town gate. Roy at
sixteen was much the same that Roy
at twelve or fourteen had been, only
decidedly taller and broader. He looked
almost as boyish as ever, with the same
curly fair hair and honest grey eyes.
Not so good-looking, perhaps, as in more
childish days, but attractive enough.

To some extent habit does and must
mean use. Four years out of a boy’s
life are a goodly slice of time, and Roy
had now been four years a captive,
banished from England, and separated
from his twin-sister. He might and
often did chafe and fume, and it had
been a sore disappointment not to find
himself on his sixteenth birthday an
officer in the English Army. Still, he
had good health and unquenchable
spirits, and however impatient he might
be by fits and starts, no one could have
described him as unhappy. He had
the gift of making the best of things;
and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy
stood him in good stead. Hard as it
had been to find himself cut off from
Molly for an indefinite period, harder
still to lose Denham, he managed on
the whole to enjoy life, finding entertainment
in everything and everybody.

“I say. Hallo! There’s something
going on,” he exclaimed.

Roy gazed with widely-opened eyes,
trying to make out the cause of that
gathering throng.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring
street on business, telling Roy
that he would meet him presently on
the ramparts. Roy supposed that he
would be expected to remain where he
was till his father should return. But
as he watched, the pull became too
strong. Something certainly was happening.
What if Colonel Baron had
forgotten all about him, and had gone
in that direction to discover what was
being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer.
He descended to the ground, set off full
tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts
of the crowd, running plump against the
Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received
the onslaught with a “Hallo, Roy!”

“I beg your pardon, sir. What’s
up?”

“A party of détenus back from
Valenciennes, I believe,” the young
clergyman answered. “There was a
report this morning that we might expect
them; and it seems to be true. Any
friends of yours, I wonder? There they
come through the gate.”

Both pressed on, but Roy made the
quicker advance, edging himself among
the crowd with great dexterity. The
thought of Ivor had come up like a flash
of lightning. Not that he expected to
see Denham himself—the chance was
too remote, the delight would be too
supreme—but that some news of him
might now be obtained. Somebody
who had arrived would certainly have
seen him, have talked with him. Roy
might keep up his spirits and enjoy life,
despite partings and deprivations; but
no one who could have known how the
boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a
word about Ivor, would ever have
accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position
near the gate, and scanned face after
face of the returned wanderers. Many
were familiar; but it was one, not
many, that Roy wanted; and though he
had assured himself that he did not expect,
yet keen disappointment laid hold
upon him when Ivor failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for
eighteen months passed warmly, and the
buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly
his glance fell upon a man standing
somewhat apart, leaning against a wall.
A little child lay asleep in his arms, and
Roy’s first impression was of somebody
who was awfully tired with the march.
He actually gazed full at the face without
recognition, so much was it altered; the
features sharpened into a delicate
carving in very pale bronze, like a
profile on some rare old coin, and the
dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow;
he does look done!” thought Roy, and
he went nearer.

“I say—hadn’t you better give me
that little thing to hold?”

“Why—Roy!”

The voice too had a worn-out intonation,
but the smile was not to be
mistaken.

“Den—you don’t mean to say——”

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

“You’ve come back! I am glad!”

“Yes. How are you all?”

“Den—I say—what’s wrong with
you?”

A man came limping up, in appearance
a respectable artisan. He took
the child from Ivor’s arms.

“No words can thank you, sir, for
your goodness to us,” he said, not
noticing Roy. “God will reward you.
I never can.”

“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s.
Come and see me some day—tell me
how you’re getting on.”

“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”

Ivor remained in the same position,
and a hand touched Roy. He turned,
to find himself facing the young artist,
Hugh Curtis.

“You back too! That’s good. And
your wife?”

“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t
you know I had a little one? Well, I
have. Jolly little thing too. They’re
in a cart with others—thanks to Captain
Ivor”—in a lower tone. “Never
mind about us; get him home”—with
a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got
to find rooms for ourselves, after I’ve
been to the citadel. Must report myself
there first, I’m told. And then I shall
have to meet my wife.”

Roy moved two or three paces away
with him.

“I say, tell me—what’s been the
matter with him? He looks as if——”

“Not well for some time, and sharp
attack of illness a few weeks ago. He
has walked the whole way here from
Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself,
and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a
poor consumptive young fellow. Said
Carey needed it most. Just like him,
you know. And then carrying that
child for hours yesterday and to-day!”

“What for?”

“Child’s father hurt his foot, and
could barely get along. And the little
thing cried with everybody except Ivor.
You know his way with children. But
he’s about used up now. Get him home,
and make him rest.”

Curtis went on, and Roy touched
Denham’s arm.

“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the
hill. Stay where you are till I come
back. There’s one near.”

He rushed away, and happily was
successful in his search.

Ivor had taken his seat, when Major
Woodgate walked briskly up.

“Roy—got Ivor? That’s right,” he
said in his quick fashion. “Don’t
bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and
answer for him, and fee the gendarmes,
if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard
what’s been going on. Done the hundred
and fifty miles on foot, I’m told,
and ill to begin with. A piece of
Quixotism! I shall come and give you{263}
a bit of my mind, Ivor, another day.
You don’t look up to understanding it
now.”

Denham laughed slightly, but made
no effort to defend himself, and they
drove off, Roy watching his restored
friend with a rapt gaze.

“Den, what was it for? Why
didn’t you ride?”

“I did intend. Somebody else was
in more need.”

“Couldn’t you have had a second
horse?”

“No. The order took everyone by surprise.
Most of us were short of cash.”

Roy thought of what Curtis had said.
“And I suppose you gave what you had
to everybody else, and kept none for
yourself.”

“I shared with others—of course—”

“But you ought to have kept enough
for riding. You’d no business—Den,
you’re awfully used-up.”

“When did you hear from me last?”

“Oh, ages and ages ago. I began
to think—Are you glad to come
back?”

“To my friend, Roy? Yes,” with
an affectionate glance.

“Isn’t it a beastly shame that I can’t
be in the Army yet?”

“Ah, that sounds like the Roy of
old!”

“But it is. A beastly shame. What
made you carry that little girl?”

“Her father fell lame, and she didn’t
take to other people, I could not stand
the wailing. He’s a good honest
fellow—badly off through no fault of his
own.”

“Shame!” muttered Roy again.
“What is the reason for your all being
sent back now, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivor seemed incapable of starting
remarks himself; and Roy, realising his
condition, sank into silence, unable still
to take his eyes from that worn face.
They reached the house, and he sprang
down. “Shall I go and tell them?”

“No—no need. I’ll come. Can you
pay the driver? I’m cleared out
completely.”

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and
Mrs. Baron, and with them was Lucille,
as was often now her custom. She
had gradually become almost a member
of the Baron family, and one and all
they were extremely fond of her. When
Roy flung the door open, and marched
triumphantly in, his arm through Ivor’s,
one startled “Ah-h!” broke from her,
before the other two had grasped what
was happening; and then her face,
usually almost without colour, became
crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips
remaining apart.

“Denham!” the Colonel and his
wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron’s grasp of Ivor’s hand
and his fixed gaze were like those of
Roy. Mrs. Baron’s delight was even
more plainly expressed. She had long
been as an elder sister to Denham, and
when he bent to kiss her hand, with the
grave deference which he always showed
towards her, she did what she had never
done before—gave him a sisterly kiss on
the cheek.

“This is joy! O this is joy,” she
said. “Nothing else could be so great
a happiness—except going home. Welcome,
welcome!” Then she held his
hand, with eyes full of tears searching
his face. “But, my dear Denham,
you have been ill—surely you have been
ill. How thin!—how altered! What
have you been doing to yourself?”

“He has walked the whole way here
from Valenciennes,” cried Roy, before
Denham could speak. “He was to
have ridden, and he gave up the horse
to somebody else.”

“Was that necessary?” the Colonel
asked.

“I thought it so, sir.”

“Papa, he had no money left. That
was why. He gave it all away. He
couldn’t even pay the driver, coming up
here.”

“But you could have borrowed from
somebody—you would know that I
should repay!”

“If I could have been sure, sir, that
you would still be here—but there was
no certainty. And so many now are in
difficulties, that it is no easy matter to
borrow—except by going to those whom
I will have nothing to do with.”

“How did you manage about food?
My dear, make him sit down. How did
you manage?”

The question was disregarded. “Any
letters?” Ivor asked.

“One from Mrs. Fairbank a few
weeks since. That is all. Good accounts
of Polly and Molly. Have you
not heard from them?”

“Not since leaving Verdun.”

“They may not have heard of your
going to Valenciennes. Did you see a
statement in the Moniteur not long
since, as to correspondence with England?
To the effect that more than a
hundred thousand letters had been taken
possession of by the French Government,
and bills to the value of millions of
pounds sterling.”

“No wonder we détenus are not flush
of cash! No, I did not see it. That
may have been when I was ill.”

“You have been ill, then?”

“Yes. Nothing to signify. How did
Mrs. Fairbank’s letter reach you?
Post?”

“Through M. de Marchand—under
cover to him. We have advised her
repeatedly to try again that mode, since
it seems the most hopeful. But doubtless
our letters don’t reach them.”

Lucille, after exchanging a warm
English handshake with Denham, had
held back, waiting her opportunity to
slip away. She glided now towards the
door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing
thoughtfully on the ground. Roy ran to
open it, and she said softly as she went
out, “Do not be merciless to your
friend. Give him some small repose.
He is what you call—dead-beat.”

Roy nodded. “You always did seem to
see exactly how Den was, didn’t you?”

Lucille made her escape promptly,
with heightening colour, and Ivor asked,
“Where is the letter?”

“Roy has it, put away,” Mrs. Baron
said. “It is partly to Roy and partly
to my husband. But you need food and
sleep before anything else.”

“Nay, if you knew how we have
travelled and slept at night, you would
allow the more pressing need to be for
a bath and a change of clothing,” Ivor
said, rather drily. “Well, since you
can assure me that ’tis all good news,
I will wait half-an-hour.”

“And then I’ll read it to you, if you
like,” observed Roy. “It isn’t very
interesting, Den. More than half is
from my grandmother to my father; and
you know how she writes always of the
things which nobody wishes to near.
And the rest is from Molly to me. But
as for Polly, my grandmother does not
say much—does she?” with a look at
his mother. “Save that Polly is well.”

“Which point settled, I will beg, if I
may, for a supply of water,” Ivor
replied.

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

Many people think night air injurious and
carefully close their windows even in hot
weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is
the purest and best, free from smoke and
other impurities. And the sleep is more
restful where there is some fresh air coming
into the room of the sleeper.

A little powdered borax on a damp
flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china
basins.

When the edges of palm leaves in pots get
torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed
with a pair of scissors.

When tortoiseshell combs get to look dull,
polish them with a little olive oil with the
hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a
few hours.

In case of fire in a house, if the staircase be
alight and retreat that way be impossible, the
inhabitants should shut all the doors behind
them and wait in a front room till help comes.
A window that is over a doorway is preferable
as there is then foothold for the firemen. If
it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on
hands and knees on the floor rather than walk
upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the
floor the clearer the air. In any case doors
and windows should be shut to prevent a
draught.

If you do not want the smell of dinner all
over the house, see that the slide over the
kitchen range is open for the smell to go up
the chimney. You will also save your coal
bill largely if you keep this slide open except
only when it is wanted closed for a short time
to make a fire fiercer.

The seeds of the first blossoms on a plant
or flowering shrub grow into the best
plants.

{264}

BREAD AND CAKES.

Household Bread.

Ingredients.—Three pounds and a half of
flour (household), about one pint and a quarter
of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a
half of salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce
of moist sugar.

Method.—Put the flour and salt in an
earthenware pan, and mix well together; put
the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream
with the sugar, and add to it a gill and a half
of the warm water. Make a well in the flour
and mix in the yeast and water, so that there
is a soft batter in the middle of the flour;
sprinkle flour over this, lay a cloth over the
pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen
minutes to set the sponge; then stir in the
rest of the water; flour the board and knead
the dough for about twenty minutes until very
elastic; replace it in the pan with a deep
cross scored on the top to help it to rise, cover
up and put in a warm place to rise one hour
and a half. Make into loaves and bake; the
oven should be very hot at first and moderate
for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will
take nearly two hours to cook. If the water
used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be
killed and will not act.

Gingerbread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces
of golden syrup, four ounces of brown sugar,
four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground
ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda,
one teaspoonful of mixed spice, two-thirds of
a gill of milk.

Method.—Put the flour, sugar, ginger and
spice in a basin and mix well together; put
the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan
and melt over the fire; pour the contents
of the saucepan into the contents of the basin,
mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a
greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.

Scones.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, two
ounces of dripping, three ounces of sugar,
half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful
of carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a
few sultanas (floured and picked).

Method.—Mix the tartar and the soda well
with the flour in a basin, rub in the dripping,
add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk
rather more soft than for pastry, roll into two
thick rounds, cut each into six equal pieces, lay
on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk
and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain
scones can be made by leaving out the sultanas
and the sugar. These scones are best made
with milk that is slightly sour.

Plum Cake.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces
of dripping, six ounces of brown sugar, six
ounces of sultanas (floured and picked), four
ounces of currants (washed and dried), one
teaspoonful of baking powder, two eggs, one
gill and a half of milk.

Method.—Put the dripping in a basin and
work it to a cream with a wooden spoon; mix
the flour with the baking powder and stir it
into the dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas
and sugar, and last of all the eggs beaten up
with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin,
and stand the tin on a thickly-sanded baking
sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an hour and
then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.

Seed Cake.

Method.—Make like plum cake, using an
ounce of caraway seeds for the sultanas and
currants, and a little less milk.

Unfermented Bread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, one
tablespoonful of baking powder, milk and
water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.

Method.—Mix together to a soft dough;
make into six rolls, brush with milk and bake
in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.

Potato Cake.

Ingredients.—Three-quarters of a pound of
mashed potatoes, half a pound of flour, two
ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one
small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg,
half a gill of lukewarm milk.

Method.—Melt the butter, and mix it with
the mashed potatoes, mix in the flour and
baking powder, add egg well beaten and the
lukewarm milk. Flour the board, roll into a
thick round, lay on a floured and greased
tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters
of an hour.

Rock Cakes.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two
ounces of currants (washed and dried), two
ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping,
two ounces of brown sugar, one ounce of
candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground ginger,
one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a
little milk.

Method.—Mix the flour and baking powder
in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the currants
and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger,
mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in
little rough heaps on a greased tin with two
forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.

Citron Buns.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two
ounces of margarine, two ounces of brown
sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one
egg, a little milk, three ounces of citron.

Method.—Mix the flour with the baking
powder, rub in the margarine with the tips of
the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized
pieces of the citron peel and chop the
rest small; mix the chopped citron with the
other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten
with a little milk. Mix rather wet; divide
into eight, lay on a greased tin, lay a piece of
citron on each cake and bake for fifteen
minutes in a good oven.

Shortbread.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, three-quarters
of a pound of butter, half a pound of
castor sugar.

Method.—Rub six ounces of the butter into
the flour and sugar, melt the rest and mix it in;
work a little with the hands to form a dough;
roll into two thick rounds and pinch them
round the edge with the fingers to ornament
them. Prick over the top with a fork or a
biscuit pricker; put two or three large pieces
of candied peel on each and bake about half an
hour in a moderate oven.

Rice Cakes.

Ingredients.—Three ounces of ground rice,
two ounces of flour, three ounces of butter,
three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs,
vanilla.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with
a wooden spoon, add the sugar and cream to
that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by
degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the
flavouring; fill greased patty pans and bake
in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.

Almond Cakes.

Ingredients.—Eight ounces of flour, four
ounces of butter, five ounces of castor sugar,
four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a
pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring,
a little water.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a
wooden spoon, stir in the sugar, beat in the
eggs one by one, putting a little flour with
each to prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of
the flour after the eggs are beaten in, lastly
the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush
some little cake moulds with clarified butter
and dust them with mixed castor sugar and
flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake
mixture and bake in a good oven a pale
brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold
ice as follows.

Icing.—Sift half a pound of icing sugar
and mix it very smoothly with a little cold
water and enough almond essence to flavour
it until it is just thick enough to coat the
cakes, pour over and let it set. Put a
crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips
of blanched almonds to ornament.

Chocolate Cake.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, quarter
of a pound of grated chocolate, three ounces
of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four eggs,
one small teaspoonful of baking powder,
vanilla flavouring, a little browning.

For the Icing.—Half a pound of icing sugar,
three ounces of chocolate, a little water and
browning.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream, add
the castor sugar and the grated chocolate; beat
the eggs in one at a time, putting a little flour
with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring
and a little browning. Have ready a cake tin
brushed out with clarified butter and lined
with buttered paper; put in the mixture,
which should three parts fill it, and bake in a
good oven about one hour and a half.

For the Icing.—Melt three ounces of chocolate;
mix the icing sugar with about four
tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the
melted chocolate; work well with a wooden
spoon and pour over the cake when it is cold.

Roscommon Loaf.

Ingredients.—One pound of wholemeal flour,
quarter of a pound of household flour, one
ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a
teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful
of salt, sour milk to mix.

Method.—Mix the flour, salt and soda well
in a basin, rub in the dripping, mix to a
rather soft dough with the sour milk; make
into a flat loaf, score across with a knife,
and bake in a good oven one hour and a
half.

{265}

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”

(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

{266}

WANTED: A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION.

By JAMES and NANETTE MASON.

Do you think we are going to advocate that
all of us should retire to dreamland to pass a
drowsy existence there with the creations of
our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken.
It is not possible to put everything in the
title, otherwise we might have made this one
run, “Wanted: a little more imagination for
those who, at the right times, have not
enough, and a little less for those who, on
all possible occasions, have too much.” But
it is the “too little” which is of most importance
for the purposes of ordinary life, and
that is why the title stands above as it does.
Our first business is to be practical and to
speak of imagination as an aid in the work and
conduct and duty of every day.

Of all powers possessed by our minds this
is perhaps the most wonderful—the power of
making pictures inside our heads, seeing there
what eyes know nothing of and what outside
ourselves has really no existence. It gives
an importance—a glory even—to the most
obscure and solitary lives. Possessed of a
vivid and healthy imagination, a girl may live
very much alone and yet be full of company,
entertaining a ghostly good society that in
some respects is even an improvement on that
frequented by her less isolated friends.

Everything is the better for being shone on
by its magic light—even love. Imagination,
someone says, is to love what gas is to the
balloon—that which raises it from the earth!
It is, as we all know, the test of genius; but
it is found, too, in ordinary people as a useful
servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether
out of our inner life and we would be very
poor creatures.

However, as we have said, we have sometimes
not enough. This happens, for example,
when we fail to look at things in a spirit of
kindliness, and give utterance to criticism on
other folk, hard, harsh, and unreasonable.

Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise
that all are not alike and that allowance—and
a wide allowance too—should be made for
differences both in thought and action. For
this reason we find them often wanting in
sympathy and sometimes even cruel.

This the imaginative seldom are. “Put
yourself in her place” is their golden rule—the
best rule that was ever devised for enabling
us to go through the world adding daily to the
happiness of it.

Only have a little more imagination and you
will be tolerant and kindly and ready to make
excuses not only for those you love, which is
easy, but for those you dislike, which, as
everyone knows, is a much harder matter.
The “little more” will make Kate shut her
mouth again the next time it flies open to let
out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It
will make Eliza pay that little account she has
been owing for the last six months without a
thought in all that time of the dressmaker
needing the money. It will make Maggie
give up grumbling that Beatrice writes to her
so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,—she
the eldest of a great bunch of sisters and her
mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut her
visit short next time she calls on Alice, so
leaving hard-worked Alice to get through her
school tasks for the morrow without sitting up
to all hours of the night. In fact, what will
it not do in the way of giving smoothness to
the wheels of life?

Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which
to obtain a look at ourselves, and when we
get a little more of it, it is like turning up the
gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves
then as others see us, and a pretty exhibition
it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous,
whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this
way gets to know it. There is thus always
hope for the imaginative—they can realise
what they are, and, without self-knowledge,
what chance of reformation is there for anybody?

Our friend Josephine, for example, came to
us the other day, keen on being an authoress;
but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no
imagination. With only a few grains of it,
she would have seen that becoming an
authoress is for her impossible, because what
she wants is publishers’ and editors’ cheques
and what she does not want is trouble.

A well-trained imagination—not one inclined
to run riot; no, certainly not that sort of a
one—is of great assistance in enabling us
rightly to sum up people and things. Our
critical faculties are worth little and only lead
us into mischief and mistakes without it.
Possessed of only a “little more,” not a few
of us would often be saved from being misled
by appearances and enabled to steer clear of
the troubles that come from drawing wrong
inferences. The world is a difficult enough
world to live in, for things are but seldom
what they seem, and some art, like this one
we are talking about, is needed by which we
can illuminate life and get at the real essence
of all that interests us.

Another use of imagination is in the reading
of books, and on this subject no one has
written better than the late Professor Blackie,
who held very decided opinions about the
importance of having the imaginative faculty
properly trained.

“As there are many persons,” he says,
“who seem to walk through life with their
eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others
who read through books, and perhaps even
cram themselves with facts, without carrying
away any living pictures of significant story
which might arouse the fancy in an hour of
leisure or gird them with endurance in a
moment of difficulty.

“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you
read a chapter of any notable book, not what
you saw printed on a grey page, but what you
see pictured in the glowing gallery of your
imagination. Have your fancy always vivid
and full of body and colour. Count yourself
not to know a fact when you know that it
took place, but then only when you see it as
it did take place.”

These words form as valuable a note on the
art of reading as we are likely to meet with for
many a day.

To train the imagination adequately, the
Professor points out, it is not enough that
pictures be made to float pleasantly before the
fancy—that is merely the amusement of the
lazy. We should call upon our imagination
to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they
arise, and not be content till we see them
with our minds almost as clear, distinct,
and life-like as we might have done with
our eyes.

For the culture of the imagination, works of
fiction are no doubt of great service, but the
most useful exercise of this faculty is when it
buckles itself to realities.

“There is no need,” says the Professor,
“of going to romances for pictures of human
character and fortune calculated to please the
fancy and to elevate the imagination. The
life of Alexander the Great, of Martin Luther,
of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable
characters on the great stage of the world who
incarnate the history which they create, is for
this purpose of more educational value than
the best novel that ever was written or even
the best poetry. Not all minds delight in
poetry; but all minds are impressed and
elevated by an imposing and a striking fact.
To exercise the imagination on the lives of
great and good men brings with it a double
gain; for by this exercise we learn at a single
stroke, and in the most effective way, both
what was done, and what ought to be
done.”

What is true of the value of imagination to
the student of books is equally true of its
importance to all who devote attention to
music and art. Without imagination, the
pursuit of either is little better than a waste
of time, and the more of it we bring to their
culture, the more successful we shall be. Let
girls, then, and their parents and teachers, look
to it and do what they can to encourage this
most spiritual of all our faculties, the very life
of artistic effort, and a magician to whom
everything is possible.

A great and good use of imagination is to
reproduce to us our past lives. It is something
more than memory. Memory says I
was at such a place on a certain day, but
imagination brings up the place—the Highland
loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn
morning, the purple heather on the hills, the
steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking the
steamer, the young man in the coffee-room
smiling to the landlord’s daughter, the taste
of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the
burned oat-cake.

“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a
dream,” and by imagination we can dream it
all over again. And the recollection is sometimes
better than the reality, just as in moonlight
our village looks more lovely than in
sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our
ear, and a halo is thrown over the unsightly
and disagreeable.

An additional charm too is that many a
problem which may have puzzled us when
things actually happened, is solved before we
begin to look back. The relationship of
people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes,
sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain;
the foolish have got their deserts and the
wise have got theirs; the envious have grown
lean and the good-natured and kindly have
become fat; the wasters have fallen to
poverty and the industrious have risen to
fortune.

Such changes as these give value and
interest to our recollections when we wake
the ghosts of the past and make them parade
before us. We are able in a way which was
impossible before to be actors, spectators,
and enlightened critics—all three rolled in
one.

Girls who have now but little short lives,
with comparatively few incidents to recall,
can hardly realise what a gratification this
wandering over the enchanted ground of
imagination imparts to mature years. If they
did they would often be saying to themselves,
How will this look in recollection? And
such a thought would keep them from many
a frivolity and many an error. But, short
lives or long lives, let us go over our past
often if for no other reason than that we may
understand ourselves, not to speak of our
gaining such knowledge as will enable us to
steer a safe course through the perils of the
future.

Speaking of the future reminds us that that
is a great territory of the imaginative. By
imagination girls are witches to foretell what is
to happen the day after to-morrow.

Now we spend our time ill if we build
castles in the air and trust to them as if they{267}
were substantial edifices. But, for all that, to
let the imagination dwell on what is yet to
come has its uses and may be a valuable help
to conduct.

Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly
extravagant ever to be realised have brightened
many dull and monotonous lives, and for that
reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged.
Besides this there is an important
gain resulting from our projecting the imagination
into the future—we are thereby prepared
for many events which now find us quite
unprepared.

The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination
who danced and sang all summer-time.
They should have pictured to themselves the
snow on the ground, the pools frozen over, and
the wind whistling through the bare branches.

A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have
all my life had a vision of a workhouse door
open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising
early and working hard. It is that which has
made me saving and prosperous.”

A similar vision might work a change on
some people we know. Bring your own self
forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that
imagination of yours, picturing yourself as old
and disinclined for work, and see if ever after
you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.

A little more imagination may often be
recommended to the good looking, not forgetting
all who think themselves so. Perhaps
we should rather say a little more of the
right sort, for they indulge in flights of fancy
enough when it is a matter of picturing those
brought into captivity by their charms. They
should leave considering their conquests and
captives and make an effort to realise what
they themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty,
if they live so long. The beauty and attractiveness
of youth will then be over, and unless
they have something else to recommend them,
their place will be on one of the back seats of
human life.

This should set them furnishing the inside
of their heads as richly as Nature has done
the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental
culture endures and is found attractive, and
even charming, to the very end of the chapter.
There are few sadder sights than that of a
beauty in ruins with an untrained intellect
and none more refreshing than that of a
bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind
it stored with information and animated by
shrewdness and good nature.

There is danger in all things, for all—yes,
even the best—may be misused. Imagination
is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and
brighten our lives as we have seen, but that
does not happen with the foolish. Instead
of occupying this wondrous faculty with what
is profitable and beautiful, they devote it to
what is degrading and mean, and thus become
a great deal worse with imagination than they
would be without it.

And, even where its subjects are not
positively objectionable, imagination sometimes
wastes its energy on whimsicalities and
runs riot in the broad fields of extravagance
and nonsense. Of such a nature was the
fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to
the end of her days, showed great reverence
for dogs and cats because she believed them
animated by the souls of her ancestors.

A very silly use of imagination is to picture to
ourselves suspicions, dangers and misfortunes.
Some of us have a great deal of ability in this
line, and endure torments daily over evils that
never arrive.

“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles
you” is a safe rule, and only a stupid girl will
set her imagination working so as to make
herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the
stupid class—no doubt, Caroline, it is on
this occasion only—or she would at once get
rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us
last Tuesday that the letters sent to her by her
sweetheart were detained at the post office
and read. As if the postmistress, even in
her country place, had not something better
to do!

Another danger of the imagination is that
we are apt to take refuge in it against the
duties of real life. In real life there is friction,
and there is nothing of that in dreamland.
We can make that pleasant country to suit
ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction,
without mishaps, everything coming
just right. Our business, however, in the
world is not to dream but to act, for which
reason this great gift of imagination must be
kept in its proper place. It is a good servant,
but, by foolish indulgence, may become a
very bad master.

But, after making all allowances for dangers—those
we have named and others that might
be stated—the fact remains that to the greater
number of us a little more imagination would
not come amiss. It would make our lives
richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly,
more sensible. It is only a “little more”
that is wanted. That any of us are entirely
destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry
sticks” is not common for girls.

AN EMBROIDERED BABY’S CARRIAGE COVERLID OF HOUSE FLANNEL.

I was recently asked by a lady friend to
design her a simple piece of embroidery for
her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that
the design was not to be elaborate, as there
was very little time to work it.

The illustration here given is the design I
made, but it has a very different appearance
in black and white to what it had when
worked in two tones of blue worsted on
house flannel. Still, those readers who do
embroidery will know what allowances to
make.

I sketched the design right away in charcoal,
and anyone at all accustomed to using a pencil
will have no difficulty in doing this. Divide
your material in half, and then draw a line in
the middle horizontally, and others above and
below this. These lines will guide you in
getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as
the principal lines are symmetrical, it is
enough. I found you can easily sketch in
vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel
and it easily dusts off afterwards.

The whole of the forms were produced in
outline, and to show the sort of stitch, I have
given a leaf full size. The ground is soon
covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap
look either. The fault many embroiderers
make in carrying out a design is that they
miss the “swing” of the lines, get broken-backed
curves and clumsy-looking details.
To obviate this you ought to keep looking at
your work as a whole. Dwelling too long on
any part of the design is likely to upset the
balance of the whole.

It is obvious that in the design given the
stems are the first features to be worked, as
the leaves and flowers merely grow from them
and are of secondary importance. It will add
to the grace of the design to get the lower
part of the stems gradually thicker, say two
strands wide towards the base, just as in
nature we find a plant gradually thickening as
it nears the root.

It will be noticed that a separate border
is designed for the piece at the top which
turns over. The coverlid should have a
worked edging, and to get this even a few
niches should be spaced out and drawn on a
piece of tracing paper and then pricked over
with a coarse needle.

All you have to do is to rub a little crushed
charcoal, tied up in a piece of coarse linen
or muslin, on the reverse side, when the
powdered charcoal will pass through the holes
leaving an impression which can be worked
over at once.

Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it
should be done evenly, and the eye is not
quite correct enough if left to itself, and much
of the workmanlike look of the whole would
be marred if this edging were badly done.
The right initial or name can be added or left
out if desired. In the latter case put in a
flower and a leaf or two.

Those readers who have never worked on
house flannel will find it a pleasant material,
and for portières and short curtains very
excellent both in effect and for wear.

{268}

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

By C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER I.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

Sitting in a cool green shade of trees and
flowers, in the still heat of a summer afternoon,
I read in your most interesting paper,
dear Mr. Editor, a record of noble women who,
from the slippery places of wealth and ease,
had sprung a mine of happiness in lightening
the burdens, and in sympathies for the sorrows,
of many who had no helper.

I read and enthusiastically admired, and
while admiring tried to appreciate the difficulty
which women so placed would find in realising
sufferings of which they could know so little
by experience—of some troubles they could
absolutely know nothing—the want of bread,
the deadly fatigue of overwork, the misery of
children crying for food, the bitterness of bare
poverty, of homes which do not shelter, of
empty fireplaces in cold, and shadowless rooms
in the heat—and in such heat as we have been
taught lately can be suffered even in this
dear England of ours.

In the intense heat of the day—while the
roses drooped and seemed to sigh for rain,
and the birds were silent, and by the shaded
pool, at the dark water’s edge, the cows were
enjoying some freshness, and the white flocks
of waterfowl cowered and waited for the
evening breeze—in the stillness my thoughts
floated away to curious visions, partly suggested
by a lovely series of pictures in the Arabian
Nights of magical help and daring exploits,
and one, the last (not in any English edition),
of a range of mountain caverns, with glittering
temptations, through which the prince has to
fight his way till he comes to the last vast
hall shrouded in darkness and ended by
dim heavy curtains, which opened, disclosing
the radiant islands in the seven seas, where
his love reigns, and the water-nymphs receive
him as he leaps into the waves and, singing,
bear him to his queen, to rescue and love
her.

Visions are curious and arbitrary things,
and while dreaming of this often haunting
story, I thought that, instead of the gigantic
fiend who in the story waves his scimitar over
the lover, I saw two radiant angels parting
those magic curtains as I in my dream gazed,
and they said to me—

“You have loved and revered the courage
and self-devotion of the noble servants of the
Most High, who have abandoned the luxuries
and repose of wealth to save their fellow
mortals—the poor, the helpless, and the
suffering. Would you know what more can
be done?

“There are records in the kingdom of our
Master of fellow-servants of ours—women,
with no power but their faith, no means but
those like the feast for five thousand provided
by their Lord by the Galilean lake from a few
loaves and small fishes, no strength but the
divine energy of love—these servants of God,
poor, weak, alone, have done work which has
caused joy in Heaven and saved those who,
but for them and others like them, would
have been lost. Will you dream on, and we
will show you visions of some of these?”

In breathless expectation I waited, and
gradually the vision resolved itself before me
into a wild mountainous country. A castle
up the hills was besieged by a horde of savage
and furious soldiery. Defence was hopeless,
but the few loyal retainers held their own till
the three little orphan children of the lord
were hurried out of the back postern by their
nurse and one (the only) trooper who could
be spared to drive the mule on which the two
little leddies were seated and to carry the
young lord.

Heaven helped them and they safely reached
the hut where, concealed and protected by
Elspeth the nurse, they escaped the search of
their enemies. By day and night this devoted
servant worked for them, tended them. To
feed them she starved, to clothe them she
managed to get by night and hidden mountain
paths to the few nobles still left on whom she
could rely with the words “My young leddies
need this,” “My little lord needs that.”

Years go by, and the brave old Scotchwoman
has fulfilled her trust. The young lord has
regained his inheritance, and now they all
plead that she to whom they owe everything
should accompany them to the noble home
she has so helped them to regain. But I see
her, in advancing years, still spinning on in
the Highland home. At all times of need,
whether of joy or woe, they call for Elspeth,
and she is with them again; but she died as
she lived, in the poor home of her fathers,
but up-borne by the prayers and the reverence
of her people. “Poor, yet making many rich.”

It was in vain the young lord and her
leddies claimed her for their richer life of
competence and power, but the old Hieland
woman said, “Na, na.” She would go to
them when on great occasions they wanted
her, but her strong independent life was still
to be lived among the hills she loved and
among her own people; and by the work of
her own hands she would still live, and in her
hut she would die.

The dream curtains slowly descended, but
my last look at the beautiful Highland scene
was on the cottage on which the sunshine of
Heaven’s blessing still lingered, and on the
noble peasant woman who had saved her
chieftain’s children.

I might be allowed to mention that, remembering
this touching story of fidelity and
loyalty as it was told me by the Earl himself
years ago, I have searched through many
volumes of the history of this great family for
further details of the time and place, but in
vain, so I must leave the little history as I
heard it from the chief’s own lips.

In writing of servants, an anecdote of Lord
Shaftesbury, mentioned in a recent work—Collections
and Recollections—is worth remembering.

“Speaking of his early and troubled childhood,
he said, one only element of joy he
recognised in looking back to those dark days,
and that was the devotion of an old maid-servant,
who comforted him in his childish
sorrows and taught him the rudiments of the
Christian faith. In all the struggles and
distresses of boyhood and manhood, he used
the words of prayer which he had learned
from the good woman before he was seven
years old. And of a keepsake which she left
him—the gold watch which he wore to the
last day of his life—he used to say, ‘That was
given to me by the best friend I ever had in
the world.’”

(To be continued.)

“IN MINE HOUSE.”

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

PART II.

ITS INGLE-NOOKS AND HOW TO ECONOMISE THEM.

In olden days the ingle-nook was the centre
of the home. Built in a deep recess of the
wall, with its copper or brazen cupola, it had
benches fitted into its chimney corner on each
side. Here, after a day’s work was done,
assembled the mistress with her distaff,
maidens with their lovers, sons with their
netting, and the father with his book. Here
chat and song and sacred lore flowed freely
and fast. On its wide breast lay large logs
of hazel and oak, beechen boughs and green
ashwood. Bit by bit as they smouldered
away fresh limbs were added, keeping up a
crimson glow on the wide hearth.

Nowadays, in mine house slow combustion
grates and stoves reign supreme. By their
use much of the picturesqueness of our fires
is done away with, but a wonderful economy
in the coal-bill effected. This is not the
case, however, if our particular Mary Jane
be allowed to make and mend at her own
sweet will. The “Eagle Range” is quite as
omnivorous as its namesake if cook keeps
every damper out and every cross-door shut.
Unless she cleans each flue scrupulously, the
“Eagle” and its ilk will only consume lumps
of best Orrell—and consume them much
faster than an open fireplace would do.

In mine house the first lesson taught a new
maid is how to lay and light a fire. Scientifically
done, it takes far less kindling wood and
far fewer matches than when built up at haphazard.
There are two methods of laying a
fire. A range or stove must burn from the
bottom upwards; the open grate may be
ignited on the top.

We will consider our drawing-room fire
first. See that every bit of ancient fire is
raked away and every cinder riddled on the
spot through a 6d. wire-shovel. The meshes
of this instrument are wide apart, so only the
large cinders are retained by its use; all small
morsels and dust fall through without raising
a “pother,” and may be sifted afterwards.
Now fit a sheet of brown paper across the
lower bars and lay over it some lumps of
clean round coal. On the top of these empty
your cinders, and over them again place wood
and bits of crumpled paper in the order
named. One match applied to this topmost
layer will ignite the tissue, and very slowly
it will burn downwards until the Orrell be
reached.

This glowing mass must on no account be
poked. In fact, if this mode of lighting our
sitting-room fires be adopted, sets of fire-irons
should be conspicuous by their absence. A
very distinct saving is effected by this; first
we are spared initial cost of purchase, and
afterwards constant extravagant use of the
poker is avoided.

Some folk seem to think that flames alone
give heat. Now, as a matter of fact, it is the
glowing mass which most quickly warms a
room. Others talk of “the cheerful blaze.”
In mine house we esteem the red heart far
more beautiful. As a matter of fact, in mine
house, which boasts of ten grates, only two
pokers are en evidence. Yet last winter our{269}
next door neighbour—who burned double the
quantity of coal—complained she could not
get her parlour to register 60°, whilst my
sitting-room pumped up to and maintained
70° without any difficulty.

There are two ways of minimising the
consumption of coal in our modern grates—either
get a firebrick to fill up the back thereof
and burn only a frontage of bottled sunshine,
or leave it as the builder intended and after
drawing every bit of round coal to the front
bars and seen them well alight, pack the
cavity behind with a bucket of well-damped
“slack” or coal-dust. This mass will gradually
heat and ignite all through and throw out
a heat never attained by the ordinary lump fire.

The very best Orrell slack is like small coal,
and costs only from 6d. to 8d. a sack as
against £1 1s. a ton for bright coal. A fire
made up after this economical plan will burn
from morning till night without attention.
Then, breaking up the solid cake, a bright
cheerful result is gained for the hours of
twilight and night. Such a fire, too, is
invaluable in a sick room—requiring no noisy
repairing when sleep ought to reign.

In mine house the kitchen range is scientifically
treated also and consumes every bit
of refuse.

I allow neither ashpit, pigbucket, or dustbin
at the back door. Such extravagant
conveniences should never be tolerated where
economy in fuel is an object. Even if we
have no poultry or porcine animal to devour
potato peels, vegetable parings, or scraps of
meat, our kitchen range can have its omnivorous
mouth filled daily with such. Of
course every house mother knows that when
cooking is being done, a clear good fire is
necessary.

Mary Jane may during those halcyon hours
pile on the best coal and be allowed liberally
to “rake” it with a heavy poker, otherwise
she will send up flabby pastry, raw potatoes,
and half-cooked beef. But directly the midday
meal be over, every scrap of green stuff,
cabbage stalks, every bone—fish or flesh—is
laid on the glowing embers of the range in
mine house. A layer of wet coal-dust is
added, the iron rings are put in place, the
door is shut, and all dampers are pulled out.
Thus, sans odeur, those atoms of waste food
are consumed which, left to lie on an ashpit,
would infallibly breed fever of all sorts.

When, at six o’clock, another meal is
required, the range is opened, lungs perforated
through its crust, some knots of coal
allowed, and a liberal use of the “curate”
recommended.

For toasting or ironing purposes we utilise
a heap of clean cinders which has gradually
been accumulating in a corner of the yard.
The dews of heaven have kept these damp,
and the raindrops have cleaned them before
we shovel them on to the fire. Ram them
into the grate, and thus provide the best
(because most smokeless) fuel for laundry
work. Our flat irons, heated by these cinders,
are not smoke begrimed or sooty, but keep
bright and smooth all the year round.

In the ingle-nook of mine house open fireplaces
are, in two rooms, replaced by American
stoves. One of them stands about two and a
half feet high and cost only 15s. It juts well
out in the study—close to the writing-table—and
keeps my toes and fingers warm and
comfortable at a minimum cost of fuel. An
iron arm elbows its way up the closed chimney,
and a sheet of zinc nailed over the ordinary
grate gives a good draught. The fire-space
in this stove is very tiny—a handful of shavings
and a spoonful of coal makes it light up cheerfully,
and a little damp slack keeps it at
furnace heat for hours.

This wee warming-stove has saved its cost
over and over again, and is so easily lit up
that I manage to have the comfort of a fire
long before my house-maidens have quitted
the beautiful land of nod. All undue dryness
of the atmosphere is counteracted by keeping
a pipkin of water steaming on its face, and
it is so clean that even the most delicate
curtains are not soiled by its use.

The value of having a smutless, smokeless,
dustless fire can never be over-estimated in
this uncertain climate. Even many evenings
in July or August call for a small fire, and the
easiness of lighting this stove in the ingle-nook
of mine house prevents such a necessity (as I
consider it) being considered a luxury.

I do not think I need speak of the virtues
of gas as a heating agent. We all recognise
the desirability of its use; but, alas! where
economy has to be considered in our ingle-nooks,
we cannot recommend it. In place of
coal gas is desirable; but in addition to coal
it is fearfully expensive. In mine house—when
dog-days protest against any artificial
heat—we use paraffin.

Rippingill has invented and patented so
many excellent elaborate cooking-stoves that
it is easy to do without our kitchen range.
At the cost of about four farthings a dinner
consisting of half a leg of mutton, boiled
potatoes, peas, cauliflower, and a rice pudding
can be cooked to perfection. Even after
these are done the ovens will be still hot
enough to bake a cake for afternoon tea or
some pastry for supper.

The equable temperature maintained by an
adjustable flame enables me to “rise” all
kinds of fancy bread in my “A.B.C.” stove
splendidly, and for making jam it is invaluable.
No longer do I dread the annual eruption
of stones of ripe raspberries or the arrival of
hairy, sweet gooseberries by the gallon. The
winter supply of jam in mine house is made
without burnt brows or scalded fingers over
the little Rippingill that stands in the store-room.

“But don’t the stoves smell fearfully?” is
a question often asked. I answer truthfully
that they are absolutely odourless when properly
attended to. Loose particles of charred
wick cause a loss of proper ventilation; drops
of oil spilt outside the reservoir, clogged
burners, all prevent proper combustion and
produce a bad effluvia.

I find that constant supervision is necessary
when we use oil in mine house. Then only
are the wicks well rubbed, then only are
scissors tabooed, then only fags and edges
flame not, then only doth economy wait on
comfort in my ingle-nook. It requires skilled
fingers to keep chimneys clear enough to read
by. A drop of ammonia added to the water
in which they are washed helps towards this
crystalline condition. Then no longer

but sheds round a clear shining light.

Perhaps a word or two about kindling may
not be out of place in considering this subject
of economy in our ingle-nooks. Our grandmother’s
axiom was—

But I think the making of a fire is even more
important than its mending or tending. To
give our maids inadequate lighting material is
very false economy. Well dried, well chopped,
well seasoned faggots are a necessity in mine
house.

“Ash green” may be “fire-wood fit for a
queen,” but it makes bad kindling. Bundles
of small sticks may be bought so cheaply
nowadays that we should never be without
them. Unlike Hamlet, we need not “for the
day be confined to fast in fires” if we provide
these and a few medicated wheels for hasty
work.

On the other hand Mary Jane must be
impressed with the fact that twelve bundles
represent twenty-four fires at the least. Half
a dozen sticks laid lightly in a basket-fashion
will do the same work as a whole handful
lumped on together. “Waste not, want not,”
is a motto much to be observed in this matter.

It is a good thing to have a regular weekly
supply sent in, regulated by the number of
fires in general use. For extra ones, half a
dozen medicated wheels should be kept in the
store press, and only given out when one is
unexpectedly called for.

I cannot quit this subject of the ingle-nook
in mine house without speaking a little about
the summer ornamentation thereof. As I
hinted before, I personally consider the best
ornament of our fire-stoves to be a fire, even
in August—or, at least, the makings of a fire
if required.

In my best room we lift out the leaded bars
and replace them with bright brass ones, filling
in the space with faggots and coal and
fircones. The glistening rods do not prevent
our having an occasional blaze, for a rub with
“Globe” polish soon polishes them after use.
We do not lift away the pierced brass curb
or dogs, but amongst and behind them a few
pots of ferns are stood about. They do not
mind the draught up the chimney (N.B.—No
register is ever drawn down in mine house),
and can be judiciously damped as they stand
on the tiled hearth. A second suffices to shift
these when a fire is called for.

I think easy removal is the primary rule in
decoration of our ingle-nook. Thus, heavy,
dust-collecting curtains should never be
attached to the mantelpiece; much less may
art muslin draperies be tolerated. I have
seen them in some houses with all their
suggestiveness of downright tragedy veiled by
flimsy unreality. One spark, one splutter, one
fizz, and flames would lick them up like paper.
A hammered brass and iron screen—a sheet
of looking-glass—if you must hide the settee.
On the other hand, a fir or larch bough, with
its red-brown stem and crimson tassels, may
be laid across the set fire, and one has decoration
enough.

Nothing can be beautiful in our ingle-nook
which conveys a false notion of the purpose
to which it will be applied. Decorative art
requires that the nature of construction should
as far as possible be revealed or indicated by
the ornament which it bears.

“The beauty of fitness” must be borne in
mind when we are tempted to fill the fire-baskets
in our ingle-nooks with tinsel and
shavings, paper designs or artificial flowers.
In the huge chimney space of an ancient
fireplace logs of wood carelessly piled on dogs
was a fit and appropriate decoration. So a
well laid fire is, after all, to end with as well
as to begin with the best ornament we can
stand in the ingle-nook.

Perhaps no object in mine house speaks of
higher things in a louder voice than does the
fire in its ingle-nook. Scenes of terror and
beauty in the Bible often surround a hearth
and a flame. The burning bush which hid
Jehovah; the flashing fire enfolding itself
(Ezek. i.) displayed Him; a furnace lit up the
first covenant (Gen. xv. 17), and so on through
the whole book.

In one of the Significant Rooms of the
Interpreter’s House a fire burned all the year
round upon which rival forces poured oil
and water—a picture this of God’s grace overcoming
the evil one.

And so we weave round the most sacred
spot in our homes a fabric of thought and
poetry and prayer—

A little cricket still chirps of love and help
and warmth and all that makes life lovely.

(To be continued.)

{270}

CHINA MARKS.

ENGLISH PORCELAIN.

PART IV.

Salopian Works, Caughley.

The Salopian Porcelain Works were founded
by Thomas Turner, of Caughley Place, who
had been employed in the Worcester factory,
and becoming manager of the pottery works at
Caughley, near Broseley, in 1772. To him are
attributed the famous “willow pattern,” the
“Nankin” and the “blue dragon,” and the
production of the beautiful and distinguishing
dark blue colour; Thomas Minton, of Stoke,
assisted in the completion of the “Nankin,”
being an articled engraver at Caughley. Of
Turner the Messrs. John Rose bought the
factory in 1799, and in 1814-15 it was broken
up. This was a grievous loss, as the porcelain
produced there was remarkable for the
brilliancy of its glaze, the fineness of its
substance, and the beauty of its blue colour.
The name “Salopian” indicates its origin,
but several other marks of very elaborate
designs were employed, being a series of
Arabic numerals, as here given, although
some slight varieties are noticeable in the
different illustrations published.

Coalport and Colebrook Dale.

John Rose, an apprentice of Thomas Turner,
of Caughley, Salop, was also the founder of
the Coalport and Colebrook Dale, Shropshire,
manufactories, and after a time, having purchased
the Caughley plant, he united the
latter with Coalport, Swansea and Nantgarw
factories; the paste of Coalport was a
combination, and “felspar porcelain” was
produced. Turner’s “willow” and “blue
dragon” designs were again resuscitated to
a great extent, and various sprig patterns,
copied from Chelsea, Dresden and Sèvres
porcelain, as well as bearing their marks.
Besides these latter, the names and initial
letters of the original factories are found on
the early examples, and the more recent bear
the marks next here following.

The letters “C. B. D.” in monogram,
“C. D.” and “C. Dale” stand for Colebrook
Dale, and the Coalport mark is simply its
name in writing hand. There are other marks
that cannot be omitted in the series, such as
the name “Salopian” in capitals, in small
roms.; the name “Turner” in capitals; the
letter “S” in blue stands for “Salopian” (an
early mark); the letters “So S” and “Sx.”
Also, the crescent surmounting the name
“Salopian,” the former in blue and the latter
impressed only. One other mark may be
named, a dot, and an “S” surmounting the
crossed swords.

(The Staffordshire
Works—Shelton
New
Hall.)

The porcelain
manufacture was introduced
into the
Staffordshire potteries
in 1777 on the
purchase of Champion’s
patent, obtained
by him from
Cookworthy, of Plymouth.
The New
Hall Works, Shelton,
built by Whitehead,
produced hard porcelain, much like that of
Bristol. The blue tea-ware was in hard
paste, with the “willow pattern,” and having
Champion’s mark under the glaze, was made
in this factory by Turner. Some seventeen
or twenty celebrated manufacturers were connected
with the Shelton China Works at the
“New Hall.” One of these was the celebrated
Josiah Spode, who in 1784 took the factory
from Banks and Turner, and was in his turn
succeeded by his son, J. Spode, junior. This
latter introduced soft felspar and bones into
the Staffordshire porcelain. Turner junior
was followed by Copeland, and Garrett,
Thomas Minton and his son, Herbert. Hard
paste was introduced into the Staffordshire
china by the latter. The second Josiah Spode
was the most successful porcelain manufacturer
of his time, and the new parish church at
Stoke was mainly built and decorated by him.
He contributed to it the best porcelain, jasper
ware, patent stone pottery, and
blue-painted ditto to beautify it.

Mr. William Copeland was
his partner, and the exquisite
Parian biscuit china or Parian
Carrara was carried to the
utmost perfection by him. The firm of Josiah
Spode and William Copeland, and then Copeland
and Garrett, is now known as “Copeland
and Sons.”

The Spode china bore the maker’s name,
painted or impressed, and surmounted by a
crown and inscribed between the branches.
Later on it bore “Copeland and Garrett,” or
two C’s interlaced; also “Saxon Blue” and
“New Blanche.”

The pâte sur pâte, or “slip painting,” was
brought to great perfection by M. Solon, the
principal artist employed by Messrs. Minton,
as well as Mr. Toft.

Josiah Wedgwood’s nephew, Thomas
Brierly, introduced the soft paste porcelain
at Etruria in 1808; but it was not of long
existence. The examples to be seen are
decorated with landscapes, birds, and flowers,
and are, for the most part, distinguished with
the name “Wedgwood” coloured red.

The early marks on Minton’s porcelain are
the following (the special mark of Solon Miles
being the most ornate)—

Specimens of the earths, clay, stone, sand,
etc., were placed in Josiah Wedgwood’s
hands by a Mr. Bradley Blake, a resident at
Canton, such as employed at Nankin for
porcelain. And Wedgwood produced very
excellent examples, but he never manufactured
this china ware for commerce, although his
nephew, Thomas Brierly, did, in 1808, at
Etruria. For himself he was a potter, and it
was for beautiful varieties of this ware that
the famous Flaxman worked designs for him.

The names of Ridgway and Sons, and
Heath, Warburton, Clowes, Hollins, and
Daniel, are well known in connection with
the New Hall China Works at Shelton. But
during a course of many years and many
successions of proprietorship, there is little
space for lists of names in a brief article.

I may here observe that when the Derby
works began to decline, after 1825, many
highly efficient workmen joined the factory at
Stoke-upon-Trent, founded by Turner and
rendered illustrious by Spode. Thus the
artistic work of the Staffordshire factory at
Stoke was greatly improved.

Up to the year 1798 the Stoke manufactures
were chiefly restricted to white ware decorated
with blue, like ordinary Nankin. The factory
was first established in 1790 by Thomas
Minton, who had been an apprentice of Thomas
Turner (of Caughley) as an engraver, and had
then worked for Spode; and in 1788 he
settled at Stoke.

The next year he took Joseph Poulson into
partnership—the late manager for Spode—and
from the year 1793 to 1800 he continued
to be a joint manager and proprietor. He
died in 1809, when Thomas Minton carried on
the business alone. Mr. Minton’s second son,
Herbert, succeeded him. John Boyle was his
partner for some years, and was succeeded
by Daintry Hollins and Mr. Colin Minton
Campbell, his nephews. After his death they
owned the business.

Steele, Bancroft and Handcock were Minton’s
most distinguished painters, and John
Simpson was his chief enamel painter of
figures and of all the work of the highest
class.

M. Solon-Milès, from Sèvres, began work
for him in 1870; and to the latter we owe
the application of engobe (white slip) on
celadon grounds, toned chocolate, grey, and{271}
green, which is known as pâte sur pâte—originally
a Chinese invention of some centuries
old. Solon’s monogram, or “Solon”
or “Miles” are sometimes found on his work.
The other three given were Minton’s early
marks. The ermine surmounting his name
has been employed since the year 1851—painted
in colours or in gold or else indented.

Some services were produced in Felspar
china, decorated with oriental flowers and
birds. They were distinguished by a scroll in
violet, enclosing a number in red, and below
this the mark, “M. & B. Felspar Porcelain.”

Nantgarw China.

The factory of Nantgarw was a small one,
founded in 1813, by Billingsley & Walker, at
some ten or a dozen miles from Cardiff. The
former had been an apprentice to Duesbury,
of Derby, and had had great experience,
having been in partnership with Coke at
Pinxton, then acting as manager at Mansfield,
working afterwards at Torksey, Lincolnshire,
then at Bristol, and serving under Flight &
Barr at Worcester, prior to his founding the
manufactory at Nantgarw. In 1820, eight
years before the death of Billingsley, John
Rose, of Coalport, purchased the plant,
Billingsley and Walker going into his service.
The marks on the Nantgarw porcelain were
either in red or impressed, as illustrated. The
paste employed was exceedingly soft and fine
in texture; the vases, with beautiful handles
and covers, the table services and plaques were
painted with landscapes, birds, insects, and
flowers. At one time Mortlock (of London)
purchased Billingsley’s porcelain in white
and decorated and fired it himself. The
extreme softness and vitreous fracture of the
paste identifies it as of Nantgarw when the
mark is lacking. Two other marks of this
factory may be given. The name is in capital
letters, either painted in red, or more usually
impressed, and the second is in red. Sometimes
the letters “C.W.” are found impressed
underneath the name of the factory, which is
supposed to mean “China Works.” Billingsley
is supposed to have produced an excellent
dessert service painted in flowers which is now
the property of Mr. Firbank, M.P.

The Rockingham Porcelain—Swinton,
Yorks.

The Rockingham factory was originally
established for earthenware; but Thomas
Brameld introduced the manufacture of the
finest description of porcelain in the year 1820
or 1823, collecting his materials from Cornwall,
Dorset, Sussex, and Kent. His dessert,
dinner, and breakfast sets, and his ornamental
pieces and figures, all highly decorated, were
of first-class excellence. The mark usually
employed—adopted in 1828—was the Rockingham
crest—a Griffin—the Swinton Works
being on the estate of Charles, Marquis of
Rockingham, together with an inscription
giving the name of the factory, and of Brameld—himself
a painter on porcelain. The mark
was in red. In 1826 they became embarrassed,
no expense having been spared on the
manufacture of the finest work; but they
were kept open through the assistance of
Earl Fitzwilliam until 1842. In some examples
of the Rockingham china (preserved
in the Scheiber collection) the mark varies
to “Royal Rock Works, Brameld,” and
the words “Manufacturers to the King”
below the crest; also the name “Brameld”
is sometimes enclosed in an oval design.
Some genuine Rockingham ware is unmarked;
some have incised marks such as “No. 22,”
and “No. 31,” also “Brameld,” giving the
batons and dots in addition.

BRAMELD.

There is a splendid specimen of this china
to be seen in the South Kensington Museum—a
highly decorated vase standing four feet
high, and fired in a single piece, also having
three handles, representing gold oak-branches,
and the whole standing on three lions’ paws,
a rhinoceros surmounting the lid or cover.
The painter, Isaac Baguley, took over some
part of this factory, Speight, Cordon, and
Lucas being amongst the chief painters
employed.

Belleck White Porcelain.

The factory at Belleck, County Fermanagh,
Ireland, was established by Messrs. Armstrong
and McBirney in 1856-7, and the porcelain
was produced from the Felspar clays on the
estate of J. C. Bloomfield, Esq. The use of
salts of bismuth, resin, and oil of lavender
produced the lustrous glaze for which this
ware is remarkable, and the colours obtained
from metallic oxides. So unique is this
porcelain that no mark is required to identify
it; but there is one stencilled or painted upon
it in brown, green, or red, and the design is a
round tower, a harp, shamrock, and greyhound—the
former three being characteristic emblems
of the country—but I do not know the
origin of the latter. Perhaps it is the crest of
the Bloomfields of Fermanagh, on whose
estate the felspar was found.

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