The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1001, by Various.

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII.

LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON.

ight long long months at Bitche!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy made a hasty comprehending gesture.

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

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

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

Roy’s voice broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy shuddered.

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

Another shudder.

The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

THE PRINCESS OF WALES’S DAIRY AT SANDRINGHAM.

The Princess of Wales’s Tea Room at Sandringham Dairy

{357}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Princess of Wales’s Dairy. Interior.

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

JERSEY COWS BELONGING TO THE PRINCESS OF WALES.

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

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

“CUSH,” A PEDIGREE BULL AT SANDRINGHAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A BULL CALF AT SANDRINGHAM.

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

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

Ernest M. Jessop.

{359}

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heritage—Marielle Heritage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

{360}

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,

And most divinely fair,”

or by—

“Him who sings

To one clear harp in divers tones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PODOBIZNA.

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

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

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

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

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

as Browning says.

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

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

Lily Watson.

(To be continued.)

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART V.

The Temple.

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

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

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

I will give a categorical reply to your queries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THE “BIKE.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With pleasure,” I said.

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

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

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

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

Who Should Ride the Bicycle?

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

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

Remediable Ailments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opinions of Others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hints about Riding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wool should always be preferred to cotton.

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

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

{365}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XXII.

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

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

Peggy drew in her breath with a gasp of dismay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

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THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

The Examiners report on the First Twenty-four Questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is a stone there

That whoever kisses

Oh! he never misses

To grow eloquent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12. How fast can an expert penman write?

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

13. When did the pianoforte first come into use?

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

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

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

15. What is the nearest star to the earth?

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

16. What philosopher of antiquity married a shrew?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An onion a day

Keeps the doctor away.”

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

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

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

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

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

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

RULES.

I. No charge is made for answering questions.

II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MISCELLANEOUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1001, March 4, 1899

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

“OUR HERO.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PRINCESS OF WALES’S DAIRY AT SANDRINGHAM.

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER I.

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART III.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART V.

VARIETIES.

HERB-PATIENCE.

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THE “BIKE.”

DOUBLE ACROSTIC I.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE