We are only a couple of young bachelors—almost "green"—but we enjoy life greatly and appreciate art when we see it, so on our savings we decided to see a bit of Italy, and the glorious paintings, buildings, and picturesque street-corners for which that country is so justly renowned.
We borrowed books from all our friends, and sought second-hand bookstalls for every conceivable authority, and a month before our day for starting we were so brimful of knowledge, that we decided to acquire no more, but to depend on what we had already achieved.
How tedious the days before the one memorable day which should see us off to Bâle, and how alarming a cold in the head, caught by one of us two days before the date! Would it develop into something too serious to travel upon? Surely, never did so simple an ailment command so careful a treatment or portend so formidable, or possibly formidable, a catastrophe! Breakfast in bed was the order of the last two mornings, and two visits from a doctor, who won golden opinions from the two jolly bachelors for prescribing change as the best medicine. He is a wise doctor, that Scotchman, and we will seek his counsel on other occasions—though not just at present, we trust.
We left Victoria Station on an April morning, being "seen off" by three kind friends, one of whom nearly lost his life by foolishly standing on the carriage step while the train steamed to the full extent of the platform. The risk our friend underwent only made us love him the more for his devotion to his chums; and, really, we would prefer to see no possible danger in such a friendly desire to prolong the last glimpse of such interesting worthies as ourselves.
We found the sea at Dover very blue, as usual, and very smooth, so that it was a very short passage to Calais, and we found considerable pleasure in re-reading Ruskin's reference to the fine old church tower. He says:—
"I cannot find words to express the intense pleasure I have always in first finding myself, after some prolonged stay in England, at the foot of the old tower of Calais church. The large neglect, the noble unsightliness of it; the record of its years written so visibly, yet without sign of weakness or decay; its stern wasteness and gloom, eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with the bitter sea grasses; its slates and tiles all shaken and rent, and yet not falling; its desert of brickwork, full of bolts, and holes, and ugly fissures, and yet strong, like a bare brown rock; its carelessness of what any one thinks or feels about it, putting forth no claim, having no beauty, nor desirableness, pride, nor grace; yet neither asking for pity; not, as ruins are, useless and piteous, feebly or fondly garrulous of better days; but, useful still, going through its own daily work—as some old fisherman, beaten grey by storm, yet drawing his daily nets, so it stands, with no complaint about its past youth, in blanched and meagre massiveness and serviceableness, gathering human souls together underneath it; the sound of its bells for prayer still roiling through its rents; and the grey peak of it seen far across the sea, principal of the three that rise above the waste of surfy sand and hillocked shore—the lighthouse for life, and the belfry for labour, and this—for patience and praise.
"I cannot tell the half of the strange pleasures and thoughts that come about me at the sight of that old tower; for, in some sort, it is the epitome of all that makes the continent of Europe interesting, as opposed to new countries; and, above all, it completely expresses that agedness in the midst of active life which binds the old and the new into harmony. We in England have our new streets, our new inn, our green shaven lawn, and our piece of ruin emergent from it—a mere specimen of the middle ages put on a bit of velvet carpet to be shown; and which, but for its size, might as well be on a museum shelf at once, under cover:—but, on the Continent, the links are unbroken between the past and present; and, in such use as they can serve for, the grey-headed wrecks are suffered to stay with men; while, in unbroken line, the generations of spared buildings are seen succeeding, each in its place. And thus, in its largeness, in its permitted evidence of slow decline, in its poverty, in its absence of all pretence, of all show and care for outside aspect, that Calais tower has an infinite of symbolism in it, all the more striking because usually seen in contrast with English scenes expressive of feelings the exact reverse of these."
At Tergnier we alighted for dinner, being allowed twenty minutes for five courses and dessert. But hunger of a violent kind prevented any unreasonable grumbling, and we fortified ourselves for a long night's journey. Of course, when our dinner had digested, we thought of all the horrors of midnight railway journeys, and remembered seeing the poor Curate of St. Pancras after the same journey into Switzerland a year or two ago. His head was plastered and bandaged, and he, poor fellow, looked a sorry pickle after the burglary and attempted murder, but was it not a splendid subject for a sermon when he found himself at Chamounix and able to preach! And did he not profit by the unusual opportunity! In thinking of this we each said our prayers quietly, when we fancied the other was not looking, and towards midnight we wound up our watches, which we understand are seldom remembered by travellers on night journeys.
At this stage of the narrative it seems highly desirable to describe ourselves, and we hasten to prove a total absence of any reluctance:
No. 1 is a slim youth just over twenty, with a delicate complexion and curly hair, but whose digestion is atrocious, frequently causing his normally amiable character to be tinged with viciousness, and
No. 2 is ten years older and the reverse of No. 1 in feature and figure, and also (alas!) in disposition, being crotchety and irritable whenever events turn out uncomfortably, as frequently happens when there are no members of the fair sex near to make the passage through life's waters smooth. He remembers, though would fain forget, some trifling difficulties in the matter of mending, button sewings, &c., which caused him to prove a less desirable companion than might otherwise have been expected.
However, the two arrived safely at Bâle, and, after a matutinal bath in a slop basin at the station, and a very hot breakfast in two minutes in the refreshment room, proceeded direct to Lucerne, where they put up at the Swanen.
Old Haefeli always pretends the keenest interest in the latest arrival, so we were not surprised on the following day that our hotel bill was not less than usual. Of course, before leaving that lovely town we did the "lion" and the "lions" of the place, including the picturesque old bridge, with its numerous paintings of horrible subjects connected with the eventful lives of SS. Leodegar and Maurice, the patrons of Lucerne. But, although there seems to be no way of getting at the details of the story, thus primitively depicted, which evidently embraces old priests without heads and warriors worshipping the phenomenon, we admired the colouring and quaint drawings of the pictures.
The Rigi was partly covered with snow, so that it was impossible to get either on foot or by train higher than Kaltbad—and when once an official saw us attempting to walk through a likely field for a better view, warned us sternly against any such foolhardy attempt.
This was amusing, after the information contained in the Hotel Guide Book, which runs thus:—"Some daring ascensionists up the Rigi, only obstinate themselves to disdain the railway, and so walk up the mountain on foot."
Our run down to Weggis was exhausting from the speed with which it was done, but we soon found ourselves safely and comfortably ensconced at the hotel at Brunnen, where we intended to spend the night previous to proceeding by the St. Gothard into Italy.
En passant we might remark on the pleasure of the Lucerne Lake, "out of season." We were the only visitors in the hotel, and were treated with liberality in the matter of fare, and with unbounded courtesy and attention. Our walk through the village at night was grand from its loneliness and mystery. We have since been there in August, but, O! how different! We do not like brass bands and noisy German tourists.
Early next morning we went by steamer over the Lake of Flüelen, and were much struck with the view of this place from the distance—the quaint red steeple, and the little Swiss châlets looking so pretty against the huge mountains, which are here more striking than anywhere on the banks of the lake.
At Flüelen we continued our journey by the St. Gothard Railway, but by an unlucky chance we got into a compartment with an Italian professor of languages—a terrible nuisance—who was delighted at having an opportunity of improving his English pronunciation at our expense.
The older and wiser bachelor, realising that it was impossible to prevent our companion from chattering, determined to turn him to account, and commenced to ask questions in Italian, adding to his small store of knowledge of that language. But the younger bachelor, to whom the magnificent scenery was entirely new, would stand the worry no longer, and got into another compartment.
The scenery of the St. Gothard Pass, at once after leaving Flüelen, is magnificent to a degree. At every turn of the railway is presented a scene of snow mountains, of roaring torrents, and of towering precipices, which are so characteristic of this superb country.
At Geschenen the train stopped for about half-an-hour, so we got out and looked about us, and found, to our delight, the whole of this superb gorge enveloped in snow. The novelty of the sight proved so tempting that we resolved to see more of it, and ascend to Andermatt, some miles from Geschenen, thus sacrificing our railway tickets to Lugano.
We ordered a carriage at the station, and wrapping ourselves up well—for it was very cold—commenced our drive in right good spirits. Before starting we were joined by a tall, handsome Englishman, who, like ourselves, had not been able to resist the temptation of breaking his journey at Geschenen.
Shortly after leaving the station we entered the dreary Schöllenen defile, certainly one of the finest in all Switzerland. The road here is cut in the sides of huge granite rocks. At the base of the gorge rushes the foaming Reuss, tearing madly against the rocks, which try in vain to arrest its course. All the way from Geschenen to Andermatt the ascent is very steep—the road in some places being almost suspended over the Reuss. Of course, our progress was slow, as, in addition to the steepness of the road, we had to pass by (and sometimes through) huge snow drifts from twelve to twenty feet high. When we crossed the famous Devil's bridge it was covered with mist, produced by the spray from the neighbouring cataracts. The old Devil's bridge, a few feet below the new one, has been disused for many years, and is now covered with moss and lichens. After leaving these the road passes through a long tunnel (covered with icicles in the early spring) into the valley of Unseren, which No. 2 said was fertile in summer—but how different when we saw it! The pastures were covered with snow and ice, and so altered was the scene, that the younger bachelor (No. 1) thought he was beholding a huge lake snowed over.
Andermatt looked very pretty with its ancient Romanesque church and funny little white-washed châlets, and how glad we were to get there! famished with hunger, and fearfully cold, notwithstanding all our wrapping up! We drove to a smart-looking hotel, where we were received pleasantly.
After dinner the younger bachelor, who is of rather a foolhardy temperament, and is, or rather was, very green, was seized with a desire to immortalise himself by climbing a mountain unattended, by sleeping out in the snow, or doing something perfectly ridiculous. So, promising his friend he would be back again in a couple of hours (a compact which he never intended to keep, by the way), he marched out of the hotel already thinking himself a kind of hero. Coming back again in about three hours and a half, he related that he had gone past Hospenthal to some place on the old St. Gothard road, where he was suddenly stopped by the path being so covered with snow that farther progress was absolutely impossible. So, humbled and disappointed, he came quickly home to find his friend in a terrible state of mind at his lengthened absence. In the evening we had some music—for both bachelors are musical—the older having a baritone voice, and the younger playing the piano. How cold that night was! and how welcome was the great eider-down pillow, which is generally such a nuisance in continental hotels.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we commenced our return journey to Geschenen; the driver, after leaving the tunnel and the snowdrifts, tearing down the defile at a most dangerous pace. At the station we took fresh tickets to Lugano, travelling third-class to make up for the extravagance of abandoning our former tickets, and then waited for the train which was to take us to Italy. Yes, to Italy, that wonderful country of which we had read so much, about which we had acquired so much information, and had been so longing to see for the last six months! The train, with its huge powerful engine, came slowly into the station, looking very important, as if it knew that it was conveying its passengers to the most famous country the world has ever seen.
The entrance to the great tunnel is within a few yards of Geschenen Station. When we consider that this is the longest tunnel in the world (from Geschenen to Airolo, nearly nine and a half miles), and that the rock which is pierced consists of such hard material as quartz and granitic gneiss, the work may well claim to be one of the great engineering feats of the century. The difficulty of supplying the workmen engaged on the boring of the tunnel with air, necessitated the building of huge air reservoirs (just outside Geschenen Station), which, in addition, were used for setting the boring machines into motion. The air was forced into these reservoirs by water supplied from the Reuss. The operations were commenced at both ends in 1872, under the auspices of M. Louis Favre. This great contractor, to whose industry and genius so much of the final success of the scheme was due, died of apoplexy whilst inspecting the tunnel, after seven years of unremitting labour and anxiety. The difficulties which poor Favre had to contend against were terrible, not the least of which were the crushing of the masonry, the striking of springs, and a riot among the workmen, which took place in 1875.
We were a little disappointed with the length of the tunnel, especially as we had heard that the boring alone had taken nearly eight years to accomplish. But travelling through a tunnel is not a very agreeable sensation, as passengers by the Underground Railway will know, so we were glad when the train emerged from the darkness and slowly wended its way past Airolo, the first Italian village on the south side of the St. Gothard. The scenery changes its character almost immediately on leaving the tunnel; for though it is still, of course, mountainous, with a roaring torrent, the Ticino, almost equal to the Reuss in its impetuousness, yet it is much more luxuriant than the Swiss side. Mulberry trees and vines gradually begin to appear, and the little church towers (called in Italian, Campanili) becoming more frequent as one goes south, greatly add to the picturesqueness of the landscape.
Here it may be as well to remind our girls that the Canton Ticino, though Italian in language, in scenery, in architecture, and, in fact, in all its characteristics, yet politically belongs to Switzerland.
After passing Faido the scenery becomes, if possible, more beautiful, and at Bellinzona, the capital of the Canton, we saw our beau-ideal of Italian landscape. From a distance especially Bellinzona is very striking, with its three castles and fine 16th century Abbey church; though when one approaches it more closely, like so many Italian towns, it is slightly disappointing.
As we approach Lugano, the mountains become less elevated, but the soil far more rich and fertile, and the olive and aloe, so characteristic of Italian landscape, are to be seen.
About an hour before reaching Lugano both of us began to feel unwell and very irritable from the continual travelling; the younger of us especially so, as he was rapidly developing an attack of his horrible complaint—indigestion.
On arriving at Lugano we drove in the Hotel Omnibus to the Hotel du Parc and ordered tea to be brought up into our room, after partaking of which we went to sleep until table d'hôte time. The dinner was, of course, the first we had tasted in Italy, and we cannot say that it impressed us favourably with Italian cooking. Everything was oily and rich, and suggested indigestion and biliousness. After dinner we strolled out of the hotel to get our impressions of the town of Lugano. The first thing we noticed was the beautiful Monte S. Salvatore, covered with verdure from base to summit; and then we admired the charming position and great picturesqueness of Lugano. Viewed from near the lake, and looking back on to the town, the number and variety of the Campanili, the flat-roofed houses scattered near the lake, and the hills covered with foliage, presented a most delightful scene. With the lake itself we were disappointed, the mountains struck us as being rather uniform and uninteresting; the shape of the lake also is not so beautiful as that of either Como or Maggiore, as we afterwards ascertained.
The interior of the town, with its arcades and quaint shops, so thoroughly Italian, pleased us very much, and we experienced to the full that delightful sensation of wandering about in a foreign town on a fine evening just after sunset.
The Hotel du Parc, at which we stayed, was formerly a monastery, and contains some rather interesting rooms and corridors. Near to this hotel is a small church thoroughly unnoticeable from the outside; but which contains three frescoes by Luini, one of which, the Passion, is not only the masterpiece of the painter, but one of the finest and best preserved frescoes in existence. And here we may say a few words about fresco painting, which is such a marked feature in the Italian churches and buildings. We do so, because some people, even those who ought to know better, are in the habit of describing any wall-painting as a fresco; whereas so many of the wall-paintings, especially in Italy, are not frescoes at all, but distemper paintings on a dry surface. The real fresco consists of painting upon plaster, while it is wet. The piece of plaster which is to be painted upon must be only sufficient for a single day's work—any that is left over must be cut away, and a fresh piece added for the next day's work. This accounts for the strongly indented lines which are really the joins in the plaster work.
The fresco of the Passion before alluded to covers the chancel arch of the little church, and is divided into two complete sections, representing various scenes from the Passion. This arrangement, by the way, is not at all uncommon in early Italian frescoes, and, although it has been severely criticised, there is no doubt that it often lends great richness to the composition, though occasionally, from the number of subjects depicted, and the absence of sky and foreground, it makes the painting appear confused and over-crowded. The first thing that strikes one in the work, is three crosses in the largest scale of the picture, which stand out apart from the rest. On the lower section are seen the holy women mourning for our Lord, and Roman soldiers on horseback, the former painted with great beauty and pathos—on this row also are St. John and a very vigorous group representing the executioners casting lots for the garments. Above are depicted various stages of the Passion, and the unbelief of Thomas—this last containing a most beautiful and dignified representation of Christ. Above both rows, on either side of the fresco, are two scenes; one being the agony in the garden, and the other the Ascension. Beneath, between the arches supporting the fresco, are SS. Sebastian and Roch, the former as fine as anything in the picture.
As Luini's great work is the most northern fresco of any importance, and is generally the first seen by the visitor to Italy, it serves as a kind of introduction to the art which distinguishes that glorious land.
(To be continued.)
ust then the little hunting party came in sight, and some half dozen of them, seeing the queen crying, ran forward to learn what had happened.
"What is the matter?" cried Alphonse, running up breathless.
"What's the matter?" repeated the king, petulantly; "I daresay you care very much what's the matter; a pretty fellow you are to run off in that style. Here's Pepitia—the queen, I mean—fallen down and hurt herself."
"Oh, poor thing!" said Amanda to Sophia; "she has hurt her nose, I think."
"No, she hasn't hurt her nose, miss," said the queen, looking up from her velvet train, for she had lost her handkerchief, and was wiping her eyes on its satin lining; "and don't you call me 'thing' again, you saucy puss."
"Lor, you needn't be so cross, Missis Queen," rejoined Amanda, making a mock curtsey.
This retort produced a sharp altercation, in which several others readily joined, and a dozen young voices were to be heard all speaking at once. Their dispute, however, was not a very serious one, nor very difficult to arrange; so when they had all become good friends, and when the queen had left off crying, which she did on finding that her wounds extended no further than a grazed elbow, the king inquired what sport his companions had had.
"Oh, capital; look here!" replied Alphonse, showing a small ivory cage containing about a score of butterflies. "Aren't they beauties?"
The butterflies were unanimously pronounced to be fine ones, and the queen was expressing her admiration of them by a variety of exclamations, when a little boy pushed his way into the crowd, and said, "Oh! please queen, here's your crown; I found it among the bramble bushes."
"Dear me," said Pepitia, "I quite forgot my crown!"
"Why, I've lost mine too!" cried the king, clapping his hand to his head to feel for the crown, which ought to have been there but was not.
"I've got the king's crown! I've got the king's crown!" cried another little fellow, running up from the other side of the dell.
"What a bother the crowns are," said Philip.
"Well, suppose we don't wear them any more to-day," suggested the queen.
"No more we will," replied he; "and we had better take off our trains, for there is no running or doing anything in them, and then you won't go tumbling over yours, Pepitia; we will lay them down here, and we can put them on again when we are going home."
So the trains, crowns, ball, and sceptre were put together in the corner of the dell, and then the king and the queen were ready for a good game of play with the rest of the troop.
"Well, now, what shall we play at next? I'm tired of hunting butterflies," said Alphonse.
A little voice suggested "Hunt the slipper."
"Oh, yes! that's right; let's play at hunt the slipper," cried all the youngest, clapping their hands and jumping up and down.
"I don't care for hunt the slipper," objected Amanda.
"Besides, we have not got a slipper," said the queen, "and I'm sure none of you shall take your shoes off, or you will catch cold."
"I wish we had a slipper," whimpered a little voice.
At that moment there popped down amongst them, as if it had been thrown from some high tree, a high-heeled silver slipper, studded with rubies and emeralds.
"Oh!" screamed all of them, starting back and forming a circle around it, "where did that come from?"
"Isn't it a beauty!" said one.
"How it sparkles!" said another.
"Why don't you pick it up?" said Edmund, nudging the little Teresa, who stood next to him.
"I'm afraid," said she. "It's alive, isn't it?"
"No; it won't hurt you," replied he. "Pick it up."
Half afraid, Teresa crept cautiously forward, and, stooping down, reached out her hand to take up the treasure; but before she could touch it, it bounded up with such a spring as caused her to scream and run hastily back.
Then it jumped over Amanda's head, just tapped her on the shoulder, as much as to say, "Come, catch me," and was lying some dozen yards off on the other side of the group before any of them could have said "Peter Piper."
"I know what it is," cried Alphonse; "it's a fairy slipper. The fairy has sent it for us to play with."
"It's a fairy slipper! It's a fairy slipper!" they all cried. "Let's hunt the fairy slipper!"
Off they started, the king and queen joining in the chase this time, and enjoying it, being without their crowns and trains. Master Edmund was foremost, but he overbalanced himself and lay sprawling on the ground, whilst the slipper jumped up into a tree. Philip and Alphonse, being the biggest boys, began immediately to climb up after it. But no sooner had Alphonse reached the bough where it was perched than it sprang off, rapped him on the nose, and slid down the opposite side of the tree, giving the king's leg a sharp kick as it passed by.
"Where has it gone?" cried the two, rapidly descending the tree.
"I don't know," was the general rejoinder, uttered in chorus.
"There it is!" cried Ernest, "hopping across the meadow."
The whole troop raised a loud shout, and scampered off after it, the biggest first, and the little ones running in the rear as fast as their short legs would carry them, and hallooing with the loudest. The slipper stood still till the foremost was within grasping, length of it, when it gave a spring and got some yards in advance of the party, and then kept on hop, hop, hopping before them; yet, although it did not seem to hop very quickly, and although the young folks ran at the top of their speed, it always managed to keep at a tantalising distance, so that none of them could catch it, leading them a fine dance, up hill and down dale, through hedges and across the stepping-stones of a little brook, where many a wet shoe and sock were the result of its pranks. At last, just as Edmund was about to lay hold of it—as he made sure to do—it bounded to the top of a high, steep bank, and commenced doing the toe and heel shuffle.
Well, it was a droll sight, certainly, to see that fairy slipper, with all its sparkling jewels, dancing such a merry jig. I suppose because it was so droll was the reason why the little folks laughed so loud, and clapped their hands and jumped about as if they were mad.
Some of the bigger boys began to climb the bank in pursuit of the shoe, whilst the little ones fancied they did a vast deal towards capturing it by shouting with all their might; the louder they shouted the quicker the shoe danced, and the quicker the shoe danced the more they clapped their hands and laughed.
Alphonse climbed up a break in the bank, and so got to the top of it, a little to one side of where the shoe was cutting its merry capers. He crept softly along until he got within arm's length of it, then he made a bold grasp and seized it by the heel; but he soon let it go again, for a sharp, tingling pain ran up his arm to his shoulder, making him roar out pretty loudly.
The slipper, as soon as it was released, spun round two or three times, then, planting its heel on the ground and pointing its toe in the air, it gave a spring and was out of sight in a moment.
"Where has it gone to?" was the cry of them all. They looked everywhere for it, but did not find it. They shouted in chorus, "Come back, fairy slipper, come back!" but no slipper came, and they were forced to go home to their pretty houses without having found it, much to the regret of little Teresa, who was near crying with vexation at having lost the sparkling plaything.
They were all tired by when they reached their homes, and some of the younger ones were very cross also, for their little legs were tired from chasing the slipper, and they began crying for their mammas, so that the poor Nomen had work enough to get them all to bed and soothe them to sleep.
Now I cannot tell you whether these little folks would have continued happy and contented on Child Island, and never have wished to leave it for any other place, if they had had their mothers and fathers with them. But not having them, there was something wanting, and by the end of three weeks, or thereabouts, they were all heartily tired of being away from home. Yet how to get back there was a difficulty that not even wise Master Alphonse could solve. They had no boat to take them from the island, and even if they had had one they would not have known how to manage it, nor in which direction to guide it, as they were quite ignorant of the whereabouts of Noviland.
So matters grew from worse to worse on the island, the elder children getting more discontented and the younger ones more fretful, when one day they were altogether on the lawn in front of the palace. The big ones were moodily walking about, plucking the flowers and listlessly pulling them to pieces, or throwing them away as soon as plucked; the little ones, cross as two sticks, as nurses sometimes say, were getting into all sorts of mischief. One had lost her shoe, and was whimpering because she could not find it; a little boy had had his finger stung by a bee, and was roaring lustily in consequence; Teresa had fallen full length, with arms all bare, into a bramble bush, where she lay moaning piteously.
"What are the children making that row for?" cried Philip, as cross as the crossest himself; "for half a pin I'd box all their ears. Now then, what's the matter with you, you little sniveller?" said he, catching hold of a fair-haired little fellow, who was blubbering his loudest, and who seemed bent on rubbing his eyes out by the way in which he was screwing his little fists into them.
"I—I—want my—ma—a, let—me—go—o—to—my—ma," said he, with a sob between each word.
"You can't go home to your ma, then," said Philip, sharply, giving the child a shake; but this, instead of quieting, only made him roar louder, and his example was soon followed by all the rest of his age, and then there was a dismal chorus, the burden of which was, "Ma, ma, ma."
"Oh! dear, dear me," cried Pepitia, in real distress, "what shall we do with these children? They'll drive me mad. I shall begin to cry myself if they don't leave off. I wish the good fairy would come and take us all home again!"
"Air balloon, air balloon!" shouted Alphonse, starting up from the grass, where he had been lying on his back during all this confusion, listlessly staring up to the sky.
This caused a sudden stop to the uproar, and the attention of all was directed towards the sky. The bigger children waved their handkerchiefs and shouted "Air balloon!" Some of the little ones joined in the cry, and so forgot their sorrows, but others resumed their sobbing, and would not care for balloons or anything else, but only wanted to go home to their mothers.
The balloon came sailing onwards, seeming to grow larger and larger the nearer it approached. Within its car sat the fairy Corianda. It slowly descended in front of the palace, and whilst it rested on the ground the fairy stepped out; then it re-ascended and floated about in the air.
"Well, now! what is the matter with you all?" said the fairy, going among the children and soothing the afflicted ones. "Why are you all so sad and unhappy? Are you tired of being in this pretty island? and do you really want to go back to Noviland?"
"Yes, yes; please take us home again," they all cried. "We have been very happy here, but now we want to go home to our dear mammas and papas. Please do take us home!"
"Very well," said the fairy; "as you wish it you shall all be back in your own old homes to-morrow morning. So bid good-bye to Child Island, and don't cry any more."
Then the fairy waved her hand, and immediately a silvery mist surrounded them; the palace and the pretty houses became less and less distinct, until there was only a faint and shadowy outline of them; then the mist grew thicker, and each child became alarmed at finding itself separated from all its companions, and on striving to call out it could not. Thicker and thicker grew the mist until it was quite dark, and the children, parted from each other, were bewildered and knew not where they were.
Presently the mist gradually cleared away, and then, instead of Child Island and the pretty houses, each child found itself in its own bed at Noviland.
Eagerly that morning did they tell their fond parents of the good fairy and Child Island, of the beautiful palace and pretty houses, of the tiny musicians, the fairy slipper, and the strange Nomen. And as each little tongue prattled its pretty tale, the parents smiled and said to each other, "Truly our dear child has had a pleasant dream!"
But the children knew better; they knew there was a good fairy Corianda, and that she had taken them to her magic isle, called Child Island.
E. Hunter.
he school arrangements of the present day are rather awkward for people who are accustomed to take their meals at old-fashioned hours. When I was a girl we used to be at school at nine in the morning, leave at twelve-thirty, return at two-thirty, and leave again at four; and our home lessons were a mere trifle. We went home to dinner in the middle of the day, and there was no difficulty about "satisfying the keen demands of appetite." But sometimes it rained unexpectedly, and on these occasions fortune was kind to us. A few minutes before it was time to start for home there would be a knock at the door, and a neat little maid would appear bearing a basket, with a message from mother to the schoolmistress, begging that we might be allowed to take dinner in the schoolroom. Who can describe the delights of the feast? On the table generally used for slates and copy-books the basket was solemnly opened. We never knew what was coming, but it was certain to be good, and, best of all, it was certain to be a surprise. First there was the snowy napkin which was to serve as a table-cloth, then were the treasures underneath. The glory of the experience came, however, when plates and food were packed away, for then a "little recreation" was considered necessary before lessons were resumed; and the "recreation," as a rule, resolved itself into taking flying leaps over forms piled in extraordinary positions one on the top of another, or alongside each other. I am afraid it is not a very dignified confession for an elderly matron to make, but those impromptu gymnastics on forms are amongst the most delightful recollections of my childhood. The little girls of the present day practise calisthenics, and perform wonderful feats with ropes and giant strides; I hope they know something of the delight we used to get out of our deftly-arranged forms.
As I have already said, however, afternoon school is a thing unknown to the majority of the fortunate girls who attend our high schools and collegiate establishments. According to present arrangements girls reach school at half-past nine, and they remain till half-past one, having an interval of half an hour between eleven and twelve for rest and refreshment. Then the pupils separate, and the elder ones go home with any amount of "home work" to prepare, while the younger ones remain at school to learn their home lessons with the assistance of the teachers. It is with the necessities of these young ones who remain that I am just now concerned. Very often dinner is provided for them at the school, and a few partake of it there under the superintendence of a teacher who is told off for the duty. It is my experience, however, that only a small proportion of the whole number of those who stay avail themselves of this opportunity. Either the price charged is too high, or conversation is too much restricted, or from some other reason girls for the most part prefer to bring food with them "for luncheon," and postpone a proper meal until they reach home.
Now it is a very bad thing for growing girls to go so long without a proper meal. Supposing they have to be at school by half-past nine, it is not unsafe to conclude that this means that breakfast is taken about half-past eight, if not earlier. Leaving school at four or half-past, it will not be likely that dinner, or the "meat tea," can be enjoyed before half-past five. This long fast, broken only by eating an unsatisfactory "snatch" of one sort or another, is likely to be very injurious to health. Brain-workers need really to be better fed even than those who work with their hands, because brain-work is exceedingly exhausting. If it could be arranged that there should be half an hour's rest after food, so that study should not interfere with the process of digestion, why should not the "growing students" take a substantial luncheon with them, and partake of it when the morning lessons are over? Really this could be very easily managed. It only needs that there should be a little forethought on the part of the home authorities; that sufficient change of diet should be provided; that the luncheons should be freshly prepared day by day; and that a convenient receptacle for conveying it backwards and forwards should be procured; then every difficulty which could be urged against the plan would be conquered. Added to this there is the fact that children almost always enjoy food which is prepared for them at home more than they enjoy food prepared by strangers; as a regular thing, that is. There are to be bought now-a-days very handy little tin sandwich cases with sides which fold down when empty, and so occupy very little space. A good deal may be carried in one of these tins, and it can be stowed away when done with in a corner of the book bag, and the weight will scarcely be felt. Better still is one of the small luncheon baskets which are to be seen in every fancy shop, and which cost but a few pence. A basket three inches deep, three inches wide, and six inches in length, could be made to hide away a most diversified repast. A knife and fork, with a single plate could be slipped into a strap in the lid, and there would be room also for a tiny flask, whatever solid refreshment was decided on, and also one of those dainty delicacies which serve to give piquancy and attractiveness to a luncheon. There is no occasion to limit a meal of this sort to sandwiches. Sandwiches are excellent when well made, and they can be varied to any extent, but when indulged in day after day, and week after week, they become monotonous.
If, however, sandwiches are to preserve their charm they ought not to appear more than once a week, and they ought not to be made of similar materials twice in two months. A sandwich is never so much appreciated as when it is a surprise, and it certainly lends itself to surprises more than any other preparation that can be named. There is no end to the ingredients, the combinations, the appetising morsels which can be introduced into a sandwich. Every sort of meat—tinned, potted, and preserved, roast, boiled, and stewed; every kind of fish, flesh, and fowl, can be used for it; while cheese, tomatoes, hard boiled eggs, curries, and green stuff may be employed to lay between the thin slices of bread and butter which form its distinguishing feature. To make sandwiches good, all that is necessary is to bestow a little pains upon them. Let the bread be only one day old, the butter sweet and delicious, the meat cut up small, and the seasoning be judiciously and intelligently introduced, and there is practically no limit to the welcome changes of diet which may be presented under the general term—sandwiches. Beef sandwiches, ham sandwiches, veal and ham sandwiches, bacon, mutton, or game sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, sandwiches made of anchovy and hard boiled eggs, of curried rabbit and Parmesan, of curried shell-fish and Parmesan, of small salad, of sliced tomatoes, of mushrooms, of roast fowl, lettuce and filleted anchovies, of roast game, shred celery and Tartare sauce, of cooked fish, lettuce leaves and Tartare sauce, of cold meat and thinly sliced cucumber or gherkins, of roast game, tongue and aspic jelly, of the flesh of lobster and mayonnaise, of hard boiled eggs and a very thin sprinkle of finely shred tarragon, of potted hare, potted ham, or any potted meat, of cheese, of devilled ham, of cold asparagus, with a suspicion of mayonnaise, of brawn, of shrimps, of foie gras, of German sausage or caviare and brown bread and butter, are a few varieties which may serve to suggest others.
Tinned meats of all descriptions are much approved and largely patronised by individuals who pride themselves on their capacity for "putting up a bit of luncheon in half a minute." Tinned meats are all very well for a change, no one values them in their proper place more than I do, but it should be understood that they are abused when they are employed constantly. For growing girls who are using their brains fresh food is imperatively required, and one of the chief reasons why these luncheons are to be recommended is that they afford a means of furnishing wholesome and nourishing provision. Yet it must not be forgotten that when fresh meat is not to be had, tinned provisions are to be accepted with gratitude; and it is always wise, therefore, to keep a supply on hand.
Trifles made of pastry are always acceptable for occasions of the kind named. Small meat pies, if nicely made, are both appetising and wholesome; the great point to be observed with regard to them is that they should not be dry. Yet it is evident that if liquid gravy were put into them, accidents might be expected, and therefore gravy which will jelly when cold should always be provided, and poured in when hot through a hole left in the pastry for the purpose. Small meat pies can be made of every sort of meat, poultry, and game, the chief detail to be looked after being the seasoning. In making trifles of this sort, girls should not forget that nothing is more effectual in preventing insipidity than a tiny scrap of onion. "Yet onion is objectionable to many people." Of course it is when introduced in large quantities or in large pieces, but if used in very small quantities, and chopped until it is fine as dust, then sprinkled over the meat, it would dissolve entirely, few would suspect that onion was present, and yet there would be no danger that the pie would be tasteless. A little piece of onion the size of a thumb-nail, chopped as small as possible, would be sufficient to flavour two small meat pies four inches in diameter. And a pie this size would be quite large enough for a purpose such as this.
Some time ago I gave a few hints as to the best method of making raised pies, therefore I do not need to repeat them now. I may remind girls, however, that one encouragement connected with the attempt is that small pies are much more easy to make than large pies, and that there is small fear of failure in connection with them. Equally acceptable will be meat patties, Cornish pasties, mushroom pies, sausage rolls, &c. Hard boiled eggs, too, are much liked by some people, and if fresh when cooked, they make an agreeable change. It is scarcely necessary to say that one or two slices from the breast of a chicken or duck will always be welcome on an occasion of this sort, if pains be taken to keep these meats from getting dry.
To an impromptu meal of this kind a simple "sweet" forms a most agreeable conclusion, and really, when one comes to experiment in this direction, it is astonishing what a variety of luxuries can be cooked and conveyed in a cup or small basin, holding little more than half a pint. Perhaps it may be helpful if I give recipes for a few of these trifles. Before doing so I should like to suggest that in packing the luncheon basket a little fruit, fresh or dried, should not be omitted. Fruit is not only agreeable; it is, when taken in moderation, most wholesome. It cannot be regarded as particularly nourishing, but it is very cooling and refreshing, it assists digestion, and it possesses in a high degree the power of counteracting any harm which may arise from the use of preserved and tinned meats. It is almost inevitable that when school luncheons are provided for any length of time, preserved provisions will enter rather largely into their preparation. When preserved provisions are taken there is always a little danger of skin complications, and fresh fruit is the antidote for this condition. Therefore fresh fruit should on no account be disregarded. When fresh fruit cannot be had, dried fruits, such as raisins, figs, dates, and French plums, are almost as valuable, and they are more nourishing. Raisins, indeed, are most sustaining, and a celebrated physician said recently that when he expected to have any specially exhausting work on hand, he took a bunch of muscatels and found they did him more good than a glass of wine. It is not at all an uncommon thing also for parents who are anxious lest their daughters should become faint and weary, through going too long without food, and who cannot arrange to provide them with a well-packed luncheon basket, to make them form a habit of putting a large bunch of table raisins into their pockets, with the intention that these should be nibbled during what is called the interval, that is, the short period of rest which is allowed at most schools during the morning. The fruit thus enjoyed proves most invigorating. To gain the full benefit which belongs to raisins it is necessary that the skin and seeds should be rejected, because they are indigestible, and are apt to produce disorders of the bowels, while the ripe luscious pulp is free from these dangers. It would be well if parents could be convinced what a valuable food the raisin is. As for dates, their nutritive value is shown by the fact that they form the chief food of the Arabs; while prunes and figs are used for their laxative tendency. Compotes of all sorts of fruits and stewed Normandy pippins may be easily introduced into the luncheon basket, if put into a wide-mouthed, well stoppered bottle.
Now for two or three recipes:—
Baked Custard Cup.—Boil the third of a pint of milk and pour it upon a beaten egg. Add sugar and a little flavouring, turn the preparation into a buttered cup, and set it in the oven in a shallow tin filled with boiling water. Let it bake gently till firm; then take it out, and when cold pack it in the basket. A couple of tablespoonfuls of stewed fruit put into a small bottle is an excellent accompaniment to this cup.
Cabinet Cup Pudding.—Soak a teaspoonful of gelatine in a dessert spoonful of water. Make a little custard as above, with the third of a pint of milk and one egg. Prepare a small mould by plunging it first into hot water, afterwards into cold water. Take two savoy fingers and four ratafias. Split the savoys in half and place them perpendicularly round the mould to line it; break up the ratafias and put them also in the mould. Dissolve the gelatine, stir it, when cool, into the sweetened and flavoured custard, and pour this gently over the cakes. The mould should be turned out for eating.
Rice Cup.—Press warm rice, boiled with milk till well soaked and stiff, into a buttered cup. Fruit syrup, stewed fruit, or sugar will be suitable as an accompaniment. Ground rice, boiled in milk and mixed with a teaspoonful of dissolved gelatine, makes a good rice cup.
Apple Mould.—Soak a small teaspoonful of gelatine in a dessert spoonful of water. Pare a couple of good sized baking apples; core them, cut them into quarters, and put them, with a small strip of thin lemon-rind, into a gallipot. Set this (covered) in a small stew-pan, with boiling water to come half-way up the jar, and let the apples steam until they fall. Lift out the lemon-rind and sweeten the apples. Dissolve the gelatine, beat it up with the fruit, add a lump of sugar and one or two drops of cochineal, and turn the preparation into a damp cup. When cold and stiff it is ready.
Coffee Mould.—Soak a teaspoonful of gelatine. Dissolve this and stir it into a third of a pint of very strong, clear coffee. Boil for a minute or two; add sugar, and, when cool, a little cream. Put the preparation into a damp cup. One or two drops of vanilla may be added if approved.
Apricot Mould.—Soak a teaspoonful of gelatine. Take two halves of apricot out of a tin of the preserved fruit. Crush them to pulp with the back of a spoon, and mix with them three-quarters of a cupful of cream or milk. Add sugar to taste. Dissolve the gelatine, mix it, when cool, with the apricot, and mould when cold.
Apple Custard.—Bake a large apple, remove the skin and core, and beat the pulp with sugar and a squeeze of lemon-juice. Pour the third of a pint of boiling milk upon one egg, add one lump of sugar. Put the apple into a cup, pour the custard over, and set in a small baking-tin half full of boiling water, to bake till the custard is firm in the centre.
Bread Cup Puddings.—Soak one or two scraps of stale bread in milk to soften them entirely. Beat them with a fork to a smooth, soft pulp, add a slice of butter, a spoonful of moist sugar, a little vanilla essence, a few currants, and one beaten egg. Three parts fill a buttered cup with the mixture, and bake till firm.
A little well-flavoured jelly, broken up and put into a cup, will always be a welcome addition to a repast of this description. The same may be said of tartlets, turnovers, cakes of all descriptions, lemon cheesecakes, &c. Fruit juice, sweetened agreeably and firmed with a spoonful of dissolved gelatine, supplies a very delicious sweet. When a pudding, cream, or tart is being made for the family, it is very easy to take out a portion and cook it separately in a small glass or jar, to be used for the school luncheon next day. Some girls would enjoy a morsel of cheese and a sea-foam biscuit as a relish. A little trouble spent is well worth while. We should not hear half so many complaints about over-study and over-pressure, if girls attending school had a good luncheon in the middle of the day; and before mothers and elder sisters make up their minds that a girl is doing too many lessons, and that the teacher must be asked to excuse a portion thereof, they ought to consider whether they are doing all that is possible to furnish the young student with food which will give her strength to make the most of the precious opportunities for improvement which will be gone all too soon.
One important detail connected with school luncheons must not be forgotten. It is that the luncheon-basket or sandwich-tin must be kept sweet and pure. It ought to be scrubbed out frequently, and every day as soon as it is brought home it should be emptied, cleansed, and put, wide open, in an airy place, to prevent its becoming close and musty. If crumbs or little pieces of fat are allowed to work their way into the crevices, they will surely impart an unpleasant, stuffy odour to the food which is put into the basket afterwards, and the annoyance will not easily be got rid of. Unless scrupulous cleanliness be observed in everything connected with the preparation of food, delicacy and refinement must be regarded as entirely out of the question.
Pineapple.—An ordinary afternoon garden and tennis party might be held in September if the weather were fine.
Gillespie.—Most stationers keep very pretty menu cards now, which can be filled in by hand with the names of the guests and the dishes.
X. Y. Z.—Press the flowers in blotting-paper, which should be frequently changed.
Rexie.—We are much obliged for your impromptu verses on the G. O. P., and for your good wishes also.
Ray Majendie.—The warts may be touched with a stick of lunar caustic. You had better get a doctor to do it if they be very bad. The 8th July, 1867, was a Monday.
K. T. S.—The digestion is weak and the circulation is affected. You should consult a doctor about it.
Pomps and Vanities.—The maidenhair fern was probably chilled in some way; it needs warmth and dampness. Your education should be quite completed before you think of society and its distractions. When you are twenty (about) will be time enough. Do not write to us again on blue paper with blue ink, please.
Asphodel.—We sympathise much with you, but we cannot advise you to have anything done to your face. The result is generally a bad scar. Use a little harmless powder (magnesia), and try to forget it as much as possible, and fix your thoughts on better things.
A. Walters.—The passion-flower bears that name on account of its several characteristics, which, combined together, seem to symbolise the following appliances and circumstances connected with our Lord's death and passion. The leaves, the spear; the tendrils, the cords with which He was scourged and bound; the ten petals, the ten apostles who deserted Him; the central pillar, the cross; the stamens, the hammers, the styles, the nails; the inner circle round the central pillar, the crown of thorns; the radius round it, the nimbus of glory; the white in the flower, an emblem of innocence and purity; the blue, a type of heaven. The fact that it remains open three days and then dies, denotes the death, burial, and resurrection of the Lord. We partly copy from the Watchword.
Lilian Vaughan.—The Editor of the G. O. P. has nothing to do with the publishing department of the Religious Tract Society. Write to Mr. Tarn.
Ebnocnub.—The term "bumpkin" is of Dutch origin, taken from the word boomken, meaning "a sprout," "a fool." It signifies a loutish person, and is applied to a country clown, not a woman.
Cherry Pie.—A good run over the downs, or a canter on a donkey, not only circulates the blood, but make the lungs work well. But you should beware of cooling quickly afterwards, and of sitting in a draughty or windy place.
Florence.—As the swelling in your hands is constitutional, your general health needs very strict attention, as there must be a good deal amiss. You should live generously, eat heat-making food, take a tonic of a preparation of iron, and wear woollen under-garments next the skin.
Mrs. Sweet tells us she has "asked most important things," which, alas! we seem to have overlooked, and certainly have forgotten. We are very sorry, dear little Mrs. Sweet-tooth, and are glad that your kind pa and ma "like your writing and think it has improved." Try to remember that you must not steal an "e" from the poor little word "please." We shall be glad to hear from our small friend again, and hope that her next letter will not be so long in turning up to the top of our great mountain of letters.
Lochaber.—Dante was unquestionably greater as a poet and man of genius than Goethe; but we could not draw such a comparison between the lady novelists you name; their styles were very different and equally meritorious.
Felix.—You had better apply to the editor of Parodies, care of Messrs. Reeves and Turner, Strand, London, W.C., as we have not leisure to make the search for you.
S. F. S. T. C.—It is quite natural and harmless to appreciate the regard and love of those around you. If kind and true and helpful to them, and you maintain your own self-respect in all your words and actions, they must value and respect you. Your writing is good. It is inexpedient to repeat the impertinent assertions of those who have not sufficient powers of discernment between the painstaking replies to our thousands of correspondents and what they are pleased to designate "a hoax."
Daisy Laylor.—Lettuce leaves can only serve as a pis aller, or "makeshift" as food for caterpillars before the mulberry leaves come out, just to save them from starvation; but the latter is their natural and proper food, and yours are probably dying from want of them.
G. D. C.—You should write to some of the great shipping firms owning passenger vessels for all such particulars. Rules and terms vary a good deal, and to give those of one firm would not enlighten you in reference to others. You ought to understand the duties of a lady's-maid, and be a good sailor.
Naughty One should ask her music teacher whether she should continue her practising during the visit or whether she would prefer her to desist for a time. Give her the option; politeness demands it.
Brigton.—Your verses show a good deal of poetic feeling, although without any special indication of originality of thought. The verses entitled "Morning" ought to have rhymes, as it is not blank verse. You ought to study the rules of metrical composition before putting your thoughts into metre. This is as essential to the construction of verse, as to be acquainted with those of harmony or counterpoint, before attempting to compose music.
Nellie P.—We do not know of any hospital specially instituted for the cure of chronic indigestion. Probably the best cure for you would be found in treatment at certain mineral baths. On this point you should obtain medical advice. Those of Vichy (France) or Carlsbad (Bohemia), Aix-la-Chapelle, or some of our own, might be suitable for you. But we could not venture to prescribe, neither knowing you nor being doctors.
Mary Kingsley.—1. The people of God in all ages, before and after the commencement of the Christian Era, form one great brotherhood, sharing the same interests, fighting the same "fight of faith," one in hope, in aim, and in spiritual sympathy, as children of the same Divine Father. Thus, they are in communion one with another, and there is really an unbroken bond of union between those who have gone before, and those still waiting here. 2. Persons who tell characters from handwriting advertise.
Inquisitive One.—1. Soap spoils sponges. Even clean water should be well squeezed out of them, and then they can be cleaned with sponge powder, obtained from a chemist. Dry toothbrushes thoroughly, and place them in the tray made for them. A little soda or bran in the water will soften it. 2. Your writing is good, but you should learn to write in straight lines.
Sissie B.—It is your duty to speak to your father about your brother of twelve, who runs away for whole days up till past midnight, smokes, and gets into bad company. He ought to be sent to a boarding school, or else apprenticed at once, or he will go to ruin. His example is ruining his brothers. Tell your father that if you could manage them you would neither complain of chance acts of insubordination nor of the trouble you willingly take with them; but, as you find you have no control over them, you must tell him so before they are ruined.
Inquisitive.—The average duration of human life is increasing to the extent of five per cent., or more than two years, since the computation made in Dr. Farr's life tables. The duration of life amongst women has increased to a greater degree than that of men, and this may be attributed to the greater attention paid to hygienic principles and the new discoveries made in this direction.
Lily of the Valley.—Surround the plants with a circle of lime, and water them with tobacco-juice. The latter must, of course, be well washed before use. Handwriting not formed.
Sunday-school Teacher.—No, Robert Raikes was the originator of the present organised system which obtains in England, and the idea originated in his work amongst the criminals in prison, their early religious instruction appearing to him the best preventive measure towards ensuring their never becoming so fallen. But the Sunday instruction of children dates back to about the year 1580, Cardinal St. Charles Borromeo having introduced it at Milan, and in the following century (1693) his example was followed by the Rev. Joseph Alleine; by the Rev. David Blair, at Brechin, in about the year 1760. Then followed the Rev. Theodore Lindsey, at Catterick, Yorkshire, about three years later; and, lastly, and with a more perfect organisation, Robert Raikes, the printer of Gloucester, with the co-operation of the Rev. Thomas Stock, some seventeen years later. The Sunday School Union was founded nine years before his death, in 1802.
Sunshade.—To work a flower upon a sunshade, you must unpick the material from the frame sufficiently to iron the embroidery on the wrong side when finished, otherwise the work will look pulled. We should recommend white flowers, such as large daisies and Japanese anemones. The sun fades coloured silks when worked in exposed places, and white will always combine well with any other part of the dress.
Marguerita.—As you have left home to support yourself, you are no longer chaperoned by your mother, and your position is quite changed. You must now have a card to yourself, and if the persons on whom you call be out, you may leave one or more as needed; but if your friends be at home, do not on any account leave cards, but, if at home to you, go in and see them.