THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

A SWEET COMPANION.
From the Painting by M. Stanley.

The Girl's Own Paper.

Vol. XX.—No. 1016.]

[Price One Penny.

JUNE 17, 1899.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

“OUR HERO.”
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES OF HOLLAND.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

“OUR HERO.”

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

“NEARER TO A CANDLE TO READ IT.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down upon her with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began to tremble.

“We had no expectation of seeing you, sir,” she remarked with great decorum.

She cast one little glance up.

“Have you travelled hard? You are sorely fatigued.”

“Polly, is all between us as it once was?” he asked.

Polly dropped her eyes.

“It is long since we parted,” she said, “and very long since any letter has reached me, sir. I cannot tell how matters may be now. But six years work changes. And I”—then another glance as if she could not help herself—“I do not like to see you so pale. You were not so in past days.”

“There are a few matters to be explained,” Denham remarked quietly. “But first may I beg you to read this short note from Jack? I do not know what he may have said. He exacted from me a promise that I would not fail to give it to you within one half-hour of my first arrival. Jack is now at Verdun with Colonel and Mrs. Baron, as you may have heard.”

“I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been a sad grief to me.”

“Will you have his letter now?” asked Denham in his most courteous tone.

“If you choose, sir.”

She moved two or three steps nearer to a candle to read it. Jack’s left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was what she made out:

“Dear Polly,—Denham is going home to you, and he has heard a false tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to you for so great a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married the better pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. I’m by no means sure but that his has been a harder fight by far than any of us have had to go through in Active Warfare; and now that my turn has come, I hope that I may be patient and endure bravely as he has done. Be good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,

“Your affectionate Brother,
“Jack Keene.“

Polly came across to where Denham stood.

“Jack tells me of the mistake,” she whispered. “And now I understand. He tells me too that I am to comfort you.”

She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.

“Sweet Polly,” he said, in a voice which shook a little despite his best efforts, “you wrote to me once a letter which was signed, ‘Yours faithfully, and till Death.’ That letter I have never parted with since the day it reached me—not even when I feared that I had indeed cause for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?”

Polly lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.

“I am yours, Captain Ivor, always and ever, as long as life shall last,” she uttered very clearly.

Twelve months later Denham stood in the passage of the little London house, which for more than eleven months had been his home and Polly’s. He had wasted no time in making her his wife. He had but a year, he urged, and surely the waiting had lasted long enough.

So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forego her hopes of a grand and fashionable wedding, to which all the quality should be invited for the display of resplendent costumes. Denham was neither in health nor in spirits for such a function, and Polly’s one wish was to do what would give him pleasure.

They had been married quietly less than three weeks after his return, and Polly had done her best to comfort him, and to win him back once more to strength.

All that year he had not left her. But now he was free, and duty called him to the Peninsula, where the long struggle was being carried on between the Army of Wellington and the Army of Napoleon. The Spaniards with Wellington, as with Moore, did little at any time beyond throwing hindrances in the way of the British. Roy Baron had gone out many months before.

It was hard work for Denham to say good-bye, not only to Polly, with her sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy, with Polly’s own eyes of brown velvet, who had come but a very short time before to gladden their home. Denham bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned again to Polly.

“It will not be for long,” she whispered. “I may think that, may I not? Peace must surely come some day.”

“Not yet, dear heart,” he answered; and she knew well that, acutely though he felt leaving her, he yet longed to share the fight with those who strove for England and for Freedom—that fight from which he had been so many years debarred.

“Molly will be always here. And she and I will think and talk of you and Roy every day and every hour. And, oh, Denham, if women’s prayers may bring victory to men’s arms, victory will surely be yours.”

“We shall conquer in the end, please God, and in that way you may truly help us, sweet one,” he replied.

Then he took her in his arms, and held her very closely. And in another minute he too was gone to the wars, as so many thousands had to go in those stirring days.

It was well that neither he nor she could guess how long a separation might again lie before them. For this was only 1810, and the day which should see Wellington at the head of his victorious Army entering France lay four years ahead.

Four years more also had Colonel and Mrs. Baron to possess themselves in patience, before they could again set eyes on their boy, before they might once more clasp in their arms the little Molly, whom in 1803 they had quitted for one fortnight’s absence.

Jack remained still at Verdun, and before him too stretched four years of unbroken captivity. But Jack, though often disposed to chafe, yet found something wherewith to pass his time. This became gradually clear to Polly and Molly, through letters received at long intervals. At length came one in which Jack gave particulars as to Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and as to the greatly improved condition of prisoners at Verdun, under the new French Commandant. After which he said—

“If ever this gets to England, it is to inform you that I am proposing shortly to become a married man. Lucille has promised to be my wife.”

Molly sat smiling over the notion for a long while.

“Jack was sure to marry,” she remarked in a philosophic tone. “He is of the sort not to be content without. And you and Denham are exceeding happy married, dear Polly. But, as for me, I have no desire that way. Never shall I care for any man in the whole world as I care for Roy.” Then, in words once spoken before, and perhaps often repeated in her own mind since, she added, “And so that matter is for ever settled.”

Whether the matter were finally settled or not, there can be no question that Molly honestly meant what she said.

[THE END.]

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART V.

Since beginning this series of articles it has occurred to us that it may be well to prevent a possible misconception of the scope of the title. “Self-culture” is a very large subject, and includes a great deal more than the culture of the mind. For instance, there is moral self-culture—physical self-culture—æsthetic self-culture—which, with other kinds of self-culture, should be zealously sought. But these subjects are exhaustively dealt with from time to time by writers in The Girl’s Own Paper, so that our special work lies in the treatment of “culture” in its more usual acceptation—the cultivation of the intellect. And if our title seems rather like a vast floating garment, too voluminous for the slight form it enfolds, it must be remembered that culture is generally understood in the sense we have indicated.

Indeed one can hardly separate the different parts of self-culture after all. It is by reading the best books that the moral nature is strengthened and cultivated, and that the æsthetic sense is cultivated also. The eye is opened to perceive the beauty of life and of art, for example, by such a writer as Ruskin. Then pictures cannot be properly comprehended by one who never reads. Take, as an illustration of this, a few of the pictures which have been from year to year, since 1890, lent to that splendid Guildhall exhibition, where, absolutely without payment, one can go to delight in modern and ancient art.

Here is “A Martyr in the reign of Diocletian,” by Paul Delaroche. This is the picture of world-wide fame, known probably to our readers by photographs if they have not seen the original. A young Roman girl, who has refused to sacrifice to the false gods, has been thrown into the Tiber. Two Christians, on the further bank, look with mingled feelings on the young martyr as her body floats past. Your spectator, ignorant of history, would wonder who was Diocletian, and what it was all about. Soon afterwards we come to “Ophelia,” by G. F. Watts, R.A., and if you have not read Hamlet, you cannot appreciate the beauty of this; nor, if you know nothing of Dante, can you understand “Paolo and Francesca da Rimini,” by the same artist, where the hero and heroine of the immortal story are sweeping through the mist of the Inferno. In another year’s exhibition we have “The City of Dis,” by Albert Goodwin, also requiring a knowledge of Dante; “Orpheus and Eurydice,” by T. Graham, which could not appeal to anyone ignorant of Greek mythology; “Antigone,” by Lord Leighton, fully appreciated only by those to whom Antigone is more than a name.

Consider even the two frontispieces to The Girl’s Own Paper for February and March last. The first, “An Antique Fête,” takes for granted some knowledge of ancient history. The reproduction of Miss Margaret Dicksee’s charming picture “A Sacrifice of Vanities,” will be fully understood only by those who have enjoyed The Vicar of Wakefield. It is unnecessary to go further, and if any reader, on her next visit to a picture exhibition, will note the remarks heard around her, she will have a practical commentary on the truth that Art cannot be fully comprehended and appreciated without some literary education. While standing, for instance, before such a picture as “Pandora” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one may overhear remarks like the following—

“Pandora? Who’s she?”

“What’s she got in her hand?”

“Nescitur ignescitur is written on it! What’s the meaning of that? Why couldn’t he put plain English?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think she’s an English person. She doesn’t look English, anyhow.”

“Oh, a heathen goddess, I suppose, carrying fire about like that! A goddess with red hair in a red dress? Anyhow, I don’t think much of her. Come along!”

The literary preparation for the enjoyment of Art is, of course, different from the technical preparation for it; but, for preparation of either kind, reading is necessary.

The kind of self-culture which at first sight seems furthest apart from the culture of which we write, is the physical kind. Sometimes, indeed, mental and physical self-culture may appear incompatible, especially when time is limited.

“Don’t sit poring over that book; come out into the fresh air!” is a familiar type of address.

In the newly-published Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, we read that the doctor of the poetess carried away her inkstand one day as a remedial measure!

Discretion is needed, and the preservation of health is a duty that comes to the front. Exercise and other essentials to health must not be neglected; and if health fails, the power of mental self-culture will probably fail too. But it is increasingly recognised that cultivation of the brain in reason is excellent for physical health, and that the woman with the best chance of enjoying life is the woman whose mental education has gone side by side with physical culture.

So we come back to the point from which we started, and observe that the different provinces of self-culture are in reality closely connected and interdependent, though we deal in these articles with one province only.

In our last paper we touched on some books that are almost, if not quite, indispensable to any scheme of culture: books of the olden world, that treat with the dawn of history as we know it, and go on to the period of the most brilliant of civilisations—that of Athens. No attempt was made to give an exhaustive list of the books dealing with the period before the Christian era that should be read; it would be impossible. But a few read and enjoyed will point the way to others. These papers do not constitute a full map of the country to be explored; they simply act as a sign-post, and readers must follow on to explore for themselves.

The “guide-post” method is the only way to advise readers, for much will always depend on individual taste and inclination, and to read without pleasure is a hopeless task. Dr. Johnson said very wisely that, for general improvement, a man should read whatever his immediate inclination prompted him to. He continued—

“If we read without inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing the attention, so that there is but one-half to be employed on what we read.”

At the same time, this is only a partial truth. To throw aside everything that does not allure at the outset is not wise. Many books that will charm and instruct are hard to “get into,” and a little self-control and perseverance will reap their reward in study as in everything else. The truth lies midway between two extremes. Do not get out of a library some book because you are told to read it, and at the close of a day’s work force yourself to pore over the pages until you fall asleep. On the other hand, do not confine your reading exclusively to story-books and the lighter magazines because they attract you and require no effort of attention. Girls are by far too prone to do this, forgetting that a taste for deeper books may be cultivated like every other taste.

It is true that many of the novels of the present day deal with the graver problems of life, and occasionally require an education to understand them. Still, however philosophical and thoughtful they may be, they should not constitute the sole intellectual food of any mind.

“Why?” you may say. “If I can learn all about early civilisation in a book like Georg Ebers’ Egyptian Princess, about mediæval and Scottish history in Scott’s novels, about the Stuart period in John Inglesant, about music in a story like Charles Anchester, about modern problems of every kind in George Eliot’s, Sir Walter Besant’s, and Mrs. Humphry Ward’s pages—not to go further—why not confine my reading to this interesting and attractive form?”

There is an essay by the late Professor T. H. Green of Oxford, which should be very widely studied.[1] He answers the question “Why not?” in a most forcible and masterly way, and the gist of his reply is this. The novel must perforce reproduce the circumstantial view of life; we are called to look again upon the incidents which day by day distract our attention overmuch from the “unseen and eternal” realities, and are apt to be enthralled afresh by the view that “to marry and live happily ever after” is man’s and woman’s chief end. In other words, the aspect of things the novelist shows us is “merely the outward and natural as applied to the inner or ideal.” He cannot give a complete representation of life; for instance, reproduce its slowness, its discipline by long years of silent waiting and patient labour. Much must be omitted of necessity, by reason of conditions of the craft; much also, by reason of artistic effect, must be so arranged and rounded off as to give the impression of a happiness impossible in life. The lesson of life, then, in its completeness, cannot be taught even by the best novel.

The reading of fiction is valuable in its place, but it is not enough for the mind and heart to feed upon.

We have not, however, as yet to consider the reading of fiction pure and simple. There is much besides to occupy attention, and perhaps this is the place to insist upon the reading of history. To connect the remote regions of classic lore with the present day, history is needed; but it is rather overwhelming to look at the best books of history and see how long and how numerous they are! The primers of history are, however, within the compass of all.

We have already mentioned Sir W. Smith’s smaller histories of Greece and Rome. Plutarch’s Lives of Greeks and Romans—made easier in Plutarch for Boys and Girls, translated extracts by Professor J. S. White—will offer an interesting biographical way of learning history. Macmillan’s History Primers published at one shilling each are most useful. You might begin by C. A. Fyffe’s Greece, or Mahaffy’s Old Greek Life in this series, and work gradually downwards. The “Story of the Nations” Series, published at five shillings by T. Fisher Unwin, consists of a number of volumes, each about a different nation. Your wisest course, indeed, if you cannot command time for the reading of long histories (such as Grote’s Greece, which, in ten volumes, is invaluable to the student), is to obtain from any bookseller a full list of Macmillan’s “History Primers,” or Unwin’s “Story of the Nations” Series, and select what you like, always remembering that to get some connected idea of the history of the world is essential to the enjoyment of the literature of the world.

For advanced students a most interesting volume is Walter Bagehot’s Physics and Politics, treating of the causes that influence progress. Mahaffy’s Twelve Lectures on Primitive Civilisations, and Froude’s Short Studies on Great Subjects, or Carlyle’s posthumous volume of Historical Sketches will be found valuable. With regard to English history you should read The Making of England, by J. R. Green, and his Short History of the English People; also Freeman’s History of the Norman Conquest. A series called Epochs of English History, written by eminent authors, can be highly recommended. Each part costs only ninepence. In fact, helps to the study of history are so abundant and cheap that it is superfluous in these days of booksellers’ catalogues to enumerate them further. Only, if you can read nothing else, read primers, so as to obtain some distinct notion of where you stand in the “long result of Time.”

Although you should not rely for your facts on plays and novels only, it is very desirable, if possible, to read Shakespeare’s plays, or some good historical novel, side by side with the history of the period of which they treat. Thus the dry bones of fact are clothed, as it were, with flesh and blood, and become living.

We must not be understood as saying that everything in the historical novels mentioned below is suitable for girls of every age. Children should not read them; but these articles are not intended for children. Adults who are in the habit of choosing what they shall read must discriminate among them, always remembering that they should be taken side by side with more “solid reading.”

Lily Watson.

(To be continued.)

THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES OF HOLLAND.

The peculiar head-dress worn by the ladies of Holland during the last thousand years, and known as the Friesland cap, has undergone no change whatever from the time of its adoption until now, and yet it is not becoming, nor does it in any way add to the grace and beauty of the women.

Much curiosity has been expressed as to its origin, and why its form has been so strictly adhered to while every other article of dress has changed its fashion with the seasons. We might never have been able to solve the problem but for the discovery of a legend by a great authority on Frisian lore. The following is but a bare outline.

Some twelve hundred years ago a celebrated preacher of the Gospel appeared among the Frisians. His influence upon the people was remarkable, especially upon Fostedina, the prime minister’s daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen. She took a deep interest in his words and in the hymns sung by his followers, and but for fear of her father and the priest would have acknowledged herself a Christian. The priest attached to the Court was a cruel man, and furious with all who adopted the Christian religion. He not only imprisoned them, but threatened that unless they should recant he would cast them into the arena among the wolves and wild boars.

The day was at hand when this threat was to be carried out, and the prisoners, as they lay in their gloomy cells, heard the preparations with sinking hearts. In the dark hours of the night, however, Fostedina came to their aid and arranged their escape, bidding them fly to the land of the Franks.

When the steward came in the morning to conduct the band of Christians to the arena, the prison was empty save for the girl Fostedina. She pointed to the open window and the ladder, and said, “They are safe, thank God.”

The steward thought she was mad, and begged her to go to her room, as he felt sure the people would tear her to pieces if they found out what she had done. She, however, determined to remain and face the consequences of her deed, lest the punishment should fall upon the missionary and his followers, who were still living in their midst.

She was taken before the King and his council, and when asked why she had done this thing, answered—

“Because I pitied the men and abhorred the cruelty with which they were to have been killed, and because I believe that our gods of wood and stone are no gods, and that Jesus Christ is the son of the living and true God.”

The King, turning to the Prime Minister, said—

“She is your child; what is to be done with her?”

The father answered—

“She is my only child, and the joy of my life. If you throw her to the wolves I go with her.”

Then Adgillus, the King’s son, who loved this girl, came forward to plead with his father for her forgiveness, and he would probably have succeeded but for the sarcasms and taunts of the priest.

At length she was taken out and placed between the council and the howling mob, while the King said—

“Ye men of Friesland, this is the girl who saved the Christians. What are we to do with her?”

[From photo: C. B. Broersand, Leuwarden.

The girl was loved by the people, and they felt compassion for her; but the priest, in a loud voice, cried shame on them for their cowardice, urging them to cruelty, until with a savage cry they shouted, “To the wolves!”

Then Adgillus came forward, saying—

“If you kill her I will be a Frisian no longer. If you throw her to the wolves I go with her and fight with them for her with my sword, which I have sworn to use for the protection of the innocent and defenceless, and God helping me, I’ll keep my oath!”

The applause of the people was deafening, but the priest silenced them, saying—

“This girl has insulted our gods and embraced the new religion. Therefore our law requires her death.”

But the people cried out, with their thousands of voices—

“She shall not die!”

The priest, pale with spite and anger, said—

“Well, let her live. She has been trying for a crown; let her have her wish. Here is one exactly like that worn by the Christ whom she worships.” So saying, he took from under his cloak a crown of thorns and held it up for inspection. Again a shout went up, “Crown her! Crown her!”

And so it happened that on the following day she stood in the arena from sunrise to sunset, wearing the crown of thorns, and although her forehead and temples were painfully pierced by the sharp thorns and the blood ran down her cheeks she did not utter a sigh or a murmur. The next day, having been banished, she left the country, accompanied by the missionary and his followers, nor was the King’s son seen in Friesland for many a long day after this. He joined the army of the Franks, and accounts of his prowess and valour filled the land.

At the King’s death Adgillus succeeded him notwithstanding the opposition of the priests. The people loved him and offered no objection to receive Fostedina as their Queen, and she and Adgillus were married by the missionary, according to Christian rites.

The marks of the crown of thorns were still visible on her forehead and temples when, by the side of her royal husband, Fostedina rode into the old city of Stavorly, where the Frisian kings resided. At the sight of these scars the people were greatly troubled, for it reminded them of the cruelty with which they had treated her in days gone by.

On the morning of the great festival with which the new king’s inauguration was to be celebrated, twelve high-born maidens entered the Queen’s apartment and presented her with a golden crown of such a shape that it completely hid the marks made by the crown of thorns. Two golden plates covered her temples, while a splendid golden strip passed over the forehead. Fostedina accepted, but did not like it. She remarked—

“It will never come up to the crown of thorns, but my God has still a better crown in store for me.”

From that time it became the fashion for every noble lady to wear one like it, a custom which has continued down to the present day, though the reason of its adoption has been forgotten.

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER XII.

KITCHEN COURTSHIPS.

L

ucy secured “a girl” at last. The girl called herself “a girl,” the registry office keeper called her “a girl,” and Lucy said within herself that she could not very well call her anything else. What else was she? She had not the appearance or manner of the trained servant. She gave no sign of the habits or nature which Lucy would have rejoiced over in “a maid.” She was “a girl,” ready to do work for a wage. She was but a bundle of negations. Yet Lucy felt bound to take her, not only because time pressed, but because there was really no reason why she should reject her.

The girl gave “a reference” to a house not very far from Pelham Street. She had been servant there for two years. So Lucy locked up the little house with the verandah, took Hugh by the hand, and went off to inquire “the character” of “Jane Smith.”

The house at which her journey ended was dismally dim and genteel. It was not dirty or neglected, but it was not bright nor cared for. Jane Smith herself opened the door. It was the last day of her “notice” month.

The lady who received Mrs. Challoner was a limp faded personage who listened to Lucy’s errand with such unsmiling weariness that Lucy felt quite sorry to have disturbed her.

“Oh, Jane Smith? Well, Jane Smith is very fair—as servants go nowadays. I think she has been with me two years. She gave me notice herself. I forget why, really—some trifle it was. I thought it may be as well—for when they stay too long in one place they get careless.”

“I don’t think two years is very long, and they ought to grow more valuable the longer they stay,” said Mrs. Challoner.

“Oh, yes, of course they should, but they don’t. Two years is a very reasonable time as things are nowadays.”

“And you found her perfectly honest and truthful and reliable?” asked Lucy, who somehow felt shy in making these inquiries. It seemed to her queer that the mere fact that our servants require to earn their bread in our houses, should entitle one to ask searching questions about them such as we never ask before admitting acquaintances to our society!

“Honest? Yes, I have no reason to think her otherwise. I never missed anything, and any outlays she made always seemed correct. Truthful? Well, I never ask my servants questions, I make a point of that. I form my own conclusions about anything that happens. Reliable? Reliable?”—the lady echoed those words with significant notes of interrogation and exclamation—“I scarcely know how far you mean that word to go. I found no fault with her. I never care to get acquainted with my servants. If they do their work and give me no cause for displeasure that is enough for me.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Do you know anything about Jane Smith’s own people?” asked Lucy.

The lady shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “I have never found it necessary to make any inquiries. I allow no visitors. I give my servants one half-day off every week, but I don’t give it always on a regular day. I think that is a good plan. They get out on Sunday evening, when I expect them to go to the pew which I occupy in the morning. I think that is giving them every opportunity to be steady and respectable if they desire to be so.” The mistress herself prepared to show Mrs. Challoner to the door. She checked herself, however, to ask if her visitor would like to see Jane then or to have a call from her that evening, and Lucy accepted the latter alternative.

Three hours later Jane Smith came up to Mrs. Challoner’s house to hear the result of the inquiries about her. Lucy resolved to have a little conversation with the girl, to see if she could discover any bit of genuine human nature beneath the professional automaton which was all that her last mistress had required. Indeed she felt she must learn something more about the girl than that mistress had ever known.

“Do you belong to London?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” answered Jane with a slight hesitancy, for which it seemed hard to account. Could some mistress have raised an objection to country girls?

“To what part of the country do you belong?” Lucy went on.

“I didn’t belong to the country, ma’am,” she said. “I’ve always lived in a town. I come from Hull.”

“Oh, I understand,” Lucy replied. “Have you any relatives or friends in London?”

Again the curious hesitancy.

“No relatives here, ma’am.”

Lucy began to think she understood.

“Nor any friends?” she pressed. “No friends at all? Are you engaged to be married or likely to be so?”

Jane Smith’s expression changed.

“Well, yes, ma’am,” she admitted.

“And does the young man live in London?”

“If you please, yes, ma’am.”

“Do your people know him?” Lucy persisted.

Jane Smith looked at her timidly.

“They’ve never seen him yet, ma’am. He hopes to go down there with a cheap trip next Easter. It’s a long way for poor folks.”

“If this is a real serious love affair, Jane—no mere silly flirting, I shall give you leave to let him come to see you once a week,” said Lucy.

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Jane.

Then for the first time in the whole interview she volunteered a remark.

“The last mistress—the one you saw—she didn’t allow followers. That was why I gave her notice.”

“But she might have made a concession if you had asked her specially,” Lucy remarked, with a laudable desire to be loyal to her own order. “You did not do so?” she added interrogatively.

Jane Smith shook her head.

“’Twouldn’t have been no use, ma’am,” she answered decidedly. “Three weeks running my evening out had been pouring with rain, but she took me up sharp because she saw me speaking to him for a minute or two at the area gate one morning.”

“Well, naturally mistresses are particular concerning who comes about their houses,” Lucy answered staunchly. “Your mistress said she had no fault to find with you. She told me you had dismissed yourself. Have you known the young man long?”

“More than a year, ma’am. He’s a carpenter working in Messrs. Muggeridge’s shop”—she named a large place of business about midway between her former situation and Mrs. Challoner’s house.

“Well, Jane, I decide to engage you, and after a week or two, if all goes rightly, he may come to see you once a week. Carpenters get away from their work rather early, so all that I shall ask is that he never stays later than nine o’clock, when you bring up my supper tray. And I am sure you will take care I shall never regret giving you this permission.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane. “Please, ma’am, you never shall.” She seemed to take her new form of bliss very sedately.

Then a sudden thought struck Lucy. She remembered the speed of Pollie’s wooing.

“You are not thinking of getting married very soon, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no, ma’am,” answered Jane. “His wage will have to rise a bit. He’s got to do something for his mother.”

“You can understand that I shouldn’t like you to come into my service merely to go out of it again,” observed Lucy. But her silent reflection was that household regulations which prevent a comfortable courtship must surely do much to promote regardless, rash, improvident marriage.

“No, ma’am, I’ve no such thought,” said Jane soberly.

“Then can you enter on your duties to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Challoner rather anxiously, for to-morrow was the last day of the old year, and New Year’s Day falling on Sunday, St. George’s Institute would open on Monday, though duties there might not be very stringent for a day or two later.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” answered Jane, with more vivacity than she had shown over her love affairs. “For my time is up to-morrow morning, and it costs a girl a good deal if she has to pay for board and lodging between her places.”

So Jane Smith in a cab, with a big brown box, duly arrived on Friday about noon. She was soon installed in her duties, and when Mrs. Brand arrived to pay her sister a call on the last day of the year, Jane “opened the door” with the dull propriety of one who has done it for months. Mrs. Brand was startled.

“What! Is the prodigy gone?” she exclaimed as Jane showed her into the parlour, “or have you hired a girl to help her? Lucy, that would be a brilliant idea, for the poor old thing is too old for running about, and yet I suppose she is a good figure-head for you to leave at home, when you are to be so much away. I always said you ought to have two. You’ve done too much servant’s work.”

Lucy drew her sister within the parlour.

“I have not two, certainly not,” she answered patiently, “but I had a terrible disappointment with Mrs. Morison, and she had to go. She drank.” Lucy spoke in the low impressive voice which marked her horror of the discovery.

Mrs. Brand laughed.

“Oh, I expected that,” she said. “It’s the commonest thing in London cooks. Yes, I know it’s very bad, but there are faults in everybody. She did cook well, Luce; I noticed that when I took a little supper with you, and I’ve said to Jem since what a comfort it was to me to know you were getting decent food. I don’t think you should have been so hard on her. What has become of your Christian charity? You might have told her that if it ever happened again, you would give her straight over to the police. That would have pulled her up and kept her in check for a time, and you would have got the good of her in the meantime. It’s too bad not to have had a little patience with a poor sinner. I’m shocked at you.”

“My dear Florence,” cried Lucy in dismay, “you think me uncharitable for discharging a servant for drunkenness and I have known you to dismiss one for burning a pudding!”

“Oh, that’s quite a different thing,” said Florence easily, “and I don’t know that I should have done that if it had not been that we had visitors, and I was very much put out.”

“It would have been all the same to me if I made my sad discovery in the strictest privacy,” observed Lucy, “but as it happened, I made it at my Christmas dinner time.”

Florence gave a curious deprecatory smile.

“Poor old Miss Latimer and that crippled man!” she exclaimed. “Surely they would not be very severe censors? You could have trusted them not to make much game of your mishap, and I should have thought it was quite in your province to have patience with a sinner and try to reform her.”

“It might have been,” returned Lucy, “had Charlie been at home, and had Charlie and I been alone together. But there is a time and a place for everything. No drunkard should be in any house where a child is, and I am left in charge of my husband’s property, and must not expose it to unnecessary risks. We must not do wrong as a beginning of doing good. That is the first step on a very slippery path.”

When Lucy got upon principles, Florence was generally silenced, not because she was convinced, but because she could not understand connecting practice with principle. With the latter, Florence never troubled herself. The former she directed by the expediency of the moment.

Presently she spoke again, with a change of subject.

“You got my note this morning, I suppose, Luce,” she said, “and you know what I’ve come for. Mrs. Bray is quite hurt at not having seen you for so long, and I promised to bring you ‘before the year was out.’ So this is your last chance.”

“It has not been my fault,” Lucy observed soberly. “Nor can I go with you this afternoon, Florence, unless Hugh can accompany us.”

Florence made a little grimace.

“Isn’t this girl respectable either?” she said. “Have you a written character with her too?”

“No,” Lucy answered. “But she is a perfect stranger. I cannot leave my child with her.”

“Very well, bring him along by all means. I own he is a credit to take out—not like my little monkeys—for he behaves prettily and obeys at a word. The dear old dame will be quite pleased to see him. She will say he is like the children of her youth, and that’s her highest praise. I daren’t take my girls; they would disgrace me in ten minutes.”

Lucy would have made the journey in an omnibus, but Florence called a cab. The visit involved going across London to a western district far beyond the solemn gloom of the region where Lucy had visited Dr. Ivery. The cab was not very pleasant, the presence of Hugh as a third having compelled them to take a four-wheeler, while otherwise Florence would have hired a dashing hansom.

“Such a fusty smell!” Florence cried. Then, in a few minutes more: “What a noise the windows make!” Next: “And we are crawling like snails. But it’s always the way with a ‘growler.’”

Lucy said nothing, but innocent Hugh administered a reproof.

“Are four-wheelers called ‘growlers,’ auntie, because they make people grumble?” he asked.

“Oh, you are too clever for anything, child!” said the auntie.

Hugh looked up astonished.

“It isn’t clever to want to know, is it?” he returned. “It’s clever when you do know.”

The cab stopped at last; but Florence would not dismiss it.

“Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs. Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out of me that I shall just want to drop into it when we come out.”

Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but consent. Florence often complained that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions. Little matters of this sort were at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances always went on which she would never dream of, and though Florence let none of their expense fall upon her, that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since it forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences and luxuries which seemed to her not only unnecessary, but even harmful for two young vigorous women.

The exterior of the house they entered differed little from other pretty residences of its fashionable little quarter, nestled down beside the most aristocratic of our London parks. But once within the door, the house had a character all its own. The pretty little entrance hall was cut across by a broad flight of steps leading to an upper hall, whence the public rooms opened. Of the walls of this upper hall scarcely a quarter of a yard of the middle part remained visible, being thickly covered with old and rare engravings and prints, the interstices between pictures of varied size being filled by bits of blue china and other curios. Even the portion approaching the ceiling was decorated, though more sparsely, by ancient weapons and shields.

A ladylike maid with a pale, tired face admitted them, and led them straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.

Mrs. Bray was almost the last of the friends of the mother of Florence and Lucy. What was more, she had been that lady’s ideal. The sisters had heard their mother praise her with a warmth in which she had seldom clothed her commendations. They had seen their mother sitting beside Mrs. Bray actually holding her hand! As they advanced to greet their old friend, Lucy remembered the astonishment with which that sight had filled her girlish breast—astonishment, not at Mrs. Bray’s power to charm, but at her mother’s self-surrender to it.

For this was a wonderful old lady. One felt at once that one was in presence of a personality. She rose very slightly to greet them, for she was both aged and feeble. Yet there was something in gesture and countenance which gave assurance of warmest welcome.

“My dear Florence, sit down there where I can look at you, and peep into the world of modern fashion. And my little Lucy, my little truant Lucy, come and sit on this low chair at my side—the very chair your mother always used, my child.”

Immediately the one guest was flattered and the other was gratified, and each was put upon the best footing possible with each nature.

“Ah, but there is a third visitor!” cried the old lady, beaming down on Hugh. “Oh, my dear Lucy, this child is so like both your father and your husband! Look, your father’s strong chin to the very life, and your husband’s kind, laughing eyes! Yes, Lucy, and it is you that have thus moulded two good men into one. Now where is this young man to sit? I know he wants to sit close beside mamma, and he shall have this little stool; and there he is, a knight at the feet of his queen. And now, Florence, how are Mr. Brand and the daughters?”

“Jem is quite well, thanks,” said Florence. “He sends his dutiful regards and best wishes for the New Year. He would have come himself but he is so busy.”

As a matter of fact, Jem had not heard or uttered the old lady’s name for months, did not know that his wife was visiting her, and had himself gone that afternoon to Wimbledon for a game of golf.

Mrs. Bray laughed gaily.

“I expected you both this afternoon,” she said. “I remembered your promise to bring Lucy before the year was out. So I put aside a bit of china for Mr. Brand to take away with him. Oh, a trifle, my dear, very awkward in shape and very heavy! I’ll not think of troubling you with it, but it’s the kind I know he likes, and it can wait till he comes for it. But I tell you, Florence, I must give myself the pleasure of showing you the dress Mr. Bray has given me for the great dinner-party to-morrow, when we dine with the Lord Chief Justice. I’m sure you like to see pretty frocks—you have such pretty ones yourself.” She rang the bell while she spoke, and the genteel, tired maid came in.

“Rachel, bring down my dinner-dress again. I’m afraid you’ve just got it put away? But I must have it down again, please!” and the maid went off.

“I’d just been showing it to an old friend,” Mrs. Bray explained. “But she made me cross by asking whether I was not afraid of a dinner-party for my rheumatism. A memento mori, my dears. But,” she said, turning to Lucy, “here’s a grave face saying to itself that I am a foolish and naughty old woman to care for such frivolities!”

“Oh, no!” protested Lucy. “I was only so sorry that the maid had just put it nicely away.”

“It is all in her duty,” said the old lady with a dash of hauteur. “Rachel is here to do what she is told. It need not matter to her what that is.” Then, as the maid entered with the magnificent robe flung over her arm, the stately old dame gave her instructions how to spread it over an ottoman so as to display its costly lace and elaborate embroidery to the best advantage.

Mrs. Brand exclaimed with admiration, adjusting the folds, and fingering the soft fabric as a connoisseur in its perfections.

Mrs. Bray had drawn Lucy’s hand into her lap, and was stroking it softly.

“Ah, my dear,” she said, “don’t be hard on me for my vanity! Wait till you’ve been married fifty years yourself, and your husband brings you such a dress, and tells you that he does not think anybody but you would do it justice! Think of that, my dear! I see that sweet speech written between all the flounces and furbelows. How can you expect me to keep my eyes off such finery as that?”

“It is very beautiful!” murmured Lucy. But the old lady knew that her real answer was in the quivering clasp of the hand lying in her own.

“How would you like to see mamma in such a dress as that, Hugh?” asked Mrs. Brand.

Hugh gave his head a quaint little shake, as if such an idea was very grand; but he added—

“I shouldn’t be able to sit on her knee.”

“Ah, but you’ll be a grown-up man before your mamma will deserve such a dress!” answered the old lady archly. “Ay, my dear,” she whispered aside to Lucy, “if my little ones had lived to give me grandchildren and great-grandchildren to come crowding round me, maybe I should not have cared so much for this dress, and maybe, too, Mr. Bray would not have been able to afford to give it to me.”

“I’m glad to see Rachel is still with you!” said Mrs. Brand, as the maid once more took away the gorgeous garment. “I remember hearing something about her being engaged to be married, and, as I didn’t see her the last time I was here—it was at a reception, so I could not ask questions—I thought maybe the event had come off.”

Mrs. Bray shook her head.

“No,” she said, “the event has not come off—it will not come off. The man is dead—died in India. He was a non-commissioned officer, you know. I daresay it is all for the best for Rachel. I tell her so. He had been away more than three years, and, as I say to her, who knows what habits he may have acquired. A change of service would have been very trying to me. Now I daresay we shall rub on together to the end, and Rachel can trust us to provide for her. She’s generally very sensible, poor thing, and reasonable. I’ve never had to put my foot down firmly but once, which was when he went to India, and she wanted to wear a ring he gave her. A decent enough ring—nothing but engraved gold—it would have done for her keeper-ring if they had ever got married. But, of course, I could not allow such a thing, and she fretted a little—it was after he had gone—and she gave me notice, and said she should take a place in a shop. Then she got letters from him, and I think he advised her to stay in the place where he had left her.”

“She knew where she was well off,” interpolated Mrs. Brand.

“Very likely he did not want it on his conscience that she had given up a snug place for his ring. If he had ever wanted to change his mind, it would have made things harder for him. I think he was a decent, considerate sort of man,” the old lady went on. “At any rate, Rachel stayed. It is a little depressing for me now, always seeing her sad face. I gave her a holiday for a while, hoping she’d come back all right. But really her face seems set that way, and perhaps it does not mean that she feels so much as it looks.”

“It is not pleasant to have grieving people about,” assented Florence. “It is very kind of you to be so patient and forbearing. But, then, you have such a big and tender heart.”

“No, I haven’t,” said the old lady calmly. “I know better than that. At any rate, you don’t know that I have,” she added with a brisk change of manner; “for, if I have, I keep it so close shut up that I quite forget it, and it is in danger of being starved, like naughty children’s pet canaries. But it gives a little chirp sometimes. I am sorry for Rachel, and that’s why I like to fancy the man wouldn’t have turned out well, and that’s why I’ve given her all my black silk dresses. The cook says he’s had ‘noble mournings, such as the likes of he couldn’t have expected.’ She says, too, that Rachel wears that ring tied round her neck. That’s rank idolatry! But I suppose they have some feelings like ours. When I’m gone people will find among my treasures queer cuttings out of newspapers and tags of old programmes that they’ll wonder over. And must you really be going, my dears? So soon? A cab waiting! Fie! Is that the way to treat an old friend? Give my love to your husband when you write to him,” she said, drawing down Lucy’s face and kissing it fondly, “and tell him we dine with the Lord Chief Justice on New Year’s Day—it’s in his own professional line, you know—and that he is to come home and follow in our footsteps, especially in Mr. Bray’s when he bought me that dress! And good-bye, little man! And there’s a nice, weeny, tiny coin to remember an old woman by. And you’re not to show it to mamma till you are out of this house. And good-bye, Florence”—with a little peck of a kiss. “And keep Jem up to the mark in sending pretty messages. Tell him about the china. No, no, you sha’n’t take it! Ladies didn’t carry parcels for gentlemen in my young days. Good-bye, all!”

There was weary Rachel waiting in the hall. Lucy could not pass her without a word—it was a habit of hers never to pass a servant without some friendly recognition. Instinctively she said—

“Thank you. I wish you a good New Year!”

The worn face flashed into tenderness. And the door closed upon it so.

(To be continued.)

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

A

lthough we have no true lily indigenous to our island, there is at least one species which has established itself in England, and by this time can claim to be called a British wild flower. This lily is the Martagon or Turk’s cap, a flower long cultivated in English gardens, and, after the Madonna lily, the most familiar of the whole genus.

The fifth group of lilies, the Martagons, is the most extensive of all. It includes over twenty species which differ widely from each other in most particulars. The usual description of the members of this group (“perianth cernuous, with the segments very revolute, stamens diverging on all sides”) is certainly applicable to all the Martagons, but it is equally so to the tiger-lily or L. Speciosum.

Most of the Martagons are remarkable rather for the number of their blossoms than for the size of the individual flowers. There are, however, many exceptions to this; Lilium Monadelphum bears blossoms in large numbers, but the individual flowers are large and showy. L. Medeoloides and L. Avenaceum bear but one or two blossoms of small size.

The prevailing colours of the flowers of the Martagons are yellow, orange and red. A few are purple, and one rare variety of the common Martagon is white.

In a former article we sub-divided this group of lilies into several smaller sections. We do not advance any scientific reason for so classifying them. The divisions are adopted merely for convenience of description.

The first of our sub-divisions is the group of lilies which we have called True Martagons. This group contains ten species. In all the members except one the bulb is perennial, and does not bear a rhizome. They are all natives of the Old World, being for the most part natives of Central Europe.

The leaves of the true Martagons are narrow, but vary in width from those of L. Martagon, which are three-quarters of an inch across, to those of L. Tenuifolium, which are scarcely more than the tenth of an inch wide. In some species the leaves are arranged in whorls, in others they are scattered.

The flowers of this group of lilies are mostly small but numerous. In all except L. Hansoni, L. Avenaceum, and L. Medeoloides, the segments of the perianth are very revolute, which fact has given to these lilies the name of “Turk’s cap,” from the resemblance of the fully-opened blossom to a turbaned cap.

The true Martagons are among the easiest of the lilies to cultivate, but they have one or two peculiarities which would seem to negative this statement. For instance, these lilies very much dislike being meddled with. Consequently they rarely do well the first year they are planted. It is very annoying after having bought fifty bulbs of L. Pomponium not to have a single blossom the first season. But you have only got to wait until the bulbs have established themselves, when they will flower year after year and increase at a prodigious rate.

All the true Martagons like a cool loamy soil. On the whole they object to peat. Many kinds, as the common Martagon, for instance, like chalk, and are seen to perfection when grown in heavy loam on a limestone bottom. The heavy, black loam of London suits the Martagons very well, and we have seen these lilies in greater perfection in suburban gardens than anywhere else.

First among the true Martagons stands the lily which has given its name to the group—Lilium Martagon, or the Turk’s-cap lily. This lily has a very wide range, being found wild throughout Central Europe and Siberia. We have said that it also grows wild in England, but our readers can hardly expect ever to see the plant growing wild in our island. It used to be fairly plentiful in Surrey, Devonshire and the Isle of Wight, but the rage for collecting specimens has pretty well exterminated the species from our shores. It is, however, occasionally met with, especially in Surrey.

The Martagon lily is one of our oldest garden flowers. When once established, it is very loath to go and very free to increase, so in many gardens this lily has come up and flowered every year for centuries.

The bulb of Lilium Martagon is about the size of a hen’s egg, and of the ordinary ovoidal shape. It is very compact and usually stained on the outside with bright yellow or purple. The leaves are of a greyish-green colour and are arranged in whorls. The flower-head is visible when the plant is but a few inches high. It consists of from four to forty little buds closely packed together. The lily flowers in July, and a well-grown specimen is a very pretty object.

The flower spike forms a perfect cone or pyramid. The blossoms are very small—about one and a quarter inches across—and borne on stalks which grow out at right angles to the main stem. These stalks gradually diminish in length as they get towards the top, thus producing the characteristic cone shape. The nodding blossoms are of a lilac-purple, splashed and spotted with claret colour. The pollen is red, the segments of the perianth are fleshy and very much curled.

There are several well-marked varieties of the Martagon lilies. The variety Dalmaticum, as its name implies, is found in Dalmatia. It is a finer plant than the type. The leaves are deep glossy green, and the flowers are very dark purple. In another variety called Cattaneae, the flowers are still darker, appearing in some lights to be quite black.

There is a white variety of the Martagon lily, a lovely little gem, which, though rare, is one of the easiest culture. It is curious that this is the only variety in the whole group of Martagons which bears white flowers. It is of garden origin, and is not found in the wild state.

Then there is the double Martagon, about the stupidest flower which owns the name of lily. It is extraordinary the rage people have for double flowers. It is very rarely that a double flower has half the beauty of the single variety. In the rose, the chrysanthemum, the aster and other composite flowers, the double varieties are indeed vastly superior to the single flowers. But to us all the double bulbous plants are incomparably inferior to the single ones. In the lilies, the double varieties are scarcely worth growing.

Lilium Martagon and its varieties should be grown in masses or as a thick border. Beyond seeing that the plants are well watered, they give no trouble and should never be disturbed.

Lilium Pomponium, or, as it is sometimes called, Lilium Pomponicum, is another well-known lily from Central Europe. It resembles the last in many particulars, but the leaves are linear and scattered, and the blossoms are not nearly so numerous as are those of L. Martagon.

From three to ten flowers are produced on each stem. The flowers are nodding with the segments much recurved, and are about an inch across. In the type the colour is a dullish-red, but there are also orange and yellow varieties.

This lily looks well in big masses, for the blossoms are very graceful, though perhaps rather disappointing for a lily.

Lilium Pyrenaicum, or the yellow Turk’s cap, is by some authorities considered to be only a variety of the last; by others to be a distinct species. As its name tells you, it comes from the Pyrenees, and it is not known as a wild plant in other parts of the continent. Yet, by the way, we see that it is sometimes included among the British wild flowers from some apparently wild examples having been found in the Isle of Wight. Probably these are simply garden escapes; still it is possible that they are indigenous to that island.

Except in the colour of its flowers, the Pyrenean Martagon exactly resembles the Pompon lily. The flowers are slightly larger than are those of L. Pomponicum, and are of a fine yellow colour, spotted with purple. The outside of the tube is red.

Lately this lily has become very popular, but it is not altogether a desirable plant as the blossoms exhale a rank and disagreeable odour.

In the Japanese Islands is found a Martagon lily, differing very markedly from the European species, which we have just described. This lily, Lilium Hansoni by name, is very rare and not often seen in cultivation. But we believe that in a short time it will become a well-known and popular plant.

A well-grown specimen of Hanson’s lily stands about five feet high and bears a pyramidal spike of yellowish-orange blossoms. The flowers are not nearly so much recurved as are those of the other Martagons. The segments are thick and fleshy, of a bright orange slightly spotted with purple. The flowers are about two inches across. From three to fifty are present in each spike.

This lily is one of the first to blossom in favourable seasons, coming into flower in the first week of June.

It is also perfectly hardy, and shows no tendency to degenerate if it is provided with suitable soil. A rich but light loam with abundance of leaf-mould and a little peat and sand is the proper compost in which to grow Lilium Hansoni.

Another lily from Japan, Lilium Medeoloides, somewhat resembles Hanson’s lily, but is much smaller, rarely exceeding twelve inches in height, and the blossoms are far fewer and smaller.

L. Medeoloides is very imperfectly known. The bulb consists of a large number of small oat-shaped scales very loosely packed together. The leaves are in whorls. The blossoms are frequently upright, and for this reason the plant is often included among the Isolirions.

Except as a curiosity, this lily is certainly not worth growing. It is very difficult to manage, and the bulbs almost invariably rot in the winter.

A LILY-GROWER.

Lilium Avenaceum is another Japanese species which very closely resembles the last; but the flowers invariably bend downwards, and are very slightly spotted. Like the last, it is not worth growing except as a curiosity.

Resembling L. Pomponium in many points, but of far smaller dimensions, and with much more brilliant blossoms is the little Lilium Tenuifolium. This little lily inhabits Siberia and differs from most of the species in that the bulb is not truly perennial. Some authorities state that the bulb is annual, but this we do not believe to be correct. It is more likely a triennial species.

This lily must be grown from seed. Fortunately the plant produces seed in abundance, and the seeds germinate freely, often producing a flowering bulb in two years.

In this plant the leaves are extremely thin. The blossoms are about an inch across, of the colour of red sealing-wax. Rarely are more than three blossoms present on each stem. It is a pretty little flower, and makes a good pot-plant.

Lilium Callosum, the callous-bracted lily, is something like a magnified version of the last. The leaves are broader and less numerous than in L. Tenuifolium. The flowers about an inch and a quarter across, of a vivid scarlet or orange. The bracts are thick and horny, a characteristic which has given the plant its name.

The callous lily likes a rich peaty soil, but it is very accommodating and will grow in most good soils. It is perfectly hardy, and is of little difficulty to cultivate.

We now come to a lily which will always be famous, not so much for its intrinsic beauty—though, to be sure, it is a beautiful plant—but because it is the flower which has generally been considered to be the “lily of the fields,” the only plant mentioned by name by our Saviour.

The lily to which we refer is the scarlet Martagon, lily of the fields, lily of Chalcedony, or Lilium Chalcedonicum.

It is doubtful whether we shall ever know for certain which flower was referred to by Christ as “the lily of the fields.” Why the scarlet Martagon should have borne the honour for so long is difficult to see. As far as we have been able to discover, this lily does not grow in Palestine, and though of course we cannot be certain that it did not inhabit the Holy Land in the time of Christ, it is very unlikely that it did, for the lily of Chalcedony knows how to take care of itself, and it is unlikely that it would have become exterminated.

We have no real reason for supposing that the lily of the fields was a true lily—that is, a member of the genus lilium. Even in England at the present day we call a host of liliaceous plants “lilies,” and in the East they are very lax in floral nomenclature.

That the plant referred to was one of superior beauty is probable, but even the meanest flower would answer to the description that “Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

It is commonly held now that the plant referred to was either the yellow star-lily (Amaryllis Lutea) or else an anemone. But it may well be that our Saviour meant no special blossom, but by “the lily of the field” He intended any flower to be taken.

Before it became the fashion to “bed out” the gardens of the wealthy, the scarlet Martagon graced alike the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor. Throughout England this magnificent lily was one of the commonest of garden flowers. But when the finest gardens were turned into puzzle pictures, manufactured out of geraniums, blue lobelias and yellow calceolarias, all the fine old garden plants were rooted up and destroyed, and many plants ceased to know England as their home.

How thankful we all are that the formal garden has left us! Now it is considered in its true light, as a vulgar waste of soil.

We have returned to the old-fashioned garden, but alas! we cannot make old gardens at a day’s notice. We have reinstated our old herbaceous plants, and now we are attempting to place the lily of the fields in its old position, as queen of the flower-bed.

Unfortunately this lily is difficult to establish, though when once it is established it gives no trouble and will grow for centuries. But we do not often see it now in gardens, and it is doubtful if it will ever again become a constant inhabitant of every garden, as it was of old.

The bulb of Lilium Chalcedonicum is about the size of a duck’s egg, and is very compact and heavy. The outer scales are stained with a bright yellow colour.

The growth of this lily is peculiar and unlike any other. Good plants grow to about four and a half feet high, and bear from four to eight blossoms in a cluster at the top.

The lower leaves of this species are long and lance-shaped. The upper leaves, which are extremely numerous, are small and linear and embrace the stem, giving the plant a curious resemblance to a Maypole.

The flowers are borne in a cluster with very short pedicles. They are of a brilliant sealing-wax red, usually unspotted, quite scentless, and about two inches across. The segments are very revolute, and altogether this lily resembles a much glorified edition of Lilium Pomponium. There is a variety with yellowish-orange flowers. This plant blossoms at the beginning of August.

To cultivate this lily successfully is by no means an easy matter. It delights in a rich heavy loam of great depth and with a chalk basis. It dislikes peat and manures. If it can have the soil it likes, it does best when exposed to the sun all day long. This lily rarely does well for the first year or two, but when established gives no trouble whatever. It is a native of Greece and the Ionian Isles.

Closely resembling the last lily is the nodding red lily of Carniola (Lilium Carniolicum). Comparing this lily with the last, we see that it is altogether smaller, the leaves fewer and the blossoms less lividly red, but spotted and usually solitary. It inhabits South Europe, and flowers in June.

(To be continued.)

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

CHAPTER XI.

THE “PLYMOUTH CASTLE.”

Sheila stood with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair on the deck of a great steamer that was slipping slowly down Southampton Water on a bright October afternoon.

She felt a hand upon her shoulder, and, turning quickly round, exclaimed delightedly—

“Oh, Miss Adene, you are really here! The stewardess said she knew you were on board; but I was half afraid you were not. I did not catch a glimpse of you anywhere.”

“I was below with my niece setting our cabins to rights, as travellers like to do before getting out of smooth water. Well, little one, you look very bright; but you are thinner than when I saw you last. I am afraid you have had an anxious summer.”

“Yes, rather,” answered Sheila. “Poor Effie was ill for a long time, and I don’t think all the doctors and specialists they called in did her any good. They tried all sorts of things for her breathing, and there was a sort of operation once, and I’m sure that did her harm. The last man who saw her said, ‘Take her out of England for the winter. Let her live out of doors and take no physic, and not see a doctor at all unless there is real cause.’ That’s what I call being sensible; and I remembered what you had said about Madeira and how delightful it was there, and Effie set her heart upon going. So here we are. Uncle and Aunt Cossart, and Effie and I and her maid. Oh, I think it will be delightful! I have never been abroad. It will be charming to cross the Atlantic and see beautiful new places!”

There was a laugh from behind, and Sheila turned to meet the sunny glance from a pair of bright dark eyes, and Miss Adene said—

“Ah, here is my nephew (as he likes to be called) Ronald Dumaresq! Let me introduce him, Sheila, my dear.”

The girl held out her hand with her pretty manner, half shy, half frank, and Ronald shook it heartily, saying—

“I have heard a lot about you, Miss Cholmondeley, from my aunt. I know all about that fire in which you played the part of heroine.”

“I!” cried Sheila, half indignant at the imputation. “I did nothing at all but shiver and shake, and feel in a most fearful fright. I don’t know if that’s what you call being heroic. I don’t.”

“Well, but you must have a spirit of your own, I am sure! Did I not just hear you saying that crossing the Atlantic would be delightful? Not many people share that opinion, I can tell you.”

“I mean it to be delightful. I don’t care if I am ill. It will be a new experience. I like to try new things.”

“If you like sea-sickness you will be a remarkable being,” laughed Ronald; “but perhaps you are a good sailor.”

“I think I shall be. I went yachting once all about the Hebrides, and it was often pretty rough and choppy; but I did not mind. I don’t see how one could be ill in a huge boat like this.”

Ronald laughed.

“Wait till you see what the Atlantic rollers are like. You will soon learn what a cork even a big vessel like this can be. Wait till we get to the Bay of Biscay O!”

Laughing and talking, with the quickly established good fellowship of young folks, Sheila and Ronald paced up and down the deck. Sheila was keenly interested in the big vessel and in the other ships they met or passed as they glided along; and Ronald could answer most of her questions, and was altogether a delightful companion. He had travelled a good deal, though he had never before been to Madeira; and he told her anecdotes of shipboard life and of his hunting adventures, time slipping away so fast that the clatter of teacups and the movement of some of the passengers towards the saloon quite surprised them.

It was not a full ship, being one of the “intermediate” boats popular with Madeira passengers, who often find trouble in getting booked for the regular Cape mails. Most of the passengers had cabins to themselves—no small boon to bad sailors, and appreciated by all.

“We shall take about half a day, perhaps a whole one, longer than the mail,” Ronald explained; “but it’s much jollier to have plenty of room and a cabin of one’s own. But come along and have some tea! Where are your people? You’ve got a delicate cousin, I know, and an aunt and uncle. Anybody else?”

“No, I did want my brother to come; but it couldn’t be arranged. It would have been quite perfect with him. Is this the way? How funny everything is on shipboard! Oh, we are beginning to roll a little! I suppose we are getting into the Channel?”

“Yes, just about. Do you mind?”

“Not a bit. I like it. There is Miss Adene! Who is the lovely lady she is talking to? And, oh, what a darling little boy! Who is he?”

“Oh, that’s our young Rascal! The lady is my sister-in-law, you know. Here, Rascal, come and see this lady! Here’s somebody new to make a fuss of you!”

Sheila was devoted to babies and little children. She was on her knees in a moment, and little Guy had his arms about her, making up his mind in a moment that this was a friend, and laughing and chattering in the most confidential way.

“Oh, isn’t he too perfectly sweet!” cried Sheila in an ecstasy, kissing her hand as the nurse bore him off for his tea; and then she found herself led up and presented to Lady Dumaresq, who was so gentle, and beautiful, and sweet that Sheila fell in love with her at once.

Effie was not present, having been much tired by the railway journey, so that the maid had got her to bed at once. Mr. and Mrs. Cossart came into the saloon for some tea; but sat apart and looked rather forlorn. Miss Adene went and spoke to them, but they did not seem happy, and very soon went away again, so that Sheila was thankful to be able to consort with the Dumaresq party, since all the other passengers were strangers.

The vessel certainly pitched a good deal as they got farther out into the Channel. Sheila did not mind it in the least; but she observed that the saloon thinned considerably, and Ronald remarked with a laugh—

“I don’t think there will be many at dinner to-night.”

Sheila presently slipped away to take a peep at Effie, who was dozing in her berth. She did not feel ill, she said, only tired and sleepy. She was interested to hear about Miss Adene and the Dumaresqs. Miss Adene had paid her more than one visit during her illness, and she had grown fond of her, though she had not seen her now for a good while, and she did not correspond with her as Sheila did.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart had gone to bed too, the maid said with a smile. They were both rather sea-sick, but were comfortable now. The maid was an experienced traveller and an excellent sailor. She and Sheila and the stewardess had a little laugh together over the unfortunates who were so speedily bowled over.

“Poor things! It’s a dreadful sort of feeling; but they’ll be better when we’re once through the Bay. We get into smooth water then very often, especially this time of year, and they soon forget their troubles.”

Ronald was right about the dinner. There were very few at table, and the Captain was still on the bridge. He did not generally leave his post there till the perils of the Channel were passed.

Sir Guy came up from his cabin looking thin and frail, but with a sunburnt tint upon his face from the open-air life he had led all the summer. Sheila thought him very handsome and very interesting. He and Lady Dumaresq seemed surrounded by a halo of romance; they were so much attached to each other, and were both so very handsome and attractive. Indeed, Sheila thought that the voyage and the long stay in Madeira with such nice people would be enchanting, and her bright spirits bubbled over in little peals of happy laughter and merry repartee in answer to Ronald’s chaff.

After dinner he took her for a prowl upon the deck. She would have liked to wander up and down a long time; but the air blew chilly, so he took her in to Miss Adene, who was now almost the sole occupant of the drawing-room saloon, weariness or the motion of the boat having driven others below.

“Have you seen May lately?” asked Miss Adene. “And what is the news from Isingford?”

“May has been visiting a good deal this summer, so I only saw her now and then,” answered Sheila; “and as for news, there is not so very much. Perhaps you have heard that Lionel Benson is engaged to my cousin Raby?”

“No; I had not heard that.”

“Yes. I rather think it was the fire that did it, though it wasn’t given out till three months afterwards. I think they are all very pleased, and she will be married soon, for he has plenty of money. He is in the business, you know. It isn’t a very interesting engagement, but Raby seems quite happy. I suppose it’s all right.”

“They are two handsome young people, and know each other well. It ought to turn out happily, I think. And how about Cyril?” asked Miss Adene, with a little quick glance, which Sheila met and answered by a flashing smile.

“Oh, Cyril! Well, he is still idling about at home, talking of the wonders he means to do some day, and they all believe in him as much as ever, I think.”

A little smile curved Miss Adene’s lips.

“Don’t be merciless, little girl. Perhaps he may astonish the world yet!”

“He astonished some of us the day of the fire. Miss Adene, I can speak to you, because you’re not a relation whose feelings have to be spared. But do you believe that when he dashed off like that, fighting his way out and knocking everybody down, he had the least intention of going for help? You know he says he was going for the fire-escape, and people believe it now. Lionel Benson won’t say it’s a lie because of Raby, and though North always looks as grim as grim when the thing is mentioned, he does not contradict. After all, Cyril is his brother. But Oscar and I know that he rushed straight home. Of course, he may have seen somebody and sent a message, but somehow I can’t believe that he was thinking of anything but saving his own precious skin. It makes me so wild with Cyril. What do you think about it? You saw it all.”

“Well, Sheila, perhaps the best way is not to think too much about it. We all have our faults and failings, and we must beware of judging those of other people too harshly. The thing is over and done with now, and we are not set as judges over each other. If Cyril is trying to atone for an error in the past, it would be better to try and excuse it, and not think too harshly of him.”

“I think he’s just as conceited as ever. I don’t think he’s a bit ashamed. Miss Adene, do you know, I rather think he would like to marry May. He is always going over there when she is at home. But he will get a good snubbing if he tries. May would not touch him with a pair of tongs!”

“My dear child!” said Miss Adene, laughing, and then she added, “I had an idea that Cyril was attached to Effie.”

Sheila shrugged up her shoulders.

“I can’t quite make out about that. Sometimes I fancy it is so, and then I don’t know what to think. But Effie has been ill all the summer, and though Cyril used to go and see her pretty often, I could never make out if they cared for one another. Effie’s never been allowed to talk about the fire, so I don’t know if she saw or remembered what Cyril did then. I don’t much believe that Cyril cares for anybody but himself; only May is well born, and Effie is an heiress. It’s those things he thinks about.”

“Sheila, Sheila, don’t be cynical!”

“Well, I’ve heard people say so. Even Ray said something very like that. Ray is sensible; she doesn’t go down flat before the family idol. She is fond of Cyril, but she sees his faults. She and North have really much more in them than Raby and Cyril.”

Sheila enjoyed her little gossip with Miss Adene, and was almost reluctant to go to bed. However, when once there she slept soundly, and only awoke when the stewardess brought her a cup of morning tea.

“It’s pretty rough, miss, but fine and sunny. Not weather as sailors call it, but a capful of wind right in our faces. If you feel like getting up, I’ll bring you hot water; but most of the ladies are lying still, even those that aren’t ill.”

But Sheila was all for getting up, though she staggered about her narrow little cabin, and was glad to sit down as much as she could, for the vessel pitched and lurched a good deal, and her hairpins went flying over the floor, and her clothes swayed and flapped in a comic manner.

But once up and out in the breezy sunshine, all the little dizziness of getting up vanished. Ronald was on deck before her, and welcomed her with a most friendly smile, and little Guy was trotting about, the pet and plaything of the captain, who had found him a ship’s cap, vastly too large for him, which was tied on his head by a broad ribbon.

Sheila was the only lady up at breakfast, and was made much of by the captain and the other passengers. She was full of sparkle and fun, was delighted to be taken to various mysterious portions of the boat where passengers seldom ventured, and spent a perfectly delightful morning, learning a vast deal of nautical lore, and winning the good-will of everybody on board.

She flitted into the cabins where Effie and Miss Adene lay. Effie was quite comfortable, but indisposed for the exertion of getting up in such a rough-and-tumble sea. Miss Adene rose for lunch, but was a little disinclined for talk, and Lady Dumaresq did not appear at all that day.

But soon they passed through the troubled Bay; the water became calm and smiling; one after another the passengers appeared; and Effie would lie on her deck-chair all day, watching the indigo blue of the great Atlantic rollers, which lifted them gently up and let them down, and shone with rainbow tints when the sunlight caught their foam-flecked crests.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart appeared in due course to sit beside their darling and watch how the fresh breeze brought some colour to her face. But Sheila flitted about like a sprite, never still, always intent upon some fresh fancy. Her merry laugh was one of the familiar sounds about the deck, and she seemed always the centre of a group of admirers.

People were kind to Effie, and would come and chat to her; but the mother began to look with rather jealous eyes upon the little court that Sheila always had round her.

“I hope she is not going to be a little flirt,” she said once to her husband. “She is certainly pretty, but I don’t know if I like that way of hers. She attracts more notice than I think quite seemly.” And in her heart she added, “I can’t have my Effie cut out and overshadowed by that little chit!”

(To be continued.)

THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

By F. W. L. SLADEN.

PART II.

A little care will have to be exercised in purchasing the swarm. It should be got from a reliable local bee-keeper—a man on whom you can depend to give you what you want, namely, a healthy, natural, “first”[2] swarm, weighing not less than about three pounds. You should receive the swarm in May, but the middle of June will not be too late in many parts of England, especially if the season is at all backward.

STANDARD FRAME FITTED WITH FOUNDATION.

Everything should be in readiness for the swarm. The hive should be given three or four coats of good light stone-colour paint, and a site must be chosen for it. This should be in a quiet corner of the garden, sheltered from the prevailing winds, and, by preference, shaded from the midday sun; but a dark, damp place under the constant drip of trees should be avoided. Most bee-keepers prefer to have their hives facing south or south-east to catch the early morning sun, but this is not a matter of great importance.

The location having been decided upon and the hive set level in it, the next care will be to furnish the hive.

Each frame must have a sheet of beeswax, called brood foundation, fixed into it, to act as a foundation on which the bees may build their comb. Bees naturally start building their combs from some support above them, continuing the work in a downward direction. The foundation must, therefore, be fixed into the top bar of the frame, which has a saw-cut down the middle on purpose to receive it. Prize the saw-cut wide open, and then insert the edge of the foundation into it. Two or three fine shoemaker’s brads driven through the side of the top bar will make the work secure.

Strips of foundation about two inches wide are generally considered sufficient for fitting into frames, but larger sheets answer better. The illustration shows a full-sized sheet of foundation which is held in the centre of the frame by means of tinned wire embedded in the wax. The sides and bottom of full sheets must be kept clear of the frame.

One or two quilts should be cut out of some warm material just the size to cover the tops of the frames; a three-inch round hole should be made in the centre for the feeder. A small square piece of cloth should also be cut for covering the hole when the feeder is not on. Felt or baize is best for quilts, but pieces of old carpet answer the purpose very well. A quilt of ticking or unbleached calico, similarly cut, should be placed under the other quilts, next the bees, to prevent them from nibbling holes in the soft material.

In preparing the hive for the reception of the swarm, see that the frames are equally spaced by means of the metal ends, so that they hang one and a half inches apart from centre to centre. Do not attempt to hive the swarm until late in the afternoon, say about 4 P.M. and 5 P.M. If the swarm arrives in the middle of the day, place it in a cool place, and see that it has plenty of ventilation.

Do not follow the old-fashioned plan of smearing the inside of the hive with beer and sugar. It is a mistake to suppose that the bees require such mixtures when swarming, or, indeed, at any other time. The only thing they want now is a clean dry hive.

For hiving the swarm, the alighting board will have to be extended by means of a large board, one or two feet wide, called a hiving-board, which may be propped up with bricks so as to be on a slight slant. The whole should be covered with a sheet. Also raise the stock-box up a little in front, so as to enlarge the entrance. The stock-box may be kept in this position by means of two little pebbles.

Though the chances of getting badly stung while hiving a swarm of bees are more or less remote, it will be advisable to wear the bee-veil, if it be only for the purpose of inspiring confidence during the first attempt at bee-work. The smoker also, though seldom necessary on this occasion, may come in useful, and should be at hand, charged with a roll of smouldering brown paper.

BEE-VEIL AND SMOKER.

Now shake a few bees on to the sheet. They will immediately commence running up into the hive. Scarcely any will take to the wing. When this first lot of bees has made a good start, some more may be shaken down on top of them, and this will have the effect of making them all much more eager to press into the hive. A few light puffs of smoke from the smoker may now be useful to dislodge an inert cluster, or to correct the course of a group of bees that may have a mistaken notion as to the direction in which the entrance to the hive lies.

Unless the queen has been caged, she should now be carefully looked for amongst the living moving mass on the sheet. It will be very satisfactory if we can succeed in spotting her, and can see her enter the hive safely amongst her subjects, for should she by any chance be missing, the swarm will be useless. She is considerably longer, though very little stouter, than an ordinary worker-bee, her tail being particularly long and tapering; her wings also are shorter than those of the workers, and there is a reddish appearance about her legs. We must not mistake a drone for the queen. There is only one queen in the swarm, but there may be several thousands of drones. The drone-bee may be known by his broad body, long wings and large eyes, which almost meet on the top of his head. The drone is stingless. The queen, on the contrary, possesses a sting, but she cannot pierce the skin with it, so we may handle her, when necessary, without fear.

DRONE. QUEEN. WORKER.

If the queen is in a cage it will be necessary to liberate her and to let her run into the hive with the workers when the latter have almost all entered the hive.

Next morning the front of the stock-box may be lowered, and we may take a peep into the hive by lifting up a corner of the quilts. All frames not filled with bees may be removed and placed behind the dummy, to be given again to the bees when they require more room, which they will do in a few days.

If the weather keeps fine and warm we shall now see a number of workers flying around the entrance of the hive, and carefully noting the position of their new home. Then off they will go to the fields in search of food in the shape of honey and pollen, to return again before long with their bodies distended with the sweet juice, and their “thighs” laden with the yellow paste.

Meanwhile their comrades at home have not been idle. Clustering inside the hive, they have been busy secreting wax, and have already drawn out some of the foundation into a comb of cells to hold the supplies brought in by the field-workers.

And so the work of construction and storage goes on day after day, harmoniously and rapidly. There are no hitches or quarrelling amongst the twenty thousand or so little workers which constitute the swarm. Each one knows and does her share of the work, with results that are astonishing, as we shall see if we examine the hive at the end of even one short week.

Donning the veil,[3] and armed with the smoker charged, as before, with smouldering brown paper, we send one or two light puffs of smoke into the entrance, which quiets the bees and prepares them for the intended examination. We then remove the roof, taking care not to jar the hive, and, lifting up a corner of the quilts, we send another gentle puff or two of smoke between the frames. We do the same at another corner. After this we make bold to lift out a frame covered with bees, and to our surprise we find that it is filled from top to bottom with a delicate white comb. It is already quite heavy with the honey which glitters in thousands of cells. Here and there a cell contains, instead of honey, a dark mass of pollen-paste called bee-bread.

A more careful inspection of the comb will show that the queen-bee too has done her share of work, not by helping to gather honey or to build combs, but by laying eggs which will hatch into grubs (larvæ), and these, by careful feeding and nursing, will eventually become worker-bees, to take the place of the present workers when they die. Near the centre of the comb is a broad circle of cells, each of which contains a tiny white egg, almost invisible to the eye, which the queen has deposited there. Within this circle, in the very centre of the comb, we shall probably find that these eggs have given place to plump little larvæ, each one coiled up in the bottom of its cell, and floating in a tiny drop of liquid food which the workers have supplied and keep replenishing. When the larvæ are full grown the mouths of their cells will be covered over by a thin capping of wax, and, hidden away underneath this capping, they will change to the third or pupal stage. The perfect bee gradually develops from this stage, and in three weeks from the time that it was deposited in its cell by the queen-bee as an almost microscopic egg it emerges from it as a full-fledged worker-bee, exactly like the other worker-bees in the hive, and fit in a few days’ time for two months of daily incessant toil. No sooner has the young worker quitted its cell than the cell is cleaned out by one of the other workers, and a fresh egg is deposited in it by the queen. Thus thousands of willing workers are raised from mere specks in the space of three short weeks, and as soon as these shall have completed their marvellous transformations, thousands more will be similarly reared in their place. What wonders the beehive contains! But we are only on the threshold of them.

SECTION THROUGH COMB CONTAINING BROOD (ENLARGED).

This paper will close with a few hints that may now come in useful to the beginner.

In the first place don’t meddle with your bees more than is absolutely necessary. It tends to make them bad-tempered, and if they are once thoroughly roused they may be difficult to manage for months, and become the terrors, not the pets, of their owner. When you have decided that an operation is necessary, have everything ready at hand before you begin, such as frames ready fitted with foundation, the smoker well charged and burning, an extra roll or two of brown paper, matches, etc. If possible, have an assistant to help you, and so avoid trouble and delay at a critical moment.

Though swarms, especially “first” ones, usually come off only in settled fine weather, it sometimes happens that they are unfortunate enough to commence life as a separate colony during a spell of bad weather when they cannot obtain food. In such a case, having no stores to fall back upon, they would starve and die if not fed by the bee-keeper, and syrup must be given to them through the feeder. Syrup suitable for feeding bees at this time of the year may be made by the following recipe:—

Ten pounds of pure cane sugar, seven pints of water, a teaspoonful of vinegar, and a pinch of salt. Keep stirring over a brisk fire, and allow to boil for a few minutes.

(To be continued.)

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART IX.

AN ALL-IMPORTANT SUBJECT.

“To everything there is a season.”—“A time to love.”—Eccles. iii. 1, 8.

I

f I were, this evening, to ask each of you, my dear girl friends, what subject occupies your thoughts most in regard to your future life, I wonder how many of you would even whisper the truth in my ear—if, indeed, you cared to trust me so far. You have trusted me in many things, and your confidences have been very precious to me; but they have caused me sorrow as well as joy: sorrow, since no human being can do more than lay bare the workings of one heart, the spiritual experience of one soul, the sensations, painful or otherwise, of one body, in order to help or advise others. We may all make guesses about our neighbours, but we can be sure of nothing outside ourselves.

Our object to-night is of almost universal interest amongst those who are girls to-day, but who will be the women, wives and mothers of future years. I know that there has been a great revolution in girl life and habits during the last few years. Girls have taken up new occupations, and are the rivals of, and competitors with, the other sex, in nearly every field of study and of work. Many girls live independent of home ties, and some, I hope not a very large number, scout the mention of that sweetest bond of all, which has subsisted ever since God created the first human pair.

Do not for a moment imagine that I, a woman who has lived long enough to note from its very beginning the wonderful educational improvement made by my sex, think lightly of it, or undervalue it. Far from this, I am proud of what girls are doing to-day, and every feminine triumph chronicled gives me a throb of pleasure and a sense of sympathy with the patient, self-denying worker, who has not only deserved success, but won it. I do not, however, sympathise with the minority amongst these intellectually gifted girls and women, who ignore home ties, because they work outside the home circle, and speak of the sacred names of wife and mother as if the duties pertaining to those who hear them were not to be contemplated from the heights to which they have attained. What I feel about feminine progress is this: Every bit of knowledge gained, every step made in manual dexterity, artistic perfection, or even professional skill, should trend towards the development of a nobler being, better equipped for every womanly duty than were the women of preceding generations. Ay, and more ready and willing to do it with all the added charm that refinement and culture can give to what nature bestowed in the first instance.

Since girls and women outnumber men, there will doubtless be a pretty strong contingent, amongst the most scholarly girls, who will not marry.

Experience has already proved this to some extent. But, after all, human nature is stronger than reason, and will assert itself in unexpected ways, to the confusion of every learned argument.

Feminine independence is apt to lose its value, and the right to stand, in every sense, on the same level and platform with the man is soon waived, when the true love of a true heart is offered together with the strong arm to learn on and to give protection in time of need.

Tell me, dear ones, what piece of news, in which you are not personally concerned, stirs you most, and excites the greatest interest? Is it not the tidings of a friend’s engagement?

What confidences are so sacred as those that tell of happy, hopeful love? Think of your girl friend who, with sweet shyness, hid her blushing face on your shoulder, and repeated in a whisper the words lately spoken by that one who had of late become more to her than all the world besides. Did not your own heart thrill with sympathetic gladness as you listened? Were you not proud of her confidence, and did you not feel more honoured by it than by any trust she had reposed in you before?

She had told you of her joys and sorrows, her hopes and fears on other subjects, many a time, and you had listened and sympathised. But all the rest sank into insignificance when compared with the importance of the future now opening before her. Her confidence was mingled with both smiles and tears—happy tears you were sure—and you too were ready to laugh and cry by turns, as you clasped her in your arms, and kissed her, telling her between whiles how truly you rejoiced in her joy.

I can picture you going homeward with the news, so delighted to tell it that your walk breaks into a run in your eagerness, and yet as you go, you perhaps think to yourself, “I wonder if such happiness will come to me also. Shall I some day reciprocate such confidence as my friend has placed in me?”

As you asked yourself the question, did some known face come before your mind’s eye and bring to your cheek a self-conscious flush? Not a flush of shame. Far be it from me to suggest such a thing. You have no need to shrink from owning that you do look forward hopefully to the possibility of being one day the loved and trusted partner of some good man, and, if God so wills it, the mother of his children.

The prospect of being a wife and a mother involves alike the most sacred, vast, and yet delightful responsibilities. How can you be fit to undertake such, if you have given them no serious thought beforehand, or striven to qualify yourself for them?

Having myself known such an ideally happy married life that the very memory of it makes me unspeakably rich now, in the days of my widowhood, how I long to see my experiences repeated in the lives of those who are to be the wives and mothers of the future!

Death robbed me of my partner several years ago, but even death could not take away the riches that memory stored for me during more than thrice that time, nearly thirty blessed years. Having had experience of the things which tend to the building up of such memories, I feel free to speak of them to you, my dear girl friends, to whom the path is yet an untrodden way.

Oh, I do want it to be a happy path to all of you who may enter upon it! Not necessarily all smooth. Such paths are seldom found on earth, and when they are, those who tread them are apt to grow weary even of happy monotony, and to step aside into others, where they find or make difficulties for themselves. Or they remain on the smooth road, but cover it with imaginary stumbling-blocks, which are harder to surmount than real ones.

What I desire for each of you is a road on which you and the dear one who is the accepted alike of your heart, your reason, and your conscience may walk together as “two who are agreed.”

The privilege of choice pertains to the other sex; but only after a limited fashion, seeing that with yourselves rests the power to accept or refuse any number of offers that may be made to you.

If you accept, your answer should have a threefold basis. Honest affection to begin with, for, believe me, without this married life cannot be truly happy. It is a life which calls for much self-devotion, self-denial, patience, and the bending of one’s own will to that of another.

True affection sweetens all these things and makes them easy, and that must be a hard nature indeed which does not respond on receiving such proofs of it.

But reason and conscience should each have a voice in saying “Yes” or “No” to an offer of marriage. They will speak, even when at times the girl is unwilling to listen to either of them.

Conscience will ask, “Is the union with this man one on which a blessing can be asked and expected? I have been brought up by God-fearing parents, whose great desire has been that I should be His child and walk as a disciple of Jesus. On this, the most important subject of all, shall we two be agreed?”

I am not going to suggest all the questions which will be likely to come into the mind of a Christian girl under such circumstances; but I cannot imagine one worthy of the name who would give an answer, affecting the happiness of at least two lives, without earnestly seeking guidance from God by prayer and supplication. If, after this, conscience is satisfied, only reason’s voice has to be heard.

“What, are not affection and conscience enough without help from reason?” you ask.

Well, perhaps I should say common sense should have a third voice in the matter. You and I have eyes to see and ears to hear. However young you may be, you have seen and known something of what are called imprudent marriages.

There may have been true affection and unity in aims, principles, and work. The union, as such, may be one against which no one can say a word, except that it will not be a prudent marriage, and can only bring regrettable consequences.

How a young man is to be honoured if he, for the very love he bears a girl, refrains from giving her the pain of saying “No” when her heart as well as esteem for his character would induce her to say “Yes” at all risks!

Often the girl has to show herself the stronger under such circumstances, and then her task is doubly hard, for she has to battle against her own heart’s pleadings as well as those of her lover.

I do not believe that any girl who shows her courage and self-devotion in such a manner will have cause to regret in the long run. If the man is worthy of her affection, he will love her the better for the motives which have induced her to refuse him. He will have realised the cost to herself, and will determine that it shall not be in vain. Knowing that he cannot give her such a home as would deserve the name, and that marriage on such a slender or uncertain income would mean privation, constant struggling to make ends meet, probably debt as an additional burden, he will resolve to work the harder and possess his soul in patience until brighter days dawn for both of them.

He will say, “What is worth having is worth both working and waiting for,” and he will redouble his efforts to shorten the time of probation. Each will be cheered by the thought, “It was for her sake I kept silent,” or “It was for his sake I said ‘No,’ not my own.”

I have often been consulted by girls who, having seen my own happy married life, have decided that I must be an authority on things pertaining thereto. But, alas, it has also often happened that the applicant for advice only wished me to confirm her own foolish decision.

One case recurs to my mind after the lapse of many years. The fiancée, orphaned as an infant, had been brought up, educated, and cared for by relatives. She was a good pianist, and had early found a groove in which to earn a livelihood, always having in addition the certainty of a home with those who had brought her up, should she need it.

Past her first girlhood, at twenty-nine she engaged herself to a young man eight years her junior, inferior to herself in social position, education, speech, and manner, and with a weekly income of twenty-five shillings, no other money, and relatives who rather needed help than were likely to give it.

She came to ask if I would smooth matters with the relatives, who were grieved and indignant at her folly in thinking of such a union. A little questioning elicited the facts that her savings were to furnish the cottage, pay the wedding expenses, including the bridegroom’s new suit, and that rent alone would absorb six out of the weekly twenty-five shillings. She could not retain her position after marriage, but she hoped to earn something by giving music lessons.

Need I tell you what eloquence I wasted on this wilful young woman, who was old enough to know better, but too old and obstinate to be convinced against her will. I brought figures to bear, put the cost of the barest necessaries opposite to that nineteen shillings of weekly income after payment of rent. But it was all useless. She did not want to be convicted of rashness and folly, but to induce others to agree to them.

You have doubtless foreseen the result whilst listening to the prelude. The marriage took place. The wife’s money was all absorbed at the start, and debts began to be incurred almost immediately. The man was not of the sort likely to win a better position, and the woman, gently nurtured, found in him a hard, selfish domestic tyrant, who made her life of toil doubly bitter by his coarseness and the harshness of his conduct towards the children. Friends had said they would not help; but pity and the old affection for the woman whose childhood they had watched over conquered indignation, and much was done for her, often by stealth, or she and her little ones would have been no better for it. I will not tell the rest of a sad story; but what I have said gives a picture of results where neither conscience nor reason had a voice in deciding the future of two lives.

Every rank of life furnishes samples of ill-advised marriages. A girl may be attracted by a handsome person, and not pause to find out whether the moral and religious character of the man corresponds with it. She may note his pleasant social qualities and admire them; but it would be well for her to find out whether these are equally notable under the home roof. It is good to know what sort of a son and brother a man is.

If a mother’s face lights with pleasure at the mention of her son, and the thought of what he is to her brings moisture to her eyes, if the girls of the family make a friend of him and regard him as a great factor in the sum that makes up the happiness of home, there will be good reason for believing that, in the dearest of all relationships, he will not be found wanting.

There is an old saying that “A man is known by the company he keeps.” Is it not, then, well for you, who look forward to spending a lifetime in his society, to know something of the associates he chooses for himself now?

I think I hear some of you asking, “Is it not the business of parents and guardians to satisfy themselves about the position, means, character, associates, and so on, of the man who seeks a daughter in marriage?”

Assuredly it is. But all of you are not blessed with parents, or kind, wise guardians in place of them. Some have not even friends who will interest themselves on behalf of girl acquaintances. Some, again, are ready to blame the young and foolish girls who think so lightly of what is of supreme importance. They laugh, or quote old sayings about “Eating rue pie,” “Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” and so on. One has even noted a look of almost pleasurable anticipation on the face of some acquaintance whose advice has been asked, but not followed, as the remark has been made, “She will find out her mistake soon enough when she gets what she never bargained for.”

Perhaps there may be relatives who are not wholly sorry to be rid of responsibility in regard to girls who have not been amenable to advice or rules. Such wash their hands of the whole affair by the warning, “As you make your bed, so you must lie. Do not look to us for help in future.”

So, when a girl reaps the fruits of a hasty or ill-advised marriage, the most she gets from erewhile friends or kinsfolk, is, “You were warned in time. I told you what would happen.”

Parents, guardians, true friends may do their utmost, but, after all, they cannot do everything. A great part of the responsibility must rest on the girl herself, since they may advise and she refuse to listen. They may picture the prospect before her, she may shut her eyes to it. They may bring facts and figures, she will not discuss them, or will insist that her calculations are right and theirs are wrong. They may point out that the burden of care and toil which would follow such a marriage will prove too heavy for her. She makes light of it, because hitherto she has never felt the reality.

Dear ones, I am dealing mainly with warnings, and that side of the question with which reason has mainly to do, in this our first talk on an all-important subject. We shall look at the love and the beautiful—poetic I had almost said—the heavenly side of it by-and-by. Now, I seem to be looking all the time at the mistakes and follies which, in so many cases, have spoiled lives, and made marriage like anything rather than what God meant it to be.

Is there one amongst you to-night who is getting tired of the daily round in a poor home where all the family are, however, rich in affection? You may have grown weary of the makeshifts and contrivances needful to keep up appearances. You hate to have to calculate how far every shilling will go before you spend it. You long to escape from the narrow round of daily life, almost at any cost. Perhaps you have only to say “Yes,” in order to exchange it for comparative ease and luxury, but you hesitate, and why?

Because your heart tells you that affection will have no share in the compact. Conscience whispers that you only know that your suitor’s worldly circumstances are favourable, but as to his character you are almost in ignorance, and have an uncomfortable feeling that you had better not inquire too closely.

Will you give your life into the keeping of one about whom you know almost nothing, and try to silence heart, conscience and reason by saying to yourself, “A fine home, costly garments, money and social position will make up for all else that is lacking.”

God forbid. All that the world has to offer cannot make amends for the absence of true love and the respect and confidence that should give it stability, neither can it stifle the voice of conscience, which says, “I told you the truth, and you would not listen.”

Sometimes girls are impatient of parental control, and to escape from what is only reasonable and right, determine to rule in a home of their own. They use the hackneyed saying that marriage brings affection with it, but too often realise that the parental yoke was light indeed when compared to what they have voluntarily assumed.

I think I see you turning reproachful eyes upon me, and hear you asking, “How is it that you, who have known such wedded happiness, speak as though you looked on marriage as a thing to be avoided?”

Patience, dear ones. I have been drawing word-pictures from life. You have listened patiently; now I ask you to bear my words in mind. Between this and our next Twilight gathering ask yourselves if any of my warnings have come specially home to you, or if you are in danger of wrecking your own young lives and bringing sorrow on those who love you, in any of the ways against which I have lifted up my voice.

(To be continued.)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

An Appreciative Reader.—There are many books of instruction on painting, by the help of which you might make considerable progress. You might try Brushwork, first book, by Miss Yates, published by Philip & Son, 32, Fleet Street, or Brushwork, or Painting without Pencil Outline, by Miss D. Pearce, published by Charles and Dible, 10, Paternoster Square.

Snowdrop.—Many thanks for your interesting letter. We have inserted your request. No, we cannot tell you of anything that will make you grow, except what you seem to enjoy, plenty of fresh air and good food. We are glad your life is so happy, and hope you try to put a little brightness into the lives of others who are not so fortunate. Perhaps your friend is unhappy on account of the troubles of other people. You should have a chat with her on the subject.

Miss McC. (Germany).—We fear your tune, through the mistake of a clerk, has been returned to you without criticism. If so, we are extremely sorry, and will give you our best advice in case you send it again.

A Devonian.—It is impossible to compose correctly without lessons in harmony. The “Kyrie” is rather weak, but the hymn tune is far better, so good that we think it is a great pity for you not to give your attention to the study of the theory of music.

Hêrê.—If the hymn tune enclosed is only your second attempt, we can frankly encourage you to persevere. You resolve your chords wrongly, more especially in the latter part of the tune; but study would amend that fault. We hope you will take lessons in harmony, as we think you have talent.

“Sis.”—There are at least 144 Schools of Art in connection with the Science and Art Department of the Committee of Council on Education, in many of which instruction is given in architecture. You should apply to the Secretary, Science and Art Department, London, S.W. Architecture is an art by itself, and it would be useless for us to attempt to outline the course of instruction needful for an architect.

Ivy Leaves.—1. The specimen of prose composition you enclose is written in a curious way, as though it were intended for poetry. Prose usually flows consecutively on, line after line. You have evidently a love for nature and an eye for the beautiful, but more than this is needed for success in literature. You should read all you can.—2. Mary Queen of Scots was born at Linlithgow in 1542, a few days before the death of her father.

Gladwys.—You give no details of the sort of recitation you require, short or long, pathetic or humorous. “Aunt Tabitha,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes; “The Bishop and the Caterpillar” (Boy’s Own Paper); “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” by Lewis Carroll, are effective. “Over the Hill to the Poor House,” and “Over the Hill from the Poor House” are to be found, with other good recitations, in Alfred Miles’s American Reciter, price 6d. Of course, the volumes of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Longfellow, Whittier, Adelaide Anne Proctor, will provide you with an endless chain of lyrics.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

Tatiana wishes to find a hymn beginning—

“O that I had wings like a dove.”

Another verse is—

“My weary wings, Lord Jesu, mark,

And when Thou thinkest best,

Stretch out Thy arm from out the ark

And take me to my rest.”

She has been told that it is by F. Palgrave, but cannot trace it in his books.

“E. T.” wishes to know who wrote a poem entitled “The Trumpeter’s Betrothed,” and where she can obtain it.

“Doubtful” has answers from “Always in a Hurry,” “Leonore,” Mabel Entwistle, and A. Martin, who refer her for the poem “Somebody’s Mother” to Part I. of the Thousand Best Poems in the World, published by Hutchinson, and to the A 1 Reciter, edited by A. H. Miles. Three kind correspondents, A. M. Isaacs, Edith Rollason, and “Edythe” copy out the poem and send it to us for her.

“Always in a Hurry” asks for a poem in which occurs the line—

“Many a song in heaven was begun on earth with a groan.”

“Bright Star” wishes to know who composed the music to the song “Down our Street,” and where she will be likely to get it.

Can any reader help “Sailor” to a copy (words and music) of a song called “The Sailor’s Grave”? It is not Sir A. Sullivan’s, but an old song popular some thirty years ago. The first line is—

“Our barque was far, far from the land.”

Seaton Devon asks for the author or publisher of a song for children, beginning—

“Please, have you seen my dolly,

The one that I most admire?”

Mabel Entwistle wishes to collect pictorial postcards from various parts of the world, and would gladly pay for the cards and postage if any subscriber, who happens to be going abroad, would send her some. The address is 1, William Street, Darwen, Lancashire.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

We have an interesting letter from an Australian girl, who asks that a French young lady will kindly write direct to her. She has never been out of Australia, and says, “Letters from a French lady would be helpful to me in two ways; they would allow me to know something of home-life in France, and also help me to improve my knowledge of the language of that far-away land.” The address is, Miss F. Evelyn Smith, Medindie, Adelaide, South Australia.

We have a letter for “Miss Inquisitive” from Ruby Parsons, “Beemery,” Seymour Road, Elsternwick, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. If “Miss Inquisitive” will send us her address, we will for once infringe our rule and forward the letter to her.

Poppy wishes to correspond with a young French lady of good family, aged from eighteen to twenty-six, each to write once a month, and to correct and send back the other’s letters. Will some French lady of good family volunteer her name and address?

Miss E. G. Cole, 113, Vyse Street, Birmingham, seventeen years of age, would like to correspond with a young lady in French.

A Constant Reader, Lilian C. Brown wishes to correspond with a French young lady residing in France, age about twenty. The address is, 5, Wilton Mansions, Kelvinside, Glasgow.

Mrs. Joseph Smith, Box 4, Aberfoyle, Ontario, Canada, wishes for a correspondent on the coast of England, Ireland, or Scotland, with whom she could exchange pressed flowers and plants of Canada (natives) for sea-shells, or other sea curiosities. She would also like a correspondent in India, Ceylon, or Zanzibar.

Miss Eva M. Roper, Dunmow, Essex, wishes for a French correspondent, about twenty-two, or older, and suggests that each should write in her own language.

Miss Lizzie van Rees, Reehveve, Hilversum, Holland, wishes to write Dutch or German letters to a lady of her own age (17), who will reply in English or French.

Miss Carrie Germaine should write direct to Miss Dorothea Knight, whose address was given.

Miss E. W. Jefferson, Paris, Ontario, Canada, an Englishwoman of twenty-six, would like to correspond with Mademoiselle Goutard, or any of our correspondents—French, German, or Indian. She hopes to improve her knowledge of French and German, and also to give some help in return.

Miss L. Anning, Charlotte Rains, via Hughenden, N. Queensland, Australia, would like to correspond with “Miss Inquisitive,” or any “real English girl.” Miss Anning lives on a cattle station, and is sixteen years old.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

K. A. (Music Teacher).—We cannot recommend any girl to come over to this country and seek employment as a teacher of music only. The competition in the musical world is so severe that only the best teachers succeed in any degree at all, and those who are not quite remarkably good are obliged merely to teach music as one among many subjects.

Julius Cæsar (Copying, etc.)—There is very little copying to be had since typewriting was introduced, and, in any case, the law stationers, to whom this class of work is usually entrusted, would not care to send it down to the West of England to be done. Plain needlework orders you might very likely obtain from people in your own locality. In our opinion, people who are obliged to live at home and to exercise great economy, cannot do better than work for themselves, that is to say, make their own clothes, do their own cooking and housework, etc. In this way they can at all events save themselves occasions for spending money. But earning for those who live in the heart of the country is much more difficult than for town-dwellers, while on the other hand living is cheaper.

A Well-Wisher of the “G. O. P.” (Emigration to Canada).—See reply to “Unsettled” (No. 1014). For your age you are certainly not receiving very high wages, and the fact suggests that you have no great talent for cooking. Perhaps you might do better in Canada, where the duties would be more varied. But we cannot take the responsibility of advising you to take such a step, as you are by no means badly off where and as you are. You might easily go further and fare worse.

Lorraine (Travelling Companionship).—There is really no demand for travelling companions. If you are fond of travelling, you had possibly better emigrate under the auspices of the British Women’s Emigration Association, Imperial Institute, Kensington, W.; but in this event you must be prepared to do plenty of domestic work. In the meantime, however, you should take a thorough course of training in cookery, etc. You could obtain this by spending some time in the Emigrants’ Training Home, Leaton, Wrockwardine, Wellington, Salop. Perhaps, however, you have a talent for some trade that you could pursue in the Old Country, and in this case it would be better to remain. But you give us no sufficient idea of your aptitudes for us to offer much practical guidance.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Georgiana.—The system which had its origin in Gautama Buddha was founded about 2500 years ago in India, upwards of 500 years before Christ, and Ceylon was the country of its earliest proselytism. Its dogmas represent a form of Atheism, as no God is acknowledged. Buddha represents a man, not a god, although divine adoration is paid to him and his supposed relics.

Miss Pryde.—We have pleasure in again drawing attention to your Home for Governesses, and others in Paris, in the Rue de la Pompe, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, 152.

Bell.—We recommend you to write to Miss Pryde, of whom we have just given a notice. It is probable that she may receive you, and in any case give you renseignements.

Dorothy B.—At any china manufacturer’s where lessons are given, and artists are trained in china-painting, you could obtain any china sets for the purpose. Mortlock’s, for instance; you might write to the manager. They have a shop in Oxford Street, W.

Kathleen.—It is exceedingly ill-bred to have private jokes before a third party. It is a rule that there should be no whispering, nor any side-glances and “nudgings” unexplained to others present. Do not look cross, but inquire what the joke is. It is for you to judge whether it be expedient or agreeable to make a confidant or intimate friend of girls so ill-bred and untrustworthy.

St. Elmo.—We are not surprised that your father considers your writing illegible, as well as inartistic. Why do you drop some letters below the line of the others, the letter “o” especially? There is no such letter as that you substitute for a “y” and a “g,” and your “S” is a capital “E,” etc. You ought to write copies daily, and take pains to form your writing like the copper-plate examples. The song “Casta Diva” is in Bellini’s opera of “Norma.”

Cape Colony.—The person who is to be presented is not the person of the highest rank, nor most advanced age, but the person of the least rank, or the most juvenile. A man (out of courtesy and chivalric feeling) is presented to a woman, and so the friend or lady of the house brings him up to the lady, and says, “Allow me to present (or introduce) Mr. So-and-so,” just as at Court the subject is presented to the sovereign, not the superior to the inferior, in any case. How could you say, “Allow me to present Lord So-and-so,” to a young Lieutenant, for example, or lead up an elderly lady to a young girl, and say, “Let me introduce Lady Mary ——”? We are glad you continue to value our paper.

Pauline.—Perhaps one of your sisters might find hair-dressing suited her. Of course, in one department you would have a good deal of standing; but in the dressing of dummy heads for the windows, and the making-up of false hair you could sit. The work is remunerative when thoroughly acquired. Salaries range from 15s. to 30s. a week. Wig and front-making may be done for shops at home.

Amie.—We do not at a moment’s notice speak with authority on the question you ask; but it is our impression that a woman need only substitute the words “of full age” for the exact statement of her age. In some cases a copy of your baptismal register might be required, and in any case you had better consult the clergyman who is to perform the marriage service.

Heliotrope.—We do not understand why you cannot have the friendship of two schoolfellows as well as of one, or half a dozen. If you like them, and they are attached to you, there is no occasion for you to “throw off” the first you liked. As to “going with” either of them, it is not a case of an engagement nor betrothal. Be kind to each in turns, and say nothing of your preference to the friend you like the least, for your newer favourite. Exercise a little tact, and avoid wounding her.

Marcia.—You should procure a book on architecture. Of the Gothic there are five varieties—the Norman, dating from William I.’s time, 1066-1189; the Transition, from temp. Richard I., 1189; the Early English, from temp. Henry III., 1216; the Decorated, temp. Edward II., 1307; the Perpendicular, temp. Richard II., 1377, until the temp. Henry VIII., 1546. Since then, these several styles have been reproduced; besides which there have been two combinations—the Anglo-Norman and Semi-Norman. Of the Anglo-Saxon period in architecture you have not inquired, nor have we space to add much more. Perhaps the most curious specimens of this style are the tower of Sumpting Church, in Sussex, and that of Barnack, Northants. The Anglo-Norman, which succeeded it, deserves your attention, of which we may cite an example at Castle Rising, Norfolk, the crypt at Westminster Abbey, and many in Warwickshire. There is also the Semi-Norman style, which is beautifully represented in the ruins of Croyland Abbey, Lincolnshire.

Lover of Animals.—The grey parrot or jaco is indigenous to the west coast of Africa, and, as a rule, is a specially good talker. The cockatoo inhabits the Indies, isles of Oceania, and is docile and caressing, but, according to Louis Figuier, it is not a good talker. The very best that we ever saw in this respect, and the most affectionate, was a very large and handsome cockatoo. When purchased at Jamrack’s, it was exceedingly wild and fierce, but it became greatly attached to the lady who bought it, and tame enough to walk at liberty on the table, and quite harmless in company. Of course there are beautiful parrots, which are natives of Australia, that can be trained to talk, and if not teased when young, they do not scream.

L. W.—Chopin was not a Frenchman, though he resided for many years in France, and died in Paris. Many of his mazurkas, nocturnes, and polonaises were founded on Polish National airs, though adapted to the French style. He was a Pole, and born near Warsaw in 1809. But France may claim Gounod, who was a native of Paris, born in 1818, and the French may be proud to own him. His style is considered to resemble that of Meyerbeer.

Enquirer.—The knife is never used excepting to carve a joint, or fowl, or game of any kind, and to eat meat, or bread, or cheese. Fish is helped with a silver “slice” and fork, and by others a small silver knife and fork are used, never a steel one. For pastry, puddings of all descriptions, and vegetables, only a fork, or, if necessary, a spoon may be used in the higher ranks of society.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] “Value and Influence of Works of Fiction.” Prize Essay, Oxford, 1862.

[2] The “first” or “prime” swarm is the first swarm of the season that issues out of the hive; it is headed by the old queen. Second swarms or casts, which come off about eight days after the first swarm has left the hive, are headed by young newly-emerged queens. They are not so valuable as the first swarm.

[3] Best worn with a straw hat. This examination is not necessary.

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 602: no to not—“not believe”.

Page 606: responsibilites to responsibilities—“delightful responsibilities”.]