The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 987, by Various.

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

JERUSALEM.

TOWN LADY AND COUNTRY WOMEN.

Elizabeth and I mounted a camel and took our last schimmel hauer, or airing, in Jaffa the beautiful. As our ungainly steed swung up the road with us on his back, and a peculiarly contemptuous expression on his face, we became objects of much curiosity to the natives, who stopped to gaze and point at us. We were amused to see the women in their excitement stand with unveiled faces unmindful of the men, who equally excited had joined them. Their remarks on our appearance were not exactly complimentary. "Look at the Frangi ladies, how they sit! How funny they look! The Frangis are all mad! See, they smile!" We did not understand Arabic, and our missionary friend was too kind to translate freely, otherwise we might not have smiled.

What a glorious morning it was! The remembrance of it now brings a delicious dreaminess over my senses. It must have been on such a day that Lothair and the radiant Mr. Phœbus journeyed from Jaffa to Jerusalem, when the lovely Euphrosyne "rode through lanes of date-bearing palm-trees, and sniffed with her almond-shaped nostrils the all-pervading fragrance." Sharon, the great maritime plain, once a huge forest, from which it takes its name, lay stretched before us. In the midst of its magnificent orange groves, its flower bedecked meadows, its peaceful cornfields, rose the stately palms, their plumed heads nodding in the faint breeze. Beyond, like an Arabian Nights Geni, the stagnant clouds rested on the peaks of the Judæan hills, while in sharp contrast the restless Mediterranean flashed a thousand brilliant lights. Even the dreaded black rocks at the entrance of the harbour were robbed of their terror by the soft sunshine. We were loath, indeed, to leave so lovely a scene, but we comforted ourselves with the thought of returning again some day.

An hour after midday we had said good-bye to our kind hostesses, and seated in a ramshackle old carriage which threatened to come to pieces at any moment, were driving—save the mark!—in all haste to the railway station. Our road lay through the market, whose odoriferous Asiatic smells are particularly unpleasing to English noses. We thought our driver divined this, for he wasted no time, but with terrific shouts and pistol-like cracks of an enormous whip, scattered to the right and left everything and everybody in the line of route, and brought us up to the station in dashing style but exhausted condition.

We had barely got on to the platform with our luggage when the booking office, as if by magic, was invaded by a howling screaming pack of men trying to force their way through a hastily closed door into the station. The voices of the officials demanding order were drowned by the noise, but the speedy arrival of a couple of stalwart Turkish soldiers armed with formidable-looking whips, which they applied impartially to the heads and shoulders of the unruly mob, soon created a dispersion, and peaceable passengers were allowed to take their tickets. This sudden raid on the railway station was made by a number of unauthorised porters, who had become a grave source of annoyance to travellers. The officials were determined to rid themselves of the nuisance, and the order of "No admittance" was being put into effect that day. The Arab seems incapable of learning obedience{130} through any medium but that of corporal punishment. Whether he can be taught reason by less drastic treatment under a more reasonable form of government has yet to be proved. At present, the only law he condescends to understand is represented in tangible form by a powerful soldier armed with a weapon which he promptly uses, indifferent to life or limb of the offender. This measure, if not pleasing, is at any rate effectual.

The railroads from Jaffa to Jerusalem, and from Beirût to Damascus, are justly considered to be the most valuable innovation from the West. The primary idea of the French Company who work them was, that the thousands of pilgrims who visit the Holy Land every year would use the line as a shorter and less expensive mode of travelling. The original idea has developed, for the demands of commerce require goods trains, and merchants are not slow to avail themselves of these advantages. Besides this, the railways have proved a powerful means of breaking down ancient prejudice and bringing the larger culture and refinement of the West within reach of the more ignorant but intelligent East. We found the train service moderately good, the officials civil, and the route pleasant and full of interest. We travelled for the first few stages in the men's compartment which was large and airy, built like a modern tramcar, with an extra seat extending the whole length of the centre; windows and door were wide open, the former protected by blinds, so it was not to be wondered at that we should prefer this carriage to the narrow stifling compartment reserved for the women. The advent of three ladies excited no comment, for were we not "Frangis"? And "Frangis" did extraordinary things! Our fellow-passengers were nearly all Orientals. Magnificently turbaned and gorgeously dressed Moslem gentlemen sat side by side with dirty, travel-stained pilgrims, and dirtier pedlars from distant lands. Jewish and Armenian merchants held lively discussions about the price of stuffs, while two German colonists discoursed on the approaching visit of Kaiser William. A wretched, miserably clad soldier-boy occupied a corner; he was going to join his regiment, and looked sullen and downcast. I offered him an orange, which he accepted, for the day was hot. I felt sorry for him, poor fellow, for well he knew that a Turkish soldier's life "is not a happy one."

Occasionally stray brown locusts flew in through the door, "flopped" down on the floor and remained stationary, apparently dazed with the unusual sight and sound of the "iron horse" and its long tail.

The arrival of more passengers of the masculine gender at a roadside station demanded that we should vacate our seats and retire to the women's quarter at the other end of the train. We accomplished our exit with as good a grace as possible, reflecting that Eastern customs being the exact reverse of those practised in England, we would show our good breeding by yielding to them—when there was no other alternative. In this instance the change was not for the better. The space was limited, and the air stifling, but the friendly native ladies made room for us and offered us a share of the nuts they were eating, the shells of which plentifully bestrewed the floor. Miss B., our missionary friend, and the ladies exchanged lengthy compliments, inquired minutely into each other's business and commented upon it, as if they were members of the same family. We discovered that these untidy, unshapely-looking females were the wives of the above mentioned resplendent Moslem gentlemen. Like good-tempered children, they seemed absolutely contented with their nuts and dolls—for as such they treated their brown-faced, dark-eyed babies—desiring nothing more in this world than to please their husbands, and to purchase the latest pattern of maudeel—or veil—imported from Beirût.

We had now passed through the Wady es Sura and were speeding rapidly through the Valley of Rephaim, once the way in which the Philistines used to come up in the days of the Judges and David. Great rocks lifted their heads on either side, whose barren wildness suggested the home of the eagle and vulture. The sun was setting, and soon a shrill scream from the engine announced that we were nearing the end of our journey. We had just time to collect our wraps when the train drew up at the little station, and our ears were assailed with loud cries from the porters of "Jerusalem!" Before we had time to think, friendly hands grasped ours, and the kindly voices of Miss K. and Miss C. were bidding us welcome.

How delightful it was to escape the noise and worry of an Oriental railway station! To know that all our luggage would be sought for and looked after by a well-trained servant! To feel that we had no care but to answer the polite inquiries of our friends! A few yards and we were crossing the Bethlehem road on our way to Miss K.'s house, which was perched on the top of the Mount of Evil Counsel. The impressions that short walk left on my mind will never be effaced. Before us, clothed in the magical light of the setting sun, rose the mystical blue wall of the distant Moab Hills, while at their feet the Dead Sea gleamed like a thin line of quicksilver. On our left stood Mount Zion, while beyond, Olivet, "the mount before Jerusalem," crowned with a white church, looked down on the sun-gilt walls of the Temple Area. The hum of the city below, the cry of the shepherd in the Kedron Gorge as he called his flock home, and the sharp quick bark of the dog, sounded indistinct and far away.

I began to realise that we were in Jerusalem, and felt already the magic of its wondrous associations. It seemed almost incredible that we should be calmly gazing upon the very place where the world's Redeemer had "suffered and bled and died," and our thoughts were busy as we passed into Miss K.'s charming home to receive a second welcome. After supper Elizabeth and I slipped out into the garden and stood spell-bound at the lovely scene which met our eyes. The sparkling heavens high above us, the hills round us touched with beauty, while below, the City of our God lay shrouded in silver moonlight, like a babe asleep in the arms of its mother. Involuntarily the words rose to our lips: "As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so is the Lord round about His people."

The next morning we engaged donkeys, and with Miss B. for guide and counsellor rode round the walls of Jerusalem. There was no magical moonlight to soften and glorify the ruin and desolation which met our eye at every stage. Where was the beautiful city and temple which caused the stern Titus to weep because he could not save it? Gone! Buried beneath the seventy feet of rubbish which one day will be cleared away. And could that offensive pool, overshadowed by the public shambles, infested with scavenger-dogs, be "cool Siloam's shady rill"? Yes, and the poor little village above is all that remains of the town of Siloam. Even the olive-trees added to the dreariness of the landscape, for they were stunted and badly nourished. We were now riding up the Mount of Olives, the very road trodden by the Man of Sorrows. Loving thoughts and holy memories gathered round every step of the way till we reached the top and "beheld the city." I cannot do better here than quote from Dr. Macduff's Memories of Olivet. "So far as the Mount itself is concerned, thousands of scenes in our own and other lands are alike grander and more beautiful; there is nothing conspicuous in height; nothing picturesque in form, nothing remarkable in colour. An unconspicuous green swell, with triple top sprinkled with trees, and crowned with a Russian church; this, with a walled town fronting its western slope, studded with a few domes and minarets, at once and for ever took its place in the most sacred shrine of memory as the first view of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives." True, there is nothing really beautiful about Jerusalem, according to our Western ideas. Its situation is fine, but the city itself is ugly and surrounded by "mountains" of rubbish. The Mosque of Omar occupies the Temple area, and Islam has taken up its abode in the place once dedicated to the true worship of Jehovah. But in spite of its present misfortunes, Jerusalem possesses a charm for Jew, Christian and Moslem alike, which no other city in the world can claim. Coming down from the Mount, we rode through Bethany, the home of Martha and Mary. It is a small village, and like many places in Palestine, disappointing to the traveller unless he looks away from the present to the past, and fills in the picture with the vivid colours of sacred and profane history.

It is a mistake to suppose that the East never changes. The march of progress has reached Jerusalem, Western influence is felt within its walls, as the red roofs of the numerous Frangi houses and the glass windows of European shops strongly testify. Residents told us that the Jerusalem of to-day bears little or no resemblance to the Jerusalem of a few years back, except in its natural features.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the chief place of interest in Jerusalem. A visit to its great porch carried us back to the days of chivalry, when the iron shoes of the Crusaders clanged on its stone pavement. Christian knights no longer are required to fight the Turk for the possession of the Holy Sepulchre; instead a strong guard of Turkish soldiers is always on duty to protect the Christians from the violence of each other. Fierce fights, and even bloodshed, are not uncommon among the various sects, Latins, Greeks, Maronites, Copts, Armenians, etc., who have set up their worship in different parts of the sacred edifice. The Holy Sepulchre itself is claimed and held by the Greeks, and every Easter thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the world worship at its shrine. We made our way one day with much difficulty into the narrow cave-like apartment, lighted with huge wax candles, and filled with adoring men and women rapturously kissing the stone slab which covers the supposed tomb, while a Greek priest stood by to receive the offerings of the faithful. We were glad to force our way out, but found some difficulty in doing so, the pressure of the crowd was so great.

This Easter there were five thousand Russians in the city; impassioned-looking men and women, tall, blue-eyed and well favoured, they poured in day after day. We constantly met large parties covered with the dust of travel, each carrying his beloved tea-kettle which he filled at a running brook or neighbouring convent and boiled for his favourite beverage on the semavar, or copper charcoal brazier, which a friendly native would lend. Hundreds of weary miles had they tramped over the hot sand, under the burning sun, deterred by no difficulty, but ever keeping their faces stedfastly set towards Jerusalem. These Russian peasants have one great object in life, for which they save and work with an enthusiasm which never fails: to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, to touch the{131} Holy Sepulchre, to visit the holy shrines, to be baptised in the Jordan, and to return to their fatherland empty in purse but rich in candles, vials of oil, unleavened cakes blessed by the Patriarch, and garments dipped in the Jordan, to be worn only once again—as shrouds.

JERUSALEM AND THE MOUNT OF OLIVES FROM SCOPUS.

We once witnessed a touching sight in the Church of the Sepulchre. Four hundred of these peasants, all middle-aged and very old men and women, were toiling up the steps to the tomb, and with looks of rapt devotion kissing the sacred spots. One aged woman was carried on the back of her son, who tenderly kept her from being hurt. We joined them at their Greek service, and longed to be able to tell them the Gospel story in all its sweet simplicity. Their belief seemed to be a series of superstitions with very little foundation of truth. We were told that each pilgrim left with the Patriarch a gold napoleon (or French pound) as a gift. We often came across these poor peasants, sometimes in the convents where they were resting, at others in their churches, or again in the markets, and at all times found them courteous and gentle.

Space would fail, if I chronicled all our doings, but we were never tired of going into the town and watching the people. Outside the Jaffa gate, huddled together in one undistinguishable mass, were always to be found camels, donkeys, horses, dogs and lepers. The last were terrible objects, thrusting their fingerless hands into the faces of the passers-by, begging for backsheesh, and drawing attention to their frightful infirmity. Poor things, outcasts because of their awful and mysterious disease! Inside the Jaffa gate, the bazaars attracted us. The Armenian and Jewish merchants eagerly drove their bargains with their equally keen customers, who unblushingly offered a third or fourth of the sum first demanded, and seemed to spend a vast amount of time and talk but very little money on their purchases.

Mingling with the leisurely crowd of pedestrians, we noticed several dignified Abyssinians clad in spotless white robes, their commanding stature and intelligent ebony faces giving them a distinguished air which was very remarkable. Before General Gordon freed them they were slaves, now they are the "learned men" among the Moslems, and live within the precincts of the Mosque of Omar.

The markets were thronged by numbers of countrywomen, whose dress excited our admiration, for it was always picturesque and often beautiful, differing entirely from that of the townswomen. It consisted of one straight garment, cut with much simplicity of style and reaching from the neck to the ankles, with wide hanging sleeves, which could be tied back when the wearer was engaged in household work; the material of which these dresses were made was sometimes cotton, but oftener thick native silk, dark blue in colour, striped with red and yellow (the front or vest being exquisitely embroidered by the owner's clever fingers), and secured round the waist by a handsome silk scarf; over this a smart scarlet cloth jacket, with half sleeves and of no particular cut, came to the waist; this also was elaborately worked. The long embroidered veil of stout cotton, capable of holding somewhat heavy purchases, was thrown over the head leaving the face free, while heavy silver and gold coins adorned the neck, arms and forehead. Stockings were disdained, but the feet were sometimes thrust into red Turkish slippers, though more often than not, these impedimenta were dispensed with. A camel's-hair abbaye or cloak was sometimes worn for protection against both extreme heat and cold. The perfect carriage and fine figures of these women, who are guiltless of corsets, might well excite the envy of the fashionable Western lady, as with free and graceful step they walk barefooted for miles, carrying on their well-poised heads heavy water-pots, or baskets filled with market produce and livestock in the shape of cocks and hens. To the casual observer the dresses seem all alike, but a practised eye can discern at once whether this woman comes from Nazareth, or that from Bethlehem, or another from the mountains, by the set of the veil or the colour of the gown.

The townswomen affect hideous modern French fashions from Beirût, and cover their tightly-laced figures with cheap jewellery, never omitting to pin the tiny watch (which seldom keeps time) on their bodices. Coloured stockings of a fearful pattern are worn, with a charming indifference to neatness, and gay little satin slippers with high heels, and rather the worse for wear, are added. For the street the pink or blue silk dress must be covered with the universal outdoor mantle, made on one pattern, but often of rich white or coloured silk, embroidered in silver or gold. In shape it is like a very full double petticoat divided into two equal parts at the waist by a girdle—one half forms a skirt and the other is thrown over the head, making the wearer appear at the back like a huge animated cottage loaf. The maudeel covers the face. Hats are reserved for the heads of foreigners.

S. E. B.

(To be continued.)

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ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

The photographic fever burnt fiercely for the next few weeks. Every spare hour was devoted to the camera, and there was not a person in the house from the Vicar himself to the boy who came in to clean boots and knives who had not been pressed to repeated sittings. There were no more blank plates, but there were some double ones which had been twice exposed, and showed such a kaleidoscope jumble of heads and legs as was as good as any professional puzzle; but, besides these, there were a number of groups where the likenesses were quite recognisable, though scarcely flattering enough to be pleasant to the originals. There was quite a scene in the dining-room on the evening when Oswald came down in triumph and handed round the proofs of the first presentable group, over which he had been busy all the afternoon.

"Oh, oh, oh! I'm an old woman, and I never knew it!" cried Mrs. Asplin, staring in dismay at the haggard-looking female who sat in the middle of the group, with heavy, black shadows on cheeks and temple. The Vicar cast a surreptitious glance in the glass above the sideboard, and tried to straighten his bent shoulders, while Mellicent's cheeks grew scarlet with agitation, and the tears were in her voice, as she cried—

"I look like a p—p—pig! It's not a bit like! A nasty, horrid, fat, puffy pig!"

"I don't care about appearances; but mine is not in the least like," Esther said severely. "I am sure no one could recognise it; I look seventy-eight at the very least."

Robert flicked the paper across the table with a contemptuous "Bah!" and Max laughed in his easy, jolly manner, and said—

"Now I know how I shall look when my brain softens! I'm glad I've seen it; it will be a lesson to me to take things easily, and not overstudy."

"But look at the leaves of the ivy," protested Oswald, in aggrieved self-vindication, "each one quite clear and distinct from the others; it's really an uncommonly good plate. The detail is perfect. Look at that little bunch of flowers at the corner of the bed!" All in vain, however, did he point out the excellences of his work. The victims refused to look at the little bunch of flowers. Each one was occupied with staring at his own portrait; the Asplin family sighing and protesting, and Peggy placidly poking a pin through the eyes of the various sitters, and holding the paper to the light to view the effect. It was a little trying to the feelings of one who had taken immense pains over his work, and had given up a bicycle ride to sit for a whole afternoon in a chilly pantry, dabbling in cold water, and watching over the various processes. Oswald was ruffled, and showed it more plainly than was altogether courteous.

"I'm sorry you're not pleased," he said coldly. "I aim at truthfulness, you see, and that is what you don't get in a professional photograph. It's no good wasting time, simply to get oneself disliked. I'll go in for nature, and leave the portrait business to somebody else. The girls can try! They think they can do everything!"

Peggy looked at Esther, and Esther looked at Peggy. They did not say a word, but a flash of understanding passed from the brown eyes to the grey, which meant that they were on their mettle. They were not going to defend themselves, but henceforth it was a case of die, or produce a good photograph, and so oblige Oswald to alter his tone of scornful incredulity.

For the next week the camera was the one engrossing thought. Every minute that could be spared was devoted to experiments, so that Fräulein complained that lessons were suffering in consequence. The hearts of her pupils were not in their work, she declared; it would be a good thing if a rule could be made that no more photographs were to be taken until the Christmas holidays. She looked very fierce and formidable as she spoke, but soft-hearted Mrs. Asplin put in a plea for forgiveness.

"Ah, well, then, have patience for a few days longer," she begged. "They are just children with a new toy; let them have as much of it as they will at first, and they will tire of their own accord, and settle down to work as well as ever. We can control their actions, but not their thoughts; and I'm afraid if I forbade photography at present, you would find them no more interested in lessons. I fancy there is something especially engrossing on hand this week, and we might as well let them have it out."

Even Mrs. Asplin, however, hardly realised the thoroughness with which the girls were setting to work to achieve their end. They held a committee meeting on Esther's bed, sitting perched together in attitudes of inelegant comfort, with arms encircling their knees, and chins resting on the clasped hands, wherein it was proposed and seconded that Peggy, the artistic, should pose and take the sitters, while Esther, the accurate, should undertake the after processes.

"And what am I to do?" cried Mellicent plaintively, and her elders smiled upon her with patronising encouragement.

"You shall wash up all the trays and glasses, and put them neatly away."

"You shall carry the heavy things, dear, and stand to me for your back hair. I think I could make a really good effect with your back hair." Peggy put her head on one side and stared at the flaxen mane in speculative fashion. "A long muslin gown—a wreath of flowers—a bunch of lilies in your hands! If you weren't so fat, you would do splendiforously for Ophelia. I might manage it perhaps if I took you from the back, with your head turned over your shoulder, so as to show only the profile. Like that! Don't move now, but let me see how you look." She took Mellicent's head between her hands as she spoke, wagged it to and fro, as if it belonged to a marionette, and then gave a frog-like leap to a further corner of the bed to study the effect. "A little more to the right. Chin higher! Look at the ceiling. Yes—es—I can do it. I see how it can be done."

It turned out, indeed, that Peggy had a genius for designing and posing pretty, graceful pictures. With a few yards of muslin and a basket or such odds and ends of rubbish as horrified Esther's tidy soul to behold, she achieved marvels in the way of fancy costumes, and transformed the placid Mellicent into a dozen different characters: Ophelia, crowned with flowers; Marguerite, pulling the petals of a daisy; Hebe, bearing a basket of fruit on her head, and many other fanciful impersonations were improvised and taken before the week was over. She went about the work in her usual eager, engrossed, happy-go-lucky fashion, sticking pins by the dozen into Mellicent's flesh in the ardour of arrangement, and often making a really charming picture, only to spoil it at the last moment by a careless movement, which altered the position of the camera, and so omitted such important details as the head of the sitter, or left her squeezed into one corner of the picture, like a sparrow on the house-top.

Out of a dozen photographs, three, however, were really remarkable successes; as pretty pictures as one could wish to see, and moreover exceedingly good likenesses of the bonnie little subject. Esther's part of the work was performed with her usual conscientious care; and when the last prints were mounted, the partners gazed at them with rapture and pride. They were exhibited at the dinner-table the same evening amid a scene of riotous excitement. The Vicar glowed with pleasure; Mrs. Asplin called out, "Oh, my baby! Bless her heart!" and whisked away two tears of motherly pride. Oswald was silent and subdued; and even Robert said, "Humph—it's not so bad," a concession which turned the girls' heads by its wonderful magnanimity.

Their triumph was almost sweeter than they had expected; but, truth to tell, they had had too much of photography during the last week, and Mrs. Asplin's prophecy came true, inasmuch as it now ceased to become an occupation of absorbing interest, and assumed its rightful place as an amusement to be enjoyed now and then, as opportunity afforded.

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By the beginning of October Peggy had quite settled down in her new home, and had established her right to be Arthur Saville's sister by convulsing the quiet household with her tricks and capers. She was affectionate, obedient, and strictly truthful; her prim little face, grandiose expressions, and merry ways, made her a favourite with everyone in the house, from the Vicar, who loved to converse with her in language even more high-flown than her own, to the old, north-country cook, who confided in the housemaid that she "fair-ly did love that little thing," and manœuvred to have apple charlotte for dinner as often as possible, because the "little thing" had praised her prowess in that direction, and commended the charlotte as a "delicious confection." Mrs. Asplin was specially tender over the girl who had been left in her charge, and in return, Peggy was all that was sweet and affectionate; vowed that she could never do enough to repay such kindness, and immediately fell into a fresh pickle, and half frightened the life out of her companions by her hairbreadth escapes. Her careless, happy-go-lucky ways seemed all the more curious because of the almost Quaker-like neatness of her appearance. Mellicent was often untidy, and even Esther had moments of dishevelment, but Peggy was a dainty little person, whose hair was always smooth, whose dress well brushed and natty. Her artistic sense was too keen to allow of any shortcoming in this respect, but she seemed blessed with a capacity of acting before she thought, which had many disastrous consequences. She was by no means a robust girl, and Mrs. Asplin fussed over her little ailments like an old mother hen with a delicate nursling. One prescription after another was unearthed for her benefit, until the washstand in her room looked like a small chemist's shop. An array of doctor's tinctures, gargles and tonics stood on one side, while on the other were a number of home-made concoctions in disused wine bottles, such as a paregoric cough-mixture, a hair wash, and a cooling draught to be taken the first thing in the morning, which last pretended to be lemonade, but in reality contained a number of medicinal powders. "Take it up tenderly, treat it with care!" was Peggy's motto with respect to this last medicine, for she had discovered that by judicious handling, it was possible to enjoy a really tasty beverage, and to leave the sediment untouched at the bottom of the bottle!

Esther and Mellicent were almost equally well supplied by their anxious mother, but their bottles behaved in a sober, well-regulated fashion, and never took upon themselves to play tricks, while those in Peggy's room seemed infected by the spirit of the owner, and amused themselves with seeing how much mischief they could accomplish. A bottle of ammonia had been provided as a cure for bites of gnats and flies; Peggy flicked a towel more hastily than usual, and down it went, the contents streaming over the wood, and splashing on to the wardrobe near at hand, with the consequence that every sign of polish was removed, and replaced by white unsightly stains. The glass stopper of a smelling-salts bottle became fixed in its socket, and being anointed with oil and placed before the fire to melt, popped out suddenly with a noise as of a cannon shot, aimed accurately for the centre of the mirror, and smashed it into a dozen pieces. The "safety ink-pot," out of which she indited her letters to her mother, came unfastened of its own accord and rolled up and down the clean white toilet cover. This, at least, was the impression left by Peggy's innocent protestations, while the gas and soap seemed equally obstinate, the one refusing to be lowered when she left the room, and the other insisting upon melting itself to pieces in her morning bath.

(To be continued.)

LESSONS FROM NATURE.

By JEAN A. OWEN, Author of "Forest, Field and Fell," etc.

CHAPTER II.

THE INDUSTRIOUS BEAVER.

The part played by some of the different species in the animal world (sic), in the development of our earth and its resources, cannot be over-estimated. In some parts of America, for instance, the persistent industry of beavers in the construction of dams has rendered fertile whole tracts of prairie land that were once arid and barren.

In the Castoridae, together with the squirrels, the beaver family constitute the group termed Sciuromorpha, a group distinguished by its members having a special type of lower jaw structure, and also the same type of skull structure. The powerful incisor teeth of the beaver are admirably suited to the cutting through of small tree stems, of branches and twigs, whilst its flat and scaly tail serves as a rudder to a creature that always makes its home beside or in the midst of water.

The beaver is as much noted for its sagacity, and for what nowadays we call "faculty," as it is prized for its fur. One of the largest of the rodents, its body measures nearly three and a half feet in length, not taking the tail into consideration, which is eleven to twelve inches in length.

An attempt has been made to acclimatise the beaver in England again. That it once bred in our country is proved by the fact that some fossil remains of the animal have been obtained from the crag deposits in Norfolk and Suffolk. These were, however, declared by Professor Owen to have belonged to a much larger species of beaver than is now known. Sir Edmund Loder has a number of the common species established in a little valley stream in his estate, Leonard's Lea, near Horsham, carefully protected, which are said to be thriving, and Lord Bute had a still larger number established in Scotland; but it is not likely that they will ever be at home in our country again. Whilst badgers and others have had so much difficulty in holding their own, it is not likely that the beaver could breed and thrive unmolested. Whilst writing the present article, I have heard from Lord Bute that the last of his beavers died some time ago.

In other parts of Europe it is found now only in small numbers, on the banks of the Danube, the Rhone, and the Weser. In the northern districts of Canada it is very numerous. Its range in America is from the confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi to the banks of the Mackenzie River. At one time the demand for the fur—greatly in vogue in those days for men's hats—was so large that it was feared this clever little creature might become extinct, and the noted furriers of the Hudson Bay Company took measures, in concert with certain Indian tribes, for its protection, whilst still procuring large quantities of its fur.

The most interesting feature in the natural history of the beaver is their amazing skill in the construction of their dams and the dwellings they make for themselves—"lodges," these are called. They are often constructed in small rivers and creeks where the water is apt to be drained off, when the supplies are dried up by winter frost. I spent some time in Colorado near to a part of the Rockies where beavers abounded, and where they were a never-failing source of interest to the young folks in my friend's family. In Montana also they abound in vast numbers. One of its counties is named Beaver Head.

What we—in our ignorance of the inner life of those creatures who have always shared the rich heritage of this world with ourselves—term instinct, has taught the beavers to provide against drought, and to keep up a certain necessary depth of water, by making a dam right across these smaller rivers just at what they know to be a convenient distance from their houses. The manner in which they construct this depends on the locality where they live. If the current is not strong—if there is only a slight motion of the water—the dam is made almost straight; but in proportion as the stream is a rapid one, the dam must be more curved, presenting its convex side towards the current. Where beavers have been allowed to build for a long period undisturbed, their dams become in time, through the persistent industry with which they repair them, a bank so solid that it resists quite a strong on-rush of water or even of ice. Vegetation plants itself on this—willows, birches, and poplar-trees take root. Sometimes so large a thicket is formed that birds build there, and the whole makes a charming colony of happy and busy life. The dams are built in some rivers of trees which are often five or six inches in diameter. These the beaver cuts down with his wonderful sharp incisor teeth.

In lakes and ponds also the beavers have their habitat. They like much the narrow creeks which so often connect the lakes of North America. The currents help them to convey the wood and other materials to their dwellings. A certain depth of water is, of course, necessary for their purpose. Driftwood is utilised by them in building, as well as the green boughs of willows, birches, and poplars. But mud and stones are used also, welded all firmly together, and the different parts of the dam must, of course, be of equal strength. In the same manner, that is, of the same materials, they construct their dwellings, but they are not built with equal care; their construction is rougher than that of the dams. The only thing essential in the work is that they should be made watertight, so that they may have dry sleeping-quarters. Sometimes a house is just big enough for one family, but larger dwellings are also made, such as will house a great number of animals. When this is the case, each family has its own apartment, with a separate door communicating only with the water, never with the home of any other family. The wood is laid crosswise, nearly horizontal, leaving a cavity in the centre. The smaller branches, that project uselessly, are cut off with the teeth, and they are thrown in with the rest to form a good safeguard against any falling in of the mud through the roof.

Once it was believed that the woodwork was first finished, and that then it was plastered, the tail being used as a trowel for this purpose. But this was a popular error. The tail is used as a rudder, and like that of a dog, is a vehicle for emotion. It is flapped even when a beaver has been tamed and domesticated, especially when the creature is startled. They have a very pretty way of carrying mud and stones in their little fore-paws, holding them close up under the throat. The wood naturally is dragged along, held in the teeth. All their work is done in the night-time, a charming sight for a lover of animals, if he can quietly remain concealed near enough for observation on a clear calm night.

A wonderful instinct, so-called, again prompts the beavers to cover their houses each autumn with fresh mud—as late in the season as they can manage it—so that it may freeze hard and keep them secure against their foe, the wolverine, a creature about the size of our common badger, which is much about during the winter. Wolverines are said to do more damage to the fur trade in smaller animals than all the other creatures of prey put together.

Their lodges are kept clean, their inhabitants always plunging into the water instead of polluting their sleeping quarters.

Sir John Richardson states that their main food consists of a large root, something like a cabbage stalk, which grows at the bottom of lakes and rivers, a yellow water-lily in fact—Nuphar{135} luteum. But they eat also the bark of trees—that of the poplar, birch and willow. The latter, however, they cannot procure in winter, when the ice prevents their getting to land, so that roots are then their staple food. In summer the diet is varied by the different kinds of herbage and the berries growing near their haunts. In the part of Colorado I have already referred to, above what is called Hardscrabble Creek, in Fremont County, wild fruits, gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and other berries are in profusion. When the ice breaks up in the spring, the beavers always leave their homes to roam about until the approaching fall of the leaf makes them return; and after laying in their winter stock of wood, they then set to work to repair their homes.

The Indians consider beaver flesh a delicacy, and they prefer to bake it with the skin on, as our gipsies roast the hedgehog. It is a heavy meat, much like pork, hard to digest.

The author already mentioned tamed several of them, and he got them to answer to their names and to follow him about like dogs. They were, he said, very fond of being petted and fondled, creeping into the laps of the Indian women and standing on their hind legs to be caressed. They lived indoors with the women and children during the winter, and if these were absent for any length of time, the beavers quite fretted after them. So domesticated did they become that they particularly enjoyed rice and plum pudding, and, indeed, shared generally the food of the women. The cry of a beaver cub is very like that of an infant.

The American poet, Whittier, says—

"The musk-rat plied its mason's trade,
And tier by tier its mud walls laid."

The musk-rat is a small kind of beaver, and great numbers of the skins are imported into England. It constructs huts like its larger relative but of a simpler style, the openings to them being under the water. There is also an animal nearly as large as a common beaver which was included in the same family, and called a coypu, inhabiting the rivers and streams of South America. Furs of coypu are sold as otter skins.

"Ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee," and from the beaver and its works we can indeed learn what persistent, cheerful industry can accomplish. Our poet, Coleridge, said, "If the idle are described as killing time, the methodical man may be justly said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience." Perhaps the latter part of this sentence may seem obscure to some of you, my readers. To kill time means evidently to lose all count of it, to be "unmindful of the fleeting hours." But if the conscience is roused, and we are imbued with a sense of our responsibility with regard to every day, every hour we live, each hour becomes instinct with possibilities, with the opportunity and power of developing the gifts that we have, the talents entrusted to us, not only with a view to self-improvement and personal enrichment, but with an eye on the Master and His work. "Fellow-workers with Christ" in the redemption of this world,—how great a calling!

The beaver's little paws seem so small; yet by pawful after pawful of earth brought by these small animals, who are working in friendly co-operation with their fellows, great dams that can stem an advancing flood are constructed.

I once heard a story of a poor and not over-wise—as the world counts wisdom—Highlander. I think he was a shepherd, he lived where there were only a few huts widely scattered over the bleak hillsides, and no church was within the reach of the inhabitants of these. God's Spirit moved strongly in the lonely heart, and he determined that a place of worship should be built. Every time he came home to his cot, he brought as many stones as he could collect whilst out, and he placed them in a heap not far from his own door. Those who knew him and who passed that way jeered and laughed at what the simple, loving fellow called his church building.

The heap grew, though very slowly; for many years the shepherd's work went on, that work which was called by the neighbours his "folly." But one day a rich stranger travelling by that lonely and unused way noticed the heap and asked what it meant. On hearing its history, his heart was warmed by the flame of love in that of the poor cotter, and he caused a good building—where divine service was soon held weekly—to be placed on the spot, using up in it, let us hope, those stones which were truly its foundation.

I know, myself, a lovely church, not far from Ehrenbreitstein on the Rhine, which was built only from stones brought by loving hands to ground chosen by the village pastor. The building took very many years, but it stands there now complete, a monument of the free-will offerings and labour of poor working folks.

We do not all need to think of building churches, but the stories are typical. We are all either building, or—awful thought—pulling down the good work of others. As the Book says, "Every wise woman buildeth her house, but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands."

Our power to work increases by use. Many of the world's greatest books have been written by busy men. How often, too, one hears it said that if you want anything special done you must ask a busy man or woman to do it. That barren fig-tree to which our Lord directed the attention of His followers is a by-word and a proverb for all ages. Persistent industry it is that meets with the reward. An abiding sense of duty we need.

Yet all of us have our times of depression, of weakness, and days when aspiration and hope seem dead within us. Then let us try to cast ourselves on Him whose joy, "the joy of the Lord," may become our strength. One of our poets says—

"We cannot kindle when we will
The fire that in the heart resides;
The spirit moveth, and is still,
In mystery the soul abides;
Yet tasks in hours of insight willed
May be in hours of gloom fulfilled."

It is these two last lines I would beg you to take to heart.

Huber, the distinguished naturalist of Geneva, who wrote so much and so finely on bees, was blind from the age of seventeen; yet he had a passion for the study of animal and especially of insect life, a study one would suppose quite out of the reach of the blind. He had a good and devoted wife, who never wearied in promoting his well-being and their joint happiness. Through her eyes he studied and succeeded in mastering a department in natural history which needs the clearest and keenest eyesight. And not only did he write a great work, which is still referred to as a masterpiece of its kind, and is still constantly quoted, but what the wife's eyes saw and transferred to his brain became his very own, to dwell upon, to draw deductions from, to gather to himself a fund of personal happiness, to give forth again to the world enriched by his thoughts—his life made a happiness and a blessing to himself and others—all through the unwearying industry and persevering efforts of a loving woman who effaced herself, apparently, for the sake of her husband and his life's work. "Who would lose his life shall find it."

A last word. The sovereign remedy for doubt and perplexity is, "Doe the next thynge."

(To be continued.)

{136}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By "THE LADY DRESSMAKER."

PRINCESS DRESS OF BROWN CLOTH.

The first thing on my list with which I must deal is the recent meeting of the Amateur Swimming Association, at which the vexed question of a regulation dress for the women members was discussed; and there is a good chance that it will be wisely and properly decided, so that there will be a regular uniform dress in future, and all misunderstanding will be avoided. The material to which the lady delegates appear to have given in their adhesion, is stockingette; which they consider superior in every way to serge, flannel, silk, or merino. A model costume made of it, shown by the Birmingham Ladies Club, was so much approved of by the large assembly of ladies present, that it was adopted as a guide, the fullest liberty as to trimmings being given, while only three colours were allowed, viz., navy blue, red, and black. The Birmingham costume had flat facings of Turkey-red twill, but of course it is open to any club to select their own colours. It buttoned on the shoulders, and by means of gussets under the arms a short sleeve was formed. The great recommendation, however, was its cheapness, as it was announced that it could be produced in quantities of not less than one dozen at a fraction over two shillings each, in the various sizes required by the wearers. Of course, where there are so many working women's clubs, this question of cost is a grave consideration. The costume finally recommended was much on this Birmingham model. With the additional advice that "it should reach, at least, to within three inches from the knee," should be cut square at the neck, and button on the shoulder, where it must be not less than three inches in width, and where it must be shaped to the arm beneath, so as to form a short sleeve.

Now that swimming as a pastime has become so popular amongst women and girls, and when it is taught in so many schools, it is only wise to decide on a suitable dress, which can be modified to meet all{137} views, and trimmed to please all wearers, and be attainable to limited purses, and, above all, should be seemly to wear in a mixed assemblage of all ages.

Although we have worn the Eton jacket with more or less decoration for many years, it seems still to hold its own, and is very becoming indeed to many people. The same may be said of the Bolero fronts; both of these are braided and buttoned this autumn, and the braiding is generally in panels, while the buttons most used are of the fancy order. Basqued bodices, with and without belts, three-quarter-length coats, quite tight to the figure, and a coat of the Directoire style, short at the waist in front, with a rounded basque, and long coat-tails; all of these are in fashion, and, so far as I see, though all have basques, they may be long or short, according to individual fancy. The great desire of all women this winter is to present an appearance of height and thinness, and all draperies must be sweeping, and the outlines flowing, to meet with our approval. Flounces and frills are used with much discretion, so that they may not contradict the clinging effect. Skirts are, if possible, tighter than ever, and only show fulness at the feet, while as regards our sleeves, the last vestige of puffiness has deserted them, and not even a tiny pleat is permitted at the shoulder, and the whole appearance is that of the old coat-sleeve, which was originally introduced by the Princess of Wales.

Of course, with this clinging effect, we may naturally go on to say that the Princess dress that was worn by a few people last season will be adopted by many this winter; and the newest ones, if in cloth, have very generally strapped seams; the French Princess gowns having very generally a plastron, which is buttoned up on each side with handsome buttons.

In hats, we find the tre-corne much used in Paris; but this is a style only suitable to the very young, or very pretty, so that the wider-brimmed felts are more generally popular. Many of the felt hats are made in two colours, the underpart being of a different colour to the upper, and very little trimming is used for them. Low-crowned hats of almost a sailor shape have been predicted, and the boat shape is one of the favourite winter models. Quills and wings have taken the place of the long and graceful ostrich feathers, the former being more suitable for winter weather; a large bow and ends, and jewelled buckles, form part of the trimming, and the hat-pins are sumptuously jewelled, and as every lady tries to select those that are most decorative to her hat or bonnet, they have become quite a feature in the head-dress of the day.

I spoke in my last chat on clothes, and dress in general, of the change that has taken place in the dressing of the hair, and that it is worn much lower; in fact, in a coil that lies on the nape of the neck, the rest of the hair is waved in large waves, which lie regularly over the top of the head, and across it from ear to ear, while the front locks are curled over the forehead. The chief difficulty presented by this new departure is in finding a hat or bonnet to go with it; for all the French bonnets are made to go with the high rolled coiffure universally worn on the Continent, but never very becoming to Englishwomen, who have good heads of hair and find a difficulty in producing the tiny knot of hair, which is the essential part of the high hair-dressing. The low knot is shown in our picture of the two figures representing the new winter gowns, and called "A Princess dress of brown cloth." These two gowns show exactly the prevailing styles of the winter.

I daresay you will have already seen, though perhaps not quite realised, the change, that dresses are now worn with bodices of the same material, and the sketch in question displays this alteration in style. The seated figure wears a Princess dress of brown cloth, with revers of cream-coloured satin, one of which overlaps the other so far as to close the gown on the side of the front, and the band of cream satin is continued across the front and terminates in a scroll. The satin has a scroll pattern braided on it with brown silk braid, and the cuffs are decorated in the same manner. To those who contemplate having a Princess gown, I would say, be careful to choose a good tailor or dressmaker, and a firm material of which to make your dress, in order to avoid dissatisfaction with your gown.

The second gown is of green face-cloth. The bodice and sleeves are tucked with small horizontal tucks all over them. The skirt is one of the new ones, and is in three tiers, cut away from the front, and each is edged with a small band of chinchilla fur.

LONG BASQUED COAT AND EMBROIDERED JACKET.

The second sketch shows a sac jacket of smooth blue serge, with a skirt to match. The jacket is beautifully braided and embroidered in black, both in front and on the shoulders. The hat is of blue felt, trimmed with blue velvet and feathers. The second figure wears a long basqued coat with a fur collar, and wide revers in front which taper down to the waist, and end in two tails. The cuffs are turned back in the new shape, and the collar is high and closes in front. The skirt worn is plain, and is cut in the umbrella style. The hat is a small velvet one, with fur trimmings and white or cream lace. The{138} mixture of lace and fur indeed with all our winter trimmings this year is very remarkable, and contributes to the very light effect of all the millinery worn.

CAPE AND MUFF OF CHINCHILLA AND GREEN SILK.

The pretty sketch next in order represents a gown made of one of the new fancy materials trimmed with chinchilla; cape of chinchilla trimmed with green silk and cream lace, and muff to match. The hat is a very charming model, which is called by some milliners a Trelawnley. It droops in front, and is made of black velvet, round the crown a very handsome ostrich plume is laid, and under the brim of the hat is a cache peigne of pink roses. The new capes of this season are, many of them, pointed in front and back; and are often caught in at the waist behind. Violet cloth has been very much used for capes, and this is a colour that goes so well with fur of all kinds that it is likely to be popular. Where jackets are concerned, whether long or short in the basques, the latter must fit very snugly round the hips without fulness, or they will not give the effect of the newest style. Many of the basques are added with a seam just below the waist, and are marvels of careful fitting.

There is rather a strong tendency to use a great quantity of orange in the French millinery; the hue of the moment being of the reddest and most vivid flame colour. The other colours in vogue for the same purpose are green, some shades of red, golden brown, wallflower, and much blue in all shades. For capes and coats putty-colour and fawn are much used, and there is a large amount of white used for trimming.

I must not finish my chat without mentioning the ribbon trimmings which have so largely replaced lace, tulle, and chiffon ruches, especially upon bodices and blouses. Skirts as well as bodices are ornamented with gathered ribbons. The prettiest effect is given by using two ribbons together, a narrow and a wider one. These may be of two different colours, or of black and white, the latter being placed on the top. Plain bands of ribbon edged with black velvet, or with baby ribbon gathered, are also much used; in fact there seems no style of design which cannot be turned to account in this decoration.

{139}

ECONOMY.

By ELIZABETH A. S. DAWES, M.A., D.Lit.

"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
Life's but a means unto an end—that end—
Beginning, mean and end to all things—God."—P. J. Bailey.

The subject "Economy" may strike my readers as being somewhat dry and uninteresting; but I trust that when I have explained to you its meaning and shown to what various things economy can be applied and the good results attendant on its application, you will henceforth regard the word with more liking and comprehension than before.

"Economy" (or "œconomy" as it should be spelt) comes from the Greek word οἰκονομἱα, which signifies literally the "administration of a house or home," and, secondarily, "right management" or "administration" of anything.

When viewed with regard to our life as a complete unity, economy, or right administration, should be zealously practised in three special ways, namely, economy of money, economy of time, and economy of forces or strength, and these last two are touched upon indirectly in the lines chosen for the heading of this address.

Let us begin with economy of money. Many persons, both young and old, learn the sad necessity for this by hard experience, and by such my advice is not required. It is to you, the happy daughters of prosperous parents, that I should like more particularly to say a few words on this subject.

There are so many reasons why we should all practise economy of money, or, in other words, try to administer our money aright. Firstly, it trains us in habits of order and reflection if we try to lay out our money to the best use instead of squandering it on worthless trifles which serve only for the pleasure or amusement of the moment.

Secondly, it sets a good example to those around us and helps to remind them of the fact that money like other talents is given to us to use and not to waste. Thirdly and chiefly, it is to be commended because if anyone, no matter who, nor whether his income be small or large, really administers his money aright, that person will find himself able to put by something each year against the rainy days that may come.

Again, it is not only for one's own use, but for that of others that we should endeavour to keep a reserve-fund. And this applies directly to girls with ample pocket-money. Do begin now at once; buy a little money-box and every week or month drop a certain sum into it and resolve never to open that box except to relieve some urgent and piteous case of distress. For years it might remain unopened, and if you continued to feed it regularly, it would give you infinite pleasure some day to be able to open it and with the contents earn the undying gratitude of a fellow-creature.

If you girls who have now, or will shortly have, an ample allowance per year to dress on, were to pause to consider seriously how many women there are, say in London alone, who have only £40 or £50 a year, and not a penny beyond, to live on, that is, to provide them with a home, food, clothing, firing, and all the other necessaries of life, there is hardly one among you probably who would not resolve to immediately commence administering her money with some care.

Economy of time again is essential towards using one's life to the best advantage. It does not mean a continual bustle and hurry, but doing things at the right time and working and living with some definite end in view—the final end of all ends being, as the motto says, the glory and honour of God in our lives. Again, true economy of time does not imply that each hour in which we have not actually achieved some work with brain or hand is consequently wasted, for it may often be truer economy to spend an hour in quiet talk with a friend or in taking suitable recreation, but it does demand some method in our distribution of time, and protests against the best hours of the day being devoted solely to amusement or to mutually profitless gossip. Milton prettily says—

"Hours have wings, fly up to the author of time and carry news of our usage. All our prayers cannot entreat one of them either to return or slacken his pace. The misspents of every minute are a new record against us in heaven. Sure if we thought thus, we should dismiss them with better reports and not suffer them to fly away empty or laden with dangerous intelligence. How happy is it when they carry up not only the message, but the fruits of good, and stay with the Ancient of Days to speak for us before His glorious throne."

Sir James Y. Simpson, the celebrated surgeon, was very fond of speaking to the students on the duty of saving the moments and letting the minutes look after themselves. But in his estimate, as it should ever be in ours, the quality of the work was the all-important element in life. And of a hard-working thoughtful doctor who died young, he said, "He was older than some of us who are twice his age!"

Kingsley had the same thought in his mind when he wrote those well-known lines—

"Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever
One grand sweet song."

He did not intend to deprecate cleverness and learning, but to point out that our first endeavour should be to be good and live a noble life, and if we could accomplish that, not to fret or be grieved if outstripped in intellectual attainments by others; because whilst "to do lovely things" lies in everybody's power, the higher intellectual acquirements are not within the reach of all. With due arrangement of time it is marvellous how much can be accomplished. You will be surprised to find how many books you can read in a year if you devote one hour a day to them. It is often said that it is the busiest people who can always find time to undertake yet some more work or do a service for others, while idle people never have time for anything, and the truth of this paradox is proved by the vast amount of reading accomplished and the intense interest taken in extraneous matters by our very busiest statesmen, surgeons and clergymen. Try then, all of you, to acquire such habits of regularity and punctuality whilst at school, that they may remain with you afterwards and make it an easy and pleasant task for you to apportion your time to the best advantage, when freed from the rules necessary in scholastic life.

It remains for me to say a few words on the economy of our powers or strength, which must be subdivided into physical and moral. Here the idea of law involved in the word economy plays a most important part, for nature has certain laws which, in our employment of our forces, she will not allow to be transgressed with impunity; if we overtax either our bodily or mental strength, we shall find that this disregard of nature's laws will, sooner or later, bring its inevitable punishment. A word of warning against the folly of taking physical exercise in excess will hardly be out of season just now, when bicycling is so very popular, that one unfortunately hears of many men, women and girls who have made themselves ill by riding too fast or too long distances at a stretch, or who, in other words, have not listened to the warning of Nature, which says, "Do enough, but not too much." It is such a pity ever to convert what is intended to be a beneficent pleasure into an evil through our inability to practise a little self-restraint, and this may arise not only from doing too much, but also from doing it in a reckless and senseless manner. I heard it said recently that, according to computations, there had been more deaths from bicycling accidents in the last year in England than there had been English soldiers killed throughout the present Egyptian campaign, from its very beginning to after the Battle of Omdurman; and when one reads the accounts of these accidents, one finds that nearly every one was caused directly by the rider's recklessness and want of prudence. Too much physical exercise also weakens our mental powers, so intimately are mind and body connected, that that is an additional reason for taking bicycling and all other bodily exercises in moderation, lest we should be too tired to fulfil our other duties. The same warning applies to mental overwork. How many a girl while at school, and more especially at College, ruins her eyesight, if not her constitution, by poring over her books at all hours, even when she ought to be taking the much-needed rest of sleep, or of open-air exercise; and they cannot, or will not, believe that time spent on necessary recreation and change of occupation is time saved, not lost, and will enable them to resume their work or exercise with far more vigour.

Therefore, dear girls, listen to your common sense, and stop immediately when you feel that, either in work or play, you are getting overtired.

Finally, let us consider what these three economies united will effect. Each is good in itself, but happy is he who practises all three with the ever-present thought that God is to be the end of all, for he will be gaining wisdom, which "is better than rubies," and "whoso findeth wisdom findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the Lord." "Wisdom! how inexhaustible a theme! It is the ripest fruit of a well-spent life. Wisdom never grows old, for she is the expression of order itself—that is, of the eternal. Only the wise man draws from life, and from every stage of it, its true savour, because only he feels the beauty, the dignity, and the value of life.... To see all things in God, to make of one's own life a journey towards the ideal, to live with gratitude and devoutness, with gentleness and courage, to add to these the humility which kneels and the charity which gives, is the true wisdom of the children of God."

{140}

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

PART II.

The village architecture of England, though more ancient than that to be found elsewhere in Europe, does not date so far back as the ecclesiastical. There are many reasons why this is the case. The churches and monasteries were erected with great solidity, because, being for religious uses, it was presumed that they would be required for all times, but the more humble domestic dwellings were rather constructed with a view to the wants of those who had to live in them. Then also, the church was subscribed for not only by those who lived in the immediate neighbourhood, but often by the powerful and wealthy, who, though not being connected directly with the locality, were moved by charity and generosity to assist in works of piety.

The cottages in early times were probably of a very humble character, built of "wattle," or osier twigs intertwined like an ordinary basket, and plastered over with mud or clay. In eastern countries, Egypt for instance, the heat of the sun was sufficient to convert this clay or mud into what is called "crude brick," which was very durable, but in England it required constant renewal, and in the course of time the wattle rotted away from damp. In marshy districts the cottages were built of turf or peat, as is still the case in parts of Ireland and Scotland. Upon the borders of Staffordshire and Worcestershire, curious caves are to be found which are in some cases still inhabited, and are probably among the earliest human habitations in this country. Some of the Derbyshire caves also were converted into habitations, and many of the holes burrowed in the cliffs all round our coast were similarly utilised. In after times they became very convenient hiding-places for smugglers and their illicit wares.

It is a singular fact that English school-boys, and we much fear even girls, take a delight in digging caves and crawling into them, and as it requires a good deal of "wholesome correction" to put a stop to this dangerous practice, it may be a question whether there is not some natural or hereditary instinct which prompts children to work so hard at this kind of mischief. Of course, the delightful notion of being a "bold robber," or a "ferocious bandit," adds some zest to these very risky operations.

A friend of ours once discovered his children hard at work at the construction of a cave in his back garden. They proposed to be a terror to the neighbourhood, and he told them all about the shocking things that were done by robbers who lived in caves, how "they rushed from their concealed hiding-places and robbed the unwary traveller," etc. He was met by the remark, "That is exactly what we propose to do, pa." "How they stocked the cave with provisions which they had raided from law-abiding folks." The chorus came as before, "That, papa, is what we intend to do." "At last, my children, they were all captured, the smaller ones well beaten, and the older ones hanged." The chorus was far less jubilant. "Oh, pa, we don't expect that." "Well, my children," said he, "you must receive the rewards for your prowess." He found a few days afterwards that the cave was completely abandoned.

The earliest cottages or village residences in England, if we except such buildings as Winwall and Armenhall in Norfolk, or Combe Pyne in Devonshire, which are simply portions of larger buildings converted into cottages, do not date earlier than the fifteenth century.

AT EWHURST, SURREY.

It is somewhat remarkable that the "home counties" should be richer in village architecture{141} than any other part of the country, and it is not a little singular that many of the best examples are to be found within a radius of some thirty miles of the metropolis.

AT EWHURST, SURREY.

The beautiful little village of Ewhurst, in Surrey, contains charming examples, some dating as early as the sixteenth century. Ewhurst is now fairly well known to Londoners who take an interest in beautiful scenery and picturesque architecture, but thirty years back was as much a terra incognita as Dettelbach in Bavaria, where the inn-keeper told the writer that he had never seen an Englishman before, and was very much astonished to find that he did not after all "differ so very much in appearance from a German."

The two cottages which we have sketched at Ewhurst are very characteristic examples constructed in what is called "post and pan work." That is to say, the walls consist of a framework of timber called "post," which is subdivided into panels called "pan." These "pans," or panels, are filled in with brick-work. In the first example the brick is laid in herring-bone pattern, but in the second example the whole of the upper storey is covered with scalloped tiles, a treatment almost peculiar to Surrey and Sussex. On the ground floor storey the brick-work between the timbers is plastered over.

The first cottage, which is of sixteenth century architecture, has a very prettily arranged external staircase, protected by the sloping eaves of the roof.

The second cottage, which is seventeenth century work, has an unbroken and uninterrupted roof from end to end, which is the usual treatment, for it must be pointed out that the genuine old English cottage does not "break out all over" in ornamental gables, dormers, spirelets, finials, and spikes; even when most picturesque, it is remarkably sober and simple in outline and is as far as possible removed from the modern "Bijou cottage," or "Cottage Ornée," a class of building which is to architecture what "that pride which apes humility" is to virtue. The genuine cottage is the residence of the humble hard-working peasant, and its picturesque charm springs from its appropriateness, simplicity, and absence of fussiness or ostentation.

The first cottage which we illustrate is a superior building to the second, but it has a marked sobriety and simplicity about it which assimilates so well with its humble surroundings.

H. W. Brewer.

"OUR HERO."

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

SOME ACCOUNT OF ENGLAND'S HERO.

An excuse need hardly be offered for giving here a few details as to the past history of General Moore, if only in explanation of Denham Ivor's supreme devotion to the man, and of Jack Keene's more outspoken admiration. Though Moore's name is inscribed in letters of blood upon the deathless roll of our national heroes, not so much is known about him by people in general as ought to be known. Ninety years ago a common mode of referring to him in the country, and still more in the Army, seems to have been simply as "Our Hero." And of this tale John Moore is the real centre.

In those times of perpetual warfare, officers often reached high rank early. In the year 1803 he was still in the prime of manhood, having been born in 1761.

His father, a Scotch physician of eminence, and also a very successful author,[1] must have occupied a different position from that of the average medical man of those days. He was appointed to be the guardian and the travelling companion of the young Duke of Hamilton, and he showed himself well fitted for the trust; while his son from the first shone as a star in whatever circle he might be placed. The doctor's wife was a daughter of Professor Simpson, of Glasgow University. When the doctor started on a lengthy Continental tour with his charge, he took also his eldest son John, then about ten years old, and the absence lasted nearly five years. No small trial this to members of a most affectionate family, but heavy money losses made it impossible for Dr. Moore{142} to give up his charge, even had he wished to do so.

From boyhood John showed a conscientious devotion to duty, and a marked dislike to aught in the shape of fashionable foppery. Although he early learnt self-control, he was as a child very impulsive and hasty-tempered, and addicted to fighting. At the age of eleven he narrowly escaped killing a servant girl through meddling with loaded pistols; and soon after he received his accidental injury from the sword of the Duke, in careless play. Before this wound was healed, he managed to get into a smart quarrel with some French boys in the gardens of the Tuileries. They, being formally powdered, frizzled, and attired like grown men, were disposed to jeer at Jack Moore's boyish simplicity of dress, and Jack proceeded promptly to knock them all down, one upon the top of another. Since he could box, and they had not learnt that noble art, they had no chance against him, and a great outcry was raised. Dr. Moore, hurrying to the spot, picked up the fallen, did his best to comfort them, and severely blamed his son for lack of politeness, which little incident gives one a clue to the perfection of Moore's manners in later life.

By the age of fourteen he was a singularly fascinating young fellow, with a face of manly beauty, a daring temper, and a growing passion for the Army. Already he had become a good linguist, and was an adept at both riding and fencing. About this time when, in the course of their travels, the three went to Vienna, the Emperor of Austria definitely offered to take the brilliant boy into his service, promising rapid promotion. But Moore was even then far too ardent a patriot to serve in any other Army than that of his own country. The idea was never for a moment entertained.

It is curious to find him at this date, a mere lad of fourteen, writing home to his next brother, Graham, in the style of a grown man to one far his junior.

"I am pleased, my dear boy, that you wish to be a sailor, for I am sure you will be a brave one. I hope that in some years after this you and I will thresh the Monsieurs, both by sea and land; but I hope that we won't make war with the Spaniards, for the Spanish ambassador is the best and kindest man I ever saw."

In 1774 Dr. Moore wrote home to his wife:—

"I was happy to find that you do not disapprove of Jack's going into the army. I hope this may turn out well, because he chooses it, has a turn for it, and I believe is of a character to make a good figure as a soldier. He is attentive, active, and brave; he has great good sense, will have many accomplishments, and is the most beautiful and graceful boy imaginable. It is a very disputable case whether the Duke of Hamilton or Jack is the handsomest. Jack does not stoop as the Duke, but will have a good carriage, and though he is so very pretty, he has not the least tendency to be a coxcomb."

And in another letter, two years later, occurs a characteristic description of the boy.

"Jack was as fond as the Duke of returning to Geneva, and he is much too strong for me when the Duke is his second. We were received by our friends with infinite kindness, and have been wonderfully feasted. Jack quitted Geneva a boy, and has returned a man. Though he has been caressed by all the high and mighty of the Republic, and is always invited with the Duke and me, yet if, at the same time, he has an invitation from any of his old acquaintances of a much humbler class, he always prefers the latter. I pressed him one day to go with us, because the people had insisted particularly on his coming. It was to a fine villa, and a most brilliant party. I could not prevail; he silenced me with this sentence: 'They who have invited me are poor; they were kind to me when the others did not think me worth their notice.' Never was a creature less spoiled than your son by all the great people who have caressed him, nor by all the uncommon fine situations [2] he has been in. Though his manner is manly and noble, yet it is simple, and he assumes no airs. He is a charming youth. I wish you had him in your arms."

At the age of fifteen he was made Ensign in the 51st Regiment, though he did not actually join till some months later. Among the many dangers in his career was one in those few months, when paying a visit to Mount Vesuvius. "Jack" ventured perilously near to the crater, and in hurrying away he fell and damaged his knee. A shower of lava and hot stones poured directly afterwards upon the spot he had just quitted. Had Jack Moore's retreat that day been less prompt, another most famous and masterly retreat, followed by a never-to-be-forgotten battle, would not have been inscribed upon the pages of English history.

His great friend, Douglas, Duke of Hamilton, was seized by a passing fit of military enthusiasm, a few months after John Moore had joined the 51st, which in a letter at that date he described as "one of the best regiments in the service; as to officers, I never knew such a number of fine gentlemanly lads. General Murray told me he did not believe there was such a corps of officers in the army; there is no such thing as either drinking or gambling going on." However, in 1777 a fresh regiment was raised for the express purpose that the Duke of Hamilton might have the pleasure of commanding it; and though he soon grew tired of his new vocation, and resigned his commission, he sent first for his friend and made him lieutenant and paymaster. Moore went with the "Hamilton Regiment" to Nova Scotia, and had some hard fighting out there, gaining great credit for personal prowess.

Peace was proclaimed before the close of 1783 between Great Britain and her then four enemies: France and Spain, Holland and the United States. Though Britain in those days had much less than half her present population, she was wont most cheerfully to engage in war with three or four nations at one and the same time, apparently without any serious misgivings as to results.

The "Hamilton Regiment" being disbanded, Captain Moore, then aged only twenty-three, went home to live with his parents in London. He studied hard, and was much in society, being a universal favourite. Through the influence of the Duke of Hamilton, with whom when possible he always spent two autumn months, he was chosen to represent in Parliament four Scottish boroughs, but it was with the express stipulation on his part that he should be in all cases free to follow his own judgment. He never had been, and he never became in the true sense a party-man, but had friends on all sides, friends who held every variety of political opinion. Moore fought for country, not for party.

In 1787 he was appointed Major of a new battalion at Chatham, and he gladly forsook civil for military duties. During the following year he rejoined his first regiment, the 51st, at Cork, and soon became Lieutenant-General. While he was there young Anderson, an Ensign in his regiment, became one of his most devotedly-attached friends, and was ever after his inseparable companion.

By this time he was known as a disciplinarian of unusual power, indulgent when he might safely be so, but inflexible in enforcing strict obedience. In an age when hard drinking was the fashion, he set his face like a flint against habits of intemperance, alike in the ranks and among officers, from most of whom he had steady support. One young lieutenant, who ventured to appear on parade in a state of intoxication, was forced by him to resign the service, and from that time Moore had no further trouble. His regiment became widely known for its exceptional sobriety and dependableness.

In 1792 he was ordered to Malta, and two years later he was fighting with the French in Corsica, the peace having already come to an end. On the 10th of July ended successfully the siege of Calvi, that being the last spot in the island which the French had managed so far to keep. As Moore was gallantly storming the breach he had a severe wound, a fragment of shell striking him on the head. For an instant he was stunned; but regaining sense, he once more sprang up the breach. Sir Charles Stuart, chief-in-command, looking anxiously on, was alarmed at the bursting of shells among the assailants. He rushed forward and dashed over intervening obstacles, to find Moore in the midst of shouting grenadiers, his face streaming with blood. Apparently the great dread of Sir Charles had been that he was killed, for in the excitement of the moment he caught him in his arms, hardly able to utter his thankfulness, not only that the breach was won, but that John Moore still lived.

Two years later a collision between the English viceroy of Corsica, Sir Gilbert Elliot, and Sir Charles Stuart, made the latter resign his command and return to England; and later Moore was sharply ordered home by Elliot, who seems to have been annoyed with the{143} friendship between him and the leading Corsican patriots. Moore, on reaching England, protested with much heat against the way in which he had been treated. He had, however, no need to disquiet himself. The King and the Duke of York took the matter up, promoted him to the rank of Brigadier-General, and sent him out to the West Indies, there to serve under Abercrombie. Both the Duke of York and Pitt had been, from the time of his seat in Parliament, his personal friends. Wherever he went he made friends for life.

While he was in the West Indies, Denham Ivor, then a young subaltern of eighteen, was first thrown under the fascinating influence of Moore, having been for years one of his warmest admirers. As usual, numberless opportunities occurred for the display of personal bravery, in which Moore always shone. On one occasion he had a most narrow escape. At the storming of the all but impregnable fortification of Morne Fortuné in St. Lucia, as he led a desperate charge against the French, shouting till nearly voiceless, "Forward, forward! We have almost gained the heights!" a musket was aimed point-blank at him. One half second more, and Moore's career would have been ended; but a private grenadier, seeing his peril, flung himself between, received the bullet meant for him, and was caught in Moore's arms as he fell dead.

Ivor too had won laurels and promotion in those days of hard fighting. Moore's influence over the younger officers was unrivalled; and many a one besides Ivor could look back, long years after, with the knowledge that John Moore had been the making of him, not only as a soldier, but as a man. Moore shaped the characters of those with whom he had to do.

Somewhat later, when St. Lucia had been wrested from the French, he was appointed Commandant and Governor of the island; no easy post, for the negroes had revolted, in imitation of the recent French Revolution, and they were fearfully cruel and barbarous in their methods of warfare. Abercrombie kept Moore there, long after the latter had, on account of illness, begged to be released from the charge, because he knew of no other man capable of taking his place.

While striving to put down the rebels, or "brigands," as they were called, Moore had a dangerous attack of fever. On his recovery from it and from a severe relapse, he was again hard at work, rising at six in the morning and often undertaking a thirty-miles march in the day, till again laid low with a desperate attack of yellow fever, which all but carried him off. But for the devotion of Anderson and of his own French servant François,[3] he could not possibly have struggled through. Then, with broken health, he was ordered home; and he reached London a mere wreck of his old self.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] His novel, Zeluco, was an inspiration to Byron.

[2] He had been received freely at the Courts of Vienna, Berlin, Hanover, Brunswick, etc.

[3] François was with him to the close of his life.

[4] Winter Sweet is a lovely shrub with a delightful perfume, and is most useful for room decoration as it lasts a long time without fading. Its botanical name is Chimenanthus fragans.

THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.