The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1008, by Various.

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XXX.

A HAZARDOUS RETREAT.

he work intended by that spirited advance was done. Nothing remained for Moore but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.

All the bright expectations, with which he had started on this expedition, were dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met with indifference, vacillation—even opposition—where he ought to have found only warm co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves worthless. Moore’s little Army stood alone in the heart of what was now practically an enemy’s country.

With almost superhuman energy the greatest General of his age had exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the complete annihilation of the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find his stupendous efforts unavailing. For the first time in Napoleon’s career, he was decisively foiled.

Yet the utmost that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from destruction. To that aim he buckled his powers with unfaltering resolution. As Sir William Napier wrote in after years: “The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained; and with a firm heart he accepted that gift.”

By the greater number of Moore’s troops this long ten days’ retreat to the coast had to be done on foot. There were steep mountains to be climbed; there were deep valleys to be passed; there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while a confident Army, far outnumbering them, and accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which twice had failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from all hope of escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon their rear.

It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short; the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often, adding to their difficulties. Shelter was hard to find; provisions were scarce; time for cooking there was not. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore’s earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the food on which it depended, and blocking the roads with carts and mules.

That race between the English and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, made it imperative that not an hour should be lost. At all costs the men had to press onward, putting forth their best speed. Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued—through rain or snow or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found; on and on, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.

In the van and centre of the Army some confusion reigned; but in the reserve, where Moore was always to be found, generally riding beside his friend General Paget, discipline remained perfect, and an impregnable front was offered to the pursuing foe. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander; and his presence, even more than the close presence of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again the French advanced guards were charged and driven back.

Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady disheartening rearwards tramp, with the trained battalions of Napoleon ever “thundering” behind them. He would not forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rear-guard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man who, by sheer force of will, held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.

Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour; and the very hardships of the march seemed to him less hard to bear than those of a certain march which he could recall—from Verdun to Bitche. For then he had been alone; he had felt himself to be treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and affection.

He hated the fact of having to retire, but his trust in the judgment of Moore was complete; and at any time it took a great deal to lower Roy’s buoyant spirits. Moreover, the reserve had too much of actual hard fighting on hand, to admit of their growing downhearted. Any one of them might chance any day to win a smile of commendation from Moore; and that was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for.

Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme delight of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy then that life needed nothing more.

Journalising went to the wall during this retreat. Roy made some efforts to keep it up, but soon gave in. By the time that the day’s duties were done, he was commonly fit only for sleep.

He managed, however, to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him one day that if—if something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other man, it would be wished that he should have written once more to his twin-sister. Whereupon he set to work so soon as ten spare minutes could be found.

“Dec. 30th, 1808.

“My dear Molly,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on, with Despatches from Headquarters, and I w^d fain have one ready. Close upon the end of the year—truly an eventful year to me. Jack and I keep well, I am glad to say. There is much that I c^d tell you, but have not time. An event which took place yesterday, will, however, be of interest.

“We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Lord Paget as usual was to bring up the rear. At nine o’clock the Enemy was seen to be examining a ford near to the bridge which had been blown up, and next thing six hundred of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard came over. By-the-by, at the time of the blowing up of the bridge, Napoleon himself was seen by one of our officers standing over on the other side.

“Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose ’em, and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns; and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all went at the Enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted, they charged back, and broke through again, and so got ’emselves quick out of that scrape.

“Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge, supported by the 10th Hussars. The French broke before ever they c^d get up with ’em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among ’em is Marshal Lefebre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn’t Boney love dukes?—Commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul that!

“No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be expected.{467} General Lefebre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn’t send our Dragoons flying yesterday, though. ’Twas just about the other way.

“And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear. Lefebre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner, and his men being beaten. He counts himself a ruined man, for, says he, ‘Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.’ Sir John was all kindness to the poor chap. Lefebre had a slight wound in the head, and the first thing that Sir John did was, not only to try to comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the wound! Can’t you picture the way it was done? Wasn’t it like Moore?

“Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked to dine at the General’s. So he came in for a scene, which, I should conjecture, has perhaps been scarce matched since the days of the Black Prince. Just before they all took their seats, Sir John turned to the French General, and asked him—was there anything he wanted? And Lefebre said never a word, but looked down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a meaning way.

“In a moment Sir John unbuckled his own sword—’twas a fine Eastern scimitar—and gave it to Lefebre. I wish you could have heard Jack and Captain Napier tell it all—the graceful way in which the thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness and ‘soldier-like sympathy’ on Sir John’s face. Napier tried to describe it to me, and finished off with, ‘It was—perfectly beautiful! But when does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect!’[1]

“Take good care, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond yourselves, and above all, on no account risk that it sh^d find its way into print. For yourselves, ’tis a tale worth remembering of one who is the very Flower of Chivalry in Modern Days. This George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack’s friend, brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and to William Napier of the 43rd—a brave trio.”

The letter begun thus waited unfinished for some days. Roy’s time was occupied otherwise than in penmanship.

Advices by this date received from the coast decided Moore to shape his course, with the bulk of his Army, for Coruña, where he expected to find the British transports waiting.

At Nogales, on the road to Constantino, occurred the one instance of treasure to any large extent having to be abandoned. A sharp action took place between the English rear-guard and the French advance-guard; and the rear-guard coming on found upon the hillside two guns broken down, and two carts heavily laden with casks full of dollars, to the value, it was afterwards said, of twenty-five thousand pounds. The bullocks by which both the carts and the guns had been drawn thus far were utterly exhausted, quite unable to go any farther.

Matters had reached this stage, when Moore rode up, and in a moment he grasped the state of the case. It was a question between sacrificing guns and treasure, or running the risk that his rear-guard should be cut off by the enemy. Moore did not hesitate. He turned to Roy, who happened at that moment to be the nearest junior officer, and said decisively, pointing to the edge of the precipice—

“Take those carts and guns to the brink, and roll them over.”

“Sir, it is money!” exclaimed one present in consternation.

“So are shot and shell,” replied Moore.

Roy promptly carried out the order, and, under the energetic action of his men, both guns and treasure soon went plunging down the depth—out of sight of the French advance-guard, which only five minutes later passed this very spot. They, however, did not know what had just taken place. Moore’s hope, that the money might in the end fall into Spanish instead of into French hands, was fulfilled. Some Spanish peasants found it not long after.

On January 5th, at Constantino, much fighting took place; and in the evening a heavy trouble fell upon Roy.

Jack was missing!

All searching failed to find him; all inquiries brought no result. Among the sick and the wounded Roy went, alone or with Jack’s friend, George Napier, but in vain. On the field, amid the slain, he hunted, torch in hand; and as he turned up face after face of those who had fallen, finding not Jack’s features, a low-breathed “Thank God!” again and again escaped him. The only explanation seemed to be that Jack was surely taken prisoner.

At Lugo the whole Army was halted. The march thither had been severe, through deep mud and pelting rain, with much suffering and fatigue. Collision here again took place between the English and French, and Moore in person led his troops, sending the enemy flying with heavy loss.

Then, during two days, he offered battle to the French; and hardly was his intention known, before the whole British Army presented, as by magic, a changed look. Stragglers came hurrying in, the ranks were filled up, and all were in the highest spirits, eager for a fight.

But though the British were by this time reduced to only nineteen thousand—three thousand having been sent under General Crauford by another route to Vigo, and many having fallen out by the way [2]—yet Soult, with his greatly superior numbers, did not respond. The lack of provisions made it impossible for Moore to delay longer.

While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words to his unfinished letter to Molly.

“Jan. 6th. Near Lugo.

“We had yesterday a sharp brush with the Enemy, after reaching this; and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him, he was well in advance of his Company, waving his sword, and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the Enemy to rout; yet Jack may have fallen into their hands. I with others searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and those who were killed; but, thank God, Jack was not among them. He must therefore, I fear, be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should opportunity offer, until I know as to Jack. I w^d not awake Polly’s fears for naught. He may even yet turn up again unharmed. We rest here for two days.”

Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the ground in a bare little hut, which he occupied while at Lugo. Some slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up, with a spring of hope. Had Jack returned?

A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he had received an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last face that he would have expected to see at that moment—a face pale, tried and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had flinched before life’s battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore’s temperament—having to retire before his Country’s foes.[3]

The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain had followed strain; disappointment had followed disappointment; while still through all his dauntless spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite everything, he was as a rule not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again a shadow of deep though passing sadness would fall upon him, as at this moment.

Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign’s sympathies. Then in a flash dread seized upon Roy. What might this visit portend? Moore could rebuke his subordinates scathingly—crushingly—when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But he had not consciously failed in his duty. Could it, perhaps, mean ill news of Jack?

Sir John glanced round before speaking.

“Not too luxurious quarters, Baron,” he remarked, and his smile lacked its usual brilliance.

“Good enough, sir!” replied Roy,{468} with the prompt cheerfulness which from the first had marked him out in Moore’s eyes. “If only Captain Keene——”

“Ay! You are anxious about Keene.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been able to find out nothing.”

“So Napier informed me. I was passing this way, and I have looked in to tell you. He is prisoner.”

Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To be aware that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much.

“Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him. His leg was wounded and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their lines.”

“Thank you, sir!”—gratefully. “I’m glad to know. It might have been worse.”

“You are writing home, perhaps. Make light of his wounds. I hope he is not in any danger.”

“Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister.”

Moore stood for a few seconds, lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up, he met the concerned gaze of Roy’s frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response, Moore’s hand was laid on Roy’s arm, with one of those quick gestures of overflowing kindness, which went far to enthral the hearts of those about him.

“I hear no report of you but what is good. Keep on as you have begun. You are treading worthily in Ivor’s steps.”

Roy’s power of speech failed him, with something which went far beyond ordinary joy. This—from Moore himself! Despite Jack’s misfortunes, Roy’s world grew instantly radiant.

Moore smiled again at the boy’s look, yet he sighed. There were some in his force, and not young fellows only, of whom he could not have spoken in such terms—some who gave the rein to bitter discontent at having to retreat, and who did not do their utmost to preserve discipline. But they were not in the Reserve.

“We may hear of Keene again before long. Give your letter to Napier, and it shall go with the first despatches that are sent on.”

Then he was gone. Roy, after seeing him off, drew out the latest page of his scribbled journal-notes, that he might write down those priceless words, while they were fresh in his mind. Not that he ever would or ever could forget them. But some day he would show them to his father and mother—to Denham—to Molly.

Having thus turned anew to his journalising, he found time for two more brief entries during days following.

“Jan. 8. Near Lugo.

“Nothing further as to Jack. I fear that for a while I shall see and know no more of him. I wonder much where he may be sent. Both yesterday and to-day General Moore has challenged the French to battle; but they do not accept his challenge.

“Jan. 10. Betanzos.

“We came hither by a night-march from Lugo, thus evading the French, who w^d seem to have been somewhat awed by Sir John’s fearless defiance of ’em at Lugo. For some hours our rear-guard was not Harassed as usual, and the Enemy’s advanced guard did not get up with us till twenty-four hours or more after our start. Since we left our camp-fires burning, they doubtless did not know till dawn that we had given them the slip. It may be too that, after that defiance, they were in no vast hurry to follow.”

On the day following this entry, the 11th of January, Coruña was reached.

As they drew near to the coast, Moore, quitting at last his post with the Reserve, went forward, passing regiment after regiment, and anxiously scanning the distant sea for the transports which he hoped to find in waiting.

But they were not there.

During the greater part of a fortnight he had been incessantly at work, conducting this arduous retreat, bringing his Army through dangers and difficulties innumerable. Perpetual fighting had been the order of the day. Yet not once had the Regiments of the Reserve, either horse or foot, been beaten; not once had the rear-guard quailed.

Some seventy or eighty thousand soldiers, trained veterans of Napoleon, at first under Napoleon himself, and then under two of his most experienced commanders, had striven hard to overtake Moore, to outflank him, to cut off his little force of twenty-three thousand men. But they had been baffled.

More than two hundred and fifty miles of rough country had been traversed, in bleakest winter weather; and the Army reached Coruña, somewhat lessened in numbers, it is true, yet absolutely unbroken. And though baggage had had to be abandoned or destroyed, for lack of means to convey it further, though a few small cannon had had to be left behind for the same reason, not a single British gun had been captured in fight, not a single standard or military trophy of any kind had been taken.

In after years there were men who lightly criticised this retreat, calling it needless, and wondering why Moore had not made a stand, or had not continued his advance.

Small wonder was it that Charles Napier, who in the Reserve had gone through the whole, and who from actual knowledge understood it all, should, in the face of these after-criticisms, break into bitter and passionate words in defence of that beloved Chief, under whose eyes he had fought. And though he was somewhat hard upon the people of England, not only because they had no means of knowing the true state of affairs, but because also it was but a section of them who criticised thus, yet one can well understand what he must have felt.

“Had Moore sacrificed an Army, instead of saving one, he would have been perfect in the eyes of his country. Nothing but his unpardonable humanity, which made him fancy England cared as much for her soldiers as he did, caused him to act as he did act. Had he saved his own life, and contrived to have twenty thousand bayoneted—and I firmly believe he was the only man in our Army who could have saved us—he would have done a job for which England would have made him anything he wished. Alas, for himself, he thought of everything but himself! Fortunately, another Hero has come up. But we want both!”

So wrote Charles Napier, himself one of England’s Heroes.

(To be continued.)

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

A few years ago the culture of the lily received a great impetus from the arrival in England of “the golden-rayed lily of Japan.”

Some bulbs were sent over to us from Japan which were said to be of a very large lily which grows wild upon the Japanese Islands.

Fabulous prices were charged for the bulbs, and of those who had paid through their teeth for these rare bulbs very few obtained any recompense.

The first consignment was a failure, but the gorgeousness of the plant was sufficient inducement to the Japanese growers to send over another batch.

The bulbs rapidly became cheaper, and the lily at once rose to a foremost position amongst garden plants.

The Lilium Auratum, or golden-rayed lily, is perhaps the most popular member of the genus. Its flowers are immense, indeed, it has the largest flowers of all the lilies. Of fine colour, producing many flowers on each stem, of great hardiness and of moderate ease to cultivate, it is not surprising that this lily should have attained its high popularity.

The Lilium Auratum is the most variable of all the lilies. There are eight named varieties. But even these are liable to considerable variation. If you were to plant one hundred bulbs, probably not more than three or four would be absolutely similar.

This extreme variability is very remarkable, when we remember that this lily is a wild{469} flower, but rarely cultivated until recently either in Japan or elsewhere.

Vast numbers of the bulbs of this species are sent over to England from Japan every year, so that the species is by no means difficult to obtain. The bulbs are large, heavy, and if good, they are very compact. They are of a yellowish or purplish colour.

When you buy bulbs of L. Auratum, do not go for the mammoth bulbs. These are very rarely the best, though always the most expensive. Buy small, very heavy bulbs, and purchase them from November to January.

The shoots of L. Auratum begin to show about the middle of March, though this lily, as indeed is every other, is very variable in this respect. The season has a lot to do with it. In a warm rainy year the shoots often appear in February. The time when the bulb was planted and the depth at which it was placed also affect the time at which the lily shows above the soil.

When the shoot has appeared, it grows with great rapidity. We had a specimen in our garden which grew nine feet in twelve weeks! You could almost see it grow!

In connection with the shoots of lilies, there is an important point to notice, which is often overlooked and leads to misconception, unless it is fully appreciated. Lily shoots present extraordinary differences. The shoot of L. Umbellatum or L. Candidum, when it first appears, is like an exceedingly thick head of asparagus. From this many people imagine that if a lily shoot is not thick and solid, it is not going to produce a flower. This opinion is quite wrong. Some lilies, especially L. Speciosum, never start with a thick shoot, but show above ground as a thin lanky growth.

L. Auratum begins as a thin shoot, but it rapidly gains in size and strength if circumstances are favourable.

As in every other particular, L. Auratum is exceedingly variable in the height to which the stem grows. We have had in our garden bulbs from the same source, planted at the same time, in the same soil and position. They have all flowered well, yet some are only thirty inches high, while others tower to the height of nine feet!

The golden-rayed lily does not show its flower-buds until the stem is almost fully grown. The buds are borne on long stalks, each furnished with a single bract. From one to forty buds are produced on each stem.

The leaves of this species are long and linear in the type, but in the variety Platyphyllum they are very broad. There are rarely more than thirty or forty leaves, which are of a deep glossy green.

We have followed the lily to the stage when its buds become apparent. The next chapter in its history is too often one of mishaps. The strain on the plant at this stage must be enormous, and it is no wonder that such a large number of plants die at this time.

The buds develop quickly until they become the size of a large capsicum. Then they change colour, and if the weather is dry, they open in about a week.

Rain at the flowering time is the greatest enemy to this lily.

What a magnificent object is the L. Auratum when in full blossom! How beautiful is the wide open perianth! And what a size! Ten inches across, at the least, and fully a foot when measured from the tips of the petals! How elegantly do the goffered segments curl round at their tips! The brilliant stripe of golden yellow running down each segment, which has given the flower its name, is exceedingly characteristic; and the brownish purple spots, curiously elevated and in places raised into a distinct spine, relieve the pure white of the background.

THE GOLDEN-RAYED LILY.

(From photo by Valentine and Sons, Dundee.)

Proceeding from the centre of the flower are the seven greenish threads which constitute the floral organs. Each is armed with a deep brown extremity, the pistil with a trefoil, and the six stamens with crescents!

Name of Variety.	Shape of leaves.	Shape and colour of ray.			Colour of spots.
Type	Linear	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Reddish brown (numerous)
Virginale	Linear	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Golden yellow (numerous)
Wittei	Linear	{	Golden, ¾ in. wide	}	Spots absent
Pictum	Linear	{	Gold-green, tips red, ¾ in. wide	}	Blood red (numerous)
Rubro-Vittatum	Linear	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Blood red (numerous)
Cruentum	Linear	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Blood red (numerous)
Platyphyllum	Palmate	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Brown (few)
Macranthum	Palmate	{	Golden, ½ in. wide		Golden (few)
Alexandrae (hybrid between L. Auratum and L. Longiflorum)	Linear	Absent			Absent
Parkmanni (hybrid between L. Auratum and L. Speciosum)	Linear	{	Reddish, Indistinct		Red (numerous)

As we have said before, the flowers of L. Auratum are sometimes extremely numerous. We saw one plant last summer (we believe at the Royal Gardens, Kew) of one of the varieties of this species which bore thirty-seven well-developed blossoms.

But it is not the prize specimens of L. Auratum which are the most beautiful. Plants bearing four to six blossoms give the finest effects, for here each flower has room to fully expand, and so the extreme elegance of the blossoms can be appreciated. In plants bearing twenty or thirty blossoms on the other hand, the general effect from a distance is one of extreme luxuriance; but on closer examination the effect is not so striking, for the individual blossoms cannot be perfectly formed, and the result is often bizarre and unsatisfactory.

L. Auratum has an extremely strong scent, which though pleasant in the garden is far too overpowering in a room.

In no lily does one meet with such great variety as in this species. The blossoms are exceedingly variable; but there are some varieties which are sufficiently marked and constant to have gained special names.

There are eight named varieties of L. Auratum, and the difference between them is so striking that a person without previous knowledge would take them for separate species.

We append in tabular form the chief differences between these eight varieties.

All these varieties are fine, and are all worth growing; but some are expensive, and some are very difficult to cultivate.

Of all the varieties we prefer that known as Platyphyllum. Its fine large foliage, immense and gorgeous blossoms, and its hardy constitution, make this lily the most desirable of all. Indeed, we would put a well-grown sample of L. Auratum Platyphyllum in its perfection as the most beautiful of all the vegetable productions of our planet.

A few years ago L. Auratum Platyphyllum was a very rare lily; but last year this lily did{470} exceedingly well, and consequently very good bulbs can now be obtained at a cheap rate. All over the country this variety did well last year, and many were the correspondents who wrote in enthusiastic measures to the various papers about this wonderful plant, which not a few of the writers imagined they had discovered.

The variety Wittei is a most beautiful one, but it is difficult to grow, and is moreover rather expensive.

The red varieties of L. Auratum are fine in their way, but are a little crude in colour and not altogether satisfactory.

The cultivation of L. Auratum and its varieties does not present much difficulty. A well-drained peaty soil with plenty of sand suits it well; but the soil must not be too loose. A few lumps of clay may be placed round the plants if the soil is too sandy.

No manure should be placed near the bulbs, but a good dressing of rich old manure may be applied to the plants with advantage as soon as the shoots are a foot high.

If grown in a good soil and looked after carefully, L. Auratum does not degenerate, but increases and improves year after year. Both the type and the varieties are perfectly hardy.

The varieties are not all equally easy to grow. Platyphyllum, Macranthum, and Rubro-Vittatum are as easy, if not easier, to grow than the type. Wittei and Virginale are very difficult to do well with.

The two hybrids mentioned in the table will be described later on.

All the varieties of L. Auratum make excellent pot-plants.

The lily which bears the title of Speciosum, or showy, was formerly the most admired member of the genus. Even at the present day this lily is looked upon by many as being the finest. Personally we cannot concur with this opinion. There is a certain falseness about its blossoms and a hardness in their shape which to our minds places it far below L. Auratum for beauty.

Yet there can be no question that Lilium Speciosum is a very fine plant. It has a tremendous number of points in its favour which must not be overlooked by the flower-grower.

L. Speciosum flowers late in the year, usually at the end of September, a time when showy flowers are not numerous; too late for summer blossoms, but too early for chrysanthemums.

Although this lily is supposed to be tender, it is perfectly hardy in England. The blossoms, which are produced very freely, are not so much injured by rain at their flowering time as are most lilies. Deformity of the flowers is not very common, and the peculiar shape of the blossoms renders any slight deformity which may be present of little consequence.

Another point in favour of this lily is that instead of degenerating, it increases rapidly, blossoms every year, and gives scarcely any trouble.

L. Speciosum is a native of Japan. Both in its native land and elsewhere this lily has been cultivated for years. There is now an immense number of named varieties of this plant; but, unfortunately, there are very many more names than there are distinct varieties.

Probably the variety we call Rubrum is the type of the species.

The bulbs of L. Speciosum are large with loose scales. The flower spike is not often so evident in the bulb as it is with most lilies. The bulbs vary a good deal in colour from white to deep purple; but the colour of the bulb is no criterion as to the colour of the blossoms. In the variety known as Kraetzeri the bulbs are usually yellow.

This lily first sees the light as a thin, lanky shoot. In fact, those who have grown other lilies but not Speciosum would at once pronounce a perfectly healthy shoot of this lily to be “blind.”

When we first grew L. Speciosum, and saw the feeble-looking shoots appear, we felt certain that they would not blossom. But fortunately we were mistaken in this surmise, for they did blossom, and they blossomed well.

The stem of L. Speciosum is thin but very flexible. Indeed, the lily rarely needs a stick, as it bends before the wind. We have never had the stem of one of these lilies broken.

The leaves are broader than is usually the case in this genus. They somewhat resemble the leaves of L. Auratum Platyphyllum.

The flower buds grow out from the main stem, and when they are fully grown they are furnished with very long stalks. This enables us to cut the flowers singly—which is very desirable, for one can take flowers from a single plant for some weeks, removing each as it opens.

The flowers themselves are about five inches across, with the segments very much recurved and the edges beautifully curled. The colour varies from pure white to deep crimson with white edges. A green line, deeply sunk, runs down the centre of each segment, being broad at the attachments and narrowing to a point about half way down. These six green lines give the appearance of a green star, which is highly characteristic. It is most evident in the white varieties, and especially so in the variety called Kraetzeri. The petals which are broadest about their centre are roughened with numerous spines and tubercles. The pollen is brown.

The scent of this lily resembles that of chocolate creams. It is not very powerful in any of the varieties, while some forms are apparently scentless.

The varieties of L. Speciosum may be grouped under the headings of white, rose, red, and purple kinds.

All the white varieties are fine. Lilium Speciosum Album Kraetzeri, notwithstanding its big name, is the smallest of the white forms. But though small, it is extremely delicate in colour and shape. The green star is very conspicuous. It is, however, rather tender and requires a certain amount of care to cultivate properly.

Of the rose varieties, the “Opal” and the “Rose” are undoubtedly the finest. The former is the more beautiful in colour, but the blossoms are rather thin and straggling.

The old Rubrum is the best of the red varieties. It is the most prolific of all the varieties.

The deepest coloured of all is a Japanese variety, Melpomone. This is a very fine big flower. Its colour is blood-crimson, spotted and bordered with white. The exterior of the blossoms is pale pink. Rubro-Cruentum and Purpureum are other fine purple varieties. They differ very slightly from Melpomone.

Some forms of L. Speciosum in which the stem splits into two or three parts are called monstrous or corymbiform varieties. There are white, red, and purple monstrous forms. They are inferior to the ordinary varieties.

But little need be said of the cultivation of L. Speciosum. Where L. Auratum will grow, L. Speciosum will grow; and it will grow in most places where L. Auratum will not grow. It likes a peaty soil with plenty of sand. Water must be given freely during growth.

L. Speciosum makes an excellent pot plant, and is grown by many people in their conservatories. In fact, it shares the honour with Lilium Harrisii of being the only lily commonly grown under glass. As a cut flower it is very useful.

Just a word about cutting lilies. Never cut the stem down near the ground. Always leave about twenty leaves, else the bulb may suffer.

If you are going to bring lilies up to town from the country, cut the buds off just before they open. These stand less risk of damage in moving, and they will open perfectly if placed in water.

Cut lilies are thirsty plants and need a lot of water. They last from one to two weeks if plentifully watered, but die almost immediately when water is withheld. We have before warned you against spoiling your lilies by removing the anthers.

A lovely little lily is Lilium Krameri. The delicate pink of its blossoms, its slender growth, its early flowering, and its fragrance render it worthy of a place in every garden.

Like most of the lilies we have described, L. Krameri hails from Japan. In most particulars it resembles a little L. Auratum, but its flowers are totally different from any other species. They are about four inches across, of a waxy white to deep blush pink colour. The anthers are brown.

This lily flowers in June. It is not easy to do well with. It is rather tender and very susceptible to early frosts. Its cultivation is similar to that of L. Auratum.

Last year there was exhibited in London flowers of a new lily somewhat resembling L. Krameri. It flowered at Kew in June, and we were fortunate enough to flower a specimen in our own garden. This new species has received the name of Lilium Rubellum, and, though it resembles L. Krameri, it is undoubtedly a true species.

The flowers are small (our one was two and a half inches across), the petals have the tissue-paper look like a Cistus instead of the waxy appearance presented by most lilies. The colour is a full rich pink, and the anthers are yellow.

Its cultivation is similar to that of the other Archelirions.

(To be continued.)

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CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

By MARGARET INNES.

CHAPTER VII.

WE MOVE INTO OUR HOME.

t was delightful to feel that we would soon be once more in comfortable quarters, with room for order and cleanliness. The Californian dust is perfectly impossible to deal with in such conditions as the barn afforded, or as would be involved in camping.

While we were still living in our little house in San Miguel, I had seen one or two camping parties returning after an absence of ten days or a fortnight in the mountains, and had wondered, with dismay, what could have happened to the women and men of the party, that they should look as though their persons and clothes had been rolled, and soaked, and stewed in the grey dust. Now I understood only too well. Soon, all the plastering was finished, and we were looking for the painters, who arrived, unfortunately, in the midst of another desert wind.

The head painter was a Norwegian, and though a very good workman, he was absolutely dense about colour. All day, in the midst of that howling hot wind, we struggled with him to get the tones we wanted, he becoming more and more depressed and obstinate, and we more feverish and anxious. The carpenters looked on with amused interest, expecting, so they said afterwards, “that someone would have to be pulled off somebody!” However, before the twilight came down on us, we had evolved some delicate shades that would pass, and were thankful to creep into the barn and rest if we could, knowing that we must be up betimes to-morrow, to see that the Norwegian did not make any mistake.

On Sundays, when the men were free, they generally went off hunting for honey. They were very clever at finding the nests of the wild bees, and were very much in earnest on these expeditions, having fashioned for themselves extraordinary headgear and gauntlets, like armour in a comic opera, as a protection against stings. They made, too, quite an ingenious contrivance for running the clear honey out of the comb, and sold this and the wax for a nice little sum. Liza used to look after them with longing, envious eyes; they were so much more successful than she in their hunting. But then they used dynamite when the nest was behind some great rock, and she with all her savage strength could not remove the stones unaided. But though they were kind, friendly fellows, and almost all men in this wild West are particularly nice to women, they never asked her to join them.

The architect who came out regularly from town, during the building of the house, and closely superintended every detail, was a more welcome comrade to them. He joined them in their expeditions, and lent us too a helping hand.

Our ranchman was absent on some business connected with his land, and we were very much puzzled as to who was to milk the cow; we ourselves had not yet learned, and none of the carpenters could help us, though they would have been very willing. When our friend the architect heard of our difficulty, he at once exclaimed that he would milk the cow. And so he did in the most business-like and thorough manner.

The carpenters were very like boys when working hours were over, and I remember one evening, when the building of the house was almost finished, and they were to return to town in a few days, we were all startled by hearing a terrific report, somewhere quite close at hand. Everyone rushed out into the beautiful starlight to know what disaster had happened, and then we found Mr. Scott gravely remonstrating with the men, who were looking very sheepish. It seems that finding they had quite a store of dynamite over from their bee-hunting, they determined to set it all off together for their own amusement. They had not expected quite so much noise, and were apologetic. Mr. Scott turned to my husband and said with a disgusted air, “Some of them carpenters has more powder than brains!”

The day had come at last, when we were to move into our house. I sent my darkey back to town, and was delighted to see the last of her, even though I had failed to find anyone to replace her. I had, however, the help of a young Englishman, who had left a clerkship in the Corporation offices at Liverpool, and come out to rough it in California, glad of the open air life, and glad too of the change of work, though it happened, as at present, to include such jobs as digging out a rain water cistern, and acting as temporary scullery maid.

However inexperienced he was at this last work, he was willing and pleasant, which was a delightful change from the “gorilla.”

The carpenters helped us to move in the heaviest pieces of furniture, and I think I shall never forget the luxury of that first night when we slept in the house—it was so airy, and fresh, and cool.

We were very busy for many days after, putting all in order, but it was delightful work to us, however tiring, for the house was lovely and comfortable beyond all our expectations, and now that all the old furniture was standing about us, dusted and polished, and almost smiling, it felt so homelike and friendly that we seemed no longer like strangers in a strange land.

Now occurs an opportunity to tell some of our “domestic help” experiences. We feared that our place would be too lonely for a Chinaman; the nearest Celestial within reach was at a ranch some five miles away, and though there was quite an active centre of Chinese life and light at the laundry gentleman’s shanty at the village of El Barco, still that was six miles away, and Chinamen are bad walkers, and few of them can drive. Also, their wages are very high, thirty dollars to thirty-five dollars a month being the lowest; some of them get as much as fifty dollars and sixty dollars a month. So we thought we would try our luck with a woman servant; we could talk our own language to her and lend her books, which would overcome, to some extent, the loneliness of the life for her, and we would only have to pay her twenty to twenty-five dollars a month.

Our first was an American girl; her manners were new to us, but not refreshing. We did not keep her long, for she proved to have something wrong with her heart, and could neither stoop nor carry any slight weight without turning blue in the face. The boys did not take to her. She would saunter into the dining-room when it was time to lay the cloth, and if I were not there, she would take up one of the papers on the table, and either stand very much at her ease reading it, or sit down to it, often at the same time using a toothpick. Or she would slap my sons on the shoulder, saying, “Now then, boys, clear out!”

I was not able to go into town this time, so I telegraphed to my friend at the agency office, a nice helpful Irishman, who always did his best for me.

Though the little village of El Barco has but a scattered population of about two hundred, they have had a telephone into San Miguel for many a year. So I sent a message asking for a servant of some kind at twenty-five dollars a month. In answer, my Irish friend asked, would I be willing to try a nigger, adding that he was not very black! He knew my feelings about the “gorilla.” When I heard further that he was a willing, pleasant-spoken fellow, with a very good character for honesty, I agreed to try him. So he was sent out by the evening train. We became quite fond of him, and though he knew very little about cooking, he was exceedingly quick at learning, and was very capable in other ways, and so obliging that much could be forgiven him. He had great pride in all he learnt, and liked to know the proper orthodox names of the different dishes, though he could never conquer the word rissole, but always called it “free soul!” He had left his wife and family in Tennessee, where he had formerly kept a dairy farm, but his health had failed, and he was threatened with lung trouble; so he came to this sunny climate, and hoped to be able to send for them to join him before very long.

As he could not read or write, I was his secretary, and had often great difficulty in keeping a grave face when reading his home letters. They were a jumble of revival meetings, the arrival of families of young pigs, names of different neighbours who had “got religion,” and advice as to how he was to make the bread for us, finishing up with “howdies” from everyone. It often took me quite a long time to puzzle them out. However we soon began to teach him to write and read, and he was so quick in learning that before he left us he was quite independent of my help in his correspondence. His worst drawback was the colour of his hands, which being a kind of neutral grey brown, never let him know clearly whether they were dirty or clean, and I soon found his finger marks on many treasures. However, such things are trifles in this life, and I should have kept him till this day, I believe, but that, in an evil moment, we again made the experiment of getting a woman servant from the old country.

The woman we had heard of was willing to pay her own passage out, for the sake of the £70 wage which she could never hope to get at home; so we engaged her and let our little nigger go.

(To be continued.)

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THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER IV.

THE STRONG PULL.

hen Lucy Challoner found herself shut into one of those “secret pavilions,” which God erects so often in the heart of life’s storms—quiet resting-places into which neither the tempest which is overpast, nor the after-swells which are to come, can find entrance. The tossed heart is hushed like that of a little child, and looking neither before nor after, is content with the peace and the benediction of the passing hour.

It was cheering to see how the sea-breeze brought healthy tints to Charlie’s pale face, while every hour found him stronger and more fit to throw aside the little physical frailties which hang about one after a great illness.

For the first day of their visit they were content with one little stroll on the pier, and then they sat at their window discovering endless interest in the fact that “Lloyd’s” station was in the house next but one to theirs, so that every ship which hove in sight became voluble in nautical signs. Then their walks grew longer, extending ever further down the shingly shore.

“Now, Lucy,” said Mr. Challoner, “was not I right to come here instead of to any mere invalid resort? Why, it lifts up one’s soul—and one’s body with it—just to look at these Deal boatmen. They’re so ready to give their lives for you if need be, that a kind of exhalation of health comes from them.”

Before they left Deal, Lucy Challoner not only fully approved of her husband’s choice as for himself, but felt convinced that he had made his choice for her too, and with equal wisdom and foresight.

As the days passed on, and Charlie and his little boy made friends with many of the old salts who lounge along the shingle as if life was nothing but the sea view (which seems reflected in their very eyes), Lucy sometimes stayed indoors and occupied herself with details of her husband’s outfit. Her landlady came in and out of the room, generally silent, but cheerful and ready to respond to advances.

“We can see the Goodwin Sands very plainly to-day,” Lucy said once. “What a terrible trap they are.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. May answered. “And if those in the other world know aught about what’s done in this—and why shouldn’t they?—I wonder how those men feel who neglected to keep down those sands, because they wanted to build a big steeple instead of doing their duty? On wild nights here, when we’re almost certain poor souls are going down by the score, I never can help thinking o’ those others. It must be mighty bad for them surely. And yet maybe they didn’t know what they were doing was so bad—or didn’t think! I’d not make them out worse than most of us, and we all need God our Saviour. Maybe God lets ’em receive the poor drowned souls, and comfort ’em and care for ’em.”

“But is it true that the sands became dangerous through neglect?” asked Lucy. “I have heard the story, but I have heard that geology has a different word to say.”

Mrs. May shook her head slightly.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “I’m speaking as if the story be true. And certain it is that men and money have been able to do a good bit to lessen the risks of the Sands as they are, and it is a pity that they did not do it sooner. And maybe they might do a great deal more yet. I wish gentlemen in power would think over such things instead of wanting to spend money on guns to kill poor folks in far-off countries. It’s wonderful what has been left for private folk to do before the others stir. I daresay you’ve never heard of one Powell, of Deal, living nigh two hundred years ago?”

“No,” answered Lucy reflecting, and unable to recall any Powell of popular memory, save Mary, the wilful wife of the poet Milton.

“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. May, with a slight drawing-up of her neat figure. “That Powell of Deal (my mother was of the family, though, of course, generations later), he seemed to be one of the first to think of saving people off the wrecks on the Sands. There were no lifeboats in his time, you know.”

“I know,” Lucy assented. “There were no lifeboats till nearly a hundred years after that, and very few until about seventy years ago.”

“Well, that Powell was Mayor of Deal in those days, and pretty well off for just a shopkeeper in the town—a tailor and outfitter he was. And there came a great storm one November night—it was such a storm as never was. It was the night the Eddystone Lighthouse was destroyed along with the man that built it, and people were killed in their beds, even in grand houses, and the loss of life and property was tremendous. We can guess what it was on the Goodwins, ma’am. There were thirteen men-of-war wrecked, and hundreds of men—more than a thousand—were drowned. Then the people who were watching from the shore saw that some had got on the Goodwins, and there they were sure to be washed away.”

Mrs. May paused and looked at Lucy with emphatic eyes.

“So Powell, he could not bear it, and he ordered out the custom-house boats, and offered a reward of five shillings for every sailor that should be saved. It was not much, for he hadn’t much. They say he went out himself. And two hundred men were saved that otherwise must have been drowned. And he took them all into his care, and fed them and clothed them. And though they were Royal Navy men, he had a deal of bother and loss of time before the Government made up the money he was out of pocket, which he could not afford to lose. He seemed to be the very first to show that it was anybody’s bounden duty to save the drowning. But he’s never been much talked of. The stories of fighting and killing are the stories that are told. He was only a tailor and outfitter, you see, ma’am, and most folks give such but a sneer. But my mother brought all her children up to remember him and to learn from him to look out to see what their hands can do. She used to say people laugh at a tailor as the ninth part of a man; but I say nine good men were rolled into one in my great-great-uncle Powell.”

“Then you have always lived in Deal, I suppose?” asked Lucy, interested in the sudden frankness of the hitherto reserved woman.

“Yes, ma’am; but I’ve been in London,” she said.

“When your husband was living?” Lucy inquired gently.

“No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. May. “I married a Kingsdown man, a pilot. His father’s still living in Kingsdown, old and frail, but he’s saved people’s lives by scores and scores. He has been a great man in the lifeboat.”

“Did your husband ever go out in the boat?” asked Lucy.

“He met his death in it,” said Mrs. May quite calmly. “We hadn’t been married a year, and it was the first time he had ever gone out. It was the Lord’s will that his father should go again and again and do great things and come home safe and sound, and be living at eighty-five. But my Jarvist was knocked over and washed away before he could do anything. But the Lord knew what Jarvist’s will was, and the Lord took it for the deed.”

Mrs. May stood gazing out towards the fateful line on the horizon. Lucy’s eyes were full of tears.

“Oh, Mrs. May,” she said, “how hard it was for you! How could you bear to go on living beside this cruel sea in sight of that terrible place!”

{474}

Mrs. May turned towards her with a wistful smile.

“Ah,” she said, “how many ladies have said that to me! (Not that I tell everyone who comes, for some would not care to hear. There are folks who go out to picnic and dance on the Goodwins!) But look here, dear,” she went on eagerly, her last reserve melted in Lucy’s tears, “we all see houses, and yet somebody has died in every house; we all see our beds, and yet we’ve seen dear ones die on them, and we look to die there ourselves some day. It’s all hard just at first. After a while, the thought of death settles into a bit of life. It’s the Lord’s will that it comes in one way to one and in another to another. But it’s all right if it means going to Him, and all we’ve got to do is to keep on following.”

“And you had your husband such a little time!” cried Lucy, thinking to herself that she and Charlie had already had more than seven years of happy life together.

“Yes,” said Mrs. May; “I was a widow at twenty-five. I’m just fifty now, and my people live long, so likely I’ve got a good bit to go yet. I had my Jarvist just for one year. But I reckon that one year was quite enough to soak through all the rest, back and fore, just as a fine perfume does.

“I took it very hard at first,” she went on. “I took it rebellious. But Jarvist’s father he came to me, and says he, ‘Joan’—and he put his hand on my shoulder, and it had a kind of feeling as if it pulled me up like—‘Joan,’ says he, ‘Jarvist has done his part. Now you’ve got to do yours. You married a sailor, Joan; he’s died at his place, you’ve got to live at yours. Don’t make no fuss about it, lass,’ says he (he speaks old-fashioned and homely), ‘you won’t see Jarvist a day the sooner. You wouldn’t have liked Jarvist to stay at home to please you, would you?’ says he. ‘And if he’d have done such a mean thing, and yet his time were come, then he’d have broke his neck a-trippin’ over a doormat,’ says the old man. ‘I’ll tell you something, Joan. Before Jarvist went out he said to me, “Father, if aught took me, you’d be good to Joan.” We all thinks that to each other,’ father-in-law says, ‘but the young men—specially the new-married—they generally says it once or twice before they feel it’s taken for granted. Said I back to Jarvist, “Joan’s a lass with grit in her, and she’ll be good to herself and to others, too, I reckon.” And that was my promise to Jarvist for you, Joan, and you’ve got to make it good,’ says he. So I’ve tried to do. That’s five-and-twenty years ago, and time is passing on. It’s not so long for any of us after all.”

“I beg pardon for speaking so freely to you, ma’am,” she went on after a short pause, while Lucy’s tears dropped; “but there’s a look in your face that if you’d been a man would have sent you out to the Goodwins. But the women have to do their part at home—keeping ready dry clothes and hot gruel sometimes,” she added with a quiet laugh, “as we did one day this spring, when one poor soul was left wrecked on the Goodwins after all his shipmates were drowned. It was said the lifeboat couldn’t go out; but then our men they couldn’t stay in! Never shall I forget that night at the little mariners’ service where I often go. The gentleman that was praying and reading the Scriptures saw the men’s faces, and he broke short off to say, ‘Can we go? Can we do something?’ Why not? It was all in the service of God. And they went, and they brought off the man safely—a poor Norwegian.”

Lucy had learned to fear contact with strangers since her husband’s illness. Their misjudged “sympathy,” their well-meant comments, had so often been as the rubbing of salt into the ever-open wound of anxiety, and the almost tenderer spot of hope. She had learned the lesson that if the greatest consolation for sorrow is to have beside us one who understands it and shares it, then the next greatest blessing is to be able to bear one’s burden alone, apart from those to whom one’s agony is but a spectacle or a dumping ground for commonplaces.

But she found there was no need to shrink from Mrs. May. When she confided to the landlady the plans that were in preparation, and the long separation which was impending, Mrs. May was full of encouraging hope. She could narrate cases in which the sea, despite its terrible side, had acted as a beneficent healer and life restorer. She could tell, too, of many who had suffered in the same way as Mr. Challoner, and were still alive—elderly people, with long useful years behind them. To Lucy Challoner this sort of cheer was the more acceptable because it came to her surrounded by an atmosphere, and supported by a foundation, in which neither life nor death were held to be the main things—but only “the will of the Lord,” which could make either death or life blessed both to those who were left and to those who were taken.

Very different was the tone of the notes which came from Lucy’s sister Florence. Mrs. Brand wrote a large hand, so that a very few words covered four sides of a sheet of note-paper; also she wrote, as it were, breathlessly, dropping pronouns and punctuation. She was very forcible in bewailing her sister’s departure to Deal—“So sudden—and such a place—and didn’t Charlie feel the journey—and it mightn’t be amiss if it turned him aside from the bigger scheme—couldn’t bear to think of it—poor dear Lucy all alone—well, the child, of course—and if for Charlie’s good, but it seemed a great risk—wasn’t beginning to look for a successor for Pollie yet; no good being in hurry—better not hire anyone till a day or two before wanted—and Lucy not coming back to London till the very night before Charlie sailed for the North—who was Captain Grant?—hoped he was a decent man—master mariners not always up to much; but if Charlie kept pretty well, perhaps he would not mind about trifles. Must get word as soon as they were sure of dates—must get last look of Charlie—and had good many evening engagements on. Poor dear Lucy, Florence really pitied—things had looked so different at Lucy’s marriage, but might turn out better, even yet.”

As Lucy read those notes, her pulse used to quicken with a sense of revolt. Charlie’s wife was no person to be pitied! Come what might, she was not to be pitied! Her anxieties, her possible sorrows, were not to be regarded as so much ill-luck, to be secretly contrasted by Florence with her own splendid fortune in stalwart, prosperous Jem, and her showy house, and large “visiting circle.”

After these rebellious sensations, Lucy always turned penitent—said to herself that she was silly and even wicked, and resolved to allow no such feelings to arise again. But Florence’s next note always stirred them anew. The east wind will ruffle us; we can but turn our backs to it, or veil our faces, and afterwards soothe the irritated skin with emollients. So there are natures which thus rush rudely on our souls. And we cannot change those natures, or their effect upon us; we can only avert the worst results by tact, hide our soreness in silence, and heal damages by patience and forbearance. Let us put our conscious misery to a good use by its keeping us humbly aware that any sweetness or amiability that we may seem to possess belongs, after all, almost as much to our environment as to ourselves!

The peaceful resting-time wore to an end. Charlie Challoner and his little boy had made friends with nearly all the Deal “hovellers,” lounging so easily on the shingly shore, watching the sea and the sky, as if there were nothing else to do in life, yet with the strength of scores of conquered storms wrought into their fine old faces. They had heard many stories grave and gay, and little Hugh had gathered up some queer treasures in the way of uncommon shells and stones, and even a little carved boat.

Lucy herself did not talk much to the old boatmen. Her happy relations with Mrs. May had not overcome all her shrinking from strangers, and she preferred to hear of them from Charlie, and to let him tell over their yarns to her. But when she went out with her husband they all gave her kindly greeting. It was Lucy’s delighted pride that whoever knew Charlie first seemed always ready to welcome and approve of her. She revelled in being regarded kindly for his sake. Yet it was as often something of her which had originally commended him. He or she who is wrapped round by a true and tender love carries its grace everywhere.

After Charlie had had his pleasant chats to some of those old men, the one of them had said to the other—

“Reckon that gentleman’s got a good woman belonging to him. Ye sort o’ feel it on him, like ye smell the spicy breezes before ye touch a port o’ the land where spices grow.”

“Course he has,” said the other; “haven’t ye seen her? A winsome lass—one of the little craft that can go through a great deal of rough weather—the sort that’s generally made for that purpose, to my thinking.”

{475}

Then came the last day before the returning day.

“We will go for a long walk inland,” said Charlie. “It will be my last sight of English trees for a long while; and if autumn has carried off some of their beauty, it has added more of its own.”

That afternoon Mrs. May announced that she was going for a walk up to Walmer Castle, and asked if the little master might go with her. Hugh was delighted—the sea was a perennial joy to him—to whom country lanes did not seem marvellously different from London squares and parks. Lucy gratefully assented. She never knew whether it was an accident, or whether the kind woman realised that she and Charlie would be thankful for a quiet ramble and an undisturbed conversation.

Perhaps they did not talk much during that walk. Hearts were too full and tears too near the surface. But each uttered solemnly those expressions of mutual love and faith which must generally lie half hidden under the little commonplaces of daily life. Each, as it were, rendered back the mutual charge of the other,—Charles promising faithfully to take care of himself, and to remember all the precautions Lucy would insist on, if she were with him,—Lucy pledging herself to keep as free as possible from worrying, to remember that, under all the circumstances, the coming of letters must be more or less uncertain and far between, adding a voluntary clause that she would do her very best to be brave and wise under any unforeseen conditions which might arise, and under which she could not seek Charlie’s counsel and support. That voluntary clause was due to Lucy’s tender self-reproach against the household secret that she was keeping, even for her husband’s own sake. Charlie received it, with assurances that he knew she would keep her word. Little did either of them then think how that little pledge was to return to their minds, to their common soothing and upholding!

Lucy felt that this quiet hour of spiritual nearness was their true farewell. With its thrilling emotions would be blent for ever the memory of the solemn November afternoon sky—sunless, but with suggestions of sunlight in its delicate opal hues—and the square tower of Munceam church, lifting its grey head from a mass of foliage, glorious with vivid autumn tints.

After that came the bustle of final packing, the farewell to Mrs. May—to whom Lucy felt she owed something which was not included in her modest bill—the railway journey, the return home. The house was in apple-pie order, and at this critical juncture Charlie ceased to wonder at Pollie’s unrestrained, fast-flowing tears. The Brands “looked in” late that night in evening dress on their way from a dinner-party. Jem Brand talked loud and fast to Charlie, while Florence patted her sister’s hands and whispered that she had not secured her a servant yet—they would go about that business together—the interest and excitement would be cheering to Lucy’s loneliness—there were still three or four days to pass before Pollie left—plenty of time.

“Plenty of time!” Lucy echoed absently. “What did it really matter? Charlie was going away!”

Then it was over. Lucy came back from seeing her husband on board the Scotch steamer for Aberdeen. She felt as if she had died, and had come to life again in an emptied earth. How strange the street noises sounded! How strange the familiar house looked! Even little Hugh seemed somehow different!

Lucy had not experienced enough to know that the worst was not yet. She had still to expect her husband’s telegram of his safe arrival in the north. She could look forward to one or two letters from him written from Peterhead. And when these came, full of cheer, of pleasant descriptions of scenery, fellow-passengers, and friendly welcome, together with good accounts of the dear wanderer’s own progress towards strength, poor Lucy began to feel as if she had passed the sharpest corner of her woe, and almost to congratulate herself on her own bravery.

Alas, beyond “the strong pull” on one’s courage and submission, there comes “the long pull.”

(To be continued.)

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

There are several new additions to our list. We have grass-lamb, mackerel, the first salmon, salads, salad-herbs, cucumbers, spinach, spring onions, turnip and nettle-tops, but as yet no additional fruits. However, whilst we have such an abundance of good rhubarb and green salads, we have nothing to complain of, for what can be better for health than these, or more refreshing?—so welcome, too, after the winter. Fresh mint, sorrel, chervil, and water-cress add flavour to the bowl, and spring onions give it piquancy.

People who suffer from sleeplessness should try the effect of a sandwich of spring onions—bread and butter with finely-minced onion spread between—before retiring to rest. It is said to be most soothing and sleep-inviting.

I would specially recommend these “green” sandwiches to all who find a difficulty in eating salad-herbs in any other form—for instance, chopped mustard and cress, thinly-shaved cucumber and onion, chopped parsley, mint and sorrel—all are excellent when spread between thin slices of buttered bread, and very dainty, too, are they.

This is the month when we may begin one of our favourite dishes of spinach and eggs—one of our physic dishes, I might say, for on very good authority we learn that spinach contains more iron than almost anything else that can be mentioned, and when combined with the sulphur of the egg becomes a capital tonic medicine. So by all means let us eat plenty of it.

I have mentioned mackerel as belonging to the month of April. From now until the end of June they will be prime, and are a good fish to eat; but out of their proper season they are not wholesome. Perhaps they are nicest when carefully boiled and served with parsley sauce; but if baked with butter and accompanied by gooseberry sauce, or split open and broiled, with herb sauce, they are very nearly as good. Also they are excellent for breakfast when pickled and eaten cold.

It is hardly possible this month to lay too much stress on the virtues of salads; and to prepare these well, to make as many varieties of them as possible, and to mix the dressing with due art, is well worth careful study on the part of every housewife.

A perfectly plain dressing of salt, pepper, vinegar and oil, if well beaten together, and then a spoonful of good cream added, becomes almost equal to a mayonnaise, and is not so expensive or troublesome to make ready.

The following would be found a suitable little dinner for this month, and it is easy to vary at will:—

MENU.

Cream of Spinach Soup.
Boiled Mackerel. Parsley Sauce.
Roast Lamb. Boiled Cucumber. Mint Sauce.
Spring Salad.
Rhubarb Fool. Sponge Custard Pudding.
Cheese Aigrettes.

Cream of Spinach Soup.—Pick and wash a quart of spinach, set it on to boil with enough water to cover it, and a spoonful of salt; stew a couple of young onions and a few herbs in a separate vessel, and then rub all together through a sieve until a green purée is obtained. To this add a pint of hot milk, a spoonful of cornflour wet with milk and an ounce of butter, also seasoning to taste. Boil up once and serve.

Boiled Cucumber is an agreeable change amongst vegetables, and is very easy to do. Pare the cucumber and cut it down lengthwise, then across into inch-lengths; throw into salted boiling water and cook ten minutes. Drain well and serve with a little parsley sprinkled over, or in melted butter sauce.

Rhubarb Fool.—Cut up two or three bundles of fresh rhubarb into short lengths, and stew quickly with sugar until quite soft, then rub through a sieve. Whip about a quarter of a pint of thick cream and the whites of two eggs together, with one or two tablespoonfuls of castor sugar, and lightly whisk these up with the fruit. Heap all in a bright glass dish.

Sponge Custard Pudding.—Make a boiled custard with the yolks of the two eggs, a pint of milk, two ounces of castor sugar, grated lemon rind for flavouring, and an ounce of dissolved gelatine stirred in at the last. Half fill a plain mould with sponge biscuits and pour this custard on them whilst hot. Set aside in a cold place until it is solid. The rhubarb fool would also be improved by being set on ice. Serve both together.

Cheese Aigrettes.—Dissolve an ounce of butter and stir into it a tablespoonful of flour; add half a pint of warm milk, and stir over the fire until a smooth paste is obtained. Add whilst hot salt, cayenne pepper, and grated cheese enough to give a strong flavour. When getting cool mix in carefully the yolk of a large fresh egg. Bring half a pound of lard up to boiling point, and then drop into it small pieces of the paste, and boil rapidly. They should puff out and be a beautiful golden brown. Roll each aigrette in grated cheese when it has drained, and serve on a paper doyley whilst hot. They are not good cold.

{476}

SHEILA.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

CHAPTER III

NEW RELATIONS.

ave they come yet?” asked a man’s voice, which sounded through the house the moment the door had been opened by the latch-key in his hand.

A girl had darted out of a room upon the ground-floor at the sound of the opening door, and she gave quick reply.

“No, but we are expecting them every minute. I’m glad you are back, North. Father always likes to see you first thing.”

The young man was divesting himself of his overcoat in the hall. He was a broad-shouldered muscular fellow, with very much the same stamp of features as his father, only that as he was clean-shaven, all but a moustache, the square outline of the jaw could be more distinctly seen. It was not a handsome face, but it was a strong one, and there was a gleam of humour in the brown eyes which redeemed it alike from heaviness and sternness.

The sister was a merry-looking girl of about twenty, with the family features, a little square in outline, but she had a tip-tilted nose, “a snub,” as the brothers called it, which gave her an expression of sauciness not at all contradicted by the dancing light in her eyes.

“Come in and warm yourself. The wind has been bitter all day. We must wait tea for the travellers. Any news in town?”

North walked into the long drawing-room, which occupied all the space through the house on one side of the hall. The house, though it now stood in a street, was detached from its neighbours, and showed in many of its arrangements that it had once been a gentleman’s country abode. It was old-fashioned and a little dark, but it wore a homelike aspect; and the room, which was panelled half-way up in sombre oak, was filled with the dancing light from a blazing fire of logs.

There were three persons in the room when the brother and sister entered. Mrs. Thomas Cossart (who was generally known in the place as Mrs. Tom, on account of the other Mrs. Cossart up at the big house) was knitting in her arm-chair with a book beside her. She was a matronly lady, with a pleasant face, which had been beautiful in youth, and was still quite comely. Her elder daughter Raby stood with a screen in her hand shielding her face from the blaze, and another son lounged upon the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head.

It was sometimes said of the Cossarts by their friends, that North and Ray were the useful ones in the family, and Raby and Cyril the ornamental. Raby was tall and slight, and took after her mother. Without being a beauty she was a decidedly good-looking girl, and had many admirers of both sexes. She dressed always a little better and more carefully than her sister; but she was not really either useless or idle. She had plenty of fun in her, and good nature too. But she had a greater love of admiration and amusement than that possessed by Ray.

Cyril presented a contrast to all the others of the family by being very fair where they were all inclined to be dark. As a child he had been singularly beautiful, with big blue eyes and a cloud of golden hair about his softly tinted face. His mother had been devoted to him from his babyhood, and even his father had found it difficult not to make something of an especial darling of him.

Now at three and twenty he was a very good-looking fellow, although some declared that he was girlish and effeminate in his looks. Certainly the golden hair and big blue eyes were rather suggestive of a fair girl; and this likeness was perhaps a little intensified from the fact that he was quite clean-shaven, and did not grow even a moustache, as Ray had often begged him to do. But he had inherited sufficient of the Cossart type of features to redeem the face from the charge of weakness. It was a refined and etherialised face, but something of the square outline of the jaw remained, although the lips did not close over each other in the firm way that was noticeable in North and Ray, but were a little inclined to fall apart, giving the face a dreamy and abstracted expression, which was much admired by many of the young ladies of Isingford, who were fond of making studies from Cyril Cossart’s profile, and turning them into pictures called “Sir Galahad,” or “The Knight without fear and without reproach.”

“Here they are!” cried Ray, who was still lingering about the half open door, “I hear wheels stopping. They have come! Mother, I shall go and open the door? It will look more friendly.”

She was across the hall before she had finished speaking, and had thrown the front door wide open before the maid could arrive upon the scene. North followed her and stood full in view. The next minute their father led in a girl dressed in deep mourning, whom he pushed towards his daughter saying—

“There Sheila, there is Ray. She will take care of you and make you feel at home.”

“To be sure I will!” cried Ray, kissing Sheila’s cold face. “Come along in and see mother and Raby. I’m so glad you have come all safe. It feels just as though it would snow. But it won’t matter if it does, now that you’re safe home.”

Sheila, a little shy and bewildered in her strange surroundings, was led into the warm drawing-room, where she was kissed by Mrs. Tom and Raby, and installed beside the fire in a comfortable chair, almost before she had time to get out a word.

Mr. Tom had come in with North and Oscar, and there was a considerable confusion of tongues, kissing and welcoming. For the moment Sheila was left in her cosy corner; and it was then that she heard a gentle voice at her elbow saying—

“You must let me add my welcome to the rest; though I am afraid it is really a sorrowful time for you. We are inclined to forget that what is our gain is your loss.”

She looked up quickly, and saw that a stranger was slipping into the seat beside her. She did not guess for a moment that he, too, was a cousin. He looked so different from all the Cossarts she had seen so far. Perhaps the startled look in her big wistful eyes showed this, for the voice continued speaking.

“I am your cousin Cyril. Probably you know our names from our father by this time. I think I can feel for you better than the rest—coming into this strange life, which is so different from anything you have known before. They had been used to it all their lives—they know nothing else. But I do, and I can understand how you must feel about it.”

“I don’t think I feel anything yet,” said Sheila slowly, “I have not had time. But Uncle Tom has been very kind. I think—I hope—I am sure I ought to be very happy.”

Yet even as she spoke Sheila felt the tears suddenly spring to her eyes. She did not know how it was; but just this arrival at a strange house, this feeling of being suddenly cast into the midst of a number of strange people seemed to bring before her her loneliness in a way she had never felt it before. She looked round for Oscar, but Ray had{477} got him in her care, and was chattering gaily to him. Her uncle was for the moment engrossed with his wife and elder son. The wave of loneliness seemed to rise higher and higher about her. She felt the sob in her throat, and turned her face towards the fire to get rid of the welling tears before they should be seen.

“I know so well what you feel,” said Cyril’s sympathetic voice in her ear. “Often when I have come home from college, or from other people’s houses, the same feeling has come over me. If I had been a girl I should have cried too. It seemed like stepping into a new world where one had no interests, no heart, no sympathies.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to feel like that!” said Sheila quickly. “That would be wrong and ungrateful. Uncle Tom has been so kind. You are all kind. Only—only—I haven’t often been away from home; and it seems all so strange; and there isn’t any more home left behind—that is what is the strangest thing of all!”

Her voice broke for a moment, and Cyril put out his hand and laid it on hers in token of comprehension and sympathy; but there was no time for more words, for the group in the middle of the room broke up.

There was a stir at the door, and two maids appeared with the tea-table and equipage; and Sheila found herself the centre of attraction as the lamp shed its light over the darkening room, and everybody gathered round the fire to discuss hot cakes and steaming cups of tea, whilst they “took stock” of the new cousins and tried to make them feel at home.

Cyril spoke the least now; but Sheila was conscious that he looked after her wants with a gentle consideration, and she felt grateful to him, and stole glances at him from time to time, wondering what made him so different from all the rest. All were kind and cousinly, and seemed interested in her, and liked to hear her talk; but there was a difference—a quiet sympathy about Cyril’s manner which was totally distinct from the friendliness of the rest. He reminded her of the world in which she had been accustomed to move. Everything else was different, the very atmosphere seemed changed, though she could not have accounted for or defined the change.

Ray took her upstairs at last.

“I am glad you are to stay a day or two here. This is our spare room. Oscar has the little one. We could not take you in for good, or it would have left us no spare room at all. Besides, they want you up at Cossart Place. I wonder how you and Effie will get on. This cold spell has made her breathing bad; but she is beginning to look forward to your coming.”

“Didn’t she like it at first?” asked Sheila, reading something between the lines.

“Well, you know, Effie is a bit crossgrained. If she thinks of a thing herself, she’s as keen after it as possible; but if somebody else suggests it, she takes a dislike to it directly. It’s partly because she’s out of health, and partly because she’s been so spoiled. I get along with her very well, though she’s not always in the sweetest of tempers. But then perhaps none of us are!” And Ray laughed, showing her white even teeth.

Ray stayed and helped Sheila to unpack the one box which had come to River Street. Her heavy baggage had been sent straight to Cossart Place.

“We don’t have a maid here; but Effie has one. I daresay she’ll share with you. You’ve been used to one, I expect. You have been county people, I know. We are only bourgeoise, of course. I expect our ways will seem funny to you!”

It did seem rather strange to Sheila to come down and find the father and elder son in morning dress. Cyril and the girls dressed for dinner; but had never got the rest of their men-folk to do so. Indeed, it was but within the last few years that they had been able to get the father to consent to a seven o’clock dinner. It had been the fashion in Isingford for business men to leave their works about five, and dine at six or earlier, and have a supper later. The girls had had something of a fight to get afternoon tea and seven o’clock dinner, and with that they had to be content without further concessions to more fashionable habits.

In the evening there was music, for the Cossarts were fond of singing and had good voices, though they had only been trained by local teachers, and lacked finish and culture. Cyril was the exception. He had been a chorister in his boyhood, and had been carefully taught both at school and afterwards. He generally declined to assist at the family concert; but to-night he sang several times, and got Sheila to sing duets with him, though she told him she had no voice, and was only good at playing accompaniments.

It was true that her voice was not powerful, but it was very sweet in tone, and had been carefully cultivated by a good master.

Cyril appreciated this, and Sheila enjoyed his approval and friendliness; and went to bed feeling more cheered and less lonely than she would have believed it possible.

The next day was a very interesting and rather exciting one, for they were both taken to the works by their uncle and North, and Oscar was shown something of what was expected of him in the future. There was to be a good deal of desk-work at first, which was not much to his taste; but he was to receive training in the electrical branch which was being established in connection with the works, so that when the new buildings were opened, he would be able to take a position there as assistant manager. Meantime it was essential that he should learn the routine of office work and book-keeping; and he assented to the drudgery willingly, his common sense telling him that there was nothing like beginning at the bottom of the ladder. He had seen too much of the evil effects of not understanding business not to be ready and willing to acquire the power himself of understanding it thoroughly.

“North is a capital fellow,” he said to Sheila that night, following her into her room for a talk in private; for in that busy, merry household there was little time for confidential conversation, and Sheila had been taken possession of all the afternoon by her girl-cousins, and introduced right and left to a bewildering number of their friends. “He isn’t one to make professions; but I know he’ll do what he can to help me. It will be dull work, some of it, and I may be rather stupid at it; but I mean to do my best, and get on if I can.”

“I hope you will. I think they all mean to be kind; but, Oscar, do you call our cousins—well, what shall I say? If we had met them at home, do you think we should have called them quite ladies and gentlemen—except Cyril?”

Oscar laughed, and made a little expressive grimace.

“Since they are our cousins, perhaps we’d better not put the question quite so straight, Sheila. But, indeed, it’s better not to think too much about rank and station and the gloss on the top. It’s very nice when one can get it too; but the great thing is whether people are really good and honest and kindly, as our relations are. And our mother was one of them; we must not forget that. It would be awfully snobbish of us to look down on them—as though we were better than they—after all they are doing for us too!”

“Oh, yes—indeed, I don’t mean to do that. Only things do seem funny sometimes; and, you know, Cyril feels it too. I think he feels it more than we do. He is so very different from all the rest.”

“Yes,” assented Oscar slowly; “but I’m not sure that I like him as well as the others.”

“Oh, Oscar, I like him much the best!”

“Yes, I can see you do. Perhaps I shall when I know him better. I feel rather as though he gave himself airs.”

“Oh, no! It’s only that he feels more as we do—he would like things different. He has been to college, and stayed with people who live differently. I am quite glad he is here. He has promised to come often to see me when I go to The Grange. He likes to call it The Grange, too. He thinks Cossart Place sounds vulgar. Cyril and I think alike in a lot of ways.”

“And when are you going to The Grange? I thought Aunt Cossart was to come and see you this afternoon?”

“Yes; but Effie had one of her attacks, and so she couldn’t. She will write to-night and say if I am to go to-morrow, or wait for another day. I hope I shall get on with Effie; but, from what Cyril says, I think she is very difficile.”

“Don’t let Cyril set you against people and things!” said Oscar, rather gravely.

“Oh, no, I won’t!” was Sheila’s eager answer.

(To be continued.)

{478}

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

The Examiners report on the Second Twenty-four Questions.

Practice makes perfect, so though the first instalment of answers in this competition was good, the second proved better, and we look forward to the third and last being the best of all. It takes time to discover to what fountains one ought to go for information; but once that is done, the rest is comparatively easy—you fill your pitcher and come away triumphant.

The number who engaged in this second trial was slightly under that of those taking part in the first. Out of every hundred girls who started with questions 1-24, about fifteen failed to put in an appearance. Many causes, from whimsicality to illness, no doubt account for this. It was often, we are sure, unavoidable, for some girls whom we missed had done so well that they would have had a good place had they only continued.

We give here our notes on questions 25-48 inclusive, so that competitors may check their own answers and see in some cases what they might have replied had they been fortunate enough to find out. General remarks on the competition, as we said last month, will follow when we come to intimate who the painstaking girls are who have won prizes and certificates.

25. Who was the monarch who once attended the rehearsal of his own funeral?

The monarch we had in view in framing this question was Charles V., Emperor of Germany and King of Spain. After his abdication in 1555-56 he retired to the monastery of St. Juste in the north of Estremadura, and here he resolved to celebrate his own obsequies. His domestics marched to the chapel of the monastery in funeral procession with black tapers in their hands, and he himself followed in his shroud. He was laid in his coffin with much solemnity. “The service for the dead was chanted, and Charles joined in the prayers which were offered up for the repose of his soul, mingling his tears with those which his attendants shed, as if they had been celebrating a real funeral.” Judging by the numbers who failed to answer, this was one of our difficult questions.

26. What is the largest palace in the world used as a residence?

Three palaces were prominent in the answers given—the Vatican at Rome, the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg, and the Palace of Versailles in the neighbourhood of Paris. The last-named, however, was mentioned by error, as it is now not a residence, but little more than a showplace. But it is huge enough, for in the heyday of its prosperity it accommodated about ten thousand persons—courtiers, dependents, etc. To the Vatican, the residence of the Pope, apparently belongs the credit of being of all palaces that on the largest scale. It is said to contain no fewer than seven thousand rooms. It became the fixed residence of the Popes in 1377. The Winter Palace at St. Petersburg is also an enormous structure, in which six thousand persons have frequently had a habitation.

27. What is the exercise most conducive to physical beauty?

The answers to this query were as varied as could be. Dancing, fencing, cycling, swimming, golfing, dumb-bell drill, and many other forms of exercise all had their advocates. Some girls said, “Housekeeping for ever!” and recommended constant devotion to sweeping and dusting; but others remarked that that was too narrow a view, and that we ought to move about in the open air as well. Most, however, held that the right form of exercise was walking, the cheapest, safest, and best of all. “And see,” says one competitor, “that you persevere in it and do it in all weathers, but the very worst, and particularly in winter.”

28. What was the first street ever lit by gas?

This was Pall Mall in London, which was first lit by gas on the 28th of January, 1807. The introduction of gas-lighting into London is due to the zeal and unwearied patience of a German named Winsor. He managed to gain some supporters, “and,” says a writer in Chambers’s Book of Days, “the long line between St. James’s Palace and Cockspur Street blazed out in a burst of gas-lamps on the night in question to the no small admiration of the public.” Westminster Bridge was lit with gas for the first time on the last night of 1812. Two years later in other parts of the metropolis gas was introduced on the streets, and from that time the new mode of lighting gradually made its way all over the world.

29. How fast can one read when reading silently?

Most competitors gave an answer to this question; but why did not all? It was easy enough, because the best answer a girl could make was to record the result of experimenting on herself. It was pointed out by many with much truth that the rate of reading varies greatly with different individuals and also with the kind of book read. We cannot, for instance, read philosophy as rapidly as history, or history as fast as a work of fiction. Poetry also, says a sensible competitor, must be read slowly in order to appreciate the style and rhythm. A moderately rapid reader, says this same competitor, will read history at the rate of about 600 words in five minutes, fiction at about 2,000 words in the same time, and poetry at about 700 words. The 600 and 700 words here given appear slow compared with the 2,000; but there is all the difference in the world between reading to remember and criticise and reading merely for a pastime.

30. What famous philanthropist was known as the “Nightingale of the House of Commons?”

When a girl shoots a bow at a venture she may hit the mark, but more often she does not. Here are some of the random shots at this answer—the Earl of Shaftesbury, John Bright, Mr. Gladstone, Sir Henry Fawcett, Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Lord Coleridge, the Earl of Chatham, and William Pitt. No, it was none of these—it was William Wilberforce, who will always be associated with the abolition of the slave trade. His remarkably sweet voice, so often used on behalf of those unable to plead for themselves, obtained for him the name to which we have referred in our question.

31. How many hours a day should we give to sleep?

There was a good deal of common-sense shown here in the answers, it being generally allowed that no hard and fast rule could be laid down. “Sleep till you have slept enough,” says one girl; “and enough is not the same with everybody.” The time will be found to vary, with grown-up people, from six to eight hours in the twenty-four, it very much depending on whether they are strong or weakly. One competitor quotes a medical authority to the effect that “the weakly very rarely require more than nine hours’ sleep at the utmost, and a longer indulgence will scarcely ever fail to injure them.”

32. What is the most famous signal ever made to the British Navy?

Hardly any competitors omitted to answer this question; almost every one right too. The ever-to-be-remembered signal was that made by Lord Nelson, before the battle of Trafalgar—“England expects every man to do his duty.” It was a signal, says Southey, in his Life of Nelson, received throughout the fleet with a shout of answering acclamation, “made sublime by the spirit which it breathed and the feeling which it expressed.” As everyone knows, it was the last signal of our great naval hero, for he received his mortal wound in the heat of the action.

It is worth mentioning that one girl, whom we guess to be a humorist, would have it that the most famous naval signal was that made to the British fleet at the conclusion of the greatest naval review ever seen—that held in commemoration of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, in 1897. The Commander-in-Chief signalled that, at the request of the Prince of Wales, he “ordered the mainbrace to be spliced,” which, says our competitor, refers to “an extra ration of grog!”

33. What useful discovery was made by lighting a fire on the sand and using pieces of natron (sub-carbonate of soda) to support the cooking-pot?

The story of the discovery of glass—whether an actual historical fact or only a legend we shall not too particularly inquire—proved to be well known to all our girls. To quote one of them: “The credit of inventing glass was always given by the ancients to the Phœnicians. It was a discovery made quite accidentally by some Phœnician merchants, who were homeward bound in a ship laden with natron or soda. A storm came on, which obliged them to land on a sandy tract under Mount Carmel. There they rested their cooking pots on blocks of natron, and when the cooking was over found glass produced, by the union under heat of the alkali and the sand of the shore.”

34. What are the “borrowed days,” and how do they come by their name?

Those who did not answer this question, and those who answered it wrongly, are now informed that the “Borrowed Days” referred to, are the last three days of March. According to a popular tradition they were borrowed by March from April, in order to accomplish the destruction of a parcel of unoffending young sheep, a purpose, however, in which March did not succeed. The story is told in a well-known Scottish rhyme:—

“March said to Aperill,

I see three sheep upon yon hill,

And if you lend me days three

I’ll find a way to make them dee.

The first o’ them was wind and weet.

The second o’ them was snaw and sleet.

The third o’ them was sic a freeze,

It froze the birds’ beaks to the trees.

And when the three days were past and gane,

The three poor sheep came hirpling (limping) hame.”

Some girls got the “borrowed days” mixed up with the extra day that comes in Leap year. One told us that they were “the mild days of winter borrowed from Spring.” Another gave them as “Sunday, Monday and{479} Saturday.” Three or four furnished an interesting piece of local information to the effect that in Cheshire the name “Borrowed Days,” is given to the first eleven days of May.

35. What is the simplest and least troublesome of all cookery processes?

Some girls surprised us by apparently knowing little about this woman’s subject; a few surprised us still more by not answering at all. There was room for difference of opinion. Boiling, steaming, grilling, toasting, roasting, and baking all met with support, but on the whole we side with the girls who said stewing. It is a method that certainly requires very little attention, barring the care that must of course be taken to keep the stew from sticking to the bottom of the pot and burning, if the stewing be done in a saucepan or in a jar. Some competitors fell into error by giving such answers as “boiling an egg,” “making a milk pudding,” “boiling a potato in its jacket,” and “preparing a Devonshire junket.” They should have taken note that the query spoke of processes not of performances.

36. Are there any extinct volcanoes in Great Britain?

“Not one,” says a confident competitor. In opposition to this, however, we have the answers of a great many who knew better, and were well aware that “the volcanoes of Britain are still around and beneath us, on the sea-coast and in the heart of the country, under our great cities and in our most favourite holiday haunts.” Some gave examples from central England, and one girl quoting from an article that appeared not long ago in the Leisure Hour, pointed out that “what is now the heart of England, was once dotted with volcanic vents.” Others took their illustrations from Devonshire, from North Wales, from the neighbourhood of Edinburgh and from the Western Isles of Scotland.

37. What famous musical composition came to a violinist in a dream?

The competitors who did not answer this question were a numerous company. Some made such guesses at it as Haydn’s “Creation,” and the “Moonlight Sonata.” But—without going into the dream question—Haydn was not a violinist, and neither was Beethoven. The musician of our query was the famous violin player, Giuseppe Tartini, and the composition was his singularly fine piece, “Il Trillo del Diavolo.” One night the Evil One appeared to Tartini in a dream. “The idea struck me,” says the composer, “to hand him my fiddle, and to see what he could do with it. But how great was my astonishment when I heard him play with consummate skill a sonata of such exquisite beauty as surpassed the boldest flight of my imagination.” When Tartini awoke he seized his violin and tried to reproduce the sounds he had heard. “But,” he sorrowfully says, “it was in vain. The piece I then composed, the Devil’s Sonata, although the best I ever wrote, was far below the one I had heard in my dream!”

38. When did witchcraft cease to be recognised as a crime by the law of England?

This query was generally well answered, and there was really no difficulty about it. The last trial for witchcraft in England was that of Jane Wenham, who was convicted at Hertford in 1712. Feeling towards witchcraft had, by that time, begun to change, however, and she was not executed. Twenty-four years later—that is to say, in 1736—came the repeal of the famous statute against witchcraft passed at the accession of James I. At the same time was repealed the Act of the Scottish Parliament passed in 1563 making it a capital offence to use witchcraft, sorcery, or necromancy, or to pretend to such knowledge, or to seek help from witches.

39. What famous book was mislaid when in manuscript and partly written, and was only discovered by the author nine years afterwards in the drawer of an old writing-desk?

Puzzled? Yes, many were puzzled and answered nothing. A few bold spirits ventured on such guesses as The Vicar of Wakefield, Evelyn’s Diary, Peter Simple, and Jessica’s First Prayer! The book in question was the Waverley of Sir Walter Scott. About a third of the first volume of this work was written about the year 1805, and then thrown aside in the drawer of an old writing-desk and entirely forgotten. Nine years afterwards, the author himself says, “I happened to want some fishing tackle for the use of a guest, when it occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in which I used to keep articles of that nature. I got access to it with some difficulty, and in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost manuscript presented itself. I immediately set to work to complete it.”

40. What English cathedral was set on fire and severely damaged by a man who was afterwards found to be insane?

The fire was that caused in York Minster on the 2nd of February, 1829, by Jonathan Martin, who, as the question says, was subsequently discovered to be out of his mind. Having taken it into his head that it was his duty to destroy the cathedral, he concealed himself after evening service on the 1st of February behind a monument in the north transept, and in the night collected inflammable material which he set fire to. The whole of the beautiful tabernacle work of carved oak, the stalls, the pulpit, the organ, the roof, and much of the stonework of the choir, were all destroyed, the east window which was in great danger, being saved with difficulty. The building was restored at a cost of about £65,000, which was raised by a national subscription. This question was well answered. A few girls gave instances of fires at the cathedrals of Carlisle and Salisbury, but the insane incendiary was left out of account. Four or five gave the burning of St. Paul’s in the Great Fire of 1666, as that well-known event is described in Mr. W. Harrison Ainsworth’s Old St. Paul’s, but they should have remembered that a novelist’s facts should be verified before quoting them as history.

41. What is the best diet for brain-workers?

There is no doubt that brain-workers—whether literary, professional or business people—need the best of food served in the most agreeable manner, and in variety and abundance. If it were possible to live by brain alone, without any exercise of the muscles, then the diet might be exclusively confined to those articles which contain the fat, salt and phosphorus of which the brain is composed. But this being out of the question, a wide variety of food is necessary for the brain-working classes, its quantity and quality being adapted to nourish the whole body with special reference to the nervous system. An important point is that the food be light and easily digested. Most girls answered this question, and many sensible replies were received.

42. What saint was so able a musician that, according to tradition, an angel descended to earth enraptured with her melodious strains?

Few queries were better or more fully answered than this one, the essence of most of the replies being that the saint was St. Cecilia, a young Roman lady of noble birth, who suffered martyrdom about 329—perhaps earlier. She “has long been regarded as the tutelary saint of music and musicians, but the period at which she was first so looked upon is involved in obscurity.” When the tradition mentioned in the question originated is equally unknown. It is an odd fact that early writers make no mention of her skill in music.

43. What is the origin of the three ostrich feathers as a badge of the Prince of Wales?

This has long been a matter of perplexity to antiquaries. The cherished and popular belief, however—quoted by almost all our competitors—is that the feathers were derived from the blind King of Bohemia, who lost his life at the battle of Crecy in 1346. The feathers do not appear in connection with our Princes of Wales till after that battle. The ostrich feather, it appears, was a distinction of Luxemburg, and John, Count of Luxemburg, was the original style and title of the King of Bohemia, who fell so bravely at Crecy. The first Prince of Wales to assume the feathers was of course Edward the Black Prince, the victor of Crecy.

44. When did ignorant people in this country imagine that they had been defrauded out of eleven days by those in authority?

It was in 1752 when the Act for the change of Style came into operation in this country. After the 2nd of September of that year, the following day was held to be not the 3rd, but the 14th, thus dropping out eleven days. The common people of England, we are told, “were violently inflamed against the statesmen who had carried through the bill for the change of style, and generally believed that they had been defrauded out of eleven days (as if eleven days of their destined lives) by the transaction. Accordingly for some time afterwards a favourite opprobrious cry to unpopular statesmen in the streets and on the hustings was, ‘Who stole the eleven days? Give us back the eleven days!’” A few girls failed to answer this question, but not so many as we expected.

45. Who was the hermit who lived for over thirty years on the top of a pillar?

This was the famous St. Simeon Stylites, so called from the Greek word stylos, a pillar. He lived early in the fifth century and adopted his original mode of life by way of penance, beginning with residence on the top of a pillar nine feet high. This was raised by degrees to the somewhat incredible height of sixty feet. He lived on his pillar situated on a mountain-side thirty or forty miles from Antioch for over thirty years, and died on the top in the year 459. He was the founder of the singular race of pillar-saints who, though never very numerous, existed in Eastern lands down to the twelfth century.

46. What famous stone in this country is said to have been Jacob’s pillow?

Competitors were right in saying that this is the Coronation Stone now in Westminster Abbey, brought from Scotland by Edward I. on his return from invading that country in 1296. According to some, it was originally the stone on which Jacob rested his head when he slept at Bethel and had a vision of angels ascending and descending the ladder between heaven and earth. Old chroniclers give a pretty circumstantial account of its wanderings till it arrived at Scone, the coronation city of the ancient kings of Scotland, from which King Edward carried it away. We notice that two or three girls describe the stone as of marble—“black marble,” says one. They are wrong. It is a{480} block of sandstone—to be particular, “a dull reddish or purplish sandstone, with a few small embedded pebbles.”

47. Why is the wedding-ring worn on the fourth finger of the left hand?

Nearly everybody gave an answer and a good answer. We shall quote one competitor in full, and she will reply for all the rest: The selection of the fourth finger of the left hand as the wedding-ring finger both in Pagan and Christian times is accounted for by several reasons. In an ancient ritual of marriage, the husband placed the ring on the top of the thumb of the left hand whilst he said, “In the name of the Father”; he then removed it to the forefinger, saying, “And of the Son,” and then to the middle finger with the words, “And of the Holy Ghost,” and with the final word “Amen” he placed the ring on the fourth finger, where it remained.

The ancient supposition that a vein led direct from the fourth finger to the heart, and the fact that this finger is used less than any other, the ring being thereby less liable to receive injury, were doubtless also at the root of this old custom.

48. How did the forget-me-not get its name?

Several popular traditions, all no doubt equally authentic, were quoted in reply, hardly any competitor omitting to answer. According to some, the name perpetuates the last words of a lover to his mistress as he threw her the flower she craved of him at the cost of his own life in the Danube.

Another tradition told, with variations, by a good many was that “Adam, as he named the plants in Paradise, bade them all remember their names. One little flower, that had allowed its thoughts to wander, had to ask the father of men to repeat what he had said. ‘By what name dost thou call me?’ ‘Forget-me-not,’ was the reply; which has caused that humble flower ever since to droop its head in shame and ignominy.”

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

Nellie.—The two questions you ask us are in themselves of little importance, but the condition of your mind which lies behind them compels a little advice. Your first question, “What is a good way of getting out of being afraid that there is some illness or disease the matter with oneself?” is easily answered. There is no disease without definite symptoms. You will never get a disease which will leave you very long in doubt about your health. If you want to make perfectly certain, get yourself examined by a physician and have done with your ideas. Your second question is due to the same thing as the first—a morbid self-consciousness. Anybody can think herself into any trouble. You start by fearing that you may get—let us say phthisis. In a few months you begin to think that you may have phthisis. A little time afterwards you come to the conclusion that you are going to get phthisis, the next stage is a conviction that you have phthisis, and the last stage is a feeling of certainty that you have the disease, a certainty which is unshaken by the assurance that your chest is normal, and that the supposed phthisis does not interfere with your health. The first two stages of this history are states of morbid self-consciousness, the next two are on the verge of sanity, the last is a definite disease—not phthisis, but melancholia! You must get yourself to think about other things than your own imaginary evils; a little mental struggle, and it will all come easily. Read the article we published on blushing and nervousness.

Vanity.—Weak ankles are very commonly due to wearing high-heeled shoes. Boots which button up the legs are not so liable as shoes to weaken the ankles, because they protect the latter, but with high-heeled shoes the ankle is left bare, and consequently every time that you twist your foot, you wrench the ankle-joint. We have seen serious disease of the ankle following repeated wrenching or spraining from wearing high-heeled shoes. The higher and narrower the heels are, the more liable are they to do harm.

Hereward the Wake.—Yes! tobacco-chewing is exceedingly injurious. Tobacco contains a large quantity of nicotine, a highly poisonous substance. When tobacco is chewed, this nicotine is taken into the stomach and absorbed.

Blackwater.—We have never heard of a disease or symptom called “blackwater.” We expect that what you mean is “waterbrash”; at all events your description will fit this symptom. Waterbrash is a fairly common symptom of indigestion, especially of those varieties due to excesses of starchy food, and those connected with nervous complaints. Read the answer to “Muriel” (Jan. 21, 1899).

Peggy.—The combination of obesity with thin brittle nails is very common. It seems that the condition of the nails may be directly due to corpulency. The only treatment we can suggest is to relieve the obesity. Conceivably massage of the fingers might be of service.

Dorothy Dimples.—We have answered this question before. We do not think that anæmia is on the increase. Anæmia of girls, that is, chlorosis or green sickness, is from the beginning a chronic disease. The question whether chlorosis is likely to lead to consumption is very important. It certainly is not likely to do so, and our experience leads us to think that anæmic subjects are not appreciably more liable to phthisis than are healthy persons. Theoretically, we should have expected otherwise. Of course some form of anæmia is invariable in the later stages of consumption, as it is in every other wasting disease.

Erda.—Pneumonia is not an hereditary disease, and the children of a woman who has had pneumonia, are no more liable to get that disease than are ordinary persons. Pneumonia is an infectious disease, and is very liable to recur.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

Victoria.—The first number of the Girl’s Own Paper was issued on January 3rd, 1880; of the Boy’s Own Paper a year earlier.

In April.—Without hearing your violin we cannot say whether its tone is good enough for you to play upon it at the examination. If it is “a very nice old” violin, we doubt your being able to procure a better one for £8, but your teacher must really be the judge. The quality of the violin, so long as you have a decent instrument, should not affect your chances of passing. Of more importance is your inability to play from memory. You should practise this art. Doubtless your teacher has a clear synopsis of what you will be expected to do at the examination.

A. V. D. G.—1. Hand gymnastics would not improve your case. All you need is diligent practice, and again practice, guided by strict attention. Do not allow yourself to alight on wrong notes in the manner you describe; always practise slowly at first, increasing the pace until perfect. Do not attempt music that is too difficult for you. We suppose you are taking lessons, as you are only fifteen, and you should be guided by your teacher. 2. “Op.” is the abbreviation for “opus,” the Latin word for “work.” The works of musicians are numbered in a certain order, and the piece you mention must belong to Schumann’s 21st work.

Eglaia.—1. The sign - placed over a note means that the note is to be emphasised.—2. Your writing is disfigured by enormous loops and flourishes, which help to make it illegible. For instance, we fear we have not deciphered your pseudonym correctly. Without these excrescences, your writing would be good. Two answers are our limit: vide rules.

Earnest Student.—The cheapest musical conservatoires are on the Continent, and it is easy to obtain a first-class musical education for a low fee at such places at Leipsic, Dresden, Bonn, or Berlin, but then the cost of board and lodging has to be added. At Leipsic you would have to pay from about £67 to £90 for board, lodging, and musical instruction, and you can obtain all particulars by addressing a letter to “An das Directorium des Conservatoriums” in one of the towns we have mentioned. In London we think the Guildhall School of Music is the least expensive, as the number of subjects may be limited. In the Royal College the fee is £40 a year for tuition; in the Royal Academy, £11 11s. per term, with an entrance fee of £5 5s. In the “Guildhall,” lessons on separate subjects may be obtained from £1 11s. 6d. per term. We advise you (if you can come to London) to write to these three institutions for lists of fees, scholarships, etc., also to Trinity College, Mandeville Place, Manchester Square, W. We might help you more if we knew where you live.

A Kentish Maid.—Why not enter one of the Training Colleges? You have first of all to pass the “Queen’s Scholarship” examination; apply for particulars, Education Department, London, or A. Bourne Esq., British and Foreign School Society, Temple Chambers, London, E.C. After passing this examination, you receive two years’ excellent training at a nominal fee for board and education, the amount of which fee depends on the college. At Stockwell (a splendid college), it is £25 for two (in special cases three) years’ board and education; at others we believe it is less, but these particulars can be obtained from the individual college. You might also with advantage consult Mrs. Watson’s articles on “What are the County Councils doing for Girls?” in the Girl’s Own Paper for 1897.

Amateur Society.—Miss M. Hedge requests us to again bring before our readers her society for studying foreign languages by means of correspondence. A copy of the rules, price twopence, may be obtained on application to her at 19, East Hill, Colchester.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Gertrude P. (Tewkesbury).—We should advise you to get a book on heraldry through some reliable second-hand bookseller. They are not very cheap when large, and that would be the best way of getting a good one. Boutell’s English Heraldry, or his Heraldry Historical and Popular, would suit you, and they are not expensive even when new. They are the smallest books on the subject. Reeves and Turner, 196, Strand, W., publish the first of them. There are several translations of Dante: Cary, and Longfellow’s of the “Divina Commedia.” The “Inferno” was translated separately by Ellaby in 1871. You would get these easily second-hand, we think.

A Regular Reader, Geisha, and Others.—We are always very sorry for people who get stains of any kind on coloured gowns, for they are so difficult to deal with, and the cures for stains are so disappointing in their effects. In the first place, the utmost delicacy is required in manipulating, or the stain will spread and be made worse; and we are always inclined to think that the people who manage to make them are not those who are likely to take them out well. They would probably be careless and “slap-dash.” Copying and marking inks are removed with a strong solution of bleaching powder (borax or soda), after which apply a cold solution of oxalic acid; then rinse in cold water; or instead of the bleaching powder, you might use lemon juice. But we fear “R. R.’s” red dress would not stand it, and you do not mention of what material it is. Geisha’s wine or jelly stain may perhaps be removed by holding the stained part over a basin, and rubbing some common salt into it; and then by pouring through it from the spout of a kettle some boiling water till the stain disappears. Fruit stains, if old, have become almost dyes, and if washed when quite fresh with pure water, would generally come out. In the days of sulphur matches, the vapour from two or three was enough to remove any fruit stain. Salts of lemon would, we fear, take the colour out entirely. Failing the matches, however, you may burn a little sulphur on a small tin cover, and then making a small paper funnel, hold the large end over the sulphur and the small one under the spot. This treatment should take out fruit stains from any fabric.

E. M. P.—Soap-jelly is made as follows:—Take 10 quarts of rain water, 3½ lb. of good yellow soap, 1 lb. of washing soda. Slice up the soap and put on to boil with the water, keep on stirring, and when the soap is dissolved add the soda. Stir carefully, as it easily boils over, and when all is dissolved, pour into a barrel to keep. It will form a jelly when cold, and keeps a long time. Of course, if you find these proportions too excessive, you can make half the quantity.

E. M.—Although perhaps incorrect, it is usual in conversation to drop the “h” in names ending in “ham,” but with certain exceptions, such, for example, as “Etchingham” in Sussex. It is not a “cockneyism” to do so. A certain amount of abbreviation and clipping of words is permissible in colloquial and rapid speaking. We say “won’t,” but write at full length “will not,” and we say “don’t,” but write “do not.” Such clipping of words in writing is bad style. People also write “its” for “it is,” which is likewise objectionable; and if they wish to abbreviate, they should, in this case, write thus, “it’s.” We should simply say “both dogs”; the other words are superfluous.

A Reader.—If the brothers and sisters of your friend are much older than yourself, there is nothing remarkable in their calling you by your Christian name; but it would depend on the degree of intimacy whether you should call them by theirs; and as by your writing you seem to be quite a child, we should say no, unless you were asked to do so. Many young men are rather tenacious on the subject, and resent it from little girls.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Early Military Life of General Sir George Napier.

[2] Many of these wanderers were sheltered and hidden by the Spaniards, among whom some at least felt kindly towards their English friends; and numbers afterwards escaped safely to England.

[3] “This is a cruel determination for me to make—I mean, to retreat.”—From a letter of Moore’s.

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

“OUR HERO.”

CHAPTER XXX.

OUR LILY GARDEN.

CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

CHAPTER VII.

SPRING SONG.

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

CHAPTER IV.

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

MENU.

SHEILA.

CHAPTER III

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

MISCELLANEOUS.