Whole book · 10 sections
Vol. VIII.—No. 372.]
[Price One Penny.
FEBRUARY 12, 1887.
[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]
A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.
EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
DREAMING OF SPRING.
CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO.”
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
VARIETIES.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
THE DAUPHIN IN THE TEMPLE.
All rights reserved.]
THE ORPHAN OF THE TEMPLE.
Those who would follow the story of the dark days in the Temple, can do so best by the perusal of the record left by Madame Royale herself. Written with an almost naive simplicity, it is touching in the highest degree, while incidentally it affords graphic pictures of the various members of the royal family.
Here, for instance, is Marie Antoinette sketched to the life. “Her calm contempt and her dignified air generally struck them (the municipal officers) with respect. They seldom ventured to speak to her.”
“We passed the entire day together,” writes the princess. “My father gave a lesson in geography to my brother; my mother made him read some pages of history, and learn some verses, and my aunt gave him a lesson in arithmetic. My father was so fortunate as to find a library which gave him occupation; my mother employed her time in working embroidery.... My aunt spent the greater part of her time in praying, and always read the prayers of the day. She read a great number of books of piety, which my mother frequently requested her to read aloud.”
Every day exposed the prisoners to fresh insults.
“Antoinette pretends to be proud,” said Rocher, one of their guards, “but I have brought her pride down. She, her daughter, and Elizabeth bow as they pass me, in spite of themselves. They must bend to me, for I keep the wicket low. Every night I puff my smoke into the eyes of Elizabeth as she passes.” “Ca ira” was sung under the King’s windows, and he was openly threatened from time to time with death. After the end of September he was separated from his family, and they were only allowed to meet at meals. At these times they were only permitted to converse in a loud tone, and in French, and Madame Elizabeth was severely rebuked by one of the guards because she spoke to her brother in a low voice.
In December and January came the King’s trial and condemnation. The agony of these days of suspense to the Queen, her sister, and her children, cannot be described. When the fatal sentence was pronounced, they were allowed one parting interview. The story of that farewell has often been told. It lasted for nearly two hours and a half. When the moment of separation came, Madame Royale swooned at her father’s feet, and had to be borne away by the faithful Cléry, from whom she was snatched by one of the municipal officers, who carried her roughly to her room. All the night she fell from one swoon to another, and her aunt only left her to prostrate herself before the crucifix in an agony of prayer.
“The Queen had scarcely strength sufficient left to undress my brother and put him to bed. She herself lay down in her clothes, and all night long we could hear her shivering with cold and anguish.” The King had promised to see them again in the morning, but he deemed it better not to expose them to the further ordeal. The beat of the drums and the shouts of the people told them that all was over.
“Nothing succeeded in calming the anguish of my mother,” writes Madame Royale; “life or death had become indifferent to her. She sometimes gazed at us with a piteously forlorn air that made us shudder. Happily my own illness was increased by sorrow, and this gave my poor mother some occupation.”
Marie Antoinette was unwilling to walk in the garden of the Temple after her husband’s death, for in so doing she was obliged to pass the door of the room where he had been confined. Afraid, however, that the want of air would tell on her children’s health, she obtained leave to walk with them on the top of the Tower. The platform was, however, surrounded with lattice work, and the air-holes were carefully stopped. The Queen asked to have a door opened between her room and that of Madame Elizabeth, but this request, after being referred to the Council General, was refused. At all hours—sometimes in the dead of night—their rooms were invaded by the municipals, or by commissaries of the convention, often intoxicated, who rudely searched every corner, and took away whatever little trifles they could find. “They searched even beneath our mattresses,” says Madame Royale, on one occasion; “my poor brother was sleeping. They tore him roughly from his bed that they might search it, and my mother held him in her arms, quite benumbed with cold.”
In the beginning of July the Convention ordered that the Dauphin should be separated from his mother, and committed to the guardianship of Simon, the shoemaker, in another part of the Tower. A terrible scene ensued when this decree was communicated to the hapless prisoners. The poor boy—he was only eight years old—threw himself with cries of terror into his mother’s arms for protection, and Marie Antoinette for more than an hour defended the bed on which she laid him against the municipal officers, protesting that they should kill her before they should take away her child. “At length they grew enraged, and threatened so positively to kill both him and me, that her love for us once more compelled her to yield. My aunt and I took my brother out of bed, as my mother herself had no strength left; and, as soon as he was dressed, she took him in her arms, and, after bathing him in her tears, which were the more bitter as she foresaw that it was the last time she should ever see him, she placed him herself in the hands of the municipal officers.”
The mother’s cup of sorrows was nearly full. Madame Royale thus pictures the days that followed:—
“We ascended to the top of the Tower very frequently, because my brother also walked there at his side of the building, and the only pleasure my mother now had was to get an occasional distant glimpse of him through a small slit in the division wall. She used to remain there for entire hours, watching the moment when she could see her child. This was her only desire, her only solace, and her only occupation.”
A month later Marie Antoinette’s own turn came, and she was removed to the Conciergerie. She rose up, and submitted herself in silence.
“My mother, having first tenderly embraced me and exhorted me to take courage, to pay every attention to my aunt, and to obey her as a second mother, repeated to me the religious instructions I had before received from my father, and then, throwing herself into the arms of my aunt, she recommended her children to her care. I could not utter a word in reply, so overwhelmed was I at the thought that it might be the last time I should see her. My aunt said a few words to her in a low voice of anguish and despair. My mother then hastened from the room without casting another look towards us, fearful, no doubt, lest her firmness should desert her. She was stopped for some time at the bottom of the stairs while the municipal officers drew up a procès verbal for the keeper of the prison as a discharge for her person. In passing through the prison gate she struck her head against the wicket, her thoughts being so occupied that she forgot to stoop. She was asked if she had hurt herself. ‘Oh, no,’ said she; ‘nothing now can hurt me.’”
Madame Royale and her aunt were now left alone. Inconsolable at the loss of the Queen, they made constant and urgent inquiries concerning her, and begged earnestly to be reunited to her. They were only told, however, in the vaguest terms that no harm would come to her. In September the rigour of their imprisonment was increased. They were confined to one room, and no longer allowed a servant to do the coarse work. “We made our beds ourselves, and were obliged to sweep the room, which took us a long time to do at first, until we got accustomed to it.” They were not allowed to walk on the Tower, for fear they should attempt to escape, although the windows were all barred. Anything that could tend in any way to their comfort or convenience was taken away. Madame Elizabeth asked for something instead of meat on fast days. She was told that under the new rules of equality there was no difference between the days. When she asked another time, she was told, “No one but fools believe now in all that nonsense.” In spite of these refusals, however, she managed to keep Lent strictly when it came. She took no breakfast, and reserved the coffee then provided for her dinner, while at night she only took bread. She wisely, however, forbade Madame Royale following her example, and urged her to eat whatever was brought, saying she had not yet come to an age which required her to abstain. In the winter evenings she taught her niece tric-trac, which they played together, “as a sort of distraction to our grief.” As the days began to get longer, however, they were not allowed any more candles, and had to go to bed as soon as it was dark.
The beautiful prayer composed by Madame Elizabeth, which the aunt and niece used daily, shows us the pure influence which was helping to mould Madame Royale’s character, and the spirit in which days of dreariness and grief were met and conquered:—
“What may befall me this day, O God! I know not; but I do know that nothing can happen to me which Thou hast not foreseen, ruled, willed, and ordained from all eternity; and that suffices me. I adore Thy eternal and inscrutable designs. I submit to them with all my heart, through love to Thee. I accept all; I make unto Thee a sacrifice of all; and to this poor sacrifice I add that of my Divine Saviour. In His name, and for the sake of His infinite merits, I ask of Thee that I may be endowed with patience under suffering, and with the perfect submission which is due to all which Thou willest or permittest.”
All this time they remained ignorant of the fate of the Queen. They had, indeed, heard the street hawkers crying the sentence of death under their windows; but, though their hearts misgave them at times, they refused to believe that the sentence could have been actually carried out, and so hoped against hope. Whether from callous indifference or because no one had the heart to tell them, the fatal news never reached their ears, and it was eighteen months before Madame Royale knew of her mother’s death.
Thus the days passed until the 9th of May, 1794. The day had been spent as usual, and the prisoners were just going to bed, when loud and continued knocking at the door and demands for immediate admission warned them of some new evil. The summons was for Madame Elizabeth. “Citizen, will you accompany us downstairs?” “And my niece?” “She shall be taken care of afterwards.” Madame Elizabeth embraced her niece, and told her, by way of reassuring her, that she would soon return. “No, citizen,” said the ruffians; “you will not return. Put on your bonnet and go downstairs.” “She bore it all with patience,” says Madame Royale, “put on her bonnet, embraced me once more, and told me to take courage and be firm, to place my hope in God, to live in the good principles of religion which my parents had taught me, and to keep constantly in my mind the last advice of my father and mother. She then departed.”
The young girl of fifteen was thus left, as she herself expresses it, “in an utter state of desolation.” She “passed a cruel night”; but, though filled with fears, she could not believe that serious harm could be intended to one who was so saintly and pure, and who could never be accused of taking any share in the Government or of any political offence. She was told the next day, in answer to her inquiries, that her aunt had been to take the air. She little thought that Madame Elizabeth had even then travelled her last journey and reached her long home.
Madame Royale’s health did not sink under these accumulated sorrows, heavy and bitter though they were. Hué, her father’s faithful attendant, writes of her:—“She had attained an age in which sorrows are keenly felt, but had learned by great examples to show herself superior to adversity. Left entirely by herself in the Tower of the Temple, God being her only adviser and support, she increased in grace and virtue, and grew like the lily which the tempest spared.” The loving foresight of her aunt doubtless contributed in great measure to the preservation of her health. She had planned out the days for her, appointing set times for prayer, reading, work, and the care of her room. She had taught her to do everything for herself, showed her how to freshen the air of the room by sprinkling water, and had made her take regular exercise by walking rapidly, watch in hand, for an hour at a time. She saw no one except the municipal officers, who continued to search her room at frequent intervals, and the persons who brought her meals. To the latter she never spoke; to the former only to answer briefly a direct question. Madame Elizabeth had impressed on her that if ever she were left alone, she should immediately ask to have a woman to live with her. She felt obliged to obey her aunt’s wish, but feared that if her request were granted, some uncongenial person would be given her for a companion. It was, however, refused, and the princess confesses that she was very glad.
So the long summer days passed away, and the autumn came and went. Day followed day in a dreary sameness of solitude. The Princess of France grew to be thankful for very small mercies. “I continued at least to keep myself clean,” she writes. “I had soap and water, and I swept my room every day.... I was not allowed any light; but in the long days I did not much feel this privation. They refused to give me any other books; those I had were books of piety and travels, which I had read over and over a thousand times. I also had a knitting machine, of which I was completely tired.”
The appointment of a fresh commissary of the Convention, named Laurent, to take charge of the princess and her brother, brought some little relief. The unhappy Dauphin, after enduring six months’ brutal treatment from Simon, had been left six months unattended and alone, and was reduced to the last degree of misery. Laurent, who seems to have been a kind-hearted man, did what he could for him, and treated Madame Royale with civility and consideration. She ventured to ask for news of her mother and her aunt, and asked him to use his influence to have her restored to her mother, but “he replied with an evident air of embarrassment and pain, that these were matters with which he had no concern.”
“The winter passed with tolerable tranquillity,” writes the princess, “and I had reason to be satisfied with the civility of my keepers. They offered to make my fire, and allowed me as much wood as I wished, which was a source of great comfort to me. They also brought me the books I asked for; Laurent had already procured me some. The greatest distress I had was in not being able to learn anything respecting my mother or my aunt.”
The course of the spring of 1795 was marked only by the gradual fading away of the Dauphin. The Committee of General Safety sent physicians at last, and fresh keepers strove by their kindness to compensate in some feeble measure for the past cruelties he had endured, but it was too late. He grew weaker and weaker, then fever set in, which he had no strength to resist, and he died on the 9th of June. The poor child was only a little over ten years old.
With the death of her brother, Madame Royale’s memoirs come to a conclusion, but we learn from other sources what followed.
The Government seem to have felt they had gone too far. A feeling of pity for “the daughter of the last King” began to be awakened. A petition was presented from the City of Orleans, urging that she should be restored to freedom, and negotiations were set on foot which had in view an exchange of the princess for some prisoners in the custody of the Austrian Government. Meanwhile Madame Royale was treated with much greater consideration, and a lady, Madame de Chantereine, was appointed to attend on her.
Above all her old friends, Madame de Tourzel, and her daughter, Pauline, and Madame de Mackan, former sub-governess to the children of France, were, after some difficulty, allowed to visit the Temple. Madame de Tourzel, in her memoirs, has left us many details of their first meeting.
THE PARTING.
They had left the princess feeble and delicate, and were surprised to find her beautiful, tall, and strong, and with that air of distinction which was her peculiar characteristic, while they traced in her the features of the King, the Queen, and even of Madame Elizabeth. She had much to tell them of all three, and they drew from her many touching particulars of her solitary captivity. She confessed she had grown so weary of her profound solitude, that she had said to herself that she should not be able to keep from loving any companion they might give her short of a monster. When Madame de Tourzel expressed a hope that she might be allowed to leave France, Madame Royale answered sadly “that she still found some comfort in dwelling in a country which held the ashes of those who had been dearest to her in the world.” And, she added with a burst of tears, that “she would have been much happier if she could have shared their fate instead of being condemned to weep for them.” No single expression of bitterness, however, escaped from her.
The good Marquise was considerably shocked at the freedom with which Madame de Chantereine treated the princess, and the airs of authority which she assumed over her. The Marquise and her daughter endeavoured to make her see this by the great respect which they themselves showed Madame Royale, but is was to no purpose. Madame Royale, however, had attached herself to the lady, and did not resent her familiarity. Any companion who showed her kindness was welcome to her, and Madame de Chantereine was an educated person, could speak Italian, of which the princess was fond, and gave her lessons in embroidery, at which she was very skilful.
Madame Royale was allowed once more to walk in the garden of the Temple. The faithful Hué hired a room in a house overlooking the garden, and ventured to sing in her hearing a ballad which foretold that her captivity would soon be over. More than this, he contrived to have conveyed to the princess a letter, with which he had been entrusted by her uncle, Louis XVIII., and to obtain her reply. From Madame de Tourzel Madame Royale learnt that it was the wish of her uncle, as it had been that of her parents, that she should wed her cousin, the Duc d’Angoulême. It was the first time she had heard this, and she expressed surprise that her father and mother had never spoken to her on the subject, but Madame de Tourzel explained that they had probably refrained on account of her youth, and for fear of distracting her attention from her studies. The thought of being able to carry out what had been her parents’ wish made a great impression on the princess, and with a fresh interest thus awakened she asked Madame de Tourzel many questions respecting the Duke.
The discovery, however, of a supposed Royalist plot, and, later on, the application of the Tuscan Envoy to be allowed to salute the princess, caused her to be again more closely confined and debarred from the society of her friends. But her captivity was now to be only of short duration, and at the end of November the following order opened the gates of the Temple:—
“The Executive Directory resolve that the Ministers of the Interior and Foreign Relations are charged to take the measures necessary to accelerate the exchange of the daughter of the last King for the Citizens Camus, Quinette, and other deputies or agents of the Republic; to appoint a proper officer of the gendarmerie, fit for the purpose, to accompany the daughter of the last King as far as Basle; and to allow her to take with her such persons engaged in her education as she likes best.”
(To be continued.)
A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.
By JAMES MASON.
t the end of our last article we were speaking of the Post Office as a banking establishment, and we did not finish all there was to say on the subject.
Being both bankers and letter-carriers, the postal authorities offer unusual facilities to the public for sending money to different places, either in the United Kingdom, or in the colonies, or in foreign countries. This department of their business is divided into two branches—that dealing with Money Orders, which are an old institution, and that occupied with Postal Orders, which only came into use in 1880.
Money orders were first started in 1792 by three Post Office clerks, with the idea that they would be of service for sending small sums safely to soldiers and sailors. The business gradually extended, and in 1838 was taken over by the Government.
The charge for remitting was at first eightpence in the pound; but it has been reduced from time to time, the last reduction being made only a few months ago. It now stands as follows:—To remit to any place in the United Kingdom any sum not exceeding a pound costs 2d.; from one pound and not exceeding two pounds costs 3d.; from two pounds and not exceeding four pounds costs 4d.; from four pounds and not exceeding seven pounds costs 5d.; and from seven pounds to ten pounds you have to pay 6d. No single order is issued for more than ten pounds; but if you have to remit, say, thirty pounds, it is an easy matter to get three orders.
To get a money order, the first thing you have to do is to fill up an “application form,” to be had gratuitously at all money order offices. All post offices, by the way, are not money order offices. Here is a form filled up:—
Money Order Required
For £9 2s. 3d.
Payable at Pepperness.
To Miss Flora Sprat.
Sent by Esmeralda B. G. Constable.
Residing at Grumblethorpe.
The amount of the order required, along with the commission—the total in this case would be £9 2s. 9d.—is handed over with the form to the postmaster, or whoever is acting for him. No order may contain a fractional part of a penny. To make an order more secure, it may be “crossed,” just as we mentioned could be done with cheques. In that case it is payable only through a bank.
When a money order is to be paid in London, or in any other town where there are more money order offices than one, the sender should say at what particular office she wishes it to be paid. Should she not do so, and only say, “Payable at London,” or “Manchester,” or “Edinburgh,” the receiver of the order will get payment at the head office in the town only.
As a precaution against dishonest people, it is recommended that when the sender of the order is well known to the receiver, the letter enclosing it should be signed with initials only. When she is not well known, safety may be given to the order by making it payable ten days after date, or by having it crossed like a cheque, or by registering the letter containing it; or the name of the sender may be sent in a separate letter from that containing the money order. If ever you make a money order payable ten days after date, you must on obtaining it affix to it, in the presence of the postmaster, a penny adhesive stamp, and write your signature across the stamp.
When an order is presented for payment, the person presenting it is asked “Who sent this order?” and if this question is correctly answered, and the order is properly receipted, the sum is at once handed over, “unless the postmaster have good reason for believing that the applicant is neither the rightful claimant, nor deputed by him or her.”
Money orders are not only to be obtained for places in the United Kingdom. They are also issued on France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Holland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, the United States, and several other foreign countries, and on most of the British colonies and foreign possessions. The rates of commission charged for these foreign money orders are—For sums not exceeding two pounds, 6d.; from two pounds to five pounds, 1s.; from five pounds to seven pounds, 1s. 6d.; and from seven pounds to ten pounds, the highest limit of a single order—2s. The regulations affecting foreign money orders may be seen in the useful Postal Guide, which is published, as we mentioned in our first article, once every quarter.
There has been a considerable falling-off of recent years in the number of inland money orders issued, colonial and foreign orders having, however, on the other hand, increased in number. The decrease has been brought about by the introduction of postal orders, as they are called, which have been found much more convenient in some respects, not to speak of their being, for small sums, decidedly cheaper.
These postal orders, payable on presentation without previous notice, are issued for fixed sums from a shilling up to a pound, and are to be obtained at all money order offices in the United Kingdom, as well as at Malta, Gibraltar, and Constantinople. Here are the amounts for which they are issued, together with the “poundage” payable on each order: There are orders for 1s. and 1s. 6d., on which the charge is ½d.; then there are orders for 2s., 2s. 6d., 3s., 3s. 6d., 4s., 4s. 6d., 5s., 7s. 6d., 10s., and 10s. 6d., which cost 1d. each; and, last of all, there are orders for 15s. and 20s., on which one has to pay 1½d. A postal order is in the following form:—
To the Postmaster in charge of the Money Order Office at.....................
Pay to........................., at any time within Three Calendar Months from the last day of the month of issue, the sum of Ten Shillings, on account of Her Majesty’s Postmaster-General.
When one has to remit broken amounts, say 4s. 2½d., or 8s. 3d., or 10s. 9½d., postage stamps may be affixed to the face of the orders; but the stamps used in this way on any one order must not exceed fivepence in value.
Every postal order issued has this regulation printed on it:—“The person to whom this order is issued must, before parting with it, fill in the name of the person to whom the amount is to be paid, and may fill in the name of the money order office at which the amount is to be paid.” The word must is underlined in the Postal Guide; but the public having discovered that postal orders are a very convenient form of small currency, have never taken the regulation seriously. In fact, postal orders are coming more and more to be passed from hand to hand like coin, the blank spaces in the order being only filled in when it comes to the last holder.
When circulating in this way, however, postal orders have an inconvenience: they must be cashed within three calendar months from the last day of the month when they were issued, otherwise a sum equal in amount to the original “poundage” is charged for every additional three months that passes before the order is presented for payment. Suppose a postal order kept on circulating, it would fall in value every three months. A shilling postal order at the end of a year would only be worth 10½d.; at the end of two years its value would be 8½d.; and suppose it remained uncashed for six years, all you would get for it would be ½d.
Before a postal order is paid, the blank spaces must be filled in, and the receiver of the money must sign her name at the foot. Should a postal order be “crossed” like a cheque, payment will only be made through a banker.
Leaving money and postal orders—which we have spoken about fully because they are such everyday documents—we come now to speak of Insurance. And this is a subject about which all prudent people should know something.
The object for which insurance exists is to guard against certain accidents to which we are all liable, such as the destruction of property by fire, or the loss of future earnings by disablement or death. An agreement is entered into by which one party, known as the insurer or assurer, agrees to pay to another, called the insured or assured, a certain sum in the event of the particular event insured against happening.
The document which states the conditions of this agreement is called the policy, and the payment made on account of the insurance is known as the premium.
Insurance of houses and goods against fire began in London in 1667, the year after the Great Fire, in which the citizens had so terrible an experience of the character of the all-devouring element. The business has now attained gigantic proportions, the insurance companies of our own day being as a rule very wealthy and profitable concerns.
The rates charged for insurance are calculated at so much per cent.—or so much for every hundred pounds—of the sum insured. They vary in amount according to the nature of the risk. If there is little danger under ordinary circumstances—as in a dwelling-house—of the property being destroyed by fire, the sum to be paid is low; if, on the other hand, the danger is considerable—as in a sugar refinery—the charge is high.
Risks may be divided into three classes—common, hazardous, and doubly hazardous. Common insurances are charged 1s. 6d. to 2s. per cent. per annum, with certain exceptions; hazardous insurances are charged 2s. 6d. to 3s. 6d. per cent. per annum, with certain exceptions; and doubly hazardous insurances are charged 4s. 6d. to 5s. per cent. per annum, with certain exceptions; and in the case of the exceptions the rate may run to 10s., 15s., or even more per cent.
In describing the property to be insured, you must be careful to tell the whole truth about it, so that the company may know what risk they are running in insuring it. Suppose, too, after the insurance has been effected the risk should become greater—say by the erection of a stove—you must not fail to keep yourself safe by communicating with the company. There are some kinds of property, such as ready money, books of accounts (their value as documents), bank-notes, stamps, bills, bonds, and other written securities, which insurance companies will not undertake to insure on any terms.
Insurance premiums are usually paid once a year at one or other of the four quarter-days. Fifteen days of grace are allowed after the expiry of annual policies, and if the premium is not paid before the end of these fifteen days, the insurance company holds itself free from all risk. All policies, however, are not annual ones. You may insure for any length of time. No days of grace are allowed on “short-time policies”—that is, on policies for less than twelve months.
If one has any property to speak of, it is always well to insure, for accidents will happen. Perhaps, after paying for many years without a disaster, one may be inclined to lament having insured at all, and wish that all the money paid in premiums were in her own pocket; but this is not the right way of looking at it. The money sunk in premiums is well spent in buying ease of mind. A person insured can sleep in comfort, knowing that if fire should overtake her property she will recover full value; whilst one uninsured may pass many sleepless hours thinking, If I am burned out, what will become of me?
Life Insurance is quite as useful an institution as insurance against fire; indeed, it has been called “one of the greatest blessings of modern times.” In it, by means of an annual payment, varying according to the age of the person whose life is insured, a sum is secured in the event of death. A girl may not have any necessity for benefiting survivors in this way, but she should know something about the matter for all that.
In insuring one’s life the applicant is required to furnish information as to her own health and habits of life, and some particulars as to her family history. If the application should be rejected on the ground of ill-health or a tendency to hereditary disease, you must just try elsewhere: offices are to be found that will insure unsound lives, the charge being, of course, proportioned to the risk.
The cost of life insurance is based on the expectation of life at different ages. The expectation of life, for example, of a girl of ten years of age is about 48 years; at fifteen about 44 years; at twenty about 40 years, and so on, decreasing year by year, till at last it dwindles down to nothing at all.
A period of grace, most commonly thirty days, is allowed after each life premium falls due. If it is not paid within that time, the conclusion is come to that the policy-holder intends to drop the contract.
It is a matter of great importance to be insured in a good office, and the most careful inquiry should be made on the subject before taking out a policy. “Safety,” says one writer, “ought to be the first consideration, and economy the second; but really, economy ought to be put first, for there is no economy in insuring in an unsound office, however low its premium may be.”
Life insurances on a small scale can be effected better, perhaps, through the Post Office than through any other channel. The Postmaster-General is authorised by an Act of Parliament to insure the lives of persons of either sex. The lives of children under eight years of age cannot be insured; from eight to fourteen they can be insured for not more than £5; and from fourteen to sixty-five they can be insured for any amount not less than £5 or more than £100. The security for the payment of the money at the proper time is the best in the world.
Forms of proposal for the insurance of lives are to be obtained at any Post Office Savings Bank, and anyone can see there the tables of the premiums to be charged, and obtain all other necessary particulars. As examples of the various ways in which insurance through the Post Office can be effected, take the following:—The life of a girl between fifteen and sixteen years old may be insured for £10 by an annual payment through life of 3s. 10d., or by an annual payment to the age of sixty of 4s., or by a single payment of £3 17s. Or she can assure £10 at the age of sixty years, after the payment of the final premium, or at death, should death occur before that age, by an annual payment of 4s. 6d., or by a single payment of £4 7s.
There are some companies which insure lives by the payment of a small sum weekly or fortnightly, a collector calling for the payments when they become due. This is a dear system; no more profitable than the purchase of tea half an ounce at a time. In these days of savings banks it is no excuse that it suits scantily filled purses. Instead of adopting it, it would be far better for their own interest if people of small means would lodge the sums they would otherwise have paid the collector in the Post Office Savings Bank, and at the end of the year direct that the amount be applied to the payment of an insurance premium.
Besides the two forms we have mentioned there are other varieties of insurance. You can insure plate glass against breakage, boilers against bursting, and crops against hailstorms. The lives of horses and cattle can be insured, and pig insurance companies are not unknown.
Insurance against accidents is another useful variety. It dates back from 1849, when a company was started to insure against the consequences of railway accidents. In return for a payment of 3d., 2d. or 1d. made by first, second, or third class passengers respectively, for insurance during a single journey, it undertook to pay £1,000, £500 or £200 in case of death by such an accident, or a certain weekly allowance in respect of personal injury not resulting in death. A few years later the business was extended, and people can now insure against accidents of all kinds by a yearly payment proportioned to the degree of risk supposed to attach to various occupations or other conditions of life.
There is another kind of insurance worth knowing about: Fidelity Guarantee Insurance, it is called. By means of it employers are guaranteed against the dishonesty or insolvency of their servants. Previously, people in positions of trust often got others to be surety for them, but the system of private suretyship led to many hardships. Solomon was right, and let all wise girls take note of it: “He that is surety for a stranger shall smart for it; and he that hateth suretyship is sure.” The guarantee of a company, given as a pure matter of business, and for an annual payment, is now generally preferred. Of course, before giving a guarantee the company makes very particular inquiry regarding the character of the person and the checks to be used by the employer. Some companies insure only against embezzlement, whilst others protect the employer against any failure to make good the sums entrusted to the employé. The premiums to be paid annually range from 10s. to 60s. per cent. of the sum guaranteed.
Annuities are our next subject. An annuity is a periodical payment made either for a fixed number of years or whilst a given life lasts. It may be paid yearly, quarterly, weekly, or otherwise. It may come to one as a gift, or be left as a legacy, but it can also be purchased through an insurance company by the payment of a certain sum of money supposed to be its equivalent in value. Annuities bought in this way may be either immediate—that is to say, the payment of them beginning at once—or deferred; in other words, the enjoyment of them postponed till after a certain number of years have elapsed. If, say, £100 is to be received each year by anyone, he or she is said to have “an annuity of £100.”
For young people, with all the chances of life before them, the purchase of an annuity is seldom wise. The sum, observe, sunk in this way can never be had back again, even though an opportunity should occur for making a much more profitable use of it. But when people grow up, it is often the best way to make the most of a small capital, and to prevent their becoming, perhaps, a little later in life, a burden on their friends. The great thing, in settling whether to invest money thus, is to discuss the matter with common sense, and to ask, “What should I do, so as to be most useful to myself and to others?”
Annuities, both immediate and deferred, are granted by the Post Office for any amount not less than £1 or more than £100 to any person not under the age of five years. Forms of proposal for purchasing them are to be had at any Post Office Savings Bank. The sum charged varies with the age and sex of the person on whose life the annuity is to depend, and, in the case of deferred annuities, with the number of years which are to elapse before the commencement of the annuity.
The payment of a deferred annuity may be made in one sum, or it may be broken up into a number of small payments at regular intervals. You can, by a slight increase on the payment for a deferred annuity, secure the return of the purchase-money to your representatives in the event of your death before the commencement of the annuity, or to yourself, should you for any reason wish to be out of the bargain.
A word of advice is given by a sensible writer to all who are life annuitants. “They should bear in mind,” she says, “to live well within their income, as generally the whole of their money is one of life interest, and there will be no fund to fall back upon to pay funeral expenses, doctors’ bills, wages, etc., when they die, but their savings.”
Fire insurance, life insurance, and the purchase of annuities are amongst the sensible transactions of prudent and saving people. But sometimes the prudent and saving, quite through innocent misfortune, come down in the world, and have a difficulty in making both ends meet for the present, let alone providing for the future. Under these circumstances people without much experience, and especially women who are not business women, are very apt to fall a prey to the wiles of the professional money-lender. To the artful ways of the money-lending fraternity we shall devote what remains of this article.
If anyone is in want of a little ready money she has only to turn over the morning papers, and she will there see a score of advertisements headed “Money,” and all offering “loans on easy terms.” How is she to know, unless she has been told, that these petty money-lenders are one of the most serious evils of our present state of society, and that there are hundreds of them preying on the ignorance, the impulsiveness, and the necessities of their fellow-creatures?
“There is considerable variety,” says a writer in the Leisure Hour, “in the bait used by these angling money-lenders, but great sameness in the general form of the cruel hook by which poor silly fish are caught. Some of the advertisements are from ‘loan offices,’ others from ‘private gentlemen’ who are ‘willing to advance money’ and who have ‘no connection with loan offices.’ They all seem to have unlimited resources, from £2 to £1,000 being at the disposal of every borrower. The invitations are to respectable persons, male or female, in town or country; distance no object; personal application preferred, but not necessary. ‘Strict secrecy and prompt despatch’ are usually promised; answers to application ‘by return of post’ and money sent ‘at a day’s notice.’ So obliging are these gentlemen, ‘forms will be sent gratis,’ and in some cases the borrower is assured there are ‘no law costs’ and ‘no office fees.’ More convenient still there are ‘no securities required.’ To borrow is an easy matter after all.
“But of course there must be securities of some sort. Well, the borrower’s ‘note of hand’ is sufficient, with deposit of deeds, leases, life policies, or, if preferred, a bill of sale on furniture or other goods ‘without removal’ (i.e. at the time of borrowing). Then the repayment may be by ‘easy instalments.’” How accommodating!
Many of these assertions the needy borrower will find abundant reason to doubt before the loan is completed. On application she will be puzzled to reconcile the terms named to her with those in the alluring advertisement, and will find the rate of interest to be truly “five per cent. and upwards,” fifty per cent. being no uncommon demand, in addition to expenses connected with and deducted from the loan. Should she complain about the expenses, she is usually told that they are rendered necessary by the existence of some special risk in her particular case.
The writer whom we have just quoted tells a sad story of a poor widow lady, who, being pressed for her rent, saw a money-lender’s advertisement and answered it. The money-lender came, and obtained the lease of the house as a security, “only a form, you know.” He was such a polite, kind man; and interest, she understood, was to be only £5 per cent.
Soon after the widow had an offer for her house and furniture, so she went to redeem the lease held in security by the money-lender. The poor woman, who had signed the papers presented to her, either without reading them or without thoroughly understanding them, then learned for the first time that “£5 per cent.” did not mean £5 a year for the loan of a hundred pounds. The money-lender’s advertisement did not say “£5 per cent. per annum.” He lent his money at £5 per cent. per month, or £60 for a year for £100, besides various fees and charges. The moral of the story is that it is very foolish to have anything to do with money-lenders, and that it is still more foolish to go into any transaction without making perfectly certain as to the exact amount for which one is liable.
There are some money-lenders who only pretend to lend: as a matter of fact, they never do. Their profits are derived solely from booking fees, office expenses, and charges for the sham “inquiry,” which always is of so unsatisfactory a nature that the loan cannot be granted. It is true the advertisements of these gentry often state that no preliminary fees or office expenses of any kind are charged. The borrower, however, is in such cases informed that these payments are dispensed with only in the cases of certain classes, in none of which, we need hardly say is she fortunate enough to find herself.
(To be continued.)
A PASTORALE.
By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.
ne evening, in the middle of August, John and Charlie got home before Mr. de Courcy had left. The epidemic among the sheep was nearly over now, and consequently they were not detained so late as they had been for the last month. Both the shepherd and his son were astonished to see this grand French gentleman seated on a little wooden stool at Fairy’s feet, quite at home, and apparently on intimate terms with her and Mrs. Shelley, for they were all three laughing merrily at Mrs. Shelley’s attempts at French when the shepherds arrived.
“Why, here is John! This is my friend, Mr. de Courcy—Mr. de Courcy, this is John, and this is my foster-brother,” said Fairy, inwardly feeling very much ashamed of the latter, who, to her annoyance, only pulled his forelock, and was too shy to say a word.
Rex jumped up, no less astonished at the apparition of these two shepherds in their smock frocks, with their crooks in their hands, than they were at the sight of him, and then, having executed one or two of his French bows, he entered into a conversation with John Shelley about his sheep as easily as he would have discussed art or literature with people in his own rank of life.
And if Fairy felt ashamed of Charlie with his clump shoes, his dirty hands, his Sussex brogue, and his uncouth, clownish manners, she was rather proud than otherwise of John Shelley, who, with his hat in his hand, stood there with a gentle dignity all his own, talking simply of his sheep, with an honest pride in his position as head shepherd of the largest sheep-farmer in the district that was as naive as it was touching.
But as Rex walked back to Oafham that evening it was with a weight on his mind that he saw no chance of removing. Hitherto he had only pictured to himself an ideal pastoral shepherd as Fairy’s foster-father, and though John Shelley might have sat to an artist as a patriarchal shepherd, there was nothing ideal or poetical about Charlie: a more realistic clod-hopping youth it would be hard to meet with, even in the South Downs. And this was Fairy’s foster-brother! Just imagine his mother’s face or Lady Oafham’s if they were introduced to Charlie as the foster-brother of Rex’s future wife. Such a thought was so appalling that it actually prevented Rex from paying his accustomed visit the next day, though he was miserable, and so afraid he might have offended Fairy by his absence, that after a sleepless night and a very impatient morning, he presented himself at the shepherd’s house the next day as usual.
“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” were Fairy’s first words.
“My dear Fairy, we can’t expect Mr. de Courcy to honour us with a visit every day,” said Mrs. Shelley, reprovingly.
“Did you miss me? If I only dared to think you did!” said Rex, in French.
“Never mind that; I want to know why you did not come yesterday. Come, confess my foster-brother frightened you away now, didn’t he?” said Fairy, in the same language.
And Rex, bargaining first for absolution, made a full confession of his fault, and, in spite of Mrs. Shelley’s presence, would have gone on, under cover of a foreign language, to confess his love too, if the arrival of John Shelley had not stopped him. The shepherd looked grave when he saw Mr. de Courcy, but Rex made himself so pleasant and agreeable that the frown vanished from his face, and it was only after Rex had left that he resumed his grave look.
The shepherd was very silent during supper, and Mrs. Shelley was not wrong in her conjecture that there was a marital lecture in store for her when Fairy was gone to bed and they were alone.
“Polly,” said the shepherd, suddenly, as Fairy’s door closed, “how long has this been going on?”
“Has what been going on?” returned Mrs. Shelley, knowing well enough all the while what her husband meant.
“How long have you been deceiving me and allowing that young gentleman to steal my poor little Fairy’s heart?” said John, sternly.
“I never deceived you in my life, John Shelley. How dare you say such a thing?” retorted Mrs. Shelley, warmly.
“Polly, it is no use being angry about it; you have done wrong, and you know it as well as I. From what I saw the other day and to-day it is very clear this gentleman has been coming here pretty often, and you kept it from me, knowing well enough I should have put a stop to it, had I known it, long ago, as I shall do now, though I misdoubt me but the mischief is done already, for I am afraid Fairy has lost her heart.”
“And pray why should you want to put a stop to it? Why should not Fairy marry Mr. de Courcy if they care for each other?” asked Mrs. Shelley, anxious to divert John’s attention from her offence.
“For two excellent reasons. First, we know nothing at all about him; pleasant as he appears, he may be a scamp for aught we know; and in the next place, supposing he is all he appears, it is quite certain neither Lady Oafham nor his own parents would hear of his marrying the foster-child of a poor shepherd.”
“Mr. de Courcy a scamp! I am as certain he is all he seems to be as I am that you are an honest man, and for all we know Fairy may be as well-born as he is; and as for your stopping it, you will have a hard task to do that, I am sure.”
“Hard or not, I shall do it, and at once,” said John, decidedly, and Mrs. Shelley saw he was too vexed to be persuaded not to take the matter in his own hands, and, conscious as she was that he was right and that she had acted foolishly, though she was too proud to acknowledge it, she now thought it wiser to say no more about it, though she was intensely curious to know what he would do.
The next morning, when Fairy came back from the rectory to dinner, which these two generally ate alone, John and Charlie taking theirs with them, for they went as far as five or six miles from home with their flocks, Mrs. Shelley thought it better to warn Fairy of what was in store for her before Mr. de Courcy made his appearance that afternoon, as in the ordinary course of things he was sure to do; so, waiting till Fairy had finished her dinner, lest her news should destroy the girl’s appetite, small enough at all times in Mrs. Shelley’s opinion, she said, “Fairy, John is very angry with me for letting Mr. de Courcy come here so often. He told me of it last night after you were gone to bed, and he has not opened his lips to me since.”
“John angry! Why should he be angry, mother? I thought he liked Mr. de Courcy. Perhaps some more sheep have died, and he is only grieving for them. You have made a mistake; he can’t be angry about me.”
“But he is, though. What is more, he is going to put a stop to Mr. de Courcy coming here.”
“Oh, but mother, he can’t do that. I shall tell Rex—I mean Mr. de Courcy—I wish him to come, and he just won’t pay any attention to John. He will come all the same, I am sure,” said Fairy, not at all alarmed by John’s threat.
“I doubt it, Fairy. You have always done as you liked with John up to now, but now he has taken it into his head it is his duty to stop these visits, he will do it; even you won’t be able to stop him. And if Mr. de Courcy should come this afternoon, you had better tell him John won’t allow him to come to this house, because he is certain his relations would not approve of it if they knew. And, Fairy, take my advice, and tell him to-day, for I am half afraid it will be the last time you will see him.”
“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Fairy, turning so pale that Mrs. Shelley saw at a glance the mischief was done, and that if John put his threat into execution, and she was certain he would, it would go very near to breaking poor little Fairy’s heart, except hearts, in Mrs. Shelley’s opinion, were very hard things and took a deal of breaking.
“Well, well, child, tell Mr. de Courcy, and see what he says, but I am as sure as I am standing here John will keep his word, if he has not done so already.”
“Already! Oh, mother, Rex must come this afternoon; I am certain he would never stop away without telling me, for all the Johns in the world,” said Fairy; but in spite of her words she was terribly afraid lest he should not come, and spent the afternoon till nearly four o’clock, in watching alternately the road and the clock, until, at last, to Mrs. Shelley’s delight no less than Fairy’s, Rex’s step was heard.
It was a fortunate coincidence for Mr. de Courcy and Fairy that Mrs. Shelley, who always spent the afternoon with them, was so occupied, according to her own account, with some work indoors, which could not possibly be postponed, that she had only time to come to the door once or twice and peep out at them. The first time she came they were sitting side by side on the bench. Mr. de Courcy had his back to Mrs. Shelley, but, from the eager way in which he was bending towards Fairy, who was looking on the ground with a happy smile on her bright little face, Mrs. Shelley thought it would be a pity to interrupt them. The next time she looked out, which was half an hour later, the bench was empty, but, looking across the field, she saw the lovers sauntering along arm-in-arm as happily as if the whole world was made for them, and there were no such thing as angry parents or guardians to break in and destroy their happiness.
“Poor young things! I have not the heart to call them back, though I suppose John would say I ought. I’ll let them be; they may as well be happy for one day at any rate; their game is almost played out, I doubt,” said Mrs. Shelley, watching them as they strolled slowly along, regardless of the hot afternoon sun, still high in the heavens.
The next time Mrs. Shelley looked it was past six, and time John and Charlie were in to supper, though neither of them had yet appeared; and when she went to the door to see if they were coming, there was no one to be seen but Fairy leaning on the gate and straining her eyes and waving one of her little hands in the direction of Oafham.
“Fairy, are John and Charlie coming? It is almost supper-time,” called out Mrs. Shelley, who, truth to tell, was not a little curious as to what had passed between Fairy and Mr. de Courcy, a curiosity which was soon to be gratified, for Fairy came running towards her.
“Oh, mother, mother! I am so happy; Rex loves me, and I am going to be his wife some day.”
And as she spoke, Fairy threw herself into Mrs. Shelley’s motherly arms.
(To be continued.)
By JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.
By the Rev. JOHN KELLY, Translator of “Hymns of the Present Century.”
Shortly after the visit to Düsseldorf her mother was requested to bring about a meeting between her daughter and the Prince of Roumania, Prince Charles of Hohenzollern. The Princess Elizabeth was very anxious to attend a concert to be given in Cologne in October, at which Clara Schumann was to take part. It was arranged that they should go to Cologne for the purpose, and that the meeting with the Prince, who was then in Paris, should take place there. They put up at the Hotel du Nord. Hours passed, and the Prince did not appear. The ladies went into the flower garden to dine. The dinner came to an end, and Princess Elizabeth had not noticed that she had been narrowly watched for a considerable time by a group of gentlemen. One of them stepped forward and introduced himself to her mother as the Prince of Roumania. Princess Elizabeth, ignorant of the fact that the meeting had been pre-arranged, stretched out both her hands to him with unfeigned pleasure, and said, “I am so glad that we have met here accidentally.” For several hours they remained together among the flowers, and in the Zoological Gardens, in animated conversation.
On her return to the hotel she exclaimed enthusiastically, “What a charming man he has become!” While she was dressing for the concert the Prince spoke to her mother, and asked her consent to the marriage. Princess Elizabeth, however, was only thinking of enjoying the music, and was beside herself with impatience on account of the delay caused by the Prince. When he left, the young Princess burst out of her room into the saloon, exclaiming, “But, mamma!” As if terrified she stopped at the threshold, when she saw the grave and agitated expression on the countenance of her mother, who ran forward, and threw her arms round her daughter’s neck, and said, “My child, the Prince of Roumania has asked your hand.” The astonishment of the daughter was great, but it became clear to her at once that, unconsciously to herself, her heart had been quite won by him.
When her mother asked her whether she would like to take time for consideration, she answered simply and decidedly, “Just let him come; I shall love him very much.” And when the Prince came and saluted her as his betrothed, she said to him in soft and winning tones, “It makes me so proud, and at the same time so humble.” That same night the Prince had to return to Paris. The entry in her diary on the 12th of October is, “I am engaged, and a happy bride.”[1] The public betrothal took place at Neuwied, on the 16th of October, and on the 15th of November they were married.
Princess Elizabeth had, previously to the appearance of Prince Charles as a suitor, rejected every proposal of marriage, but when, long before her engagement to him, her friends made plans for her, and wished that there might be a throne in store for her, she would jestingly reply, “The only throne that could have any attractions for me is the Roumanian, for there I should have something to do.” That this was no mere idle expression of a passing feeling is proved by her whole life and work in her new home. She has become in heart and life a Roumanian, and devoted herself with all her powers to the well being of her subjects. A wide and quite uncultivated field of work lay before her. The first thing to do was to make herself acquainted with it. She felt that for this purpose something more than crowded receptions was necessary, and she arranged to receive the ladies who were announced for presentation at Court singly. “It was too disagreeable,” she said, “to say what I did not really feel at receptions. In order to avoid a falsehood I took pains to feel the interest which I showed. Everyone needs sympathy. Now everybody interests me, and I find them all to be interesting. The receptions do not bore me any longer. On the contrary, I delight in them. One must do thoroughly whatever one does, if it is to succeed; one must be thorough if one would be anything.”
On the 8th of September, 1870, a daughter was born, who received the name of Maria at her baptism. The child was enthusiastically welcomed by the people, who said, “God bless the new citizen of Roumania! May she grow and prosper in the joy of her parents, and the welfare of her country!” Henceforth the infant daughter became the most important personage in Roumania.
The Princess Elizabeth studied the language with zeal, and acquired a perfect mastery of it. The Roumanians say, with a dash of pride, that she speaks it better than they do themselves, for she constructs her sentences with peculiar elegance.
“WAKING WOODS.”
In the year 1871 a club for the poor was founded by her, and soon after a society for the translation of children’s books. “There are absolutely no Roumanian school books, nor any for the people,” she wrote to her mother; “I will provide these. I have already distributed my best French books among the young ladies, and also interested several gentlemen in the work. The poet Alexandri will criticise and correct: then they will be quickly and cheaply printed. The language will in this way become in some measure fixed, and the young people, who cannot speak their own language decently, will learn it quite splendidly.” Her ideas were eagerly received by the people, and interested them more even than politics. In 1871 the Prince and Princess made a journey through Moldavia to Jassy, in order to become acquainted with that part of their dominions. It was a triumphal progress all the way. Their reception everywhere was alike brilliant and hearty. At Jassy their time was filled up with receptions, visits to churches and schools, etc.
Their summers are passed in the Carpathian Mountains, 2,900 feet above the sea. Their first residence was an old monastery called Sinaia; now it is Castle Pelesch, which the Prince has built. Distinguished people of all sorts—savans, artists, musicians—are received in this retreat, and are often entertained there for weeks together. Society of this kind is the great enjoyment of the Prince and Princess. In order to encourage native industry, the Court wears the native national costume while resident in the mountains.
In the ladies of her Court the Princess takes a truly motherly interest. She loves particularly to gather young people around her. Several young women are invited to stay some weeks every year at Sinaia, in order to share in the working life of the Princess.
In 1874 time of severe trial came to Prince Charles and his wife. Their child, Princess Maria, who was as lovely and as marked in her individuality as her mother, took ill of diphtheria, and died in the lap of her English nurse. Her last words were in English: “All is finished.” Up to the very last the Princess could not believe that the end was so near; but when the certainty of the fact was realised with overwhelming force, she bowed her head with humble submission to the will of God. “God,” she said, “has loved my child more than I have, therefore He has taken her to Himself. Thank God that He ever gave her to me!”
To her mother she wrote:—
“I often say that a mother’s love is stronger than the grave, and I rejoice in my child’s blessedness. But that earth appears darker to me in consequence cannot be altered. It must be endured.”
Her poems furnish abundant evidence of her estimate of a mother’s love, and of her love and grief for the loss of her child.
When she first went to Roumania, no one suspected that Princess Elizabeth was a poetess. Once, when the poet Alexandri was in attendance in Bucharest, she said to him with deep blushes, “I wish to make a confession to you, but I have not the courage.” After a long pause, she said bashfully, with a soft voice, “I, too, write poems.” At Alexandri’s request, she showed him some of them. He saw at once that she had poetical gifts, and encouraged her to go forward. He sent her a thick volume of his manuscripts, and she began to translate popular Roumanian legends into German. In the work of translation she learnt practically much of the “art of poetry.” She had written poetry hitherto just as a bird sings. Rhymes and verses came more readily to her than prose. It was in her great sorrow for the death of her daughter that she betook herself to translation. She needed to occupy her mind by strenuous work. This she found in translation. She not only translated Roumanian works into German, but also the treasures of German literature into Roumanian. In this way she thought she could render the greatest service to her subjects. The effect of such work upon her mind she describes to her mother thus:—“When I am not actually asleep, neither my head nor hands rest for a second; otherwise it fares ill with me. Constant activity keeps the mind fresh, and sometimes only am I overcome when I remember my beloved one.”
She naturally felt a great longing to see her mother once more. It was arranged for them to meet at Cologne, and from thence to proceed to St. Leonards for a few weeks. She was much impressed by London. They paid a visit to Oxford, where they were Max Müller’s guests for two days. It was here that she presented to her mother a book in missal form, called “My Journey Through the World; containing Rhymes and Versicles Confided to the Heart of My Mother.” Charles Kingsley was present when she astonished her mother by handing this volume to her, and was much touched by one of the poems pointed out to him, of which the following is a rough but faithful rendering. It is called
The book contained poems from the time of her confirmation till her thirtieth year.
During the Russo-Turkish War in 1877 Roumania was drawn into the conflict. One of the results was that the independence of Roumania was declared. The principality became a kingdom, and Prince Charles and Princess Elizabeth were crowned King and Queen. During the war the Princess set a noble example of what her biographer describes as “the inborn deaconess-calling of every woman.” The throne-room was converted into a workroom, where, under her immediate superintendence, linen and bandages were prepared. Women of all ranks and nationalities went in and out, and vied with each other in providing things for the army in the field. Out of her own means the Princess furnished a barrack hospital of a hundred beds, which she looked after herself. She extended her activity to all the other hospitals also that were organised. She ministered to all the wounded that were brought from the battle-field. Day and night she sought to comfort and encourage them. To many a dying man she spoke the last words of consolation; many received from her hand the pain-deadening chloroform. She induced many to submit to have limbs amputated. The Roumanian soldier prefers death to amputation. “Better die than be a beggar man,” he says. To one young soldier she pointed out that he had a long life before him, and ought to submit to the operation. “For love of you, Regina,” he sighed. She exercised a great moral influence over the suffering. Among the people she was called “The mother of the wounded.” Her strength seemed to be doubled in times of danger, when the claims upon her services were the greatest. She was always collected, and never lost her presence of mind, whatever agitation and despondency prevailed around her. When, in her anxiety about her husband and the army, she could only sleep for two or three hours, she would seek to divert her mind with music and poetry half the night, and at four in the morning she would walk up and down, and mentally arrange the work of the ensuing day. During the war she founded a sisterhood, defraying the expenses out of her own pocket. At first there were only two sisters, but in 1884 the number had increased to twenty. In hospitals and private houses they give their services for five francs a day, and are much in demand. Rich people often pay more, and thus the sisters can attend to the poor gratuitously. Other useful societies owe their origin to the Queen. As might have been expected, the moral and physical strain of the war time severely tried her. She has been subject to repeated attacks of fever. At the beginning of 1883 she had a dangerous illness, which excited the fears and sympathies of the whole Roumanian people. Her patience, gentleness, and consideration for all around her were very touching. She was saved by means of a successful operation. The King took her to Italy, and from thence to Neuwied. When they returned to Roumania, Castle Pelesch was near completion. In October, 1883, it was solemnly dedicated, in presence of all the high officials of the nation.
It is not many years ago since her poems became widely known. The Queen herself would never have thought of publishing them, had not numberless copies passed into various hands. Then she thought that “if they are worth the tiresome labour of copying, so are they of being printed.”
One of her most important volumes of poetry, if not the most important, of which a new edition has lately appeared, is called after the seat of her family, which has several times been mentioned in the course of this sketch, “Meine Ruh” (Mon Repos). It contains ballads and lyrical poems.
Some of the deepest questions that can occupy the human mind have been treated by her in other volumes.
Still in middle age, she carries forward her beneficent work, and we may hope in due time (far distant may the day be!) that the public may have the opportunity of reading the completed story of her life, which has been so well told in the volume from which we have derived all our information concerning her. The Baroness von Stachelberg is hardly guilty of any exaggeration when she says that “as woman, as Princess, as Queen, Carmen Sylva is one of the noblest and most remarkable of her sex.”
By DORA HOPE.
lla was, unfortunately for herself, very timid at nights; and even when at home had always been ready to imagine burglars and alarms of fire; and Kate had often laughed at her, and asked what she would do if, in her nightly searches round her bedroom, she should find a burglar under the bed, or hidden amongst the dresses secreted in her wardrobe.
As she had always been thus ready to take alarm on the smallest provocation, it is not to be wondered at that the old gardener’s mysterious warning filled her with anxiety; the more so that, in spite of all her efforts to persuade him, he resolutely refused to say anything more, and she was left in a state of hopeless bewilderment as to what his strange hints could mean.
The only thing she could do was to be specially watchful, and she determined that, in spite of her fears, she would sit up at night till the servants had gone to bed, and make sure that everything was properly secured.
It was very evident that they did not like it, and they did their utmost to compel her to go to bed first, by sitting up till very late themselves. But Ella had a determination of character which caused her, when once she was sure it was her duty to do anything, to persist in carrying out her intention in spite of all obstacles, and the servants’ objection to her sitting up last at night made her only the more determined to do so.
One night they had tried her patience sorely by lingering about, but when they had at last departed, Ella went her usual round, and found they had carelessly left a side door unfastened.
Having locked the door she went up to bed, and, in spite of feeling nervous and uneasy, she soon fell asleep, but only to be awakened a short time after by a stealthy sound in the room below.
She sat up and listened; it was true at last—there was certainly someone getting into the house.
What should she do? Should she cry for help, or follow her first instinct to bury her head under the bed-clothes? But her better judgment prevailed; and remembering that her aunt was often restless in the night, and that it was probably only nurse who had gone downstairs to get something for her, she slipped on her dressing-gown and the warm slippers Kate had provided her with, and crept quietly out of the room and down the stairs.
Her heart beat so fast that, to her ears, it drowned all other sounds, and it seemed to her almost that it must alarm the thieves. When she reached the hall she found her fears verified: a light gleamed under the dining-room door, and she heard voices whispering inside.
She thought of calling the dogs, but dared not risk alarming her aunt; so at last, summoning up all her resolution, she opened the door, and to her amazement found the table laid for supper, and a party seated round it, consisting of the two servants and two men.
The men instantly disappeared through the open window, without waiting to see who had interrupted them, leaving Ella alone with the two angry but frightened servants. The cellarette, which Ella was sure she had locked before going to bed, was standing open, and the contents were on the table. The cook’s face was flushed, and she had evidently been drinking a good deal.
Ella was so startled that she was quite silent for a few minutes, and the cook recovering herself first, began pouring out a torrent of abuse; when, to Ella’s intense relief, the door again opened, and Nurse entered, while at the same moment two dark figures appeared, clambering in through the open window. Annie, the housemaid, thinking them the same two who had just escaped, rushed towards them, but to her dismay found herself seized by a stalwart policeman, and old Mr. Dudley came to Ella’s side, begging her not to be frightened.
With this reinforcement Ella felt herself victorious, and soon regained her self-possession sufficiently to consider what was to be done. The policeman assured her that she had a perfect right to turn the two maids out at once, but her own good sense, even without Nurse’s advice, showed her that it would be wrong to turn out two young women late at night, however badly they might have behaved. Accordingly, acting on Mr. Dudley’s advice, she told them to go to their bedroom at once, and prepare to leave first thing in the morning.
Mr. Dudley accounted for his unexpected appearance by explaining to Ella that he had been sitting up late reading, and on looking out of his window before going to bed, he had noticed the two men lurking about, and having several times suspected that something was wrong, he had gone for a policeman, hoping to be in time to catch the thieves.
To Ella’s great relief Mrs. Wilson was at last convinced that the servants were untrustworthy, and made no objection when she heard that they had both left the house, with their boxes, immediately after breakfast next morning.
A respectable charwoman, recommended by Mrs. Mobberly, was engaged to do the work temporarily; and Ella, very much dismayed at such an unexpected responsibility, had to consider what steps must be taken to engage new servants.
To begin with, Mrs. Mobberly advised her to mention the matter to the tradespeople, who often hear of good servants, and at the same time she would herself go for Ella to a registry office in the town, which she knew to be thoroughly respectable. At the same time she gave Ella a very solemn warning against ever going to any registry office about which she knew nothing, as some so-called offices are places to be scrupulously avoided, both by mistresses and servants.
The result of this vigorous action was that Ella was besieged and overwhelmed by the number of applicants for the situations. Mrs. Wilson’s was a well-known place, where the work was easy, and the rule in most respects very light; and in addition to the respectable and pleasant-looking young women who came, Ella had to run the gauntlet of incompetent girls, impudent girls, girls who amazed her with the elegance of their attire, and others who disgusted her with their dirty slovenliness, not to mention all the middle-aged women in search of a comfortable home, and mothers anxious to secure a good place for their young daughters.
A good many of them were so evidently unsuitable that Ella soon disposed of them, and easily reduced the number to three or four applicants, who, however, all seemed equally suitable, and she felt so incapable of deciding between these, that she dismissed them all for the present, promising to write to each of the selected number the next day.
So far the task, though rather overwhelming for so inexperienced a housekeeper, had been comparatively simple, for Ella had been coached up beforehand, both by her aunt and Mrs. Mobberly, as to the most important questions to ask each applicant:—what had been her last situation, and why she left it; what wages she asked, where her home was, whether she belonged to any church, and whether she would be obliging and willing to undertake the rather miscellaneous duties, which included feeding the various animals, and occasionally helping to water or weed the garden, in addition to waiting on Mrs. Wilson, and the usual house-work. Ella was especially advised to explain the varied nature of their duties to any likely applicants, that there might be no misunderstanding about it afterwards. But the task of finally selecting the two best was rather more than Ella felt equal to; so, as usual, she consulted Mrs. Mobberly, who, feeling that Mrs. Wilson was not likely ever to be very robust again, and that it would therefore not be wise to have only young girls in the house, when Nurse should have left, advised Ella, if her aunt consented, to engage as cook a middle-aged widow, in whose son (a sailor) Mrs. Wilson took great interest, and whom she had known for several years as a respectable woman.
“I liked her very much directly I saw her,” said Ella, “but I was afraid she would not be so active and brisk about her work as a younger woman.”
“Very likely not, but with such a small household she can easily manage all she will have to do; and even if you should occasionally be obliged to have a charwoman for extra cleaning, it would be quite worth your while to do it, for the sake of the comfort of having an experienced woman in the house, whom you could depend upon to take care of your aunt, and who would know what to do in case of sudden illness.”
Then having, from Ella’s description, decided which of the young girls seemed most likely to suit, Mrs. Mobberly directed her to write to the girl who was still at her situation, and tell her to ask her mistress if she would kindly appoint a time when it would be convenient for Ella to call upon her about the girl’s character.
“Some ladies prefer to write direct to the mistress about a time to call,” Mrs. Mobberly explained, “but I always think if the girl is still in the situation it saves her mistress trouble if she can take a message.”
Ella felt very nervous at this part of her task, but carefully concealed her feelings from her aunt, from whom she knew she would get no sympathy, but only sarcastic remarks as to how, in her young days, people were more plainspoken, and called nervousness and shyness by their proper names of conceit and affectation.
Ella found the visit, when the time came, less alarming than she had expected, though in some respects less satisfactory; for she had never doubted but that the mistress’s report would at once decide her either for or against the maid, which did not prove to be the case. She told Ella the girl was honest, and sober, and knew her work well, but that on the other hand she was disobliging and pert in her manners.
These serious drawbacks would, of course, have decided Ella against her, but that being naturally a shrewd observer, she could not help being struck by the lady’s imperious manner, and very unpleasant, dictatorial way of speaking, which so disagreeably impressed her that she made up her mind there was probably a good deal of excuse for the girl, and resolved, if Mrs. Mobberly consented, to give her a trial.
This lady not only agreed, but warmly commended Ella for being observant, and added that she was sure servants had often a great deal to put up with from unjust and unreasonable mistresses, who would goad them into speaking rudely by their overbearing manners, or make it almost impossible for them to get their work done properly by constantly calling them off from it to attend to other things; and then, having the poor girls’ characters entirely in their hands, ruin their chances by blaming them for faults which they themselves had caused.
Thus encouraged, Ella sent for the girl again, told her the whole truth about the interview with her mistress, and asked how she came to have a character of that sort; to which the girl replied at once, with a straightforward manner which convinced Ella she was speaking the truth, that she had stayed longer at the place than any other servant she knew of, and that they all had the same character given them on leaving, the fact being that the mistress kept nagging at them all day long, and spoke in such a disagreeable way to them that she tried their tempers almost beyond endurance, and she was afraid that sometimes it was true, they were driven into answering her rudely.
So the matter was arranged, and very shortly afterwards the household settled down again into quietness and peace, with Mrs. Moore, the good widow, in charge of the house in general and the kitchen in particular, and Sarah, the “pert and disobliging” girl, to act under her supervision, as house and parlour maid. The very first day of their arrival, Ella, prompted, of course, by her aunt, explained to them both the rules of the house; that all windows and doors must be fastened by ten o’clock every night, that they must ask permission before inviting visitors to the kitchen, though leave would always be gladly given for suitable friends and at suitable times; and the same applied to going out. There were a few other matters Mrs. Wilson was particular about; that breakages or accidents of any sort should be reported to her at once, and not left to be found out accidentally; and that as good wages were given, there should be no perquisites of any sort.
Mrs. Wilson had a very great objection to clandestine “followers,” but saw no reason why servants should not be as openly engaged to be married as their young mistresses; so as soon as she found that the new maid, Sarah, had a “young man,” whom she ascertained to be a thoroughly respectable young mechanic, she told her she might invite him to the house once a fortnight, and to begin with, he might come to tea and go to church with her the following Sunday, but she must invariably come straight home after church, as Mrs. Wilson greatly disapproved of young women being out after church time: “If they must have a walk,” she said, “they could go before church, but all girls were better at home late in the evening.”
Mrs. Moore turned out to be a great help among the poultry, and relieved Ella’s mind greatly by her knowledge and cleverness with them. Almost her first work among them was to “set” two of the hens. She showed Ella how to make their nests in a secluded corner where the other fowls would not disturb them, and to arrange them so that they could not steal each other’s eggs. Then she selected the eggs, refusing the extra large ones that Ella suggested, and taking only well-formed, medium-sized ones.
“It is rather early in the year yet, miss, so we won’t give them too many eggs. It is better to get all out of a small sitting, than a few out of a large one. They are good-sized hens, though, so I think we will give them eight eggs each.”
The nests were made of hay, from which the longest stalks had been removed; and all round the nests Mrs. Moore scattered a thick layer of ashes.
When all was ready she brought one of the hens and put her near the nest. Directly the hen saw the eggs she went straight to them, and with a contented chuckle settled herself on them, carefully arranging them with her beak and legs. The other hen was not quite so quick, and preferred taking a survey of the premises first, but after a time she also settled herself, and they were left for their three weeks’ solitary confinement.
Every morning they were turned out to take their daily meal, and to dust their feathers with the dry sand and ashes provided for them at one corner of the run. In their anxiety about their precious eggs they would sometimes have omitted this duty, but Mrs. Moore was firm, and explained to Ella that it would be bad both for the hens and the eggs if they never left their nests.
Ella soon took a great interest in the hens, and became quite clever in lifting them from their nests (when gentle persuasion had not the desired effect), and after a little practice learnt to accomplish it without either pulling out the whole nest or jerking an egg or two out with the hen.
(To be continued.)
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.
THE RED FARM.
perceived a great change in Mrs. Markham after my mistress’s visit. She took less notice of the children, sent fewer messages to the nursery, ceased to interfere in the nursery arrangements, and often ignored my presence if she chanced to meet me in the hall or garden. Her manner convinced me that she was deeply offended by her sister’s patronage of me. Very probably Mr. Morton had spoken a few forcible words in my defence. They made her understand that they trusted me implicitly, and that any interference in my department would be displeasing to them. It was easy to read this from her averted looks.
Now and then I heard a word or two about “Violet,” “ridiculous infatuation,” when I passed the open drawing-room door. Rolf once asked me curiously why his mother disliked me so. “You aren’t so very wicked, are you, Fenny? Is it very wicked to be stuck up? Mother is so fond of using that word, you know.”
I tried not to listen to Rolf. I could afford to be magnanimous, for I was very happy just then. Gay’s partiality for me was evident, and I soon conceived the warmest attachment for her. She seized every opportunity of running up to the nursery for a few minutes’ chat, and she often joined us on the beach. One afternoon she asked to accompany us in a country ramble. Hannah had gone to Wheeler’s Farm to have tea with Molly, and Luke was to walk home with her in the evening. I thought how they would enjoy that walk through the cornfields and down the dim, scented lanes. Life would look as sweet to them as to richer lovers; youth and health and love being the three-fold cord that cannot lightly be broken. Gay made the excuse that she would be useful in taking care of Joyce while I wheeled Reggie in his perambulator, I overheard her saying to Mrs. Markham, but her speech only elicited a scornful reply.
“If Miss Fenton encourages Hannah in gadding about, there is not the slightest need for you to take her place, Gay; but, of course, you will please yourself.”
“Oh, I always please myself, Addie,” returned Gay, cheerfully, “and I shall enjoy a gambol among the lanes.”
And, indeed, we had a delightful afternoon gathering wild flowers, and resting ourselves in any shady corner where a fallen tree or stile invited us.
We were gathering some poppies that grew among the corn when Gay called me. She looked a little anxious.
“Merle, I am really afraid there is a storm coming up. You were noticing just now how close and sultry it felt; those clouds look ominous, and we are a mile and a half from Marshlands.”
I felt conscience-stricken at her words. We had been talking and laughing, and had not perceived how the sunshine had faded. Certainly, the clouds had a lurid, thunderous look, and the birds were flying low, and seemed fussy and uncertain in their movements. True, the storm might not break on us for another half-hour; but we should never get the children home in that time. I thought of Reggie with dismay.
“What shall we do, Miss Gay?” I returned, hurriedly. “It would be nearer to Wheeler’s Farm. We might take refuge there.”
“Wait a moment,” was her answer; “we shall be drenched before we get there. The Red Farm is not half a mile off. I think we had better take the children there, and then Mr. Hawtry will send us home in his waggonette. Come—come! Why do you hesitate, Merle? He is father’s old friend; and even Adelaide would find no fault with us if we took refuge at the Red Farm.”
I held my peace, for of course Miss Cheriton must know what her father and sister would approve; but I did not like the notion at all, and I followed her somewhat reluctantly down the field. I would much rather have gone to Wheeler’s Farm and put ourselves under Molly’s protection. Most likely they would have placed a covered cart or waggon at our disposal, and we should all have enjoyed the fun. Gay was so simple and unconventional, that she saw no harm at all in going to the Red Farm; but I knew what Aunt Agatha would say, and I took all my notions of propriety from her.
But the fates were against us, for just as we reached the stile there was Squire Hawtry himself, mounted as usual on Brown Peter, trotting quietly home. He checked Peter at once, and spoke in rather a concerned voice.
“Miss Cheriton, this is very imprudent. There will be a storm directly. Those children will never get home.”
He spoke to her, but I fancied he meant that reproachful look for me. No doubt I was the one to blame.
“It was very wrong,” I stammered; “but we were talking, and did not notice. I want Miss Cheriton to hurry to Wheeler’s Farm.”
“Oh, nonsense!” he said, abruptly; but it was such a pleasant abruptness; “the Red Farm is a mile nearer. Give the little girl to me, Miss Fenton, and then you can walk on quickly. I will soon have her under shelter.”
There was no disputing this sensible advice, and as soon as Peter was trotting on with his double burden I followed as quickly as possible with Reggie. We were only just in time, after all. As I wheeled Reggie under the porch of the Red Farm the first heavy drops pattered down.
I was in such haste, that I only stole a quick glance at the low red house, with its curious mullioned windows and stone porch. I had noticed, as we came up the gravel walk, a thick privet hedge, and a yew walk, and a grand old walnut tree in the centre of the small lawn with a circular seat. There were seats, too, in the porch, and a sweet smell of jasmine and clematis. Then the door opened, and there stood Mr. Hawtry, with a beaming face, and Joyce beside him, evidently pleased to welcome us all to the Red Farm.
I lifted Reggie out of the perambulator and carried him into the hall. It had some handsome oak furniture in it: heavy carved cabinets and chairs, and a tall clock. There was a tiger skin lying before the fireplace. An open glass door led into a charming old-fashioned garden, with a bowling-green and a rustic arbour, and a long, straight walk, bordered with standard rosetrees.
A tall, thin woman, with a placid face and grey hair, shook hands with Gay. Mr. Hawtry introduced her to me as “Mrs. Cornish, my worthy housekeeper,” and then bade her, with good-humoured peremptoriness, “to get tea ready as soon as possible in the oak room.”
“I am afraid the drawing-room has rather a chilly aspect,” he continued, throwing open a door. “Should you not prefer sitting in my den, Miss Gay, until Mrs. Cornish tells us tea is ready?”
I was sorry when Miss Cheriton pronounced in favour of the den. I liked the look of that drawing-room, with its three long, narrow windows opening on to the bowling-green. It had faint, yellowish panelled walls and an old-fashioned blue couch, and there was some beautiful china on an Indian cabinet. No doubt that was where his mother and Miss Agnes used to sit. Perhaps the room held sad memories for him, and he was glad to close the door upon them.
Mr. Hawtry’s den was a small front room, with a view of the privet hedge and the walnut tree, and was plainly furnished with a round table and well-worn leather chairs, the walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, his gun and a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols occupying the place of honour over the mantelpiece. Joyce called it an ugly room, but I thought it looked comfortable and home-like, with its pleasant litter of magazines and papers, and Gay said at once—
“I do like this old den of yours, Mr. Hawtry; it is such a snug room, especially in winter, when father and I have come in after a long, cold ride.”
“You do not come as often now, Miss Gay,” he said, looking at her a little keenly.
She coloured, as though the remark embarrassed her, and seemed bent on excusing herself.
“I am such a busy person, you see, and now I spend all my leisure time with the children. Am I not a devoted aunt, Merle?”
“You are very good to give us so much of your company,” I returned, for I saw she wanted me to speak; but just then a flash of lightning frightened Joyce away from the window, and she came to me for protection. Reggie, too, began to cry, and I had some trouble in pacifying him.
Gay good-naturedly came to my assistance.
“Supposing we take the children into the other room and show them the shells; it would distract their attention from the storm. We will leave you to read your paper in peace, Mr. Hawtry.” But he insisted on going with us. The cabinet had a curious lock, he assured us, and no one could open it but himself.
The children were delighted with the shells, and a little green Indian idol perfectly fascinated Reggie. He kissed the grinning countenance with intense affection, and murmured, “Pretty, pretty.” My attention was attracted to a miniature in a velvet frame. It was a portrait of a round-faced, happy-looking girl, with brown eyes, rather like Mr. Hawtry’s.
“That was my sister Agnes,” he said, with a sigh, and for a moment his face clouded over. “She died two years ago, after years of intense suffering. That miniature was painted when she was eighteen. She was a bright, healthy creature then. Look, that was her couch, where she spent her days. There is a mystery in some lives, Miss Fenton. I never understood why she was permitted to suffer all these years.”
“No, indeed,” observed Gay, who had heard this. “Violet and I were so fond of her; she could be so merry in spite of her pain. I think some of my pleasantest hours have been spent in this room. How pleased she used to be when I had anything new to tell her or show her. I do not wonder you miss her, Mr. Hawtry; I have always been so sorry for you.”
I thought he seemed sorry for himself, for I had never seen him look so sad. I wished then that Gay had not brought us back to this room; it was evidently full of relics of the past, when womanly hands had busied themselves for the comfort of the dearly-loved son and brother.
The little round table beside the couch, with its inlaid workbox and stand of favourite books, must have been Miss Agnes’s, but the netting case and faded silk bag on the other side of the fireplace, with the spectacles lying on the closed Bible, must have belonged to the mother. How sorely must he have missed them! Few men would have cared to have preserved these little homely treasures; they would have swept them away with the dead past. But now and then a strong manly character has this element of feminine tenderness.
I think my look must have expressed sympathy, for Mr. Hawtry came up to me as I stood alone by the window (for Gay was still showing the shells to the children) and said, a little abruptly—
“It is good of you to be sorry for me, but time heals all wounds, and, in spite of pain and loneliness, one would not call them back to suffer.” And then his voice changed to a lower key. “I wish Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton; how she would have sympathised with your work. All good women are fond of little children, but she doated on them. There were crowds of children in the churchyard on the day she was buried.”
I was too much touched to answer, but he went on as though he did not notice my silence.
“You seem very happy in your work?”
“Very happy.”
“One can see that; you have a most contented expression; it almost makes one envy you. I wonder how you came to think such work was possible.”
I do not know how it was, but I found myself telling Mr. Hawtry all about Aunt Agatha and the cottage at Putney. I had even let fall a word or two about my miserable deficiency. I am not sure what I said, but I certainly saw him smile as though something amused him.
I was almost sorry when Mrs. Cornish called us into the oak room, and yet a most pleasant hour followed. Mrs. Cornish poured out the tea, and the children were very good; even Reggie behaved quite nicely. The room was very dark and low, and furnished entirely with oak, but a cheery little fire burnt on the hearth; and though the thunder rain beat heavily against the window, it seemed only to add to our merriment. Mr. Hawtry had promised to drive us home in the waggonette, but we dared not venture until the storm was over.
When the children had finished their bread and honey they played about the room, while we gathered round the window.
Mr. Hawtry spoke most to Gay, and I sat by and listened. He spoke about Mr. Rossiter presently.
“I think him a capital fellow,” he said, in his hearty manner; “and it quite puzzles me why Mrs. Markham dislikes him so; she is always finding fault with him.”
“Oh, there is no accounting for Adelaide’s likes and dislikes,” replied Gay, a little impatiently. “Sometimes I think she would have found fault with St. Paul himself if she had known him.”
Mr. Hawtry laughed. “Rossiter is not a St. Paul, certainly, but he is a downright honest fellow, and that is what I like. Perhaps he is not a shining light in the pulpit, but he is so earnest and painstaking, that we cannot blame his want of eloquence. He is just the companion that suits me; always cheerful and always good-tempered, and ready to talk on any subject. I must say I am rather partial to Walter Rossiter.”
Now I wonder what made Gay look so pleased, and why her eyes beamed so softly on Mr. Hawtry. But she said nothing, and Mr. Rossiter’s name soon dropped out of the conversation.
Very shortly after that the rain cleared and the waggonette was ordered. While we were waiting for it, Gay asked me to come with her into the dairy to see Lydia Sowerby. I was anxious to see Hannah’s sister, but I own I was not prepossessed with her appearance. She had red hair, like Molly—indeed, most of the Sowerbys had red hair—but she was far plainer than Molly, and it struck me her face looked hard.
I was to own by-and-by, however, that first impressions may be wrong, for a few moments afterwards, when Mrs. Cornish carried Reggie into the dairy, Lydia’s hard-featured face softened in a wonderful manner, and such a pleasant smile redeemed her plainness.
“Oh, do let me hold him a moment,” she said, eagerly; “he reminds me of little Davie, our poor little brother who died. Hannah has talked so much about him.” And when Mrs. Cornish relinquished him reluctantly, she carried him about the dairy with such pride and joy, that Mrs. Cornish nodded her head at her benignantly.
“You are a rare one for children, Lyddy; I never saw a woman to beat you. She is always begging me to ask Dan,” she went on, turning to us. “She spoils Dan hugely, and so does Molly; they are both of them soft-hearted, though you would not believe it to look at them, but many a soft fruit has a rough rind,” finished Mrs. Cornish.
Reggie was asleep all the way home, but Joyce prattled incessantly. I took them into the house as quietly as I could, after bidding Mr. Hawtry good-night. I thought it best to leave Gay to explain things to Mrs. Markham.
But all that evening, until I slept, a sentence of Mr. Hawtry’s haunted me. “I wish my sister Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton.” Why did he wish that? And yet, and yet I should have been glad to have known Agnes Hawtry, too.
(To be continued.)
A Good Offer.
“I will save you a thousand pounds,” said an Irishman to an old gentleman, “if you don’t stand in your own light.”
“How?”
“You have a daughter, and you intend to give her ten thousand as a marriage portion.”
“I do.”
“Sir, I will take her with nine thousand.”
In Solitude.—Those beings only are fit for solitude who like nobody, are like nobody, and are liked by nobody.—Zimmerman.
In Lasting Remembrance.—Write your name with kindness, love, and mercy on the hearts of the people you come in contact with year by year, and you will never be forgotten.
A Curiosity in Words.—The five vowels appear in alphabetical order in “abstemious,” also in the word “facetious,” and “abstemiously” and “facetiously” give us the y.
Looking Ahead.—When we meet with the little vexatious incidents of life, by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it will prevent many painful sensations if we only consider—How insignificant this will appear a twelvemonth hence.
How to be Learned.—A Persian philosopher being asked by what method he had acquired so much knowledge, answered, “By not being prevented by shame from asking questions when I was ignorant.”
Liberty.
Widespread Sorrow.
Jealousy.
A Bargain Hunter.—It is told of a gentleman that he had a passion for the purchase of second-hand furniture at auctions, and that in making “good bargains” he had filled his house with antiquated and almost useless articles. Upon one occasion, his wife took the responsibility, without consulting or apprising her husband, to have a portion of the least useful removed to an auction-room. Great was her dismay when, on the evening of the day of sale, the majority of the articles came back to the house. The husband had stumbled into the auction-room, and, not knowing his own furniture, had purchased it at better bargains than at first.
Constant Companions.—Hypocrisy and cunning travel together, and they cannot get very far separately.
Advice to a Wife.—Try to make home necessary to a man’s happiness, and you will almost always succeed.
Echoes.
The Education of Woman.—Education is not that which smothers a woman with accomplishments, but that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular character—to form a friend, a companion, and a wife.—Hannah More.
On a Summer Holiday.—After shutting up her house for some time, a woman used a weak tincture of iodine to stain herself and her children brown, and then succeeded in convincing all the neighbours that she had been to the sea-side.
Truth.—Truth comes home to the mind so naturally, that when we learn it for the first time it seems as though we did no more than recall it to our memory.—Fontenelle.
An Infirm Tribunal.[2]
The fact has been mentioned above of Camille Desmoulins’ stutter, which indomitable perseverance and enthusiasm in his chosen cause so far threw into the shade as that it proved no drawback to his attainment of a pre-eminent position in those troublous times.
It must be acknowledged as a somewhat singular circumstance that another of the revolutionary chiefs suffered from an affliction that would appear a still more certain impediment to success in public life. Couthon, while yet an obscure provincial advocate in Auvergne, was stricken with paralysis, which deprived him of the use of his limbs. Yet Couthon, thus laid past, as it might seem, once and for all, on life’s most obscure and dismal shelf—Couthon was no longer in Auvergne, but in Paris, in the forefront of the fiercest turmoil! Couthon, the paralytic, formed the third of the famous Triumvirate which exercised for above a year—an age in revolutionary times—the Dictatorship of France.
It is another rather curious fact about this man that, in spite of his grievous infirmity, he is represented as a person of engaging aspect and noble presence. When any measures of peculiar severity were to be proposed, he was always chosen by the committee to bring them forward, and he was remarkable for uttering the most atrocious and pitiless sentiments in a tone and with a manner the most affectionate and tender. The details of those wholesale murders, the Fournées, or Batches, as they were grimly termed, which marked the last and most sanguinary month of the Reign of Terror, were left to the unflinching hands of this pitiless, soft-seeming Couthon, and the suspicious, ferocious St. Just.
Proud and Ungrateful.—Never was any person remarkably ungrateful who was not also insufferably proud, nor anyone proud who was not equally ungrateful.
The Way of the World.—When two people disagree, each person tells her own story as much to the disadvantage of the other as she possibly can. The rule of the world on these occasions is to believe much of the evil which each says of the other, and very little of the good which each says of herself. Both, therefore, suffer.
Mothers-in-Law.—“Yes,” said a mother-in-law, “you can deceive your guileless little wife, young man, but her father’s wife—never!”
The Obedient Husband.
A clergyman, travelling through the village of Kettle, in Fifeshire, was called into an inn to officiate at a marriage, instead of the parish minister, who, from some accident, was unable to attend, and had caused the company to wait for a considerable time.
While the reverend gentleman was pronouncing the admonition, and just as he had told the bridegroom to love and honour his wife, the said bridegroom interjected the words, “and obey,” which he thought had been omitted from oversight, though that is part of the rule laid down solely to the wife. The minister, surprised to find a husband willing to be henpecked by anticipation, did not take advantage of the proposed amendment; on which the bridegroom again reminded him of the omission. “Ay, and obey, sir—love, honour, and obey, ye ken!” and he seemed seriously discomposed at finding that his hint was not taken.
Some years after the same clergyman was riding through the village, when the same man came out and stopped him, addressing him in the following remarkable words: “D’ye mind, sir, yon day, when ye married me, and when I wad insist upon vowing to obey my wife? Weel, ye may now see that I was in the richt. Whether ye wad or no, I hae obeyed my wife; and behold, I am now the only man that has a twa-storey house in the hale toun!”
A Natural Explanation.—The greater longevity of women as compared with men appears to be well borne out by the statistics of every country that has yet been examined. This shows that, after all, it is not bright dresses, heavy skirts, and thin shoes that kill. It is the paying for them that does it.
Musical Performers.—“Three things,” said Mozart, “are necessary for a good performer”; and he pointed significantly to his head, to his heart, and to the tips of his fingers, as symbolical of understanding, sympathy, and technical readiness.
Encouragement.
A Comforting Thought.—When any calamity has been suffered, the first thing to be remembered is how much has been escaped.—Dr. Johnson.
A Gipsy Trick.
The feat known by the gipsies as “the great secret,” is performed by inducing some woman of largely magnified faith—say some decent farmer’s wife—to believe that there is hidden in the house a magic treasure, which can only be made to come to hand by depositing in the cellar another treasure, to which it will come by natural affinity or attraction.
“For gold, as you sees, my dearie, draws gold, and so if you ties up all your money in a pockethandkerchief and leaves it, you’ll find it doubled. And wasn’t there the squire’s lady, and didn’t she draw two hundred gold guineas out of the ground when they’d laid in an old grave—and only one guinea she gave me for all my trouble; and I hope you’ll do better by the poor old gipsy, my dearie.”
The gold and all the spoons are tied up—for as the enchantress observes, there may be silver, too—and she solemnly repeats over it certain magical rhymes. The next day the gipsy comes to see how the charm is working. Could anyone look under her cloak she might find another bundle precisely resembling the one containing the treasure. She looks at the precious deposit, repeats her rhyme again and departs, after carefully charging the housewife that the bundle must not be touched or spoken about for three weeks. “Every word you tell about it, my dearie, will be a guinea gone away.” Sometimes she exacts an oath on the Bible that nothing shall be said.
Back to the farmer’s wife never again. After three weeks another extraordinary instance of gross incredulity appears in the country papers, and is perhaps repeated in a colossal London daily, with a reference to the absence of the schoolmaster. There is wailing and shame in the house—perhaps great suffering, for it may be that the savings of years have been swept away. The charm has worked.—Leland.
The Pleasure of Giving.—She who gives for the sake of thanks knows not the pleasure of giving.
A Paradox.
Slaves to Pleasure.
Allegro.—The madrigal (a pastoral song) and the glee are not the same. The musical phrases in the former, complete in themselves, seldom went together in the different voice parts. One phrase began before the ending of the other, as it were over-lapping one another. It was usually sung in chorus, whereas glees were sung in single voices. A catch is of old English origin, as remote as the early days of the Tudors. Several voices are engaged, one catching up the words of the other in a whimsical and burlesque fashion.
Claire Elliot.—We think we must refer you to our numberless valuable articles on music, which run all through the seven volumes, “Evenings with Our Great Living Composers,” in vol. iv., especially. The dress you mention would not be too handsome and full dress to wear in London, but we do not know for what kind of a concert you require it. There are concerts and concerts, you know.
An old Maid of 24.—The verse you quote is from a song called “Rock me to Sleep, Mother.” Of course, if young ladies call on other young ladies and do not make acquaintance with the lady of the house, be she mother or sister-in-law, there is no need of inviting them (the visitors) to the house as guests. But a girl of any tact will avoid this trouble by being very particular that her young friends be introduced to the elders of her family. In England, few mothers like their daughters to go out without them; if in society at all, they must have a chaperon.
Brownie M. C. B.—The names of all the best of the new songs are given in the reviews in the G.O.P., to which you must refer for information. There is a valuable article by Miss Mary Davies in vol i. on “How to Improve the Voice.” She thinks an egg beaten up with a little milk and sugar and taken an hour before singing is good.
An Art Student.—Copies from old masters have a very limited sale, and picture dealers are generally shy of buying them. The best exhibitions for their display are the agricultural shows held during the summer months in various country towns. These shows have a special exhibit of art work, and a class to which copies are admitted. Should your own promise as an artist be very decided, and your means permit, you would do well to go to Rome, Dresden, or to Belgium, where copies of the old masters can be made, which find a sale amongst English and American visitors to the galleries, and a fair price is obtained. Standing for long periods of time at an ordinary easel is very injurious to girls. Easels are constructed so as to be raised or lowered at will, and enable the artist to sit while at work.
A Reader.—The materials mentioned in the articles upon photographine are stated correctly, and can all be obtained in Regent-street.
A Constant Reader.—1. The whole account of the royal mummies recently discovered in Egypt appeared, and with illustrations, in one of the numbers for August of the Illustrated London News. Neither of these was the Pharaoh who was drowned in the Red Sea. But even had it been so, what insuperable obstacles would have necessarily existed to the recovery of the king’s body, and its being embalmed and buried! 2. We do not believe England to be the worst country in the world for drunkenness.
Silver Thread should recommend her friends to read a recent article of ours on the care of the hair; and should read that by Medicus on “Lissom Hands and Pretty Feet,” besides continual answers to similar questions in our correspondence.
Nil Desperandum.—1. It would be cheaper and more satisfactory to buy a sixpenny bottle of lemon kali, than attempt to make it yourself. 2. An account of all the old castles in England could be obtained by your bookseller.
Highland Lass.—1. To cover a bedroom mantelpiece, you can employ the ordinary furniture brocade sold for that purpose. A yard and a half will suffice. They have a woven flower design in the centre, and are finished with a fringe of the same material. The colours are rich in hue, and gold threads are usually run through the pattern. 2. Dec. 3rd, 1873, was a Wednesday.
Phœbe.—1. The sect of the Epicureans (according to St. Gregory of Nyssa) believed that all things moved on accidentally, without any Providence. A very remarkable regularity, we must admit, of times and seasons, causes and results, are for mere accidents! Such accidents are as full of apparent method as there was in Hamlet’s madness. Alas! there are many silly epicureans in the present day, only known by a different name. 2. The name Shiloh means the peacemaker, and Messiah the anointed. The word catechism is derived from the Greek, signifying to instruct by oral teaching.
A Subscriber’s Brother.—You will spoil your gaselier if you attempt to lacquer it yourself. Send it to a lamp shop.
Nymphæ Alba.—You might procure botanists’ portable collecting presses at Swiss wood-carving shops. For drying and preserving flowers refer to vol. iii., page 80.
R. E. W.—You say that, when you pray, you seem to speak to the air, and feel quite discouraged. You probably think of your Heavenly Father as far away above the heavens, instead of close at your side and in your chamber, knowing all your thoughts and desires before you utter them. Try to realise this. See Psalm cxxxix., and all our Lord’s words as to being in the midst of two or three praying in His name, etc. Then, again, you pray amiss even when asking for such spiritual grace and such temporal mercies as are agreeable to His will, because you do not fulfil all the conditions He has imposed on you. “When ye pray, believe that ye have the things, and ye shall have them.” “If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.” If you ask in His name, therefore, and do not accept and believe in His promise, you cannot expect to receive what you need with any degree of confidence. “All things are possible to him that believeth.” “Ask and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.” “Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.”
Mary.—1. We regret that we cannot promise any special competitions. The time they exact from an editor is far greater than our competitors can realise. 2. It is very ungrammatical to divide the verb from the preposition “to.” You should not say “to accordingly act,” but “to act accordingly.” There is no such verb as “to accordingly.” The adverb should end the sentence.
New Zealand, An English Girl.—We think your friends should get on anywhere. You do not give address; but you can write to the London office of the United Englishwoman’s Emigration Association, Mrs. Reeves, 13, Dorset-square, Baker-street, W., for information and advice on all subjects connected with the emigration of women.
Natalie and Berea.—1. A kind of pancake feast preceding Lent was observed in the Greek Church, from whom we may probably have borrowed it, together with the Pasch-eggs, and other suchlike things, so we are informed in Brand’s “Popular Antiquities.” 2. Anyone who exchanges any kind of goods to receive old used postage stamps in exchange does so to defraud the Government. Such stamps are submitted to a process which makes them appear like new, and are privately issued. Thus, we warn you of aiding and abetting swindlers. We are already provided with a very full staff of writers, and regret we cannot invite you to write for us.
Little Buttercup.—Hot mineral springs boil up from volcanic action under ground, and which become impregnated with mineral substances. The hot springs at Bath were known to the Romans in the first century, who had a station there called Aquæ Solis, or Aquæ Calidæ, and to the English conquerors as Bathan. But the discovery of the healing properties of the Bath waters dates back to the time of Bladud, the father of King Lear, who consequently built the city, one of the wells of which was called Bladud’s Well. Any little handbook of Bath will give you the whole history of his discovery of them, and the cure of the diseased swine from drinking and bathing in the waters.
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J. Noel.—The origin of the word “ostracism” is Greek, and the founder of this arbitrary law was Clisthenes, the leader of an advanced Democratic party in Athens. It provided for the banishment of any individual, however innocent of crime, who was obnoxious to the citizens, because too influential in their estimation, or disposed to restrict their own liberty of action. Their votes for his exile were recorded by the inscription of his name on the shells. The “biter bitten” was demonstrated in the case of this demagogue, as Clisthenes was himself the first on whom his own law was put in force.
Plural Noun sent us the following riddle some time since, which is said to have been written by the Hon. George Canning. Some of our readers may like to try their skill on divining it:—
Hawthorn.—We thank you for your recipe for a plain cake, and thank you for your kind wishes. Poem mislaid. May yet find it.
Inquisitive.—The name Sevenoaks does not refer to trees, but to the founder of the grammar school there, which was founded A.D. 1418 by Sir William de Sevenoke, or Sennocke. In 1675 Lady Margaret Boswell founded a school for poor children. It was at Sevenoaks that Sir Humphrey Stafford was unhappily defeated by the rebel army under Jack Cade, and fell in the action, June 27th, 1450, temp. Henry VI.
A. M. W.—1. You might perhaps repair your waterproof by making the following solution:—Dissolve an ounce of isinglass in a pound of soft water, and a quarter of an ounce of soap in one pound of water, all separately. Strain the solutions, mix them, and let them simmer for some time. Brush the preparation while hot over the worn spot, and when dry brush it well and lay on a little more. In a day or two you may wear the garment. 2. Yes, seals can hear very well, and, what is more, they enjoy music, and they have been known to follow a ship for miles to listen to the playing of a violin on board.
Emma.—A list of nine prayer unions and Scripture-reading societies is given in the little shilling manual of girls’ clubs just published by Messrs Griffith and Farran, corner of St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C. The most considerable is that of the Rev. T. Richardson. We recommend the manual.
Patsy.—1. In calling on a newly-married couple for the first time, both husband and wife should call in person. After that the wife may leave her own card, should the lady be out, and two of her husband’s. As “Patsy” is the diminutive of “Patrick,” we presume our correspondent to be a man. 2. The harp is not a difficult instrument to play, provided you have a good ear, as it has to be tuned continually. You should go to a shop for musical instruments, and, if economy be essential, you might procure a secondhand one.
A Lover of the G. O. P.—1. At one time there was no intercourse between the people of Coventry and the soldiers garrisoned there, and hence arose the phrase being “sent to Coventry,” where the soldiers were doomed to know nobody, and a woman seen speaking to one of them was immediately tabooed. 2. Canaries are kept in wire cages. See that yours be a large one, and keep the wooden perches well scraped.
Yttria Laver.—Have you ever read the “Boston Monday Lectures,” by the Rev. Joseph Cook (Ward and Lock, Warwick House, Salisbury-sq., E.C.)? The vols. “Life and the Soul” and “God and the Conscience” are admirable, and well suited for the sceptical. A supreme divinity could not be created, as then he would not be supreme. He must be self-existent. The arguments you name are very feeble. Being omnipresent, of course He is in every corner of His dominion. See the 139th Psalm, 8th verse.
A. J. B.—September 18, 1864, was a Sunday. Unless intimate, bow only.
The Editor offers his best thanks to the undermentioned correspondents for their kindly sending him Christmas and New Year’s Cards.—“Old School Girl,” “A Dumpling,” Snowdrop, A Delicate Country Lassie, “Waitakerei” (Auckland, N.Z.), R. C. R., for Dora Hope; Viola Heath (a cheque on the Bank of Providence for 365 days of health and prosperity), Florence and Gertrude Farrier (Melbourne, Aus.), Violet, A Brighton Seagull, Pecksy and Flopsy, A Reader, Bessie, A Lover of the G.O.P.; Auntie Jessie, for “M.E.E.,” “Medicus,” and the Editor; L. A. L., Hilda Mesnard, Anonymous, from Stockport; Emily Agnes C., for Medicus and the Editor; Alice E. Howes, R. Stephens, “A Midsummer Daisy,” “Bee” and “Angels,” “Faust,” “Iris,” H. A. W. (Jamaica), “Idalia,” One of the Editor’s Colonial Girls; “Topsy” (Jamaica), “Four Jamaica Girls,” Gladys Maurice-Pendarves, C. E. Biggs, “Clericus,” Dayfie, Rita, “Calcutta Lizzie,” Susan H. Hunter, Elodie, “Michaelmas Goose,” M. T. W., Children of the Scholars’ News Club (Fairfield Endowed Schools), Constance, for Editor and Medicus; Mary and Ada Levestan (two Russian Girls), Emmie Buchanan, Julia Mary Pollock.