The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. VIII. No. 365

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

There is no more vexed “woman’s question” than that of “clothes.” It has been said that if we see how a man regards money and deals with it, we see the whole character of the man; and we think it is equally true that if we find out how a woman or girl feels and acts about clothes, we should have an excellent key to her nature and history.

There is the woman to whom “clothes” are the object of life. This does not necessarily mean that she is a rich woman, who can spend much money, nor does it mean that she succeeds in being a well-dressed woman. She may be one of those who indulge in what the poet Crabbe called “The piteous patchwork of the needy vain,” and who send “one poor robe through fifty fashions”; or she may be a millionaire, always on the alert to catch up the latest fashionable outrage on good taste and good sense. Only in either case, dress is always foremost in her thoughts. The first question she asks about any public event is, “What did the ladies wear?” Her first anxiety concerning any crisis in her own life is, “What shall I put on?” At church she remembers the bonnets and not the text; and the moment she enters an evening party she appraises all the toilets present, and is unhappy unless hers is the most modish and costly, whether it be with the costliness of Worth’s latest whim from the Continent, or of the last box of frippery received at the village shop.

If she feels that any reflection is cast on her waste of time and expenditure of money in the matter of dress, she defends herself in the following manner—that she owes it to society to look nice; that it is everybody’s duty to make the most pleasant appearance; that it is well to employ labour and to put money into circulation, etc., etc. If she has “gone in” for “culture,” perhaps she may quote Browning—

On the other extreme there is the woman who does not care a bit for dress; who says she wishes we were born covered with black fur, or that we might cut holes in a sack for our feet and arms, and tie it up round our necks! She carries out her words so far as generally to appear in garments specially unsuitable to the occasion on which they are worn, and seems arrayed in remnants and oddments, chosen without any regard to her age, complexion, or circumstances; she thinks getting up a lace fichu is “a waste of time,” and finds it too much “bother” to wear the little ornaments with which family affection may have provided her. She defends herself from any charge of slovenliness by pointing to the swamp of petty frivolity in which too many female lives are sunk, and avers that she scorns any regard which would be influenced by what she wore or did not wear. It may be said in her favour that she generally grows tidier and trimmer as she advances in life, and, proving much more amenable to the criticisms of “her young people” than she was to the raillery of school friends and cousins, is often a matron of comely and attractive appearance.

Then there remains the great multitude between these extremes—a multitude who does not quite know its own mind, and cannot find any principle whereby to regulate its movements; who wants to look pretty and to please, yet is afflicted in its conscience when it reflects on the sin of personal vanity, and on our responsibility for the souls and bodies which are perishing at our gates; a multitude who is sadly tossed between the conflicting arguments of the more strongly-biassed ladies whom we have just described, with the demoralising result that it generally leans in practice towards the former, and in theory towards the latter.

It is this great multitude of girls and women whom we would like to help by offering a few broad principles for their consideration; for principles underlie everything. And it is only by our grasp on principles that we can guide ourselves through the ever-varying details of duty.

Let us say at once that it is the right of all to be well dressed, because that means to be dressed suitably to the climate and circumstances in which they live, and to their occupation, age, and appearance. A woman may be quite as well dressed in print and serge as in velvet and satin. When you hear people complaining that “nowadays everybody will go so well dressed,” you hear a misuse of language; and language loosely used is a dangerous thing; because it leads to looseness of idea. Nobody has any right to complain of anybody’s being well dressed. What they really mean is that these are unsuitably dressed. And there is a great deal of unsuitable dress in the world of the kind, more or less in degree, of that seen in the daughter of a parvenu millionaire of the Western States, who, when she went to a sensible New England seminary, where the young ladies were expected to wait on themselves, descended to the scullery in a velvet robe and diamond earrings!

Anybody, therefore, is not well dressed whose attire unfits her for the performance of those actions which ought to be her duty. The tight-laced, be-flounced be-trained damsel proclaims to the world her utter unwomanliness. The nursery would soon make havoc in her finery. Let us hope she would never carry it into a sick room, and in the kitchen it would be a nuisance and a bad example. But then “Isn’t it pretty for wearing in the parlour during those hours when we are doing nothing?” Let us reply with other questions: “Ought there to be hours when we are doing nothing?” And “In providing ourselves with clothes only fit for such occasions, are we not falling into the error we often smile at in working men who will buy stiff, uncomely Sunday garments of broadcloth and silk hats, instead of providing themselves with gala suits of the sensible tweed that will serve afterwards for work-a-day wear?”

We began by saying that everybody has a right to be well dressed in the true meaning of the phrase. But, as Ruskin says in his grand “Letter to Young Girls,” “Although in a truly Christian land every young girl would be dressed beautifully and delightfully: in this entirely heathen and Baal-worshipping land of ours, not one girl in ten has either decent or healthy clothing, and you have no business, till this be amended, to wear anything fine yourself.” And Jean Ingelow, a writer with whose works you cannot too soon make acquaintance, brings this indictment against our sex—“For them mainly are the gorgeous pageants, are the costly clothes, the gold lace, the carpets of velvet pile, the diamonds and the splendours of life. The pride of life is in their souls, and mainly for them. It is luxury that stands in the way of the civilised world, so that men cannot marry young and be happy. For the earth does not produce unbounded riches for a few while yet the many can have enough. Equality is a word without meaning or possibility; but notwithstanding, squalor and destitution might be things outside our experience, as should be luxury and waste.”

This brings us to the principle that should guide our expenditure, whether the sum at our command be large or small. Of material we should buy the best and most durable within reach of our purse. We have no right to keep people employed in weaving and making up useless and perishable shoddy articles. It is a dishonour to them to do such work, and if they are forced to do it that they may get bread to eat, we are keeping them in the worst kind of slavery. That we pay them for it does not make it any better, any more than if we paid them for any other degrading and wasteful service. We insult them by taking their industry and trampling it under foot, as if they had no concern in their work, but only in their wages. How can the industrial classes retain self-respect under such circumstances? And when self-respect is lost, respect for others always goes also. Quite lately we saw a lady sitting in a dressmaker’s room watching the “setting-up” of what was considered a very grand garment. Its materials were certainly of the costliest, but it had yards of delicate silk trailing on the ground to an extent that must have ensured their speedy destruction, even on the most ceremonious occasion, and over the short front skirt hung masses of tulle, festooned by elaborate iridescent glass drops, worthy of the decoration of a South Sea Island god! Seeing our friend’s grave face, we asked her what she was thinking of, and she replied, “I am thinking of the men who wove that silk to be trodden on, and the girls who sewed those beads to be smashed. Poor things! I would rather be the grimiest maid-of-all-work toiling for real human needs, or the roughest tailor or cobbler, working to cover honest human nakedness.”

Let all dress, therefore, always be as durable as can be, both in material and mode. As to “fashion,” even that has a root of necessity and common sense, because dress must change as social habits and customs change. Ruskin advises that no garment should ever be thrown aside because unfashionable, and that no costly fashion should ever be followed. Think what that word “costly” involves. Tight lacing, heavy flouncing, open bodices, high heels, and so forth, costly of health; dead birds’ wings, and everything else costly of suffering; complicated trimmings, costly of time and human energy in a world where there are thousands of little children growing up ill taught, thousands of sick people dying ill tended, thousands of industrious folk slaving to death for a paltry pittance.

It seems to us that when a lady has once discovered the dress best suited to her age, appearance, and condition—the ideal robe in which she would wish to be painted for the eyes of unborn generations—her future study will be, not how much she can “follow the fashion,” but how little she need follow it to escape singularity. Fashion has nothing to do with a desire to be pleasant in the sight of others. Let any of our readers turn to the graceful studies of girl-life with which M. E. E. makes us so familiar, and then to the figures in any fashion-plate, and ask themselves candidly which are most likely to commend themselves to the eye of artistic taste or of domestic affection?

And here we come to the matter of making ourselves “fair to see.” This is a decided duty. We have to make ourselves attractive to those whose love we desire, and to those from whose wisdom we wish approval. But we imagine that the desire to be loved and approved has a very small share in extravagance and fantasticalness in dress. Let us speak out plainly. We seldom befrill and bedeck ourselves, and waste time and money, to please our parents or friends, but rather to spite and outshine our “dearest enemies” among our female acquaintances. Suitability of style, dainty freshness, and tasteful variety will always satisfy love; and good sense, combined with a little industry and taste, will easily secure these desirable objects. I remember the approving notice bestowed by a great divine and philanthropist on the appearance of a young literary woman, who, travelling under difficult and troublesome conditions, was provided with a very few dresses of the plainest quality and style, but who by artfully varied arrangements of muslin or lace and coquettish little additions of tasteful ribbon, managed to give her friends’ eyes an ever-new surprise and pleasure. Can there be a prettier picture than that of a modest little maiden trying how a rose-coloured bow will brighten her sober dress, to please papa—or perhaps somebody else?

And now we come to the consideration of “luxury.” If we are always to remember the ignorant and the starving, are we never to have anything whose price might have paid teachers or bought bread? Let us hear Ruskin again:—“What of fine dress your people insist upon your wearing, take and wear proudly and prettily for their sakes.” Let us never seek luxury of any sort—let us rather avoid it; but let us still accept it with delight when it comes to us by the hands of genuine love. The diamond in a girl’s engagement ring, the gold locket enclosing her mother’s portrait, the dainty filigree bracelet sent by her brother abroad, the exquisite lace set worked by her dearest friends, are on quite a different line from the fashionable jewellery and ornaments which she buys for herself or teases her relatives to buy for her—as different (with all reverence be it written) as the gift of the alabaster box of precious ointment tendered by a loving woman to her Master is different from the cases of Rimmel’s perfume which are squandered at every ball.

And thus we see that the great principle which underlies this vexed “woman’s question” of clothes is the great principle of love itself—love, serving others, considering others; love bestowing, love receiving. Such love needs no law, being itself the highest law.

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e were spending a winter on the Riviera, and, after trying various hotels in town and country, had finally established ourselves in a pretty little Italian villa, palazzino, as the peasants called it, not many miles from Genoa.

From the terraced garden there was a wide and splendid view. On our left, as we looked seawards, was the city herself, her marble palaces and churches rising crescent-wise behind the bay, which on the eastern side is bounded by the headland of Porto Fino. Facing us was the shining sweep of the Mediterranean; while to the right hand the Alpes Maritimes trended away into the far distance, their giant peaks and hollows an ever-present, ever-changing feast of colour—whether seen at early dawn, a glory of rose and gold; or at sunset, a gorgeous vision of amber and crimson, and softest, tenderest violet; or under the southern moonlight, a study in oxydised silver.

For me mountains have always had a peculiar fascination, and no landscape ever seems complete without them. I could spend, and, indeed, did spend, when in Italy, many an hour in watching their changing hues. But to-day none of our party had time for indulging in mere sentiment. Throughout the week we had been rambling among the hills and valleys in quest of mosses, ferns, and other greenery wherewith to decorate the house; for this was Christmas week, and the day after to-morrow would be Christmas Day itself.

How difficult it was, even as we worked at the familiar mottoes and rejoiced over the holly, which, after a seemingly hopeless search, we had at last found in a remote corner of the Doria woods—how difficult it was, I say, to realise the fact that this was the 23rd of December. Why, the garden was full of roses, camellias, and heliotrope; the air was as soft as upon a summer’s day in England; and we were out of doors in thin woollen dresses and large, shady hats, rejoicing in the brilliant sunshine.

We had to give up our pleasant work early that afternoon, as we had engaged to help at a children’s party given by a kindly English doctor in the neighbouring village. He had hired a large room at the hotel, and invited about forty children to a sumptuous tea; and, though wintering abroad for health’s sake, and with doubtless many an anxious thought for wife and little ones at home, he most unselfishly catered upon this evening for the amusement of “other folks’ children.”

The long table was covered with dainties such as little folks love, while assiduous waiters handed round cups of delicious-looking coffee and chocolate.

Tea over, there was an adjournment to another room in which all kinds of merry romps were carried on for an hour or two, a general distribution of presents took place, a hearty cheer was raised for the kind doctor, and the young flock trooped gaily home.

Christmas Eve we spent in really hard work over our decorations. The dining-room was made festive with mottoes in pine sprays and trophies of orange-boughs laden with fruit, while the drawing-room was adorned with maidenhair fern, lycopodium moss, arbutus-berries, and the much-prized holly before mentioned. Then, about six p.m. we started to spend the evening with some charming neighbours.

The host was German, his wife English, and their two children spoke both languages with equal facility, adding thereto no mean proficiency in Italian. An Italian marquis and his younger brother, a married sister of our hostess, with her husband and little girl, a German composer, with our own quartet, made up the party. We were at once ushered into the room in which the Christmas tree had been placed; for the children, at least, were on the tiptoe of excitement as to their gifts; and thence, after due distribution thereof, we adjourned to the dining-room for high tea.

The table was a picture, with its bowls of crimson or pale-pink china roses. Each couvert had its own bouquet of heliotrope, fern, and camellia; while the profusion of handsome silver and of ancient Nuremberg glass combined still further to set off the tasteful appearance of the whole. What with the many German dishes, and the chatter of the German tongue all around me, I seemed to be transferred bodily from the shores of the Mediterranean to the dear and well-remembered Fatherland—an illusion which was not dispelled until an hour or so later on, when we found ourselves walking homewards under the brilliant, starlit sky of the south. On this particular night, too, the stars were shining with a radiancy which in England would betoken a hard frost; only that in this case the stars themselves looked so much larger, and in many instances shone with such intensity as to make themselves the centre of a distinct halo.

We met numbers of people on their way to midnight mass, either at the various shrines in the mountains or at favourite churches in Genoa, and at about eleven p.m. the bells began to ring, and went on at intervals for four hours, when they ceased for a time, to recommence at five a.m., and summon the worshippers to early mass.

I inaugurated Christmas in Italy by dressing with open windows, then joined the younger members of our party in carol-singing outside our hostess’s bedroom door; after which we all descended to the dining-room—not, as it would have been, in England, to spread out icy hands and feet to the welcome blaze of a roaring fire, but to open the long French windows and to stand awhile upon the balcony watching the lizards flitting swiftly in and out among the crevices of the marble, and the green frogs jumping about the boughs of the orange-trees.

Breakfast in Italy was never a heavy meal; but to-day, in honour of the day, polenta cake and chestnut bread were added to the usual omelette and roll, to which due attention having been paid, we returned to the balcony and eagerly awaited the postman.

He brought a goodly supply of letters for each of us, and with thankful hearts we set out for morning service.

The church was full of roses—red, white, and yellow. Arbutus and fern wreathed the east window and the chancel arch; and designs of roses upon a mossy ground filled in the panels of lectern and reading desk and the wide window-sills. There was, of course, a good attendance, and all joined with spirit in the service; but our clergyman rather damped the conclusion of it by preaching a very long and exceedingly dolorous sermon, in which he harped upon “vacant chairs,” “absent friends,” “broken circles,” and “dear invalids,” until he had reduced two-thirds of the congregation to tears.

Our dinner-party included a few English friends staying at the hotel, and one or two Italians, the latter being as much interested in our national customs as we were in theirs. It was certainly quaint enough to find that the Eastern Counties doggerel had its counterpart among the shepherds of Sardinia, with whom it is generally used as a cradle song.

In Upper Italy they sing—

And a gentleman who joined us later on wound up our charming evening by singing to a strange old chant the following Burgundian carol, written, as my readers will perceive, in alternate lines of French and Latin:—

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By A LADY DRESSMAKER.

The advent of new ideas in clothing has been later this year than usual, and we were well into the middle of November before we recognised many things as novelties in the shops, even though they were well filled with new dress manufactures as usual. Stripes are a great deal worn in all materials, but checked stuffs show signs of being rather more popular, and the fine-lined checks with which we began the autumn have grown into greater squares as the time has gone on. But these new checks are not at all in the direction of Scotch plaids, nor do they show any tendency to such garish colouring. Their hues are singularly well chosen, and even when the plaid is large it is neither ugly nor aggressively visible. They are never produced in more than two shades of colour, and they are mostly made up with velvet of a dark shade, nearly akin to that of the darkest shade of the plaid. These woollen materials are coarse and heavy-looking, and nothing seems more popular than serge and serge grounds to woollens of all kinds. Angola wools, with their long, untidy-looking, hairy surfaces, are also much liked; nor must I forget the new woollens, with stripes of braid in high relief on them.

There are great numbers of fancy silk materials to mix with fine woollens, such as chess-board designs in velvet and plush on a satin ground; plain and fancy stripes in plush and velvet; velvet, with crossbar designs in terry; brocaded silks, the brocade being in velvet, terry, or plush; and silks with stripes in imitation of lace. All these may be called trimming materials, and are used for underskirts for woollen materials as well.

There are several things in the winter fashions which are quite fixed. First, that there are no trains to any dresses, whatever people may say—save and except to court dresses and the evening gowns worn by a few dowagers who fancy old ways the best. The general idea with reference to all draperies, overskirts, panels, and skirts is to give length and height; therefore, those of my readers who are very tall will have to use some judgment in choosing a skirt that shall not make them look too gigantic. Most of the morning dresses are made of two woollen materials, a better kind of walking or afternoon dress with a woollen and silk material, such as I have described. There do not appear to be any really short tunics, but some dresses have the long overskirt more raised and bunched-up at one side than they have been. The skirts are generally rather wider, but are not distended, except by a moderate tournure. The collar, cuffs, and revers are of the same material as the underskirt, and bands of this material are put round the edge of the overskirt. When this is a plaid it is cut on the bias, and with plaids folds are very much used everywhere that they can be introduced.

The chief changes that one has to chronicle are to be seen in the sleeves of dresses, which, after remaining quite stationary and unaltered for a long time, have now quite blossomed out into new beauty of form, much of which, I think, is derived from Venetian portraiture. The sleeves of evening gowns are all of this class, and have puffs of thin material from the shoulders to the elbow; ending in a plain band of velvet, or a puff of transparent material at the elbow. Some sleeves have puffs inside the arm at the elbow, and end in a plain band or cuff round the arm. In the daytime deep cuffs are much worn; they are cut so as to stand away from the arm like the deep cuffs of a cavalier glove. Then there are puffs at the shoulder; and there is also a new sleeve that has no seam at the back of the arm. Shoulder-straps and epaulettes are very popular additions to the bodice; and we find shoulder-straps without epaulettes, and epaulettes without shoulder-straps, or both together. Some of the shoulder-straps to woollen dresses are of the material of the dress, which may be braided or embroidered.

One bodice which I have lately seen struck me as being both ugly and peculiar, and it must, I am sure, be a faithful copy of a railway porter’s waistcoat—with its front of corduroy, and its back of linen. In the copy, the fronts are of velvet, fancy or plain plush, and the backs are of plain silk to match it in colour, the sleeves being also of silk. One of the new fancies is to make the dress-sleeves like the waistcoat or plastron, the bodice being of a different stuff, and having a small epaulette on the shoulder. I have been careful to give all these changes in detail, as they will, I know, be very valuable to the home dressmaker, and to those on whom the burden rests of “doing up” half-worn dresses, and making themselves look well and ladylike on small means.

Bodices are a great deal trimmed at present. Waistcoats, plastrons, and full or plain plastrons with long revers that extend from shoulder to the point of the bodice, as well as braces, are all forms of trimming. The latter are now put on much higher than they were, and are carried close to the band at the neck, and they sometimes meet in the centre of the back. The sleeves are often trimmed round the shoulder-seams on the bodice—a very useful fashion indeed, as the sides, which are too well worn by the friction of the arms, can be made quite respectable for a longer term of service.

There is no change in the way of making dress bodices. The basques are all cut very short on the hips, and are generally ended in a square-cut tail at the back, with a fan of pleats, or even plain, and not with ornaments at all. The darts in front are cut very high, and are straight in form; and there are two side pieces—one quite below the arm; and the seam of the side piece at the back is as straightly cut as possible. The great fancy is still for a narrow and flat back, and all methods of cutting out tried to produce this effect.

There is not very much to relate about mantles this month. They all seem to be short at the back and long in front, the ends being either square or pointed. In the latter case many of them are tied with ribbon bows, or have other ornaments of braid, beads, or chenille. Striped materials are used for making up handsome cloaks; and ulsters are usually made of checked woollens, though they are by no means “loud” in tone. The small mantles of plush, brocade, and velvet are very much trimmed and ornamented; and in this way—as the beaded trimmings and fur bands are moderate in price—mantles that have already seen service may be helped over another winter. The long jackets will be found to cut into shape very well; and I have recently helped to alter a paletôt which had been dyed, by cutting it up nearly to the waist, at the back, and into deep square ends in front. The trimming then laid on was black astrachan, about two and a half inches deep all round, and in a V shaped point on the back, with cuffs and a tiny epaulette on the sleeves, making it quite a new garment at a very small expense, viz., 2s. 6d. for the dyeing and about 6s. for the five and a half yards of astrachan.

Instead of the almost forgotten sets of linen collars and cuffs, many ladies are wearing pleated satin, the pleats being very close and small. The satin is used in various colours, and appears also in the necks and sleeves of evening dresses, especially in black ones, where the bright hues of the satin look refreshing. A velvet bow may finish it at the neck.

These are certainly halcyon days for the home milliner, for so little trimming is placed on bonnets that it is quite worth while to manufacture them at home, after a look at the many shown in the windows. Care must be taken to set the bows in front up well, and, if a soft material, a long bit of wire will form a support.

The flower of the day is the white chrysanthemum, and one sees it everywhere—on dinner tables, as button holes, and forming bouquets. Very few flowers, however, are seen in millinery, and ribbons seem in greater favour. A new idea in the way of dress pockets is to have the pocket made as a little gathered bag or reticule, which hangs at the side for the handkerchief.

The stockings produced for wearing this winter are quiet and ladylike-looking, being self-coloured, to match any dress with which they may be worn; or, if embroidered, the patterns are small, or the stripes are merely fine lines of colours. The newest shoes all appear to lace, not button; and this will probably keep them in all the better shape, as they can be pulled tightly together or loosened, as desired. Laced boots are also returning to favour, for the same reason; but I do hope my girl-readers will not neglect their laces, and always try to keep a spare lace in the house, in case of breakages, as nothing looks so bad, or is really so wretched in wear, as a broken or an untidy, unevenly pulled-up lace. For skating, of course, laced boots are a necessity.

The new winter muffs of fur are not large, and nearly all of them are supplied with a purse or pocket of some kind, and also have handles of fur, which are more convenient than the purse; for the muff can be slung over the arm when shopping, or when it is necessary to keep the hands free; a style that seems more sensible than the long cord round the neck for grown-up people. Long boas are not quite so long as they were, and are now more used with one long tail hanging down than two, the other end being the head of some furry creature—mink, marten, or squirrel; and so far does this idea go, that the legs are often seen as well, which is a painfully suggestive idea.

Our illustrations for this month are peculiarly successful in showing the prettiest of the winter styles, especially in the larger picture of out-of-door gear. The long cloaks are shown with two different styles of trimming, and a short jacket braided with thick cord—which is very girlish and graceful. So, also, is the short mantle trimmed with bands of fur. In the corner of the drawing-room—which serves as a warm and cosy refuge to two of our girls—we have our paper pattern of last month illustrated, with a plastron of soft silk added to it, for wearing in the house; while a waistcoat is used for the out-of-doors dress. The young girl in the armchair wears a “Norfolk,” or pleated jacket, like her dress, which has an air of simplicity and elegance. These “Norfolk jackets” we propose to adopt for our paper patterns for this month. The first is really a repetition of that we have already given, which, however, is as much worn as ever; and the second is rather a new form, with a yoked top, which is sometimes made pointed both in front and behind. The first of the “Norfolk jackets,” or blouses, is that without a yoke, and for this I will repeat the directions given very carefully, for it is a pattern that can be cut out and made-up by anyone, however inexperienced they may be. It consists of seven pieces: the front, back, collar, belt, two halves of a sleeve, and a cuff. The back should be cut double, as there is no join down the centre; a deep hem must be allowed on each side the front where the buttons are placed; the pleats turn forward, and the position of the notches should be very carefully observed. The edges may be finished by a row of machine stitching, which should be even and good.

No lining is needed, as a general rule, to this bodice. The pleats are run down, like the breast of a shirt, or may be stitched with a machine. The quantity of material required for either of these bodices would be about three yards and a half of thirty-six inches in width. No seams are allowed in the pattern. The other blouse is made with a yoke, and has nine pieces, viz., front, back, two sleeve pieces, collar, cuff, belt, and two yoke pieces, back and front. In cutting out, the back must be cut double, and in making up the yoke should be stitched flatly on the pleated portions with the machine before joining the bodice together. Both the belts should be lined with buckram, and machine-stitched at each edge, to render them firm and useful. These blouses are worn both out of doors and in, and are made and worn at present in blue, crimson, and all shades of red, in black and white, and may be worn with differently-coloured skirts. They are very suitable for young girls, and may well form the first experiment in their own home dressmaking for the inexperienced. The materials used are elastic cloth, serge, diagonal, blue linen, cashmere, and, of course, any dress material which may be in fashion.

All paper patterns supplied by “The Lady Dressmaker” are of medium size, viz., thirty-six inches round the chest, and only one size is prepared for sale. No turnings are allowed in any of them. Each pattern may be had of “The Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G. Davis, 73, Ludgate-hill, E.C.; price 1s. each. It is requested that the addresses be clearly given, and that postal notes may be crossed “& Co.” to go through a bank, as so many losses have recently occurred. The patterns already issued are always kept in stock, as “The Lady Dressmaker” only issues patterns likely to be of constant use in home-dressmaking and altering; and she is particularly careful to give all the new patterns of hygienic underclothing, both for children and old and young ladies, so that no reader of the G.O.P. may be ignorant of the best methods of dressing.

The following is a list of the patterns already issued, price 1s. each:—

April, braided loose fronted jacket; May, velvet bodice; June, Swiss belt and full bodice, with plain sleeves; July, mantle; August, Norfolk, or pleated jacket; September, housemaid’s or plain skirt; October, combination garment (underlinen) with long sleeves; November, double-breasted jacket; December, Zouave jacket and bodice; January, princess underdress (underlinen, underbodice, and underskirt combined); February, polonaise, with waterfall back; March, new spring bodice; April, divided skirt, and Bernhardt mantle with sling sleeves; May, Early English bodice and yoke bodice for summer dress; June, dressing jacket, and princess frock, with Normandy bonnet for a child of four years old; July, Princess of Wales’ jacket, bodice and waistcoat, for tailor-made gown; August, bodice with guimpe; September, mantle with stole ends; October, pyjama, or nightdress combination, with full back; November, new winter bodice; December, patterns of Norfolk blouses, one with a yoke and one with pleats only.

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should very much like to interest the readers of The Girl’s Own Paper in the little Hindu school girls and native ladies in India, with the hope that I may receive occasional supplies of dolls, scrapbooks, and old Christmas cards for distribution. Several times a year I pack a large case with toys and other attractive things, and it is sent to English ladies at Calcutta or Madras, or elsewhere. These ladies give away the contents on prize days and other occasions, when it is delightful to witness the pleasure of the happy recipients. Presents from England are particularly liked, not only because they are novel and different from Indian toys, but also because the school-children are glad to be thought of by friends at such a distance. Though their ideas of our country are very vague, they value these tangible expressions of sympathy in their good conduct and progress, which have come to them from the other side of the world.

One of the ladies to whom I send cases of presents and prizes is Mrs. Brander, Inspectress of Girls’ Schools in Madras. During the last six years her constant occupation has been to examine and report on schools, and she has often to travel a long way for the purpose. Though there are some railways in the Madras Presidency, they do not reach the out-of-the-way places that Mrs. Brander has to visit, so she makes a part of her journey in what is called a bullock bandy. This is a sort of small private omnibus, drawn by two patient bullocks, at the rate of two miles an hour. It is sent forward to meet her at some distant station. Besides the bullock bandy for the inspectress, there are several other vehicles, forming quite a procession. One is for the deputy inspector, who has the long name of Miss Govindarajulu; another for the writers (or clerks), and some for the luggage of the party. Two Government peons, or attendants, rather like commissionaires, guard and manage the cavalcade, if so it may be called. The roads are often very rough and dusty, and for part of the day it is extremely hot. Sometimes a river has to be forded, for there are not many bridges. The native drivers are ready to say that the stream is too strong, but Mrs. Brander does not listen to their objections unless there seems to be real danger, so down the bank the bullocks are made to go, and across the water. At night the travellers halt at a rest house, which is provided at certain places by Government, but does not give very good accommodation. At last a village is arrived at, where there is a school, and some of the native gentlemen of the place who are the managers, receive the inspectress. It is often located in a dark, close room, or, more pleasantly, in a verandah, under an overhanging roof. Mrs. Brander then examines the pupils in reading and writing, arithmetic and needlework. She is not hard upon them, for the teachers themselves have had little opportunity of learning. The children are generally bright and quick, very gentle and graceful, and with a winning but shy manner. It is true they are apt to be idle, but then it is trying to learn lessons when the heat is so intense, and they are not taught very intelligently.

Often the mothers of the little scholars crowd to the school, and talk to Mrs. Brander. At one place several of these women begged her to give them a lesson in needlework, and she did so; but they all pressed so closely round her that she had to insist on two or three only looking on at a time.

Altogether, the arrival of an inspectress at a village is an event of much interest. Now she usually carries with her luggage a number of dolls, pictures, small boxes, and Christmas cards, out of her English store. If it is the time for a prize-giving at any particular school, she chooses some suitable things, which are placed on a table and distributed with the usual ceremony, including speeches. And how pleased the children are! They hug their dolls as eagerly as English children do, and their dark eyes sparkle with pleasure. Whether or not it is a prize occasion, Mrs. Brander gives Christmas cards to the scholars that have attended for a month with regularity, and she likes to leave a packet with the schoolmaster as future rewards. One school had become almost empty for some reason, but on hearing of the Christmas cards the children all came back. These journeys of the inspectress last often three or four weeks, because there are many schools to visit. At the end of each tour she returns to Madras. There she has to inspect a number of larger and more important schools, but for these, too, she is glad to have prizes ready.

I must not occupy too much space, but I want to mention that when Mrs. Brander is at Madras she gives an afternoon party to native ladies on one Saturday in the month. Some English ladies also attend, and there are various amusements, such as parlour croquet, chess, solitaire, puzzles, music, and for the little ones, games—as several of the ladies bring their children. If Mrs. Brander has just received a box from England, she displays the pretty things, and they are eagerly and minutely examined by the guests. The party is always much enjoyed, and on going away the children are often presented with a toy. Other English ladies at Madras also give occasional parties of the same kind. Last January there was one at which a beautiful Christmas tree added greatly to the entertainment.

Now I shall be very glad to take charge of dolls or other toys, and old Christmas cards (with or without writing upon them) for sending to India. I need presents not only for Madras but for other places, only I cannot refer to those now. The dolls should be of composition or china, not of very soft wax. It is not necessary that their clothes should take off and on, though for large dolls this is an advantage. The Indian children are very pleased to have small boxes with lock and key, to keep their bangles in, and they like bags too. At Calcutta many of the ladies read English, so that interesting books are of use, if not very difficult. I shall be able to inform the donors of the way in which their kind gifts are applied, for Mrs. Brander and my other correspondents tell me particulars about the children who receive them. I give my address, and I shall be very grateful on behalf of the little Indian children if my appeal is responded to.

E. A. Manning,
35, Blomfield Road, Maida Hill, W.

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By MARY E. HULLAH.

oon after Easter Mrs. Rakely paid a visit to London. She was a person with a chronic grievance; and though she had done her utmost to bring about Joan’s marriage, she considered it necessary to feel ill-used, because her favourite companion was not at hand to amuse her.

She called on Embrance, and carried her off—almost without asking her consent—to spend a long afternoon.

“I wish I had had you yesterday, my dear. Horace Meade came to dinner. Joan begged me to ask him; and as I met him in Bond Street, I did; otherwise, I think it would have escaped my memory. I took a fancy to him at one time; but he was always eccentric, and he looks more so than ever since he has been in Italy.”

“I did not know that he had been in Italy.”

“Yes. He has only just returned. It was a foolish thing to do, flinging away his chance of getting his picture into the Royal Academy. Joan told me about it. But that’s my objection to young men taking to art—they are so eccentric. Now he is going abroad again—I have forgotten where, my memory is not what it used to be; but he did tell me.”

As long as Mrs. Rakely had someone to listen to her she was quite satisfied. She took Embrance to a picture gallery; trotted her through four or five milliners’ shops in search of an ideal bonnet; asked her advice about umbrellas, and then bought the one she liked best herself; and finally left her, thoroughly exhausted, at the corner of her own street.

A foreign letter was awaiting Embrance’s arrival. Mrs. Clemon was not a regular correspondent, but when she did write she sent a good budget of news, pouring out a complete history of her experiences for the benefit of the niece who had been to her as a daughter. She was happy; her son was doing well. Now and then there came a hint that Embrance would be heartily welcome, if she could make up her mind to come out. In the next page, much blotted and smudged, came the tidings that William was engaged to be married to a neighbour’s daughter, a pretty girl and well brought up; but, ah! it might have been so different! Still, she would not complain, only now would Embrance come? There was room, and to spare. William and his wife would rejoice to see her. Let her think over the proposal, and not decide in haste. Then the letter went on to tell of preparations for the wedding. There were little bits of information concerning the bride’s family, and there was a great deal about an Irish help who had run away and left them at a moment’s notice without rhyme or reason. At the very end of the page came another suggestion, in William’s hand, “Come for a year, and try how you like us”; after which his mother had taken up her pen again to say, “Bless you in all your doings, my child, whatever course you decide upon.”

Embrance kissed the letter and put it away carefully. There was no time to read it again to-night, or to think if she should follow her aunt’s wishes. She was wofully behindhand with her work, and to-morrow morning she had an extra lesson to give to a backward pupil who lived at South Kensington. The long day with Mrs. Rakely had tried her newly-gained strength to its utmost limits, and her ankle was very painful. She limped towards the chiffonier in search of a book; in the glass over the mantelpiece she saw the door open with the familiar jerk that always preluded Annie’s knock.

“Come in,” said Embrance; but the words died away on her lips as she recognised the figure in the doorway, whose shoulders towered above the little handmaiden.

“Mr. Horace Meade.”

There was no sign of eccentricity in Horace’s appearance; even Mrs. Rakely might have been satisfied. He wore a dark, grey coat, and in his hand he carried a hat which was scrupulously glossy and well brushed. When he spoke his manner and voice were very quiet, much of the fun seemed to have died out of him during his sojourn in Italy, and his first remark was commonplace to the last degree.

“I heard from Mrs. Rakely that you had met with an accident. I am exceedingly sorry; I called to inquire how you were before I leave town.”

“You are going away for some time, I suppose?” asked Embrance, when she had invited her visitor to sit down. He took a chair by the window, and seemed interested in the growth of some ferns that Joan had sent from her garden.

“I hardly know. I have several portraits on hand that must be finished as soon as possible. But my studio is not habitable yet; it is being painted, and the workpeople are lamentably slow. When these commissions are disposed of, I may go away for several months, perhaps I shall get as far as Constantinople.”

“I have often thought that Constantinople must be a most interesting city to visit.”

“Oh, very; it is so beautifully situated; there is no other place quite like it.”

“No, I have never seen any place like it.” (“I suppose,” Embrance was thinking while she uttered her brilliant remark, “that he was offended at my writing to him.”)

“I was a fool to come at all,” said Horace to himself, “but I wanted to see her once more; she looks horribly ill.”

“I am sorry to see that you are still lame,” he said, aloud, as Embrance subsided into silence after her last attempt at light conversation.

“I am much better,” she said, quickly; “I’m only a little tired this afternoon. Are you looking at the ferns? Joan sent them; she is very well and happy. I often hear from her.”

“I am glad of that; I only heard of her marriage by chance, about a fortnight after it took place. Well, I hope it is a happy ending to her many troubles.”

“Yes,” said Embrance, quietly, “I hope so.”

“You were in her confidence all along, of course, Miss Clemon?”

“No, I did not know of her engagement.”

“That was really heartless of Joan! I hope you were angry with her?”

“No,” said Embrance again, “but I miss her very much.”

“I hope that you mean to go and stay with her shortly; the change would do you good.”

“I don’t know. I must say good-bye to her, of course, if I go to New Zealand.”

It had not seemed so clear to her a quarter of an hour ago that she would accept her aunt’s invitation as it did now.

“You would go to your relations—to Mrs. Clemon?”

“She wishes it very much,” explained Embrance, remembering how he had once before made a similar question; “if I don’t like it, I am to come back again.”

“I think,” said Horace, with a desperate effort to speak naturally, “that the voyage would be an admirable thing for your health. I hope that you will be very happy there. If I can be of any assistance to you in arranging about your passage—in fact, in any way, pray make use of my services.”

Painfully conscious that he had delivered this speech very much after the manner of a stage father in a heavy melodrama, he rose to take his leave. Embrance sank back into her chair as he left the room. Five minutes by the clock, his visit had lasted, he had been most kind and considerate, but—she wished that she had never written that letter.

Horace met a friend at his club, with whom he dined. It was late when he got back to his own rooms. He opened the door of the studio to see what progress the workmen had made. The room presented a forlorn appearance. The carpets were up, and the furniture was covered with sheets; all about the floor were paint-pots, shavings, and workmen’s tools. A writing-table stood apart in the window; Horace bethought himself of a sketch-book which he had left somewhere about, perhaps in one of the drawers. The top drawer was unlocked, and as he pulled it open he saw a heap of letters and advertisements which had accumulated during his absence. He had opened a great many of them, leaving the rest to a more favourable opportunity. It occurred to him now that the opportunity had arrived. He lighted a cigarette, dragged a chair from a corner of the room, and began tearing up circulars and invitations to parties that had taken place weeks ago; they would have to be answered some day, not now. At last he came upon some bills, and underneath these a grey envelope. He opened it leisurely. The letter was dated, “February 2nd”—the day before he had gone abroad. “Dear Mr. Meade,—Please come and see me. I have made a mistake.—Yours truly, Embrance Clemon.”

He read it over and over again, turned it backwards and forwards, then he put it down with a sigh. It must have been written shortly after that conversation in the park that he had been trying to forget. It was an apology—a direct appeal to him—and he had taken no notice of it! Nay, worse than that! With a groan, he pushed away the candle and rested his head on his hands, exclaiming, “And I have been advising her to go to New Zealand!”

Never had the backward pupil seemed so backward as she did that day. She had made twelve mistakes in a simple dictation; she had written an essay on Catherine of Arragon, whom she persistently confused with Catherine of Medici; and she had worked her sums on a method of her own, involving one direct certainty—that the answers could not by any possibility be correct. Embrance succeeded in concealing her vexation, and the two hours’ lesson ended more happily than might have been expected. The girl (who was good as gold, though not gifted with a taste for study) helped her dear Miss Clemon into her ulster, and let her out of the hall-door, with many injunctions that she was to take a cab if she got tired, or if it rained too fast.

Embrance pined for a little air, and was determined to walk, in spite of the wet. It was a long way; her umbrella was dripping and her ankle was aching sadly before she reached the corner of the street. In the distance a policeman was slowly pacing along, the pavement was slippery, and the road was shining with puddles. There was not a break in the leaden-coloured sky or a breath of wind to interfere with the steady downpour. Embrance’s umbrella had seen hard work; the rain pattered through the little holes in the silk; she had the greatest difficulty in keeping the book she carried out of the wet.

Well, it was not far now, though the street was long. Number 11, number 12, number 13; that was the house with the door-knocker that Joan had made a sketch of (she said it was like her grandfather). Number 14. There was a quick step behind her, and another umbrella was walking side by side with her.

“Good morning. I have been waiting to speak to you. I am so glad that you are come at last.”

The owner of the umbrella looked excited; his artistic eccentricity was to the fore; he held a scrap of grey paper in his left hand; his gaze was fixed on Embrance.

She said no word of greeting, but dropped the dictionary that she had been guarding with such care.

He picked it up for her. “Let me carry it.”

“Thank you. I do not like to trouble you”—and the rain trickled down on to her gloves and cuffs as she held out her hand towards him.

“Not at all,” said Horace, politely, as he pocketed the book, regardless of the mud. “The fact is, if you don’t mind listening, I’ve come to make an apology.”

Embrance glanced at the piece of paper that he was beginning to unfold, and the blood rushed to her cheeks.

“You see,” explained Horace, speaking very fast, “I don’t want to be a worry to you, only I should like you to know that this got put away with a heap of papers, and I only opened it last night. I hadn’t a notion yesterday that you had written to me. I wish I had. You are getting so wet. Will you let me hold my umbrella over you? It will be better so. Thank you,” as she murmured something that was not a refusal.

She had nothing now to carry; she clasped her hands, and looked straight in front of her down the rainy street.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had written to me?”

“I thought you had had the letter, and would rather not answer it.”

“Why did you write at all?”

“To explain my mistake,” said Embrance, confusedly.

“Then you did make a mistake, and I was the sufferer?”

With a flash, her dark eyes turned to his. The look of joy on his face brought peace and comfort to her.

“I am sorry,” she began.

“Are you?” he asked, tenderly. “Don’t be sorry on my account. If I had come to see you at once, would you have sent me away a second time, Embrance?”

They had passed number 25, and were walking towards the City, unmindful of the rain. In their hearts was the brightest sunshine.

“Would you, Embrance?”

She unclasped her hands; for a second she rested her fingers on his arm, as she answered, “No!”

[THE END.]

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By ANNE BEALE.

s the Religious Tract Society never wearies of publishing wholesome literature, so tract distributors should never flag in spreading it abroad. Since our first sketch of work accomplished, we have had some experience, and are thankful to be able to say that religious books are now gladly accepted, where some years ago they would have been scornfully rejected. They are particularly welcomed on Sunday, when policemen, cabmen, firemen, and other public servants who cannot attend a place of worship, say they like to have something to read when they are off duty. Of course, the magazine or book is more acceptable than the mere tract, and when regularly supplied is often eagerly accepted and expected.

“I have had this before,” said a policeman, looking at a picture of The Cottager and Artisan. “I haven’t seen you for some weeks, and I thought you’d forgotten me.” The oversight was soon remedied. “You would be surprised if you knew how many of the Force will read this,” said another. “Perhaps a dozen of us. We pass it on, and it does us all good.”

“That’s just what I do,” said a cabman, who chanced to be near. “Perhaps, ma’am, you will read this which was given to me.” He took a well-thumbed book from his pocket, which we subsequently read and “passed on” also.

The railway officials welcome us gladly as they stand or sit at their enforced Sunday work.

“It is better than the papers,” said a young porter, whom we heard with some companions singing hymns below ground.

Even the newsboys, with the Sunday papers under their arms, like to have something profitable for Sunday reading. One ragged, pale little fellow was in the habit of telling us one Sunday what were the contents of the small book he received the previous Sabbath; and another youth of larger growth emphatically demanded “A big’un. I likes a big book, please.” These and sundry others are the hawkers of newspapers. Oh! why cannot people wait till Monday morning for such secular reading, and why are our ears to be deafened with cries of the ‘paipers’? Cannot we give one day in seven to the service of Him who said, “Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy,” and who added, “I am not come to destroy the law, but to fulfil”?

I wish all those who will not remember it had heard an undeserved rebuke administered to us on a weekday by a railway official; undeserved, because we do not travel on Sunday, either to hear popular preachers or otherwise amuse ourselves.

“I shall be happy to take your book to-day, ma’am; but I never accept one on Sundays,” he said. “Why?” we inquired. “Because you know we have to work all day Sunday for the public, and I don’t think people who travel on Sundays, and break the law themselves, have any right to give us books to teach us how to keep it.” Let Sabbath-breakers take this to heart.

It is very rarely that we meet with a rebuff. On one occasion, however, when distributing illustrated leaflets to a party of scavengers, we were arrested by the words, “No, thankee. I don’t want one.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate cant, and it’s all cant.”

“I am sorry. Do I look like a cant?”

“No; I can’t say as you do.”

“He’s a bad’un, and al’ays rude to the ladies,” whispered a neighbour confidentially.

We often encounter gangs of navvies, who have their own ideas on most subjects, and like to air them.

“I don’t want tracts; I have heaps of books at home, and read all Sunday and every evening,” said one. “I’ll warrant me I have some you haven’t. Have you got ‘Heaven is my Home’? and ‘Paradise Lost’?” He enumerated many others, after which he poured forth his feelings on political matters, inveighing against the Poor Law, the School Board, the distraint system, and saying what he would do if he were in power. When we ventured to suggest that he would not mend matters if he went the lengths he proposed, he began an argument that we were obliged to cut short both for his employer’s sake and our own; but he was a fair example of “The British Workman.” The navvy is a shrewd discriminator.

“Is that in favour of Bradlaugh?” asked one; “because, if it is, I must decline it.

“Oh, if it isn’t I’ll read it with pleasure.”

Another stood considering his small offering, and volunteered, “This don’t tell us to throw away one’s pipe and backy; somebody gave me a tract as did. They’ve kept many a man from doing a rash act. If I was without my backy I should sometimes be inclined to destroy myself. It calms one down, somehow, and makes one more contented. ’Tis all very well to preach against drinking, but as to backy, that’s different.”

A fine, stalwart-looking young man lamented that he had had scarcely any schooling, and feared that the reading we offered him might be too abstruse for him. He had taught himself to write a little by copying letters, and could spell out easy sentences; but his education had ceased when he was six years old. His home was in Devonshire, but his navvy work had taken him far afield. We recommended him to go to a night-school, and he was well inclined to do so. We fell in with him several times afterwards, and found that he had followed our advice, and went three times a week. He said the teacher would not let him rest after he had spoken to him, but made him go at once.

All young men are not so amenable, and sometimes make a jest of what is meant to help them.

“Have you anything to suit me? I am an atheist,” asked one, glancing at our wares.

“They are sure to suit you; take which you like,” we replied.

He chose one haphazard, and the title was “Cross-bearing.”

“What’s an atheist?” asked a burly looking bystander of his mate.

“Oh, one of them Bradlaughites,” was the answer, as they both came forward for a book.

On another occasion a flippant young mason inquired if “it was about love.”

“Yes, the best kind of love; about Jesus,” we replied.

“Oh! I don’t know Him. I only love those I know,” he said, but he took the book.

It is melancholy to see how many youths seem to know little of Him who died to save them. One Easter Sunday we ventured to attack a knot of them who were holiday-making. The pictures always attract, so they were soon engaged in contemplating them.

“Is it about Jesus?” asked one.

“Yes.”

“Ah! He was a good man,” he continued.

“He was your Saviour, and mine,” we added.

“Do you believe it?” he inquired, with real earnestness.

“Yes; the little book will tell you so.”

What was the result? Who shall say?

We are sometimes astonished at the eagerness of the men and boys, working in scores or even fifties, to secure the tract, leaflet, or magazine. The supply rarely answers the demand, for even from the tops of high houses in process of being built, we hear a shout of “Don’t forget us, please,” while the workmen on terra firma volunteer to distribute as many as we can spare. All seize with avidity on The Child’s Companion, for all, or most, have families at home, and “something for the little ones” is a boon.

“I read them out while my wife sees to the house,” said one. “I can’t afford to buy them, but I carry home all I can get.”

“I read it to father, and father reads it to mother, and mother reads it to me,” was the satisfactory acknowledgment of a little girl who came in for one.

“Here are two young gentlemen who would like to study them, I am sure,” said a master mason, indicating his juvenile aids, he having accepted one himself.

The other day we were arrested by an old man, a scavenger, who said we couldn’t give him too many good books, for he loved them. “I was fifty-two years without entering a place of worship,” he added. “I was guard to a travelling wagon, and worked Sundays and weekdays. Four years ago I had a bad illness, and a lady converted me. I promised God, if He was pleased to restore me, that I would serve Him for the rest of my days. I thought I was dying, but I got better, thanks be to Him; and I have kept my word ever since. I have been to church three times a Sunday, and to mission-hall twice a week. I have been on my knees night and morning for twenty minutes, and I thank and praise the Lord.”

It is this Sunday working which is the cause of so much irreligion. Turn where you will, those employed have the same tale to tell. They all say that if only they could be ensured every other Sunday they would be satisfied, but to have no Day of Rest was bad both for body and soul. Indeed, one of them argued that the soul perished with the body, and that he could prove it from Scripture. Here and there we find men brave enough to refuse all Sunday work, and they say they have not lost by it.

“I never turn a wheel on Sunday,” said a cabman. “Many of us stand out against it, and all who do say they are better off than those who work.”

He was certainly a good specimen. His cab was his own; he was well dressed, and his horse as brisk as himself. It was evident that “the one day in seven” agreed with them. It is well known that the life both of man and beast is shortened by the breach of the fourth commandment, and it is clear that the Great Legislator blesses its observance.

We have occasionally fallen in with the regular colporteurs, and been convinced of the good done by the sale of their religious literature. Once at a coffee-stall we were greeted by an emphatic “God bless you and your work,” and the gratuitous contribution did not seem to interfere with the monetary. The holders of these stalls are always glad of something to read, and are willing to distribute wholesome reading to their customers. Strange incidents sometimes occur when you take a poor, wearied, out-of-work yet respectable fellow-creature, for a cup of coffee and a plate of cake or bread and butter, to one of these wayside restaurants. One evening at dusk we encountered a glazier, who, having received the tract, said he had not tasted food since daybreak. He was a foreigner, a Pole, who had been in England ever since the Polish insurrection of some thirty years ago. His father was a gentleman. He had a wife and children, and had been looking for work all the day. A trifle for them and refreshment for him opened his heart, and he gave his address. Subsequently a district visitor found it, and discovered that he was a Polish Jew. He was not in, but his wife said that it was contrary to their faith to receive relief from one not of their own religion; but in his hunger food was heaven-sent through “a sister,” and he could not refuse it. Neither did she reject a shilling. The family were subsequently placed under the protection of a charitable Jewish lady, who said, with truth, “That her people took such care of their own poor, that they had no need to apply to the Christian.” Still, it is well that Jew and Gentile should meet, as they now do, happily, in works of general benevolence. The reign of Christ will begin when universal love takes the place of sectarian hate, and religious persecution ceases.

Time and space would fail us to tell how the men of the Fire Brigade love reading, and how they showed us with pride a number of The British Workman, sent to them monthly by Miss Weston—for are not the brave fellows mostly sailors? Or how other public servants speak gratefully of monthly gifts of religious books sent by friends interested in them, and circulated amongst them. Let no one imagine that either tract, magazine, or book is thrown away, though a kindly discretion, and, perhaps, a cheerful manner are needed for their distribution. We have made an inroad into one of the great laundries, and find that both men and women employed rejoice at “something to read” during their brief leisure. Text cards are always welcomed.

“I shall have this framed. It just suits me,” said one.

“I wonder that ladies do not visit our large laundries,” remarked the superintendent.

This visitation has been begun by members of the Y.W.C.A. May it prosper! These workers in the steam laundries have a hard life of it, and stand for long, long hours over their laborious toil. Here are elderly women and young girls, ready to welcome anyone who will say a kind word to them, and, perhaps, benefit them thereby.

“I like a whole story that I can read all through,” said one of the latter, and the cheap reprints of good stories published by the Religious Tract Society are invaluable. Moreover, they can be lent from one to another.

It is strange that one still meets with people comparatively young who cannot read. Much of their religious knowledge is often due to hymns. A man said he liked the old hymns best, and had known “Glory to Thee” by heart ever since he was a boy. Others are proud of the fact that their children will read to them whatever we are pleased to give them, and sometimes even beg for a book apiece for all the olive branches—“For fear one should be jealous of the other,” said a cabman. To which we replied that “jealousy was expensive.”

The other day we fell in with a gipsy encampment: vans and tents settled on a bit of waste land, having been turned out of a neighbouring holding for building purposes. In one of the tents we found a young man and woman, a lovely three-year-old child, and an infant not yet a fortnight old. The father of the family, aged twenty-two, had been to night-school once upon a time, but his learning was nil; the mother, seated on the ground, baby in arms, could not read; but a ragged urchin who had crept in was going to school the following Monday. The young couple were strangely handsome, and rejoiced in the gipsy name of Loveridge. The woman said she had prayed to the Lord when she was ill. “What else was there to do? I have never been a great sinner; you know what I mean, ma’am. A gentleman comes here to preach on Sunday.”

She did not seem fully to apprehend her need of a Saviour, but acknowledged that we were all sinners. It was a strange, sad scene. She, seated on her bed of rags at one end of the small, dark, smoky, stifling tent; her husband also on the ground making skewers at the other, and apologising for untidiness; the infant apparently dying, the little girl affectionately stroking our garments. The mother said she had had no food that day, for the times were bad; and the trifle we offered was instantly despatched to a shop at some distance for “a little oatmeal and arrowroot,” the husband being the joyful messenger. Still, she said she liked tent-life better than she should life within stone walls. “I have been used to it, and I suppose it is what we are brought up in that we like best,” she added, simply, and in perfect English.

Thanks to Mr. George Smith, tent and barge are becoming alive to the teaching of the Gospel; and soon, we hope, the Testament or tract will be legible by all their long-neglected inmates. At present, comparatively few, of the seniors especially, can read them. Nevertheless, we will scatter the seed far and wide, convinced that it will bring forth fruit if sown to enlarge and to sustain the kingdom of our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ.

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

Page 195: ununwonted to unwonted—“unwonted sight”.

suceeeds to succeeds—“succeeds in being”.

Page 206: be to he—“he began”.]