The Girl’s Own Paper, by Various—A Project Gutenberg eBook

THE SUBJECT OF OUR NEXT COMPETITION IS TO BE
The Notable Women of the reign of Queen Victoria.

Of these, each competitor will make out a list for herself, and regarding those whom she selects, she will be required to state, briefly and clearly, who they were, when and where they were born, and when and where they died—if they be dead—and to give such particulars about what they have done as will prove their right to the title of notable women.

Eleven prizes will be given, one to the most successful competitor of every age from thirteen to twenty-three, inclusive. Thus, a girl thirteen years old has a chance of obtaining the prize awarded to girls between thirteen and fourteen; a girl of fourteen may prove the winner of the prize given to those between fourteen and fifteen: and so on, up to the age of twenty-three.

To be especially struck by the Editor in honour of Her Majesty’s Jubilee. These medals will be cast in the form of brooches, with a pin at the back for more convenient use. They have been specially designed for The Girl’s Own Paper, and will bear on the reverse of the medal the name of the owner. The front side of the medal will bear the design, conventionally treated, of the heading to every weekly number of this magazine.

Certificates of merit will also be given—first, second, and third class—and these will be awarded to girls of any age who gain the necessary number of marks.

A special prize of a Gold Medal-Brooch will be given—for the first time in our series of competitions—to

We have long recognised the fact that those who live abroad labour, as a rule, under considerable{274} disadvantages in competing with the majority of girls who stay at home, and we are glad to show, by the offer of this special prize, our appreciation of the painstaking efforts of many readers in distant places.

Foreign and Colonial competitors will on this occasion have longer time allowed them for sending in their papers.

has a special interest. The testimony of many who have taken part in previous competitions is that they proved sources not only of considerable enjoyment, but of great intellectual profit. The present one has features as valuable as any competition that has ever been started. To engage in it can hardly fail to widen our sympathies and increase our interest in the world around us and in the age in which we live.

Even those who fail to obtain either a prize or a certificate will not have spent their time uselessly. Let them keep in mind that:

The Notable Women dealt with must all be British subjects: foreigners will not count. It is not necessary that they should have been born after Queen Victoria came to the throne. All may be included who have lived any part of their lives in the reign of Her Majesty.

They must be distinguished on account of some worthy quality. They may be famous for learning; noted as authors, musicians, or painters; remarkable as philanthropists and public benefactors—in fact, no one will come amiss who can be said to have in any considerable degree attracted attention by either her virtues or her abilities.

The number treated of may be what every competitor finds time and inclination for. The more comprehensive the paper, of course the better chance there will be of a prize or a certificate: in everything, as is well-known, “if little labour little are our gains.” The most important thing, however, is quality, not quantity.

The notice of each notable woman is in no case to exceed one hundred and twenty words, exclusive of the name and the place and date of birth and death.

The arrangement of their papers to be followed by competitors is the order of birth, not the order of death.

What we intend should be sent in will be readily understood, perhaps, by the following examples, in which we have given two characters who, as they are purely imaginary, need not be looked for in any Biographical Dictionary.

Of an old Scotch family. First attracted attention in 1835 by the publication of her “Turns of Fortune,” a tale of which seventy thousand copies were sold within three days. Encouraged by this success she gave herself up to the pursuit of literature. Her most popular works, besides that just named, are “At the Sign of the Spread Eagle,” “The Court of Lions,” “Hammer and Tongs,” “Lady Bettina,” and “The Hero of the White Shield.” Inherited a large fortune from her father, and being herself the best paid authoress of her time, and of an exceedingly saving turn, she died worth an immense sum.

Began the study of the violin at the age of six. Appeared as a musical prodigy at Chester in 1864. Studied from 1865-1868 at the Conservatorium at Leipzig. Made her début in London in April, 1870, when the beauty of her playing at once ensured her a brilliant success. Has now for many years been recognised as the greatest of British violinists, and is much respected for her devotion to the higher forms of musical art. Exhibits a marked tendency towards a wandering life, and has visited professionally not only all the European capitals, but the chief towns of the American Continent. Is a small lively person with dark brown hair and extraordinarily bright eyes.

Competitors must write on one side of the paper only, and, before sending in their papers, they must number the leaves and stitch them together at the left-hand top corner.

On the back of the last leaf each paper must bear the full name, age, and address of the competitor, and underneath the following must be written by father, mother, minister, or teacher:—

“I hereby certify that this paper is the sole work and in the handwriting of (competitor’s full name is again to be written), and that her age and address are correctly stated.” (Signature and address of the parent, minister, or teacher.)

The last day for receiving papers connected with this competition will be Monday, April 25.

Except in the case of Colonial competitors, who will be allowed till Saturday, June 25.

Each paper must be sent by book post—and without a letter—addressed to the Editor, The Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster-row, London, E.C., and the words “Queen’s Jubilee Competition” must be clearly written in the left-hand corner.

The result of the Competition, so far as home readers are concerned, will be published in the Summer Number of The Girl’s Own Paper.

CHAPTER IV.

letter with the London post mark, mamma,” said Eveline, “and not from Mark.”

“I hope Mark is well,” said Mrs. Fenner, taking the letter with some trepidation. “It is Mr. Echlin’s writing. What a long letter!”

As Mrs. Fenner’s eyes ran along the lines traced by the firm hand of her cousin, her colour rose, a smile broke on her lips, and as she laid down the letter the tears stood in her eyes.

“Nothing, dear; quite the contrary. But you had better read the letter; it concerns you quite as much as me.” And Mrs. Fenner held the letter to her daughter.

“Oh, mamma, how nice of him!” exclaimed Eveline, with sparkling eyes. “I knew he must love Mark. How could he help it? But to think of his wanting us to go and live in London with him and Mark—to make his house like home, he says! What will you do, mother? What will you do?”

“I should think it was. And he puts it so prettily; as if all the favour were on our side.”

“But, dear, I don’t know how you would like to live in a great city, you who have always been used to open air and country life; Manchester-square has no Sunbridge Woods within reach.”

“But it has Mark, mother; and Mark is better than Sunbridge Woods—better than Blyfield Park. Why, mother, you know that we’d both of us rather be with him where he is, than in the Gardens of the Hesperides! I suppose we couldn’t keep the cottage, and just run down to it now and then, could we?”

“I don’t think we ought to propose such an arrangement; it would be a half-hearted acceptance of my cousin’s offer; we must either go or stay. But I will take the letter up to the rectory; I must know what your aunt and uncle think of it. Don’t say anything to Elga, just for a little.”

“As you think best, mother,” said Eveline, and went out, as one in a dream, to perform her morning household duties. No sooner did she appear in the yard with her apron full of grain, than the fowls came running, flying, flustering to her feet; the pigeons, who were on the watch on the low roof of the tool-house, spread their blue wings and dropped down among them; while Eveline’s body-guardsman, the snow-white fox-terrier, Boz, stood gravely on the watch to preserve order, himself the very personification of cleanliness and decorum—his bushy tail curling over his back, every hair of his coat erect and in its proper place, glancing with his brown eyes from his mistress to her noisy pensioners, and keeping his little black nose well raised, with a slight suggestion of superiority.

“Ah, Boz,” said Eveline, when the edge was a little taken off the appetite of her feathered guests, “you little think what is hanging over you! I wonder how you’ll like it! Who will keep old Bulbo in order, if you go away, old dog?”

Old Bulbo was a rather aggressive Poland cock, who had been handsome, but whose digestion had become impaired, his top-knot floppy, and his tail-feathers ragged, while he was easily exasperated at the frivolous impertinence of the younger generations, who stole choice morsels under his very bill, and generally managed to escape his vengeance, when he, like an old bully as he was, would turn to vent his spite on the faithful partner of his roost; on which occasions Boz started into activity, and compelled the old tyrant to keep the peace.

Boz wagged his tail in answer to his mistress’s tone rather than to her words, and waited attentively while she gathered the pretty brown or white eggs, swept the hen-house, making it sweet and fresh with sprinkled lime, and ended by filling the large brown pan with clear water which the fowls immediately muddied.

The poultry-yard settled, Boz conducted his mistress to the vegetable garden, where Eveline gathered a basket of peas for dinner, some currants and raspberries for dessert, quietly wondering who would gather the fruit from those bushes next year. As she stood among the raspberry bushes her mother came out and went down the garden to the rectory gate. A sharp pain shot through Eveline’s heart.

“What will Uncle James say and Aunt Elgitha? Will they persuade mother not to go? I’m sure Uncle James will miss us, and poor Githa!” and the ready tears welled into Eveline’s eyes. “But Mark—to live with Mark, to see him every day—to live in London, to hear beautiful music, to see beautiful pictures, to go to Westminster Abbey, to the Temple, to St. Paul’s!”

Eveline sat down among the roses, fairly dazed with the thick-coming thoughts, while the bees hummed, the grasshoppers chirped, and the roses slowly swayed in the west wind that came to them charged with the fragrance of the mignonette.

The earth was so fair, the sky so blue, the wind so sweet, what need was there to think of anything but the beauty and the colour and the perfume?

Just then a chill wind blew from the north, the leaves shivered, the murmur of the grasshoppers died away under the grass as over the church a huge black cloud came sweeping, while another, jagged and angry, met it from the south, and there came a sound of rolling thunder. Eveline looked in wonder from her bower, the storm had burst so suddenly. Was it an answer to her thought, a warning not to trust in the perishable, not to make pleasure the law of life, but to aim at the imperishable, the eternal? It shot through Eveline’s mind that she might at least take such teaching from it, that if she could grasp the blessings of family love and sisterhood it would be worse than folly to magnify the blessings she must give up for them; but she was glad that the burden of the choice did not lie with her, and making her way into the house, she occupied herself in her usual studies.

Mrs. Fenner meanwhile had laid Miles Echlin’s letter before the rector and his wife, not without certain misgivings as to how the contents would strike them. Lady Elgitha at once saw the importance of the question, and quickly set herself to consider how it might affect her own household. She was personally attached to Margaret, as far at least as she could be attached to anyone unconnected with the great house of Manners, and she had always felt that it was respectable to have her husband’s widowed sister living, as it were, under the shelter of the rectory, especially as she was the widow of a man who must have been a general and a K.C.B. at the very least, if he had lived. Mark, too, had by a certain natural joyousness of temper unconsciously maintained himself in her good graces, but Eveline was already rather a difficulty to Lady Elgitha. She was decidedly so much prettier than Elgitha that it had sometimes struck the rector’s wife of late that it was unfortunate to have to introduce as her niece a girl who must be more attractive than her own daughter; it would be well at least that Eveline should be withdrawn before Elgitha came out. These thoughts shot through Lady Elgitha’s brain while the rector was taking in the idea that a great piece of good fortune had befallen his sister, which must entail nothing but loss and bereavement on him.

“We shall miss each other, James,” replied his sister, softly. “But what do you and Elgitha think? It is very kind of Miles, and the prettiest compliment he could have paid dear Mark; but we need not accept it, you know, if you think——”

“Of course you must accept it, Margaret,” said Lady Elgitha, and there was a touch of east wind in her voice which made the brother and sister shrink and feel ashamed; “it would be flying in the face of Providence not to accept such an offer. What is to become of Eveline if you die? You can’t depend even on a pretty girl’s marrying nowadays, if she has no fortune.”

“Yes, I think it would certainly be good for Eveline, and it would be so nice for Mark. I am sure Miles deserves all we can do for him.”

“Of course; and when you’re tired of London, you can always run down here, and I daresay Eveline will be glad to have Elgitha up for a week or two in the season. It would be a good opportunity for her to have some lessons. I’m sure, Margaret, you have much to be thankful for—Mark so well provided for, and such an opening for you and Eveline.”

And Lady Elgitha sighed, for she caught sight of her son coming up the path with his hat at the back of his head and his hands in the pocket of his loose shooting-coat, looking the picture of idleness.

The poor rector had much ado to congratulate his sister. Fortunately, he had a way of looking at events as they affected other people rather than himself; so that the pleasure he felt in the honour done to his sister’s son, and in the advantages which would accrue to her and her daughter, occupied him more than the loss and desolation to himself.

When Elgitha heard the news, she was in blank despair. Rosenhurst would be unendurable without Aunt Margaret and Eveline. No one else should live in the cottage. She would go to school; she would be trained for a nurse, and go to a hospital; she must do something, or she should die of dulness, with{276} only father and mother, and Gilbert always loafing about.

But the end of it was that Margaret wrote to Mr. Echlin, thanking him, and promising to spend the winter in Manchester-square, that they might see how they liked each other, and to come at the beginning of October. Mr. Echlin replied that he was perfectly satisfied with the arrangement, but begged as a favour that they would say nothing about the matter to Mark.

This was a hard condition to keep when Mark came down for his summer holiday, and led to some amusing complications. Mark was full of the goodness and generosity of his cousin. He did not believe he had a single fault; and though he had had great sorrows, he was so cheerful that you forgot he was old. “I suppose cheerfulness runs in the family,” said the lad, with a loving look at his mother. “What paragons grandmamma and grandpapa must have been!”

“There is much to be thankful for in the inheritance of a cheerful temper, no doubt,” said his mother; “and I think all the Echlins I have known have been disposed to look on the bright side of things.”

“You yourself, mother,” said Eveline, admiringly, “who have had trouble enough to break a woman’s heart, Aunt Elgitha says.”

“But it seemed God’s own hand, Eva,” replied Mrs. Fenner, softly; “and who was I that I should murmur? Did He not know best?”

“And two good children, who never fretted for what they could not have. Your cousin Miles has had more grievous sorrow than I; he has lost his wife and lost his son, who, everyone says, was all a father could wish, and he has no child left him.”

“Do you know, mother,” said Mark, very confidentially, “I have a notion that he has found someone whom he thinks of bringing home? You have no notion how the house is being brisked up. He has said nothing to me. Of course, I could not expect to be always in such comfortable quarters.”

“Of course not, my dear. And you would be sorry to have to leave Manchester-square?”

“Naturally. Why, I am lodged like a prince. I suppose Mr. Echlin must be nearly sixty; but many men of fifty look older. There is no reason why he shouldn’t—is there, mother?”

“Marry again, mother. Of course second marriages are not like first marriages; but when a man has a big house, and is all alone. He hasn’t said a word to me; but the best bedroom is to be done up—for he asked me to help him choose the paper—and one of the drawing-rooms, Mrs. Cotton said, is to be refurnished as a morning room.”

“That looks suspicious, doesn’t it, mother?” said Eveline, with saucy gravity.

“I hope,” said Mark, following out the train of his own thoughts, “it will not be too young a lady. It doesn’t look nice to see a man with a bald head with a girl who might be his daughter for a wife.”

“It would be a pity,” assented Mrs. Fenner. “I wonder why men always consider themselves so young when they marry. I remember John Brattlebury, a cousin of your father’s, as nice a man as ever lived, to whom it never occurred to marry until he was well past forty. Your father innocently suggested to him the name of a lady of about five-and-thirty, who we knew liked him, and to whom the position he was able to offer her would have been a decided gain. You’d hardly believe it, but he was almost offended, went down into Cumberland, and came home with a wife of eighteen, who knew no more of his tastes and occupations than he of hers.”

“Of getting a change, my dear—being mistress in a house instead of number two or three in a string of daughters. Time is apt to seem long at eighteen, and a middle-aged bachelor, when he comes to woo, has many advantages. If she cannot admire the brightness of his eyes or the elegance of his figure, she may esteem him for his experience and intelligence, and diamonds and knicknacks are powerful persuasors to some natures.”

“And really, mamma, if you think of it, it may not be so bad, after all. Shakespeare says—

“I remember that Shakespeare makes Duke Orsino say so. Perhaps, as Shakespeare had married a woman older than himself, he might set value on the opposite qualification; but it is not fair to make him answerable for the opinions of his characters. But now, Eva, you must go and dress, or Aunt Elgitha will not be able to start her tennis.”

And so the pleasant August days went by, and Mark visited his old friends, the farmers, enjoying the gathering-in of the harvest, the golden lights of the sun, the heavy whispering of the trees, and all the harmonies of country life, a thousand times the more for the contrast with the city life he had been leading for the last nine months. There was but one thing in which he was disappointed—he wanted to spend a large part of his handsome salary in the decoration of his mother’s cottage; but both his mother and Eveline were unaccountably indifferent to it, and Mrs. Fenner at last put him past the idea by saying that if there should be changes in Manchester-square, it might be desirable, for Eveline’s sake, that she should go to town for a few months, and then he could come and stay with them.

So Mark went back to town refreshed and happy. He was too much engrossed with his work to note all that was being done at Manchester-square, and too modest to ask questions; but the conviction of impending change grew on him.

So September passed, and October, with its bracing days and shortened evenings, was come. It was already the fifth, and Mark, after a rather hasty breakfast, was about to start for town, when Mr. Echlin said—

“Mark, you’ll be sure to be home in time to dress for dinner. I expect some friends—ladies.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mark, and went his way, thinking that now it was coming, and wondering that he had not heard from his mother for nearly a week.

Business, which had been slack in August and September, was very brisk again. Mark’s work was increasing in interest and importance; he had several important proofs to read and a long journey to take in the afternoon. It was already a quarter to six as he let himself in at Manchester-square. He glanced into the dining-room; all looked bright and cosy, and a crisp fire sent out a rosy, joyous, frolicsome radiance, that was very pleasant to see. The table was laid for four. Mark was hungry enough to regard even the dinner rolls with satisfaction, and to eye the mats with a vague wonder as to what dishes were to be set on them—a warm odour of roasting meat rose from the culinary region.

“Is Mr. Echlin in, Martin?” he inquired of the butler, who was putting a finishing touch to his table.

“Yes, sir, we druv to meet ’em at four o’clock; the train was five minutes late.”

“Hullo! Mark, only just in,” called Mr. Echlin over the banisters. “Make haste, lad, we’re as hungry as hunters.” And Mark ran up three stairs at a time and plunged into the work of the toilette, too busy to wonder who the ladies might be.

The clock struck six as he left his room. As he ran downstairs the unwonted sound of music struck his ear; someone was playing a Lied ohne Worte, one that Eveline often played in the twilight at home. Mark was glad that one of the ladies played, and played softly, but Martin’s inexorable gong began to boom, and he must go in.

Miles Echlin had never used the drawing-room, and when Mark opened the door, and the great chandeliers were reflected from mirror to mirror, he started back dazzled. Two ladies rose at his entrance and came towards him; both called him by his name. What did it mean? Were they in very truth his own mother and sister, the ladies dearest in the world to his loyal heart?

The wonder of it almost took away his breath, and he gave a great gasp as he uttered their names.

“Forgive me, Mark,” said Mr. Echlin, taking his hand, “it was selfish of me to take you so by surprise, I ought to have told you.”

“Oh, sir, are they come to stay?” asked Mark, looking from one to the other, still incredulous.

“To stay, to live with us if we can make the old house homelike enough for them, or rather if they will make it homelike for me and my adopted son.”

“And are you not good to me? Ever since you came to me, have you not thought, worked, and cared for me? My own dear son was taken from me, he who must ever be first in my heart, but do not think that I cannot love and honour loyalty and worth, that I cannot thank God for cheering me with such a friend as you! But there is old Martin pounding away at his gong! You all know what I would say. Come, Margaret, Mark will bring his sister.”

He led Mrs. Fenner down with old-fashioned courtesy, and placed her in the seat which his wife had once filled, then motioned to Eveline to sit at his right while Mark took his customary seat on his left. There were many larger parties in the square that night, but not one where there were more grateful hearts, and of the silent covenant made that night no one of the four ever repented.

With the presence of those good women, all that was happy and homelike came back to the big house. Music and soft laughter filled its chambers—Mr. Echlin loved to have it so. The portraits of his wife and of his son hang where they used to hang, and some beautiful landscapes now adorn the walls, and in Mrs. Echlin’s pretty sitting-room the grave, sweet face of Michael Fenner looks down on the children to whom he bequeathed the best possession, THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

Cantata.

form belonging equally to sacred and secular music, viz., the cantata, in all probability first emanated from desire to possess in chamber music the recitative, invented by Peri and others, and supposed by themselves and their admirers to be a revival of Greek art. You will best judge of the primitive nature of the earliest cantatas, and understand the difference between them and the compositions which have since appeared under the same title, when I tell you that they were short dramatic stories, declaimed or recited by one voice to the accompaniment of a single instrument. In the seventeenth century this simple form was extended, by the insertion, at various intervals, of an air, the repetition of which gave the cantata the appearance of a rondo. The Italian school of that period, already mentioned in connection with the opera, did much to perfect this style of composition. Foremost amongst these masters stands Carissimi, who is credited with first adapting the cantata to church purposes. Amongst his secular cantatas there is one written to commemorate the death of Mary Queen of Scots. About the same time, Marcello, Cesti, and Lotti wrote in this form, and Alessandro Scarlatti contributed very many specimens, in which the accompaniments were elaborate and difficult. Some of Marcello’s are published for soprano and contralto, with clavecin accompaniment.

In the early part of the next century Domenico Scarlatti, the son of the Alessandro above named, considerably extended the form by making use of various movements in the one work. Pergolesi (1710-36) also wrote several cantatas, introducing important developments. A well-known one of his was Orfeo ed Euridice, written shortly before his death. Handel wrote several for the single voice, either with clavier or orchestral accompaniment, mostly for oboes and stringed instruments. In the life of Handel, published soon after his death (in 1760), the number is put down as two hundred; but this total will include his Church cantatas, a much more advanced form of composition, although composed when he was quite a young man.

The modern name for the primitive form of cantata is undoubtedly “Concert aria,” or “Scena,” into which it has merged. Under the latter titles we have splendid examples by Mozart, such as “Misero, O sogno?” “Bella mia fiamma,” “Misera dove son!” and “Non temer,” and single specimens by Beethoven, “Ah, perfido,” and by Mendelssohn, “Infelice.” The most important and valuable Church cantatas are those composed by John Sebastian Bach, consisting of five sets for every Sunday and holy day in the year, besides many single ones, such as “God’s time is the best,” and a sort of requiem ode for the Electress of Saxony. These Church cantatas are for four voices and full orchestra, and have from four to seven various movements. Bach wrote many secular cantatas as well, two of them being comic ones. His works abound in contrapuntal skill, and contain great beauties.

It remains to be said that in our times the word cantata is used as a title to choral works which, if sacred and written in oratorio style, are too short for that title or have no dramatis personæ; or, if secular, such as lyric dramas set to music, are not intended to be acted. Sir Sterndale Bennett’s May Queen is a good specimen of the latter, which may be said to bear the same relationship to opera that the sacred cantata of the present day does to oratorio.

Motett and Anthem.

Winterfeld, a German writer on musical matters, derives the word motett from “mot,” the French for “a word,” referring to the verse of Holy Scripture which constitutes a motett; whilst other learned men connect it with the Latin verb “movere,” indicative of the livelier motion and the briskness it possesses, when compared with the Cantus Fermus; and there is yet a third derivation from “mutare,” to change—a reference to the changing sentiments and emotional characteristics of these musical settings, a noticeable feature in such stiff and formal times.

At one time the motett was made up of a theme and its treatment in different variations, after the manner of the Spanish “moto” in poetry. Motetts were also set to profane words in the early periods of their history, and they were forbidden to be used in church in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

Dr. Stainer, in his “Dictionary of Musical Terms,” mentions the term “motett” as being synonymous with “pulpitre” in the fifteenth century, but for the last three hundred years the term has meant a piece of sacred music adapted to Latin words, and to be sung at high mass in the Roman Catholic Church, either instead of or as an addition to the offertory, which was to be set to the music of the plainsong. Motetts by Philip of Vitrisco date back as far as the year 1300. At the commencement of that century the motett became a much more living form, when represented by such composers as our English John Dunstable, the Flemish Du Fay, and others. Following these composers came the Netherlanders of Okenheim’s school, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, and they more definitely separated their motetts from the style of the masses in vogue.

In the latter there is a painful striving apparent, consequent on the feeling, almost of duty, that severe contrapuntal exhibitions must be displayed, whereas in the former there is breadth of style and general fitness of things, untrammelled by this artificiality.

In the sixteenth century the Flemish writers, headed by Josquin des Prés, made great moves onward, and gained the leading position in musical Europe by earnest work and pure and noble endeavours. They chose passages from the Gospels and the Book of Canticles for their motetts, and imbued them with characteristic individuality. At the same period the Lamentations of Jeremiah were largely drawn upon for subjects. In this and the fifteenth centuries we find a large collection of funeral motetts, named nœniæ, very reverent and beautiful. One by Josquin des Prés, founded on plain chant, and written in memory of his friend Okenheim (who was also his master), is very fine.

Petrucci, the father of type music printing, gave most of the earliest nœniæ to the world, many of which may be seen in the British Museum. In the middle of the sixteenth century motetts were, perhaps, influenced for good by the wonderful progress of the madrigal, but each part was written with a different text, and this confusion became an abuse. However, towards the latter part of the century that bright genius, Palestrina, proved himself to be as great a writer of motetts as he was of masses. He composed over three hundred to our knowledge, and in all probability there are more than that which have been lost. Cotemporary with this great light we find, in Italy, Morales, Anesio, Luca Marenzio, and, above all, Vittoria, who was almost as great a motett composer as Palestrina himself; in the Netherlands, Orlando di Lasso; in Venice, Willaert, and, later, Croce and the two Gabrielis.

Our English writers, Tallis and Byrd, whom we shall refer to again immediately, wrote as fine motetts as any produced by the foreign schools, under the title, “Cantiones Sacræ.” Dr. Tye, Dr. Fairfax, and others also added specimens to the English list. These motetts, as we shall see, became (after the Reformation) full anthems, which were in musical form motetts, but were set to English words. In some cases the English words are translations from the Latin. It is curious to find that Orlando Gibbons, in the seventeenth century, writing anthems for the church, christened his secular part-music “Madrigals and Motets,” thereby reverting to the old use of the term in connection with secular words only.

In the seventeenth century the motett still flourished in the Roman Church, but not for long, according to its old form. Mr. Rockstro attributes the downfall of the old motett to the invention, by Monteverde, of dominant unprepared dissonances, which “sapped the foundation of the Polyphonic School.”

Thus, after 1660 the motett was a composition in modern tonality and with orchestral accompaniments. Amongst composers in this style we find Scarlatti, Pergolesi, Durante, and others, followed later on by Keiser in Germany and Sebastian Bach, and then Graun, Hasse, and Hiller. Handel wrote motetts in his earlier years. In modern times, as I have had reason to point out to you in other forms, titles are appended to works which are, to say the least, inappropriate, and the only claim these have to the name motett is that they were originally intended to be sung at High Mass. Such are the “Insanæ et vanæ curæ” of Haydn, “Splendente te Deus” of Mozart, and the “O Salutaris” of Cherubini. The term “motetus,” given in early times to the medius or middle voice part, is probably in no way connected with the derivation of the word motett.

The motett form appears in Church music of Queen Elizabeth’s time, and although the anthem was gradually substituted, some of the earliest anthems after the Reformation were in motett style, especially those of Tallis and Byrd.

About the derivation of “anthem” there is as much dispute as there is over the word “motett.” Some consider it to be derived from “ant-hymn,” a kind of antiphony, though the very ancient custom of choir responding to choir, or choir to priest, has entirely disappeared in the modern form of anthem. This responsive or antiphonal singing may, in a highly-developed form, yet become the anthem of the future, at any rate in churches and cathedrals where the voices at disposal are good and in large numbers. By some writers “anthem” is derived from ανατιθημι, to set up (as an offering), and by{279} some from ανθημα, a flower, the anthem being considered the flower of the service. It is regrettable to find that the idea of attending service for the sake of the anthem alone is not yet extinct.

The anthem is thoroughly English; it supplied the attraction to our Reformed Church, which the church cantatas and passion music did for the Lutheran Church. Nearly all our eminent musicians have written numbers of them, many examples containing the finest of English composition. From early in the sixteenth century the anthem was permitted as a part of Divine service, but it is not until the revision of the Prayer Book in 1662 that we find the rubric, “In choirs and places where they sing, here followeth the anthem,” which retains its place to this day.

The first writers of note were Dr. Christopher Tye, who appears as a verse-writer also, having translated the Acts of the Apostles “into Englyshe meter”; Thomas Tallis, to whom our Church owes so much; and William Byrd, joint organist with Tallis of the Chapels Royal. By this period, that is, near the end of the sixteenth century, Church music was beginning to free itself from the fetters of vague tonality and old modes, and was gradually being clothed in clear and expressive harmonies, and this improvement becomes most marked in the works of our “English Palestrina,” as Orlando Gibbons has been appropriately named. He was born in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, but most of his grand Church compositions date from the commencement of the next century and the reign of James I. Though some of his anthems are “verse” and have solos in them, we may well classify this early period as that of the “full anthem.” Viols were used as accompaniments to the verse parts, and the organ was only added for the full choruses. I must remind you that the organ was a very different affair to our modern instrument. It had one advantage in its smallness, viz., that it could be carried about, being known as the portative organ, as opposed to the fixed or positive, and could therefore be placed close to wherever the singers were, to support their voices.

Passing to the latter half of the seventeenth century, we have come through the strongest period of the history of English music. The great madrigal school has flourished for nearly a century, and now we find Pelham Humphrey or Humfrey, born 1647, studying in Paris under Lulli, and under his influence helping to create a new era in anthem composition. He died very young. Then there was Michael Wise, and Dr. John Blow, private musician to King James II.; Dr. William Croft, his pupil, whose anthems are so grand and solemn, and to whom, we may mention in passing, we owe the introduction of music engraving on pewter plates. We must also name Jeremiah Clarke, another pupil of Blow’s, and Weldon. Anthems by all these men are still sung in our churches.

Towering above them all stands Henry Purcell, whose earnest, devotional Church music puts to shame much of the frivolous composition which is nowadays devoted to that high purpose. In this age which follows the period of the early “full anthem” writers, we have the “solo” and “verse” anthem brought to the front. Purcell’s knowledge of the singer’s requirements and his gift of beautiful melody enabled him to perfect the solo anthem.

Instrumental accompaniments became more important at the hands of these composers, and at the end of the seventeenth century the organ was becoming a more perfect instrument, through the workmanship of Father Schmidt and Renatus Harris, and others.

The anthems written by Handel, such as the Chandos Anthems, were scored for larger orchestras, and were more like a combination of the German church cantata and motett than the anthem strictly so called. But this increase in the size of the church orchestra led to a full band in Attwood’s Anthem for the Coronation of George IV., who, as Prince of Wales, had been his warm-hearted patron.

In the latter half of the eighteenth century we have a few good anthem-writers, such as Dr. Greene, who wrote over forty anthems; Dr. Boyce, his articled pupil, whose “Cathedral Music” is a most valuable collection of church compositions. There were also Jonathan Battishill, Dr. William Hayes, his son Dr. Philip Hayes, the two Walmisleys, and Attwood. Dr. T. F. Walmisley only died in 1866, and therefore some of these compositions almost belong to our own times.

This fragmentary sketch brings us to the present form of anthem; but before we speak of this we must mention in passing the masterly double psalms and anthems by Mendelssohn, several of them being composed to English words.

The country that owns such anthem-writers as Dr. S. S. Wesley, Sir John Goss, Sir G. Elvey, Dr. Hopkins, Dr. Stainer, and Rev. Sir F. Gore Ouseley has just reason to be proud. Many other names could be added to this list, and the outlook seems to be most hopeful.

We are bound to notice an excrescence, going by the name of anthem, which has been largely introduced into our cathedral services. We allude to those arrangements of portions of masses, etc., coupled to words totally different in sentiment to those for which the music was originally composed, and which are strung together, like so many beads on a string, as Dr. Monk aptly says (in Sir George Grove’s Dictionary), “for the sake of pretty phrases or showy passages.”

Such adaptations would almost point to a scarceness of the genuine anthem; and yet how opposite to this is the fact, and how few of the really fine anthems of the best period of our great English school receive the amount of hearing to which they are justly entitled! To verify this, you have but to peruse Novello’s Catalogue of Sacred Music with English words.

Mass. Cathedral Service.

The mass, or missa (“missa est,” the congregation is dismissed), has been used, in part, at any rate, from the very earliest times, and has been sung to most impressive and solemn music. St. Ambrose and St. Gregory appear as the earliest compilators of the mass music. When counterpoint was invented, Church composers clothed the early plain-song tunes with its artistic embroideries, and polyphonic masses arose, gradually brought by the great schools of the sixteenth century to such a pitch of excellence that they have never since been equalled. The mass then consisted, as it does now, of six movements, viz., the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei. The masses were named after the plain-song melody upon which they were developed; but occasionally the melody used was a profane one, so that a mass would be named after its secular melody, as, for instance, “L’homme armée,” an old French lovesong! and the masses founded upon an original theme were rare, and known as “Missa sine nomine.” The tenor Du Fay, already named in connection with the motett, wrote many of a very devotional but unmelodious character. At the end of the fifteenth century Josquin des Prés, also mentioned previously, wrote many masses, in which, strange to say, a great want of reverence is most evident from time to time. A purer style will be found later on in the masses of Goudimel, Morales, and notably in those of Festa. But about this period the abuse spoken of in treating of the motett had crept into the mass, and the device was to give different sets of words to each singer! Even Morales is guilty of this, mixing up, as he does, the text of the Liturgy and an Ave Maria. Devotional feeling was sacrificed to a desire to puzzle, and masses were esteemed according to the difficulty of the solution of the canons employed in them.

At the Council of Trent (1562) these abuses were condemned, and polyphonic music would have been forbidden a place in the Church, but for one great, earnest man, and that man was Palestrina. His now celebrated “Missa Papæ Marcelli” decided the fate and fixed the style of Church music. In it he demonstrated that these intricacies and learned forms might be well and devotionally used as a means to the highest end, but not as a substitute for that great end itself. He wrote nearly a hundred masses, and greatly influenced the future of Church music.

William Byrd wrote a mass for five voices of great interest. Vittoria, Orlando di Lasso, Gabrieli—each represented their different schools and advanced their Church music on Palestrina’s great model.

After Allegri, at the end of the seventeenth century, the old mediæval style died out, and Durante, Scarlatti, and others of that school appear as a link between the old and new. After them, with their strong tendencies towards elaboration of the instrumental accompaniment, comes Bach, whose mass in B minor, now familiar to us, thanks to Mr. Goldschmidt and the Bach Choir, stands alone. It is not only free from ancient ecclesiastical tradition, but it is actually prophetic in its marvellous harmonic changes and combinations. It is also in style almost an oratorio. Later on we have magnificent masses by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, but more like sacred cantatas than masses. To quote Mr. Rockstro, he rightly says, “Their style has steadily kept pace, step by step, with the progress of modern music, borrowing elasticity from the freedom of its melodies, and richness from the variety of its instrumentation; clothing itself in new and unexpected forms of beauty at every turn; yet never aiming at the expression of a higher kind of beauty than that pertaining to earthly things, or venturing to utter the language of devotion in preference to that of passion.” The italics are my own, and I suppose that it is owing to the fact that this individuality and frequent dramatic realism of the composer usurped the abstract sense of the words used, and the devotional idealism of the old schools, that not one note of any of them has ever been heard within the Sistine Chapel at Rome.

The general distribution of the movements of the mass are, strange to say, the same to-day that it was in Palestrina’s time. A mass for the dead, called Requiem, is composed of different numbers, viz., “Requiem æternam dona eis,” “Kyrie,” the grand hymn, “Dies iræ,” “Domini Jesu Christo,” Sanctus and Benedictus, Agnus, and “Lux æterna.”

Of the more modern specimens, those of Cherubini and Mozart, and of the most modern, that by Verdi, are all fine examples, the work by Mozart standing high above all the others. It was, as you will remember, mostly written on his deathbed. At the Reformation the mass disappeared from the English Church, and from then until 1840 no choral communions were written. Since the latter date, however, the English versions of the Sanctus, Kyrie, Creed, and Gloria have been used and set to music by most of the writers of Church music already named in connection with the anthem.

As a rule there are not many changes of dress or cut to be chronicled this month. Everyone is thinking of the sales, and the truly wise and economical (of which there are a great many in these days) are more occupied in making the fashions subservient to their purchases, to either inventing or thinking of new designs in dress. We were never so rich in the way of materials as we are this year, though the most popular of all effects in woollen is the serge-weaving, which is mixed with everything—crossbars, and lines of velvet, silk cording, fancy braids, and borders which resemble patchwork in monotone, or inlaid wood flooring, or parqueterie. The serge with velvet crossbars and lines on black serge are very effective and handsome. Indeed, serge seems to have taken the place of cashmere, and is infinitely more becoming in wear.

Ladies’ cloth is also much worn in both dark and light colours. On these a selvedge of a different colour is left, which is sometimes pinked-out, or edged with a cord. These are trimmed with facings, cuffs, and collars of velvet, plush, and moiré, which is now much used for trimmings. Besides this, there are vicuna and camels’ hair, and a large selection of Darlington serges, and others in plain and in stripes, which are at once cheap, ladylike, and extremely durable in wear.

Nun’s cloth is still used with velvet trimmings, and a material called “wool crépon” is used as well for evening frocks for girls, and is trimmed profusely with woollen lace. Velveteen is not seen as composing entire dresses, though so largely mixed with woollens of all descriptions.

In colours worn by well-dressed people, heliotrope is still in great favour, and is really lovely in silks, satins, and the handsome cut velvets and frisés—dark sapphire blues, carbuncle, red brown, and a mossy green, with an earthy brown and a stone-colour, which are both useful, well-wearing colours.

Now that people are beginning to wear more colour than they formerly did, it is needful to consider harmony in colour more than we did. For young people this is everything. In wearing brown, for instance, it should be harmonised by a little yellow or a lighter shade of brown. In the same way dark-red must be harmonised with pink, and both shades must be seen together, so as to be quite sure that they will not “swear at each other,” as the French funnily express it. With grey a little pale blue must be put in somewhere in the bonnet. Stone-colour will harmonise with a pink, and heliotrope with a paler shade of itself. With grey, blue, and slate silver ornaments look best; but with brown, red, and green shades gold ornaments give the required harmony in colouring.

All very bright hues should be kept away from the face, as only the best of complexions can stand them near the skin. A portrait-painter once told me that the colour of the{282} hair or the hue of the eyes should always be repeated in some part of the dress. But I fancy it may answer for painting, but not to be exemplified in everyday life and habiliments.

Now that belts are coming in again, or rather have come in, it is well to remember that when the waist exceeds twenty-five inches round bands are not becoming, and pointed bodices should be resorted to, and if the front darts be cut very much bowed-in, an effect of slenderness is given to the waist which does not really belong to it. Frills at the neck and wrists are most becoming to thin people with long necks. Short-necked and stout people look best with plain bands of muslin or lace. High shoulders do not consort well with fur capes nor wide fur collars at the neck. The long paletôts or pelisses are very suitable to short people, as the straight lines add to their apparent height. But even in giving these few directions towards helping my readers to becoming and tasteful dress, I fully realise the fact that very few people take the trouble to ascertain what they look like, and perhaps would be grievously offended if they were to be told where the faults of their appearance really lay.

Mantles, as I have frequently said, are all short, none of them coming more than a few inches below the waist at the back, though all are long in front. They are, many of them, much trimmed, though not too much. There are braces to the shoulders, or a kind of yoke of beading, or flat bands of beaded passementerie, laid on. Plush seems to be the great material for these mantles, and will be worn not only in the winter, but late in the spring. Some of these plush mantles are coloured, but very few. Sapphire blue, carbuncle red, and a dark mossy green are the most popular colours. They are trimmed with black jet—not a very satisfactory trimming, nor very elegant.

Hoods are seen on jackets and pelisses more than on small mantles. The new shape of sling mantelette is called “Pelerine,” and is nearly a cape in being all round of the same length; but the edges are turned under all round, and in front the linings show, which are of some pale, contrasting colour. The fronts are quite of the sling shape, and if a hood be worn with them it is lined to match. The newest hoods are square, and of the monk order—not gathered up in any way, to make them bunchy at the back. The newest shape of paletôt we now call a “pelisse,” but it is really nothing but a long paletôt, or tight-fitting jacket lengthened to the edge of the skirt. The newest cloaks of this kind brought out this winter have hanging sleeves, and a hood or fur facing, which wraps across at the waist, one end of the fur crossing the other end. The side of the skirt is often opened and then laced together with thick cords, but it may be also edged with fur. Very long cloaks are worn as wraps for carriage use, but only in that way; and for travelling, small mantles are much more fashionable at present.

Jackets are worn as much as ever by young ladies, and are universally plain and rather severe in cut. They are of two kinds, the first with a fur trimming, wide round the neck and shoulders and on the chest, but pointed at the waist, and tight-fitting both at the back and front. The other jacket has a tight back and loose-fitting front, and is either simply stitched round with the machine or bound with galloon or leather—the last the newest and most recherché of bindings. Pilot cloth is used for jackets, as well as Cheviot homespuns, also corduroy, Melton of various kinds, and numbers of fancy cloths under different names. The Irish Claddagh cloth, introduced by Mrs. Ernest Hart, and to be obtained in all colours at the depôt of the Donegal Industrial Fund, is becoming more popular for large wrap-cloaks, little children’s ulsters, and babies’ pelisses. Plush has been adopted as a lining for thin mantles of silk and wool, instead of wadded silk. It is far less clumsy, and quite as warm. In this way many ladies have made use of their handsome summer mantles, and made them warm enough for winter. On mild days no jacket nor mantle is used, but the long boa, or Victorine, or else one of the new large handkerchiefs, knotted on the chest and spread out over the shoulders. These large handkerchiefs are even to be seen worn on the outside of the small tight-fitting jackets.

I have mentioned leather bindings on jackets. They are also used for trimming dresses by the first ladies’ tailors. The colour of the bands or bindings is usually of the lightest shade of the cloth used. Polonaises are growing in popularity every day, and the spring will probably see them well established in favour. The idea of blouse-jackets has produced the blouse-polonaise, which I have selected for the paper pattern of the month. It is draped at the side, but some of the new polonaises are draped at both sides. The edges may be lined with a light harmonising colour which will show when the wearer moves about. Thus a pale grey vicuna would have pale rose-pink linings. Polonaises are becoming fashionable for evening and dinner dress, and have high Marie Stuart collars and long angel sleeves. The neck-bands of dresses are as wide and fit as tightly as ever. They are generally of velvet, and the cuffs also, the latter being only as wide as the collar.

The bodices of ordinary gowns show no change in shape. The favourite front-trimming which has taken the place of waistcoats is a long revers front, the point of the waist to the neck. In fur-trimmed dresses this revers is of fur; also the cuffs, neck band, and a band round the skirt. Many dresses for wear in the house have ruches round the hem; but they are not suitable for wear out of doors, as they are perfect traps for dust. A new style is to put a dépassant (the modern name for a balayeuse frill) round the edge of the dress. This is about an inch and a-half in width, and is pleated in small single box-pleats, and is generally of silk of the same colour as the dress.

The sketch, under the name of “An Afternoon Visit,” shows one of the new polonaises, which buttons across the front. It is of grey cloth, over a petticoat of very dark crimson. The young lady in the hat wears a walking-gown, trimmed with fur, which is put on with plain bands; the material is “ladies’ cloth.” Of the two figures in indoor costume one shows the method of making-up striped materials, and also the new “catogan knot,” with a puff of hair and a curled front. The other dress has a tucked bodice, with a draped front, which simulates a polonaise; the collar and cuffs being of velvet.

In “The Serious Discussion” we have several dresses, one for out-of-doors, trimmed with fur, and showing the method of trimming a short jacket which I have before described. The other dresses are plaids, and show the way in which plain materials are mixed with them. The bodice is of plain material, with a waistcoat-front, and cords and buttons. The figure at the back is an illustration of this month’s paper pattern, the new “blouse polonaise,” which is a very charming adaptation of the “Norfolk” or pleated blouse, now so much worn; it is both easily made and cut out, and is a very useful garment. It may be cut long enough to reach to the edge of the underskirt, and thus follows the fashions of the long lines now in vogue. In this way it is more graceful, but it may be cut shorter, and in this case the skirt must have the box-pleated frill at the edge, which is now called a dépassant. The material of which our illustration is made is one of the rough, hairy “vicuna serges,” of a light grey tone, with a darker grey stripe. The bands of the shoulders, front, waist, and collar and cuffs are of this dark grey, in velvet or plush; the first being the most becoming. The ribbon-bow is of the same hue of silk and velvet reversible ribbon. The hem of the polonaise is quite plain, and is machine-hemmed. The paper pattern consists of nine pieces, i.e., two sleeve pieces, back, front, cuffs, collar, shoulder-piece, and front-strap. The polonaise will require about ten yards of thirty inch material, and about half a yard of velvet and three yards of ribbon.

All paper patterns supplied by “The Lady Dressmaker” are of medium size—viz., 36 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.

April, 1885, braided loose-fronted jacket; May, velvet bodice; June, Swiss belt and full bodice with plain sleeves; July, mantle; Aug., Norfolk or pleated jacket; September, housemaid’s or plain skirt; October, combination-garment (under-linen), with long sleeves; November, double-breasted jacket; December, Zouave jacket and bodice; January, 1886, Princess under-dress (under-linen, under-bodice{283} 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’s jacket, bodice, and waistcoat, for tailor-made gown; August, bodice with guimpe; September, mantle with stole ends; October, Pyjama, or night-dress combination, with full back; November, new winter bodice; December, patterns of Norfolk blouses, one with a yoke, and one with pleats only; January, 1887, blouse-polonaise, with pleats at back and front.

CHAPTER IV.

We have not yet completed the life-history of the water-vole, which, as I remarked on page 34, involves that of several other creatures.

One of its two worst foes has just been described, and we now come to the second—i.e., the PIKE, OR JACK (Esox lucius). N.B.—The latter name may perhaps recall to the reader the ancient family of the Lucys, of Charlcote Hall, Warwickshire, so mercilessly satirised by Shakspeare. They bore upon their shield the “luce”—i.e., the pike, the coat of arms being a good example of “canting” heraldry—i.e., in which the blazonry of the shield contains a play upon the name of the bearer.

There is no more inveterate foe of the water-vole than the pike. In the stomach of a single pike were found the remains of three water-voles and some bird, which was probably a duck.

It might be imagined that a pike large enough to swallow a water-vole would not be likely to venture into a brook, and would restrict itself to the river where it would have plenty of room. But experience has shown that a very large pike will sometimes make its way into a very small brook, partly for the sake of food, but sometimes through sheer cunning, in the hope of evading its enemies.

By the time that a pike has attained the weight of twelve or fifteen pounds, he has had to face many and varied dangers, and escape from many foes.

While he is young and small his worst foes are those of his own species. Anglers know that there is scarcely any bait so attractive to an old pike as a small pike. All the earlier part of his life is spent in perpetual watchfulness, he having to be always on the look-out for prey by which he can still his insatiable hunger; while he has to be equally on guard lest a larger pike should satisfy its hunger with him.

No pike, therefore, can attain to a large size without developing a considerable amount of cunning, and anyone who sets himself the task of catching such a fish will find that he must employ all his resources of intellect, aided by experience, before he can delude the fish even into touching the bait. In spite of its large size, the fish manages to elude observation in a most puzzling manner, and it is no easy matter to make sure of its position. An old fox or old rat is scarcely more cunning and full of devices than an old pike.

The largest pike that I ever saw at liberty was in a small tributary streamlet of the Cherwell river, near Oxford.

A pike of enormous dimensions had for some time been reported as having been seen in various parts of the Cherwell, the general rumours giving its weight as at least thirty pounds. All the anglers of the neighbourhood had tried to capture this mighty prize, but had failed. Contrary to the habit of most large pike, it did not seem to have established itself in any particular spot, but roamed about from place to place.

Now, the Cherwell itself is but a very small river, so that the locality of a large fish might appear easily discoverable. But it is a very “weedy” river, and its banks are edged with willows, whose long, red, plume-shaped roots hang into the water from the banks, and form admirable hiding-places for the fish.

One day I was trying my fortune at trolling in the Cherwell, with a six-inch gudgeon for bait, and, on coming to a tributary stream, walked along the bank until I could find a spot narrow enough to be jumped.

Coming to a deep-looking pool, I dropped in the bait, by way of not wasting time, and almost immediately felt the bait taken by a pike. Following the golden rule then, and perhaps now, in force among anglers, I sat down on the bank, watch in hand, in order to wait through the weary ten minutes prescribed by custom, and which almost seem to drag themselves out into as many centuries.

Barely half the time had elapsed when a huge head rose to the surface, and the bait was blown out, as it seemed, into the water, the head sinking with a swirl of water where it disappeared. On examining the rejected bait, which had naturally been seized crosswise, I found that it was pierced from head to tail with the teeth of the pike.

I learned that the big fish was afterwards ignominiously taken with a net in one of these tributary brooks, so that its cunning was baffled at last. I also learned that the fish had repeatedly treated other anglers as it treated me, holding the bait for a short time in its mouth and then rejecting it.

So it is clear that the water-vole will by no means be safe from the pike when it is the inhabitant of the brook instead of the river.

Moreover, it does not need a very large pike to devour a full-grown water-vole. The pike can swallow an animal which seems quite disproportionate to its size. A young pike of barely five inches in length was seen swimming about with the tail of a gudgeon projecting from its mouth. The gudgeon was quite as long as its captor, and there is no doubt that if the fish had been let alone the pike would soon have digested the gudgeon sufficiently to swallow it entirely.

The late Frank Buckland mentions that a pike weighing eight pounds was caught in the River Itchen. After it was taken out of the water it disgorged a trout of a pound weight. This must have been a sore disappointment for the captor, who would think himself defrauded of a pound weight in his angling record.

The reader will remember that a heron and a cormorant lost their lives by capturing an eel which was too large for them, and it is a remarkable fact that a pike has been known to suffer a similar fate. It can easily be understood that an eel, twisting itself about convulsively in the struggle for life, should coil itself round a bird’s neck long enough to cause its death by strangulation; but it seems almost impossible that a pike, being a fish, and therefore breathing by gills, should be suffocated while in the water by an eel.

Yet in the Fisheries Exhibition of 1883 there were two very remarkable stuffed groups, illustrating the voracity of the pike. In one of them a pike weighing ten pounds had attacked an eel weighing only one pound less. Now, an eel of nine pounds weight is a very large one, lithe, active, and muscular as a snake, and by no means a despicable antagonist. The pike had begun to swallow the eel, but the latter in its struggles forced its way out of the mouth through the gills, and thence into the water beneath the right gill-cover. But it could go no farther, the teeth of the pike having almost met through its body.

The result was fatal to both. The body of the eel having been forced beneath the gill-cover, the gills could not perform their office, and so the pike was as effectually suffocated for want of breath as were the heron and the cormorant. The dead bodies of the pike and eel were found on the bank of the River Bure in October, 1882.

The second group consisted of a pike and a duck. The pike had attacked the duck as the bird was diving, and had tried to swallow it. It succeeded in getting the head, neck, and part of the breast down its throat; but the duck, in its struggles for life, had naturally spread its wings. These formed an insurmountable obstacle to the fish, and the result was that the duck was drowned and the pike suffocated, both having died for lack of respiration.

So the “plop” of the water-vole into the brook from the bank has not been to us the mere splash of a frightened animal into the stream. It has opened for us many trains of thought, and taken us into several sciences. It has shown us something of the links which connect it with man, birds, and fishes, and so has led us into ornithology and ichthyology. It has shown how the inventions of man have their prototypes in the animal kingdom. Comparative anatomy and physiology have also been shown to form portions of the life-history of the familiar animal, and have demonstrated the truth of the axiom enunciated on page 34, that no animal and no branch of science can stand alone.

Like other beings, the water-vole has its relatives, two of whom will come within the range of our subject. Being small creatures, they go by the popular name of mice, just as{284} their larger relative is popularly called a rat. These are the FIELD-VOLE and the BANK-VOLE, both of which we may expect to find on the banks of our brook, especially when the banks are clothed with shrubs. The former of these animals is a very old acquaintance of mine, and when I was a lad I could go into a field and make almost certain of catching a field-vole (Arvícola agrestis) within about ten minutes.

This little animal looks very much like a water-vole seen through the wrong end of an opera-glass, except that the fur is redder and the ears are longer in proportion to the size of the head. The tail is only about one-third as long as the body—a peculiarity which has earned for it the popular name of “short-tailed field-mouse.” A more appropriate name for it is “campagnol.”

Even in this country the campagnol is apt to be one of the worst foes of the agriculturist, especially at harvest and seed time.

Not only does it devour the ripe corn in the field, but it makes its way into ricks and barns, and eats large quantities of the gathered corn. Moreover, just after the seed-corn has been sown it digs the grains out of the ground, thus doing mischief which is often attributed to the sparrow and other small birds. In France, however, where not a kestrel, or, indeed, any unprotected bird, can be seen, the campagnol can carry out his depredations without hindrance, and consequently increases until it becomes an actual plague. In the Department of Aisne alone a few years ago the fields were honeycombed with the burrows of the animal, and the farmers spent some seventy thousand pounds in ridding their fields of the nuisance. First poison was laid down; but so many hares and rabbits were killed that another plan had to be tried. Stacks of hay and straw were then made, containing quantities of poisoned carrots, turnips, and beetroot. The agriculturists, therefore, had to pay heavily for doing that which the kestrel would have done to a great degree, if they had suffered it to live and carry out its appointed work in preserving the balance of Nature.

The owls, again, are determined enemies of the campagnol, more than half the food on which they and their young live being composed of these mischievous little animals. Fortunately for the owls, their nocturnal habits save them from the destruction which would have befallen them had they sought their food in the light of day.

If we wish to see this pretty little creature, we have only to watch carefully the field through which our brook runs, and we shall be almost certain to find it. But we must know where to look and how to look.

The favourite locality of the campagnol has already been mentioned; but the detection of the little animal requires some practice. A novice in the art may traverse a low-lying field, and hunt along the banks of the brook from daybreak to dewy eve, and never catch a glimpse of a campagnol. Another will go into the same field, and in a quarter of an hour will produce several specimens.

Those who wish to catch it must know its ways. It is not of the least use to hunt up and down the field in chase of the campagnol, and those who wish to see it must reverse the old aphorism about Mahomet and the mountain. They cannot go to the campagnol, for it will keep out of their way; but if they will wait patiently, the campagnol will come to them.

Go into any field which is bounded by a brook, and lie down, taking care that the sun faces you; otherwise your shadow will be thrown on the grass, rendering the detection of the animal extremely difficult.

When you have arranged yourself in an easy posture, keep your eyes on the ground, and try to look between the green blades, so as to see the colour of the soil. On a first trial you may probably wait until your patience is exhausted, and yet see nothing. But do not be disheartened, and try again, as nothing but practice will give the needful skill.

Only a small portion of ground can come under your observation as you recline on your arm, and a few minutes ought to make you acquainted with the colour of every inch of the soil. Presently you will become aware that a little patch of soil is redder than it was a minute or two ago. Bring your free hand down smartly on the spot, and you will find a campagnol in your grasp.

Immediately afterwards you will find that the campagnol has teeth, and knows how to use them. But if you understand the animal’s ways, you will seize it without danger of being bitten, just as if you know the nettle’s ways you can grasp it without danger of being stung.

Like its larger relative, the campagnol, when suddenly startled, loses its presence of mind, and remains for a moment or two without motion. During that moment of consternation, shift your grasp so that the body of the animal rests in the palm of the hand, while the finger and thumb seize the sides of the head, so that the creature cannot turn its head to bite. The knack is soon learned, though perhaps at the expense of a bite or two, and the shifting of the grasp becomes instinctive.

Want of practice soon causes the eyes to become slow to detect the creature which steals so silently among the grass-blades, and the ready knack of the fingers is equally apt to fail just when it is wanted. However, a little practice soon restores the keenness of sight and deftness of touch, and in a short time the campagnol will be unable to pass under the observer’s eyes without detection, or to escape the grasp of his fingers without capture.

So stealthily does the campagnol glide among the grass stems, that the field may be swarming with them, and yet their presence will not even be suspected by man. This fact brings us to another illustration of the assertion that the life-history of one animal always involves that of others.

The natural food of the KESTREL (Tinnúnculus alaudârius) largely consists of the campagnol, so that where the one is seen the other will probably be at no great distance. High in air the kestrel hovers with quivering wings, its bright eyes directed downwards, and scanning the field below. Suddenly it drops down to the ground, rises with something in its claws, and flies away. It has seen and caught a field-vole, and is carrying it home to its young. From its custom of balancing itself in the air with its head to the wind, it is often known by the name of “windhover.”

With what astonishing sight must not the kestrel be gifted to perform such a feat! It is difficult enough for a human being to watch a square yard of ground so carefully that a field-vole shall be seen as it glides among the grass. How wonderful, therefore, must be the powers of vision which enable the bird to watch a large field, to detect from that height the little, dusky animal, and pounce down upon it with unerring swoop!

How astonishing must be the optical mechanism of those eyes which at so great a distance from the prey can act like telescopes, and yet can alter their range so rapidly that in the few seconds which are consumed in making the stoop, they have accommodated themselves to an entirely different focus.

In his “At Last,” C. Kingsley mentions that in passing through a tropical forest the traveller is frequently checked by some creeper which hangs in the path, and which is not seen because the eye cannot focus itself with sufficient rapidity. Yet the traveller is only proceeding at a walking pace, whereas the stoop of the kestrel on its prey is swift as the fall of a stone through the air, and in a second or two the eye has to accommodate itself from a range of many yards to that of a few inches.

The value of the kestrel in keeping down the numbers of the field-vole, and so aiding in preserving the balance of Nature, can hardly be over-estimated.

There have been cases where the field-voles had increased to such a degree that pitfalls had to be dug for their capture, and they had to be destroyed artificially, because the kestrels and other predacious birds and animals had been almost extirpated.

Other enemies to agriculture are also destroyed by the kestrel. Mr. Johns mentions an instance where the stomach of a kestrel was opened, and was found to contain, beside a field-vole, nearly eighty caterpillars, twenty-four beetles, and a leech!

Now, we will return to our field-vole. Like the squirrel and several other rodents, it makes two nests, one for the winter and the other for the summer.

The winter nest is mostly made at some distance from water, is formed at the end of a burrow, and seldom reaches more than a few inches below the surface of the ground. It is to this winter nest that the poet Burns refers in his exquisite stanzas addressed to a mouse whose nest had been destroyed by his ploughshare, and beginning,

Such, indeed, is the fate of many a winter nest. Supposing, however, that the creature should be snapped up by the kestrel while out in search of food, the nest will be deserted, but it will not be wasted. There are always beings who are glad to find a ready-made burrow which will save them the trouble of excavating one for themselves. Among them are several species of wasp and humble-bee, most of whose nests are made in the deserted burrow of the campagnol.

Here, again, is an example of the manner in which the life-histories of dissimilar animals{285} are linked together. Few persons would think that there could be any connection between the wasp and the kestrel, and yet our walk along the banks of our brook has shown us that such is the case, and that the connecting link is the campagnol.

Like the water-vole, the campagnol lays up a store of winter provisions, not in its living-room, but in a chamber excavated for the purpose. The treasure-house sometimes contains a very miscellaneous store, the fruit of the hawthorn and wild rose being the staple.

Cherry-stones mostly form a large proportion of the stores, as many as three hundred having been found in a single chamber. The mode in which the campagnol obtains the cherry-stones would hardly be suspected except by those who are in the habit of watching the varied phases of animal life.

Both these birds are exceedingly destructive among the cherry crops, as I know from personal experience. My study overlooks a number of fine cherry-trees, one of them being so close to the house that by leaning out of the window I can touch the fruit with an ordinary walking-stick. As soon as the fruit ripens, the thrush and blackbird hold high festival, eating the cherries from the branches and feeding their young with the ripe fruit.

It is really amusing to watch the proceedings of the birds, especially the unmerciful manner in which the young birds peck their parents when they considered that they are not fed fast enough. Neither young nor parent is in the least afraid of me as I sit at the open window, so that I can see every movement.

Sometimes the entire cherry is pulled off the branch, but when the fruit is very ripe the soft portion only is eaten, the stone still being attached to the stalk. In either case, the stone will be sure, sooner or later, to fall to the ground, whence it is picked up by the campagnol and added to its store for the coming winter.

Here, again, is a link connecting together the life-histories of the blackbird, thrush, and campagnol. Furthermore, it affords an example of the care that is taken that nothing on the earth shall be wasted.

Whenever a living being has no further use for anything which once was connected with its life-history, there is sure to be some other animal which wants it and is waiting for it.

We have already seen how the abandoned winter nest of the campagnol is utilised by the wasp or humble-bee, and we now see that when the blackbird and thrush have abandoned the cherry-stones as useless to them, there is the campagnol waiting for them and ready to carry them off to the store-chamber which it has previously prepared.

Beside the winter nest, there is the summer nest, which is primarily intended for the reception and nurture of the young. This, like the corresponding nest of the squirrel, is made of slight materials and loose structure, so that the air is freely admitted. It is generally composed of grass blades, which have been torn in strips by the campagnol. It is globular in shape, and is mostly placed on the ground, amid concealing grass or herbage.

There is, however, before me a photograph of the nest of a campagnol, which was discovered in a very remarkable position, and made of very unusual materials. It was found in a garden store-house at Castle Carey, by the Rev. W. Smith-Tomkins, Vicar of Durstow. He kindly sent me a copy of the photograph, together with the following description—

With the description and photograph Mr. Tomkins sent a few portions of the nest, some of the barley leaves being of their original width, and others split up into fibres as fine as ordinary sewing cotton. In a subsequent letter he states that the hole through which the campagnol made her entrance into the house opened into the stable yard of a neighbour.

Its mode of eating the provisions which it stores is rather remarkable. It would naturally be supposed that, as other beings (including man) do, it would eat the thick, soft, and sweet exterior of the “hip” or fruit of the wild rose, and reject the hard, small seeds, with their fluffy envelope. But it does just the contrary, eating the seeds and rejecting the exterior.

When in America in 1884, I saw a flock of pine grosbeaks busily feeding upon the berries of the mountain ash at Worcester. Very pretty they looked, the rosy plumage of the two or three males contrasting boldly with the dark, sombre green of the many females. I should not have noticed them but for their mode of feeding.

It was at the beginning of February—the very depth of a New England winter. I had to make my way up a rather steep hill, and over paths which, by reason of constant traffic over snow, were as slippery as ice. Many persons are in the habit of scattering sand or pulverised brick on the paths, and seeing, as I fondly thought, a few yards of the latter material, I gladly made my way towards it. To my disappointment—on that ground at least—I found that the red material was not brick, but the soft, external part of the mountain ash berry, the birds only eating the seeds, and allowing the rest of the fruit to fall to the ground.

When the squirrel eats a nut, it nibbles off a little piece of the sharp end, inserts the edges of its incisor teeth in wedge fashion, and splits the nut in two. The campagnol begins like the squirrel, but when it has bitten off the end of the cherry-stone, it does not split the shell asunder, but in some way of its own contrives to get the kernel out.

CHAPTER XVI.

One afternoon, much to Hannah’s delight, I took the children to Wheeler’s Farm. Rolf did not accompany us; Mrs. Markham had sent up word to the nursery that morning that he was to drive with her into Orton. He had complied with this order rather sulkily, after extracting from me a promise that I would play soldiers with him in the evening.

It was rather a hot July afternoon, but we put Joyce in the perambulator, and Hannah and I carried Reggie by turns, and in spite of the heat we all enjoyed the walk, for there was a lark singing so deliciously above the cornfields, and the hedgerows of Cherry-tree-lane were gay with wild flowers, and every few minutes we came to a peep of the sea.

I recognised Hannah’s description when we came in sight of the old black-timbered house; there was the pear tree in the courtyard, and the mossy trough; a turkey cock Gobbler, of course, was strutting about in the sunny road, and from the farmyard came the cackling of ducks and the hissing of snow-white geese. Just then a little side gate opened, and a robust-looking woman in a sun-bonnet came out, balancing two pails of water with her strong bare arms. Hannah exclaimed, “Well, Molly!” and Molly set down her pails and came to meet us.

She kissed Hannah heartily with, “Glad to see thee, lass,” and then shook hands with me.

“Come in, come in, and bring the children out of the sun,” she said, in a kind, cheerful voice. “Father is smoking his pipe in the kitchen, and will be fine and glad to see you all. Eh, but I am pleased to have you at Wheeler’s Farm, Miss Fenton. Hannah says she has a deal to be grateful to you for, and so have we all for being good to our girl.”

I disclaimed this, and sang Hannah’s praises all the time we were crossing the courtyard to the porch.

Molly shook her head, and said, “Nay, she is none too clever,” but looked gratified all the same.

She was a plain, homely-looking woman, as Hannah said, with high cheek bones and reddish hair, but she looked kindly at the children and me, and I think we all liked her directly.

“Look whom I am bringing, father,” she exclaimed, proudly, and Michael Sowerby put down his pipe and stared at us.

He was a blue-eyed, ruddy old man, with beautiful snow-white hair, much handsomer than his daughter, and I was not surprised to see Hannah, in her love and reverence, take the white head between her hands and kiss it.

“You will excuse our bad manners, I hope,” he said, pushing Hannah gently away, and getting up from his elbow chair. “So these are Squire Cheriton’s grandchildren. He is fine and proud of them, is the squire. Deary me, I remember as if it were yesterday the squire (he was a young man then) bringing in their mother, Miss Violet, to see me when she wasn’t bigger than little miss there, and Molly (mother I mean) said she was as beautiful as an angel.”

“Mother is beautifuller now,” struck in Joyce, who had been listening to this.

“Beautifuller, is she? Well, she was always like a picture to look at, was Miss Violet, a deal handsomer and sweeter than Madam, as we call her. Eh, what do you say, my woman?” for Molly was nudging him at this point. “Well, sit ye down, all of you, and Molly will brew us some tea.”

“There is Luke crossing the farmyard,” observed Molly, in a peculiar tone, and Hannah took the hint and vanished.

I sat quietly by the window with Reggie on my lap, talking to Michael Sowerby and glancing between the pots of fuchsias and geraniums at a brood of young turkeys that had found their way into the courtyard.

Joyce was making friends with a tabby cat and her kittens, while Molly, still in her white sun-bonnet and tucked up sleeves, set out the tea-table and opened the oven door, from which proceeded a delicious smell of hot bread. She buttered a pile of smoking cakes presently, talking to us by snatches, and then went off to the dairy, returning with a great yellow jug of milk thick with cream, and some new laid eggs for the children.

I did not wonder at Hannah’s love for her home when I looked round the old kitchen. It was low, and the rafters were smoke-dried and discoloured, but it looked so bright and cheery this hot July afternoon, with its red tiles and well-scrubbed tables, and rocking chairs black with age and polish. The sunshine stole in at the open door, and the fire threw ruddy reflections on the brass utensils and bright-coloured china. A sick chicken in a straw basket occupied the hearth with the tabby cat; a large shaggy dog stretched himself across the doorway, and regarded us from between his paws.

“It is Luke’s dog, Rover; he is as sensible as a human being,” observed Molly, and before we commenced tea she fetched him a plate of broken meat from the larder, her hospitality extending even to the dumb creatures.

A wooden screen shut us off from the fire. From my place at the table I had a good view of the inner kitchen and a smaller courtyard with a well in it; a pleasant breeze came through the open door.

As soon as the children were helped, Hannah came back looking rather shamefaced but extremely happy, and followed by Luke Armstrong. He greeted us rather shyly, but seated himself at Molly’s bidding. He was a short, sturdy-looking young fellow, with crisp, curling hair and an honest, good-tempered face. He seemed intelligent and well-mannered, and I was disposed to be pleased with Hannah’s sweetheart.

I found afterwards from Molly when she took me into the dairy that Michael Sowerby had consented to recognise the engagement, and that it was looked upon as a settled thing in the household.

“Hannah is the youngest of us girls, and a bit spoiled,” observed Molly, apologetically. “I told father it was all nonsense, and Hannah was only a chit, but it seemed he had no mind to cross her. The folks at Scroggin’s Mill is not much to our taste, but Luke is the best of the bunch, and a good, steady lad with a head on his shoulders. He was for going to London to seek his fortune,” continued Molly, “for Miller Armstrong is a poor sort of father to him, and Martin elbows him out of all chances of getting any of the money; but Squire Hawtry, of the Red Farm, where Lydia lives as dairymaid, has just lost his head man, and he offered Luke the place. That is what he has been telling Hannah this afternoon in the farmyard; so if Hannah is a good girl, as I tell her, and saves her bit of money, and Luke works his best, Squire Hawtry will be letting them have one of the new cottages he has built for the farm servants, and a year or two may see them settled in it to begin life together.” And here Molly drew a hard work-roughened hand across her eyes as though her own words touched her.

“I am very glad for Hannah’s sake,” I returned. “She is a good girl, and deserves to be happy.”

“Ah, they are all good girls,” replied Molly. “Hannah is no better than the rest, though we have a bit spoiled her, being the youngest, and mother dead. There’s Martin at Scroggin’s Mill wants Lydia, but Lyddy is too sensible to be listening to the likes of him. ‘No, no, Lyddy,’ I say, ‘whatever you do, never marry a man who makes an idol of his money; he will love his guineas more than his wife; better be doing work all your life and die single as I shall, than be mistress of Scroggin’s Mill if Martin is to be master.’”

“I have not much else to give them,” was the abrupt answer; “but they are good girls, and know I mean well. The boys are rather a handful, especially Dan, who is always bird-catching on Sunday, and won’t see the sin of it. But there, one must take boys as one finds them, and not put ourselves in the place of Providence. They want a deal{287} of patience, and patience is not in my nature, and if Dan comes to a bad end with his lame leg and bird-traps, nobody must blame me, who has always a scolding ready for him if he will take it.”

I saw Dan presently under rather disadvantageous circumstances, for as we came out of the dairy who should come riding under the great pear tree but Mr. Hawtry, with a red-headed boy sitting behind him, with a pair of dirty hands grasping his coat. I never saw such a freckled face nor such red hair in my life, and he looked at Molly so roguishly from under Mr. Hawtry’s shoulder, there was no mistaking that this was the family scapegrace.

“Good-evening, Molly,” called out Mr. Hawtry, cheerfully; “I am carrying home Dan in pillion fashion, because the rogue has dropped his crutch into the mill dam, and he could not manage with the other. I found him in difficulties, sitting under the mill hedge, very tired and hungry. You will let him have his tea, Molly, as it was accident and not mischief. I forgot to say the other crutch is lying in the road broken; it broke itself—didn’t it, Dan?—in its attempt to get him home?” and here Mr. Hawtry’s eyes twinkled, but he could not be induced, neither could Dan, to explain the mystery of the broken crutch.

“You will come to a bad end, Dan,” remarked Molly, severely, as she lifted down the boy, not over gently; but she forbore to shake him, as he was wholly in her power—a piece of magnanimity on Molly’s part.

Mr. Hawtry dismounted, perhaps to see that Dan had merciful treatment; but he need not have been afraid, Molly had too large a heart to be hard on a crippled boy, and one who was her special torment and pet. Molly could not have starved a dog, and certainly not red-headed Dan.

He was soon established in his special chair, with a thick wedge of cold buttered cake in his hand. Scolding did not hurt as long as Molly saw to his comforts, and Dan looked as happy as a king in spite of his lost crutches.

Mr. Hawtry came into the kitchen, and when he saw us I thought he started a little as though he were surprised, and he came up to me at once.

“Good-evening, Miss Fenton; I did not expect to see you here, and my little friend, too,” as Joyce as usual ran up to him. “What a lovely evening you have for your walk home! You did not bring Miss Cheriton with you?”

“No; she has visitors this afternoon; the children and I have had our tea here, and now it is Reggie’s bed-time.”

“Shall I call Hannah?” he returned, hastily, for I was putting Reggie in his perambulator. “I saw her walking down the orchard with Luke Armstrong and Matthew.” And as I thanked him he bade Molly good-bye, and, putting his arm through his horse’s bridle, in another moment we could hear a clear whistle.

Hannah came at once; she looked happy and rosy, and whispered to Molly as we went down the courtyard together. Mr. Hawtry was at the horse-block; as he mounted he called me by name, and asked if the little girl would like a ride.

I knew he would be careful, but all the same I longed to refuse, only Joyce looked disappointed and ready to cry.

“My horse is as quiet as a lamb. You may safely trust her, Miss Fenton,” he said so persuasively I let myself be over-ruled. It was very pretty to see Joyce as he held her before him and rode down the lane. She had such a nice colour, and her eyes were bright and sparkling as she laughed back at me.

It was very kind of Mr. Hawtry. It seemed to me he never lost any opportunity of giving children pleasure. But I was glad when the ride ended, and I lifted Joyce to the ground.

She clasped me tightly in her glee. “It was so nice, so werry nice, nursey dear,” she exclaimed.

As I looked up and thanked Mr. Hawtry, I found that he was watching us, smiling.

“I am afraid your faith was not equal to Joyce’s,” he said, rather mischievously. “I would not let Peter canter, out of pity for your fears.”

“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, rather distressed by this, “but I cannot help being afraid of everything. You see the children are entrusted to me.”

“I was only joking,” he returned, and he spoke so gently. “You are quite right, and one cannot be too careful over children; but I knew I could trust old Peter,” and then he lifted his hat and cantered down the lane. He could not have spoken more courteously; his manner pleased me.

It caused me a little revulsion when Mrs. Markham met us at the gate with a displeased countenance. She motioned to Hannah to take the children on to the house, and detained me with a haughty gesture.

“Nurse,” she said, harshly, “I am extremely surprised at the liberty you take in my sister’s absence. I am quite sure she would be excessively angry at your taking the children to Wheeler’s Farm without even informing me of your intention.”

“I mentioned it to Miss Cheriton,” I returned, somewhat nettled at this, for Gay had warmly approved of our little excursion.

“Miss Cheriton is not the mistress of the house,” she replied, in the same galling tone. “If you had consulted me, I should certainly not have given my consent. I think a servant’s relatives are not proper companions for my little niece, and, indeed, I rather wonder at your choosing to associate with them yourself,” with a concealed sneer hidden under a polished manner.

“Mrs. Markham,” I returned, speaking as quietly as I could, “I should certainly not have taken the children to Wheeler’s Farm without my mistress’s sanction. I had her free permission to do so; she knew the Sowerbys were highly respectable, and, for my own part, I wished to give pleasure to Hannah, as I take a great interest in her.”

“I shall certainly write to my sister on the subject,” was her answer to this. “You must have entirely mistaken her meaning, and I owe it to her to watch over her children.”

“You need not trouble yourself,” I replied, coldly, “my mistress knows everything I do. I should have written to her myself to-night; she has perfect confidence in me, and I have never acted against her wishes; my conscience is quite clear about this afternoon, but I should not have taken Rolf without your permission.”

“I should hope not,” still more haughtily, but I would not listen to any more; I was not her servant—I could not have served that hard mistress. I found nothing to reverence in her cold, self-absorbed nature, and without reverence, service would be bitter drudgery.

As I passed down the avenue a little sadly, I came upon a pretty scene; a tea-table had been set under one of the elms, and Gay had evidently been presiding over it, but the feast had been long over. She was standing by the table now, crumbling sweet cake for the peacock. Lion was sitting on his haunches watching her, and Fidgets was barking furiously, and a little behind her stood Mr. Rossiter.

Mrs. Markham swept up to them, and I could hear her say in a frosty voice that showed evident ill-temper, “Why has not Benson removed the things? It is nearly seven, and we must go in to dress for dinner; you know Mr. Hawtry is coming.”

“I was not aware of it, Adelaide”—how well I knew that careless voice!—“but it is of no consequence, that I can see; Mr. Hawtry is always here.”

“He cannot come too often,” in a pointed manner. “We all think highly of Mr. Hawtry, I know.”

“What are you doing, Gay?” so sharply that though I had reached the house I heard her, and turned my head to look.

Benson and the under-footman were coming out of the side door, but Mrs. Markham stood alone under the trees. Gay was sauntering down the avenue with the young curate still at her side, and Lion was following them, and I wondered if Mrs. Markham saw her stop and pick that rose.

I went up to the nursery rather thoughtfully after that. I knew girls were odd and contrary sometimes. Mr. Rossiter was very nice; he was a good, earnest young man, and I liked his sermons; but was it possible that Gay could seriously prefer him to Mr. Hawtry, or was she just flirting with him pour passer le temps, after that odious custom of some girls? But I could not believe it somehow of Gay Cheriton; she was so simple, so unselfish, so free from vanity. It needed a coarser nature than hers to play this sort of unfeeling game. “We shall see,” I said to myself, as I put Reggie into his cot, and then I sat down and wrote to Mrs. Morton.

EDUCATIONAL.

Daughter of Gentleman Farmer.—The book for which you inquire is “The Englishwoman’s Year-Book,” published by Hatchard, Piccadilly, London, W. We believe it may be had in parts. The yearly volume is about half-a-crown.

Josie.—We advise you to write to the London School of Medicine, 30, Henrietta-street, Brunswick-square, London, W.C., for all information you require on the subject of your letter. You should state the fact of your having passed the College of Preceptors, the senior local Cambridge and Oxford examinations, and the science subjects (elementary) set by the South Kensington authorities; also name your age, and address the dean of the school, Mrs. Elizabeth Garrett-Anderson, M.D. This school is in connection with the Royal Free Hospital, Gray’s Inn-road, W.C.

Spotted Crash.—We think you are mistaken as to the origin of the name Billingsgate. The name “Billing” belongs to an old Teutonic tribe or clan, whose traditions are old enough to be mythical. It is probable that some of its members may have been amongst those Low German adventurers who conquered Britain and made it England. This conjecture explains many names beginning with Billing in this country, besides Billingsgate.

Heather Bell.—We regret that we cannot help you in your quest in any way.

Cinderella.—It would depend upon what examination you went in for, of course. Girton College is at Cambridge. It is for women over eighteen years of age. The entrance examinations are in March and June. The address of the secretary is 22, Gloucester-place, Hyde Park, London, W.

Mizpah.—We should advise you, as you are so young, to go in for teaching as a profession, and to study at a training college, or at the College of the Home and Colonial School Society, Gray’s Inn-road, W.C., or else at the Teachers’ Training Society, Training College, Fitzroy-street, W. Governesses’ situations are yearly more and more difficult to obtain, and it is better to be trained so as to command school situations of a high class.

K. B.—1. The ancient name of Constantinople was Byzantium. The present city occupies its site, but was named after Constantine the Great, who built it. 2. Cardinal Wolsey erected Christ Church College, Oxford, Ipswich, and also Hampton Court. A Life of King Robert “the Bruce” was written by the Scottish poet, Barbour, in a poem called the “Brus.”

ART.

A Tomato.—See article in Silver Sails (Summer Number for 1881) on crystoleum painting. The 12th of April, 1873, was a Saturday.

Jane.—If you really wish to learn drawing and painting, buy a shilling manual on perspective and study from natural objects. Begin with some simple object, such as a village pump or wayside stile, but do not attempt such composite subjects as that sent for our opinion until you can accomplish the former subjects fairly well.

Cloe.—As a rule, if a girl shows any taste for using her pencil, in however trivial a way, she imagines that she could make money by it; but she forgets, like the swarms of verse-writers, that ideality to a very considerable degree is requisite for both the poet and painter. If you have a gift for designing, as well as the practical skill, you might find an opening amongst the lace manufacturers of Nottingham and other places, amongst the cotton printers at Manchester, or the silk manufactories at Macclesfield. It could be available for wall-paper printers, for carpet weaving, and for pottery. Turn your attention to one of these openings.

Miss Fiennes, of Castle-hill, Reading, Berkshire, conducts a girls’ club, called the Daub Society, to which members (amateur beginners) send an original painting or drawing every month. The annual subscription is one shilling, and the members adopt fancy names.

MISCELLANEOUS.

J. W. must accept our best thanks for her kind letter and the assurance that the “girls’ own mothers” take as much delight in our paper as the girls themselves.

Kartoffel.—“What is the best thing to do if anything is seen in a haunted house?” Shut your eyes, and don’t see it.

Swetsche.—To invent “a cure for sleeplessness” would be to become a millionaire. If we were so fortunate we could not promise to take you into partnership, but would advertise our decoction widely.

Cousin.—You have fallen into a careless and injurious mode of walking. You should plant your feet straight on the ground, and might also have a little brass or iron heel put on those of your shoes. If your blue serge dress be so soiled with dust, you had better get it re-dipped by a dyer. They can do so without your unpicking the dress.

Firefly.—You seem to have overtaxed your brain-power during these examinations, and you need rest; change of air, good diet, early retirement to bed at night, and late rising (say at 8 a.m.) might in time restore the powers of memory. At the same time, you should obtain the advice of an experienced physician.

Millicent Thornton.—The quotation commencing—

“Absence of occupation is not rest,”

is taken from Cowper’s poem “Retirement,” line 623. You will probably find the other poem in some popular reciter. You write well for your age.

E. M. Searle.—The Latin words, Nocturna versate manu, versate diurno, mean, “Turn (them) over with nightly hand, turn (them) over by day.” The words are from Horace. The word “them,” which is understood, refers to examples of Grecian style.

TEMPTATION.

Potts.—Your brother’s “eating dinner enough for two” does not thereby give evidence of a fine constitution. Some lean folks eat enormously, but, as the Scotch express it, “put their food into an ill skin;” they do not assimilate it, and it does them but little good, and so they are always craving for more. There are other reasons for voracious eating, for which a doctor’s advice would be most desirable. It is a disgusting sight, in any case, to see anyone eating double what others do, and it should be checked, not gratified, in youth, if not attributable to disease, in which case recourse should be had to medicine.

Moses.—The Psalms, as given in the Book of Common Prayer, were not altered, but only a different version from the translation used in our Bibles was employed, called the Vulgate or Latin version, attributed to St. Jerome, about 384. There was an older version of the Holy Scriptures called the Italic, said to have been made in the beginning of the second century, little more than one hundred years after Christ. Gutenberg and Fust were the first who printed the Vulgate translation, probably about 1455, and that by Fust and Schœffer in 1462.

Mary Elizabeth T.—The evil thoughts that seem forced into your mind against your will, of which you are ashamed, over which you grieve, and against the recurrence of which you pray, are temptations of the devil and his wicked ministers. They are clearly not your own; they are, as it were, whispered in your ears. So long as you pray to be delivered from them, and heartily strive to drive them away, their guilt does not lie at your door. Ask for deliverance, and humbly claim it in the name of the Lord Jesus, and “He is faithful that promised.” See St. John xiv. 12, 13, 14, and xvi. 23, 24.

A Gardener.—Sow the hardy annual’s seeds in February, and in March all the perennials and biennials, and the half hardy annuals in a hot-bed. There are several varieties of honeysuckle, and all of them may be propagated by cuttings.

Blank had better write for the directory to the matron, London National Training School for Cookery, Exhibition-road, South Kensington, S.W. The fee for the training for the post of cookery instructor is twenty-one guineas for the full course of twenty weeks; plain cookery, eight guineas for fourteen weeks. The Edinburgh School of Cookery, 6, Sandwick-place; hon. secretary, Miss Guthrie Wright; also trains teachers in cookery for a fee of fifteen guineas the course, from November to April.

An Anxious One.—You do not give sufficient information for us to judge what you are fit for, and you had better read the series of articles in vol. v., entitled “Work for All.”

Tarentelle.—Twopenny-piece, 1797 (weighing 2 oz. av.), worth 1s. to 5s.; penny, same date (1 oz. av.), 1s. to 2s. 6d. The other coins are worth from 6d. to 2s.

Pompey.—The “Heaven-sent Minister” was William Pitt, 1759-1806.

Catherine A. M.—We think the tale about the tramcar tickets, and the getting of a deaf and dumb child into an asylum or home by means of a collection of 10,000 of them, must be placed by the side of many other such figments of the imagination. The pity is that sensible people like yourself should be misled by them. Tramcar tickets can be made over, and there is a special machine for performing the nefarious work.

Dunedin.—Many thanks for your kind letter. There does not seem to be anything to answer in it, however, so we merely acknowledge its kindly expressions.

C. S. L.—The idea is a good one, but we fear we could not impose such a weight on our own over-burdened shoulders. As a rule, you may depend on the catalogues of the Religious Tract Society, the Christian Knowledge Society, and others of the kind. Would they not help you if you wrote for them?

Ray.—If she have asked to have you taken to see her, waive all ceremony and go. Mutual family interchanges of visiting will follow. It would be in better taste on your part to call yourself Mrs. John B——, rather than cause a jealous feeling or one of injury on the part of a mother-in-law. Do all things “that make for peace,” “in honour preferring one another.” You write fairly well.

Guilda.—The second “h” is mute in the word “height,” but not in the word “width.” We congratulate you on gaining a certificate.

Ruby.—Sometimes old copies of bound magazines may be had at secondhand or reduced prices at booksellers’ stalls. You should study the rules of metrical composition before you attempt to write verses.

A Troubled Mother.—It is a difficult matter upon which to advise you, and you do not say where you live. The first thing to do is to give the girl a good education, and also to include music and singing. As she grows older she may forget her youthful ideas. You might write for advice to Mr. C. E. Todd, Macready Mission House, Henrietta-street, Covent Garden; or, if in London, you might go and see him, perhaps.

A Sufferer might try mustard oil to rub on for her rheumatism. It sometimes does wonders for it, and is to be got at any chemist’s, and is sold by the ounce. Rub on with the palm of the hand, round and round.

Daisy.—Dandriff may be cured by using a wash of one pint of water and half an ounce of glycerine. Rub well into the skin of the head twice a day (this can be done with a sponge), without wetting the head too much. Another wash is composed of one pint of water and one ounce of borax, used in the same manner. Dandriff is considered to be caused by digestive troubles, especially when accompanied by watering of the eyes, nose, or mouth.

Swygs.—We thank you for the kind feeling that prompted the giving of your advice for the benefit of sufferers. But for certain reasons, into which we cannot enter, we must decline to make our paper a means of advocating mesmerism. You write a good hand.

⁂ The Editor regrets to say that the poem entitled “The Beggar’s Christmas,” which appeared in Feathery Flakes, was copied from Little Folks for January, 1886, and sent to him by J. H. A. Hicks, as his own original composition. The copyright belongs to Messrs. Cassell and Co., and to them apologies for this unwarrantable reproduction are due.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII, NO. 370, JANUARY 29, 1887 ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 370, January 29, 1887

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

THE QUEEN’S JUBILEE PRIZE COMPETITION.

THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

CHAPTER IV.

HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

Cantata.

Motett and Anthem.

Mass. Cathedral Service.

DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.

THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

CHAPTER IV.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

CHAPTER XVI.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

ART.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE