THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 369.]

[Price One Penny.

JANUARY 22, 1887.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

[CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.]
[THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.]
[HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.]
[MERLE’S CRUSADE.]
[I ONLY WISH I HAD.]
[THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.]
[AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.]
[“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO.”]
[NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

CARMEN SYLVA, POETESS AND QUEEN.

By the Rev. JOHN KELLY, Translator of “Hymns of the Present Century.”

THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA (“CARMEN SYLVA”).

All rights reserved.]

PART I.

Carmen the song and Sylva the wood,

Join them together, the wood-song is heard;

If in the woods I had not been born,

Ne’er should I sing a song night or morn.

I’ve often learnt from the melody

Of birds, and woods have whispered to me,

While my heart beat time within my breast,

And wood and song have sung me to rest.

Such, roughly rendered, is the explanation that the gifted and distinguished authoress gives of the nom de plume which she has assumed. In the last line there is a reference to the woodland castle—Mon Repos, or My Rest—where she passed her youth.

Her father was Hermann, Prince of Wied, a cultivated and thoughtful man, fond of philosophical speculation, and a writer on topics connected with his favourite studies. Her mother was Princess Maria of Nassau, who is described as “a woman of great beauty and true elevation of soul, of strong will, keen understanding, self-sacrificing spirit and indefatigable activity, inexorably strict with reference to herself, but overflowing with kindness and consideration towards all with whom she is brought in contact.”[1]

Elizabeth, the subject of our sketch, now the Queen of Roumania, was born on the 29th of December, 1843. As a child, she was impetuous in temper, reserved and resolute in disposition, and unbending in will. Her imagination was very lively. In her fourth year she was placed under the charge of a governess to receive regular instruction. Up to that time her mother had been her sole teacher. She was so lively that she suffered physical torture if she had to sit quite quiet. Once, when she was sitting for her portrait, along with her younger brother, Prince William, she resolved to keep still. Hardly had she done so for five minutes before she suddenly fell off her chair in a fainting fit. Her mother’s former governess, Fraülein Lavater, who came to Mon Repos for some months every year, was the only one who could tranquilise her.

Very early Princess Elizabeth displayed a charitable and sympathetic disposition. She used to accompany her mother on visits to the poor, and thus she became acquainted with their needs. She would give away whatever she could dispense with; yet she was not destitute of sound practical sense. One day her mother gave her a large piece of woollen stuff. The little Princess was overjoyed, and exclaimed—

“Now I can give away all my clothes!”

“Had you not better give the woollen stuff to the poor children?” said her mother; “your white clothes would be of less use to them than the coarse stuff.” It was a new thought to the child, and she at once perceived the reasonableness of the suggestion, and acted on it.

In November, 1850, her youngest brother Otto was born. He was afflicted with an organic malady, and in order to procure the best professional advice, the family went to Bonn in the spring of 1851. Many distinguished men—artists and savans—gathered around the princely family. Among others the patriot-poet, Ernst Moritz Arndt, then eighty-two years old, was a daily visitor. He read his patriotic songs to them. The Princess Elizabeth sat upon his knees while he did so, and listened with rapt attention and flushed cheeks. Many a time the venerable poet placed his hands upon her head and explained to her the beautiful name which she bore. “Elizabeth,” he said, “signifies ‘God is rest.’”

The present Crown Prince of Germany, then a student of Bonn, was also a frequent visitor.

It was at this time that the future Queen first saw Roumanians. They were the brothers Stourdza, who were then studying at the University.

Princess Elizabeth for a long time cherished the wish to sit on the form in the school with the village children. One morning, bursting into the room where her mother was much occupied, she asked if she might go with some farm children to the school. The Princess Maria did not hear the question, but nodded kindly to the child. Princess Elizabeth, taking this sign for permission, rushed off to the neighbouring farmhouse. There she heard that the children had already gone to school. She followed them quickly, and entered the schoolroom while the singing lesson was going on. The teacher was highly flattered when he saw the Princess standing at a form, and quite happily joining with full voice in the singing. The farmers’ little daughters, who had some notion of Court etiquette, regarded it as quite unseemly that the daughter of a Prince should join with such a very loud voice in singing with the village children! As soon as the Princess’s voice was heard above the voices of the other children, the girl next her put her hand on her mouth, and sought to impress upon her Serene Highness the impropriety of her position.

Meanwhile the greatest consternation was felt at the Castle on account of the disappearance of the Princess Elizabeth. Servants were sent out in all directions. For a long time they searched the neighbouring beechwoods and surrounding villages in vain. At last they found the little Princess, full of delight with her exploit, in the village school of Rodenbach. The missing child was carried back to the Castle, and confinement to her room for the rest of the day was the issue of the morning’s exploit.

She was a born ruler of others. In playing with children of her own age, whether of her own or of peasant rank, her ascendancy was at once acknowledged and yielded to. She was the ringleader in the wildest games. The fantastic ideas which came into her head, and on which she acted, overmastered her for the time. They were realities to her.

Her literary genius was early developed. She composed occasional pieces when she was nine and ten years old. At twelve years of age she attempted to write a novel. At fourteen she had invented dramas and tragedies. The more terrible the scenes were, the better was she pleased. Morning and night she was devising stories. She was subject to alternations of high spirits and depression, and total lack of self-confidence. She would be tormented by the idea that she was disagreeable and insupportable to everyone. “I could not help it,” she confesses; “I could not be gentle, I could only be impetuous. I was heartily thankful to all who had patience with me. I was better when the safety-valve of writing poetry was opened to me.”

In order to moderate the exuberance of her feelings, her mother took her at every opportunity to scenes where she might be deeply impressed by the realities of life. She was present at many a sick and death bed. Her brother’s case familiarised her with the sufferings that many have to endure. The first deathbed at which she was present was her grandmother’s, the Duchess of Nassau’s. It made an ineffaceable impression upon her. The sight of the body excited no terror in her mind. Her thoughts went beyond death. She hastened to the garden. The roses were in full bloom. She gathered the most beautiful, and returned with them to the chamber of death, and decorated the bed and the room with them. Her conception of death was poetical. Her mother had taught her to take a bright view of it.

Brought up by her mother in the fear of God, her first visit to church was a memorable occasion to her. Henceforward the Sundays and holydays were the bright spots in her life. With devout attention she followed the course of the service, and was deeply impressed by the exposition of Holy Scripture. She meditated on what she heard for days, and often wrote down the sermons.

At the end of six years her governess, Miss Jossé, who discharged her difficult duties with great fidelity and zeal, left Neuwied, and the Princess was placed under the care of a tutor, Mr. Sauerwein. On his arrival at the Castle the Princess Maria received him with the words: “You are getting a little spirit of contradiction for your pupil. She has no traditional faith. Her first questions always are, ‘why?’ and ‘is it true?’”

Mr. Sauerwein was a distinguished linguist; had resided a long time in England, and was an enthusiast for that country, its history and institutions. He gave all his lessons in the English language. Latin and Italian were translated into English. The Princess read Ovid, Horace, and parts of Cicero with him, and wrote Latin, English, and Italian exercises. She also learnt arithmetic and geometry. Lessons in physical science she took along with a companion and most intimate friend, Maria von Bibra. She was taught French by a Parisian lady, and in the evening after tea read the old chroniclers, as well as the dramatists. Schiller and other German classics were studied. At fifteen she took a keen interest in politics, and was a diligent reader of newspapers. From a very early period she had a great fondness for legends and folklore. “I would throw away,” she says, “the most beautiful history, or even comparative grammar, to the study of which I was passionately devoted, into a corner, for a little legend.”

Romances were forbidden till she was nineteen years of age. Then she was permitted to read “Ivanhoe” and others. Everything that was likely to excite her too lively imagination was purposely withheld from her.

At the beautifully situated Castle of Mon Repos, with its fine view of the Rhine and its splendid beechwoods, the Princess Elizabeth was in her element. She delighted to roam in the woods in the stormiest weather, when it was raining in torrents or snowing heavily. The house was too strait for her, and she would go forth, accompanied by three dogs of St. Bernard, to enjoy the battle of the elements. In autumn, when the yellow leaves lay in heaps on the ground, she would wander for hours, listening to the rustling of the leaves. Every leaf, blade of grass, bird, and flower—every sunbeam that lighted upon the landscape, had a meaning for her. She would return home with her head full of poetical ideas, which she would write down. These poetical effusions tranquillised her mind. No one knew anything of them. She kept them a profound secret. Her mother wisely concluded that the best thing to do was to let her take her own way. The Prince used to say, when she was determined to have her own way, “We must not compel people for their own happiness; we must allow them to attain to insight.”

At sixteen years of age the Princess began to write all her poems regularly in a book. She put all her thoughts and feelings into verse, which from henceforward formed her diary. Until she was thirty years of age she knew nothing of the technical part of the art of poetry. A time came, however, when she thought she ought to despise poetry, and when she threw herself with all her might into the study of music. She got into such a nervous condition, however, that her mother had to forbid her playing the piano for two years. Then she took to her pencil and painting. This failed to satisfy her, and she despaired of her abilities, and believed that she would never attain the ideal at which she aimed.

All who knew the Princess at this time retain a vivid impression of her vivacity and grace, of her slender figure, fresh complexion, her luxuriant dark brown hair, and large blue eyes, which looked as if they would penetrate and search the very soul. Without being exactly beautiful, the intellectual refinement of her features made her countenance very attractive. From her surroundings she was called Princess Wood-rose.

When governesses and tutor had left the Castle, Pastor Harder, the Mennonite Baptist preacher from Neuwied, came every day to teach the Princess logic, history, and church history. She profited much from her intercourse with him. She could open her heart freely to him on subjects on which she exercised the strictest reserve with everyone else. His preaching went to her heart. Her poetical diary contains many entries written after the services.

In 1860 she was confirmed, after being prepared for the rite by the Ecclesiastical Councillor Dilthey, in presence of all her sponsors, the nearest relatives of the houses of Wied and Nassau, and the present Empress of Germany, at that time Princess of Prussia.

Times of sore trial came to her. Her father was always ill. The sufferings of her little invalid brother increased, and her mother was absorbed by anxious duties. During her brother’s illness, to whom her mother wholly devoted herself, the Princess was thrown much into the society of her father. She worked with him, copied for him, and read to him. He would discuss with her the questions on which he wrote. The intelligence and receptivity of his daughter delighted him. The house was, however, too quiet for the lively girl. It was therefore decided that the invitation of Queen Augusta should be accepted, and that Fraülein Lavater should accompany her to Berlin. She found it difficult to keep within the bounds of Court etiquette, and converse in a becoming manner. She felt most at home in the family of the Princess of Hohenzollern, who passed the winter in Berlin.

It was at this time she first met her future husband, then Prince Charles of Hohenzollern. The story is told that one day as she, according to her custom, was bounding quickly down the stairs in the Castle, she slipped on the last steps, and was prevented from falling by Prince Charles, who caught her in his arms.

Soon after her return home the cases of her brother and father were pronounced to be hopeless. Prince Otto’s sufferings increased from month to month. His mother sought to prepare him for his end by pointing him to Christ and heaven. In January, 1862, Prince Hermann was unable to leave his bed. Princess Elizabeth nursed her father, while her mother was incessant in her attendance on her beloved son. On the 16th of February, 1862, Prince Otto died. “Thank God! thank God for ever and ever!” was the exclamation of his bereaved mother, as she stood by his body. His father, family, friends and connections from far and near, all who loved and admired the boy, joined with his mother in her thanksgiving.

After the funeral the family paid a visit to Baden-Baden. On their return the young Princess threw herself with all the ardour of her nature into the work of teaching. In the Castle there was a lame boy, who had been received on account of his delicate health, and at a farm in the neighbourhood of Mon Repos the Baroness von Bibra resided for some time with two little nieces. With these three little children the Princess set up a school. Her mother observed with quiet satisfaction the patience, perseverance, and aptitude to teach displayed by her daughter. The boy, Rudolf Wackernagel, made such progress that he was able to enter the fifth class in the Gymnasium at Basle.

The winter of 1862-63 was passed with her parents at Baden-Baden on account of her father’s health. Here she “came out.” From entries in her diary it would appear that she had offers of marriage at this time. There are some lines in which she writes of the kind of love that alone brings happiness, and she adds that a maiden rejects anyone who does not really love her. “A maiden,” she says, “is happy in her parents’ house, from whence she casts modest looks into the world.”

In the autumn of 1863 she went with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, to Ouchy, on the Lake of Geneva, and for the winter to St. Petersburg. On the way to the latter place she saw her father for the last time at Wiesbaden. He did not expect ever to see his daughter again. Everybody was charmed with her at the Russian Court. She did not feel at ease, however, amid the grandeur which surrounded her. Her imagination was excited by all that she saw and heard, but her nerves suffered. The Grand Duchess sought to calm her mind by varied but regular occupation. The day was filled with music, reading, study of the Russian language, etc. Rubinstein first, and afterwards Clara Schumann, taught her music. When she expected Rubinstein to come, her excitement was so great that it almost took away her breath. She regarded him with such veneration that she lost all heart, from a sense of her own little talent. The climate and nervous excitement brought on gastric fever. For weeks she was confined to bed. It was her first illness. She had never tasted medicine before she was twenty. She could hardly believe, therefore, that she was really ill. As soon as she was able to do so, she buried herself in a philosophical work by her father, a copy of which he had sent her, and wrote to him telling him the pleasure it gave her. She enjoyed the seclusion from the gaieties that were going on. “It is very strange,” she wrote to her father; “yesterday I read ninety pages of philosophy, and was so rested that everyone was astonished at my looking so well. But if only two or three ladies come, and tell me the gossip of the town, and of all the things that are going on, it makes me droop like a withered leaf.” When she was well enough she resumed her social intercourse with the Grand Duchess, but had a sudden relapse. It was an anxious time for her mother: her husband dangerously ill, her daughter invalided at a distance, and she not there to nurse her! “I know she is in God’s hands,” she wrote, “and under the care of faithful and loving friends, but that does not take the pain, the load of sorrow, from my heart.” The Princess Elizabeth was able to venture into the open air again at the beginning of March. It seemed as if her recovery would be rapid. A few days later, however, she received the tidings of her father’s death. She loved her father with enthusiastic tenderness. She owed her intellectual development, for the most part, to him. Her grief was heightened by the thought that she had not been with him in his last days. But no murmur escaped her lips. She bore the blow with such composure and resignation that everyone about her was deeply impressed and touched. She sought to comfort and strengthen her mother. “We shall fill the desolate void with our love,” she wrote, “and therein find our happiness.” She regarded her father as a shining example, and sought to think and act according to his ideas. In the judgments she formed, she imitated his mildness and candour, which condemned nothing without fully proving it.

At Easter she left St. Petersburg with the Grand Duchess Helena, and visited Moscow, and in June returned to Germany. Her mother met her in Leipzig. The meeting, as may be imagined, was very affecting. After their return to Mon Repos a reaction from the recent excitement and agitation which she had experienced set in, and the Princess Elizabeth was overcome by apathy. Her mother, therefore, gladly consented to her accompanying the Grand Duchess Helena to Ouchy.

During the years 1866, 1867, 1868, she paid visits with her aunt or mother to Switzerland, Italy, France, and Sweden, meeting with much to interest her.

Little did she think at the end of this time of the career on which she was so soon to enter. She always wished to have “a calling” in life. She did not wish to live a life of pleasure, or the life of an intellectual dilettante, but one of real usefulness. She resolved to devote herself to the work of education, and be the teacher of a school. Her mother consented, on the condition that she should go through a regular course of preparatory training for the purpose, and pass an examination. But “man proposes and God disposes.” During the spring of 1869, while she was with her mother in Bonn, they received an invitation from the Prince of Hohenzollern to pay a visit to Düsseldorf. The mother divined the purpose of the proposed visit, but the daughter had no suspicion of it. She was delighted only with the prospect of seeing the Princess of Hohenzollern and Princess Marie, whom she had met in Berlin, and with whom she had corresponded ever since.

(To be concluded.)

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI.

eaving the Priory on her right, Fairy went down the street in which stands the pretty old wooden house in which Anne of Cleves is said to have lived, and which goes by her name, from whence she turned up a lane into the High-street, and going to the bottom of the hill on which the High-street is built, she paused at a blacksmith’s shop.

The blacksmith was the father of the veterinary whom Fairy was seeking, and both men were standing in the shed, the blacksmith in his apron, with his hammer in his hand, scratching his head, and looking exceedingly puzzled, the veterinary in his shirt-sleeves, which looked like a protest against the heat which streamed from his father’s forge. He, too, looked equally puzzled.

In the centre of the shed stood a third figure, a gentleman, tall, thin, young, and dark—if not handsome, at least very good-looking—with an aristocratic air about him which at once caught Fairy’s fancy. She saw at a glance he was unlike anyone she had ever met before, by the cut of his clothes and the dark moustache, in days when moustaches were rarely seen in England; she half suspected he was not English, and his first words, in a strong foreign accent, confirmed this idea.

“I want to take it wif me, a horse’s iron, the iron of a horse.”

Fairy’s appearance in the shed caused the stranger to turn round, and seeing a lady he took off his hat and bowed so profoundly, at the same time stepping back, and gracefully hinting, by a wave of his hand, that his business would wait till hers was concluded, removed any lingering doubts in her mind as to his nationality. He was French, she was sure, and for the first time in her life, to her knowledge, Fairy found herself face to face with a Frenchman, as great a curiosity then as a Japanese or Chinaman is now.

Fairy returned his elaborate bow with a pretty inclination of her graceful head, and briefly stated her business to the veterinary, who, however, seemed to hesitate at first to come at once, and Fairy was obliged to resort to a little judicious flattery to induce him to comply with her request.

While she was speaking the stranger had an opportunity of indulging in a good look at her without her being aware of it. How pretty she was! fresher and brighter and prettier than ever among the dark, grimy surroundings of the blacksmith’s shop, which formed a striking background for this brilliant little vision of youth and health and beauty, the red glow of the furnace sending a rosy reflection over her white dress, and kindling the soft golden lights in her hair into a burning auburn. How simply she was dressed too! the first of her countrywomen who understood the art of dressing herself who had yet crossed the stranger’s path, he afterwards told her; and yet her boots and gloves, about which Fairy was very particular, fitted her tiny hands and feet to perfection.

Where did she come from, this blooming little creature, who looked as if a puff of wind might blow her away, so small and slight and dainty was she? And in default of wind the young Frenchman was by no means sure that she would not suddenly spread out a pair of wings from among the folds of her white drapery and fly away! At any rate he determined to speak to her first and satisfy himself that she was flesh and blood, and not a mere sprite or vision, so as she turned to leave, after having prevailed upon the veterinary to do her bidding at once, he stepped forward, and, with another grand bow and a smile, he said, in his native tongue—

“Mademoiselle peut-elle parler Français?”

“Mais oui, monsieur,” answered Fairy.

“Pardon mille fois, mademoiselle est Française?” said the Frenchman, with true French politeness.

“Mais non, monsieur,” laughed Fairy, in a half-reproachful, half-deprecating tone.

“Mademoiselle speaks like a native, but will she have the kindness to tell me what is the English for fer-de-cheval; I have forgotten?”

“A horseshoe,” said Fairy.

“A horseshoe,” lisped the Frenchman.

“A horseshoe, and he asked for a horse’s iron; no wonder I didn’t know what he meant,” growled the blacksmith, proceeding to get the article in question.

“A horseshoe—a horse’s iron,” laughed the veterinary, in an undertone of scorn, as he went his way to look after John Shelley’s sheep.

“Yes,” said the Frenchman, in French, to Fairy, “I want a horseshoe. They tell me a horseshoe always brings good luck, so I am going to keep one in my room.”

“Oh, but it is no use to buy a horseshoe; you must find it, pick it up on the road, and keep it for it to bring good luck,” laughed Fairy, speaking French.

“Is that it? Well, never mind, this horseshoe has brought me some good luck at any rate already.” And then, fearing he was presuming too much on his brief acquaintance to pay the compliment his last speech implied, he added, apologetically, “I have not often the good luck to meet a lady out of France who speaks French so fluently as mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur is very kind to say so, but unless I can be of any further use I must say good morning,” said Fairy, moving to the door.

The young Frenchman uttered a thousand thanks, bowed lower than ever, and stood uncovered at the door of the shed, watching till Fairy’s little figure and fluttering white skirts disappeared from view.

“Rum ways! Is Mr. Parlez-vous, with his outlandish talk, going to stand there all day in the broiling sun? He’ll have a sunstroke if he does. He is the queerest customer ever darkened my door,” growled the blacksmith, as he hammered on his anvil to attract the stranger’s attention.

The stranger had no intention of moving until Fairy had disappeared from view, and then he put on his hat and walked up to the anvil.

“Who is that lady?” he asked.

“Nobody knows,” growled the surly old blacksmith.

“What is her name?”

“Can’t say; nobody knows,” answered the blacksmith, in a still surlier tone, though to do him justice he thought this fine gentleman’s sudden interest in the shepherd’s Fairy, as people called her, boded no good to Fairy.

“How much is the horse-iron—shoe, I mean?”

“Sixpence, sir.”

The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question.

“What is that lady’s name?”

The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s Fairy.”

“But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.

“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which was now lying by the side of the first.

“And where does John Shelley live?”

“At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.”

“Comment? How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?”

“Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further.

“Easy or difficult, I shall find it, my civil friend,” said the young Frenchman, in French, and then, raising his hat, he wished the blacksmith good-day, and left the forge, muttering to himself a criticism on the manners of these English not over flattering to our nation.

“Palavering jackanapes, talking a tongue that no one understands but himself! What has the shepherd’s Fairy to do with him, I should like to know? But there don’t appear to be any scarcity of half-crowns with him; seems made up of them. A queer customer—a mighty queer customer; I wonder where he hails from.” And so saying, the blacksmith went to his door to look after the young Frenchman.

The stranger walked up the High-street to the Crown, where he had left his horse, and when it was brought to him, innocently asked the ostler if he could get back to Oafham, where he was staying, by Bournemer.

“Yes, sir; you can go across yonder meadows; there is a drift right through them which will bring you out close upon John Shelley, the shepherd’s, house; go past that and turn sharp to your right, that will take you straight back to the park,” said the ostler, giving the stranger all the information he required for nothing.

A few minutes later the blacksmith strolled casually up to the inn, and inquired of the ostler who that foreign gentleman was.

“Dunnow; reckon he is some relation of Lady Oafham up at Oafham Park; they say my lady’s sister is married to a French gentleman; anyhow, he is staying there. I know the mare.”

“He is a rum customer, wherever he is staying. He didn’t happen to ask you where John Shelley lived, did he now?” said the blacksmith.

“No, but I happened to tell him,” returned the ostler.

“More fool you, then. Ah! he is a queer customer.” And muttering to himself all the way down the street, the blacksmith returned to his forge.

Meanwhile the French gentleman rode slowly off in the direction indicated by the ostler, keeping his horse to a walking pace for fear he should overtake Fairy, who, after a little while, he discerned as a little speck of white some way in front of him. He paid no heed to the ostler’s directions now; where that speck of white led he would follow, but at a safe distance, lest he should frighten or annoy her if discovered. Keeping well in the rear, he saw Fairy finally turn into the field in which the shepherd’s cottage stood, and as soon as she was out of sight he put his horse into a canter, and rode past, taking a good survey, as he passed, of the house of the shepherd’s Fairy, whom he had traced to her home.

(To be continued.)

HINTS ON PRACTISING SINGING AND PRESERVING THE VOICE.

By AN EXPERIENCED TEACHER.

PART I.

WHAT TO AVOID.

It will most likely surprise my readers that I should begin this article by telling them when not to practise. I think this a very essential point, although not often spoken of by teachers.

I heard, a short time ago, of a young lady desirous of having singing lessons, whose instructor said it would be best for her to practise three times a day for ten minutes. The girl, being engaged in teaching most of the day, found it difficult to manage her time, but contrived, by having the first ten minutes before breakfast, to fit in the three intervals. No wonder her throat got bad and her health suffered!

If, among my readers, there should be one similarly occupied, believe me, it is not wise to take lessons during the term, as talking for so long a time is sufficient exercise for the throat and chest. Wait till the holidays, and then begin.

If you tire the vocal chords and the surrounding parts, you weaken instead of strengthening them, and injure the purity of tone.

We will suppose you have had your first lesson, say, of forty-five minutes; and on reaching home feel inclined to practise, to impress on your mind your teacher’s corrections. Yet you must not do so; as you have already sung enough. By all means, look over the music you have used and mark anything you may be likely to forget; also start a note-book, and make memoranda of the hints received from time to time.

Say that your lesson takes place in the morning; probably in the afternoon you will be able to take a quarter of an hour in which to practise. In this way, you will have done far more good than if you sat straightway down to the piano when you were excited and heated after your first lesson, when you might have been tempted to try over your songs, to settle which to take the next time, and have gone from one thing to another, till, to your great surprise, it is lunch time, and, it may chance, instead of your usual good appetite you have none. An artistic temperament is often very excitable, and if this is your case you will perceive how much you would have taken out of yourself in that one morning.

Should you be out of health, do not practise; you may sing a little, going through one song or two (no more) will cheer you; but do not try exercises, for your voice will not be in its usual state, consequently you will be likely to force it.

Again, if it ever happens that you are cross, or vexed, do not choose that time either. Do not sing your exercises after a long walk, or after a hearty meal, nor after bending for any length of time over needlework, writing, or any occupations causing stooping.

On many of these occasions you could practise the pianoforte; singers should well study their accompaniments.

All these “don’ts” are especially addressed to the zealous student, whose very enthusiasm may do much harm.

The dilatory one may say, “If I am to practise at none of these times, when, then, shall I do so?”

There are plenty of opportunities still, but it depends greatly on home duties how the time should be apportioned.

We will imagine the first thing after breakfast some domestic task calls your attention. When you are at liberty, go then to your piano (this should be scrupulously kept in tune), but first spend five minutes in practising breathing—of which I shall speak later on—then sing for five minutes sustained notes, without crescendo, the “mezza di voce” 𝆒 𝆓 being a finishing study which must not be attempted till the voice is fully under control; then give five to slow scale passages, and five more to simple distances of thirds, or what particular exercise your teacher may have given. Before the mid-day meal you may be able to give a few minutes again to sustained notes; but mind, only use your middle ones. These should have the chief attention for quite a month or more before either the upper or lower ones are tried.

Another interval can well be given some time after noon; and in the evening practise your songs—as at that time you might annoy other persons with your exercises. They are not calculated to cheer the heart of the listener, especially when imperfectly done, as they will be at first.

PART II.

CHIEFLY ON RESPIRATION.

We will now turn our attention to the different ways of breathing.

In throat or collar-bone breathing (the wrong method) the region of the upper ribs is most strongly distended; the collar-bone, part of the breast-bone, the shoulders, the spine, and in laboured breathing even the head, take part in this mode.

It is fatiguing and injurious, yet it is very general, both in speaking and singing; and in time it would make the voice weak and tremulous. There is little doubt it produces a tendency to sore throat. Some authorities even say that imperfect respiration is one of the causes of consumption, and that practising deep breathing in the proper manner is a preventive.

Most likely if you were told to inhale deeply, you would open your mouth and try to expand the chest from above. This is quite wrong; it is styled collar-bone breathing.

It is a mistake to suppose the upper part of the chest is the chief reservoir of air required for the voice; that is brought into play by nature at times of exhaustion only.

Now for the proper mode: diaphragmatic or abdominal respiration. The diaphragm is a muscular membrane stretching from the front to the back, and in a state of rest is arched upwards towards the lungs, but on inhaling, its sides contract and the arch is flattened, causing the cavity of the chest to become enlarged, and the air rushes in by the windpipe and distends the lungs. When the muscles are relaxed, the elasticity of the lungs squeezes out the air, and the diaphragm is drawn up again to its original form.

A good position in which to acquire this mode of inspiration, is to lie down at full length on the back, the head as low as the body, and begin to inhale slowly (the clothes must be quite loose), then you will find the parts below the ribs expand like a pair of bellows. Another way. Sit on a chair—it must not be low and easy—with your hands folded behind it and breathe leisurely; or, stand perfectly upright, put your hands behind you, and draw in the air gently but deeply, retaining it for ten seconds or more, then let it go as slowly as possible.

Do not try to take too deep a breath at first, or you will find you cannot retain it. Your power will gradually increase.

Practise, without singing, sometimes in one of these positions, sometimes in another, twice or thrice a day, but not for many minutes at a time. It will strengthen the lungs and organs of digestion. You will now have found how important it is for the clothing to be loose, I hope.

It is well to close the mouth when one wishes to take breath. Especially at long rests the singer should do so, as it prevents the throat and vocal chords from getting dry. If they do become so the voice loses sweetness.

Remember a good tone does not depend on the great volume of air ejected: indeed, too much breath expended will make it uncertain. Flat singing is now and then the result of this forcing. The air must be given out gradually, not jerked out.

Avoid coughing; it is an injurious habit easily got into; if you feel an inclination to do so before beginning to sing, check it if possible, and instead quietly swallow.

Let me advise you not to eat nuts or similar dry things before singing, and here is another hint. Do not sit in a low chair with the feet perched up on a stool after meals, as the digestive faculties cannot act well in such a position. With an impaired digestion the voice may become affected.

Never talk in the open air if the weather is cold and damp, nor when travelling, nor at any time, if it can be avoided, where there is much noise.

Many persons wrap up the throat excessively. One of my pupils came once with no less than two silk handkerchiefs under a fur-lined cloak, besides wearing a boa. A silk scarf is enough even for the winter; fur is not healthy to wear unless it is in the form of a loose mantle.

It is a good plan on getting up each morning to bathe the neck with cold water, afterwards drying well, using plenty of friction, also to gargle the throat with cold water.

For the expansion of the chest, I strongly advise the use, night and morning, of an elastic chest expander. It must be strong enough to require a distinct effort to stretch it, and the exercise must be persevered with for ten minutes at a time, until the muscles begin to ache. By-and-by it can be used for a longer period.

The singer must observe the laws of health, remembering that the vocal organ is but an instrument, though played on by the soul.

A few more words before closing this article. Perchance one of my readers may be anxious to sing well, though unable to have the benefit of receiving lessons. In that case, I do not advise the study of exercises, unless some tuition has first been received from a competent person, as bad habits are so easily formed though not so easily got rid of.

Let the songs you choose lie well within your range of voice, without runs or shakes; nothing being more absurd than to hear ornaments badly executed.

When it is possible, try to hear a professional render a song that you know. There are many ballad concerts given, and the music that will be performed is generally advertised. Take your copy with you, and mark all places where breath is taken, where a crescendo is made, and where the time is slackened or accelerated. You will get a good lesson on a song in this way, and if you persevere your style will by degrees improve.

Before singing a new song, practise the accompaniment well, then study the words, making it a rule to recite them, that you may give proper effect to both music and poetry. Try always to bear in mind, what is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER GUEST AT MARSHLANDS.

he following two or three weeks passed rapidly and pleasantly; but for two serious drawbacks that hindered my thorough enjoyment, I should have owned myself perfectly happy, but Mrs. Markham and Rolf were perpetual thorns in my side.

A consciousness of being disliked by any human being, however uncongenial to us, is always a disagreeable discovery. The cause of the repellent action of one mind on another may be an interesting psychological study, but in practice it brings us to a sadder and lower level. I knew Mrs. Markham honestly disliked me; but the cause of such marked disfavour utterly baffled me.

Most people found her fascinating; she was intellectual and refined, and had many good qualities, but she was not essentially womanly. Troubles and the loss of her children had hardened her; embittered by disappointment, for her married life, short as it was, had been singularly unhappy, she had come back to her father’s house a cold, resentful woman, who masked unhappiness under an air of languid indifference, and whose strong will and concealed love of power governed the whole household. “Adelaide manages us all,” Miss Cheriton would say, laughing, and I used to wonder if she ever rebelled against her sister’s dictates. I knew the squire was like wax in the hands of his eldest daughter; he was one of those indolent, peace-loving men who are always governed by their womankind; his wife had ruled him, and now his widowed daughter held the reins. I think Gay was like her father; she went on her own way and shut her eyes to anything disagreeable. It would never have done for me to quarrel openly with Mrs. Markham; common sense and respect for my mistress’s sister kept me silent under great provocation. I controlled my words, and in some measure I controlled voice and outward manner, but my inward antagonism must have revealed itself now and then by an unguarded tone.

My chief difficulty was to prevent her spoiling Joyce. After the first, she had become very fond of the child, and was always sending for her to the drawing-room, and loading her with toys and sweetmeats. Mr. Morton’s orders had been very stringent about sweetmeats, and again and again I was obliged to confiscate poor Joyce’s goodies as she called them. I had extracted from her a promise that she should eat nothing out of the nursery, and nothing could induce the child to disobey me.

“Nurse says I mustn’t, Aunt Adda,” was her constant remark, and Mrs. Markham chose to consider herself aggrieved at this childish obstinacy. She spoke to me once about it with marked displeasure.

“I have had children of my own, and I suppose I know what is good for them,” she said, with a touch of scorn in her voice; “you have no right to enforce such ridiculous rules on Joyce.”

“I have Mrs. Morton’s orders,” I replied, curtly; “Dr. Myrtle told me to be very careful of Joyce’s diet; I cannot allow her to eat things I know will hurt her,” and I continued to confiscate the goodies.

But though I was firm in all that concerned the children’s health, there were many occasions on which I was obliged to submit to Mrs. Markham’s interference; very often my plans for the day were frustrated for no legitimate cause. I was disposed to think sometimes that she acted in this way just to vex me and make me lose my temper. If we were starting for the beach, Judson would bring us a message that her mistress would prefer my taking the children into the orchard, and sometimes on a hot afternoon, when we were comfortably ensconced on the bench under the apple trees, Judson would inform us that Mrs. Markham thought we had better go down to the sea. Sometimes I yielded to these demands, if I thought the children would not suffer by them, but at other times I would tell Judson that the sun was too hot or the children too tired, and that we had better remain as we were. If this was the case, Mrs. Markham would sometimes come out herself and argue the matter, but I always stood my ground boldly; though I was perfectly aware that the afternoon’s post would convey a letter to Prince’s Gate, complaining of my impertinence in disputing her orders.

My mistress’s letters were my chief comfort, and they generally came on the morning after one of these disputes. She would write to me so affectionately, and tell me how she missed me as well as the children, and though she never alluded openly to what had occurred, there was always a little sentence of half-veiled meaning that set my mind at rest.

“My sister Gay tells me that the children are getting so brown and strong with the sea air,” she wrote once, “and that dear little Joyce has quite a nice colour. Thank you so much for your ceaseless care of them; you know I trust you implicitly, Merle, and I have no fear that you will disappoint me; your good sense will carry you safely through any little difficulty that may arise. Write to me as often as you can; your letters are so nice. I am very busy and very tired, for this ball has entailed so much work and fuss, but your letters seem to rest me.”

Rolf was also a serious impediment to my enjoyment. Ever since I had helped him with his kite, he had attached himself to me, and insisted on joining us in all our walks, and in spending the greater part of his day with us. I was tolerably certain in my own mind that this childish infatuation excited Mrs. Markham’s jealousy. Until we had arrived she had been Rolf’s sole companion; he had accompanied her in her drives, harassed her from morning to night with his ceaseless demands for amusements, and had been the secretly dreaded torment of all the visitors to Marshlands, except Mr. Hawtry, who was rather good to him.

His precocity, his love of practical jokes, and his rough impertinence, made him at feud with the whole household; the servants disliked him, and were always bringing complaints of Master Rolf. I believe Judson was fond of him in a way, but then she had had charge of him from a baby.

When Rolf began to desert the drawing-room for the nursery, Mrs. Markham used all her efforts to coax him back to her side, but she might as well have spoken to the wind. Rolf played with Joyce on the beach; he raced her up and down the little hillocks in the orchard, or hunted with her for wild flowers in the lanes that surrounded Marshlands. When the children were asleep, he invaded my quiet with requests to mend his broken toys or join him in some game. I grew quite expert in rigging his new boat, and dressed toy soldiers and sailors by the dozen. Sometimes I was inclined to rebel at such waste of time, but I remembered that Rolf had no playfellows; it was better for him to be playing spillikins or go-bang with me in the nursery than lounging listlessly about the drawing-room, listening to grown-up people’s talk; a natural child’s life was better for his health. Miss Cheriton told me more than once that people who came to the house thought Rolf so much improved. Certainly he was not so pale and fretful after a long morning spent on the beach in wading knee-deep to sail his boat or digging sand wells which Joyce filled out of her bucket. When he grew too rough or boisterous I always called Joyce away, and with Hannah and myself to look after them no harm could come to the children.

I grew rather fond of Rolf, after a time, and his company would not have been irksome to me, but for his tiresome habit of repeating the speeches he had heard in the drawing-room. He always checked himself when he remembered, or when I held up my finger, but the half sentence would linger in my memory.

But this was not the worst. I soon found out that anything I told him found its way into the drawing-room; in fact, Rolf was an inveterate chatterbox. With all his good intentions, he could not hold his tongue, and mischief was often the result.

It was my habit to teach the children little lessons under the guise of a story, sometimes true, sometimes a mere invention. Rolf called them “Fenny’s Anecdotes,” but I had never discovered an anecdote about crossness.

One day I found myself being severely lectured by Mrs. Markham for teaching her son the doctrine of works. “As though we should be saved by our works, Miss Fenton!” she finished, virtuously.

I was too much puzzled to answer; I had no notion what she meant until I remembered that I had induced Rolf to part with some of his pocket-money to relieve a poor blind man that we found sitting by the wayside. Rolf had been sorry for the man, and still more for the gaunt, miserable-looking woman by his side; but when we had gone on our way, followed by voluble Irish blessings, Rolf had rather feelingly lamented his sixpence, and I had told him a little story inculcating the beauty of almsgiving, which had impressed him considerably, and he had retailed a garbled version of it to his mother—hence her rebuke to me. I forget what my defence was, only I remember I repudiated indignantly any such doctrine; but this sort of misunderstanding was constantly arising. If only Rolf would have held his tongue!

But these were mere surface troubles, and I often managed to forget that there was such a person as Mrs. Markham in the world; and, in spite of a few trifling drawbacks, I look back upon this summer as one of the happiest in my life.

I was young and healthy, and I perfectly revelled in the country sights and sounds with which I was surrounded. I hardly knew which I enjoyed most—the long delicious mornings on the beach, when I sat under the breakwater taking care of Reggie, or the afternoons in the orchard, with the brown bees humming round the hives and the children playing with Fidgets on the grass, while the old white pony looked over the fence at us, and the sheep nibbled at our side. I used to send Hannah home for an hour or two while I watched over the children; it was hard for her to be so near home and not enjoy Molly’s company; and those summer afternoons were lazy times for all of us.

I think Miss Cheriton added largely to my happiness. I had never had a friend since my school-days, and it was refreshing to me to come in contact with this bright young creature. I was a little too grave for my age, and I felt she did me good.

I soon found she resembled my mistress in one thing: she was very unselfish, and thought more of other people’s pleasures than her own. She used to say herself that it was only a sublime sort of selfishness that she liked to see everyone happy round her. “A gloomy face hinders all enjoyment,” was her constant remark. But I never knew anyone who excelled more in little kindly acts. She would bring me fruit or flowers almost daily; and when she found I was fond of reading, she selected books for me she thought I should like.

When Mrs. Markham did not use the carriage—a very rare occasion, as she had almost a monopoly of it—she would take us for long country drives, and she would contrive all sorts of little surprises for us. Once when we returned from a saunter in the lanes, we found our tea table laid in the orchard, and Miss Cheriton presiding, in a gay little hat trimmed with cornflowers and poppies. There was a basket of flowers in the centre of the table, and a heap of red and yellow fruit. We had quite a little feast that evening, and all the time we were sitting there, there were broods of chickens running over the grass, that Gay had enticed into the orchard to please the children, and grey rabbits, and an old lame duck that was her pensioner, and went by the name of Cackles.

“Oh, auntie, do have another feast,” Joyce would say to her, almost daily; but Miss Cheriton could not always be with us; visitors were very plentiful at Marshlands, and Gay’s company was much courted by the young people of Netherton and Orton-upon-Sea.

I knew Mr. Hawtry was a constant visitor, for we often met him in our walks; and it seemed to me that his face was always set in the direction of Marshlands.

When Rolf was with us he was never allowed to pass without notice, and then he would stop and speak to the children, especially to Joyce, who soon got over her shyness with him.

“Mother says Mr. Hawtry comes to see Aunt Gay,” Rolf remarked once, when he was out of hearing; “she told grandpapa so one day, and asked him if it would not be a good thing; and grandpapa laughed and nodded; you know his way. What did mother mean?”

“No doubt she meant that Mr. Hawtry was a kind friend,” I returned, evasively. How is one to silence a precocious child? But of course it was easy to understand Mrs. Markham’s hint.

I wondered sometimes if Mr. Hawtry were a favoured suitor. He and Miss Cheriton certainly seemed on the best of terms; she always seemed glad to see him, but her manner was very frank with him.

I took it into my head that Gay had more than one admirer. I deduced this inference from a slight occurrence that took place one day.

I was on the terrace with the children one morning, when a young clergyman in a soft felt hat came up the avenue. I knew him at once as the boyish-faced curate at Netherton Church, who had read the service the last two Sundays. I had liked his voice and manner, they were so reverent, but I remembered that I thought him very young. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, and though not exactly handsome, had a bright, pleasant-looking face.

Rolf hailed him at once as an old acquaintance. “Holloa, Mr. Rossiter; it is no use your going on to the house; mother is not well and cannot see you, and Aunt Gay is with the bees.”

Mr. Rossiter seemed a little confused at this. He stopped and regarded Rolf with some perplexity.

“I am sorry Mrs. Markham is not well, but perhaps I can see Mr. Cheriton.”

“Oh, grandpapa has gone to Orton; there is only me at home; you see, Miss Fenton does not count. If you want Aunt Gay I will show you the way to the kitchen garden.” And as Mr. Rossiter accepted this offer with alacrity, they went off together.

We were going down to the beach that morning, and I was only waiting for Hannah to get the perambulator ready, but as a quarter of an hour elapsed and Rolf did not make his appearance, Joyce and I went in search of him.

I found him standing by the beehives, talking to Miss Cheriton and Mr. Rossiter. They all looked very happy, and Mr. Rossiter was laughing at something the boy had said; such a ringing, boyish laugh it was.

When I called Rolf they all looked round, and Miss Cheriton came forward to speak to me. I thought she looked a little uncomfortable, and I never saw her with such a colour.

“Are you going down to the beach? I wish I could come too, it is such a lovely morning, but Mr. Rossiter wants me to go to the schools; Miss Parsons, the schoolmistress, is ill, and they need help. It is so tiresome,” speaking with a pettish, spoilt-child air, turning to the young clergyman; “Miss Parsons always does get ill at inconvenient times.”

“I know you would not fail us if it were ever so inconvenient,” answered Mr. Rossiter, looking full at her—he had such nice clear eyes; “you are far too kind to desert us in such a strait.”

But she made no answer to this, and went back to the beehive, and after a moment’s irresolution Mr. Rossiter followed her.

“Do you like Mr. Rossiter?” asked Rolf, in his blunt way, as we walked down the avenue. “I do, awfully; he is such a brick. He plays cricket with me sometimes, and he has promised to teach me to swim, only mother won’t let him, in spite of all grandpapa says about my being brought up like a girl. Grandpapa means me to learn to swim and ride, only mother is so frightened ever since the black pony threw me. I am to have a quieter one next year.”

“Have you known Mr. Rossiter long?” I asked, carelessly.

“Oh, pretty long. Mother can’t bear him coming so often to the house; she says he is so awkward, and then he is poor. Mother doesn’t like poor people; she always says it is their own fault; that they might get on better. Do you know, Fenny, Mr. Rossiter has only two little rooms at Mrs. Saunders’, you know that low house looking on the cornfields; quite poky little rooms they are, because mother and I went there. Mother asked him if he did not find it dreadfully dull at Netherton, and he laughed and said, ‘Oh, dear no;’ he had never been more comfortable; the people at Netherton were so kind and hospitable; and though mother does not like him, he comes just as often as though she did.” And I soon verified Rolf’s words; Mr. Rossiter came very often to Marshlands.

(To be continued.)

I ONLY WISH I HAD.

By MEDICUS.

here are five hundred of my lady readers, at the very least, who can easily guess the reason why Medicus did not appear before them so regularly last summer.

“Five hundred!” I think I hear some girls say; “why are these five hundred in the secret? And what about all the other thousands?”

Stay, and I will tell you. For four months this last season I was “on the road,” travelling in my own chariot—I am surely not wrong in calling it a chariot, seeing it is twenty feet in length—throughout the length and breadth of Merrie England, and I put down the minimum of Girl’s Own readers who visited this chariot and its owner at five hundred, though, seeing that schools with their teachers, numbering from twenty to seventy, sometimes paid a visit to me, all of whom were ardent admirers of the “beautifully and tastefully illustrated G. O. P.”—the girls’ own words—a thousand might be nearer the mark.

But what, it may be asked, has this to do with the non-appearance of Medicus before his readers? Why, everything; because I find it all but impossible to do literary work “on the road.”

I might have done more, though.

“I only wish I had.”

And these words form the text on which I desire this month to speak a few homely words to my girls, young or not young.

“I only wish I had.” How often a medical man hears those same words; spoken, it may be, with blanched lips, by some poor mortal who is languishing on a bed of sickness and pain. “I only wish I had.” Had what? Taken better care of health while it lasted.

I sat by the bedside of a poor girl some years ago, and heard her repeat those same words frequently. I had somewhat more time to spare then than I have now, or I could not have sat there for an hour or two at a time reading to her or to myself. She did not speak much, being in the final stage of consumption, but she assured me again and again it was “such company” to have me there, so what could I do?

“I wish I had.” These words, it seemed to me, were too often on her lips. Sometimes it was only the first two words, “I wish,” she breathed, as if the weakened lungs and voice refused to add the others. I think I see Esther D—— even now, a long, thin, pale hand on the coverlet, a white, thin face, with a flush on the high cheeks, little blue veins meandering over the temples, and sad blue eyes, with dark dilated and glistening pupils.

“I wish I had.” Wish she had what? Taken a word or two of advice I gave her in a friendly way, just before she started for the seaside on a holiday trip.

She looked bright, strong, and beautiful that day, though I could tell, from her transparent skin, her too soft hair and drooping eyelashes, that in her veins were the seeds of our island illness, and that it would need but little to fan it into flame.

“I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly,” she said, her eyes dancing with good humour.

“Yes,” I said, as I bade her good-bye, “but not excitedly, Esther; and remember what I said about night air, damp feet, and warm clothing.”

There was a little impatient toss of the head, and just about half a frown, and I smiled, expecting her to say, “Oh, bother!” but she did not.

Well, poor Esther died.

But I know of nothing more sad when one is ill than the thought that the illness might have been avoided.

“I wish I had been more careful.”

If you let your thimble fall, it will drop to the ground, will it not? This is a law of Nature; and as sure and certain is every other law of Nature. Nature will forgive, but she never will forget. If you, for example, sit in wet clothes, evaporation takes place; in other words, the damp of your clothes passes off in steam, and, as water requires so much heat to convert it into steam, it takes this heat from the nearest source, and that is from your body. It absorbs animal heat. What is the consequence? Why, baby there could understand this simple lesson in physiology. The consequence is that the surface of the body becomes chilled. Well, then another law of Nature comes into force. The law is this: Cold contracts. Cold contracts everything, even iron. Witness the difference in the length of railway iron rails in summer and winter. Given a sun-heat of, say, one hundred and twenty degrees, and they are all close together at the ends. Given a winter temperature of thirty-two degrees, or under, and the rails do not touch, but gap.

And the cold on the surface of the body contracts the veins and arteries. With what result? With the result that the blood is to some extent squeezed—to use simple language—out of them, and, as it must flow somewhere, it rushes in upon the internal organs of the body.

Now, we all of us have some one organ weaker than the others, and it is this organ that suffers from a surfeit of blood in its veins, driven inwards by a chill. It may be Miss Ada’s liver, and she has in consequence “a horrid bilious attack,” as I have heard it called, or it may be worse, suppression of the bile entirely, followed naturally by blood poisoning and jaundice.

It may be Miss Ada’s lungs. The blood is driven in upon the surface thereof; this surface becomes congested and red, though no one can see it. Nature tries to relieve the congestion by throwing off through the walls of the veins or arteries the watery portion of the blood. This tickles the lungs, and a cough is the result. But the very act of coughing increases the mischief tenfold, and what was at first water may become matter.

Nor may the mischief end here; for, if inclined to have consumption, the tubercle, as it is called, will now be deposited in the lung surface or tissue. Why? Because, the veins being congested and enlarged, the flow through them is more sluggish. I do hope I’m making myself understood! The flow, I say, is more sluggish, and deleterious matter, that otherwise would have been washed or carried away in the secretions, gets time and opportunity to settle.

Now do you understand how a chill from a draught or from damp clothing may cause mischief of even a fatal character?

Will you take my advice, and wear judicious clothing, or will you wait till the mischief is done, and then say, “I wish I had”?

Mind, I do not wish you to go about, even during the cold months of winter, swaddled with as much clothing as a mummy, but I do wish you to wear woollen clothing—next the skin, at all events.

Age has nothing at all to do with it. The young are even more apt to catch deadly colds than the older or middle-aged.

I often wish there was some woollen material manufactured in this country—thin, warm, and soft, with a smooth surface that would render it perfectly suitable for underclothing for the most delicate-skinned girl. Flannel, such as is sold in the shops, has its good points, but it really has many objectionable ones. I hear new flannel extolled. I may be fastidious, but I really do not care for its perfume. Then there are your woollen jerseys, or whatever you call them, and merino ditto. Why, they are so rough, I, myself, would rather fall back upon silk.

“I WISH I HAD BEEN MORE CAREFUL.”

In Germany, I believe, they have a material that is eminently suitable for the purpose I am advocating.

There is a chance for some manufacturer to come to the front. Meanwhile, our girls will go on wearing linen and catching colds; and I do assure my readers that they would be both astonished and shocked were I to tell them the average number of fatal illnesses brought on annually in England from neglect of proper precautions for the preservation of health.

But if winter hath its dangers from cold, and wet, and frost, neither is summer exempt.

Would I have girls wear wool in summer? Undoubtedly.

Wool is not only a protection against cold, but against intense heat as well. It is a go-between, so to speak.

We all know that thatched houses are warm in winter and cool in summer, but possibly the words of Stanley, the great African traveller, may be new to many, although the truth they contain rests upon the same natural basis as that about thatched houses. I cannot give the exact words of this truly great man, but they are to this effect:—

“The only way a European can withstand the intense heat of tropical Africa is by wearing garments of wool.”

This is very easily understood. Wool is a non-conductor. In winter, therefore, it conserves or retains the internal or animal heat, and in summer it will defend the skin and the blood from becoming fevered by the scorching rays of the sun.

I do not expect my youngest readers to be interested in one-half of what I am now writing, but I most earnestly desire their mothers and guardians to lay my words to heart, and to act upon them, so that they may not hereafter have to say, with sighs of regret—

“I wish I had.”

There is one other little matter I wish to point out to my thoughtful mamma-readers, with regard to clothing, and that is, the absurdity of not having dress, either for boys or girls, made the same thickness at the back as at the front.

It really is ridiculous to clothe the chest in front and leave it to starve between the shoulders. I have before now pointed out to you that people catch colds in the chest far more often from chills caught from behind. Verbum sap.

Well, now I shall change my tune, and go on to another subject which also has a bearing upon colds and coughs and ill-health of every kind engendered by wintry weather.

One-half of the people in this country are not breakfast-eaters.

Are you really a breakfast-eater? Do you get hungry as soon as you have had your bath? As soon as you have said your good-morning, do your eyes roam over the table-cloth with a wholesome desire to know what is on board? If you are healthy, and have discussed that matutinal meal, nothing can hurt you all day. You may walk through the most unwholesome streets and lanes in the City, and come forth intact.

On the other hand, do you feel languid when you get up? Do you cast a longing, lingering glance behind you as you commence to dress? Do you come downstairs caring little what is to eat? Are your fingers numb and cold? Do you require to slowly sip a cup of tea before getting an appetite even for toast and butter, and that new-laid egg you have to coax yourself to eat? If so you are not in health. Go not anywhere during the day where you are likely to breathe a tainted air, or be influenced by cold or damp. If you do not take my advice in this respect you may live to say—“I wish I had.”

But have I no remedy to suggest for my breakfastless readers?

Oh, yes, I have! There is a cause for everything. Your want of appetite in the morning may depend on one or other of many things. To be sure, it may be constitutional. You may have a weak heart and be altogether delicate in consequence. But ten to one you have nothing of the sort. Besides, if your heart be only functionally weak, do not forget that it is a muscular organ, as much so as your forearm or biceps, and, like the biceps, can be strengthened by good food and plenty of pleasant exercise in the open air.

But there are other reasons why appetite absents itself at the breakfast hour. As my space is nearly filled, I can but name a few.

Late suppers are inimical to health in the morning. They create restless nights, or, if the nights be not restless quite, the sleep is not refreshing. The stomach ought to sleep as well as other organs; and if it does not, depend upon it that it will not be fit for its duties next morning.

Badly ventilated rooms. Sleeping in a room where there is not an abundance of fresh air is poisoning to the blood. The carbonic is not burned off therefrom, and dulness and lethargy are the result. You awake in the morning feeling your sleep has done you little good, feeling you would like just another hour. Believe me, if you slept as long thus as Rip Van Winkle, you would feel precisely the same when you opened your eyes.

Want of exercise and neglect of the bath also destroy the appetite for the morning meal.

And medicines will not make up for want of obedience to Nature’s laws. But if you return to these with heart and soul, then a mixture of infusion of quassia, say a tablespoonful, with ten drops of dilute phosphoric acid, and twenty of the compound tincture of bark, may be taken with great benefit, a quarter of an hour before breakfast and dinner.

See, then, to your appetite as well as clothing, especially in cold, inclement weather, and may you never have those bitter, regretful words to utter—“I wish I had.”

THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

By LOUISA MENZIES.

CHAPTER III.

THE CALLING IN LIFE CHOSEN.

As Eveline had said, what seemed an accident determined Mark’s choice of an occupation. A cousin of his mother’s came to spend a few days at the rectory. He had recently lost a very promising son, and was much softened and saddened by his trouble, and in his saddened mood his thoughts turned to his cousin James, whom he remembered a bright and cheery lad, very much his own junior. He knew that there were two lads at Rosenhurst, one the son of his cousin James, the other of his widowed cousin Margaret, and he thought with interest of him who bore his own name, and wondered whether he in any way resembled his lost Edward—whether he was a true Echlin, like his father, earnest, teachable, and faithful.

Miles Echlin was the head of a publishing house, holding a high position in London, and by the death of his son, not only he himself but the business had experienced an irreparable loss. He wanted comfort, he wanted help, and in this saddened mood he came down to Rosenhurst Rectory. Lady Elgitha, fully alive to the fact that many sons of noble houses were at the present time engaged in commerce, was at some trouble to be civil to him, and schooled her son to proper behaviour; but outward civility did not impose on the keen-sighted man of business, and before he had been twelve hours at the rectory he was convinced that Gilbert was indolent, opinionated, and selfish.

Margaret and her children came to dinner, and there was much pleasant chat among the elders about the days when they had been children, and when Miles had thought it a great treat to spend the holidays with his uncle at Westborough, but he had little opportunity then for making acquaintance with Mark and Eveline; but when next morning he walked over with the rector to the cottage, Miles felt at once the calm and restful sense of home, where all the members were in harmony, and where the grave, handsome face looking down from the wall seemed to his mind, saddened by recent sorrow, to promise him sympathy. He had known Michael Fenner very slightly, being at the time of Margaret’s marriage already much immersed in business, but a glance at the picture of her husband, and at Margaret’s own composed and gentle face, assured him that she would listen, not only with patience, but with true interest, to what he should tell her about his son, and so it came about that during his stay at Rosenhurst he spent most of his time at the cottage, and talked much with and of Mark.

At the end of four days he returned to town, and in less than a fortnight there came a letter from him inviting Mark to come and stay with him in town, and offering him a share in his business if he would devote himself to the study of it.

It was not without hesitation that Mark acceded to the proposal; either of the callings he had been meditating on would, he thought, have been more to his taste, but in either he would have been a comparatively poor man, unable to do much for his mother and sister, and he could not flatter himself that in either he was much wanted. Here there was a place left vacant which he might fill, a positive call from a weary heart which he might comfort.

His mother was slow to give her opinion in the matter; it was too easy, too pleasant for her to have her son occupied in work which would not take him very far away, which would not overtax his energies; she could hardly believe that it would be desirable for his highest interests; she feared lest James and Elgitha might be vexed that the offer had not been made first to Gilbert. Of course Miles was a sort of tradesman, and Elgitha could scarcely be supposed to admire trade; still she might have liked Gilbert to have been first consulted.

She took the letter up to the rectory, and laid it before her brother. The rector read it carefully, and returned it to her with a sigh and a smile.

“I suppose Mark will go,” he said.

“He has not made up his mind yet,” said Margaret.

“Does he dislike the idea of desk work?”

“I don’t think he ever thought of disliking it. If he were to be a teacher or a clergyman he would have a great deal of desk work, wouldn’t he?”

“Certainly, and promotion is so slow; unless he happened to possess the gift of oratory, he might be a curate at forty.”

“I fancy he thought rather of being a teacher.”

“Very hard work; breaking stones on the road is play to it,” said the gentle rector, who had no talent for teaching, though he had a very pretty talent for preaching. “It seems a pity that he should not close with Miles’ offer; Mark would be a treasure to him.”

“You think he would?”

“Can you doubt it? Don’t you know what he is to you and to me? On all grounds I think he should accept it, if he has no personal dislike to the arrangement. At all events he should go and try.”

So Mark went, and Gilbert, with many a shrug, pronounced him a lucky fellow, and promised to come and dine with him.

The rector took occasion, on Mark’s departure, to speak to his son as to his own path in life.

“Mark has made his start in life, Gilbert. Don’t you think it would be advisable for you to make up your mind as to what you will do?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it would; but it is so hard to make up one’s mind when one has no special vocation. Mark’s a lucky fellow; his mind was made up for him.”

“I have very good reason to think that if you had had Mark’s aptitude, the offer would have been made to you.”

“It is a pity I hadn’t; but I don’t suppose it’s a man’s fault not caring for things. It must be a great bore to you, sir, to have a son like me, who doesn’t care for any of the things you care for. I don’t suppose two men were ever more unlike.”

“I don’t ask you to consider what I should like you to do; that, perhaps, would be unfair; but only to see that, taking your own view, what you are doing will not pay. If I were to die, there would not be more than enough for your mother and sister.”

“So you have told me before; so the mother has told me. It is unfortunate that I have no taste for anything. I don’t find that I care about doing the same thing for two days together.”

“Does it never occur to you that there is such a thing as duty?”

“A very useful dissyllable, no doubt, sir, and telling in a song; but it is very much gone out of fashion nowadays, with the Church Catechism, high pews, and church clerks. No one considers that he ought to be ‘content with that state of life,’ etc.”

“Gilbert,” said Mr. Echlin, more sternly than he had ever spoken to his son, “if you do not woo duty as a mistress, she will drive you as a taskmistress. The man who has no love of duty had better never have been born. He has no high aims, no ennobling thoughts. Do not, I beseech you, give me the misery of knowing that my only son is an idle man.”

“Do not distress yourself, father. I suppose I shall drop into something before long. There can be no hurry. If you had ten children it would be another matter. There’s Elgitha; she has energy enough, and cares about lots of things. If you would send her to Girton, sir, I feel sure she’d take a double first, and like it.”

“She might do very much worse, I believe,” said Mr. Echlin, turning away. He went into his study with a sore heart to write his Sunday sermon on the beauty of holiness, and Gilbert found half an hour’s amusement in teasing his sister’s canaries.

It was not long before Mark Fenner’s start in life brought changes to Rosenhurst. The more Miles Echlin knew him, the better he liked him. Mark possessed one of those strong natures that rests in itself, never impatient to thrust itself forward, and never much occupied with a consideration of its own wants or pleasures. Accepting in the fullest and heartiest sense all the duties that were comprehended in the partnership offered him by his mother’s cousin, and loving them because they were duties, he set himself with all his heart to master the technicalities of the business, and entered into the enthusiasms of the old publisher with all a young man’s energy.

“It was a lucky thing, sir, that visit to Rosenhurst,” said Evans, Mr. Echlin’s head clerk and factotum, when Mark had been some six months in London. “Mr. Fenner is a born publisher. He takes to the printer’s ink as a babe to its mother’s milk. As things have turned out, it really seems quite providential.”

“I am glad you think so, Evans; it is my own opinion exactly. I hope the lad is satisfied. How those dear ladies at the cottage must miss him!”

When Mr. Echlin left his office after this conversation, he took his leisurely way to Manchester-square. It had always been a principle with him to live within an easy walk of his business, having early imbibed a taste for that most healthy of all exercises, and having found that there was no better time for thinking over business. Indeed, for many years he had never embarked upon an undertaking until he had turned it over in his mind during two or three days’ walk to and fro.