THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 374.]

[Price One Penny.

FEBRUARY 26, 1887.

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

[A FAMILY LIKENESS.]
[TINNED MEATS: THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.]
[THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.]
[HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.]
[VARIETIES.]
[DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.]
[MERLE’S CRUSADE.]
[NEW MUSIC.]
[A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS.]
[A GERMAN NUPTIAL EVE.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

A FAMILY LIKENESS.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

“I TELL THEM ALL THE HOUSE IS FREE,

AND BID THEM MAKE THEMSELVES AT HOME.”

All rights reserved.]

My parlour is a pleasant place,

I love its silence and its shade,

’Tis like some sweet, accustomed face

So dear, it need not fear to fade:

And here I sit with folded hands,

To welcome John from foreign lands.

You see that portrait in the room?

My great aunt’s—long ere she was wed.

Once, when my mother praised its bloom,

John turned to me and softly said

(And then at least he thought it true),

“A very lovely face—like you!”

Don’t blame him. No. I had no wealth:

His fortune, too, was all to seek.

Though love might enter in by stealth,

He thought it was no time to speak.

So silently John went away,

And now he brings his wife to-day.

And there they are! And this is he

(I’d know his voice if I were blind!);

And in his smiling spouse I see

A gracious beauty, fair and kind,

A stately lady—not at all

Like yon quaint picture on the wall!

And now for all the boys and girls

Who make my old friend’s household bliss;

Oh, Johnnie, with the chestnut curls,

I’m sorry he’s too old to kiss!—

I only say, “How like his father!”

And take his hand and press it rather.

I tell them all the house is free,

And bid them make themselves at home,

And so, with peals of laughing glee,

About the stairs and rooms they roam:

But Johnnie joins not in their rout;

He stays with us, and peers about.

He sees that portrait on the wall

(Still hanging in the same old place);

He turns about before us all,

And says, “That is a lovely face.”

His mother rises up to see;

His father smiles, and looks at me.

“It ought to be restored,” says he,

“It’s piteous how these beauties fade”

(Ah, the old dream is safe with me).

John has forgotten what he said!

Old picture, we’ll forget it too—

Come, Johnnie, here’s a seat for you!

“HE SEES THE PORTRAIT ON THE WALL

STILL HANGING IN THE SAME OLD PLACE.”

[See [page 338].

TINNED MEATS: THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.

By A. G. PAYNE, Author of “Common-sense Cookery,” “Choice Dishes at Small Cost,” “The Housekeeper’s Guide,” &c.

PART III.

There is no doubt that in this country the present generation is far more luxurious than the one that preceded it. Living is to a great extent a question of habit. At the present moment a Russian soldier is paid at the rate of a shilling a month, and his only ration is rye-bread baked into biscuit, washed down with a draught of water. The British workman of the day requires a hot meat dinner, cooked from fresh meat expressly for him alone. Were his wife to supply him with cold meat, he would probably grumble. In the last century a labourer was content with a piece of fat pork boiled on Sunday. Possibly in the next century we shall have our soup kitchens for the poor altered into turtle soup kitchens; for it is a fact that the luxuries of one century become the necessities of the next.

It is a question worthy of consideration whether this country has not reached that pitch of luxury and self-indulgence which all history teaches us is the turning-point in a nation’s greatness. Ananius, Azarius, and Misael have told us that we thrive better on pulse and water than on the king’s meat. Let us hope as a nation that, unlike the king in question, seven times may not pass over us to cure us of our luxury and pride.

I will not enter into a description of the various uses of the more expensive luxuries now sold in tins. I refer to truffles, cocks’ combs, fina cière, ragout, foie gras, etc. Mushrooms, however, are exceptions. They seem like gifts of nature, and, like the manna of old, they require us to rise early and gather in our harvest fresh, not forgetting that, like manna, they will not properly keep till the morrow. It is, however in cases like this, when the food is of a perishable nature, that the invention of preserving in tins is so useful. There are probably few of what may be called accessories to food more useful or more delicious than mushrooms. Mushrooms are preserved in tins in two forms, by far the most common one being quite plain in water. Were I to give a list of all the various dishes in the composition of which mushrooms enter, I should require as many volumes as I am allowed columns. I would, however, remind housekeepers that small tins of mushrooms can now be obtained at sixpence each from all respectable grocers.

I will give one or two simple cases to illustrate the various uses to which mushrooms can be applied.

First, mushroom sauce.

You can have brown mushroom sauce and white mushroom sauce.

To make brown mushroom sauce from tinned mushrooms, open the tin of mushrooms and add the contents, liquid and all, to about an equal quantity of good, thick, rich, brown gravy. The mushrooms should be chopped small, and served in the gravy just as they are.

White mushroom sauce, which is so delicious with boiled fowl, can be made by adding a tin of mushrooms to some good béchamel sauce. Béchamel sauce is some very strong stock, mixed with some boiling milk, or, still better, boiling cream, thickened with a little butter and flour. When the tin of mushrooms is added to the white sauce, the whole should be rubbed through a wire sieve with a wooden spoon. This helps to thicken the sauce, and greatly adds to the flavour.

Another simple instance of the use of mushrooms is some kind of fish au gratin. Take, for instance, a sole. Dry it, flour it, and egg and breadcrumb it in the usual manner. Next take a sixpenny tin of mushrooms, strain off the liquor, and chop up the mushrooms finely with a piece of onion as big as the top of the thumb down to the bottom of the nail, a piece of lemon peel, say about the size of the thumbnail and as thick; that is, you only use the yellow part, and not the white. Add also sufficient chopped parsley to fill a teaspoon, as well as a little pepper and salt. Fry all these in a frying-pan with some butter for a few minutes, and when it is partially cooked place about half of it in a tin sufficiently long to hold the sole. Place the sole on the top of these chopped ingredients, and place the remainder on the top of the sole. Pour all the butter in the frying-pan on it, and, if necessary, add a little more butter, so as to keep the sole moist, and bake it in the oven till the sole is done. Of course the time for baking varies with the size of the sole and the fierceness of the oven. When it is finished, a little finely-grated Parmesan cheese may be shaken over the whole. Parmesan cheese can now be obtained in bottles, the price of a small bottle being about eightpence or ninepence. The Parmesan cheese is, however, not absolutely necessary. Also a few bread raspings shaken over the whole gives it a finished appearance. This dish looks a great deal better if the tin is the same shape as the sole, and the fish served in the tin in which it is baked. Long oval tins are sold on purpose.

Almost any kind of fish can be served in this way, such as lemon soles, fresh haddock, filleted brill, filleted plaice, etc. Just before the sole au gratin is sent to table many persons add about a teaspoonful of sherry to the sauce by which it is surrounded. To my mind it is a doubtful improvement.

Another very excellent form of preserved mushrooms of which I cannot speak too highly, is what is known as black Leicestershire mushrooms, preserved in gravy. These are quite different from the ones usually sold in tins. They are round and flat in shape, and are much more like the ordinary mushrooms that we are accustomed to gather in the country, being white on one side and black on the other. The way to use them is to make the tin hot in boiling water, and then add the contents to either a well cooked steak or chop, taking care that the red gravy that runs out of the steak or chop is added to the gravy in the mushrooms. It is an improvement if you have some good thick gravy, to add a little of it to the gravy in the tin. One of these tins very greatly improves the flavour of a dish of hash or stewed steak. I would strongly recommend you to try the experiment of using one of these tins the next time you have a chop or steak. They can be served just as they are, after being made hot, in a sauce tureen, and will be found far superior to any mushroom sauce generally met with, even when made from freshly gathered mushrooms. The cost of a small tin of these excellent mushrooms preserved in gravy is about sevenpence.

We will now consider tomatoes in tins. Fresh tomatoes are now preserved whole, and will often be found very useful. Suppose, for instance, as we mentioned in our first article, that we are taken by surprise in a country house far away from all shops, and we want a delicious little entrée in a hurry. We will suppose the store cupboard to contain a tin of tomatoes preserved whole, and also a tin of mushrooms. The dish we are going to send to table is called tomatoes au gratin. We will suppose the larder to contain a piece of cold boiled bacon, but raw bacon would serve our purpose equally well. Take the piece of cold boiled bacon, and with a blunt knife scrape off about two or three tablespoonfuls of fat. Chop up very finely a tin of mushrooms with a piece of onion, lemon peel and parsley, exactly as if we were making a sole au gratin. Add a small saltspoonful of dried thyme. If the thyme is fresh, less than half that quantity will be ample. Fry all these ingredients in a frying-pan with the fat bacon, and then add sufficient bread-crumbs to make the whole into the consistency of a pudding. Now take the tomatoes very carefully out of the tin without breaking them, and I would warn you that they require very delicate handling. Give the tomatoes a gentle squeeze so as to get rid of any of the pips inside. Then with a teaspoon carefully fill the tomatoes with the mixture we have just made. The more mixture you can get into each tomato the better. Next pour a very little salad oil into a tin—oiled butter will do—and place the tomatoes one by one on the tin without breaking them, and bake them in the oven. When they are hot through, they may be served. In taking them out of the tin and placing them on the dish, use a slice similar to that for taking out fried eggs.

The only difficulty I know of in making this delicious dish is to avoid breaking the tomatoes, which are more liable to give way when they are hot than when they were first taken out of the tin. Shake a few bread-raspings over the top of each tomato before serving—that is, cover the top of the mushroom mixture with the bread raspings to make it a nice brown, but do not shake the bread raspings over the tomato itself. If the tomatoes are placed in a silver dish and surrounded with a little bright-green fried parsley, it has a very pretty appearance. If you have some good brown gravy in the house, the tomatoes can be served in a little gravy; only do not pour the gravy over the tomatoes, as it would utterly spoil their appearance, but pour a little gravy into the dish first, and then place the stuffed tomatoes carefully in it. The gravy should be rich, thick, and of a good brown colour; otherwise the tomatoes au gratin are best served as they are.

Tomatoes preserved whole will be found useful to ornament a large variety of dishes, such as tête de veau en tortue, poulet à la Marengo, etc. For instance, a simple dish, but very bright-looking, can be made as follows:—From the remains of some cold boiled potatoes make some ordinary mashed potatoes; and if you live in the country, where cream is cheap, remember a very little boiling cream added is a very great improvement, both in appearance and flavour. Mashed potatoes, to be really good, should be rubbed through a wire sieve. Pile the mashed potatoes up in the middle of a vegetable dish, and place round the outside alternately a mutton cutlet and a whole tomato. The cutlets can be cooked perfectly plain—that is, simply grilled on the gridiron like a mutton chop—or they can be fried after being egged and bread-crumbed. The tomatoes simply want being made hot by being placed on a greasy tin and warmed up in the oven. Place the cutlets round the mashed potatoes, first leaving room for the tomatoes between each. Then take out the tomatoes with a slice, and make a bed in the mashed potatoes, in which they can quietly repose; otherwise they are apt to smash and run, and make the dish look untidy.

We will next consider the best way of utilising the various vegetables that can be obtained in tins, such as asparagus, green peas, French beans, and last, but not least, macédoines.

First with regard to asparagus. Of all the vegetables preserved in tins I think this is the best. It requires no preparation whatever. Make a piece of toast, and place it at the bottom of a vegetable dish; then make the asparagus hot in the tin, and when the water in which the tin has been placed has boiled for some four or five minutes the tin can be taken out and opened. In opening a tin of asparagus, cut the tin right round the edge, so that the sticks of asparagus can be taken out without breaking them, and take out any tops that may be left in the tin, and add them to the rest. Strain off the liquid, and place the asparagus on the toast, the white part resting on the edge of the dish. The asparagus should therefore be divided into two parts, so that the green parts meet on the toast and half the white sticks rest on one end of the vegetable dish and half on the other. A little ordinary melted butter or white sauce is generally served with them. For my part, I prefer the asparagus quite plain.

Tinned asparagus differs in one respect from ordinary asparagus, inasmuch as you can nearly eat the whole of it. Asparagus can be eaten cold as a salad, and a very delicious salad it makes. Open a tin just as it is, strain off the contents, dry the asparagus on a cloth, and place it as I have described before on a dish, but without any toast. Now make a little sauce to pour over the tips as follows:—Take, say, a couple of ounces of butter, and dissolve it in the oven in a teacup till it runs to oil. Now take it out, and add to it three brimming teaspoonfuls of freshly-made mustard, a dessertspoonful of vinegar, and a saltspoonful of pepper and another of salt. Stir this up with the oiled butter. As the butter begins to get cold the sauce commences to get thick, and as soon as it has got into that state in which it resembles custard, pour it over the asparagus, of course leaving the ends of each stick free from the sauce, as it is now customary to eat asparagus with the fingers. This sauce, to be good, requires real butter, which is a substance now rarely met with, even at respectable grocers, the adulteration of butter with fat being almost universal—this universal adulteration being the chief cause of the depression of trade throughout the country. The salad should not be served till the sauce is quite cold and sticks to the asparagus.

Green peas are now to be had preserved in tins, not only very good but very cheap. Good preserved peas should be small and of a light green. When the peas are large and high coloured, they are inferior. The fact is that the former are young and the latter old. Preserved peas are best served in a course by themselves, though, of course, they can be handed round with ordinary joints. The art of sending preserved peas to table is to make them look and taste as much as possible like green peas freshly gathered. For this purpose you should act as follows:—Make the peas hot in the tin and take, say, a dozen fresh mint leaves and scald them in the water in which the tin is being made hot. Next take these hot mint leaves and put them in a vegetable dish. Open the tin of peas, strain off the liquor, and pour the peas on to the mint leaves. Now add a small saltspoonful of powdered sugar, half a saltspoonful of salt, and a small pat of butter as big as a five-shilling piece. Toss the peas for a minute or so lightly together, so that the butter is dissolved and the sugar and salt melted, and the fresh mint leaves brought to the surface. Now send the dish to table. The fresh mint leaves help to convey the idea that the peas are fresh. In everything we eat and drink imagination goes a long way. Who, for instance, would care to drink port wine out of the spout of a teapot, even if the teapot were solid silver?

I might here mention in passing that a small sixpenny tin of peas will be found very useful in ornamenting a boiled leg of mutton. If you want to make a boiled leg of mutton look really nice, proceed as follows:—Of course you have boiled turnips and carrots with it. Boil the turnips whole, and when they are tender take them out of the water and cut each turnip in half and scoop out the centre, so as to make it like a cup. Now take the outside part of the carrot, which is a brighter red than the inside part, and chop it up into small pieces. Place the leg of mutton in the centre of the dish, and pour over it either some of the water in which it is boiled or some thick caper sauce. Now fill up these cups made out of the scooped turnips cut in half with a tablespoonful of green peas and a tablespoonful of chopped-up carrot alternately. It is a very simple garnish, and gives but little trouble; but what a difference it makes in the appearance!

We will next take French beans, or, as they are properly called, haricots verts. I think these deserve to be served in a course by themselves, even more than peas. If they are served with a joint they must simply be made hot in a tin, then drained and allowed to dry, and handed round just as they are. French beans go best with a haunch of venison or roast mutton. If, however, you serve the beans as a course by themselves, you must, after making them hot and draining off the liquid, add a couple of tablespoonfuls of good white sauce, that is béchamel sauce, or if you have none, add to a tin of beans about enough fresh butter to fill a dessertspoon; add also about a saltspoonful of finely chopped fresh parsley, a little pepper and salt, and about a teaspoonful or rather more of lemon-juice, as well as a little powdered sugar. The beans should be tossed lightly together until the butter is dissolved, and then served.

Last, but not least, come macédoines. Macédoines in tins are simply mixed preserved vegetables, the chief ingredients being green peas, chopped carrot, and turnip.

Macédoines are one of the most useful kind of tinned goods to have in the house, as you can always make a pretty dish at a few moments’ notice. A spoonful of macédoines will turn some clear soup into a bright-looking spring soup. A tin of macédoines made hot and placed in the centre of a dish of mutton cutlets always has a bright and appetising appearance. Macédoines can also be added to the remains of some cold potatoes, and used to make a German salad; while, with a few hard-boiled eggs and a small pot of caviare, we can make with their assistance that excellent supper dish known as a Russian salad.

(To be continued.)

THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

By the Rev. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”

CHAPTER V.

The bank-vole—A long-tailed field mouse—Its varied diet—Insect-eating—Robbing a moth-hunter—Treacles and their visitors—The voles as climbers—The water-shrew—Signification of its name—Habits of the water-shrew—Its activity and grace in the water—Teeth of the shrews—Structure of its ears—Mode of swimming—The flattened body—Colour of the water-shrew—Its food—The shrew and the rat—An unfounded accusation—Burrow of the water-shrew—Superstitions regarding the shrews—The shrew ash—Land-shrews—The shrew-mouse—Distinctive structures—Mortality among shrews—Killing shrews with shovels—The pigmy shrew—Our smallest mammal.

As might be expected from its name, the BANK-VOLE (Arvícola glaréolus) is to be sought upon the banks of our brook. As its tail is nearly as long as that of the common mouse, it is often called the “long-tailed field mouse,” and it may easily be distinguished from a true mouse which does inhabit the country by the shortness of its ears, the bluntness of its snout, and the white colour of its paws.

It has many of the habits of the campagnol, but its diet is more diversified, including insects, worms and snails, and it is accused of eating young birds.

A rather startling incident, showing its insect-eating proclivities, was witnessed by my son, Theodore Wood, some years ago.

In those days he was an enthusiastic lepidopterist, and was in the habit of going out at night “treacling” for moths. This process is simple in principle, though rather difficult in practice. Many moths are irresistibly attracted by the odour of treacle mixed with the newest and coarsest rum. The moth-hunter, therefore, mixes treacle and rum, and at night paints with the mixture the trunks of suitable trees. Attracted by the odour, the moths fly to the bait, swallow the sweet mixture greedily, and become so intoxicated that they either fall or can be picked off the tree with the fingers.

Now, the “treacler” has many enemies. Slugs of the most portentous dimensions descend from their hiding places in the tree, and absorb the treacle just as if they were so many hungry leeches fastening on a plump and thin-skinned patient. Toads sit in a row round the trunk of the tree, waiting to snap up any moth that falls. The bats soon learn the value of a treacled tree, and sweep rapidly by it, whipping off the pre-occupied moths as they pass by.

On one occasion my son caught sight of a bank-vole, which had climbed up the tree and was taking its share of the spoil.

All the voles are admirable climbers, as indeed is necessary, in order to enable them to gather the corn and fruit of the hawthorn and wild rose. Their paws grasp the corn stems or tree twigs as if they were hands like those of the monkey, and they run about the slender branches of the hedges and shrubs that line the banks like monkeys among the trees of their native forests.

Like the campagnol, they make globular nests of grass, which may be found among the herbage of the bank by those who know where and how to look for them.

Just as the ordinary farmer lumps together half-a-dozen species or so of small birds, under the comprehensive title of “sparrows,” so do most people consider that every animal which labours under the misfortune of being small in dimensions, brown in colour, and having a tail appended to its body, must be either a rat or a mouse, according to its size.

No one can be familiar with the banks of any brook without being acquainted with the pretty little WATER-SHREWS, which, like their relatives of the land, are almost invariably considered as mice, although, as we shall presently see, they are not connected in any way with the creatures which they superficially resemble.

If the observer will pick out some spot where he can be tolerably screened, and where the water of the brook is clear and rather shallow, he will be very likely to come upon the water-shrew (Cróssopus fódiens). Both of these names are very appropriate. The first, or generic, name is of Greek origin (as all generic names ought to be), and signifies “fringe-footed.” The name is due to the fringe of stiff hairs with which the feet are edged. A similar fringe is found on the lower surface of the tail. As these fringes are white, they are very conspicuous. Their object will presently be seen.

The second, or specific, title is (as all specific titles ought to be) derived from the Latin, and refers to the habits of the species. It signifies a digger or burrower, and alludes to its custom of digging burrows in the banks of the brook in which it loves to disport itself, and where it obtains much of its food.

As with other creatures, absolute stillness and silence is required on the part of the observer before the water-shrew will even show itself. Though there may be plenty of the little animals within a few yards, not one will be visible. But in ten minutes or thereabouts the silence will reassure them, and they will make their appearance on the bank.

I have seen them playing with each other on the bank of a rivulet which at that time was so dried up by want of rain that the water was scarcely a foot in width. They were almost within reach of my hand, and could easily have killed one or two with a stick. But as I prefer watching the habits of animals to killing them, they continued their pretty and graceful evolutions undisturbed.

Being sociable little creatures, a single water-shrew is seldom seen, and, if the observer should detect one of the animals, he may be tolerably certain that it will presently be joined by others. They are as playful as kittens, and, in their way, quite as graceful, their lithe bodies and active limbs being able to assume as many varied attitudes as may be seen in a family of kittens at play.

They chase each other over the bank, pretend to fight fiercely, squeaking the while as if wounded to death, just as puppies will do when playing and making believe to be hurt. Then one will jump into the water, and dive, as if to escape, while one or two others will pop in after it, and chase it under water.

Indeed, on the occasion which I have just mentioned, the whole proceedings reminded me forcibly of the games in which the boy swimmers of Oxford were wont to indulge for the best part of a summer’s day.

One of our favourite games was for one to dive into the Cherwell (mostly from the top of a pollard willow), and then for the rest to dive after him, and try to catch him under water before he had swum a certain distance. We used to shriek in our sport quite as much, and as loudly in proportion to our size, as the water-shrew squeaks, and I cannot but think that if any being as much superior to man as man is to the shrew could have watched us, we should have amused him much in the same way that the shrew amuses us.

In his admirable work on the British mammals, Mr. Bell states that the water-shrew will dive into a shallow, rippling stream, and run over the stones, pushing its long snout under them, and turning them over, should they be small, for the sake of dislodging and capturing the fresh-water shrimp (Gammarus), and then carrying it off to the bank and eating it with an audible, crunching sound.

I have not personally observed the creature engaged in this sub-aquatic hunt, though I have often seen it dive, and have been near enough to note its singularly beautiful aspect as it wriggles its irregular way under the surface.

Air is largely entangled among the hairs of its body, the imprisoned bubbles looking just like globules of shining silver. The water-spider, which is also a common though unsuspected inmate of the brook, is adorned in a similar manner when it dives.

No one can watch these pretty little creatures without being interested and amused. But amusement ought not to be our sole object in observing the inhabitants of a brook. Let us catch one of the animals and keep it long enough to examine it. There is little difficulty in capturing a water-shrew, as the little animals are so fearless when they think themselves unobserved that a small hand-net can easily be slipped over them in their gambols. We need not keep our captive long, and, after inspecting the characteristic fringe of the feet and tail, we will examine its head and jaws.

A mere glance at the head ought to tell us that it cannot be a mouse, no mouse having a long, pointed snout, which projects far beyond the lower jaw. On opening its mouth and examining its teeth, we not only see that it cannot be a mouse, but that it is not even a rodent. It is, in fact, much more nearly related to the hedgehog than to the mouse. All its teeth are sharply pointed, and the lower incisors project almost horizontally forwards. The animal must, therefore, be predacious in character, and a comparison with the structure of other animals shows that it belongs to the important though not very numerous group of the insectivora, or insect-eaters, of which the mole is the generally accepted type. There are, however, some systematic zoologists who hold that the shrews, and not the moles, ought to be the typical representatives of the insectivora. This, however, is a matter of opinion, and its discussion does not come within the scope of our present undertaking.

Before we release our captive, we will examine its ears.

These are small, as are those of all water-inhabiting mammals, but there is a peculiarity in their structure which is worthy of notice. They are furnished with three small valves, which, being made on the same principle as those of the heart, are closed by the pressure of the water as soon as the animal dives below the surface, and open by their own elasticity when it emerges.

Now, we will allow it to escape into the water, and take note of it as it swims away.

I have already casually referred to the irregular course which it pursues in swimming. This is due to the fact that the water-shrew drives itself along by alternate strokes with the fringed hind feet, so that its progress reminds the observer of that of a boat propelled by two unskilful rowers, who have not learned to keep time. Still, its pace is tolerably rapid, though it lacks the steady directness which characterises that of the water-vole.

Another remarkable point in its swimming is that the outstretched legs cause the skin of the flanks to be widened and flattened in a way that reminds the observer of the flying squirrel when passing through the air. Although in the water-shrew the skin is not nearly as much flattened as in the squirrel, it is expanded sufficiently to alter the shape of the creature in a notable manner.

Supposing the observer to be tolerably familiar with the terrestrial shrews, he must have been struck by the blackness of the fur of the back, and the contrasting whiteness of the under-surface. So strongly, indeed, is the contrast marked, that an exceptionally dark variety was long considered as a distinct species, and called the “oared shrew.”

Like the insectivora in general, the water-shrew is not at all particular in its diet, providing it be of an animal nature. As most of us know, the hedgehog, although its normal food consists of insects, snails, and the like, will feed on frogs, toads, mice, and even snakes and blindworms. So will the water-shrew, if it can be fortunate enough to find the dead bodies of any of these creatures, for it is not sufficiently powerful to kill them for itself.

In Mr. Bell’s work, to which reference has already been made, there is an interesting notice of the carnivorous habits of the water-shrew.

An ordinary rat had been caught and killed in a steel trap, and upon the body of the rat was perched a little black creature, which proved on examination to be a water-shrew, which was trying to make a meal upon the rat. It had already bored a hole in the side of the rat, and was so absorbed in its task that it suffered itself to be touched with a stick without being alarmed.

This little animal does not restrict itself to the neighbourhood of water, but is often found at some distance inland. It has been accused, and I believe with justice, of devouring the eggs of river fish, a crime which, as I have already mentioned, is wrongly attributed to the water-vole.

Although we may see the water-shrew swim away and disappear below the surface of the water, we may watch in vain for its reappearance. As is done by the duckbill of Australia, the animal always makes several entrances to its burrow, one of them being on the side of the bank, below the surface of the water. It can, therefore, enter or leave the brook without being observed.

All the shrews, whether of the land or water, were at one time the objects of universal dread, and even the toad and blindworm could scarcely be more feared.

As one old writer remarks, in his sweeping condemnation of the animal, “It beareth a cruel minde, desiring to hurt anything, neither is there any creature that it loveth, or it loveth him, because it is feared of all.”

It was held to be the special foe of cattle, biting their hoofs while in the stall and running over their bodies as they lay chewing the cud in the field. A cow over which a shrew had run was said to be “shrew-struck,” and to fall straightway into a sort of consumption, accompanied with swellings of the skin.

The disease, being caused by the shrew, could only be cured by the shrew, the usual mode of treatment being to burn the animal alive and rub the cow with the ashes. As, however, a shrew might not always be at hand when a cow was taken ill, the ingenuity of our forefathers devised a plan of having essence of shrew always within reach.

A shrew was caught alive, and a hole bored into the trunk of an ash tree. The shrew, which must be still living, was put into the hole, the entrance to which was then closed with a wooden plug. As the body of the shrew decayed, its virtues were supposed to be absorbed into the tree, so that a branch of a “shrew ash,” or even a few leaves, were supposed to be an effectual cure if laid upon the suffering animal.

The tail of a shrew, when burned and powdered, was considered as a certain remedy for the bite of a dog; only the tail must be cut from a living shrew.

I have already made casual mention of the shrews of the land.

Two species of land-shrews are recognised as inhabitants of England. One is the common SHREW, or SHREW-MOUSE (Sorex vulgáris), which for a long time was thought to be identical with the water-shrew. The fringed feet and tail, however, afford sufficient indications that it is a distinct species.

Towards the end of autumn there seems to be quite a mortality among the shrews, their bodies being plentifully strewn about the roadways and paths across fields. Why this should be so no one can tell, though many conjectures have been offered, one absurd theory being that man and the shrew are so antagonistic to each other, that when a shrew tries to cross a pathway made and used by man it dies from sheer antipathy.

This fact was known to Pliny, and Topsel, the old writer who has already been quoted, is of opinion that when a shrew dies in a cart-rut, the finder should not fail to secure so valuable a prize.

“The shrew which by falling by chance into a cart road or track doth die upon the same, being burned and afterwards beaten or dissolved into dust, and mingled with goose-grease, being rubbed or anointed upon those who are troubled with the swelling coming by the cause of some inflammation, doth bring into them a wonderful and most admirable cure and remedy.”

The same author mentions its predacious habits, and states that it is especially fond of the putrid flesh of the raven, the French using it as a bait, and killing numbers of shrews as they are feasting on the dead bird. He is especially careful to mention that the deluded shrews are killed with shovels.

The third species of British shrew is the PIGMY-SHREW (Sorex pygmæus), which is even smaller than the harvest mouse, and is the smallest of all the British mammals.

I have mentioned the three species, because until quite recently much confusion reigned concerning them and their habits, and much difficulty has been found in disentangling them.

For example, no distinction had been recognised between the common shrew and the water-shrew, while the pigmy-shrew was thought to be the young of the common or erd-shrew, and an exceptionally large specimen of the water-shrew was supposed to be a separate species, and distinguished by the name of oared-shrew.

So, by means of carrying out our study of the water-shrew we have not only found much that is interesting and amusing, but have added something to our knowledge of animal physiology.

(To be continued.)

NEST OF THE CAMPAGNOL.

HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS.

Sketch IV.—Madrigals and Secular Part Music.

By MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital.

n my last sketch I endeavoured to show you, as briefly as I could, the historical aspect of sacred concerted music in some of its vocal forms, with and without instrumental accompaniment. We will now, for a short space, consider vocal concerted music as adapted to secular uses.

Prominent here above its fellows stands the Madrigal, claiming precedence not only for its antiquity, but also for its lofty style, and, in most cases, learned and elaborate development.

Once again the name for our subject is veiled in a certain amount of doubt and speculation. There are at least five different theories in reference to the derivation of “Madrigal,” not one of which seems altogether suitable. All disputants agree on one point, at any rate, that “Madrigal” was originally the term given to poems founded upon a motto or theme, and was afterwards transferred to the music to which such poems were wedded.

From the rarity of MSS. in early times, one is led to believe that the Troubadours extemporised the discant[1] which they added to their secular melodies, and which was as undoubtedly the origin of the madrigal as the combination of plain chant and discant was the fount from which sprang the motett. The connection of the term with a poem of a popular character certainly existed as early as the fourteenth century, and perhaps earlier.

There appear to have been three classes of secular composition, for which madrigal became the general term—viz., madrigals for one voice, with accompaniment; madrigals for several voices, in parts and unaccompanied; and, lastly, madrigals accompanied by many instruments, and sometimes described as “apt for viols and voices.” The English writers preferred the second class, and excelled in it.

In the fifteenth century the madrigal was well known in the Low Countries, being at that time invariably constructed according to the ancient ecclesiastical modes, and sometimes containing great features of elaboration. I complained, when speaking of the history of the mass, that musical subjects originally associated with profane words were introduced as canti fermi, but we find in the case of the madrigal that the reverse happened, and that passages of plain chant were used in connection with some light secular counter-subject.

Petrucci, before mentioned as the inventor of movable music types, was the first to publish these works, composed by such representatives of the early Flemish madrigal school as Okenheim, Tinctor, Josquin des Prés, Agricola, and several others. I should like once again to quote that learned writer on music, Mr. Rockstro, who considers this first period “no less interesting than instructive to the critical student, for it is here that we first find science and popular melody working together for a common end.”

From 1530 to the end of the sixteenth century a great advance was taking place in art generally. Appropriate treatment of words, and, if it were necessary, simplicity itself, restrained that desire to show contrapuntal complexity and other conceits at the selfish expense of truth and honesty.

This advance in the right direction was supported by the last composers of the old Flemish school, Archadelt, De Wert, Waelrant, and that great writer Orlando di Lasso, at whose death the madrigal school of the Netherlands ended; but not so the madrigal itself, which long ere this had been transplanted into other countries, and had commenced to grow most healthily in Italy. In fact, Archadelt’s first collection of madrigals was published in Venice in 1538, and was speedily followed by five other sets, in some of which we find specimens by the first really good Italian madrigal writer, Costanzo Festa. In his work, and until Palestrina, vestiges remain of the Flemish style; but gradually the Roman or Italian element destroyed all foreign character and influence, and alone remained.

Palestrina wrote madrigals with equal facility and merit in all styles; he named two of his volumes “Madrigali Spirituali,” sacred music, but intended rather for the chamber than the church, for which latter the motetts were written. He varies every passage according to the sentiment of the words, and above all his contrapuntal learning, places his noble sincerity and purity of style and expression. Would that our modern work possessed such simple nobility!

Succeeding him, Felice Anerio produced, and in 1585 published, three volumes of Madrigali spirituali, and, soon after the year 1600, two volumes of secular madrigals; there were besides fine madrigals by Giovanelli Nanini, Francesco Anerio, and last but not least, Luca Marenzio. These and others formed the great Roman school, but there existed a school in Venice also, founded by Willaert the Netherlander, from which sprang the works of the two Gabrielis, Leo Hasler, Gastoldi and Croce. In Florence also madrigals were very popular for a short time, until the craving of the Florentines for instrumental accompaniment destroyed their early affection for purely vocal music.

In Naples a lighter form (villanella) existed, but in France and Germany it found no home, where the chanson and volkslied held their respective sway.

In England a national school was formed which took firm root, and developed into fully as healthy a tree as any of the rival foreign growths. First of all Italian madrigals were introduced and printed in England, but by the end of the sixteenth century Byrd and Morley had published original specimens, and the madrigal was fast becoming an English institution, supported by such excellent composers as Weelkes, Edwardes, Kirby, Dowland, Wilbye, Ford, Benet, Michael Este, and others. We may call special attention to Morley’s collection in honour of the virgin Queen Elizabeth, named the “Triumphes of Oriana,” including madrigals by many of the above-named writers. It was published in 1601. Only a few years later Orlando Gibbons brought out a volume of “Madrigals and Motets,” and just a hundred years after the earliest publication in England of such works, appeared a book of madrigals collected by Martin Pierson. Madrigals they undoubtedly were, though he called them “mottects.” Ambros, in his “Geschichte der Musik,” speaks in the highest praise of our great madrigal school, and names it “one of the most pleasing flowers of that Elizabethan soil,” a soil teeming with great scholars, poets, and dramatists.

To conclude, the madrigal is generally interpreted by many voices to each part, and as a rule is the more effective in proportion to the number of singers employed. Whereas the glee, into which the madrigal gradually changed, and of which we are about to speak, is intended to be sung by a single representative of each part. Other differences, more important than this, we shall have occasion to note later on.

Glee.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century the madrigal, properly so called, disappeared from amongst the compositions of both English and foreign musicians. The word glee is the Anglo-Saxon “gligg”—music, and has no special reference to joyfulness; in fact, it is as common to find the title “serious glee,” as it is to see “cheerful glee.” A glee is unaccompanied, and is written for at least three solo voices, most frequently men. The chief differences between the glee and the older form of madrigal are the natural results of evolution in harmony, and the wedding of words to expressive music, even in defiance of ancient and mechanical rules. The tonality of the former is modern, the subjects are constantly changing, and are seldom developed, leaving an unsatisfactory feeling of restless abundance, inability to make the best use of the rich resources, and a consequently frequent complete cadence, which in many cases gives a detached, hesitating feeling to the work. Continuity seems to be the best test of great ideas; having something to say, and if worth saying, saying that something thoroughly and logically.

Our best glee writers, living from 1740 to the early part of this century, were Samuel Webbe, Dr. Callcott, his son-in-law, William Horsley, Sir H. R. Bishop, and Sir John Goss. If you go back to the commencement of the glee period, by a careful study of the works of Weelkes and Gibbons, you will find in the latter’s compositions many striking novelties in harmonic progression, and in those of the former equally powerful and novel contrasts in movement and expression, and in the masterpieces of both great independence of thought, in which combined advances we trace the transition from the madrigal to the glee, the latter being essentially English.

Later in the seventeenth century, during and after the Commonwealth, meetings for the singing of glees and catches were generally held in inns and taverns, the musicians being forbidden the theatres, previous to the restoration of King Charles II.

Glees were first published in the collection by John Playford, called the “Musical Companion.” Catches, canons, and rounds took the place of the old glee after this: and even these, according to Dr. Greene, were seldom sung about the middle of the eighteenth century. Amongst excellent writers of catches and canons we find Henry Purcell, Dr. Croft, Dr. Blow, and many others. Shortly after Dr. Greene’s lament—that is, in 1760—a catch club was started for the resuscitation of glee and catch singing, and since then unto our own times clubs and societies have flourished for this purpose, and have encouraged English composition in these forms.

It is thought by some writers that Sir Henry Bishop’s glees are not properly so called, because they have independent accompaniments. Their form, however, is generally that of the best glees.

A canon is a species of imitation, the most strict and exact of all imitations, written according to rule (καυώυ), the idea being that one voice shall start a melody and some other voice follow with the same melody a few beats later on, imitating the first voice note for note, and usually interval for interval, either at the unison, the octave, or some other distance. At one period canons were made musical puzzles, by the composer writing only the first part (called the “dux,” or leader), and then, by some sign over one of the bars, indicating at what point the following voice (or “comes”) should come in, the latter singer having to guess the correct interval at which he was expected to enter. However ingenious such riddles may be, they do not help art.

A catch at first greatly resembled the round, where a complete continuous melody was written out, and when one singer had reached a certain point in this melody, another singer had to begin, and catch up his part in time—the difference between catch and canon being that in the former each part imitates at the same pitch; in the latter the imitation may be at any interval from the original voice. Besides, many canons are connected with sacred words, and introduced into our cathedral services, whereas the catch, in the reign of that dissolute monarch, Charles II., degenerated into an improper play upon words, assisted by music. At a later date, in the eighteenth and at the beginning of this century, this idea of the singers “catching at each other’s words,” so as to alter the meaning of those words, was cleverly used by S. Webbe, Dr. Callcott, and others. A well-known example by the latter will best explain the effect produced:—

“Ah! how, Sophia, could you leave

Your lover, and of hope bereave?”

“Go, fetch the Indian’s borrowed plume,

Though richer far than that you bloom.”

“I’m but a lodger in her heart,

Where more than me, I fear, have part.”

The result of one voice entering after another is, that the first seems to be shouting, “A house a-fire!” the second excitedly answers, “Go, fetch the engines!” whilst the third excuses himself by saying, “I’m but a lodger!” After all, these could only be considered ingenious trifles, and most of the singing clubs have turned their attention to the more interesting and higher forms of madrigal, glee, and part song, which, as a later development, we will now speak of.

Part Song.

A part song is most likely to prove itself a melody harmonised, in three, four, or more parts—that is to say, there will be but little contrapuntal or imitative writing about it. It is of German origin; but it has been imported into our country, and our native composers have written some very beautiful specimens.

Part songs have been written either for sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses, or for male or female voices only. Many are in the ballad form, in which the same music is repeated to any number of verses; others are more elaborate, and contain portions allotted to solo voices, or to a single voice accompanied by a chorus. Part songs may be set to either secular or sacred poems. Schubert’s, Weber’s, and Mendelssohn’s contributions to this form of music are of great value and of wonderful variety.

Those of the latter helped to revive the taste for part music in England, and assisted in the foundation of the many classes and smaller choral societies which nowadays are in existence all over the country, from Penzance to the north of Scotland, and the formation of which creates the demand in our country for composition of this kind. Amongst modern English writers may be named Henry Smart, Sullivan, Samuel Reay, Barnby, Macfarren, Miss Macirone, Eaton Faning, and last and greatest, J. L. Hatton. I might add to this list many names, for the making of part songs is without end.

Whether in two, three, or more parts, the part song should be sung by a number of voices, the proportion, of course, being carefully balanced. I must tell you before I finish that there are also many duets, trios, and quartets which do not come within the range of the part song, it being intended that they shall be rendered by a single representative of each part, but many of these are extracted from works in which each part is taken by one of the dramatis personæ. Such excerpts we cannot include in our consideration of complete works. In my next sketch I hope to conclude the subject of vocal forms, and to turn your attention to instrumental varieties.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

Music run Mad.

“Yes,” says Heine, writing of the piano, “the piano is the instrument of martyrdom whereby the present elegant world is racked and tortured for all its affectations. If only the innocent had not to endure it with them! (Alas! my neighbours next door, two young daughters of Albion, are at this moment practising a brilliant study for two left hands.)

“These sharp, rattling tones, without a natural ‘dying fall’—these heartless, whirling tumults—this archi-prosaic rumbling and tinkling—this pianoforte mania kills all thought and feeling, and we grow stupid, insensible, and imbecile. This hand-over-hand dexterity of the piano—these triumphal processions of piano virtuosi—are characteristic of our time, and prove utterly the triumph of mechanical power over the soul. Technical ability, the precision of an automaton, identification with the wire-strung wooden machine—this sounding instrumentification of humanity, is now lauded and exalted as the highest attainment of man.”

Endless Labour.

“Some respite to husbands the weather may send;

But housewives’ affairs have never an end.”

—Tusser.

An Anagram.—“The best anagram,” says Chevreau, “I have met with is one which was shown me by the Duchess de la Tremouille. She was the sister of the Duc de Bouillon and of Marshal Turenne, and her name was Marie de la Tour—in Spanish, Maria de la Torre—which a Spanish anagrammatist found to be exactly ‘Amor de la Tierra.’”

Our Wants.—We are ruined, not by what we really want, but by what we think we want; it is wise therefore never to go abroad in search of our wants.

Working Wonders.—“Time works wonders,” said a young man of twenty-seven, when he returned home and found his elder sister only eighteen.

To the Editor of The Girl’s Own Paper.

Sir,—Will you kindly allow me space to express my warm thanks for the numerous parcels of old Christmas cards, scrapbooks, and dolls for Indian children, which I have received in response to my appeal in your December number?

I have acknowledged most of these gifts direct to the friendly donors; but some were sent anonymously, and I am glad to take this opportunity of thanking all who contributed. The “Two Little English Girls” (S. and N. H.) and “A Young Domestic Servant” are among those who gave no address, and their parcels were very welcome. I was able to send off the cards that arrived just after Christmas Day at once to Madras in a case that had been packed. The others I will transmit very shortly, mostly to Madras, but some to a school at Poona, the lady superintendent of which has asked me to let her have some pictures for her little scholars. Miss Govindarajulu, the Deputy-Inspector at Madras, wrote to me lately that the head master of a girls’ school had begged for a second supply of cards, as he had found the attendance of the children so much improved in consequence of his having had some for distribution last March. She says that sometimes Mrs. Brander lets the children choose which cards they like best, and they always take those with the brightest colours. This leads me to tell your readers that a very pretty effect is produced by pasting or gumming Christmas cards, each separately, on to a piece of gay-coloured calico. A little margin of calico should be left round the card, and this should be snipped, so as to form a fringe.

Mrs. Brander has been continuing her inspection tours, travelling from one place to another to examine the girls’ schools. She went lately from a town called Salem, which she reached by railway, to a small place thirty-one miles distant—Atur. The road is so frequented by thieves that she was advised to engage drivers for her procession of carts belonging to the caste of those very thieves, so as to ensure not being attacked. This was done, and they proved “most polite and excellent drivers.” The school at Atur contained only forty children; but Mrs. Brander felt that she did good by visiting it. The prizes that she had brought were distributed, and the little girls were delighted to receive them. An important native gentleman of the place who came to the ceremony made a good speech in the Tamil language, and altogether Mrs. Brander’s arrival was felt to be an encouraging incident in the life of that far-off place.

I shall be glad after a while to tell your readers how their kind presents were used; and I may add that I shall still be grateful for more.

E. A. Manning.

35, Blomfield-road, Maida-hill,
January 18.

DRESS:
IN SEASON
AND
IN REASON.

By
A LADY DRESSMAKER.

ON THE MEER.

Just at the present writing we are in the middle of the sales, which now seem to be carried on far into the month of February, at many of the shops, and certainly appear to offer each year more and more benefits to the purchaser of goods. But it must be understood that the said purchaser have her wits about her, and know what she wants. This last is the case with very few women who are not very methodical in their purchases of dress, and very rarely make their plans far ahead. This is explained, first, by their slavish adherence to the ephemeral fashions of the day, and also by their being led so much by the eye, and buying things they fancy, not the things that are really suitable or needful to them. There are few women who dress on any plan of what is most becoming to their individual style, or most lasting, with a view to their particular purses; and the longer I live the more convinced I am that it needs special qualifications to be a “shopper” of any ability; the greatest requisite of all being a cool, calm head; and, if you have children to cater for besides yourself, the power to make a plan and stick to it. It is wonderful how much you find to help you when you once do this, or how easily everything arranges itself.

“But,” says someone, helplessly, “how am I to know what to wear or what my style is? Where am I to find rules to guide me?” In the present day we seem to have two rules, both of which are comparatively easy. The first is that the complexion is to be the guide as to the colours worn, while the second is that the eyes shall perform that office for us. Where there is a poor complexion, the first rule may be followed, but where the eyes are good, I think the last is decidedly the best. For instance, the many women who possess good eyes of a greenish or decidedly green hue will look best in olive, bottle, or very dark Tyrolese green—called sometimes a “hunter’s green,” having much blue in it; and the large army of women with yellowish-brown eyes look best in shades of yellowish-brown. The same may be said of blue eyes, which are changed into a hue like spring violets by a judiciously-chosen blue of a dark shade. Grey eyes which verge on blue may also wear blue; but the blue must be of the shade called “royal,” as a blue with no reflections will not answer.

For very dark women and girls with good clear skins, there is a large amount of choice in colour—red, orange, and yellows, as well as black, grey, and navy blue. But if the skin be sallow and dull, she may use dark and light reds—no blues nor greens. White and primrose-colour are likewise generally becoming to them. Fair-skinned people may wear browns, blues, and pinks, as well as green.

But after all, the great thing, it seems to me, is to be able to choose for one’s self; and thus to avoid either the extreme of fashion or the fear of dowdiness; and the taste of the Englishwoman seems generally to turn to quiet, neat styles. It is to her good taste and sense that we owe most of the best fashions of the day—the tailor-made, neat dress of tweed cheviot or woollen material; the sensible coloured under-petticoat, dark stockings, and the comfortable ulster.

So far as hygienic dress is concerned, the rules of that are fairly fixed now, and most women and girls have decided in favour of the tight-fitting, elastic woollen combinations, either of Dr. Jæger’s make, or of some English firm. Add to that the divided skirt, made of black cashmere or serge, and lined with flannel for winter use, as the sole needful under-garments for the cold weather. As to the stays, they may be the new knitted ones of Jæger’s make; the low riding-corsets, or else a boned bodice made of jean, and modelled like the dress-bodice, to fit without squeezing or tightening in. So long as the divided skirt is used as an under-skirt, no objection can be taken to it, as it does not show at all. The dress above should be made short enough not to require lifting, however muddy the roads and pavements; and it is decidedly the most comfortable garment ever invented in that capacity.

GIRLS’ WINTER DRESSES IN WOOLLEN MATERIALS.

Of course, as the sales are going on, there is little that is novel to chronicle. Indeed, the winter events, where all that is pretty in dress are seen, are the private views of the two great picture galleries—the Royal Academy and the Grosvenor Gallery. At these two places all the élite and the famous in literature, art, and society congregate; and generally wear their prettiest clothes, I think. Of course, some æsthetic ladies are to be seen. One of them had on a pelisse of moss-green velvet, made very short-waisted at the back, with a small round cape, the skirt hanging long, straight, and full; in short, much like a “Kate Greenaway figure,” and very peculiar was the effect. One lady wore a brown cashmere, with pea-green trimmings, and flowing ribbons of pea-green, which, I suppose, must have been an artistic fancy. The great difference between the artistic and æsthetic dressing is in the way the dress is cut at the neck. The artistic portion bares its throat bravely, at any and every age, and cuts its dresses well down on the collar-bone; while the general public wear high neck-bands, and try to reach the tips of their ears; assisted by big beads and ruchings of satin. At present neither class affects collars, unless the falling lace of the æsthetic lady can be mentioned in that category.

There was a great deal of brown worn, relieved by yellow, and also much green in various shades, the most popular being moss-green and a new hue called “jade.” There was also a good deal of heliotrope, and that always in woollen materials; so I should not be surprised if we found this hue in vogue in the spring. It is extremely becoming to many people. Black jackets and mantles are worn with it, and also black bonnets with heliotrope trimmings. Black plush is the most popular material for small or large mantles, and it seems, in any case, to be very much trimmed all over—shoulders especially. Amongst these artistic ladies the bonnet-strings are usually tied very loosely, resting on the throat, while everyone else in the “Philistine” world—as, I believe, it is nick-named—still wears theirs tightly tied under the chin, with short ends, and the bows tied under the chin, and so much pulled out as nearly to touch the ears, one loop being ornamented by a brooch or pin, generally jewelled.

Red in all shades was also much worn. In some cases it was quite a bright scarlet; but I did not think the idea a happy one. I looked very carefully at the numberless so-called tailor-made suits, and, after all, admired the wearers—neat, trim and tidy—the most. They were of all materials—ladies’ cloth, cheviot, homespun, and undyed Shetland cloth. Many of them were suitable for any season of the year, as, indeed, the true tailor-made gown should always be. The newest thing in them that I saw was a skirt put on in three immense box-pleats, so big that one formed the front, and the two others were enough for the back and sides, the skirt itself being quite plain and free from any ornament whatever. The newest muffs seemed to be those made of the material of the dress. The trimming was of fur, plush, or jet passementerie.

Amongst the few changes in fashions I must mention that the basques to bodices for everyday wear seem to be longer, and in some cases they are put on separately to the bodice. Polonaises also are becoming very general, and, no doubt, in the spring we may see a great return to them—certainly the most becoming and useful of any of our dresses. The polonaise that was illustrated in our dress article with the pleated bodice will be much in vogue, and also a smockfrock polonaise that is very pretty and becoming, but, of course, would need the smocking performed in the first style of that difficult art. This makes it rather expensive, and the houses who make a speciality of the work find it far from easy to get good workers, and, consequently, these smocks are expensive.

This winter there has been so much choice in the matter of styles and shapes that nothing can be called “old-fashioned,” and I am looking forward with hope to the long wished-for day when our own individual thought will, in a great measure, rule our fashions, and make us much happier in having less to worry ourselves with, if our gowns prove not exactly like Mrs. A.’s or Mrs. B.’s; and that they bear the mark of last year, or even of the year before. So long as they suit us personally, it really ought not to matter.

PRINCESS DRESSING GOWN.

This year mantles have been either very large or very small, and bonnets have been both remarkably high and almost hoodlike in shape. Hats, too, have been small and close-fitting, or large and spreading. As to our dresses, we have worn polonaises, pointed bodices, and jacket-bodices quite indiscriminately. Norfolk blouses have been also much worn, and they promise also to continue in favour, as they are most useful for young and old. The same may be said of the jersey bodice, and the so-called garibaldi skirts. In regard to out-of-door jackets, I should think the same tight-fitting, jaunty-looking jackets will rule such as we have worn for the last two seasons. They are too useful to be discarded as permanent occupants of our wardrobes.

In our sketch of “girls’ winter dresses in woollen materials,” I have carefully given every method of draping the skirts and making the bodices that has been worn this winter; and I consider most of them will be continued on until the spring, as the “wrapping style” of which the drapery hangs in straight folds, and as if wrapped round us, is very popular with everyone; and people seem to have grown tired of the skirts which were made of pieces of material. The skating picture, too, shows the general effect of out-of-door dresses during the cold weather; and the way in which fur was used by the best dressmakers and tailors. The dresses are more graceful, and less heavy-looking than usual, when trimmed in that manner. We do not often have such a cold winter as the present has been hitherto, and I hope my readers have applied themselves to learn the lessons of sensible and hygienic clothing which I am constantly preaching to them. Armed by it, they would have successfully resisted the cold, and escaped unharmed. I am more and more convinced that most of the illnesses and deaths of our winters arise from want of sensible clothing, and from the fact, too, that we are all accustomed to regard England as a temperate climate, when in reality the cold is more felt here, on account of its dampness, than in severer latitudes.

So many of our girls have begged that a plain and simple shape for a dressing-gown should be added to our paper patterns, that, after looking about me for some time, I have decided to select a princess shape, as one that could be made at home by anyone with little difficulty, either in flannel or any other material selected. The pattern will be quite suitable for a dress, if required, as many servants prefer that shape to any other. Indeed, when made up in a blue and white striped Galatea, I do not know any dress in which a girl looks better or is more becomingly attired for going about her morning duties. I must confess I like my maidens to look their best and happiest while under my roof, and nothing but the most exquisite neatness will content me; and I have found a plain girl grow quite pretty after a few months of care in the ordinary matters of the toilet. The weekly bath is a thing that every mistress can see that her servants have, and also a few hours for attending to and making and mending their own clothes.

The princess dressing-gown, or dress, consists of seven pieces, and may be made of either eight or ten yards of material, according to the width. The half of the back and the half of the fronts are given, and the fronts may be cut in one, if the pattern be intended for a dress. Price of paper pattern, 1s.

All paper patterns are of medium size—viz., 36 inches round the chest—and only one size is prepared for sale. Each of the patterns 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, not omitting the county, and that postal notes crossed only to go through a bank may be sent, as so many losses have recently occurred. The patterns already issued may always be obtained, 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 young and old ladies, so that her readers may be aware of the best method of dressing.

The following is a list of those already issued, price 1s. each.

January, 1886, princess under-dress (under-linen, under-bodice 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, princess frock, and Normandy cap for a child of four years; July, Princess of Wales’ jacket-bodice and waistcoat, for tailor-made gown; August, bodice with guimpe; September, mantle with stole ends and hood; 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; February, princess dressing-gown.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

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

CHAPTER XIX.

A CATASTROPHE.

bout three weeks after my mistress’s visit something very terrible happened. I wish the history of that day would get itself told without the pain of telling it. My life has been a happy one, thank God! I have been “led by paths that I have not known,” but even now I never look back upon that day without a shudder. Oh, Reggie, my darling! But God was good to us, and the danger passed; still, it will be only in heaven that we may bear to look back on past perils without dimness of eyes and failing of heart!

I had never left Rolf alone with the children for a moment since Judson had told me of his mischievous propensities. I had grown fond of Rolf, and he was certainly very much improved; but I always felt he was not to be trusted, and either Hannah or I kept a strict guard over him. He was never permitted to enter the nursery in the morning; if we went out, he joined us, as a matter of course; but more than once when he begged for admittance I had refused it decidedly. Hannah was always busy in the morning, and the children slept for an hour, and if there were time I liked to take Joyce to her lessons, or to set her some baby-task of needlework, and Rolf always made her so rough.

On a rainy afternoon or in the evening she would be allowed to romp with Rolf, and they always played together on the beach. Rolf was more in his element out of doors. Judson had been very unwell for some days; she was a sickly sort of body, and was often ailing; but just then she had a threatening of quinsy, and seemed very feverish and suffering.

Her room was close to the nursery, and it was only sheer humanity for Hannah or myself to go in now and then and see what we could do for her. I had got it into my head that she was somewhat neglected by the other servants. I know Gay thought so, for she asked me to do what I could for her.

She had been ordered some linseed poultices that morning, and Mrs. Markham had come up to the nursery and asked me very civilly if I would apply them, as the upper housemaid was away, and Susan was very clumsy and helpless.

“I will stay with the children,” she said, quite graciously, for her; “and Hannah is here.” And as I knew Rolf was in the garden with his aunt, I could not find a loophole for excuse. I do not think I was wrong now, for how could I have refused such a request? But the fates were against me. That is a foolish and untrue expression, but I will let it stand.

The poultices were far from hot, and poor Judson, who seemed in great pain and very nervous about herself, begged me to go down to the housekeeper’s room and make some more. “It is no use Susan making them, and Mrs. Rumble is always so busy,” she whispered; “do go yourself, Miss Fenton, and then I shall be more sure of hot ones.”

The housekeeper’s room lay at the end of a long passage leading from the hall, shut in with red baize doors. These swing doors deadened sound, and that was why I did not hear Rolf come in from the garden and scamper upstairs.

The front-door bell rang immediately afterwards, and some visitors were asked into the drawing-room. I knew Gay was about the premises, and the idea never crossed my mind that Mrs. Markham would desert her post and leave the three children alone in the nursery; but I heard afterwards that this was the case. An old Indian friend had called, and Mrs. Markham had desired Rolf to summon Hannah from the night nursery; but Rolf, who was seldom obedient to his mother, had simply ignored the order.

I was some little time in the housekeeper’s room. The kettle did not boil, and I was compelled to wait. I was rather impatient at the delay. As I stood talking to Mrs. Rumble, I saw Mr. Hawtry ride up to the front door.

I succeeded at last in making the poultices. Judson was very grateful to me, and thanked me warmly as I put them on. I had just covered her over comfortably and taken from her the red woollen shawl in which she had wrapped herself, when a sudden report, as though from a toy cannon, and then a piercing scream from the nursery, made me start as though I had been shot, for the scream was from Joyce.

The next instant I was in the nursery, but, oh, merciful heavens! the sight that met my eyes. Hannah had just opened the door. Rolf and Joyce were huddled together on the window seat, beside themselves with terror, and there stood Reggie in the middle of the room with his pinafore and white frock in flames! I must have uttered a scream that roused the house, and then it seemed to me as though I knew nothing, and felt nothing except the smarting pains in my arm and shoulder. I had thrown the child on the floor and covered him with my body, and the woollen shawl was between us, and I was crushing the dear life almost out of him with that terrible pressure.

I seemed to know instinctively that nothing else could save him. Happily, I wore a stuff dress, for there was no rug or carpet in the nursery, and, with the open door and windows, another moment would have been too late. I could hear Reggie’s piteous cries, but I dare not release him; I must crush and smother the flames. There was the terrible smell of burning, the singeing of stuff, a sudden uproar round me, confused voices and exclamations. I seemed to hear Gay’s voice crying, “Oh, Merle! you will smother the child!” And then strong arms lifted me off Reggie. I knew it was Mr. Hawtry; no one else could have done it. His grasp gave me intense agony, and I tried to free myself.

“Let me go; I must see if he is hurt.” But Gay had him already in her lap, and I knelt down beside her and examined him carefully.

His frock and pinafore were hanging in blackened shreds around him, but there was only a large hole burnt in his flannel petticoat, and one of his dear little legs was scorched; not a curl of his hair was singed, and only one hand had sustained a slight injury. They said there were bruises on him that I had caused by my violence, but that was all, Mrs. Markham assured me; there were tears in her eyes, and her face was as white as death as she said it.

“The little fellow will soon be all right,” observed Mr. Hawtry, kindly; “he has been frightened and hurt that makes him cry so. But now it is time your wounds should be dressed, Miss Fenton.”

I looked at him as though I failed to comprehend his meaning, but he pointed to my arms with such a pitying expression on his face, that I looked too. My sleeves were hanging in shreds like Reggie’s frock, and there were large burns on each arm; my right shoulder felt painful, too; a faint sickening sensation seemed creeping over me. I must have got my arms under him or I should not have been so badly burnt, and some of my hair was singed. When Gay touched me gently I shuddered with pain, and they all looked at me very gravely.

“We must have Dr. Staples, Roger,” observed Mrs. Markham; “her arms must be properly dressed.”

“I will go for him at once,” returned Mr. Hawtry, “but I advise you to give her a little wine or brandy; she looks faint with pain.” And then he went away, and we could hear him galloping down the avenue and along the road.

I drank what they gave me, but I refused to lie down until Reggie had been undressed. I would not be persuaded without the evidence of my own eyes that he had sustained no serious injury. I suppose his scorched leg pained him, for he still cried incessantly and beat us off in his usual fashion, but when Hannah had dressed him in his nice clean frock, he grew pacified at the sight of his blue ribbons, and only said, ‘Poor, poor,’ as he pointed to me. He wanted to come on my lap, but when I tried to take him I turned so faint, that Gay looked frightened and snatched him away.

I wanted to know what had become of Rolf, but Mrs. Markham said, sternly, and her lips were still very pale, that she had sent him to his room. “Tell me how it happened, Joyce,” she continued, drawing the child to her. “I told Rolf to fetch Hannah; did she not come to you?”

“Rolf didn’t fetch her, Aunt Adda; he said he was a big boy, and would take care of us. Poor Rolf did not mean to be naughty, did he, nurse?”

“Rolf must be severely punished for his disobedience; he has nearly killed your little brother, Joyce. Tell me what Rolf did after that.”

“He asked me if I would not like to see his dear little cannon that went pop when he told it,” went on Joyce, looking extremely frightened. “I did not know cannons were wicked things, and I said yes, and Rolf showed us the cannon, and told us to get out of the way, for it would kill us dead, and I runned, and baby clapped his hands and runned the wrong way, and Rolf had fire in his hand, like Hannah lights the candles with, and baby’s pinafore got on fire, and I screamed as hard as I could for nurse.”

It must have been just as Joyce said, for the toy cannon was on the floor, and a box of matches beside it. Probably Rolf had not seen Reggie beside him, and had thrown the lighted match aside in his excitement. Mrs. Markham sighed deeply as she listened. She had sustained a severe shock; her face looked very dark and rigid as she left the room. I was afraid she meant to punish Rolf severely, and begged Gay to follow her and plead for mercy.

“Rolf has had a fright that will last him for life; his terror has been punishment enough.” But Gay shook her head.

“It is no use interfering with Adelaide; she will take her own way. I am sorry for Rolf; but he deserves any punishment he gets. Reggie would have been burnt to death but for your presence of mind, Merle; none of us could have reached the nursery in time. Mr. Hawtry said so at once.”

Reggie burnt to death! and then my mistress would have died, too; she could not have survived the horror of that shock. I begged Gay faintly not to say such things; the bare mention of it turned me sick. I suppose she was alarmed by my ghastly look, for she kissed me, and said, soothingly, that I must not distress myself so; we could only be thankful that Reggie was safe.

Dr. Staples came soon after that. He was a benevolent-looking old man, and was very kind and gentle. He said one of my arms, the left one, was severely burnt, and that it would be some little time before it was healed. “These things depend a great deal on constitution; but you seem strong and healthy, Miss Fenton, so I hope you will soon be right again; but you must not expect to lose the scars.”

I was sorry to hear that, for I knew the scars would remind me of a terrible hour in my life. The dressing was very painful, and when it was finished I was compelled to follow Dr. Staples’s advice and go to bed. I was suffering from the shock, and I knew my arms would be useless to me for a week to come. I felt shaken and sick, and unable to bear the childish voices.

Gay followed me into the night nursery and gave me all the help she could, and she did not leave me until my head was on the lavender-scented pillow. In spite of pain and dizziness, it was nice to lie there and hear the birds twittering under the eaves and the bees humming about the flowers, and to look out on the sunshine and feel a great mercy had been vouchsafed to me, that I had not been suffered to fail in the hour of peril.

Gay hung up her cage of canaries in the window to divert my mind, and laid a bunch of dark clove carnations, with a late rose or two among them, on the quilt.

“Mr. Hawtry is still here, Merle; he is very anxious to know if you are in less pain, and whether there is anything he can do for you. He seems quite grieved because Dr. Staples says your arm is badly burnt.”

I sent a civil message of thanks to Mr. Hawtry, and then I detained Gay a moment.

“Miss Gay, you must write to Mr. Morton yourself. I have promised your sister to tell her everything; but it will shock her too much, and I think Mr. Morton should know first.”

Gay looked distressed.

“Need we tell them, Merle? Violet is not at all well; Alick said so in his letter this morning. Scotland does not seem to suit her, and he thinks they will soon come home.”

“And they have not been away a month yet,” I observed, regretfully; “not more than three weeks and two days, and Mr. Morton is so fond of Scotland.”

“Alick thinks more of Vi than deer-stalking. If she be not well he will bring her home without a word of grumbling. In some respects Alick is a very good husband. Why need we say anything about the accident, Merle? Reggie is scarcely hurt at all; his scorched leg will soon get right.”

“It is not fair to keep anything from them. I promised I would tell everything, and my mistress must know I am invalided and cannot do my duty.”

“You need not fret about that,” she returned, cheerfully. “Susan shall help Hannah, and I will be here as much as possible. I am a famous nurse. We will make Mrs. Rumble wait on Judson. Very well, Merle, I will write to Alick; but I would much rather not.”

I had forgotten poor Judson, but I did not forget Rolf; I asked several times after him, but Gay had not seen him. Rolf was in disgrace, and a close prisoner to his room. He had had his dinner sent up to him; but Adelaide was lying down in her own room all the afternoon with a bad headache, and, as Rolf’s communicated with hers, no one could visit him unperceived.

I wondered if Mrs. Markham’s eyes were at last opened to the danger of Rolf’s disobedience and her own faulty management. She was to blame as much as the child. She had given me her word to remain in the nursery, and no visitors should have tempted her from her post. It was no surprise to me to hear she was ill with worry; her conscience must have reproached her for her breach of trust. If Reggie had been killed, his death would have been owing to her carelessness. Later on in the evening, just as it was getting dusk, Gay came to me for a minute with a plate of fine fruit in her hand. They had tempted me all day long with delicacies, but I had felt too ill to eat. The fruit just suited me, for I was feverish with pain.

“Adelaide has just come downstairs,” she said, with a droll little laugh. “Mr. Rossiter had heard of the accident, and had dropped in to inquire, so father kept him to dinner. When Adelaide heard that, she came down as soon as possible, and there she sits, looking like a ghost, until Mr. Rossiter takes his departure.”

“And Rolf?”

“Oh, I suppose Rolf is asleep,” she returned, carelessly; and as she was evidently in a hurry to return to the drawing-room, I would not keep her; but as soon as she had closed the door a sudden idea came into my head. I would go and see Rolf myself; I was not easy about him. I knew his mother could be too severe even with her idolised boy on occasions, but I never could bear a child to be long unhappy. I rose very quietly, so as not to disturb the children, and threw on my dressing-gown. I was rather afraid my white face and bandaged arms would frighten Rolf, until I remembered it was dusk, and he could not see me distinctly.

Mrs. Markham’s suite of rooms lay in the west corridor. I knew no one would be about; poor Judson was in bed, so I reached Rolf’s room without interruption. I thought I heard him sobbing softly to himself as I opened the door. When I spoke to him, making my way through the summer twilight to his little bed, he started up and held out his arms.

“Oh, Fenny, is that really you, dear Fenny? Do come close and let me feel you. I have been thinking of such horrid things.”

I told him gently that I was in great pain, and that he must not touch me, but that I would sit down for a little while beside him and talk to him.

“But I may hold your hand,” he pleaded. “Is your hand burnt too, Fenny, or don’t you like to touch me because I am such a wicked boy, as mother says, and very nearly killed poor little Reggie?”

My heart melted at his pitiful tone, and I stooped over him and kissed his hot face.

“You may hold my hand, Rolf, dear, if you like; it is only my arms that are hurt; there, we are comfortable now. Tell me, have you had a very miserable day?”

“Oh, so miserable!” and there were tears in Rolf’s voice. “Mother has been so angry; she shut me up in this room though it was such a fine day, and would not let anyone speak to me, and I could not get her to answer although I said over and over again that I was sorry and would not have hurt Reggie for the world, he is such a dear little fellow, you know. Oh! I am so fond of him. But mother said no, she would not listen; I had disobeyed her, and nearly killed Reggie, and that Aunt Violet would never speak to me again.”

“Oh, yes she will, Rolf.”

“But if Reggie had been really burnt, you know,” and here Rolf shivered; his hand was quite cold though his face was burning. He was a nervous, excitable child, and no doubt this long summer’s day had been a martyrdom to him. He had conjured up all sorts of horrible fancies to haunt his dreams. Yes, he had been sufficiently punished, I was sure of that.

“Tell me how it happened, dear,” I said, quietly.

“I was firing my cannon to please Joyce. I know mother told me never to take it in the nursery, and that she did not like my lighting it unless Judson had the matchbox, but I forgot.”

“Did you really forget, Rolf?”

“Yes, really I did; I never do remember things, you know. I was only thinking how Joyce would scream when the cannon popped. I told them to get out of the way, only Reggie, poor little fellow, ran against me and knocked the match out of my hand—it was alight, you know—and then Joyce did scream, and,” but here Rolf buried his head in the pillow; the recollection was evidently too painful. “You will all hate me,” he sobbed, “because I nearly killed Reggie—you and Aunt Violet, and I do love Aunt Violet, because she is so pretty.”

“No one will hate you, my poor child; we are only sorry that the son of a brave soldier like Colonel Markham should be such a coward as to disobey his mother. Your mother told you to fetch Hannah. Did you forget that too, Rolf?”