THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1027.]

[Price One Penny.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1899.

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

[“UPS AND DOWNS.”]
[MRS. EWING AND HER BOOKS.]
[LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.]
[GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.]
[SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.]
[MY MOTHER.]
[FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.]
[VARIETIES.]
[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]
[USEFUL CANTATAS AND OPERETTAS FOR GIRLS.]
[THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

“UPS AND DOWNS.”

A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE.

By N. O. LORIMER.

ADA.

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER I.

Ada Nicoli was just eighteen when my story opens. She was the daughter of a wealthy New York stock-broker, who took little thought of the welfare of his wife and children. Indeed, he had little time to devote to anything outside the interests of Wall Street. He went to business early in the morning before his family were down, and returned in the evening just in time for dinner, so weary and exhausted that very often he dined alone in his study to save the necessity of changing his business suit for evening dress.

Ada was a beautiful girl who had been indulged in a way which would seem almost impossible in the eyes of an English child. Before she was twelve years old she had as many jewels in her jewel-case as a wealthy English girl might hope to have at her wedding. She had a little pony phaeton of her own, drawn by a pair of perfectly-trained ponies, and guarded by a small nigger page in buttons. Ada Nicoli was the envy of all the other children of her acquaintance. She had been brought up by her doting mother to think of little else but her own pleasure and beauty. She had two sisters, a good many years younger than herself, who did not share the devotion of her mother. Marjory and Sadie were entirely superfluous commodities in Mrs. Nicoli’s eyes. “She had no use of them,” in her poor shallow life, for her lovely Ada was a sufficient companion and amusement. Ada Nicoli, compared with other American girls of her position, had received a very poor education. She had been well trained, it is true, in all the social etiquette necessary for the daughter of an American millionaire. In her mother’s eyes she was destined to be the wife of some Englishman of scant income but ancient pedigree, and her father had little time to interfere with his child’s up-bringing. His wife had had but a meagre education herself, and yet she managed to hold her own amongst the society hostesses of New York. It was pure selfishness on the part of Mrs. Nicoli that her child was thus deprived of the most valuable possession a woman can have, a highly-cultivated mind, for Ada was a bright intelligent girl, but her mother could not bear the sorrow of parting with her by sending her to a boarding-school, and her lessons at the day-school where she attended were so constantly interrupted by Mrs. Nicoli’s calling to take her daughter out with her in her carriage that the exasperated mistress soon learned that Ada’s education was a matter of little account in her parent’s eyes, and treated her accordingly.

Poor pretty Ada little knew, in these luxurious days of fine carriages and finer dresses, how bitterly she would one day regret her willingness to leave her lessons and the strict discipline of the schoolroom for the bright sunshine and pleasing admiration of the fashionable world in Central Park. It was so pleasant to sit by her pretty, delicate mother in the softly-cushioned carriage and drive through the beautiful green park, where the wisteria arbours were purple with long-tasselled flowers that scented the soft spring day. How she pitied the other girls in the schoolroom, who spent their cents as she spent dollars. What a dull life they had, and how badly their mothers chose their dresses! She was glad her mother liked her always to be dressed in white, it was so much prettier than anything else.

And so the pretty doll-child grew up into womanhood, conscious only of the rich luxurious world in which she was sheltered by her foolishly-indulgent mother. If you looked into Ada’s rose-tinted face there was no expression there to indicate the girl’s true character. Ada Nicoli’s soul lay dormant. At the age of eighteen she was merely a pretty human machine that seldom went wrong, for she had excellent health and a sweet temper.

On the afternoon when my story opens, Ada had been driving as usual with her mother in Central Park. It was a brilliant early summer day, and the whole world in Ada’s eyes was more than usually beautiful, but for once her gentle and affectionate mother was in an irritable humour. It seemed to Ada as if she were suffering from some suppressed excitement, and as though some cruel blow had suddenly shattered her nerves and blighted the beauty of her pretty soulless face. That drive was the only unhappy hour Ada could ever remember having spent with her mother. When they got home Mrs. Nicoli retired to her room, and then a message was brought to Ada that her mother was too unwell to come down to dinner. It was a silent, miserable dinner that night, for Mr. Nicoli was in one of his most self-absorbed humours, and Ada knew her father too well to try and break the silence with forced conversation. She noticed too that his tired face was even paler than usual, and that his dark, quickly-moving eyes were more restless than before. This was the first little shadow of a cloud in Ada’s gay young life. She spent that evening with the children in the schoolroom, longing for bedtime. Before retiring to bed she knocked at her mother’s bedroom door. Her father came out and motioned to her to be quiet. “Your mother has a nervous headache,” he said, “and you must not ask to see her.” And with an abrupt good-night he turned and left his daughter.

The next day Ada was astonished to see two trained nurses coming and going from her mother’s room. She was not told what was the matter with her mother, and there was a horrible air of mystery about the house. Ada resented being treated like a child, and forbidden to enter her mother’s room. And in the afternoon of that dreadful day she waylaid a nurse coming out of the sick-room and demanded an answer to her question—

“What is the matter with mumma?” she said, with such a look of misery on her young face that the nurse could not put her aside. “If her illness is not infectious, why may I not see her?”

“Your poor mumma has had some shock,” replied the nurse, “which has upset her nerves.”

“What shock?” Ada asked. “She did not tell me, and mumma tells me everything.”

“That’s what the doctor can’t find out, but there now, I must go back. Nurse Hatch can’t manage her alone.”

“Can’t manage her alone,” Ada repeated. “Oh, do let me go to her. I know I could soothe her. When mumma has a headache she likes me to be with her.”

But the bedroom door was shut on Ada’s last words, and she heard the lock turned from inside. She was listening to her mother’s excited voice when her father came along the corridor. He stopped beside Ada, and spoke abruptly to her.

“I want you to take the children for a drive in Central Park this afternoon, and on your way tell the coachman to drive up and down Fourth Avenue. Put on your own and the children’s smartest dresses, and stop and speak to anyone you know. Say that your mother has got a bad headache, and don’t go showing the world that miserable face.”

Ada looked at him in surprise.

“But I am miserable,” she said, “because mumma is ill; two trained nurses are not necessary for a nervous headache. What is the matter with my mother? What shock has she had? I have a right to know.”

It was her father’s turn to look at his daughter in surprise. Was this his mild, gentle Ada, whose very beauty suggested a weakness of character which her strong little chin contradicted.

“Who said she had had a shock?” he said nervously. “It is your duty to do what I tell you, and not to ask questions.”

“I have always asked questions, poppa, and have always had them answered. One of the nurses told me mother had had a shock.”

“Then I will tell her to hold her tongue. Now, do what I tell you; go to any ‘at home’ you have been asked to; get some friend to chaperone you, and laugh, and talk, and look your prettiest. You can do this for your father’s sake, surely.”

He looked at her angrily. Ada had never done anything because she loved her father. She had always feared and avoided him, and so the first bitter lesson of life this poor indulged girl had to learn was one of the cruellest of all and one which it takes an older and more expert hand to play—to wear a smiling face to hide an aching heart.

Marjorie and Sadie were so delighted to go for a drive with their pretty elegant sister in mumma’s big carriage that their tongues rattled on unceasingly.

“When I’m a big lady like mumma,” little Sadie said, “I’ll have four horses in my carriage, like that one over there, Ada,” and Sadie pointed to a fine four-in-hand coach driven by a well-known leader of New York fashionable world; “and I’ll buy lots of little babies of my very own, that I can wash and dress three or four times a day, but I won’t buy them a horrid cross poppa like our poppa, I’ll buy them a nice kind one, that plays with them, like Sissie Brown’s poppa. Why doesn’t mumma buy a new poppa, Ada?”

“Hush, dear,” Ada said; “you can’t buy poppas.”

“Then where do they come from?” Sadie asked, with a look of wonder in her eyes.

“God gave you yours,” Ada answered absently, for her thoughts were with her mother, who was lying sick in her big luxurious room, watched over by two strange women. The fight Ada was making to appear cheerful was, I am afraid, a very pitiful affair, and more than one pair of eyes were turned curiously upon her.

“If God sends poppas I suppose we must just be contented with His choice, but I wish He’d asked me what kind I liked,” Sadie said softly. Meanwhile Ada was throwing a watery little smile on some friend who was eagerly bowing to her, a partner at some dance a few nights ago. Responding to a bow first on this side, and then on that, a good many of the mothers in New York who knew Mrs. Nicoli thought she had brought up her daughter in a very foolish way, but one and all of them agreed that it was evident that the girl’s natural disposition was too simple and good to spoil. She had such gentle, engaging manners, and such sweet blue eyes, no one could help loving her.

The next day passed in a very similar manner. Mrs. Nicoli’s condition did not mend. And Ada was still kept in ignorance as to the real character of her complaint. On the afternoon of the third day, when she returned from her drive with the children, she found her mother’s room was empty. The patient and the nurses had both disappeared. When her father came in from business, Ada ran to him and asked for an explanation. Something had prevented her questioning the servants as to where her mother had been taken.

“Your mother has gone to a private asylum,” her father answered, with a break in his voice. “You need not tell the children. For the present it was necessary to put her under supervision. Don’t ask me any more questions,” he said impatiently, as Ada, trembling with fear, held on to his coat-sleeve to detain him. “Women like your mother are no use at all at a crisis,” he continued. “The one moment of her married life when I wished for her help she has failed me. You are so like her you would do the same, I suppose.” Mr. Nicoli saw the carnation colour fade out of Ada’s lips and cheeks, but her blue eyes never shrank from his piercing scrutiny of her face.

“I have some of your blood in me, too,” she said haughtily. “It may be for my good, or for my evil, time will prove, but at least it has given me a stronger constitution than my poor mother’s. Can you not trust me a little?”

“There is nothing to confide,” he said, with the lie choking his throat as he spoke. “Your mother has nervous prostration,” he said.

“You are in trouble yourself,” the girl said timidly. “Could I not take my mother’s place and help you.”

“What makes you think I am in trouble?” he replied impatiently. “Yes, you can easily fill your mother’s place by looking pretty and spending money.” He took out his pocket-book and drew from it a thick bundle of notes. “Take these and spend them on chiffons and candies, and don’t talk nonsense.”

Ada pushed away the money. “Women care for something dollars can’t buy, poppa. I’m tired of money and all it is worth.”

Her father laughed harshly. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Fate may humour your new craze sooner than you think.”

Ada pondered over his words. What did they mean?

(To be continued.)

MRS. EWING AND HER BOOKS.

ery few persons will now be inclined to question that Mrs. Ewing is the premier story-teller for children of this generation. No library for young people can be considered complete without most of her books. A few of her writings may appeal more fully to older readers; but the majority afford immense delight when placed in the hands of boys and girls. Happily all can now be obtained at low prices.

Though Mrs. Ewing wrote no book of great length, the number and variety of her output are considerable. Her stories range from fairy tales with a purpose to books of adventure and domestic incident of all kinds. We get such sketches as The Brownies, where two little lads act on the happy suggestion to serve as elfish helpers of their widowed and burdened father, and set to work to brighten the house, not without soon learning that “there is no such cure for untidiness as clearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault lies.” We have such tales as Timothy’s Shoes, with the magic shoes which make every step like a galvanic shock when the feet are turned into wrong paths. We have books specifically for older boys and girls: We and the World is full of thrilling adventure; Six to Sixteen embodies a good deal of Mrs. Ewing’s views on education; it traces the quiet development of a girl’s life and thought, and though perhaps the interest flags a little in parts, it will always be popular on account of its description of military life during a cholera epidemic and its charming pictures of Yorkshire hospitality. A girl cannot fail to be the better for reading it. Indeed, there is not one of Mrs. Ewing’s numerous books that does not impart the consciousness of a tenderly sympathetic heart; with her we feel that

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

Even when she describes spoiled children and domestic discord, as in A Very Ill-Tempered Family, we get an attractive portrait of Isobel, who becomes the peace-maker and is herself helped in her time of struggle by passages from Thomas à Kempis and the petitions of the “Te Deum,” and who is enabled to conciliate and save her hot-tempered brother. This sketch and the companion one of A Great Emergency are full of quaint wit and wisdom, though with fewer verbal quips than the earlier tales. Mrs. Ewing has the art of wrapping up her advice in a fascinating story, and does not make her pills with eight corners. The felicitously chosen titles, often reminding us of John Bunyan, by no means disappoint the reader.

Many may think that Lob Lie by the Fire is her completest work of art; and certainly it is a skilfully constructed composition, with a fragrance as of Cranford in its earlier scenes. But it is in the trilogy of her last years that her powers culminated. Between 1879 and 1882 Mrs. Ewing produced the three works most widely popular—Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, and The Story of a Short Life. These constitute an imperishable memorial to her genius, and have sold in enormous numbers, reaching to one hundred and fifty thousand in the case of Jackanapes. In these books every sentence is carefully chosen; no superfluous word is to be found; we get pen pictures of rarest excellence.

In Jackanapes we have the high ideal of soldierly self-sacrifice, and in The Story of a Short Life the application of military habits and endurance to a crippled and stunted life. In Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot we have a sweet idyll of village life. The lad, John March, on emerging from the workhouse school, has the double ambition to be a choir-boy and to take care of doves. We delight to trace his fidelity and diligence; his master soon sees and says that “he’s no vagrant.” “He’s fettling up all along. Jack’s the sort that if he finds a key he’ll look for the lock; if ye give him a knife-blade, he’ll fashion a heft.” And in the peaceful close of the story we listen to the master, with his last strength, saying to his adopted son, “’Twas that sweet voice o’ thine took me back again to public worship, and it’s not the least of all I owe thee, Jack March. A poor reason, lad, for taking up with a neglected duty—a poor reason—but the Lord is a God of mercy, or there’d be small chance for most of us.” As the old man died “his lips were trembling with the smile of acutest joy.”

In most of her books Mrs. Ewing traces the progress of children from youth to manhood and gives us an insight into the development of their character. Thus in Lob Lie by the Fire, for example, we have the foundling christened John Broom; we see him adopted by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty in spite of the warnings of the cautious lawyer, but under the guidance of the good clergyman who, while feeling he may be encouraging them in grave indiscretion, feels impelled to say, “I do know that he has a Father Whose image is also to be found in His children—not quite effaced in any of them—and Whose care of this one will last when yours may seem to have been in vain.” We journey with him in all his difficult training; we are with him in his chivalrous devotion to McAlister, the Highlander, whose honour he saves and whose last hour he comforts. We watch him, as the beneficent “brownie” in his village home, as he brings luck to Lingborough, and works for others. In this tale, as in so many others, we feel that sustained personal interest which belongs to a biography.

But it is in connection with The Story of a Short Life that interest has recently been rekindled in Mrs. Ewing in many quarters, on account of the remarkable development of the “Guild of the Brave Poor Things,” which has sprung into existence as the direct outcome of this tale. As Sir Walter Besant built the “People’s Palace” by the picture painted in his novel, so Mrs. Ewing has done an equally important work, though not herself permitted to live to see the results of her suggestions.

In the work of this guild gatherings of afflicted people—blind, deaf, paralysed, or otherwise incapacitated for the full activity of ordinary life and work—are held at regular intervals in London and other centres. Classes suitable to their varied needs are conducted; companies of the brave who suffer, often with infinite heroism, are inspirited by being assembled for bright meetings, in which all that the suggestion of the atmosphere and colour of military habit can impart, is used to make prominent the fact that the members are as truly soldiers as the veterans of the “tented field,” that the “courage to bear and the courage to dare are really one and the same.” Thus the schoolrooms are decked with banners, while the roll-call of members and the singing of the tug-of-war hymn (Bishop Heber’s “The Son of God goes forth to war”) are looked forward to eagerly by the sufferers, young and old, who are banded together in this comradeship of affliction. It is almost startling to find walls emblazoned with the motto “Lætus sorte meâ,” and to learn that many people, innocent of any language but their mother-tongue, have become intelligently proud of the words which bid them be happy in their lot.[1]

The whole of this movement, now spreading rapidly, has come from Mrs. Ewing’s sweetly pathetic story, which appeared under its familiar title of A Story of a Short Life only four days before the death of its author in 1885. Some three years previously it had been issued in magazine form under the forbidding Latin title of its motto. An Irishman, who was a Dorsetshire parson, came with a present of magnificent climbing roses to Mrs. Ewing a short time afterwards. When he was thanked for his gift, he said rather grumpily, “You’ve given me pleasure enough—and to lots of others.” Then he suddenly chirped up and said, “Lætus cost me 2s. 6d. though. My wife bet me 2s. 6d. I couldn’t read it aloud without crying. I thought I could. But after a page or two I put my hand in my pocket. I said, ‘There—take your half-crown, and let me cry comfortably when I want to!’”[2]

We understand that this tale is based largely on life; certainly it enshrines much of the surroundings of Aldershot, where Major and Mrs. Ewing lived for eight years. In it we have the life-history of the lad Leonard, and trace how this high-spirited and spoiled child conquers his peevishness and triumphs over the limitations of his lot as a cripple. For a time after his accident his violent and irritable temper carries all before it; his very crutches become “implements of impatience”; but he is subdued, and eventually transfigured by intercourse with a gallant officer wearing the Victoria Cross, who teaches him that he, too, may be a happy warrior, and, though “doomed to go in company with pain,” may “turn his necessity to glorious gain,” and count himself as true a soldier as any wounded on the battle-field. Leonard not only becomes brave and patient, but he forms a book or register of “Poor Things,” that is, of people who, like the blind organ-tuner, manage almost as well in spite of their troubles. In this roll of honour he inscribes the names of those who

“argue not

Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate one jot

Or heart or hope, but still bear up and steer

Right onward.”

Hence the name of the guild, which is itself a beautiful posthumous memorial to the genius and sympathy of its creator. And here it is pleasing to record an incident of Mrs. Ewing’s last illness. In one of her paroxysms of pain she expressed a fear to the doctor that she had been impatient. He answered, “Indeed you are not. I think you deserve a Victoria Cross for the way in which you bear it.” This afforded her intense satisfaction, as it was known that the doctor had not read A Story of a Short Life itself.

Mrs. Ewing died when she was only forty-four years old. Her comparatively brief life was throughout heavily streaked with periods of much pain, endured with amazing fortitude and cheerfulness. From her earliest days she found her chief happiness in sacrificing for others. In the exquisite little memoir which her sister (Mrs. Eden) has published, we have a personal interpretation supplied to some of her writings. We learn that in the sketch of Madam Liberality we have reminiscences of her own doings: “Here she has painted a picture of her own character that can never be surpassed.” With such a testimony we turn to peruse its pages with redoubled interest. In the first sentences of this sketch we find it recorded of Madam Liberality:

“It was not her real name: it was given to her by her brothers and sister. People with very marked qualities of character do sometimes get such distinctive titles to rectify the indefiniteness of those they inherit and those they receive in baptism. The ruling peculiarity of a character is apt to show itself early in life, and it showed itself in Madam Liberality when she was a little child.”

And then we have the account of the pleasure the child derived from saving the plums from her cake, and how “she could ‘do without’ anything if the wherewithal to be hospitable was left to her.” Her liberality was the outcome of continuous and rigid self-denial, and in sharp contrast to that of her brother Tom.

“It may seem strange that Madam Liberality should even have been accused of meanness, and yet her eldest brother did once shake his head at her and say, ‘You’re the most meanest and generoustest person I ever knew.’

“And Madam Liberality wept over the accusation, although her brother was then too young to form either his words or his opinions correctly. But it was the touch of truth in it which made Madam Liberality cry. To the end of their lives Tom and she were alike and yet different in this matter. Madam Liberality saved and pinched and planned and then gave away, and Tom gave away without the pinching and the saving. This sounds much handsomer, and it was poor Tom’s misfortune that he always believed it to be so, though he gave away what did not belong to him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wants upon other people, not forgetting Madam Liberality.”

Mrs. Eden tells us of the thoughtful kindness shown to herself and other members of her family by her sister who, out of her literary earnings, planned delightful holidays for them, often adding to the pleasure by letting the patient choose her own route according to her fancy.

In this same sketch we get an insight into the courage of Madam Liberality, “like little body with a mighty heart.” Often tortured by headache, toothache, and quinsy, “no sufferings abated her energy for fresh exploits or quenched the hope that cold and damp and fatigue could not hurt her ‘this time.’” Of Mrs. Ewing it is stated that “she was always coughing” as a girl, but her weakness never seemed to affect her vivacity. We read how Madam Liberality went alone to the dentist’s and allowed him to extract a horribly difficult tooth without flinching; she well merited the praise, “You’re the bravest little lady I ever knew.” This incident finds its counterpart in Mrs. Ewing’s life when she went alone to a London surgeon for an operation on her throat in order that no friend might be present at so unpleasant a scene.

On the “ever-glorious first of June” in the year 1867 Juliana Gatty was married to Alexander Ewing, A.P.D. After two years spent in New Brunswick she returned to England with her husband, who for eight years was stationed at Aldershot. Here she acquired her close familiarity with military habits and the high appreciation of soldierly virtues which have made her later books both pathetic and stimulating. Of fragile frame herself, she has immortalised the famous south country camp.

Not long after the final removal of Major Ewing from Aldershot the health of his wife began steadily to fail. She was compelled to remain in England when he had to serve in India, and she had to bear many crushed hopes during the last six years of her life. But her “lamp of zeal and high desire” continued to burn brightly.

In the early part of 1885 she was seized with an attack of blood-poisoning. After a short period of physical and mental darkness she said truly that she would be “more patient than before.” At her request her sisters made a calendar for the week with the text above, “In your patience possess ye your souls.” Each day the date was struck through with a pencil. For another week she had the text, “Be strong and of a good courage,” and later still, when nights of suffering were added to days of pain, “The day is Thine; the night also is Thine.” Her brave life was closed on May 13th, so far as her visible presence in this life is concerned; but who can fail to appreciate the words from the Newcomes, which are the last entry made in Mrs. Ewing’s commonplace book, “If we still love those we lose, can we altogether lose those we love?”

Whilst herself a devoted member of the Anglican Church, Mrs. Ewing was well able to appreciate the point of view of others; thus we get sympathetic pen portraits of devout Presbyterians, and her writings are free from sectarian suggestions. In the realm of philanthropy we owe much to both Mrs. Gatty and her daughter. Both bring us into close touch with nature and inculcate a tenderer sympathy with all created beings and objects. No one can read Mrs. Gatty’s Parables from Nature without gaining some spiritual insight and a fuller conception of God’s care and love.

F. W. Newland, M.A.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART X.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—You say that Aunt Anne is in a great state of mind because she has lost her copy of Uncle John’s will. She sent it to her solicitors to have their opinion on one of the clauses in the will, and they declare that the will was returned to her, and that it is not in their possession.

There is no need for Aunt Anne to distress herself, even if her copy of the will is lost; she can easily procure another copy by applying to Somerset House. If she only wishes to read over the will again with the opinion she has received from her lawyers, she had better go down to Somerset House, which is in the Strand, not very far from Wellington Street, on the right hand side going towards the City from Charing Cross, and there they will let her read the will on payment of, I think, a shilling, and they will supply her with a certified, or an ordinary, copy of the will on payment of so much per folio, the exact amount she can learn on inquiry.

The part of Somerset House where the wills are kept is exactly opposite the archway, straight across the courtyard—she cannot mistake it. Inside she will find several polite minor officials, who will show her what forms to fill up, fetch the books for her and render her every possible assistance; the men who fetch the books expect a small tip for their trouble.

At Somerset House, Aunt Anne will find all sorts of people reading not only the wills of their friends and relatives, but also wills under which they can take no pecuniary interest, such as the wills of public men in no way related to them; anyone can read anybody’s will on payment of the usual fee. To make a copy of a will for oneself is not permitted, but you may take a short note of its contents.

Somerset House, like most of the public offices, closes at four o’clock, so it is advisable to go not after half-past three at the latest. If Aunt Anne can put off her visit till next week, I shall be happy to accompany her if she desires it. This week all my time is fully occupied with an unusually large sessions, which means that your affectionate cousin will have the chance of scooping in a guinea or two by the prosecution of some unfortunate prisoner. This is what we call getting “soup.”

A curious name, is it not? I do not know the origin of the term, which is certainly a suggestive one. A good many of us never get beyond the “soup,” I am afraid, much as we should like to assist at the carving up of the joints.

After which poetical digression, let us return to our muttons. It is very annoying to lose a business appointment on account of a train being late. Gerald has my sympathy, but I can offer him no consolation, it being a generally established rule that damages cannot be obtained for the loss of a business engagement, nor can damages be obtained for the annoyance experienced by the traveller.

You see the railway companies say that “every attention will be paid to ensure punctuality,” and to recover damages you would have to prove that the lateness of the train was due to their neglect to pay the “every attention” promised, a difficult thing to do. Supposing the weather was foggy, or there had been a break-down on the line, or some other reason for the train being late, the company would declare that their failure to keep to the time advertised on their time-tables was unavoidable, and due to causes beyond their control.

There have been one or two cases where travellers have recovered damages from railway companies on account of the lateness of a train, but in all these cases there were special circumstances which rendered the companies liable; but Gerald’s case was not an exceptional one; in fact, if he were a suburban season ticket holder, he would find the lateness of trains arriving in the morning a very common occurrence.

If a train is advertised to stop at a certain station, and you get carried beyond your destination, you would probably be successful in obtaining damages for personal inconvenience, supposing you were obliged to walk back, and you would certainly be entitled to drive back and charge the expense of carriage hire to the company; or, supposing that no conveyance was procurable and it was too far or too wet or too late for you to return on foot, you would be justified in going to a hotel and making the company reimburse you for the expenses of the night. It would have to be an exceptional case which would justify you in the ordering of a special train, a course of action not recommended by

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

By ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of “Old Maids and Young.”

PART VIII.

THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL.

“Onely man,” says Sir Philip Sidney quaintly, meaning by “man” what we term a human creature, for there is here no sex limitation, “onely man, and no beast, hath that gift, to discerne beauty.”

When “that gift” is of generous proportions, as happens once in a while, there is given the further ability to discern “something than beauty dearer.” That phrase is a poet’s. Beauty has been from of old a theme of poets, and the poets of this country, from Chaucer to Browning, have made beautiful girls their theme. Chaucer has good and bad to tell of them. The good may be read in many a tale, and the bad will be best left unread. Browning has good and bad to tell of them. There is good told of “beautiful Evelyn Hope—sixteen years old when she died,” and there is bad told of “the beautiful girl, too white, who lived at Pornic by the sea,” the girl who hoarded gold.

Browning, perhaps better than any English poet who ever lived, could describe a beautiful girl’s face and incidentally point out a thing in it detracting from its beauty. He does this with remarkable directness in his poem called “A Face,” which opens—

“If one could have that little head of hers

Painted upon a background of pale gold,

Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers!

No shade encroaching on the matchless mould

Of those two lips, which should be opening soft

In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,

For that spoils all.”

SPOILT

How did that girl laugh? Probably as too many an English girl laughs—riotously. Of such an one was said a little while hence: “When she laughs, there seems no room left in the world for any other sound.”

The loose use of the word “beautiful” in English is largely commented on by foreign visitors to this country. The many English faces that are lovely in colour must strike everyone, but that only a minority of these are lovely in line is undeniable. Now a face to be beautiful must be lovely in colour and in line.

“Health and mirth make beauty,” says a Spanish proverb wrongly. They do not so, though they make what is by many deemed a better thing than beauty, being that lovely and pleasant thing named comeliness.

The following is a question put by a girl—

“Can a girl with a bad nose be called beautiful?”

That is a question which one is tempted to meet with the counter-question—

What is a bad nose?

A bad man—and even, alas! a bad woman—is a thing conceivable; but—a bad nose—No.

The thing meant by this girl, it has transpired, is an unbeautiful nose. Certainly a girl with such a nose, suppose it to take the form of a tip-tilted nose, cannot be called beautiful. For her consolation, let her be told that she can fairly be called pleasing, the actual fact, it would seem, being that a tip-tilted nose sets a girl in one matter at an advantage. A London journalist some little time ago gave his readers this piece of information—

“One of those statisticians who find out what others cannot find out asserts that girls with retroussé noses marry sooner than young ladies with Greek and Roman noses.”

A NEW READING.
The retrousseau nose

That is a remarkable assertion, not the least remarkable thing about it being the phrasing of it—“girls with retroussé noses,” “young ladies with Greek and Roman noses.”

Welladay!

If it be conceded, as I think it must be, that classical outline is an essential part of beauty, “young ladies” with Greek and Roman noses are not without one feature essentially beautiful. In the case of those with Greek noses, there are commonly other features satisfying the severest exactions in regard to beauty. This fact notwithstanding, the faces in question may be so far from pleasing to those who look, as the poet did, for something than beauty dearer, as to bring upon themselves the censure contained in certain words by Shakespeare—

“This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.”

Beautiful faces too often lack animation.

As a natural consequence, beautiful faces lack another thing. A young face to be pleasing must hold out a promise, just as an older face to be pleasing must tell a story. Now there are more unbeautiful young faces that hold out a promise than there are beautiful young faces that do this, just as there are more unbeautiful older faces that tell a story than there are beautiful older faces that do this.

In like manner, the regularity of line that is a main part of beauty is often attended by defects in another direction, calculated to arouse comment such as the following, being a speech made in reference to a woman of great beauty—

“Her profile is delicious, but her full face is an empty face.”

The woman in question lacked somewhat in intellectuality. A beautiful woman—so fairly on the whole are gifts distributed—is rarely a clever woman, and a beautiful girl is often a goose. Thus it was a beautiful girl of not ten but twenty years of age, who put to paper this account of Spain—

“That is where the Inquisition was, and there are bull-fights there, and the ladies wear black on their heads, and Westward Ho! was there.”

It was a beautiful girl who asked lately—

“Has a cow horns?”

To which the counter-query put by an unbeautiful girl was—

“Did you ever hear of the nursery rhyme of ‘the cow with the crumpled horn’?”

It was a beautiful girl who wrote of a sailor as unfurling the anchor, who spoke of the dress of a Chinese mandoline, who answered the question put by a Frenchwoman, “What is the English for raison d’être?” in the words, “Raison d’être is English,” and who formed one in a dialogue which took the following turn—

He: “What are dead languages.”

She: “The languages which were spoken by the dead Romans and Greeks.”

He: “But how could the dead Romans and Greeks speak?”

She: “Silly!”

He: “‘Silly’ yourself!”

Not only do beauty and stupidity often go hand in hand, but beauty and commonplace affections often do this. Butterflies love the flavour of cabbage, and some beautiful girls—by their own confession—“love” onions. It is no crime to like onions, but to “love” them is to waste sweetness.

PARIS UP TO DATE

That vanity, as a whole, is less often met with in beautiful girls than in unbeautiful ones is a well-known fact, and it is a fact which I am so little inclined to challenge that I give the following cases as being to my full belief exceptions to the rule.

A beautiful girl, known to me, while really very young poses as being very much younger. Her age is seventeen or thereabouts, and she poses as being fourteen. If her age were forty or thereabouts, and she posed as being seventeen, one would more easily forgive her. She will derive the benefit of this mental bias some twenty years hence.

The fashion-plate girl

In the case of another beautiful girl known to me, so much of her is dress that her appearance seems to warrant what once seemed to me an unwarrantable piece of English, being the following extract from a society paper of the year 1887—

“Among the younger ladies was a pretty white tulle with marguerites and a white satin bodice.”

At first reading of that I asked myself, “What sort of a young lady is a pretty white tulle with marguerites and a white satin bodice?”

I do not ask myself that question now.

HEART VERY HARD AND IN THE WRONG PLACE

Thirdly, a beautiful girl of my acquaintance has a face with what her enemy calls “Inspection invited” all over it. That is unbeautiful phrasing, but the charge thus levelled is not without foundation in fact. One hopes that some day there may happen to this girl what there happened once to a beautiful girl. She looked in the glass to see her face, and she saw her heart, and that day all vanity left her.

As a picture of a beautiful girl I give in conclusion the following:—

The Girl with the Face, described by one who knew her.

She used to pass my windows.

She had a face of quite perfect loveliness, the mouth and eyes very merry, and flashing brown hair that hung open to her waist.

She was slightly deformed, her figure being thrown on one side, like the leaf of a begonia. I never liked the leaf of a begonia until I came to see her.

In all I may have seen her a hundred times, then she ceased passing my windows, and after a while they brought me news that she was dead. By special favour, they let me see her lying in her coffin, and this is how she looked:—Her mouth, that had always been very merry, was quite grave, and her hands were folded on her breast. They had put a rose in one of them, and it laid its soft round cheek against her breast. Some of them—this vexes me still as I write it—had tried to lay her hair about her so as to hide that slight deformity that made her lie like a begonia leaf.

This girl was in death, as she had been in life, the most beautiful girl I ever saw.

(To be concluded.)

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN SUSPENSE.

yphoid fever!”

The doctor had come and gone, and that had been his unhesitating verdict.

“I may nurse him? You will not be so cruel to keep me away?” Sheila had pleaded, her eyes full of tears.

The doctor had looked her all over, asked a few questions as to her health and general condition, and had then made answer—

“If you will be sensible and take the proper precautions, you may help in the nursing. Typhoid ought not to be passed from patient to nurse, though it sometimes is. But a person in good health, acting under direction, ought to escape. I will try and obtain a nurse for you, but we have had to send for a good many already. Under her you may help, and you also, Miss Ray, since you wish it so much. But remember that you must be reasonable and obedient, or I shall send you both packing in double quick time!”

And so when North came back from an anxious day in the town, during which time he had found that nearly a dozen of their people had sickened or were sickening with the insidious fever, he returned home to find grave faces awaiting him, together with the news that Oscar had come back with pronounced symptoms of the malady, and that Sheila was with him upstairs, a nurse being expected from London in the course of the evening.

North went straight up to his cousin’s room. Sheila sprang up, thinking it was the doctor’s step. He took both her hands in his and gave her a cousinly kiss of sympathy. It was the first time he had offered her such a salute, and somehow it brought the tears to Sheila’s eyes. She felt that it was a mark of sympathy she scarcely expected from the undemonstrative North.

“What a good thing that you are here, Sheila!” he said.

“Oh, I am so thankful!” said the girl. “I should not have known how to bear it out there!” and she suddenly felt a wonderful illumination of spirit, as she realised the Fatherly guiding in all this trouble, as she had thought it, which had ended by bringing her to her brother’s side, just when he needed her most.

“I will try never to be angry and rebellious again!” she said in her heart, and turned to the fire to dash the tears from her eyes.

North went over to the bed and took Oscar’s hot hand in his. The listlessness of fever was upon the patient, but his eyes lighted at sight of his cousin.

“How’s little Tom? Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, I’ve been to see him. He’s got all he wants—except your visit. Hunt does not think his will be a bad case. But we have a good many down with it in that alley. It is thought to be the state of the drainage. You must have picked up the poison during some of your peregrinations there, but away from it all you ought to get on like a house on fire.”

North spoke cheerfully, nor was he unduly anxious about Oscar at this juncture; but he knew enough of the fever to be aware that it ran a tedious course, and that Oscar had a long bout of sickness before him. He was half surprised himself how much he had missed the boy at the office and about the works the past two days, and how little he relished the thought that he must learn to do without him for some weeks to come. They had got into the way of walking to and fro in company, or working together in the evenings, and discussing together a great many plans with regard to the business itself and the people in the employ of the firm.

“He has got this fever poking about amongst the work-people,” North mused to himself, “and it was my doing to a great extent that he took up with that. I ought to have been more careful, for we have been told often enough that the town is not healthy, and that a new drainage scheme is badly wanted. I suppose now we shall have something done. I only hope we are not in for a regular epidemic! Perhaps my father and I ought to have agitated more, but it was not exactly our business, and our hands always seem pretty full. Well, well, one must hope for the best, but I wish Oscar had not been one of the victims. He never seems to have much stamina. If it had been myself, I should soon have battled through.”

North went down to the drawing-room, where there was a family discussion going on.

“I don’t see that I am any good here,” Cyril was saying, “and you will want all the room you can get, with Sheila back and this nurse expected. So I’ll just go off straight to London, and take up my quarters there. I can really read better if it comes to that, and I shall be out of the way.”

The mother was about to give an assent to this scheme. Cyril was very precious in her sight, and having one invalid already on her hands, she was naturally anxious about the rest. But she saw that North’s face looked hard and cold, and she glanced across towards her husband.

Mr. Tom’s eyes were fixed upon the glowing fire; he seemed to be pondering deeply.

“Raby has gone to the Bensons, you say?”

“Yes, they sent for her immediately upon hearing the rumour of Oscar’s illness. Her room will be useful for the nurse; but as Ray and Sheila share Ray’s room, there is no need for Cyril to leave unless we think it better. Perhaps we should be more comfortable with fewer at home. There is always the chance of infection, whatever precautions we may take.”

“Just so,” said Cyril, “and then I should only be another worry and bother. The London plan would be much the best. I suppose you would provide the funds, dad?”

Cyril spoke with the ease and assurance of a favoured son. He was the only one who ever spoke to his father by that familiar title. Mr. Tom did not take his eyes from the fire.

“You have your own allowance, and we have only reached half quarter yet. You must have plenty in hand.”

Cyril coloured and then tried to laugh easily.

“What keeps one at home scarcely goes as far in London.”

“That allowance was fixed when you went to Oxford and has never been changed. Many a man has less on which to bring up a family. It should stand the strain of a few weeks in town.”

Cyril was silent, biting his lips. He was not accustomed to be denied anything.

“Well, I need not go, I suppose,” he said rather sullenly. “I can stay here and take my chance, of course.”

“Yes, and help in the press of work which this outbreak will entail upon us all,” said his father rather sternly. “That is a thing which had never occurred to you, I suppose.”

They were all rather surprised by the tone taken by the father towards Cyril, nobody more so than the young man himself. A thrill of dismay began to run through him. Something must have happened to change his father’s manner so completely.

“Of course if I can be of any use——” he began nervously.

“Well, that remains to be proved. You have not been much use in the world so far; but I think it is time your days of idling came to an end. Perhaps this emergency will give you your chance. Let us see during these next weeks the stuff of which you are made. Perhaps you will be able to make up for the purposelessness and shortcomings of the past year.”

His father looked straight at him then, and Cyril cowered as under a blow. Then Mr. Tom rose and walked out of the room, followed by North, whilst Cyril turned anxiously to his mother and exclaimed—

“What can he mean by that?”

But the mother did not know. Her husband had said nothing to her that could explain his rather mysterious words. Had Cyril heard what passed between father and son in the study he would have some reason to tremble in earnest.

“Have you discovered anything fresh, sir?” asked North, as they stood by the hearth.

“Yes; the report of the detective came in during your absence this morning. Every note has at last been traced, and each one to Cyril. He passed one through young Lawrence, as you found out some time ago; another was cashed in London some time later; the third was a long while in being traced, but it was paid at last by a small cigar dealer in Romford. And it was elicited upon close inquiry that it had been presented by a man exactly answering to the description of Cyril, who had made a rather considerable purchase there, and had given the note in payment. Some of the boxes with this man’s stamp on them have been found in our rubbish bin. The case is complete in my estimation.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Give him a chance to rouse himself from his selfish apathy during these next weeks, and to win for himself something of a good name. Of course, when Oscar recovers, the whole truth must be told. Meantime it will rest between you and me; and we will see if there is not still something behind that lazy, self-seeking exterior. I fear we have spoiled Cyril, and that this is the outcome. But some men will rise to an emergency, who otherwise drift along with the current all too easily.”

It was the father’s hope that the crisis they feared in the town would stir up Cyril to exertions and self-sacrifice, which would do something to obliterate the bitter remembrances of the past. Perhaps Mr. Tom forgot to bear in mind that whilst repentance for past sins may be a stepping-stone to better things, a concealed and unrepented act of wickedness is like a millstone about the neck, dragging the soul downwards, and raising a barrier between it and those promptings of the Spirit whereby alone men can rise to true nobility and self-forgetfulness.

And now a time of stress and keen anxiety arose within the little town of Isingford. The epidemic was restricted to a certain area, and was easily traced to the defective drainage of that part of the town; but its victims were very many within that area; and there were several isolated cases, like Oscar’s, which, however, were generally traced to poison germs inhaled in the infested locality.

Oscar did not appear at first to be very ill, and Sheila was quite certain that he was going to have it mildly, and would soon be better. The nurse was capable and kindly, and Oscar liked her. He always said he was comfortable, only too lazy to talk; and it was difficult to get him to take the food and medicine prescribed. He seemed to turn against everything except iced water, and yet they must keep the furnace going somehow.

In the town doctors and nurses were hard at work, together with a band of amateur workers, hastily organised, who went round to the infected houses daily, bringing those things which the doctors had ordered for the poorer patients, and in cases where nurses were not to be had, performing little offices for the sick, which they could not otherwise have obtained.

North and Ray were amongst the most devoted of these workers, learning much from the case at home how to treat others. But from Cyril there was little efficient help to be got. He had professed willingness to join in the work of personal ministration, but he shirked any actual contact with the sick. He would fetch supplies, and make a show of devotion, but there was no real heart for the task in hand. He loathed the close, crowded alleys and the sick-rooms. He could not make up his mind to enter them. He saw his brother and sister going about. He saw the clergymen, whose tasks he had so glibly spoken once of undertaking, toiling daily amongst the sick, taking the message of salvation to those who longed to hear it, and seeking to point the way above to such as had never been willing before to listen. He saw all this, but he could not do as those did. He would make his way with a sort of shuddering horror to some pleasanter place, away from the sights and sounds which disgusted him, and try to forget his father’s words, or his own vague misgivings as to coming trouble.

Nor was Isingford alone troubled by this outbreak. The outlying families amongst the gentry came forward with money and help of other kinds. May Lawrence drove in almost daily with supplies of good things from dairy and larder; and gladly would she have been one of the band of workers, but her mother could not bring her mind to sanction it. Nevertheless the girl was to be constantly seen driving through the poor streets, and leaving her doles, with bright and cheering words, at the doors of the poor houses; and North and Ray, who saw her so often, declared that she was like a sunbeam in those dismal places.

She always stopped to ask for Oscar, and at first got encouraging replies. Later, however, a different tone crept into the answering voices, and the reply would be gravely spoken.

“He does not get on. The fever keeps so persistent, and we can see no change for the better. It is always slow in typhoid, but Oscar’s case is not running in the usual lines. It puzzles the doctors and makes us all uneasy.”

May was sincerely grieved. She liked Oscar; she was truly fond of Sheila; and she had come to identify herself, in a fashion, with the household in River Street. She heard of their work, and saw it with her own eyes. The admiration she had always felt for North was increasing daily.

But Oscar?

Sheila scarcely left him now except when the nurse drove her away to take the needful rest, whether she could sleep or not. It seemed to her as though her whole life had been passed in watching that dear, wasted face. Everything else was so shadowy and indistinct; it seemed like scenes from another life.

Her past life used sometimes again to flash vividly before her, and at such times she would feel a strange sense of its emptiness and worthlessness. Suppose it were she who had been called upon to lie there, with death so very near! What sort of a record would she have to give of the talents and advantages entrusted to her. Great waves of humiliation and self-distrust would sweep over her, and she began to understand that there was only one thing worth having in all the world, and that was the life of the Lord within our own—the power to dwell in Him, as He has ever promised to dwell by the Spirit in us.

And when that sudden illumination had come into Sheila’s heart, all else was forgotten—merged in the sudden blinding light. All bitterness, anger, selfishness, seemed to shrivel up to nothing, and she was even able to throw herself on her knees beside the bed on which Oscar lay, and to say from the bottom of her heart—

“Thy will be done.”

(To be continued.)

MY MOTHER.

yes, in whose welling depths would I

With wonder ofttimes gaze,

And gazing smile, I scarce knew why,

In those long-vanished days;

Hand, that of old my pillow smoothed

When fever burnt my brow,

And all my infant sorrows soothed

With love—where are ye now?

Hushed is the voice whose accents soft

Would cradle me to sleep;

The eyes that lighted up so oft

No longer laugh—nor weep;

The hand, before whose touch so deft

Sickness and care would flee,

Is gone, and naught, alas! is left

Save memory to me.

G. K. M.

“ALL MY INFANT SORROWS SOOTHED.”

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

PART V.

THE END OF OUR PILGRIMAGE.

On the 4th of April we left Jerusalem for Hebron, travelling in an ancient vehicle driven by a merry bright-eyed youth, who at intervals would put his head under the hood of the carriage, and inquire, “Are you happy, O ladies?” On this journey we dispensed with the services of our dragoman, Miss B. kindly undertaking for us the distracting business of payments and bargaining, for the coinage of Palestine is as perplexing as its language.

You can never be sure of the value of Turkish money in this country. Every village, though circulating the same coins, puts a different value on them; this is most embarrassing to the European. I do not remember meeting either a native or an English resident, who could give you off-hand the accurate cost of a few trifling purchases. Before you can get near it, mysterious calculations have to be worked out on paper; these must be illustrated by pieces of English, French and Turkish money, accompanied by such profuse explanations that you soon begin to doubt your own sanity. Lucky indeed is the English traveller who survives, and goes forth with a serene countenance, believing that he comprehends the system of accounts as practised in Palestine.

On the road we passed long caravans of Russian and other pilgrims going up to Jerusalem to keep Easter. They saluted us courteously, but showed unmistakable surprise at our travelling in an opposite direction to the Holy City.

Half-way to Hebron we stopped at a khân, and were presented with tiny cups of coffee. We returned the compliment by offering a backsheesh to the khân-keeper.

In the remoter parts of Palestine buying and selling is reduced to a fine art. As a matter of fact you don’t buy anything, you merely exchange presents. You wish to purchase something and ask the price; the owner immediately gives you the article, and with a grand air places his hand on his heart and exclaims—

“Take it, my brother; what is that between thee and me?”

If you are foolish enough to accept his words literally, he will be grievously disappointed, and by the exercise of much cunning would, without fail, get his gift back again. No, the correct way is to utter polite protests against such generosity, to which your would-be benefactor again fervently remarks—

“Think not of that, O my brother, it is a trifle.”

You go on playing at cup and ball until he deprecatingly yields to your scruples, and names a price out of all proportion to the value of the article. At this point the game becomes exciting. If you are wise, you turn on your heel in disgust, after throwing out contemptuous hints on the worthlessness of the “present.” This causes the merchant to reflect; his respect for you is growing; finally he relents and proposes a more reasonable price. The exchange is then made, and you part with mutual expressions of good-will.

While we were sipping our coffee, our driver and a friend washed their hands, carefully removed their shoes from their feet, and turning towards Mecca they solemnly prayed and recited portions of the Korân, bowing their heads and performing the prescribed genuflexions. When this duty was finished, they promptly fell out over some trifle, and said things to each other in what Miss B. described as highly pictorial language. Just as we expected them to come to blows, they embraced, climbed into their places on the box-seat (for the friend turned out to be a fourth passenger), and we resumed our journey, though not before our Jehu had thrust his head under the hood of the carriage with the artless inquiry, “Are you happy, O beautiful ladies?” To which Miss B. replied—

“Transcendently happy, O son of the Prophet!”

In acknowledgment of this compliment to his powers of pleasing, we were entertained with an improvised air, to which he sang in praise of our loveliness and amiability of character. Such is the Arab!

In a couple of hours we were entering Hebron by the narrow valley whose vine-clad hills have immortalised the Vale of Eshchol. We alighted at the door of the English Hospital, which is outside the town, and were warmly welcomed by the ladies, whose guests we were to be for the next two days.

Under the guidance of Dr. Patterson, the medical missionary, we visited the famous Mosque, but were only allowed to ascend the five outer steps. This even excited the anger of the wild boys and girls, who spat at us and cursed us as Pagan Franks. From one of the prayer holes in the marvellous outer wall which surrounds the cave of Machpelah we took out a paper, which had been placed there that morning by a Jewish mother. On it was written in a curious Judeo-Arabic dialect a prayer “to our Father Abraham that he would look upon her affliction and intercede with the Lord of Hosts that He would give her sons instead of daughters.” This desire for male children is common throughout Syria. As soon as the first son is born, the father drops his own name and is henceforward known as Abou Yusef—the father of Joseph—as the case may be, while the mother gains the respect and love of her husband in proportion to the number of sons she bears him. Daughters, as a rule, are of no account.

We looked with reverence and awe upon the ancestral burial-place of the Patriarchs. True, we could only gaze at the polished outer wall, but we knew that therein “was the one spot of earth which Abraham could call his own.” The pledge which he left of the perpetuity of his interest in “the land wherein he was a stranger” was the sepulchre which he bought with four hundred shekels of silver from Ephron the Hittite. Round this venerable cave the reverence of successive ages and religions has now raised a series of edifices which, whilst they preserve its identity, conceal it entirely from view. But there it still remains. Within the Mussulman mosque, within the Christian church, within the massive stone enclosure built by the kings of Judah, is, beyond any reasonable question, the last resting-place of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and Rebecca, “and there Jacob buried Leah,” and thither, with all the pomp of funeral state, his own embalmed body was brought from the palaces of Egypt.[3]

Hebron is a Moslem city containing about 18,000 inhabitants. About 600 Jews dwell in the lower end of the town. Fierce and wild, it is their boast that no Pagan Frank has built his house within their walls nor desecrated their holy shrine with his presence. Whether this bigotry will give place to tolerance under the softening influences exercised by the medical missionaries has yet to be proved. We were told that the people were becoming gradually gentler. To us they seemed fanatical and dangerous. There is no hotel in Hebron for travellers.

Thanks to our good friends the missionaries we were able to visit most of the places of interest round about. The neighbourhood abounds in traditions. To the north, a cave is pointed out as having been the abode of Adam and Eve for more than a hundred years. Farther south is the spot where Cain killed Abel, and there in the “Vale of Tears” Adam mourned for his murdered son, and close by the Father of all living was buried.

The history of Hebron, or El-Kalleel (the Friend of God), is particularly interesting. It is one of the oldest cities in the world, having been built seven years before Zoan or Memphis in Egypt (Num. xiii. 22). “Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar to the Lord” (Gen. xiii. 18). Later on Joshua smote it with the edge of the sword and destroyed it utterly; afterwards he gave it to Caleb for an inheritance, “because that he wholly followed the Lord God of Israel.” David reigned here seven years and a half. The murderers of Ishbosheth were hanged by the pool, which is still in existence. Rebellious Absalom made the city his headquarters. Centuries later it was taken from the Edomites by Judas Maccabees, but since 1187 it has been in the hands of the Moslems. To-day it is a picturesque stone town, the centre of commerce for the southern Arabs, who bring their wool and camels’ hair to the market. They also trade extensively in glass beads and leathern water-buckets.

We were sorry when our two days had expired, but alas! we had to say good-bye to our hospitable English friends, for time pressed; so waving a last farewell to the groups of deaconesses and servants, who had gathered at the door of the mission house, we turned our faces again towards Jerusalem. A couple of days in David’s city followed and then to Jericho, where we bathed in the mysterious Dead Sea, and in consequence were covered with salt crystals. Starting before sunrise, we were back again in Jerusalem at 9 A.M., and late in the same afternoon our little cavalcade, comprising Ameen, Bon Jour, Elizabeth and myself, rode out of the city on our way north.

For the next six days we lived almost entirely in the saddle from sunrise to sunset, sleeping at native hotels or convents, which had been previously arranged for by our faithful dragoman, whose careful attention to our needs cannot be too highly spoken of. Although the sun was hot, the roads rough, and even a shady nook could not always be found for our midday meal, we thoroughly enjoyed these long days in the drowsy air. Every hill and valley, plain and pool we passed on our route had been the scene of some more or less remarkable event recorded in the Scriptures, and as Ameen was well posted up in Bible history, and eager to impart his knowledge, we missed no place of interest. Travelling thus day by day, seldom meeting any human being, except an occasional shepherd or country woman, we had ample time for reflection, and it was easy enough to give the reins to one’s imagination, and ride with Joshua’s army through these silent vales, or watch the impetuous rush of the warriors up those bleak rocky hills, as with all the confidence of victory they stormed the cities which once stood there. Again from out of the past we could hear the blessings and curses thundered forth, and see the huge mass of people gathered together, as we galloped through the narrow valley with the towering sentinels, Gerizim and Ebal on either side. Or as we sat on Jacob’s well we could listen to the sweet voice of the Saviour talking to the poor woman of Samaria.

On we went through Nablous until we reached Mount Tabor, where on the top, in the Latin convent, we rested a couple of days. Thence to Tiberias, where we dismissed our faithful escort. Here we stayed with our friends Dr. and Mrs. Torrance, of the Free Church of Scotland Mission. Their house and hospital are built on the shores of the Lake of Galilee, and amid its charming scenery we passed a fortnight. One of our excursions took us to Gadara. Our tents were pitched on a green knoll in the midst of wild beetling crags, volcanic mountains, and tropical vegetation. We bathed by moonlight in one of the great natural sulphur springs hidden by immense hedges of oleanders. Striking our tents at five in the morning, we rode hard till twelve o’clock, when we reached one of the ancient giant cities. Here Dr. Torrance held an open-air medical mission. The poor people soon crowded round the Hakeem and were patiently examined, and medicines dispensed to those who needed them. It was a picturesque and pathetic scene, the kindly face of the white doctor, with the almost black natives, and hideously tatooed women and girls waiting anxiously for his verdict, firmly believing that his touch and medicines had miraculous power. As we rode through the city we were deeply impressed by its mighty ruins, which testified to the strength and culture of its founders. From Tiberias we went to Nazareth, staying a few days at the Protestant Orphanage; and then engaging two muleteers we set forth again, crossed Carmel, stayed the night in the comfortable German hotel built at its foot, then along the coast to Beyrout, stopping at Acre, Tyre, and Sidon—a five days’ journey. This route I should not recommend to those who dislike solitude and Eastern travel without the slightest Western comfort. Dr. and Mrs. Eddy, of the American Presbyterian Mission, received us very kindly at Sidon, as there turned out to be no hotel, though this town was by far the most flourishing we had seen. A large industrial school for boys, worked by the missionaries, was well attended, all kinds of trades were taught, the pupils eagerly and intelligently learning, and eventually going out well equipped to fight the battle of life.

We rested a few days at Beyrout (the Paris of Syria) under the shadow of the purple Lebanons. Here we dismissed our muleteers, for we were now in the region of railways and civilisation. Very early on a Monday morning we got into the train which was to take us to Damascus. The journey lasted ten hours, but it seemed like two, for the railroad is cut through the Lebanons, and the most exquisite scenery meets the eye the whole way. Towards four o’clock the train rushed screaming through the valley of the Barada (the Abana of Scripture), past smiling gardens, and drew up in the station of Damascus. It was a glowing afternoon, but the lovely green of the trees and the plash, plash, of the rapid rivers softened the glare of the domes and roofs of the houses, and gave relief from the dusty roads. In the evening we went up to the top of a hill overlooking “the mother of cities,” and sat down to enjoy the scene. How dreamlike it looked in the soft sunset! The brown bare mountains on one side, the pathless desert all round. Damascus, like an exquisite pearl set in a crown of emeralds, nestled surrounded by miles of waving green trees. No wonder that to the sun-baked Bedouin of the desert it is a paradise, or that Mahomet in first beholding it, turned back, saying, “I am not fit to enter.”

The bazaars of Damascus are famous in the East. Each set of merchants has its own quarters, so that there is no difficulty in finding the wares you require. There are long straight arcades, and winding, twisting arcades, all aglow with light and colour.

But there is no time to linger or describe the beauties of this truly beautiful city. We spent a week amid its wonders and fell more in love with it day by day. I might mention that the hotels are fairly good, and English travellers are well cared for.

And now our journeyings are nearly over. A week at Baalbec, where the famous ruins of the temples of Jupiter and the Sun are the astonishment of all beholders; thence to Beyrout, from which port we embarked for Constantinople, another delightful five days’ journey, and we steamed into the Bosphorus.

A week crammed with more wonders in the way of sight-seeing, and then late on Monday afternoon we stepped into the Oriental Express and were whirled homewards, and on Thursday afternoon we were in dear smoky London once more, after an absence of nearly four months.

It may interest my readers to know that our joint expenses for this trip were £170, including £39 for railway tickets from Constantinople to London. This sum took in every item of expenditure except the presents which we bought for our home friends. Of course we could not possibly have seen so much, nor travelled so comfortably and economically if it had not been for the kindness and hospitality of our many missionary friends, who had looked forward to our visit, and who made everything easy and delightful for us. If any of the girl readers of The Girl’s Own Paper set out on such a tour, I hope they will return with as many pleasant recollections as we did. And now farewell.

S. E. Bell.

VARIETIES.

Lasting a Lifetime.

Mrs. Crabshaw: “What do you mean by cheating me like this? You said this chain I bought here would last a lifetime, and here is all the plating worn off in a month.”

Goldskin: “Madam, I said dot shain vould last you a lifetime pecause when you puy it you look so sick I didn’t t’ink you vould live der veek oudt.”

Life is Short.

As shadows cast by cloud and sun

Flit o’er the summer grass,

So in Thy sight, Almighty One,

Earth’s generations pass;

And as the years, an endless host,

Come swiftly pressing on,

The brightest names that earth can boast

Just glisten and are gone.—Bryant.

Absurd Names.