FOOTNOTE:[1]Sesame and Lilies. By John Ruskin, LL.D. 1. Of King's Treasuries. 2. Of Queen's Gardens.
[1]Sesame and Lilies. By John Ruskin, LL.D. 1. Of King's Treasuries. 2. Of Queen's Gardens.
[1]Sesame and Lilies. By John Ruskin, LL.D. 1. Of King's Treasuries. 2. Of Queen's Gardens.
W
e have all heard tell of the "Clerk of the Weather." What a poor, ill-used, roundly-rated, over-worked individual he must be! His whole life must be spent in an impossible endeavour to please everybody. We may imagine the poor man going of a morning towards his office with languid steps and weary, wondering all the while to himself what sort of weather he ought to give the public to-day.
Arrived in front of his desk, he must stagger back with dismay at the piles on piles of letters heaped thereon. To read them all is out of the question; so he sits down and draws one forth, just as you would draw a card from the hand of someone who pretended to tell fortunes.
He opens the letter. It isn't a pleasant one by any means. There is a tone of growling impatience in every line of it. How long, the writer, who is an invalid, wants to know, are these horrible east winds going to prevail down in Devonshire? She has come here for her health's sake; she has been here for three weeks, and all that time it has never ceased to blow, and she has never ceased to cough and ache.
The clerk throws this epistle into the Balaam box and listlessly draws out another. "Don't you think," the writer says, "that a blink of sunshine would be a blessing—and a drop or two of warm rain to bring the fruit on, and the garden stuff? What is the good of having a Clerk of the Weather at all if he cannot attend better to his duties?"
That letter is also pitched into the Balaam box, and a third drawn—a delightful little cocked-hat of a letter, written on delicately-perfumed paper, probably with a dove's quill. She—of course it is a she!—is going to a garden-party on Tuesday week; would he, the Clerk of the Weather, kindly see that not a drop of rain falls on that day? Only bright sunshine, and occasional cloudlets to act as awnings and temper its heat.
The Clerk with a smile places that letter aside for further consideration, and goes on drawing. All and everyone of them either demand impossibilities or merely write to abuse the poor Clerk for some fancied dereliction of duty. One wants rain, another growls because there has been too much wet. This one is grumbling at the fogs, this other at the sunshine; this one suggests snow for a change, and this other begs for a thunderstorm to clear the atmosphere.
And so on and so forth. No wonder the bewildered Clerk jumps up at last and over-turns the table, letters and all, and audibly expresses a desire to let all the winds loose upon the world at once, to revel and tear and do as they like, to bring blinding snow from the far north and drenching rains from the torrid zone, to order a select assortment of thunderstorms from the Cape of Good Hope, and a healthy tornado from the Indian Ocean. But he thinks better of it, burns all the letters, and goes quietly on with his day's duty.
We see, then, that no matter what state of body of mind we may be in, we cannot get weather to order. We really commit an error, if nothing worse, in asking for weather to suit us.
We cannot alter our climate. December and January will bring their frosts and snows without asking our permission; easterly or nor'-easterly winds will prevail in the spring months; March will bluster, April will weep; May will smile through her tears by day and freeze us with her frosts at night, and July will stupefy us with thunderstorms, and August scorch us with heat one day and drench us to the skin the next.
Now I am happy to say that a very large percentage of the readers ofThe Girl's Own Paperare so healthy in lungs and in nerves, and so stout-hearted and strong-limbed, that it is, as a rule, a matter of entire indifference to them how the wind blows or how the weather is. But all are not so, and it will seem a matter of surprise for the really robust to be told that many girls are so delicately constituted that they actually can tell if the wind is from the east before they draw the blind and look out. It is for this section of our girls that I am writing to-day. They may not be invalids, but may simply labour under a great susceptibility to atmospheric changes.
Such as these will be glad to be told that there is every possibility of their growing out of this disagreeable susceptibility, much depending upon how they use and treat themselves when young. Spring winds are very hard upon those who are subject to chest or throat irritation—in other words, to common colds—and I must take this opportunity of entreating girls of this class never to neglect a cold. Why? Because one cold on top of another, as the saying is, will certainly result in the end in thickening of the delicate mucous membrane that lines the lungs, and if this takes place you may look forward to being in time a confirmed invalid the greater part of the year through winter cough.
It is not a very difficult thing to get clear of a cold if taken in time. Confinement to the house for a day, or even two, a lowered diet, a mixture of the solution of acetate of ammonia and spirits of sweet nitre the first day, some aperient medicine and an ordinary cough mixture the second or third day, warmer clothing and avoidance of exposure to high winds; this treatment will be found successful in nine cases out of ten.
Sudden changes in temperature are apt to induce illness in the delicate. Mild weather may have prevailed for some days, when all at once the wind veers round to the north-east and at the same time it blows high. Exposure to weather of this kind may induce whatsoever kind of ailment an individual is subject to.
Well, there is one way and only one, to avoid it, and that is to dress in proportion to the cold. No need for the clothing to be thick or heavy. It should rather be the reverse, only soft and warm. Heavy clothing is sure to cause fatigue in walking, and also perspiration, and both states of body lay open the pores for trouble to enter.
No need, either, for even the delicate to confine themselves to the house during the cold spring weeks or days. Confinement to the house means want of exercise, want of an abundance of fresh air, and very often want of appetite. Well, the strong may exist intact for a long time without much exercise or ozone, but, mind you, the delicate cannot.
On wet days a mackintosh may be worn, though a good large umbrella is far better. But if you will have a waterproof, let it be a cloth one, one that will admit of ventilation, and not an india-rubber article. This last is only fit for a Scottish cabman, with muscles of iron and sinews of steel.
Here is an extreme case by way of example. A lady goes out to take a walk on a damp day thus accoutred: An extraordinary bulk and weight of clothes, and over all an india-rubber mackintosh; on her feet are those abominations called goloshes; over her mouth she has stuck a respirator, and over her head and shoulders she carries an enormous umbrella. The windows and doors of this lady's house are always kept shut, and rendered hermetically sealed by woollen sand-bags and other oxygen-banishing contrivances. Is it any wonder that she is pale and flabby in face, that her very hands are sickly, soft, and puffy, and that she is continually at war with the cook?
Be warned, dear reader; take all reasonable precautions against catching cold, but do not render your body unwholesome from over-clothing, nor your lungs sickly for want of the pure air of heaven that you can no more live well without than a fish can survive in a muddy stream. Sore throat and tic doloreux, or face-ache, are very common complaints in cold weather with high winds. But I really think they are more easily prevented than cured. Both may be produced in the same way—namely, from exposure to cold. It is a draught blowing directly on the face and into the eyes or upon the neck that brings on these distressing complaints. Beware of such a draught, and beware of damp or wet feet. Beware, also, when walking out, of having too thick a muffle around the neck, for this is apt to sweat it.
Whenever you feel the slightest touch of sore throat, examine it at the glass, and if there be any redness, do it over with your camel's-hair pencil dipped in a mixture of glycerine two parts and tincture of iron one part.
As for tic, you protect yourself against cold and damp, but you ought also to take an occasional tonic, and there is nothing I know better than the citrate of iron and quinine. If, however, this medicine should produce a disagreeable feeling of fulness in the head, it had better be avoided and some other tonic substituted. Well, there is cod-liver oil in conjunction with the extract of malt. This is the only form in which cod-liver oil can be taken by many.
I should mention that an occasional aperient pill will do good, but that the habit of taking medicine of this kind as a regular thing should be avoided.
In cold weather the feet should be kept very comfortable, but you must avoid sitting too much by the fire. I have already said that sudden atmospheric changes are dangerous, but girls often manufacture these changes for themselves, quite independent of the weather, by keeping themselves too warm indoors and hugging the fire too much.
In cold weather the food should be more nourishing, and soups are good for the health. Soups should be avoided when the weather changes to warm.
Sugar, sweets, puddings, and fatty foods are all good in cold, bleak weather, but in summer these do harm, if used to any great extent, by heating the blood.
The change in this country from cold with high winds and perhaps frosts at night to warmth and even scorching heat is often very sudden. Even the delicate are then very aptto throw off their winter or spring clothing. But to do so suddenly is highly injudicious. Girls who are not strong should wear some woollen material all the year round. This should of course be of a lighter texture in summer, but woollen it ought to be, without doubt.
It is, I believe, a fact that there are fully as many disagreeable colds caught in summer as in winter, and this can only be owing to the greater recklessness with which people expose themselves to the influence of the weather.
During sultry and thundery weather, as it is called, many of the delicate suffer from languor, listlessness, and headache. These symptoms usually go away suddenly when the weather breaks or the storm comes on and rolls over. Exertion in cases of this kind should be avoided, as well as anything like heavy meals. The sufferer is better out of doors than in, and better reclining in a hammock or easy-chair out of a draught than standing or walking about.
Hot weather greatly depresses the vital energy, because it usually comes on so suddenly. On very warm days the delicate should avoid the sunshine's glare during the heat of the day. But exercise must be taken if health is to be retained, so in summer even girls that are not strong should get out of bed soon and take a tepid if not cold bath. About half-an-hour after breakfast is the best time for exercise, and again about an hour before sunset, just when the day is cooling down, but before the chill, night air has begun to blow.
I have no intention at present to take up the subject of food in its relation to weather, but I must be permitted to say that in our country, as a rule, summer dinners are served on mistaken principles. Why, they differ but little, if at all, from the same meals as placed before us in the winter season—soup, fish, and great joints, pastry and cheese.
To the robust I have nothing to say. Let them eat what they choose; in time they will find out their mistake. But I do seriously advise delicate girls to live rather abstemiously and on light, easily digested dishes during the hot weather. Salads (and fruit, if good and ripe) may, however, be taken with great benefit.
We constantly hear young folks complaining of thirst during very warm weather. The reason is not so much to be sought in the heat itself as in the way they live. Overloading the stomach with strong meats in the summer season not only induces thirst but positively enfeebles the body and hurts the digestion.
Ice and ices should be avoided as much as possible; at the best their use is but a very artificial way of cooling the overheated body. A mixture of ice and stimulants is worse ten times. A cup of good tea is one of the most wholesome beverages one can take in warm weather. It exhilarates, it cools, and while it cools the body it calms the mind.
Lime or lemon juice and water make a good drink. It should be sipped.
Ginger beer is somewhat too gassy for a delicate stomach. Raspberry syrup in water, acidulated to taste with a little citric acid, is very refreshing, and the same may be said of many other of the fruit syrups.
Raspberry vinegar is made by placing three pounds of the picked fruit into a glass vessel and pouring over them a pint and a half of white wine vinegar. It should stand for a fortnight and then be strained without pressure.
Buttermilk is as good for a drink in summer as it is for the complexion. Whey is also an excellent drink in summer, and I cannot refrain from suggesting as a summer dish curds and cream.
Ripe fruit may be eaten during hot weather with great benefit, only it must be ripe and not over ripe.
To conclude, I shall give a prescription for a summer drink which is worth making a note of. Take the thin peel and the juice of a good-sized lemon and add a small teaspoonful of citric acid and a wine-glassful of fruit syrup, then pour on of boiling water one quart. Let it stand till cold, and then strain.
I
don't suppose there are many girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three who have not a great friend—a particular friend; and if there are, it is my opinion they cannot be the best kind of girls, because unnatural.
Some one—I think it is the author of "John Halifax, Gentleman"—has called friendship a "Foreshadowing of love"; and if it is natural for a woman to have a lover, it is no less natural for a girl to have a great friend among her girl associates.
How do girls make friends? and why do their friendships last very often but a short time? or, again, how is it they ever endure a long time? are questions which people who have forgotten their own early friendships, or, perhaps, never gave much thought to them, puzzle over in vain. And they may have puzzled you too, my thoughtful girl-readers, who want the ideal friend you have read of or dreamed of in day-dreams, but neither possess nor know how to acquire.
To begin with—What is friendship? and I am inclined to define it as a bond of mutual affection, sympathy, and help. If it is lacking in any one of these particulars, just so far does it fall short of ideal friendship.
Test your present so-called friendship by these tests, and I think you will find that any dissatisfaction you may feel in them can be accounted for by a failure to pass one or other.
There is, perhaps, not much difficulty about the first of these. Young people feel quickly and strongly, and if girls did not honestly love one another, or imagine—also honestly—that they did, the friendship, if, indeed, it could exist at all, would be shorn of half its charm. But love must be fed, and will only starve on a diet of respect and admiration, without a very large admixture of sympathy. Sympathy, fellow-feeling, mutual sensibility—call it how we will—is a simple necessity to our ideal friendship, and by no means compels the two friends to unvarying likeness either in character or tastes. But our ideal friends—let us call them Alice and Maud—must be united so wholly by this subtle bond that the pleasure, pain, or interest of the one touches, through her, the other, who shares in what I may call this reflective way the emotion originating with her friend.
Alice, who does not personally care for music in the least, yet thoroughly enjoys a concert, because she is feeling (reflectively) all the time the keen delight with which Maud is listening to every note; and Maud, for the same reason, has true pleasure in reading that rather dry volume of essays, because that scattered throughout are sentiments and expressions which she knows very well Alice will greatly appreciate.
Mutual sympathy between friends is, of course, the outcome of love; and yet it is surprising how little sympathy sometimes exists between girls who to all appearance are really fond of one another.
This may arise from selfishness, unselfishness, or unintelligence—that density of mental vision which has never been educated to perceive the subtle bonds which bind soul to soul.
Now let us take Edith and Amy as examples of an imperfect friendship, in contrary distinction to the ideal or perfect. They are fond of one another, but there is a lack of mutual sympathy. Amy is full of ideas and projects, which she sows broadcast during their long confidentials, and which spring up in great beauty (to her mind, at least) in the fertile soil of Edith's admiration. But all the giving is on one side. Edith listens and wonders, applauds or condoles, as her stronger-minded friend may give her the cue, too unselfish, and perhaps, also, too timid, to intrude her own less thrilling interests and hopes upon Amy's self-absorption; so that when the latter comes to an end of her confidences, and has leisure and recollection enough to say, "And now, Edith, what have you been doing?" she hastily replies, "Oh, nothing particular," glad to be able to shield her insignificance in silence.
Amy does not miss the return confidence which makes friendship so sweet; she is too full of her own affairs to be a listener. Edith is her overflow, whom she leaves saying mentally, "What a dear little sympathetic thing she is! What should I do without her?"
But what is Edith to do? Where is her overflow? This is a very one-sided friendship: the companionship of giant and dwarf, which sooner or later must come to an end or be very uncomfortable for the dwarf. The friends, as I said, need not be alike, need not even be of equal capacity, intellectually or practically, but the sympathy, rooted in affection, must be mutual; it must be equal give and take, or the friendship is miserably stunted and incomplete.
And this brings me to speak of the third ingredient in what I have defined as a perfect friendship—mutual help, which, of course, supposes the two friends to be somewhat different, whether in character, tastes, or surroundings, so that one can supply what the other lacks.
ALICE AND MAUD.ALICE AND MAUD.
If two countries in friendly relations bothproduce one article abundantly, and are both lacking in some other article, there can be no commerce—which is the symbol of friendly relations—between them. Both must apply to a third country for that in which both are deficient. And if Edith cannot get help from Amy when she is in need of it, not necessarily advice, but some new view of the situation occasioned by Amy's different character or life, and which would enable Edith to face the trouble or difficulty with more courage or intelligence—if, I say, Edith cannot get this help from Amy, before long she will find Clara, and the friendship will be dissolved or cooled; while undiscerning people will say, "How fickle these girls are!"
Not at all. They obey a subtle, spiritual law, which makes it impossible for friendship long to exist on insufficient food, and when it is said that women are unreasoning and exacting in their friendships, it is simply because people don't see that it is the nature which is in them crying out to be fed with that without which it must die.
But if after, it may be, years of affectionate intercourse, you still find that your friend gives you absolutely nothing which you have not already got—that she communicates no thought or experience to you that will stimulate your mind or aid you in the practical work of life—do you not begin to lose interest in her, strive as you will against the consciousness of it? Does not the friend quit her hold on you and slide down to the level of those of whom an hour or a letter every few weeks gives you enough? You may feel affectionately towards such, but not friendship.
Our ideal friends, Alice and Maud, are very different. Alice is studious and thoughtful, leading a quiet, uneventful life; Maud is high-spirited, devoted to art and music, and sees considerably more of "the world," as it is called. But they are a constant source of interest and assistance to each other. Alice's thoughtful mind finds the meaning to the puzzles of Maud's more superficial existence, who in turn puts the light touches to Alice's grave conclusions, which often give them reality. These two, as it were, sketch life's island from different points. One takes the outline of cliff or shore, dashing in what I may call the aggregated tints of forest and hill; the other paints by turns each special crag or ravine, with their colours in detail; yet both are correct, and we want both if we are to understand the island.
I can imagine Maud in difficulty thinking, "I must go and see Alice, she will help me out of my perplexity; she takes such different views of things from those I do, and I have really come to an end of my ideas."
Or Alice, also in difficulty, though probably of a very different character, exclaiming, "I only wish Maud were here. She would know just how to arrange this; and I cannot imagine what to do."
Emerson tells us that as soon as we come up with a man's (or woman's) limitations it is all over with us. Before that he might have been infinitely alluring and attractive—"a great hope—a sea to swim in"; but you discover that he has a shore—that the sea is, in fact, a pond—and you cease to care for it.
There is something in this to explain the languidness or cessation of many girl friendships. There is nothing more to be learned—nothing more to teach. They have come to an end of their resources; there is no more help to be got, and the interest dwindles. A long walk or talk with one another becomes stale, each prefers her own society, and by degrees the unfed affection cools, and they find themselves unconsciously groping about for souls whose limitations they have not yet reached.
This is not fickleness; it is Nature; and there is a natural remedy—progress. If day by day your shores—to use Emerson's simile—widen, if you will not allow your mind to remain at a standstill, like the stagnant pond, but are constantly receiving and constantly using varied stores of knowledge and experience, you need not fear to crush your friend by the discovery of your limitations. She will have to progress too, if she is to come up with that; and as there is no reasonable probability that you will advance in precisely the same direction, you will each find increasing interest and help in the other's society.
One thing more the ideal friendship needs, but it is one most girls' friendships, whether ideal or not, possess. I mean confidence. It is not till the twenties are well into that reserve and reticence take their place in a woman's friendship; it is not till then that she questions with herself how far she will trust her friend with her hopes, fears, and troubles. The younger we are, the more generous, trusting, and unsuspicious we are; which is, I suppose, the great reason why we never make such particular friends when the period of trust is past. If your friend is worthy of the name, trust her wholly. How can you sympathise with or help one another if you only tell half your troubles and difficulties? I do not mean that all should wear their hearts upon their sleeves. Every girl has, and should have, her private sanctuary of thought, where none may enter; but in the matters which are discussed between friends let there be no half-confidences.
I have tried to sketch what I call an ideal friendship. If they are rare, they are possible—most possible if you only study their construction.
I think all thoughtful and imaginative girls long for this ideal friendship; but I wonder if they all reflect that the ideality does not all depend on the friend, but on themselves. If it takes two most emphatically to make a quarrel, it needs two to make a friendship. Do your best to make it ideal.
I have known such a friendship; I know that it is possible; and I know that it is one of the most perfect experiences our life can give us.
You do not need to live exceptional lives in order to love, sympathise, and help. Experience is the best teacher, and gives lessons to all. Use that intelligently as a means of moral, mental, spiritual progress, remembering that it does not come to you by chance, but rather as the work of
"The handsWhich reach through Nature, moulding men."
"The handsWhich reach through Nature, moulding men."
(To be continued.)
S
uch an odd thing happened a few minutes afterwards. I was sitting quite quietly in my corner, turning over in my mind all the arguments with which I had assailed Aunt Agatha that Sunday afternoon, and watching the pink glow of the firelight in contrast to the whiteness of the snow outside, when the door bell rang, and almost the next moment Uncle Keith came into the room.
I suppose he must have overlooked me entirely, for he went up to Aunt Agatha and sat down beside her.
"Sweetheart," he said, taking her hand, and I should hardly have recognised his voice, "I have been thinking about you all the way home, and what a pleasant sight my wife's face would be after my long walk through the snow and——" But here Aunt Agatha must have given him a warning look, for he stopped rather abruptly, and said, "Hir-rumph" twice over, and Aunt Agatha blushed just as though she were a girl.
I could not help laughing a little to myself as I went out of the room to tell Patience to bring in the tea, and yet that sentence of Uncle Keith touched me somehow. Were middle-aged people capable of that sort of love? Did youth linger so long in them? I had imagined those two such a staid, matter-of-fact couple; they had come together so late in life, that one never dreamt of any possible romance in such a courtship, and yet he could call Aunt Agatha "Sweetheart" in a voice that was not the least drawling. At that moment one would not have called him so plain and insignificant with that kind look on his face. I suppose he keeps that look for Aunt Agatha, for I remember she once told me that she had never seen such a good face as Uncle Keith's "not handsome, Merle, but so thoroughly good."
Patience was toasting the muffins in her bright little kitchen, so I sat down and watched her. I was rather partial to Patience; she was a pretty, neat-looking creature, and I always thought it a great pity that she was engaged to a journeyman bootmaker, who aspired to be a preacher. I never could approve of Reuben Locke, though Aunt Agatha spoke well of him; he was such a weak, pale-faced young man; and I think a man, to be one, ought to have some spirit in him, and not possess only the womanish virtues.
"How is Reuben, Patience?" I asked, somewhat amiably, just for the pleasure of seeing our little handmaid's dimples come into view.
"Reuben's but poorly, miss," replied Patience, as she buttered another smoking muffin, the last of the pile. "He was preaching at Whitechapel the other night and caught a cold and sore throat; his mother says he will not be at chapel to-night."
"I do not approve of street preaching myself," I remarked, a little severely.
"Indeed, miss," replied Patience, innocently, as she prepared to carry in the tea-tray, "Reuben always tells me that the Apostles were street preachers, and Reuben is as clear as Gospel in what he says." But here the drawing-room bell broke off Patience's argument, and left me somewhat worsted. I went to church by myself that evening, and I am ashamed to say I heard very little of the sermon. I knew Aunt Agatha would be taking advantage of my long absence to retail what she termed my preposterous scheme to Uncle Keith, and that I should have the benefit of his opinion on my return, and this thought made me restless.
I was not wrong in my surmise. Aunt Agatha looked a little pale and subdued, as though she had been shedding a few tears over my delinquencies, but Uncle Keith was simply inscrutable; when he chose, his face could present a perfect blank.
"Hir-rumph, my dear, what is this your aunt tells me, that you are going to Prince's Gate to-morrow morning to offer your services as nurse in a gentleman's family?"
"Yes, Uncle Keith."
"Do you mean to tell me seriously that you have really made up your mind to take this step?"
"Oh, I am quite serious, I assure you."
"Your aunt's objections and mine do not count for much, then?"
"I should be sorry to go against your wishes or Aunt Agatha's," I returned, trying to keep cool; but his manner, as usual, aggravated me; it said so plainly, "What a silly child you are, and yet you think yourself a woman," "but I must do as I think right in this matter. I hope to prove to you and everyone else that there is nothing derogatory in the work I mean to undertake. It is not what I would choose, perhaps, but everything else is closed to me," thinking sorrowfully of my life-long misfortune, as I always called it, and my repressed longings for hospital training.
"Perhaps if you waited something else might turn up." But I shook my head at this.
"I have waited too long already, Uncle Keith; idleness soon becomes a habit."
"Then if you have made up your mind, it is useless to try and alter it," returned Uncle Keith, in a slightly ironical tone, and he actually took up the volume he was reading in a way that showed he had dismissed the subject. I was never more astonished in my life; never had Uncle Keith so completely baffled me.
I had spent the whole time during which I ought to have been listening to the sermon, in recapitulating the heads of my arguments in favour of this very scheme; I would show Uncle Keith how clearly and logically I could work out the subject.
I had thought out quite an admirable little essay on feminine work in the nineteenth century by the time Mr. Wright had finished his discourse. I meant to have cited the Challoners as an example. Aunt Agatha had stayed in their neighbourhood of Oldfield just before her marriage, and had often paid visits at Longmead and Glen Cottage.
The eldest Miss Challoner—Nan, I think they called her—was just preparing for her own wedding, and Aunt Agatha often told me what a beautiful girl she was, and what a fine, intelligent creature the second sister Phillis seemed. She was engaged to a young clergyman at Hadleigh, and there had been some talk of a double wedding, only Nan's father-in-law, Mr. Mayne, of Longmead, had been rather cross at the notion, so Phillis's was to be postponed until the autumn.
All the neighbourhood of Oldfield had been ringing with the strange exploits of these young ladies. One little fact had leaked out after another; it was said their own cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, of Gilsbank, had betrayed the secret, though he always vowed his wife had a hand, or rather a tongue, in the business; but anyhow, there was a fine nine days' gossip over the matter.
It seemed that some time previously Mrs. Challoner and her three daughters had sustained severe losses, and the three girls, instead of losing courage, had put their shoulders to the wheel, and had actually set up as dressmakers at Hadleigh, carrying on their business in a most masterly fashion, until the unexpected return of their relative, Sir Harry Challoner, from Australia, with plenty of money at his disposal, broke up the dressmaking business, and reinstated them at Glen Cottage.
A few of their friends had been much offended with them, but as it was understood that Lady Fitzroy had spoken warmly of their moral courage and perseverance, it had become the fashion to praise them. Aunt Agatha had often quoted them to me, saying she had never met more charming girls, and adding more than once how thoroughly she respected their independence, and of course in recalling the Challoners I thought I should have added my crowning argument.
There was so much, too, that I longed to say in favour of my theory. The love of little children was very strong with me. I had often been pained as I walked through the streets at seeing tired children dragged along or shaken angrily by some coarse, uneducated nurse. It had always seemed rather a pitiful idea to me that children from their infancy should be in hourly contact with rough, menial natures. "Surely," I would say to myself, "the mother's place must be in her nursery; she can find no higher duty than this, to watch over her little ones; even if her position or rank hinder her constant supervision, why need she relegate her maternal duties to uneducated women? Are there no poor gentlewomen in the world who would gladly undertake such a work from very love, and who would refuse to believe for one moment they were losing caste in discharging one of the holiest and purest duties in life?
"What an advantage to the children," I imagined myself saying in answer to some objection on Uncle Keith's part, never dreaming that all this eloquence would be silenced by masculine cunning.
"What an advantage to these little creatures to hear English pure and undefiled from their cradles, and to be trained to habits of refinement and good manners by merely instinctively following the example before their eyes. Children are such copyists, one shudders to think of these impressionable little beings being permitted by their natural guardians to take their earliest lessons from some uneducated person.
"Women are crying out for work, Uncle Keith," I continued, carrying my warfare into a fresh quarter; but, alas! this, with the rest of my eloquence, died a natural death on my way home. "There are too many of the poor things in this world, and the female market is overstocked. They are invading telegraph offices, and treading on the heels of business men, but sheer pride and stupidity prevent them from trying to open nursery doors."
"Unladylike to be a servant," another imaginary objection on Uncle Keith's part. "Oh, fie, Uncle Keith! this from you, who read your Bible and go to church; and yet I remember a certain passage, 'Whosoever will be chief among you let him be your servant,' which has hallowed the very idea of service ever since.
"To serve others seems the very meaning of womanhood; in some sense, a woman serves all the days of her life. No, I am not farfetched and unpractical." Another supposed masculine tirade. "I have thought over the whole thing most carefully. I am not only working for myself, but for others. I want to open the eyes of my generation, and, like the Challoners, to lead a new crusade against the mighty sham of conventionality. Understand me, Uncle Keith, I do not say to these young gentlewomen, put your pride in your pocket and wheel your perambulator with the twins, or carry the baby into the park before the eyes of your aristocratic acquaintance; that would be unnecessary and foolish; you may leave that part to the under-nurse, who brings your meals and scours your nurseries; I simply say to them, if you have no capacity for teaching, if nature has unfitted you for other work, and you are too proud and conscientious to live a dragging, dependent life under the roof of some overburthened relative, take the charge of some aristocratic nursery. Do not think it beneath your womanhood to feed and wash and clothe an infant, or to watch over weak, toddling creatures. Your work may be humble, but you will grow to love it, and if no one else will put the theory to the test, I, Merle Fenton, will do so, though I must take the plunge unaided, and alone."
But all these feeling observations were locked up in my own inner consciousness, for during the remainder of the eveningUncle Keith simply ignored the subject and read his book with a pretence of being perfectly absorbed in it, though I am certain that his eyes twinkled mischievously whenever he looked in my direction, as though he were quite aware of my flood of repressed oratory.
I determined to have it out with Aunt Agatha, so I followed her into her room, and asked her in a peevish voice what she meant by saying Uncle Keith would be so angry with me, as he had not raised a single objection, and, of course, as silence meant consent, I should most certainly keep my appointment at Prince's Gate.
Aunt Agatha looked a little distressed as she answered me.
"To tell you the truth, Merle, I did not quite understand your uncle myself; I expected a very different reception of my news."
"Tell me all about it from the very beginning," I returned, eagerly. "Patience has made such a nice fire, because she said she was afraid you had a cold, and I can just sit by it and brush out my hair while we talk."
"But I am tired and sleepy, child, and after all there is not much to tell," objected Aunt Agatha; but she was far too good-natured to refuse for all that, so she seated herself, dear soul, in the big chair—that she had christened Idleness—and tried to remember what I wished to hear.
"I told him everything, Merle: how your one little defect hindered you, poor child, from being a nursery governess or companion, and how, in spite of this serious obstacle, you were determined to work and be independent."
"Well, and did he say nothing to all that?" I asked, for I knew in what a feeling manner Aunt Agatha would have described my difficulties.
"Oh, yes; he said, 'poor little thing,' in the kindest possible way, 'and quite right—very proper,' when I spoke of your desire for work."
"Well," rather impatiently.
"He listened very attentively until I read him out the advertisement, but that seemed to upset him, for he burst out laughing, and I thought he would never stop. I was half crying by that time, for you had worried me to death all the afternoon, Merle, but nothing I could say would make him grave for a long time. He said once, 'What could have put such a thing into her head?' and then he laughed again as though the idea amused him, and then he rubbed his hands and muttered, 'What an original child it is; there is no deficiency of brain power as far as I can see; who would have dreamt of such a thing?' and so on."
"Then I may flatter myself that Uncle Keith approves of my scheme," I observed, stiffly, for I was much offended at the idea of his laugh.
"Oh dear, no," returned Aunt Agatha, in an alarmed voice, "he expressed his disapproval very strongly; he said it was all very well in theory, and that, on the whole, he agreed with you that the nursery was undoubtedly a lady-like sphere, but he was far from sure that your scheme would be practical. He foresaw all kinds of difficulties, and that he did not consider you at all the person for such a position."
"Why did not Uncle Keith say all this to me himself?" I demanded.
"Because he said it would only be sowing the wind to raise the whirlwind. In an argument he declares women always have the best of it, because they can talk the fastest, and never will own they are beaten; to raise objections would only be to strengthen you more in your purpose. I think," finished Aunt Agatha, in her softest voice, "that he hoped your plan would die a natural death, for he recommended me to withdraw all opposition."
Oh, the cunning of these men. I would not have believed all this of Uncle Keith. I was far too angry to talk any more to Aunt Agatha; I only commanded my voice sufficiently to say that I fully intended to keep my appointment the next day; and as she only looked at me very sadly and said nothing, I had no excuse for lingering any longer, so I took up my candlestick and marched into my own room.
It felt cold and desolate, and as I sat down by the toilet table, such sad eyes looked into mine from the depths of the mirror, that a curious self-pitying feeling made me prop my chin on my hands and exchange looks of silent sympathy with my image.
My want of beauty never troubled me; it has always been my private conviction that we ought to be thankful if we are tolerably pleasant in other people's eyes; beauty is too rare a gift to be often reproduced. If people thought me nice-looking I was more than content; perhaps it was surprising that, with such good-looking parents, I was just ordinary and nothing else, "But never mind, Merle, you have a good figure and talking eyes," as Aunt Agatha once said to me. "I was much plainer at your age, my dear, but my plainness never prevented me from having a happy life and a good husband."
"Well, perhaps I should like a happy life, too, but as for the husband—never dream of that, my good girl; remember your miserable deficiency in this enlightened age. No man in his senses would condone that; put such thoughts resolutely away and think only of your work in life.Laborare est orare."
(To be continued.)
I
t is scarcely possible to determine when buttons, which are both useful and ornamental, were first made. In the paintings of the fourteenth century they frequently appear on the garments of both sexes, but in many instances they are drawn without button-holes, and are placed in such situations as to suggest that at that time they were used more for ornament than usefulness.
It was towards the close of the sixteenth century that button-making was first considered a business, and that the manufacturers formed a considerable body.
Button-making was originally a very tedious and expensive process. The button consisted of one solid piece of metal; the ornaments on the face of it were the work of an engraver. To obviate the expense connected with such a method of production, the press, stamp, and engine for turning the moulds were introduced. This improvement led the way for other improvements, both with regard to the materials from which buttons were afterwards made and also the process of manufacture. The plain gilt button, which was extensively used in the early part of the present century, was made from an alloy called plating metal, which contained a larger proportion of copper and less zinc than ordinary brass. The devices on the outer surface were produced by stamping the previously cut out blanks or metal discs with steel dies, after which the necks were soldered in. At the present time every possible kind of metal, from iron to gold, whether pure or mixed; every conceivable woven fabric, from canvas to the finest satin and velvet; every natural production capable of being turned out or pressed, as wood, horn, hoof, pearl, bone, ivory, jet, ivory nuts; every manufactured material of which the same may be said, as caoutchouc, leather, papier maché, glass, porcelain, etc., buttons are made in a great variety of shape; but at the present time they may be classed under four heads: buttons with shanks, buttons without shanks, buttons on rings or wire moulds, and buttons covered with cloth or some other material.
In the process of metal button-making by means of fly presses and punches, circular discs, called blanks, are cut out of sheets of metal. This work is usually done by females, who, while seated at a bench, manage to cut out as many as thirty blanks per minute, or twelve gross in an hour. On leaving the press the edges of the blanks are very sharp. When they have been smoothed and rounded, the surfaces are planished on the face by being placed separately in a die, under a small stamp, and causing them to receive a sharp blow from a polished steel hammer. The next process is that of shanking, or attaching small metal loops, by which they are fastened to garments. The shank manufacture is a distinct branch of the trade in Birmingham, although at times carried on in the same factory.
The shanks are made by a machine, in which a coil of wire is gradually advanced towards a pair of shears, which cut off short pieces. A metal finger then presses against the middle of each piece, first bending it and then pressing it into a vice, where it is compressed so as to form a loop; a hammer then strikes the two ends, spreading them into a flat surface, and the shank is pushed out of the machine ready for use. The shanks in some instances are attached to the blanks by women with iron wire, solder, and resin, after which they are placed in an oven, and when firmly united are removed and form plain buttons. In the majority of cases, however, soldering is dispensed with, the shanks being made secure in the press.
If the button is to be finished without a shank, it is passed on from the press, which it leaves as a blank, to another where the holes are pierced, and then to a third where the roughness is removed from the edges of the holes.
The commonest metal buttons which I have seen in process of making were cut out of scraps of tin, similar to what may be seen on the refuse heap of any shop where tin goods are made. The hand presses worked by women cut out the blanks, made a simple impression on the outside, and turned up the edges all round at the same time. The blanks were then passed on to another press, where pieces of cardboard were inserted, and the edges turned over to keep them firm. The holes were next pierced, and a finish given by a blow from a stamp.
I felt deeply interested in seeing all kinds of buttons in process of being made, some for India, others for Chili, and our own army, but the prettiest and most interesting to witness while passing through the presses, stamps, and hands of the workers were some which were being made for Malta. In passing through the first press the blank was embossed and cut out. By another press the edge was scalloped, and by a third press the open work was effected. The next process was that of so pressing each disc to such an extent that the scalloped edges of two might meet, and thus form a round button of pretty design when united, and a shank fastened in the centre of one of the blanks.
Military buttons, like many others, are made of two discs of metal, the impression on the outer ones being produced by a sharp blow in a stamp, the under ones having two holes pierced in them for the shanks, which are put through and bent flat on the inside. They are next passed through another press which firmly fastens the two discs together, and holds the shank so securely as to obviate the necessity of having recourse to soldering.
Covered buttons are made in an immense variety of textiles. It is impossible in the space allowed for this paper to enumerate them, but I may add that their ingenious construction, their good wearing qualities, the clever mechanism of the tools by which the various discs of cloth, metal, millboard, etc., are cut out, and the methods of uniting them so as to form a complete button, are marvels of skill and industry.
The earliest covered buttons were made so recently as the year 1802, in Birmingham, by Mr. B. Sanders. Those buttons had metal shanks, but by the ingenuity of Mr. Sanders, jun., his father's invention was completed by tufts of canvas, through which the buttons could be attached to garments, being substituted for rigid metal shanks. The only improvement since made has been that of covering the back of the silk-fronted buttons also with silk.
A covered button consists of two discs of metal and one of millboard, thicker or thinner, according to circumstances. In making it, the sheet of iron is first scaled, by the use of powerful acids, and then cut into proper size and shape by a press. The neck, or collet, of the button is japanned after being stamped and cut. The hollow between the neck and shell is filled with millboard. When the parts are put together and pressed the button is brought into shape, and its several parts are consolidated.
It was in the year 1841 that Mr. John Aston made the first three-fold linen button—that is, a button formed of a linen covering and a ring of metal, so put together that both sides and centre were completely covered with separate pieces of linen, and thus produced being quite flat. This being an exceedingly neat and convenient button, it became largely patronised, as it still is by housewives, for all underclothing, having superseded the old thread button formed of a ring of wire, with threads drawn over it and gathered in the centre. A slight improvement was made by Mr. Elliott. During the time that the patent lasted these two gentlemen worked in concert, and established a very successful business.
So great has been the demand for covered linen buttons at different times, that during one single year Mr. Elliott's successors have in the process of making them required 63,000 yards of cloth and 34 tons of metal, and given employment to 250 persons. As the button trade has for a considerable time been in a very depressed condition, it is possible that the productions of this firm may not be of such magnitude as they were a few years since.
With regard to the depressed condition of this branch of Birmingham industries, one manufacturer assured me, only a few weeks ago, that where 150 persons were employed at one time, not more than 20 or 30 would be working then. In visiting one of the largest manufactories the same day, I saw sufficient to convince me of the truthfulness of his statement, for in passing through the different workshops I saw one or two presses, stamps, and turning-lathes at work, whereas several were unused and without attendants. One firm, when trade is in a flourishing condition, will make about 15,000 gross of linen buttons weekly. Ivory buttons are made from the tusks of elephants; but as the material is expensive, and the manipulation has to be conducted with great care, and that chiefly by hand, they can only be used by persons who can afford to pay a goodly sum.
During the last few years, in which a great variety of colours has been introduced, both for ladies' and gentlemen's garments, and buttons have been required to match, it is fortunate that a substitute has been found for ivory in the kernel of the "corozo" nut. This nut grows in clusters on palm-like trees in South America, and is husked like a cocoanut, but is different in shape and considerably smaller in dimensions. The kernel—the part used in button-making—is milk-white, and being softer than animal ivory, is more easily turned, and as it readily absorbs dyes, it can be made to take any colour with little trouble.
The process of making these vegetable ivory buttons is as follows:—After boys have cracked the shells, the kernels are taken by men standing at benches in which small fine-toothed saws are revolving. Only a slight pressure of the nut against the saw is required before it is divided into equal parts. If necessary, the operation is repeated. Providing, however, that the pieces of the nut are of proper dimensions, they are passed on to the turner.
The next process is that of cutting out or turning, and is performed in the following manner:—The turner, after fixing a piece of the nut in the chuck of his lathe, brings a tubular cutter, the face edge of which is toothed like a saw, to work on the exposed front surface of the nut; the result is that of a rough button or mould. As these moulds are rough, they are passed on to another lathe, where they are made smooth, and then to a third, where the holes are drilled. They are next passed on to the dyer, who arranges his colours according to instructions received. It sometimes happens that a mottled appearance is required; when such is the case, girls are employed to touch them with the colours required by the aid of camel-hair pencils. The buttons are next placed in tanks for drying, the tanks being heated by steam for that purpose.
Most of the buttons are polished in lathes by friction from their own dust, held in the hand of the operative.
Porcelain buttons were invented by Mr. R. Prosser, of Birmingham, who, in conjunction with the celebrated firm of Minter and Co., made them in large quantities in the potteries, about the year 1840. They were, however, soon driven from the market by French manufacturers, who sold a great gross—that is, twelve gross, each of twelve dozen—for the ridiculously small sum of elevenpence.
Glass buttons are made by heating canes of glass and pinching them from the end with pliers, which at the same time answer the purpose of a die. They are sold very cheaply, as low as twopence a gross, but it is scarcely possible for any English firm to compete with Bohemia in their production.
Mother-o'-pearl buttons are made out of pearl shells which have been imported from the coasts of Macassar, Manilla, Bombay, the archipelago of the Pacific, the Bay of Panama, and a few other places. Their market value is not always the same. At the present time it ranges from £8 to £10 per hundredweight. The blanks are cut out of the shells by a steel tubular cutter, similar to that used in cutting the vegetable ivory. As the cutter works its way through a shell, small cylinders of pearl are disconnected, which are reduced in thickness by splitting into discs, a little thicker than the button is required to be when finished. These blanks are finished singly in a turning lathe, by being placed in a suitable chuck, and having a steel tool applied to its face for producing the rim and depression in the centre. They are then passed on to another lathe, where the holes are drilled, and afterwards to another, where they are polished by friction and a mixture of rotten-stone and soft soap.
The best white buttons are those which are made from Macassar shells, and the best black from shells of the archipelago of the Pacific. The latter are the dearest, in consequence of the black shells not being so plentiful as those of lighter shades. Some few years since the consumption of mother-o'-pearl shells in Birmingham amounted to nearly one thousand tons annually; the failure of the fisheries in Central America has, however, reduced it to a little more than a third, or about three hundred tons a year.
Thimbles are made by stamping, and afterwards turning in a lathe, the indentations being produced by a suitable instrument. On the Continent the operatives make them with punches in as many as five different mandrils. Scissors, bodkins, etc., have nothing connected with their manufacture which calls for any special notice. Although, as in previous papers, I have conducted my readers in paths not usual to girls and young women, I hope that my description of button-making will interest a considerable number, and teach them to think more of buttons and how they are made and by whom made than they have ever done before.
W. W. B.
A gentleman whose pretty garden adjoined a park in which a number of young colts were grazing, was much annoyed by the inroads of these animals. He took every precaution to prevent their entrance, but to no purpose. Fences were examined and found intact, the gate was kept shut, and yet one or more of the colts would soon be found devastating flower-beds, or browsing in the kitchen garden. The provoking part of it was that no one could discover how the creatures obtained an entrance.
At length men were hidden in the trees to watch, and the problem was speedily solved. A colt trotted up to the gate and inserted its head between the bars, with the evident intention of raising the latch. He made several vain attempts, but had not mastered the trick. The latch remained in its place, and the colt outside.
For a few moments the animal stood cogitating, then trotted rapidly back to the spot where he had left his companions. He singled out one of the most frequent visitors to the garden, and, by some language peculiar to colts, made known his difficulty. The other at once returned with his companion to the gate, inserted his head below one of the bars, and by a dexterous movement displaced the latch, and the gate swung open. Then, throwing back his head as if to say, "See how easy it is when one knows how," he went back whilst the other entered the garden.
It was noticed by the watchers that this last had not previously been seen within the forbidden precincts, but the one that opened the gate for him had been particularly troublesome. The fact that he was specially selected for the office of porter showed no little sagacity in the would-be visitor to the garden. But, much as the cleverness of the animals might be admired, care was taken to render its exercise useless for the future.
Ruth Lamb.
A French Conversation.
Voltaire once said, "It is not clear, therefore it cannot be French." This is only partially true, for the French language furnishes abundant material for puns and misunderstandings, intentional or otherwise. The following amusing instance may serve as an illustration:—
Two sportsmen met together on their way home.
"Where do you come from?" the first asked the second, who was trembling with fright.
"I come—I come—from the forest of Bondy."
"And why are you so excited?"
"I have been attacked by robbers."
"How many were there?"
"Sept."
"What did you say?"
"Je dis sept."
"Dix-sept?"
"No;sans dix."
"Cent dix?"
"Oh, dear! no.Sans dix, sept."
"Good gracious!Cent dix-sept?"
"Nonsense.Sept sans dix-sept."
"Sept cent dix-sept."
"You don't understand me.Je te dis sept sans dix!"
"Dix-sept cent dix."
"You will drive me mad!Je te dis sept sans dix-sept!"
"Dix-sept cent dix-sept!I can understand your being frightened with such a number."
To Preserve Cut Flowers.—An important rule in preserving cut flowers is never to cram the vase with flowers. Many will last if only they have a large mass of water in the vase and not too many stalks to feed on the water and pollute it. Vases that can hold a large quantity of water are to be preferred to the spindle-shaped trumpets that are often used. Flat dishes covered with wet sand are also useful for short-stalked or heavy-headed flowers; even partially-withered blooms will revive when placed on this cool moist substance. Moss, though prettier than sand, is to be avoided, as it soon smells disagreeably, and always interferes with the scent of the flowers placed in it for preservation.
The Way of the World.—The world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I never knew a sulky misanthropist who quarrelled with it but it was he and not it that was in the wrong.—Thackeray.
Mothers' Thoughts.