ABSENCE.ByINA NOEL.I callto thee across the space that liesBetween us now and keeps thee from my eyes;But, like a tired swallow on the sea,Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,Only my spirit calling through the darkMay stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.
ByINA NOEL.
I callto thee across the space that liesBetween us now and keeps thee from my eyes;But, like a tired swallow on the sea,Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,Only my spirit calling through the darkMay stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.
I callto thee across the space that liesBetween us now and keeps thee from my eyes;But, like a tired swallow on the sea,Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,Only my spirit calling through the darkMay stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.
I callto thee across the space that liesBetween us now and keeps thee from my eyes;But, like a tired swallow on the sea,Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,Only my spirit calling through the darkMay stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.
I callto thee across the space that lies
Between us now and keeps thee from my eyes;
But, like a tired swallow on the sea,
Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.
No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,
No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,
Only my spirit calling through the dark
May stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.CHAPTER V.THE MARCH WIND BLOWS.“Well, Jane, tell us something interesting,” said Ada, as the trio sat toasting their toes before the fire on a gusty evening in March.Jane yawned, and the wind whistled eerily round the house.“I can’t think of anything,” she said, after a minute or two. “My head feels as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. I wish this wind would go down.”“You have not told us any anecdotes of your children for ever so long. How are the little things getting on?”“A detachment of volunteers came to drill in the school yard this afternoon, and they were all longing to look out of the windows and watch.”“Why could you not let them?”“Oh, they never settle down to their work properly if interruptions like that are allowed,” said Jane, getting more wide awake.“Are your classes full?”“There is a great deal of illness about, and that keeps some of them at home. The people are terribly poor. I wish I could persuade some of the better class people about to give me orders for dinners for the poor people. It would cost so little, and I would be very careful to give it to those who most needed it. I ask this of everyone who happens to come in to see the children at work, but except for a chance order now and then, it is very difficult to get rid of the food.”“Who buys the things that the children make?” asked Marion.“The children are supposed to buy the things themselves; and they generally do buy rock cakes and gingerbread and things that are of no practical use to them. But more sensible dishes, such as stews and soup, are very difficult to sell without outside help. There are one or two people in some workmen’s buildings just near who buy from time to time, and when the beef-tea lesson comes round, the vicar is very kind in buying it for anyone who is sick. It is very difficult to get along sometimes,” added Jane, gazing dolefully into the depths of the fire.“I was just thinking,” said Ada meditatively, after a minute or two’s thought; “I was just thinking if there was no one to whom we could mention the matter, who would be glad to help. Of course, one can understand that there are certain objections. For instance, if it became widely known that food was given away at the cookery school, people would be always coming in to beg, and it would be very inconvenient. Besides, there would be so much jealousy amongst those who did not get it, and it would be impossible to satisfy all. But I should think a few private orders might be managed, and they would certainly be a great help to you, Jennie, and if you told the people who came for dinners not to mention it to others, I should think it would be all right.”“They would not do that, I am sure,” said Jane. “They do not like it known that they are taking charity, unless it is some widely recognised institution like a soup-kitchen. I have often noticed that.”“There are the Baddeleys, now; they live near your school in Warrington Road. Do you ever see them?”“No; I had forgotten about them. I do not think they know that I teach up there. I will write to-night and ask them to come and see me.”“I will write,” said Ada, patting her sister’s nut-brown head, “you are so tired.”“The wind has made my eyes ache.”So Ada wrote to Mrs. Baddeley, knowing her to be a philanthropic woman, and her appeal was warmly answered.Mrs. Baddeley called to see Jane at her school two days after, to her great delight. The lady in question was an old friend of their mother’s, but they had not seen her for some time. She had heard that the girls had come to live in London, but had not yet been to see them, and she had had no idea that Jane was teaching so near to her.“I had heard that cookery was taught to the children in the schools, but I did not know exactly where. I am so pleased to come and see the cookery kitchen, and still more to find you in it,” said the sympathetic lady, as she sat down in a chair by the dresser and looked round admiringly at the gleaming pots and pans which Jane’s little scholars kept in order.Jennie explained her difficulty to her genial friend.“You do not have to spend your own money on the food for the classes, do you?” asked Mrs. Baddeley.“No; I have some given me to start the lessons with, but if I do not sell anything for a day or two it is difficult to get along.”“Of course, it must be, but I think I see a way out of your difficulty. I shall be only too glad if you can manage to prepare three dinners twice a week for some poor old people whom I try to help. I will give you the names, and they shall call for the dishes. But I hope the dinners will be quite plain and simple but very nourishing.”Jane assured Mrs. Baddeley that she taught no dishes that were not plain and simple, and mentioned such items as Exeter stew, Irish stew, beef skirt pie, liver and bacon, and for puddings fruit in batter, milk puddings, baked ginger puddings, and so on.And so the compact was made; Mrs. Baddeley’sprotégéescame for their dinners punctually every other day at the appointed time, and the arrangement proved equally satisfactory to all concerned.It was now near the end of March. On looking through her dinner lists, which she kept by her to avoid a too frequent repetition of any one thing, Marion noticed that the time for pork would soon be at an end, for she believed in the old saying that pork is not wholesome in any month that has not an “r” in it. So as April was the last “r” month, she treated her household to a nice little piece of roast loin, which they appreciated very much. It was allowed plenty of time to cook; about half an hour longer than a piece of beef or mutton of the same weight would have been, and it was so well basted that the crackling was beautifully crisp and very unlike the tough leathery pieces that are occasionally served only to be left on the plates of those to whom they are given. On the following day she cut up the remains into dice, and, having purchased half a pound of chuck steak and cut it up small, made it into a curry to which she added the remains of the pork.This is her list for the week—Sunday.Roast Ptarmigan.Artichokes.Baked Potatoes.Lemon Sponge.(Supper.) Sardines. Brown Bread and Butter.Cocoa.Monday.Roast Pork. Apple Sauce.Boiled Potatoes.Stewed Prunes.Rice Shape.Tuesday.Curry and Rice.Boiled Batter Pudding.Wednesday.(High Tea.) Sausages.Oat Biscuits.Thursday.Pea Soup.Baked Whitings with Brown Sauce.Sea-kale.Cauliflower with Cheese Sauce.Friday.Stuffed Sheep’s Heart with Forcemeat Balls.Loch Lomond Pudding.Saturday.Fried Liver and Bacon.Cabbage.Baked Potatoes.Semolina Pudding.Lest my readers should be startled to see sea-kale on the list, and think that our housekeeper was forgetting her economy, I will explain at once that it was not the expensive sea-kale at eighteenpence the basket that one sees wrapped in blue paper in the green-grocers’ shops. It was some sold at twopence the pound—a quite small kind—that Marion had discovered at some local “stores” which she occasionally frequented. It was not as delicate as the expensive kind, but it was very nice. The salesman told her that they were the siftings of the finer kind. The ptarmigan she bought on a day when they were for sale very cheap, as there had been a large supply in the market, and they hung for a day or two until they were wanted. They took so little time to cook—about twenty-five minutes, that it was hardly more trouble to cook them than to warm up a pie or stew as they often did on a Sunday. The oat biscuits and the Loch Lomond pudding were both made from recipes given some years before to Marion’s mother by a Highland lady famous for her good things. Here they are:—Oat Biscuits.—Mix a teaspoonful of baking powder with six ounces of flour; mix in four ounces of fine oatmeal with two ounces of brown sugar; mix with beaten egg to a dough. Roll out, stamp into rounds with a wineglass, lay on a greased tin and bake in a rather slow oven about twenty minutes.Loch Lomond Pudding.—Beat a quarter of a pound of dripping to a cream, stir in two tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, two tablespoonfuls of raspberry jam, and half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda; add four ounces of flour, and lastly beat in two eggs one by one. Bake in a buttered pie-dish about three-quarters of an hour.The food bill for the week was certainly economical. The breakfasts on the alternate mornings, when they did not take porridge, were dried haddocks, Monday and Wednesday, and bacon on Friday. The haddocks were left to soak in milk and water all night and then cooked in a frying-pan in the milk and water until quite tender, skimmed carefully, drained on a fish-slice, put on a hot dish that had first been rubbed with a little piece of butter, and another bit was put on the top of the fish. Then they were peppered and brought quickly to table.Food account:—£s.d.Two ptarmigan020Three and a half pounds of loin of pork0211Half a pound of chuck steak005One pound of sausages008Four sheep’s hearts at 3½d.012One pound of liver008One and a half pounds of bacon010Two haddocks010Four small whitings010One pound of artichokes001½Celery (for flavouring)001One pound of onions002One pound of small sea-kale002Cauliflower003Cabbage002Nine pounds of potatoes007One pound of prunes006½Tin of potted meat004½Small tin of cocoa006Half a pound of tea0010Eight loaves of bread026Milk019Sundries (peaflour, jam, etc.)006Quaker oats006Fat for rendering002One and a half pounds of butter018Tin of sardines0010½£127Towards the end of the month, as oranges were getting much sweeter, and were very cheap, they made some excellent marmalade. Jane, Marion and Abigail cut up the oranges one Saturday morning, put them in a large earthenware pan with the right quantity of water, covered the pan and let the contents soak all Sunday. On Monday Marion cooked it until it was sufficiently firm and put it in jars, which she tied down on the following day. This is her recipe—Orange Marmalade.—Shred finely sixteen Seville oranges, twelve sweet ones and four lemons, carefully removing the pips as you do so, and put them to soak in an earthenware pan with six quarts of water, cover the pan and let it soak for forty-eight hours. Put in a stewpan or fish-kettle with eight pounds of loaf sugar. As soon as the sugar has melted, boil the marmalade, quickly skimming all the while for twenty minutes, and then let it simmer until the marmalade jellies.(To be continued.)[From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.“MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”
ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.
THE MARCH WIND BLOWS.
“Well, Jane, tell us something interesting,” said Ada, as the trio sat toasting their toes before the fire on a gusty evening in March.
Jane yawned, and the wind whistled eerily round the house.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said, after a minute or two. “My head feels as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. I wish this wind would go down.”
“You have not told us any anecdotes of your children for ever so long. How are the little things getting on?”
“A detachment of volunteers came to drill in the school yard this afternoon, and they were all longing to look out of the windows and watch.”
“Why could you not let them?”
“Oh, they never settle down to their work properly if interruptions like that are allowed,” said Jane, getting more wide awake.
“Are your classes full?”
“There is a great deal of illness about, and that keeps some of them at home. The people are terribly poor. I wish I could persuade some of the better class people about to give me orders for dinners for the poor people. It would cost so little, and I would be very careful to give it to those who most needed it. I ask this of everyone who happens to come in to see the children at work, but except for a chance order now and then, it is very difficult to get rid of the food.”
“Who buys the things that the children make?” asked Marion.
“The children are supposed to buy the things themselves; and they generally do buy rock cakes and gingerbread and things that are of no practical use to them. But more sensible dishes, such as stews and soup, are very difficult to sell without outside help. There are one or two people in some workmen’s buildings just near who buy from time to time, and when the beef-tea lesson comes round, the vicar is very kind in buying it for anyone who is sick. It is very difficult to get along sometimes,” added Jane, gazing dolefully into the depths of the fire.
“I was just thinking,” said Ada meditatively, after a minute or two’s thought; “I was just thinking if there was no one to whom we could mention the matter, who would be glad to help. Of course, one can understand that there are certain objections. For instance, if it became widely known that food was given away at the cookery school, people would be always coming in to beg, and it would be very inconvenient. Besides, there would be so much jealousy amongst those who did not get it, and it would be impossible to satisfy all. But I should think a few private orders might be managed, and they would certainly be a great help to you, Jennie, and if you told the people who came for dinners not to mention it to others, I should think it would be all right.”
“They would not do that, I am sure,” said Jane. “They do not like it known that they are taking charity, unless it is some widely recognised institution like a soup-kitchen. I have often noticed that.”
“There are the Baddeleys, now; they live near your school in Warrington Road. Do you ever see them?”
“No; I had forgotten about them. I do not think they know that I teach up there. I will write to-night and ask them to come and see me.”
“I will write,” said Ada, patting her sister’s nut-brown head, “you are so tired.”
“The wind has made my eyes ache.”
So Ada wrote to Mrs. Baddeley, knowing her to be a philanthropic woman, and her appeal was warmly answered.
Mrs. Baddeley called to see Jane at her school two days after, to her great delight. The lady in question was an old friend of their mother’s, but they had not seen her for some time. She had heard that the girls had come to live in London, but had not yet been to see them, and she had had no idea that Jane was teaching so near to her.
“I had heard that cookery was taught to the children in the schools, but I did not know exactly where. I am so pleased to come and see the cookery kitchen, and still more to find you in it,” said the sympathetic lady, as she sat down in a chair by the dresser and looked round admiringly at the gleaming pots and pans which Jane’s little scholars kept in order.
Jennie explained her difficulty to her genial friend.
“You do not have to spend your own money on the food for the classes, do you?” asked Mrs. Baddeley.
“No; I have some given me to start the lessons with, but if I do not sell anything for a day or two it is difficult to get along.”
“Of course, it must be, but I think I see a way out of your difficulty. I shall be only too glad if you can manage to prepare three dinners twice a week for some poor old people whom I try to help. I will give you the names, and they shall call for the dishes. But I hope the dinners will be quite plain and simple but very nourishing.”
Jane assured Mrs. Baddeley that she taught no dishes that were not plain and simple, and mentioned such items as Exeter stew, Irish stew, beef skirt pie, liver and bacon, and for puddings fruit in batter, milk puddings, baked ginger puddings, and so on.
And so the compact was made; Mrs. Baddeley’sprotégéescame for their dinners punctually every other day at the appointed time, and the arrangement proved equally satisfactory to all concerned.
It was now near the end of March. On looking through her dinner lists, which she kept by her to avoid a too frequent repetition of any one thing, Marion noticed that the time for pork would soon be at an end, for she believed in the old saying that pork is not wholesome in any month that has not an “r” in it. So as April was the last “r” month, she treated her household to a nice little piece of roast loin, which they appreciated very much. It was allowed plenty of time to cook; about half an hour longer than a piece of beef or mutton of the same weight would have been, and it was so well basted that the crackling was beautifully crisp and very unlike the tough leathery pieces that are occasionally served only to be left on the plates of those to whom they are given. On the following day she cut up the remains into dice, and, having purchased half a pound of chuck steak and cut it up small, made it into a curry to which she added the remains of the pork.
This is her list for the week—
Sunday.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday.
Saturday.
Lest my readers should be startled to see sea-kale on the list, and think that our housekeeper was forgetting her economy, I will explain at once that it was not the expensive sea-kale at eighteenpence the basket that one sees wrapped in blue paper in the green-grocers’ shops. It was some sold at twopence the pound—a quite small kind—that Marion had discovered at some local “stores” which she occasionally frequented. It was not as delicate as the expensive kind, but it was very nice. The salesman told her that they were the siftings of the finer kind. The ptarmigan she bought on a day when they were for sale very cheap, as there had been a large supply in the market, and they hung for a day or two until they were wanted. They took so little time to cook—about twenty-five minutes, that it was hardly more trouble to cook them than to warm up a pie or stew as they often did on a Sunday. The oat biscuits and the Loch Lomond pudding were both made from recipes given some years before to Marion’s mother by a Highland lady famous for her good things. Here they are:—
Oat Biscuits.—Mix a teaspoonful of baking powder with six ounces of flour; mix in four ounces of fine oatmeal with two ounces of brown sugar; mix with beaten egg to a dough. Roll out, stamp into rounds with a wineglass, lay on a greased tin and bake in a rather slow oven about twenty minutes.
Loch Lomond Pudding.—Beat a quarter of a pound of dripping to a cream, stir in two tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, two tablespoonfuls of raspberry jam, and half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda; add four ounces of flour, and lastly beat in two eggs one by one. Bake in a buttered pie-dish about three-quarters of an hour.
The food bill for the week was certainly economical. The breakfasts on the alternate mornings, when they did not take porridge, were dried haddocks, Monday and Wednesday, and bacon on Friday. The haddocks were left to soak in milk and water all night and then cooked in a frying-pan in the milk and water until quite tender, skimmed carefully, drained on a fish-slice, put on a hot dish that had first been rubbed with a little piece of butter, and another bit was put on the top of the fish. Then they were peppered and brought quickly to table.
Food account:—
£s.d.Two ptarmigan020Three and a half pounds of loin of pork0211Half a pound of chuck steak005One pound of sausages008Four sheep’s hearts at 3½d.012One pound of liver008One and a half pounds of bacon010Two haddocks010Four small whitings010One pound of artichokes001½Celery (for flavouring)001One pound of onions002One pound of small sea-kale002Cauliflower003Cabbage002Nine pounds of potatoes007One pound of prunes006½Tin of potted meat004½Small tin of cocoa006Half a pound of tea0010Eight loaves of bread026Milk019Sundries (peaflour, jam, etc.)006Quaker oats006Fat for rendering002One and a half pounds of butter018Tin of sardines0010½£127
Towards the end of the month, as oranges were getting much sweeter, and were very cheap, they made some excellent marmalade. Jane, Marion and Abigail cut up the oranges one Saturday morning, put them in a large earthenware pan with the right quantity of water, covered the pan and let the contents soak all Sunday. On Monday Marion cooked it until it was sufficiently firm and put it in jars, which she tied down on the following day. This is her recipe—
Orange Marmalade.—Shred finely sixteen Seville oranges, twelve sweet ones and four lemons, carefully removing the pips as you do so, and put them to soak in an earthenware pan with six quarts of water, cover the pan and let it soak for forty-eight hours. Put in a stewpan or fish-kettle with eight pounds of loaf sugar. As soon as the sugar has melted, boil the marmalade, quickly skimming all the while for twenty minutes, and then let it simmer until the marmalade jellies.
(To be continued.)
[From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.“MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”
[From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.“MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”
[From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.
“MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.ByMARGARET INNES.CHAPTER V.OUR FIRST DAYS IN THE BARN.Theroute we had chosen, a drive of about eighteen miles, was supposed to be the least steep in its ups and downs; an important consideration, with our heavy load. When we crept round the last turning and could see our hill, with its little patch of brown earth turned up, and the barn which looked like a small wooden box, we felt that our difficulties for the day were conquered. At that moment we were passing a ranch which was just being enclosed with a fence made of narrow laths wired together; these were lying in large bundles at intervals all along the road for a distance of about a quarter of a mile. To our dismay, when Dan reached the first of these bundles, he put back his ears and gave a sudden and most violent shy, almost lurching the surrey over, and then stood trembling, his legs planted apart in an obstinate manner, and absolutely refused to move an inch further.We tried coaxing, then whipping, till Dan showed us his heels in a series of most vicious kicks, higher and higher, till we feared he would break some part of the harness, or the surrey itself.Eventually he did allow himself to be slowly coaxed past, I making myself as broad as possible to try and screen that side of the road, and leading him, and my husband checking his evident desire to bolt after each separate bundle was left behind. By this time it was grey twilight, and when we reached our haven, we had to be satisfied with the simplest arrangements possible for the night.As we were occupying the rooms which by rights belonged to the horses, they had to be staked out on the open hillside, and during the night Joe managed to get loose and went careering off, up and down and round the barn, so that we were awakened by the clattering of his hoofs. It was a brilliant starlit night, perfectly still and mild, and all the family turned out in their night gear to help to catch him and fasten him up again. It was a curious sensation to be so absolutely alone, and free, with nothing but the great ranges of big bare mountains lying spread out into the far distance.The absolute stillness was very weird; the smallest sound from miles around reached us in the calm quiet. The plaintive call of the little brown owls had a sad uneasy ring in it, and the coyote’s mocking yelp seemed most uncomfortably near.The mountain ranges looked so calm and stately and unreachable in the cold clear moonlight, and we felt horribly lonely.There was one cañon some four miles away, across the Silvero Valley, called Mexican Cañon, and we wondered uneasily whether Indians and Mexicans lived there; for we seemed to be on the very borders of civilisation. When we got to know the neighbourhood better, we found nothing but peaceable ranches, and more ranches far back into the hills.Returning to the barn we were rather glad to roll the big door to, and close it fast. We crept into our makeshift beds and were asleep before long. But we were awakened with a disagreeable start, hearing right inside the barn a strange cry, which, in our sleepiness and ignorance, might well have been the call of a Red Indian, straight from the Mexican Cañon, intent on securing the scalps of us “tenderfeet.” The cry was repeated, as we sat up listening eagerly, and then we all laughed to see a little squatty figure sitting on one of the open windows, and recognised a harmless little brown owl.In the morning we made some kind of order and comfort around us. The one large room in the barn (viz., the hayloft) we had divided into two with a temporary screen, one half for our bedroom, the other for sitting- and dining-room. A small shanty had been added outside for kitchen, and a shed which was to receive the cow, when we had one, served meanwhile as bedroom for our “coloured lady.” There was a lower floor which was divided into stalls for the horses, and which was entered by a lower road, as the barn stood on a steep slope.The fifty cases of furniture, which had been stored at San Francisco till we sent for them, were strewn all about the hill top on which the barn stood, and our first task was to open most of these, take a few things out, and pack away all the rest safely before the rains came.For days and days we worked away busily at this, my husband and I, and our boys, standing out in that hot glaring Californian sun, with the dry dust of the soil getting into our shoes and stockings and soaking all our clothes. Our ranchman was busy with the trees, and the coloured lady looked on when she was not cooking; looked on with a disdainful air, showing by many signs a great contempt for people who could be so foolish as to carry about such quantities of “stuff,” as she called it.To English eyes many Californian houses look very empty, and no doubt our possessions did seem ridiculously unnecessary to this darky, who thought only of the bother they would be to keep clean.As we packed away case after case into every available corner, stringing up chairs and sofas, and all manner of things on to the rafters, we began to wonder where we ourselves were to be housed. We have always since considered that it was a proof positive of great sweetness of temper that we got through a time of such terribly close quarters without doing any violence to each other.But with all our contriving there were a number of cases for which we could find no room, and these we covered with bits of oil-cloth, and left them out of doors. They led us a dreadful life, those seven cases; our ranchman was for ever predicting rain, which did not come, but kept us anxiously on the watch. Finally, when it did come, it was unexpected, and we had to rush out one night to see if the high wind, which had risen with the rain, had dislodged the oil-cloth. That was a lively night, for the rain came running down the inside walls of our barn in little streams on the windward side, and pictures and other things hung there for safety had to be hurriedly removed.It was the first night, too, that a large, handsome kangaroo rat paid us a visit, running about like an acrobat among the chairs on the rafters, and when I carried a candle quite near to him, to see what he was like, he looked down at me with the greatest coolness and impudence, with his brilliant black eyes. The place seemed to suit him, for he became a constant visitor. Another intimate guest was a particularly large lizard, who darted in and out under the big door.We were a little uneasy lest some less harmless visitors should invite themselves. We knew that there were scorpions and tarantulas; the men who had built our barn had unwittingly pitched their tent the first night just over a nest of tarantulas, and had discovered them in the early evening, and spent the rest of the night in searching for and killing them with their hammers.Ugly, wicked-looking things they are, with their enormous hairy legs and body and cruel nippers; they are very aggressive, too, and would much rather fight than run away.But most of all we dreaded the rattlesnakes. Our ranchman had killed thirty on the adjoining land, and several had already been found on ours. Everyone told us they were very easy to kill, but that did not reassure us.Our first introduction to snakes was more alarming than dangerous. We had put all our umbrellas and sticks into a corner of the barn behind a large corner seat. One day whilst we were quietly resting after dinner, our youngest boy, Gip, asleep on his couch, my husband chanced to be looking at these umbrellas, thinking sleepily that he did not recognise one of the handles, which seemed to stand out from the rest, when he was suddenly made wide awake by seeing it move quietly round, first to one side then to the other, and knew that it was a snake. He reached out his hand quietly for something to strike it with, but it darted out of sight at once behind the couch, and though we searched long for it, we did not find it. We found, however, a large notch hole through which it had probably crept in, and we lost no time in closing this securely. It was not a rattlesnake, however, and was probably quite harmless, as numbers of the snakes are, some of them being considered valuable as destroyers of vermin.Some of these try to pass themselves off as rattlers, however, and we often wondered how they knew that the faint sound of the rattle is so strangely horrible and frightening, that they should try to imitate it as a means of defence.Another fright which we had, while still in the barn, was very thrilling. It was in the night, and we had been fast asleep, when all at once we became wide awake, straining our ears for the repetition of a horrible sound that we seemed to have heard in our sleep. It is impossible to describe the cold horror and fear which that curious dry rattle gives one.Here was the thing we had so dreaded—a rattlesnake in the room. As we sat up in the dark the sound was repeated, seemingly from the middle of the room. Someone whispered, “Do you hear,” and we answered, “Do not move.” We reached cautiously for matches and candle, and of course these poor, wretched Californian matches—the worst surely in the world—did nothing but break off or go out. For some minutes the sound continued with an angry crescendo, till we began to wonder if the dreadful thing had got itself wedged in somewhere between the piles of furniture.At last a feeble, uncertain light and four pairs of strained eyes searched the dim room. And there, sitting nicely balanced on his hind legs, with his sharp black eyes shining brightly, was a small field mouse with a long rattle between his teeth, shaking it about vigorously every few minutes, then running a few paces and rattling it again.We had cut off a number of rattles from the snakes killed on our ranch to keep them as curiosities, and this was one of them which the mouse had got hold of and seemed to find such a good plaything.(To be continued.)
ByMARGARET INNES.
OUR FIRST DAYS IN THE BARN.
Theroute we had chosen, a drive of about eighteen miles, was supposed to be the least steep in its ups and downs; an important consideration, with our heavy load. When we crept round the last turning and could see our hill, with its little patch of brown earth turned up, and the barn which looked like a small wooden box, we felt that our difficulties for the day were conquered. At that moment we were passing a ranch which was just being enclosed with a fence made of narrow laths wired together; these were lying in large bundles at intervals all along the road for a distance of about a quarter of a mile. To our dismay, when Dan reached the first of these bundles, he put back his ears and gave a sudden and most violent shy, almost lurching the surrey over, and then stood trembling, his legs planted apart in an obstinate manner, and absolutely refused to move an inch further.
We tried coaxing, then whipping, till Dan showed us his heels in a series of most vicious kicks, higher and higher, till we feared he would break some part of the harness, or the surrey itself.
Eventually he did allow himself to be slowly coaxed past, I making myself as broad as possible to try and screen that side of the road, and leading him, and my husband checking his evident desire to bolt after each separate bundle was left behind. By this time it was grey twilight, and when we reached our haven, we had to be satisfied with the simplest arrangements possible for the night.
As we were occupying the rooms which by rights belonged to the horses, they had to be staked out on the open hillside, and during the night Joe managed to get loose and went careering off, up and down and round the barn, so that we were awakened by the clattering of his hoofs. It was a brilliant starlit night, perfectly still and mild, and all the family turned out in their night gear to help to catch him and fasten him up again. It was a curious sensation to be so absolutely alone, and free, with nothing but the great ranges of big bare mountains lying spread out into the far distance.
The absolute stillness was very weird; the smallest sound from miles around reached us in the calm quiet. The plaintive call of the little brown owls had a sad uneasy ring in it, and the coyote’s mocking yelp seemed most uncomfortably near.
The mountain ranges looked so calm and stately and unreachable in the cold clear moonlight, and we felt horribly lonely.
There was one cañon some four miles away, across the Silvero Valley, called Mexican Cañon, and we wondered uneasily whether Indians and Mexicans lived there; for we seemed to be on the very borders of civilisation. When we got to know the neighbourhood better, we found nothing but peaceable ranches, and more ranches far back into the hills.
Returning to the barn we were rather glad to roll the big door to, and close it fast. We crept into our makeshift beds and were asleep before long. But we were awakened with a disagreeable start, hearing right inside the barn a strange cry, which, in our sleepiness and ignorance, might well have been the call of a Red Indian, straight from the Mexican Cañon, intent on securing the scalps of us “tenderfeet.” The cry was repeated, as we sat up listening eagerly, and then we all laughed to see a little squatty figure sitting on one of the open windows, and recognised a harmless little brown owl.
In the morning we made some kind of order and comfort around us. The one large room in the barn (viz., the hayloft) we had divided into two with a temporary screen, one half for our bedroom, the other for sitting- and dining-room. A small shanty had been added outside for kitchen, and a shed which was to receive the cow, when we had one, served meanwhile as bedroom for our “coloured lady.” There was a lower floor which was divided into stalls for the horses, and which was entered by a lower road, as the barn stood on a steep slope.
The fifty cases of furniture, which had been stored at San Francisco till we sent for them, were strewn all about the hill top on which the barn stood, and our first task was to open most of these, take a few things out, and pack away all the rest safely before the rains came.
For days and days we worked away busily at this, my husband and I, and our boys, standing out in that hot glaring Californian sun, with the dry dust of the soil getting into our shoes and stockings and soaking all our clothes. Our ranchman was busy with the trees, and the coloured lady looked on when she was not cooking; looked on with a disdainful air, showing by many signs a great contempt for people who could be so foolish as to carry about such quantities of “stuff,” as she called it.
To English eyes many Californian houses look very empty, and no doubt our possessions did seem ridiculously unnecessary to this darky, who thought only of the bother they would be to keep clean.
As we packed away case after case into every available corner, stringing up chairs and sofas, and all manner of things on to the rafters, we began to wonder where we ourselves were to be housed. We have always since considered that it was a proof positive of great sweetness of temper that we got through a time of such terribly close quarters without doing any violence to each other.
But with all our contriving there were a number of cases for which we could find no room, and these we covered with bits of oil-cloth, and left them out of doors. They led us a dreadful life, those seven cases; our ranchman was for ever predicting rain, which did not come, but kept us anxiously on the watch. Finally, when it did come, it was unexpected, and we had to rush out one night to see if the high wind, which had risen with the rain, had dislodged the oil-cloth. That was a lively night, for the rain came running down the inside walls of our barn in little streams on the windward side, and pictures and other things hung there for safety had to be hurriedly removed.
It was the first night, too, that a large, handsome kangaroo rat paid us a visit, running about like an acrobat among the chairs on the rafters, and when I carried a candle quite near to him, to see what he was like, he looked down at me with the greatest coolness and impudence, with his brilliant black eyes. The place seemed to suit him, for he became a constant visitor. Another intimate guest was a particularly large lizard, who darted in and out under the big door.
We were a little uneasy lest some less harmless visitors should invite themselves. We knew that there were scorpions and tarantulas; the men who had built our barn had unwittingly pitched their tent the first night just over a nest of tarantulas, and had discovered them in the early evening, and spent the rest of the night in searching for and killing them with their hammers.
Ugly, wicked-looking things they are, with their enormous hairy legs and body and cruel nippers; they are very aggressive, too, and would much rather fight than run away.
But most of all we dreaded the rattlesnakes. Our ranchman had killed thirty on the adjoining land, and several had already been found on ours. Everyone told us they were very easy to kill, but that did not reassure us.
Our first introduction to snakes was more alarming than dangerous. We had put all our umbrellas and sticks into a corner of the barn behind a large corner seat. One day whilst we were quietly resting after dinner, our youngest boy, Gip, asleep on his couch, my husband chanced to be looking at these umbrellas, thinking sleepily that he did not recognise one of the handles, which seemed to stand out from the rest, when he was suddenly made wide awake by seeing it move quietly round, first to one side then to the other, and knew that it was a snake. He reached out his hand quietly for something to strike it with, but it darted out of sight at once behind the couch, and though we searched long for it, we did not find it. We found, however, a large notch hole through which it had probably crept in, and we lost no time in closing this securely. It was not a rattlesnake, however, and was probably quite harmless, as numbers of the snakes are, some of them being considered valuable as destroyers of vermin.
Some of these try to pass themselves off as rattlers, however, and we often wondered how they knew that the faint sound of the rattle is so strangely horrible and frightening, that they should try to imitate it as a means of defence.
Another fright which we had, while still in the barn, was very thrilling. It was in the night, and we had been fast asleep, when all at once we became wide awake, straining our ears for the repetition of a horrible sound that we seemed to have heard in our sleep. It is impossible to describe the cold horror and fear which that curious dry rattle gives one.
Here was the thing we had so dreaded—a rattlesnake in the room. As we sat up in the dark the sound was repeated, seemingly from the middle of the room. Someone whispered, “Do you hear,” and we answered, “Do not move.” We reached cautiously for matches and candle, and of course these poor, wretched Californian matches—the worst surely in the world—did nothing but break off or go out. For some minutes the sound continued with an angry crescendo, till we began to wonder if the dreadful thing had got itself wedged in somewhere between the piles of furniture.
At last a feeble, uncertain light and four pairs of strained eyes searched the dim room. And there, sitting nicely balanced on his hind legs, with his sharp black eyes shining brightly, was a small field mouse with a long rattle between his teeth, shaking it about vigorously every few minutes, then running a few paces and rattling it again.
We had cut off a number of rattles from the snakes killed on our ranch to keep them as curiosities, and this was one of them which the mouse had got hold of and seemed to find such a good plaything.
(To be continued.)
VARIETIES.How He grew Rich.A man who had by his own unaided exertions become rich, was asked by a friend the secret of his success.“I accumulated,” said he, “about one-half of my property by attending to my own business and the other half by letting other people’s entirely alone.”Toil on.—If you want knowledge you must toil for it; if food you must toil for it; if pleasure you must toil for it. Toil is the law. Pleasure comes through toil, and not by self-indulgence and indolence. When a girl gets to love work her life is a happy one.I Don’t Care!—When you say “I don’t care!” see that your tone of voice doesn’t indicate that you do.No, not Heavy.A little girl was wandering in an Edinburgh street, dragging about a great baby boy almost as big as herself.A clergyman who was passing stopped and said, “Why, my little lass, can you carry that boy? He must be heavy.”The child looked up in his face and gasped, “No, sir, he’s no heavy. He’s my brither.”Surely a whole sermon in itself!With his Friend.In a London mission school near a “settlement,” the teacher asked, “Where does Jesus live?”A small boy spoke up: “Some of His friends have come to live in our alley, and I think He lives with them.”A Poet’s Marriage.Robert Browning, the famous poet, and Elizabeth Browning, one of the sweetest and truest of our poetesses, were married on the 12th of September, 1846, in the parish church of St. Marylebone.The poet proved a model husband, intensely devoted to his wife, proud of her genius, and watchful over her happiness. In his “Life” we read that in 1851, and indeed “on each succeeding visit paid to London with his wife, he commemorated his marriage in a manner all his own. He went to the church in which it had been solemnised and kissed the paving-stones in front of the door.”Time for Everything.—There is time enough for everything in the day if you do but one thing at once.
How He grew Rich.
A man who had by his own unaided exertions become rich, was asked by a friend the secret of his success.
“I accumulated,” said he, “about one-half of my property by attending to my own business and the other half by letting other people’s entirely alone.”
Toil on.—If you want knowledge you must toil for it; if food you must toil for it; if pleasure you must toil for it. Toil is the law. Pleasure comes through toil, and not by self-indulgence and indolence. When a girl gets to love work her life is a happy one.
I Don’t Care!—When you say “I don’t care!” see that your tone of voice doesn’t indicate that you do.
No, not Heavy.
A little girl was wandering in an Edinburgh street, dragging about a great baby boy almost as big as herself.
A clergyman who was passing stopped and said, “Why, my little lass, can you carry that boy? He must be heavy.”
The child looked up in his face and gasped, “No, sir, he’s no heavy. He’s my brither.”
Surely a whole sermon in itself!
With his Friend.
In a London mission school near a “settlement,” the teacher asked, “Where does Jesus live?”
A small boy spoke up: “Some of His friends have come to live in our alley, and I think He lives with them.”
A Poet’s Marriage.
Robert Browning, the famous poet, and Elizabeth Browning, one of the sweetest and truest of our poetesses, were married on the 12th of September, 1846, in the parish church of St. Marylebone.
The poet proved a model husband, intensely devoted to his wife, proud of her genius, and watchful over her happiness. In his “Life” we read that in 1851, and indeed “on each succeeding visit paid to London with his wife, he commemorated his marriage in a manner all his own. He went to the church in which it had been solemnised and kissed the paving-stones in front of the door.”
Time for Everything.—There is time enough for everything in the day if you do but one thing at once.
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;OR,VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.PART V.Inour last paper upon this subject we described some examples of cottages in the immediate neighbourhood of London, and we propose devoting this one to a continuation of the same subject.Close to the Church of Ryslip, and opposite to its western end, is a group of cottages, one of which is undoubtedly of early date, probably 16th century. It is long and low, the ground floor storey being of brick, and the upper portion of “Post-and-pan,” so that it is what is architecturally known as a “half timber” structure; one end has been plastered over in later times, and the whole forms a row of small cottages. We are in some doubt whether, as originally arranged, it may not have formed one single dwelling-house, the whole, or, at any rate, the centre portion of which was the parsonage. It has some curious features about it. A large black cross of brick is built into the wall, it is of the form known in heraldry as a “Cross Calvary” that is, it stands upon three steps. We do not, however, suggest that it has any heraldic signification, as its position seems to point to a different purpose. This cross is not in the centre of the building, but is placed exactly opposite to the western door of the church, and immediately over it are three windows, the centre one of which is much longer than the other two, and is now blocked up, showing that it was unnecessary for giving light to the room. These peculiarities seem to point out the fact that in former times this was the residence of the rector or vicar of the parish. The cross was placed there to mark out the house to any who might need his ministrations, and the long window over it to give light to his “study,” where he might write or read, and at the same time look out upon the church door to see who went in or came out of the sacred edifice. All the other windows are very small and high up, because those who resided in the other cottages, not requiring to read and write, and having no special interest in watching the church door, could do well enough without extra light in their rooms. The whole group of cottages is very interesting. The oak beams are well moulded, and have stood the test of time admirably. If our suggestion is correct, these buildings have a peculiar interest, as there are so very few mediæval parsonages in existence. Some thirty years back an interesting one was to be seen at Willesden, but in improving the churchyard they “improved” this venerable relic of church history off the face of the earth. It was of the same homely but substantial and picturesque character as the building at Ryslip.Our second sketch represents some of those thatched and whitewashed cottages which are common all over the home counties. They are for the most part built of wattle clogged with clay, and covered over with a thin coating of lime mortar, whitewashed all over, and roofed with thatch composed of rushes or straw; they are comfortable and cheerful little abodes, cool in summer and warm in winter, with a thorough look of home about them. They, however, have two great drawbacks: they are liable to fire, and are less durable than buildings constructed of more solid materials. Consequently we rarely come across examples which are above a century old, though we not unfrequently find portions of the timber framing considerably more ancient, especially the angle posts and “spurs,” which have been protected by that judicious arrangement, followed in all ancient timber buildings in England, of making the upper storeys of the structure project over the lower. Some writers tell us that this was done to save ground space! This, however, cannot be the case because land in a country village could never have been of sufficient value to have caused such a peculiarity in construction. The idea undoubtedly was to protect the ends of the upright beams from wet, because when wood is cut “with the grain,” as it should always be when used for constructive purposes, the ends of the beam absorb the moisture, but the sides are little affected. Now by making the storeys overlap as they ascend, and the roof overlap the top storey, however lofty a house may be, its timbers are thoroughly protected from the rain.The general effect of a village consisting of thatched and whitewashed cottages is very pleasing, especially when there is an ancient stone or flint-built church in their midst. The clean bright whitewash forms a lovely contrast to the soft velvety look of the thatch. The red brick chimneys, grey lichen-covered walls of the old church, the lofty elms, and brilliant patches of garden, combine together to form a charming scene of peaceful and homely life.Up to within some five years back an old thatched cottage stood at Shepherd’s Bush green, and another close to Paddington churchyard; both have now disappeared, and we do not know of the existence of any old thatched cottages within four miles of Charing Cross. Don’t let our readers imagine that we should suggest the building of thatched houses in London or any great city. Such structures would be contrary to all architectural propriety in such localities, and dangerous in case of fire.(To be continued.)COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.
Inour last paper upon this subject we described some examples of cottages in the immediate neighbourhood of London, and we propose devoting this one to a continuation of the same subject.
Close to the Church of Ryslip, and opposite to its western end, is a group of cottages, one of which is undoubtedly of early date, probably 16th century. It is long and low, the ground floor storey being of brick, and the upper portion of “Post-and-pan,” so that it is what is architecturally known as a “half timber” structure; one end has been plastered over in later times, and the whole forms a row of small cottages. We are in some doubt whether, as originally arranged, it may not have formed one single dwelling-house, the whole, or, at any rate, the centre portion of which was the parsonage. It has some curious features about it. A large black cross of brick is built into the wall, it is of the form known in heraldry as a “Cross Calvary” that is, it stands upon three steps. We do not, however, suggest that it has any heraldic signification, as its position seems to point to a different purpose. This cross is not in the centre of the building, but is placed exactly opposite to the western door of the church, and immediately over it are three windows, the centre one of which is much longer than the other two, and is now blocked up, showing that it was unnecessary for giving light to the room. These peculiarities seem to point out the fact that in former times this was the residence of the rector or vicar of the parish. The cross was placed there to mark out the house to any who might need his ministrations, and the long window over it to give light to his “study,” where he might write or read, and at the same time look out upon the church door to see who went in or came out of the sacred edifice. All the other windows are very small and high up, because those who resided in the other cottages, not requiring to read and write, and having no special interest in watching the church door, could do well enough without extra light in their rooms. The whole group of cottages is very interesting. The oak beams are well moulded, and have stood the test of time admirably. If our suggestion is correct, these buildings have a peculiar interest, as there are so very few mediæval parsonages in existence. Some thirty years back an interesting one was to be seen at Willesden, but in improving the churchyard they “improved” this venerable relic of church history off the face of the earth. It was of the same homely but substantial and picturesque character as the building at Ryslip.
Our second sketch represents some of those thatched and whitewashed cottages which are common all over the home counties. They are for the most part built of wattle clogged with clay, and covered over with a thin coating of lime mortar, whitewashed all over, and roofed with thatch composed of rushes or straw; they are comfortable and cheerful little abodes, cool in summer and warm in winter, with a thorough look of home about them. They, however, have two great drawbacks: they are liable to fire, and are less durable than buildings constructed of more solid materials. Consequently we rarely come across examples which are above a century old, though we not unfrequently find portions of the timber framing considerably more ancient, especially the angle posts and “spurs,” which have been protected by that judicious arrangement, followed in all ancient timber buildings in England, of making the upper storeys of the structure project over the lower. Some writers tell us that this was done to save ground space! This, however, cannot be the case because land in a country village could never have been of sufficient value to have caused such a peculiarity in construction. The idea undoubtedly was to protect the ends of the upright beams from wet, because when wood is cut “with the grain,” as it should always be when used for constructive purposes, the ends of the beam absorb the moisture, but the sides are little affected. Now by making the storeys overlap as they ascend, and the roof overlap the top storey, however lofty a house may be, its timbers are thoroughly protected from the rain.
The general effect of a village consisting of thatched and whitewashed cottages is very pleasing, especially when there is an ancient stone or flint-built church in their midst. The clean bright whitewash forms a lovely contrast to the soft velvety look of the thatch. The red brick chimneys, grey lichen-covered walls of the old church, the lofty elms, and brilliant patches of garden, combine together to form a charming scene of peaceful and homely life.
Up to within some five years back an old thatched cottage stood at Shepherd’s Bush green, and another close to Paddington churchyard; both have now disappeared, and we do not know of the existence of any old thatched cottages within four miles of Charing Cross. Don’t let our readers imagine that we should suggest the building of thatched houses in London or any great city. Such structures would be contrary to all architectural propriety in such localities, and dangerous in case of fire.
(To be continued.)
COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.
COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.
COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.
THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.
THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.
THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.
“OUR HERO.”A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.ByAGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.CHAPTER XX.A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY.“Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. For somebody will be there whom you little think to see.”Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up sharply.“Yes, indeed, and you may guess, but I vow you’ll never guess the truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune! Had it come to me in my young days, why, I think ’twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you may conjecture—you may conjecture, Polly. Who in the world can it be?”Polly was seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looking as usual exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown velvet, took a faraway expression, and the delicate tinting of her cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely, after a pause—“If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma’am, I would say—Captain Ivor!”Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and sandalled foot.“Pish-pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you may rest satisfied that you have said what propriety demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts, and likely so to remain for many a long year to come, being therefore out of the question, we’ll e’en dismiss the thoughts of him, and I’ll ask Molly whom she would most desire to meet at the dance to-night.”Molly sat upon a second high-backed chair, busily netting. At sixteen—close upon seventeen, indeed—she was more altered from the child of twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, and she was more rounded than in earlier years. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in place of good looks. Molly Baron would never be a “belle,” but she might become a woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply was more prompt than Polly’s had been, and it consisted of one single syllable.“Roy!”“But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so also. Who next?”“Jack!” Molly said, with equal rapidity.“Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves, and is in and out perpetually. Jack’s a genteel young fellow enough, I make no question, but somewhat better than Jack awaits you this evening. Eh, Polly—what if it be—no other than Captain Peirce?”“Captain Peirce better than Jack! Nay!” Molly said indignantly.Polly’s colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight provocation, delicately and prettily. Polly also tossed her head, and arranged the light scarf, which covered her shoulders.“Captain Peirce is welcome enough, ma’am,” she made answer carelessly.“I do not like Captain Peirce,” murmured Molly.“Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce’s affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is aprodigious favourite with everybody, especially, I can assure you, with all the young women ofmode. And he has eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”Polly looked studiously down, offering no remark; and Molly frowned.“If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is engaged to another, and he out of reach!”“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of you! Why, you’re scarce out of the nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married. No, nor no chance to be married, while old Nap lives; and depend on’t, he’ll not die yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to wait and wait, till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man oftonwill ever deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?”Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face. “But Polly knows Captain Ivor better!” she suggested.“Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be?” demanded the vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted closely with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable. And I have said the same before, Molly.” Which certainly she had.“Polly is still a long way off from growing old,” persisted Molly.“Well, well, that’s as may be. But you’ve not divined my secret yet,” pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night; and ’tis not Jack of whom I speak. Captain Peirce will be there; and ’tis not Captain Peirce. The Admiral will be there; and ’tis not the Admiral. Somebody else also will be there—and ’tis he.”Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. “Who was it that read last week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ and that said she would give half she was possessed of to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?”“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.“Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing?”“Really and truly?” questioned Molly, half incredulously. “May we in truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott himself to-night? That will be worth going for, were there naught else. Think, Polly, Mr. Walter Scott himself, that writ all about William of Deloraine and the ‘Fair Ladye Margaret of Branksome Hall.’”“You may count yourself a fortunate young woman, Molly,” complacently observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early age of sixteen, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, the author of ‘Thalaba,’ as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr. William Wordsworth, and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself—I give you joy of such good fortune.”“And the last will be the best,” remarked Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure, ma’am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known.”“If the public voice be true, ’tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott’s poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I’m informed that Mr. Constable is this year paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And ten thousand people are on the look-out for its appearance. But now ’tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best this night.”Polly was in no wise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest; and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly’s abundant mane needed attention, though crowned with a fantastic hat, which carried lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ball-room equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was in itself a sunbeam.She could never enter a crowded room, without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was quite content to have it so. While amused with the scene, she did not expect admiration.The one thing on which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott, the future “Wizard of the North.” His real work in life, the writing of the “Waverley Novels,” had not then been so much as begun; but he was already well known as the very successful author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm. When he came from his Scotch home to London, he was fêted and made much of to any extent.Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and flowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. And “immortal” Scott doubtless is, in the literary sense, with still no peer, but hardly as a poet. Popular judgment made a mistake there—not for the first or the last time in its existence.“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,Whose lofty mien and dazzling airBespeaks——” etc.This is not a quotation; it is merely a specimen of the kind of thing that our great-grandmothers and grandmothers in their early youth admired and doted on. The bump of veneration must have been more highly developed on people’s heads in those days than in these. And how they did admire and did dote, the dear young things! Just as Molly Baron did that evening. She sat upon her quiet seat, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious poet-form, which her gaze was soon to rest upon. She did not care to talk. She did not wish to dance. She was wrapped in a dream, from which Mrs. Bryce’s decisive finger-tips aroused her.“Wake up, my dear. Are you asleep, Molly? Here he comes.”Molly looked rapturously around and about in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous human form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, of good height, rather robust in make, healthy, but scarcely “elegant,” with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a frank genial expression—no, that was not Molly Baron’s ideal of an immortal poet. His eyes were only light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet’s should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet; and he said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad to know always that she had seen and spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded by a host of friends; and Molly retreated again to her seat. Plenty was going on to amuse and interest her. She had danced twice, and now a rather long pause had come, no fresh partners turning up. Molly was of course under Mrs. Bryce’s wing, but that lady had too many irons in the fire to spare much time for the quiet country girl at her side. Molly cared little. She liked to look and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Mrs. Bryce’s gay talk was entertainingenough, as the good lady expatiated on this person and that, flirted her fan at one elderly gentleman and captured another, dissected theoretically one lady’s “bewitching gown,” and descanted on the “superb equipage” possessed by another, reverting then to the “London Particular Madeira” which had been served at a recent grand dinner-party, and hoping for some of the same at supper.Growing surfeited with this, Molly turned her attention elsewhere, and descried Admiral Peirce close at hand, button-holing another gentleman, and holding forth to him in a loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence.“Why, sir,” he was saying, “why, sir, there’s nothing after all like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a landsman—why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking-water in the world! Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then it’ll keep as long as ever you want it.[1]Yes, sir, it will indeed.”Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking-water, which in those days was not considered a question of pressing interest, wandered farther afield. A slight pucker came between her brows, as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Albert Peirce in close attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice; and it was impossible from Polly’s look to know whether she were pleased or displeased.The gay scene around faded from Molly’s vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan; but she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around in their low dresses and hats or turbans, scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by; and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.“All right, Molly!” he was calling gaily. “It’s only for two weeks, you know, and then we shall be back again.” And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly’s hands in a firm clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was downward bent and blushing. But it was not Polly who in one moment had left an indelible impression upon Molly’s childish memory. When she thought of that day it was always Ivor’s face—the young Guardsman’s look of silent grave devotion—which unbidden came up.“How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget!” murmured Molly, her lips unconsciously moving with the energy of her own thoughts.“Molly, this is sure scarce a place for audible meditation,” a voice said at her side.“Jack!”Molly’s whole face grew bright. Now she had all, or nearly all, that she wanted. She was extremely fond of Jack, and Jack of her. They were exactly like brother and sister, so Molly, not Jack, often stated. He was quite next to Roy in her estimation. Roy held inviolate the first place in his twin-sister’s affections; but Jack came closely after.“Were you spouting Mr. Scott’s last new poem, Molly?” demanded Jack, as he deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.“You love to plague me, Jack! Why should I be spouting aught?”Jack gave her a quizzical look.“’Tis dull work for a young maiden to be seated here. What may Mrs. Bryce be after, not to find you partners?”“Jack, be cautious, she is near. See!”—with a motion of her fan. “And I am not dull. I am never dull. I have danced two whole dances, Jack.”“And three with me to come. You do not forget.”“Two,” corrected Molly. “And they will be the best of all”—with childish frankness. “But my grandmother desired me to dance no more than two with any one man. And what news of Sir John?” Molly had a quick womanly instinct, which not all women possess, as to what people would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit the mark, whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who knew her well.“I went to Cobham but a week since, and saw his mother. She fears Sir John is sorely worried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of Sicily must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and gives all her confidence to Frenchmen—so says Sir John—yet our government fights in defence of the King, her husband, and pays him too a subsidy.”“And ’tis but a year since Sir John was all on the alert to be sent to India.”“Ay; so he told me, and his mother speaks of it still. She says that Sir John deems India to be by far the most important colony our nation has ever had. He thought then that he might well be spared for a while from Europe, matters being somewhat at a standstill. Since Trafalgar there can be no further dread of an invasion, and little was doing or is doing on the Continent, to check the Emperor’s advance. For my part, I doubt not that Sir John would prefer above all to be at the head of affairs in India. I have heard him say that that was the greatest and most important command which could fall to a British officer. But Mr. Fox refused to spare him, saying that England could not do without him in Europe.”Jack had always plenty to say, when once he got upon the subject of his Hero.(To be continued.)
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
ByAGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.
A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY.
“Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. For somebody will be there whom you little think to see.”
Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up sharply.
“Yes, indeed, and you may guess, but I vow you’ll never guess the truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune! Had it come to me in my young days, why, I think ’twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you may conjecture—you may conjecture, Polly. Who in the world can it be?”
Polly was seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looking as usual exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown velvet, took a faraway expression, and the delicate tinting of her cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely, after a pause—
“If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma’am, I would say—Captain Ivor!”
Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and sandalled foot.
“Pish-pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you may rest satisfied that you have said what propriety demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts, and likely so to remain for many a long year to come, being therefore out of the question, we’ll e’en dismiss the thoughts of him, and I’ll ask Molly whom she would most desire to meet at the dance to-night.”
Molly sat upon a second high-backed chair, busily netting. At sixteen—close upon seventeen, indeed—she was more altered from the child of twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, and she was more rounded than in earlier years. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in place of good looks. Molly Baron would never be a “belle,” but she might become a woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply was more prompt than Polly’s had been, and it consisted of one single syllable.
“Roy!”
“But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so also. Who next?”
“Jack!” Molly said, with equal rapidity.
“Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves, and is in and out perpetually. Jack’s a genteel young fellow enough, I make no question, but somewhat better than Jack awaits you this evening. Eh, Polly—what if it be—no other than Captain Peirce?”
“Captain Peirce better than Jack! Nay!” Molly said indignantly.
Polly’s colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight provocation, delicately and prettily. Polly also tossed her head, and arranged the light scarf, which covered her shoulders.
“Captain Peirce is welcome enough, ma’am,” she made answer carelessly.
“I do not like Captain Peirce,” murmured Molly.
“Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce’s affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is aprodigious favourite with everybody, especially, I can assure you, with all the young women ofmode. And he has eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”
Polly looked studiously down, offering no remark; and Molly frowned.
“If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is engaged to another, and he out of reach!”
“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of you! Why, you’re scarce out of the nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married. No, nor no chance to be married, while old Nap lives; and depend on’t, he’ll not die yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to wait and wait, till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man oftonwill ever deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?”
Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face. “But Polly knows Captain Ivor better!” she suggested.
“Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be?” demanded the vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted closely with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable. And I have said the same before, Molly.” Which certainly she had.
“Polly is still a long way off from growing old,” persisted Molly.
“Well, well, that’s as may be. But you’ve not divined my secret yet,” pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night; and ’tis not Jack of whom I speak. Captain Peirce will be there; and ’tis not Captain Peirce. The Admiral will be there; and ’tis not the Admiral. Somebody else also will be there—and ’tis he.”
Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. “Who was it that read last week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ and that said she would give half she was possessed of to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?”
“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.
“Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing?”
“Really and truly?” questioned Molly, half incredulously. “May we in truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott himself to-night? That will be worth going for, were there naught else. Think, Polly, Mr. Walter Scott himself, that writ all about William of Deloraine and the ‘Fair Ladye Margaret of Branksome Hall.’”
“You may count yourself a fortunate young woman, Molly,” complacently observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early age of sixteen, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, the author of ‘Thalaba,’ as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr. William Wordsworth, and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself—I give you joy of such good fortune.”
“And the last will be the best,” remarked Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure, ma’am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known.”
“If the public voice be true, ’tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott’s poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I’m informed that Mr. Constable is this year paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And ten thousand people are on the look-out for its appearance. But now ’tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best this night.”
Polly was in no wise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest; and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly’s abundant mane needed attention, though crowned with a fantastic hat, which carried lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ball-room equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.
Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was in itself a sunbeam.
She could never enter a crowded room, without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was quite content to have it so. While amused with the scene, she did not expect admiration.
The one thing on which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott, the future “Wizard of the North.” His real work in life, the writing of the “Waverley Novels,” had not then been so much as begun; but he was already well known as the very successful author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm. When he came from his Scotch home to London, he was fêted and made much of to any extent.
Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and flowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. And “immortal” Scott doubtless is, in the literary sense, with still no peer, but hardly as a poet. Popular judgment made a mistake there—not for the first or the last time in its existence.
“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,Whose lofty mien and dazzling airBespeaks——” etc.
“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,Whose lofty mien and dazzling airBespeaks——” etc.
“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,Whose lofty mien and dazzling airBespeaks——” etc.
“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,
The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,
Whose lofty mien and dazzling air
Bespeaks——” etc.
This is not a quotation; it is merely a specimen of the kind of thing that our great-grandmothers and grandmothers in their early youth admired and doted on. The bump of veneration must have been more highly developed on people’s heads in those days than in these. And how they did admire and did dote, the dear young things! Just as Molly Baron did that evening. She sat upon her quiet seat, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious poet-form, which her gaze was soon to rest upon. She did not care to talk. She did not wish to dance. She was wrapped in a dream, from which Mrs. Bryce’s decisive finger-tips aroused her.
“Wake up, my dear. Are you asleep, Molly? Here he comes.”
Molly looked rapturously around and about in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous human form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, of good height, rather robust in make, healthy, but scarcely “elegant,” with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a frank genial expression—no, that was not Molly Baron’s ideal of an immortal poet. His eyes were only light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet’s should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.
Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet; and he said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad to know always that she had seen and spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.
Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded by a host of friends; and Molly retreated again to her seat. Plenty was going on to amuse and interest her. She had danced twice, and now a rather long pause had come, no fresh partners turning up. Molly was of course under Mrs. Bryce’s wing, but that lady had too many irons in the fire to spare much time for the quiet country girl at her side. Molly cared little. She liked to look and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Mrs. Bryce’s gay talk was entertainingenough, as the good lady expatiated on this person and that, flirted her fan at one elderly gentleman and captured another, dissected theoretically one lady’s “bewitching gown,” and descanted on the “superb equipage” possessed by another, reverting then to the “London Particular Madeira” which had been served at a recent grand dinner-party, and hoping for some of the same at supper.
Growing surfeited with this, Molly turned her attention elsewhere, and descried Admiral Peirce close at hand, button-holing another gentleman, and holding forth to him in a loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence.
“Why, sir,” he was saying, “why, sir, there’s nothing after all like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a landsman—why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking-water in the world! Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then it’ll keep as long as ever you want it.[1]Yes, sir, it will indeed.”
Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking-water, which in those days was not considered a question of pressing interest, wandered farther afield. A slight pucker came between her brows, as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Albert Peirce in close attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice; and it was impossible from Polly’s look to know whether she were pleased or displeased.
The gay scene around faded from Molly’s vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan; but she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around in their low dresses and hats or turbans, scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by; and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.
“All right, Molly!” he was calling gaily. “It’s only for two weeks, you know, and then we shall be back again.” And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly’s hands in a firm clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was downward bent and blushing. But it was not Polly who in one moment had left an indelible impression upon Molly’s childish memory. When she thought of that day it was always Ivor’s face—the young Guardsman’s look of silent grave devotion—which unbidden came up.
“How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget!” murmured Molly, her lips unconsciously moving with the energy of her own thoughts.
“Molly, this is sure scarce a place for audible meditation,” a voice said at her side.
“Jack!”
Molly’s whole face grew bright. Now she had all, or nearly all, that she wanted. She was extremely fond of Jack, and Jack of her. They were exactly like brother and sister, so Molly, not Jack, often stated. He was quite next to Roy in her estimation. Roy held inviolate the first place in his twin-sister’s affections; but Jack came closely after.
“Were you spouting Mr. Scott’s last new poem, Molly?” demanded Jack, as he deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.
“You love to plague me, Jack! Why should I be spouting aught?”
Jack gave her a quizzical look.
“’Tis dull work for a young maiden to be seated here. What may Mrs. Bryce be after, not to find you partners?”
“Jack, be cautious, she is near. See!”—with a motion of her fan. “And I am not dull. I am never dull. I have danced two whole dances, Jack.”
“And three with me to come. You do not forget.”
“Two,” corrected Molly. “And they will be the best of all”—with childish frankness. “But my grandmother desired me to dance no more than two with any one man. And what news of Sir John?” Molly had a quick womanly instinct, which not all women possess, as to what people would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit the mark, whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who knew her well.
“I went to Cobham but a week since, and saw his mother. She fears Sir John is sorely worried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of Sicily must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and gives all her confidence to Frenchmen—so says Sir John—yet our government fights in defence of the King, her husband, and pays him too a subsidy.”
“And ’tis but a year since Sir John was all on the alert to be sent to India.”
“Ay; so he told me, and his mother speaks of it still. She says that Sir John deems India to be by far the most important colony our nation has ever had. He thought then that he might well be spared for a while from Europe, matters being somewhat at a standstill. Since Trafalgar there can be no further dread of an invasion, and little was doing or is doing on the Continent, to check the Emperor’s advance. For my part, I doubt not that Sir John would prefer above all to be at the head of affairs in India. I have heard him say that that was the greatest and most important command which could fall to a British officer. But Mr. Fox refused to spare him, saying that England could not do without him in Europe.”
Jack had always plenty to say, when once he got upon the subject of his Hero.
(To be continued.)