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THE
WOMAN'S WOfilvD
VOLUME I
1888
Edited by OSCAR WILDE
Source Book Press
Digitized by
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Catalogue Card No. 78-134196
ISBN 0-87681-078-4
Source Book Press, a Division of Collectors Editions Ltd.,
185 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016
Unabridged republication of the 1888 London edition: First printing 1970
Reprinted from copies in the collections of Mrs. Arthur C. Holden
and the University of Waterloo Library.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Digitized by
,.,o.«.^»*^''
THE
WOMAN'S WORLD.
Edited by OSCAR WILDE.
CASSELL & C0MPA:NY, Limited:
LONDON, PARIS NEW YORK <t- MELBOURNE.
1888.
[all BI0BT8 BESKBTXD.]
Digitized by
HH^
BTANrOltb UNIVEBaiTV UBRARICB STACKS
MAR 0 8 1972
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Digitized by
CONTENTS.
Amove the Cloud-Lixb. By Mrs. Bancroft. (Illustrated)
Alex*ndra College, Dublin. By Lady Ferguson .
An Old-Fashioxed Iuish Town (Youohal). By Miss F.
W. Carrey. (Illustrated)
Ancient Egypt, A Lady in. By Mrs. H. M. Tirard. (Illus- trated)
Anderson, Miss Mary, in the " Winter's Tale." By the
Author of " John Halifax, Grentleman." (Illustrated) .
Apropos op a Dinner. By Ouida
Art Wares, Japanese. By Miss M. Nicollo
Artistic Needlework, New axd Popular. By Miss E.
T. Masters
At Royat. By Mrs. Campbell Praed. (Illustrated) . Author op " John Halifax, Gentleman," The. By Mrs.
William Sharp. (Illustrated)
Bashkirtsepf, Marie, the Russian PAiNThu. By Mits
Mathilde Blind. (Illustrated) . . \»j|-fi 351, Berlin, " People's Kitch ens '* in. By Miss Dorotl\^a Roberts Bonnets op Queen Victoria's Reign, History of the.
By Mrs. Cooper-Oakley. (Illustrated) .... ** C^ALLANDER " MoNTH IN SCOTLAND, A. By Lady Magnus.
(lUustrated)
*' Carmen Sylva," the Poet-Queen. By Mrs. E. B. Mawer
(Illustrated)
Charity. Poem. By Arthur Symons
Child-Players of the Elizabethan Age, The. By Mrs.
St. liOe Strachey. (Illustrated)
Children of a Great City, The. By lilrs. Francis Jeunc.
(Illustrated) 27,
Children's Dress in this Century. By Mrs. Oscar Wilde.
(Illustrated)
Christian Women of Turkey, The. By Miss Lucy M. J.
Gamett. (Illustrated)
Christina Rossbtti, The Poetry op. By Miss Amy Levy.
(Illustrated)
City of Memories, A (Winchester). By the Misses A. R.
Bramston and A. C. Leroy (Esm6 Stuart). (Illustrated) . Club Life, Women and. By Miss Amy Levy (Illustrated) CoHDBN, Some Recollections op. By Lady Dorothy Nevill Culture versus Cookery. By Mrs. Harriet Brooke Davios Decebal's Daughter, By Carmen Sylva. (Illustrated) . Drama in Relation to Art, Thk. By Lady Pollock Dublin, Alexandra College. By Lady Ferguson . Dublin Castle. By Miss Rosa Mulholland. (Illustrated). Elementary School Teaching as a Profession. By Miss
Simcox
Emigration. By the Hon. Mrs. Joyce .... Endowment op the Daughter, The. By Miss Emily
FaithfuU
English Ballad Singers and English Ballad Singing,
A Woman's Thoughts upon. By the Countess of
Munstcr. (Illustrated)
Fallacy of the Equality op Woman, The. By Miss
Lucy M. J. Gamett
Fallacy op the SupAriority op Man, The. By Mrs.
Charles M'Laron
Fashions : London, by Mrs. Johnstone ; Paris, by Violette.
(Illustrated) :— 41, 86, 137, 185, 233, 281, 329, 377, 425,
521,
PAGE I PAGE
23 "First Nights" in Paris: ** Les Premieres." By Mmc.
129 I do Maucroix. (Illustrated) 205
Flowers from the South. Poem. By Miss E. R. Chapman 412
437 From Her. By Lady Lindsay 226
I Girl Workers, Our, By Theresa, Countess of Shrewsbury 154 390 Greek Plays at the Universitifs. By a Graduate of
I Girton. (Illustrated) 121
•*9 ' Greek Poets, Modern. By Mrs. Edmonds. (Illustrated). 315 193 1 Hazeley Heath. Sonnet. By " Violet Fane " . . . 16 94 Hermitage, The : An Episode in the Life of Jean Jacques Rousseau. By Mrs. Fi-ederika Macdonald.
518 (Illustrated) 146
71 Historic Women. Poem. By Lady Wilde ... 97
History of the Bonnets of Queen Victoria's Reign.
110 By Mrs. Cooper-Oakley. (Illustrated) .... 506
Home Arts and Industries Association, The. By Miss
50G
156
245 499
490
253
413
168
178
219 364 346 202 375 249 129 304
537 173
375
473, 565
418 59
396
4'^ W^ M. C. Stirling and Lady Wentworth. (Hlustrated) 278 lloops, A Treatise on. By S. W. Beck. (Illustrated) . Irish Industries, Some: —
The Poplin- Weavers of Dublin. By Miss C.
O'Conor-Eccles
The Knitters op the Rosses. By Miss Dorothea
Roberts. (Illustrated) 400
Japanese Art Wares. By Miss M. Nicolle ... 94 Josephine Bbauharnais. By Miss F. ^label Robinson.
(Illustrated) 443
KiRBY Hall. By Lady Constance Howard. (Illustrated) . 99 Knitters of the Rosses, The. By Miss Dorothea Roberts.
(Illustrated) 400
La Californib. Sonnet. By Miss A. Mary F. Robinson . 64 Lace-Makers of Le Puy, The. By Miss E. Betham-
Edwards. (Illustrated) 550
Lace-Making in Ireland. By Miss H. E. Keane. (Hlus-
trated) . . '. 195
Ladies' Colleges, The Oxford. By a Member of One of Them 32 Lady Dressmakers, The Society op. By Mrs. B. A.
Cookson-Crackanthorpe 374
Lady in Ancient Egypt, A. By Mrs. H. M. Tirard.
(Illustrated) 390
Le Monde ots l'on DInb. By Mrs. Lebour-Fawssctt . 440
Legend op the Blush Roses. Poem. By Miss Beatrice
Crane (Design by Walter Crane) 177
*' Les PREMikRBs " : " First Nights" in Paris. By Mme.
de Maucroix. (Illustrated) 205
Literary and other Notes. By the Editor 36, 81, 132, 180, 229 Love's Absolution ; or, an Episode of London Life. By
Lady Virginia Sandars
Madame db Sevign^'s Grandmother. By Annie Thackeray
(Mrs. Richmond Ritchie). (Illustrated) Marais, a Walk through the. By Miss A. Mary F.
Robinson. (Illustrated) 495,
Marie Basukirtseff, the Russian Painter. By Miss
Mathilde Blind. (Illustrated) . . . . 351, 454 Medicine : Professions for Women. By Dr. Mary A.
Marshall, M.D 105
Mer-Baby, The. Poem. By " Violet Fane. " (Illustrated
by Miss Dorothy Tennant) 453
Miss Mary Anderson in the ** Winter's Tale." By the
Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman." (niustrated) . 49
368
11
543
372
529
54
Digitized by
IV
Contents.
I'Aot: MiNiSTEuiNO Childubm'h Lbaoue, The. By the Countess of
Mcath 78
Modern D&eshmakeu, The. By 31r8. J. E. Davis . . 655
MoDEUN Okeek Poets. By Mrs. Edmonds. (Illustrated) . 315
MuiiDER — OR Mercy ? By Miss Ella Hepworth Dixon . 466 Needle- WoMEX, Soxetuino about. By Miss Clementina
Black 300
New and Popular Artistic Needlework. By Miss E. T.
Masters 518
Nursing as a Profession for Women. By H.R.H. Prin- cess Christian . . 241
Old-Fashioned Irish Town, A (Youghal). By Miss F.
W. Currey. (Dlustrated) 437
Other Women in Germany. By Miss H. Friederichs . 563 Our Girl Workers. By Theresa, Countess of Shrewsbury 154 Oxford Ladies* Colleges, The. By a Member of One of Them 32 Oxford, The Women Benefactors ok. By W. L. Court- ney. (Illustrated) .341
" People's Kitchens " in Berlin. By Miss Dorothea Roberts 278 Pictures of Sappho, The. By Miss Jane E. Harrison
(Illustrated) 274
Playgrounds and Open Spaces. By Miss Blanche Medhurst 610
Plea for the Indifferent, A. By Miss M. R. Lacey . 417
Poetry of Christina Rossetti, The. By Miss Amy Levy 178 PoMPEiAN Lady, A. By Edith Marget (Mrs. Wolffsohn).
(Illustrated) 532
Poplin -Weavers of Dublin, The. By Miss C. O'Conor-
Eccles 396
Position of Woman, The. By the Countess of Portsmouth 7 Professions for Women : —
Medicine. By Dr. Mary A. Marshall, M.D. . . 105
Nursing. By H.R.H. Princess Christian . .241
Elementary School-Teaching. By Miss Simcox. 537
Queen's Thoughts, A. By Cartnen Sylva .... 512
Recent Telepathic Occurrence at the British Museum,
The. By Miss Amy Levy 31
Recollections of Comden, Some. By I^ady Dorothy NeWU 346 Records of a Fallen Dynasty. By Mrs. Singleton
(** Violet Fane"). (Illustrated) 293
Rest. By Miss Constance Naden 218
Roman Love-Sono, A. By Miss Dorothy Blomfield . . 363 Roman Women at the Beginning of the Empire. By
Miss A. W. Richardson. (Illustrated) . . . .513 St. George the Chevalier. By the late Dr. Anna Kings- ford, M.D 322
Sappho, The Pictures of. By Miss Jane E. Harrison.
(lUustratod) 274
PAOC
Scotland, A "Callander" Month in. By Lady Magnus.
(Illustrated) 156
Smocking. By Miss E. T. Masters. (Illustratod) . . 325 Social Scares. By Miss Mabel Sharman Crawford . .433 Society of Lady Dressmakers, The. By ^Irs. B. A. Cook-
son-Crackanthorpe 374
Something about Needle- Women. By Miss Clementina
Black 300
Streets of London, The. By Ouida . . . .481
Summer Days in Brittany. By Lady Fairlio Cuning-
hame. (Illustrated) 266
Swiss Gorlins. By the Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco . 199 Sybil's Dilemma. By Julia, Lady Jersey . . . .271 Tapestry- Weaving. By Alan S. Cole. (Illustratod) . . 485
The Lost. By Olive Schreiner 145
The Mer-Baby. Poem. By " Violet Fane." (lUustrated
by Miss Dorothy Tennant) 453
The Truth about Clement Ker. Serial Story. By
George Fleming:— 17, 65, 115, 161, 211, 259,310,357,406,
448, 500, 647 Treatise on Hoops, A. By S. W. Beck. (Illustrated) . 50
Triolets. By ^liss Edythe H. Cross 265
Uses of a Drawing-Room, The. By Mi-s. H. O. Barnett . 289 Vassar. By Miss J. D. Hunting. (Illustrated) . . .461 View near Taranto, A. Poem. By Mis. Janet Ross . 642 Walk through the Marais, A. By Miss A. Mary F.
Robinson. (Illustrated) 495, 543
Wedding Presents, Past and Present. By Mrs. Conyers
Morrell. (Illustrated) 470
Winchester (A City or Memories). By Misses A. R.
Bramston and A. C. L'roy (Esm6 Stiutrt). (Illustrated) 219 Woman and Democracy. By Miss Julia Wedgwood . . 337 Woman's Friendship, A. Mary Stuart and Mary
Seton. By Mi-8. F. Fenwick- Miller. (Illustrated) . 557 Woman's Thoughts upon English Ballad Singers and
English Ballad Singing, A. By the Countess of
Munster. (Illustrated) 372
Women and Club Life. By Miss Amy Lev}'. (Illustrated) 364 Women Benefactors of Oxford, The. By W. L. Courtney.
(Illustrated) 341
Women in Germany. By Miss Louise Bevington (Mrs.
Guggenberger) 458
Woodland Gods, The. By Lady Archibald Campbell.
(Illustrated) 1
Working Ladies' Guild, The. By Miss M. C. Tabor . 423 Youghal (An Old-Fahhioned Irish Town). By Miss F.
W. Currey. (lUustrated) 437
^t45f of ^utt'paQC ^Cafes.
Scene from **The Faithfull Shepherdesse " (Coomue Wood
The Young Knight
The Princess of Wales in her Robes as a Doctor of Music
Christina Rossetti
A "First Night*' at the Theatre Fran^ais: The Foyer .
H.M. THE Queen of Roumania (" Carmen Sylva ")
Prince Charles Edward Stuart Disguised as " Betty Burke"
Queen Elizabeth
The Toilet of a Lady of Ancient Egypt ....
The Empress Josephine
Child-Platers of the Sixteenth Century .... A Lady of Pompeii
Pastoral Plays) Frontispiece
Drawn by Walter Crane To face page 78
From a Photograph by Lafayette of Dublin . . „ 130 From a Crayon Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti „ 180
Drawn by Paul Destez „ 208
From a Photograph „ 248
From an old Print ,,298
From the Portrait by Zucchcro at Oxford . . „ 344
Drawn by V>. Ricketts ,,394
From the Painting by Gerard at Versiiilks . . „ 442
Drawn by Gordon Browne „ 492
Drawn by C. Ricketts ,,536
Digitized by
The V^^oman'S AA^^orld.
%hz CToodland (^odz.
IT has been said that the artist is the man who recog- nises art in Nature, the man who knows what is the natural material capable of being artistically treated, and where it is to be found ; for art can only be exercised under conditions, and to such conditions it is not always
When I first thought of open-air plays it was re- peatedly said to me that art and Nature could not be brought into contacb without destroying dramatic effect ; but I considered that there were certain plays, of which the chief elements and surroundings were so eminently
Oblakdo.
in Nature's power to conform. The conditions, for ex- ample, of dramatic art are imitative, as are those of all other arts, yet the drama can never be strictly said to be imitative of Nature, but only representative. To transfer life to the boards of the theatre demands a just apprecia- tion of the difference between real and dramatic con- ditions ; so that the spectator who goes to the play and (as many spectators do) institutes a direct comparison between the actor and the man, criticises on a false basis, and does not appreciate the artistic conditions. 1
natural, that open-air representation not only would not weaken, but would rather strengthen, their dramatic effect. With this belief the forest scenes fix)m Aa You Like It were chosen for three open-air presentations, and were given at Coombe, in Surrey, in July, 1884, and repeated in May, 1885, followed in Juno and July by seven presentations of Fletcher's pastoral, Tfie FaiUi- fuM Shepherdesse^ as adapted by Godwin, and by three presentations in July, 1886, of Fair Rosamund, adapted by Grodwin from Lord Tennyson's **Becket." No one
Digitized by
The Woman's World.
was more conscious than Shakespeare of the difQculties of conveying to the minds of an audience, through the artificial medium of scenic representation, any adequate image of the realities of life : —
** Can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France, or may we cram "Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agmoourt ? " ♦
Of course not, and so the audience is asked not to demand too much, but to " eke out the performance with their minds ; " for the chorus to the fourth act, speaking of the battle itself, says : —
** And so our scene must to the battle fly, Where (O for pity !) we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous, The name of Agincourt."
Nor can it be siaid that, with all the resources of scenic invention which the modem stage-manager has at command, this difficulty is capable of being satisfactorily surmounted. Rather it must be confessed that the moi^e we encumber the stage with pseudo-realistic accessories the more do we challenge comparison with Nature her- self, and we make allowance for the scene-painter's short- comings with more difficulty than for those of the actor, because there is not one in a million of us who under- stands the technicalities of the scene-painter's art.
The representations of the Attic theatre, it may be urged, were unrealistic. Masks concealed the coun- tenance of the actor, stilts magnified his stature, robes shrouded his pei-son, a monotonous cadence prevailed in his delivery. But we could no longer be satisfied with types, however beautifully they were clothed and pre- sented. We demand complexity, we demand sympathy, we demand character, we demand Nature. It is surely affectation to ai*gue from the opposite standpoint that because acting is an artificial presentation of cei'tain phases of life, and not life itself, so likewise must the environment of the actor be artificial. Bather it should be said that such artificiality handicaps the display of the actor's genius ; for inasmuch as the finest acting makes the spectator forget that it is art, it follows that the more natural the acting the more patent is the discord with artificial surroundings. Where the environment of the actor is artificial, artificial acting may pass current. But Nature is the test, the touchstone ; she shows up what is false, what is exaggerated, what is theatrical. She is the ever-present standard.
In the England of to-day sensational realism has reached its zenith. In the form dramatic art takes on the theatrical stage we see, for the most part, the realism of the common-place, the every-day life which, whether sensational or not, appeals in no way to our sense of beauty. On the pastoral stage the advantage gained is on the side of the romantic drama, for with such a setting we may pass from the realisation of the actual to the realisation of the ideal Indeed, open-air acting means either this or nothing. Here Nature challenges the artist; it is the chance for the true artist, be he dilettante- professional or professional-amateur. The world is a
* Chorus, Henry T., Act I.
great deal too thick with current writing on art, but it is plain that as long as there is discredit attached to the words " amateur " and " dilettante " in ait-criticism, there must be a dead-lock ; for what is the " amateur " but he who has the " amor " or love of art, the " dilettante " but he who has " diletto " or pleasure in art 1 Every work of art also suggests its own mode of presentation, just as every work of art suggests its own form of criticism, and both in creation and in criticism what is essential is freedom of mood. The ordinary stage-manager is forced more or less to mould (perhaps to mutilate) a work of art to suit preconceived ideas and old traditions ; the director of the natural stage (given that he chooses a suitable setting for his representation), to be successful, must avoid these customary stage conventions.
Before entering more deeply into this question, it is well that a few words should be said about our director — the director of " The Pastoral Players." In the world of art, the deep dramatic insight and many-sided artistic knowledge of Godwin was, we all know, unerring. His tine discernment, crowned by knowledge, showed in everything he touched. It was evident to this great spirit (now moved into the fairer sunlight) that art demands a special treatment when brought into contact with Nature, just as Nature demands a special treatment when confronted with art, and we cannot but lament with Mr. W. G. Wills in his tender elegy, "genius flown, starved by a tasteless age, and unfulfilled," and with the author of " Helena in Troas " in his memorial sonnet : —
'' A man of men, bom to be genial king
By frank election of the artist kind, Attempting all things, and on everything
Setting the signet of a master-mind. What others dreamed amiss, he did aright ;
Uis dreams were visions of art*s golden age ; Yet, self-betrayed, he fell in fortime*s spite,
His royal birthright sold for scanty wage. The best of comrades, winning old and young
With keen audacious charm, dandling the fool That pleased his humour, but with scathing tongue
For blatant pedants of the bungler school. They tell me he had faults ; I know of one — Dying too soon he left his best undone.*'
A " man of men " indeed he was, and with that fine generosity that always accompanies true genius. It has been well said of him that " what he gave his age was a spirit to inform the work of others, a spirit which will gix)w, and spread and manifest itself in multitudinous forms of beauty." When he wrote of contemporary art, that most of it was " a mead of wild errors," it was because he set his ideal so exclusively among the Greek gods. Of workmanship perfected, he saw only the shield of Achilles wrought by the glorious lame god Hephaistos. No man ever lived with greater singleness of purpose. To create beautiful things for the mere sake of their loveliness, this was his object ; not wealth, not position, not fame even. Yet fame surely shall be his, for the muses taught him, and the mother of the muses had care for him. Poet of architects, and architect of all the arts, he possessed that rare gift, a feeling for the very essence of Beauty wherever and whenever it was to be found.
Digitized by
The Woodland Gods.
The arts seemed to yield their secrets to him, and for him Nature opened her scroll, while with exquisite spirit of choice, and delicate tact of omission, he would, from both these worlds of wonder, select all congruous elements of beauty and of strength, and combine them into works of perfect symmetry and right proportion. Like the strength of Michael Angelo, his strength lay in that he always worked fi*om some great conscious rest, and we know that the parallels he ruled were always trust- worthy. In his last creative production, the presenta- tion of Helena in Troaa, we saw a manifestation of the remarkable power to which he had attained, though, indeed, he left his best undone. From the first moment of entering the theatre, as he had fashioned it, a sense of beauty, hushed and serene, stole over the spectator, such as one might fancy had never been felt since Greeks listened to the plays of Euripides. As the tragedy unfolded itself (dawn growing into noonday, and noon waning into night), the hush continued and grew more intense, for the rhythmical movements of the chorus made the story come and go like a shadow of fate, seen in clear water or in a crystal sphere — like the reverie of some god in the soul that dreams of a god's ways. With the death of Paris, and Helen's last sad words, the play was not over. When, like figures on a marble frieze, the band of white-robed maidens wound through the twilight past the altar of Dionysus, and one by one in slow procession climbed the steps, and passed away, the audience were absolutely stilled in their excitement All minds were held in strong emotion as by the voice of some god which, " when ceased, men still stood fixed to hear." The pure keynote of beauty was again struck, and, line and colour taking the place of language, the play ultimately reverted to that plastic ideal which lies at the basis of all Greek art.
In the presentation of Tlve Faithfull ShepJierdesse and As You Like Ity Godwin's com- bined delicacy and strength were equally shown. It seemed that with him the Woodland Gods (the Bird-Gods themselves) were in hidden sympathy, and that from their hiding places in oak and fern they breathed and piped their secrets to his inmost soul, his keen eye and quick ear catch- ing their slightest and subtlest suggestions, his large understand- ing seizing at once their mode in the garden of unity. Fletcher's pastoral he truly saw was no mere theatric play, but a parable rather, and a pageant : a parable where the thoughts and moods of our nature take visible form, put on comely attire, and appear before us ; a i)ageant through Obiando.
which the gracious old Arcadian life can, in an English woodland, stir again, and, while retaining its Greek clearness of outline, yet gain something from the me- diseval magic of colour and from the Northern temper of romance.
The composition of stage effect and the art of acting generally, whether in-doors or out-dooi-s, meant for his wonderful genius what the art of musical composition meant for the wonderful genius of Wagner — it meant growth, originality, freedom from tradition. As ai-t- director of our natural stage, he urged more than ever on the actor (whether that actor occupied the principal rdle, or that of the silent super) the necessity that the ordinary technique of the stage must be held by him subordinate, and sacrificed to pictorial and realistic effect. The conventional strut, the lover's speech (ad- dressed wholly or in part to the audience, instead of to the object of his passion), the strange monotonous system of intoning blank verse (sacrificing entirely to cadence the more important quality of sense) — all this, where and when mother Nature is herself pressed into the service of the players, Godwin justly held a.s heresy. It was Nature, he said, who must be consulted, because her suggestions of method are not less varied and infinite than ai*e her changes of mood — " concord in discord, lines of differing method meeting in one full centre of delight." This was the high art-standard he made for, in the woodland pictures of moving sound and colour which he created ; he assimilated art to Nature, and Natui*e to art.
With regard to material or scenic treatment, as I have said elsewhere, in my essay on "Rainbow Music,'' "Nature is jealous of line, of hue, and even of sound; she insists that wherever art is confronted with her, it shall partake of her own es.sence." Therefore those arti- ficial lines and dyes, those sounds which are in accord with a cer- tain given condition of Nature, are alone admissible ; she exacts of them that they shall enhance her own beauty by contrast or by harmony.
So also psychologically and dramatically, if we are to live and move with our heroes and heroines in a pastoral story, joy with their joys and weep with their sorrows, our sympathies must be the more awakened and intensified through Nature's own operation ; for, as si)ectators, we are wrought upon from without as well as from within, sub- jected to the same psychological influences which are felt uncon- sciously by the players themsehes {pace Diderot), and which must also have been felt by the i»eople
Digitized by
The Woman's World.
whose lives and characters they represent. Players and spectators alike cannot but be carried into a realisation of actual pastoral life while Nature's vibrating accom- paniment speaks to them in the lisp of leaves and " the murmur that springs from the growing of grass," in the song of birds, and in all the many outward symbols of
that the only possible realisation of such naturalistic beauty is to be sought in the endeavour to make it one with that Nature from which it descended, and in which alone it could find its counterpart
This was the conviction that forced itself upon me when first I saw As You Like It within the walls of the
Pbuqot and Amabyllis.
her ceaselessly pulsating life. In efiect, it is through the feelings she inspires, under certain conditions of harmony, that the sensitive spectator is moved to a delight which finds its expression in tears. Nature is then as the voice of the beloved, singing to one alone. Breathing above all else of the woods, of song-birds, and wild flowers are these most beautiful scenes in As Yoti Like It, where indeed are found " tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.^ And, in truth, one can understand
theatre. That a ceii^in element of discord with the realistic word-painting of Shakespeare should be too often I)ainfully evident in the theatre is not to be wondei*ed at, and if we regard the art of Shakespeare from this naturalistic standpoint we can perceive the basis of reason- ing fit)m which spring the sentiments often expressed against all representations of Shakespeare's plays. From this point of view, indeed the expi-ession of such sentiment loses that ring of mere conventional affectation, with which it is apt to strike the ear of the Shakespearean enthusiast.
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The Woodland Gods.
At the representations of bur " forest scenes," the fact that many among the more observant spectators confessed to finding themselves the only notes out of tune with the natural surroundings, is perhaps the best proof that a union of art with Nature was then and there consummated. The audience really became the only external conven- tionality which appeared out of place, because Nature had not absorbed them, as it were, and made them her own. Having established the fact that we wei-e treating with the wood and its natural surroundings as we found them, it would be an imj^ertinence to enter into a description of natural effects that changed with every hour of the day. Some regard was had to the selection of the spot, so that the axis of the auditorium and natural stage should fall in such a manner as to make the most of the trees, glades, background, and landscape. To any one not present the thought would naturally occur that the sides (technically known as wings on the stage) would be exposed, and that either exits and entrances would seem unnatural, or that long pauses would have to be introduced in the action of the pieca This, however, was overcome by taking advantage of the circumstances of the locality.
As regai-ds the costume, as the play distinctly refers to a time when there were dukedoms in Fi-ance, the style of dress was that in use prior to the absorption of the Duchy of Brittany by the Crown, therefore before A.D. 1483. The rich and picturesque apparel in vogue during the ten or twenty years preceding this was the model which guided u& It was acknowledged on all sides that
the banished Duke, the nobles, the foresters, and the shepherds were somehow in place; that the high hunting- boots and by-cocket caps, the dull velvets and worn leather, the newer habits of those ** young gentlemen of estate" who daily sought the exiled lords to hunt with them, the hooded cape, the belted tunic, and the bow and spear, were at home among these high trees and chequered glades. As it was the love of the beautiful which led to the inception, no discordant note of colour was struck out of liarmony with Nature's key in which we played ; for each tone of colour introduced had been borrowed from Nature's own woodland hues. The dresses of Rosalind and Celia struck the bright russet tones of bracken and bark ; Orlando's, the mellowed tinge of golden-greens which belongs to dead leaves and ferns ; while Phebe, tripping along in the hues of the violet or heart's-ease, seemed a flower bom of the woods ; and so on through the varied and subdued forest-tones, notes were struck in the different impersonations, all resolving into one perfect harmony.
On Rosalind, frequently pronounced one of the most charming of Shakespeare's heroines, much has been written. Orlando has been neglected. Yet if he is of comparatively less importance, measured by his less voluble flow of speech, there is, nevertheless, a poetry about his character which has a fascination peculiarly its own, and, contrasted with the sparkling vivacity of Rosalind, its mellow light appears more dreamily poetical.
It seems remarkable that whilst Hamlet, Romeo, even Shylock, and many other male Shakespearean cha- racters have been played by women, we do not hear that
' Adiku I GOOD MoNsisua Meulncholy ! *'
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Orlando has ever been included in the number ; yet, on reading the part, one can feel that it might have been
ful friend banished, Rosalind banished, his own life plotted against by Oliver, his overbearing brother— all this has tended to overlay his mind with a tinge of melancholy. He goes forth to seek his fortunes with his faithful old servant, quite the saddest youth in all Shakespeare's plays. His wild forest-life and discovery of the banished Duke and his lords do not remove his melancholy, but seem to develop in him a nobler and wider kind of sympathy ; for in them he meets that humanity he has hungered for. In seeing their simple life, in realising the adversity that has befallen his
written for one of those youths who in Shakespeare's time played female character, for it will be remembered that it was not till the reign of Charles II. that women began to show upon the stage. A youth who had probably played the parts of Rosalind, Imogen, and Viola, played amongst his latest the part of this romantic lover. Orlando is essentially one who is still boyish enough to play at love, and yet man enough under extremity to draw his swotd upon a band of robbers.
" Inland bred, knowing some nurture," he blushes when he sees how his impatience has led him into the error of mistaking cultivated folk for savages because of their surroundings. He ** puts on " the countenance of stem command- ment, an assumption quite foreign to his nature, and this he is only too glad to drop at the slightest sign of kindness or gentleness. This trait never appears again. Orlando knows **what 'tis to pity and be pitied," for he has been followed for himself alone by one fast-fading life that limps after him in pui-e love, and in the tender solicitude he bestows on that faithful follower we see a further development of a child's or a woman's gentleness. \\llk
The circumstances set forth in the ^ /» ' beginning of the play represent him as one over whose home (bright in the early days, when his father. Sir Row- land du Bois, was the honoured friend of the reigning duke) had come not only the sorrow of death, but the Qj-s^* cloud of poverty. His father's power-
ftxC-M^
father's once powerful friend, and in listening to the last words of Amiens' song, he too feels that " we are not all alone unhappy," and that there are " more woeful pageants than the scene wherein we play." As the days go by, there is something more than home (comprehen- sive as the term was three centuries ago) that he misses. Adam had probably died, for we hear no more of him ; and now his heart and mind are swayed in ideal intensity of love for Rosalind. Not an evening, ** when light thickens and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood," but memo- ries of her who had placed the chain around his neck throng in upon him. He is alive to the brevity of time, to its violated vows ; but even thoughts like these he transfigures by the loved name, which he appends to every sen- tence, whether on brain or bark. The intensity with which he broods over the ideal Rosalind blinds him when the actual Rosalind comes before him in the forest; he sees in her a like- ness to his Rosalind, but a likeness only, because the image which he has cherished within him has developed only the beauty, the good of her, and it is consequently not the girl who, charming and lovable though she was.
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had still a measure of the imperfection of humanity about her.
The character of Orlando gathers relief from the lines of wit and repartee that scintillate through it, like silver threads in a pui'ple woof ; witness his encounter with Jacques. And yet it is curious to find how in this most joyous of plays melancholy is interwoven (not alone in one of its characters, but more or less in all) — the melancholy, that is, of introspective contemplation ; for in Shakespeare's day (in the sixteenth or seventeenth century) we must remember that melancholy implied not at all the fashionable ennui and affected pessimism of the present day, but rather such a spirit as is pictured in Diirer's " Melancholia," which jmrtrays not sorrow, but
the image of thought brooding over the mystery of things. The Duke, Amiens, Silvius, occasionally Rosa- lind herself (though she contrasts in this respect with Orlando), and especially Jaques, sound each and all a different note in this divine chord of melancholy. A contemporary writer has said of the parables of the New Testament that they are not so much illustrative of dif- ferent characters as of one character in different moods. So we may say of the characters in A a You Like It that they are one and all illustrative of the different moods of Nature, and that they consoi-t with the natural surroundings in which the gi-eatest of all dramatists has placed them. Can we be wrong, then, in utilising Nature to illustrate herself] Janey Sevilla Campbell.
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%hz 'Pogition of CToman.
i O subject has, perhaps, excited more conflict, been the nu- cleus for more theories, or originated moi-e prophecies than the position of woman as it should be, or as it will be, in the world — physical, moral, and social. Men and women have placed them- selves on opposite sides, claiming an equal right to display the standards of Religion, Science, and Common Morality. However much the noise of battle may mislead us, the actual position of woman, as we find it in Western civilisation, has been attained by other means than those of contro- versial triumph.
The links which form the chain of progress up to the present position of woman are many and complex. In these pages it will be possible only, in examining a few of those links nearest to our own day, to surmise ac to the plan upon which they were forged. To do this, it is necessary to make clear the exact signification attached to the term, "The Position of Woman." The advan- tage it possesses over others that are often used in its place is obvious, and by defining its meaning as intended by the writer, the way is made plainer for observation of the conditions out of which that position has sprung, and the influences or forces which have affected it
It is certain that no woman now holds objective power at all commensurate with that held by individual women in former times. The same statement applies to men, for wherever increased civilisation has been crowned with liberty, a death-blow has been struck at absolute power. But the fact is to be noted that at periods when a woman has wielded tremendous power, the position of her sex in general has been more or less degraded. Not only would the quantity of power over others be now impossible, but the quality of it would be different.
The existence of Semiramis has been accepted on the records or traditions of her fame as a ruler, founder,
and conqueror. The Queen who travelled far to prove the wisest man with hard questions, cultivated learning when her subject-women knew neither Girton nor Somer- ville. A poor country girl, rich in patriotism and the courage it breeds, won a pure renown when she con- ferred on the simple name of Joan a national gloiy. We feel it incredible that only three hundred years ago Catherine of Medicis was able, in a country whose civili- sation was then conspicuous, to plan and execute with impunity a scheme of diabolical dimensions. Where can we now see any supreme power equal to that exer- cised by the virgin Queen Elizabeth 1
In this year of grace it is inconceivable that any combination of events should place the lives and welfare of a nation, the prosperity or glory of a state, at the feet of any woman even for an hour ; yet the sex, the many women instead of the few, enjoy a position very con- siderably higher and happier than was possible when to the individual, raised by extraordinary talent or fortune, nothing seems to have been impossible. Still, while at present the position of woman may embrace all women, one of its primary characteristics is the relation it bears to individual talent and charact'Cr.
Power and position are used sometimes as convertible terms, whereas they need be in no way synonymous. The desire in man or woman for direct personal control over others, even in its least offensive, the religious or philanthropic forms, is one that ever savours of human weakness, and is bom of human vanity. As an energy, it may obtain a transient success and afford a feeble satisfaction, but its roots are deep in selfishness. It enfeebles and impoverishes the mind from 'which it emanates; its fire^ which gives neither light nor heat^ consumes for a short season and is doomed to extinction. The present position of woman rather represents that realisation of the first precepts of pure liberty that insists on the personal conti-ol over life, actions, and property, the free enjoyment of individual tastes, the un thwarted exercise of individual talents, the unre- strained use of individual faculties, always and only subordinate to national duty and the consideration of
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The Woman's World.
the same freedom to others. Such a position is defended, but not created, by law, although the birth and decay of a statute mark the progress made. The repeal, and still more the disuse, of a statute can prove the establishment of a principle more than its promulgation. The present position of woman compared with the past would appear to show that its extension is mainly due to the i-emoving of barriers, inviting entrance into new fields of thought or occupation defined by individual character and ability, and regulated by the rules of simple justice and common sense, that dictate other affairs. The systems by which more was demanded of the weaker sex, and less justice aftbrded to meet the demand, are overthrown, or in a state of siege.
Women of the higher class in society escape in a large measure the suffering which an unjust position entails upon those below them. Except in cases where experience of some particular cruelty or injustice struck them sharply through the protection of rank or wealth, they were inclined to resent as unnecessary, undesirable, or ridiculous, the earlier agitation for a change in the position of women. This was not occasioned by hardness or ill-will, but, as the heart cannot feel what the eye does not see, so the multitude of preachers has always been great who choose Patience for their text, because they have never felt pain. Pity was not refused, but preven- tion was not entertained. In the same way when women suffered personal ill-treatment, indignation was more freely than logically bestowed upon ruffianism that could stand, if not with pride, at least with insolence, upon legal rights. While the offender was execrated, the power to offend was permitted to remain in the garb of a Government official, respectable in his unifoim, and dangerous to meddle with.
Christianity held forth to the world a picture of Tiiarriage, as a most ancient institution, a gift ever fresh in the beauty of holiness from the hand of the Great Father to His children. So tender and lovely was the pic- ture that it was chosen to repi'esent the mysterious and enduring tie between the Church and Christ. Of different design, but beautiful also in colour and in grace, is the portmyal of roaiTiage by Auguste Comte. Poets sang and moralists dwelt upon marriage as a subject of almost transcendental perfection. Too deeply engrossed in the adoration of such ideals, who would withdraw their eyes to look at the hideous caricature that really represented marriage to thousands of women 1 Marriage, as estab- lished by law and exhibited by custom, might and did very often represent to a wife a hopeless and bitter slavery. The work of the weaker sex was constantly ]>aid in wages to the stronger. The fruits of hard toil of the wife could be spent by the husband ; her industry be devoured by his drunkenness. The inheritance of a woman could act as bait for the most contemptible of mankind. Children could be removed from mothers when these were their best as well as their most natural guardians. Women themselves suffered every outrage and wrong. Not " the good, old rule, the simple plan, that they should take who have the power, and they should keep who can,'* was therein justified, but this state of things was upheld and cherished by the law of
the same lands that gloried in Christianity, or gave birth to Comte's fair picture.
In England the statutes that amended the position of married women passed from mere personal protection to complete possession of property. The same spirit dic- tated those acts which give her the partial, and under some circumstances the entire, control of her children, and the power to appoint guardians.
These acts were the offspring of that change which had begun in the minds of men, a change itself the out- come of strong and irrepressible revulsion. These con- cessions, affecting the direct action of life upon married women, affecting all the circumstances of their life, followed quickly upon each other. Still further proof of the altei'ed estimation which has promoted the position of women generally, whether married or single, is found in the accepted claim for higher education, in the acces- sibility to the medical profession, to the supervision of national education, and to many other posts of trust and counsel. Perhaps the strongest proof of all, from this point of view, lies in the admission to full academical trial, if not yet to full academical honours. The young gentle- woman who so happily selected the year of a good Queen's Jubilee to celebrate a feminine triumph of learn- ing is herself a graceful illustration of what woman has won in her new era, and of what she has not lost in charm and attraction from the old.
We have now enumerated a few of the links nearest to us in a ponderous chain, facts tangible, capable of examination, easy to handle ; and as we look on them we are inclined to say, " How swiftly changes have filled the cup of alteration ! "
Let us proceed to examine what have probably been the latest agents to which we may attribute the existence of these facts which establish the position of woman as it now appears. We must not conclude by the choice of those which are more easily discerned by us, that they have had really greater activity than many which may still remain occult The difficulty of dealing fairly and precisely with such subjects is great The thing made, the substance out of which it was made, and the influences which shaped it, form a trinity that cannot always be dealt with at the same time, and yet may never be entirely separated. For holding the ex- treme end of a chain that stretches through ages, we must remember that we grasp but an infinitesimal part of a whole, of which by far the largest portion is lost to our sight and sense in the remotest past, and we have to rely for its continuity upon that about which we have no knowledge. What appears to us decisive or rapid in its development is only so from our own standpoint, and is not to be regarded as a proof that we are really approaching a final perfection of that which has passed through the factory of unnumbered years. Among these later agents seems to be the apparent accord of women with civilisation. Apjmrent accord are guarded words, and necessarily so when we admit that civilisation has not been, and is not, an invariable friend or foe. For man and woman alike there is an eternal j)er contra in their intercourse with her. Still, in recent years, woman has made some favourable treaties with civilisation.
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Adaptability, in the common sense of the word, is a quality often put down to the balance of woman's account with nature. If civilisation has shown a scant respect in demanding adaptability, by the pressure she has imposed, she has increased the store of it What has been said to testify to an inferiority of nature may assert a superiority of habit. The practical education of centuries is dis- played, when under comparatively heavy disabilities women have been able to turn the opportunities of civili- sation to the improvement of circumstances. Safer and easier means of tiunsit, a wider scope of reading and of thought, greater familiarity with arts and sciences, which, if they do not direct, they eminently serve, solid and higher education within their grasp, are all fair weather tokens, the gifts and graces to women, offered to them by the season of civilisation into which we are entering. Another agent in the seeming momentum of events is the marked change which has taken place in the minds of men. The boot and spur creed that one portion of man- kind should ride, the saddle and bit that the other portion should be ridden, would naturally find place for an article that woman existed for the happiness of man and not for her own : that her first and highest duty was to him, and not to herself. As men became more critical in the adjustment of their ideas, a larger number became restless under external conditions, which they recognised as irre- concilable with principles that they professed, or that they felt directed them. Add to such men the trouble of a generous nature, or the pricking of a good conscience, and we understand how the conflict became unendurable. If ths creed still holds its own over the mind of any educated or thoughtful man, he does not reserve to him- self the right of defending it. How far this change in opinion among men has helped to influence women in the same direction it would be hard to say ; but if, as there seems good reason to hope, it has largely contributed to do so, we have an augury, than which none could be found better and happier, of the future relation of the sexes.
From whatever cause, women manifest an increasing determination to find happiness and to cultivate it for its own sake ; to discover whatever is possible in life for them individually, which will bring interest, work, and therefore enjoyment. They trust more to their own choice, and consult their own individual capabilities. Marriage, which is not for all women, is none the less, but rather the more, desirable, but it is ceasing to be the only goal for girlhood. New resources are at hand and eagerly sought Fresh possibilities are bom, and in a widening horizon a wholesome and more hopeful spirit is awakened. The workwomen of our large towns are those on whom all burdens fall most heavily, to whom most of the advantages of change come last, but they are also stirred by the movement that is passing over other women, and may soon give it great impetus. The higher class of women, who before seemed isolated in their superioity, are eager to use their faculties. With an increasing number, a life of pleasure is losing its importance, and with all there is a craving after the happiness which is "the work of our own hands." But it is in the middle class that the greatest change has taken place : there, not 2
only the excellent education attainable by them, but the consideration of health and enjoyment put into the scale, weighs heavily, and is working little short of a miracle. A Nonconformist minister, who had been engaged amon^ this class for many years in London, described the present type of girl as altogether different to that he remembered forty years ago, owing to her finer physical and mental qualities.
A good illustration of this is to be found by comparison of the education and the places where such girls received it formerly, with what they now receive and the circum- stances that at present surround it. Then, education for the middle class consisted chiefly of ti-aining in the performance of certain tricks, shamming the accomplish- ments after which they were called. If the education were more real, which occasionally was the case, it was still difficult to find any girl's-school in which the fii*st requirements of healtk were entertained. Air and exercise alone were matters considered of little, if any, impoi*tance, and this because common sense did not preside, and the ideas of happiness and enjoyment were not considered with regard to the education of gii'ls. We may still have much to learn and much to forget in these matters, but any one of our High Schools for girls can testify to the fortunate change of opinion. This has only taken place since happiness has been considered the right of girls as much as of boys.
Women whose work lies among women, are becoming aware of another agent affecting, and likely to affect yet more largely, the position of woman. A " solidarity " is springing up among the mass of women, ci*eating a new tie between those of different classes. No longer is it only a religious (in its naiTOW sense) or philan- thropic impulse that directs the action of woman for woman. It is no longer only gratitude ox self-interest that breathes in the response from woman to woman. Some new spring of feeling attracts women of all classes to each other. One more only of the forces which have co-operated to establish the present position of woman remains for notice here. Its results are vividly before us, but in iK)int of time it is old as the subject to which it belongs. If other influences have worked with sub- tlety, this lias been an evident and an im|)elling force always. It is signified in that struggle, or rather scram- ble, for life which civilisation, notwithstanding her milder moods, has pressed and does press upon woman.
Not the hour of accord, but that of discord with her. Adaptation to circumstances where adaptation was hardest The paths that seemed most suited to her, roughly invaded; those that were left. for her, blocked by artificial difficulties and impediments. With evil alliance the world for a long time insisted upon the continued cultivation of qualities which, if they served her in barbarism, were under the new determination of things becoming the most useless and the most dangerous for woman — vanity, superficiality, fear, dependence. Often the burden of a sickly mind has been added to the frailty of a weakly body as an ornament, yet to none of the architects of her position may she lie, perhaps, more indebted than to the rude treatment she has received at the hands of civilisation. The necessity of robuster
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virtues has been their mother. Truth has been chosen, rather than cunning, sentiment instead of sentiment- ality, courage instead of timidity, the pride of self- respect instead of a petty vanity, to be the attributes after which women should strain, and these even fashion affects to admire in them, and writers to recommend.
Lastly, of the future position of woman, what can we say ] There are many prophets, but of their trade it was long ago told " whether there be prophecy it shall fail." When men and women are the factors of our calculation how shall we twice find the same total 1 The units pass on to hundreds, the thousands fall back into the unit line. In vain we try
** To bind Him in woven bands, Who holds our small thoughts in His balance, With the minates, and drops, and sands.*'
A prophetic fire seems to lurk in the common cry of "the danger of going against Nature." The whole case of woman's future is covered by it apparently, so con- clusive is it to some minds. The cry is a true one, but hardly true enough. It is not dangerous, but it is fatal to go against Nature. When Dame Nature allowed the rearing of her sons and daughters to pass into the hands of civilisation, she accepted for them a capri- cious nui-se and teacher ; one who supplants method by experiment, who, assuming falsely the authority of the mighty mother, teaches her children to defy their parent and to rebel against her. But never has civilisation so fortified or directed any of her nurselings, that when coming round some sharp angle of time they have been again face to face with Nature, they could do other than bow before her :
" With nor tear or sigh
She sees with an unpiteous eye
The multitudes be born and die,
And all things pass into the place
Appointed them in time and space.
Loss doth not vex, nor pain deter,
Nor failure fret, nor trouble stir.
Nor self-oompaftsion vanquish her.
How free from love, how free from hate,
How careless, yet how accurate,
Admitting neither more nor less.
She looks with an unsham6d face
On her own work, and doth possess.
Firm from the summit to the base.
Her calm hereditary place
'Twizt stars and graves, most pitiless.
Most positive.**
Nature has no special interpreters. Those who would learn her ways must look in her face. What her children hold may be her own best gifts or their perishable sub- stitutes. Neither man nor woman can offer her counsel, nor may they pass on to others any in her name.
If, however, our description of the position of woman be a true one — even if it bear any harmony with the idea we have tried to present — we may, without I'ash- ness, indulge in some thoughts, speculative as they may be, of its future. To maintain is harder than to obtain, and it will be important for women to reflect on those principles which are likely to prove the firmest for sup- port and the surest for defence.
There is an uneasiness in the minds of some men at the accord, with the present temper of civilisation, which gives women now a natural fellowship in its develop- ment on certain lines. Distrust, and not jealousy, may easily explain it. Possibly it lies in a fear lest certain qualities be still too untried, too " unnatural " to women, to insure their withstanding an attempt to use a newly-gained position of personal freedom for one of power over others ; of throwing their weight into the balance of noble desires, perhaps, to be ignobly fulfilled through law or compulsion ; of losing, in the glow of some of ' the highest virtues, the searching light of jus- tice. These fears may well arrest the attention of thoughtful women. If in the possession of a position — the best they have realised for centuries — they look away from sound principles of security, the fair prospect wfore them may become a precipice. Should they rely on combination or force to secure a transient triumph for purity or temperance; should they imagine the liberty to seek personal happiness gives them the right to dictate that of others ; should they only remember the debt of compensation due, and forget that of repara- tion ; should they allow the claims of patriotism to have a rival, may it not be feared that the goddess of Victory will not fold her wings upon their citadel ?
Man as well as woman has suffered by civilisation. Her gifts have often turned to destruction in his hand ; and though he may look with an anxious eye upon the changes that have come so thickly and so swiftly upon woman, he may find his own advancement is hidden in hers and dependent upon it.
May not the time be come when the strength of woman is imperative to make man stronger ] — when it is necessary for him that she should be his fitting com- panion— loyal but not servile 1 May not the hour have struck when her own elevation is absolutely necessary to prevent his deterioration 1 And out of the present may not that future be already preparing which will increase, and not decrease, the physical and mental dis- tance between man and woman ? — when she will fully taste the satisfaction, not of her inferiority, but of his superiority, of which every fresh development in her favour now makes her the builder and preserver ?
Eveline Portsmouth.
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II
TOadame de S^T?ign^'2 (Erandmoi^her.
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SOUND of streams in the hot air ; a faint deli- cious smell of flowers and of fried potatoes ; a hillside of terraces and winding paths ; a clump of tall pine-trees, under which an authoress sits reading a book, and two old French ladies play at cai-ds together, very gently, politely, and both dressed in deep mourn- ing. A butterfly goes by, so does a drift of cloud from the misty lilac heads of the lovely hills that rise above the trellis of the vines, of which the tendrils and branches hang along the terraces in rough fanciful garlands. A church clock strikes eleven ; a bat- tered figure carrying a load passes along the trellis path ; some children are gathering flowers from the dahlia bushes at the farther end of the walk ; you can hear the voices in the establishment close by ; the peaceful waters rush on. The sultry air sighs among the pines and seems to grow more bearable. The blue, map-like lake of Bourget lies at the foot of the lilac hills ; the melons and grapes and tomatoes are ripening on its banks. How sweet every- thing is out here among the house-tops, hill-tops, and gardens of the old Roman bathing-station ! Indoors the sun had streamed from the earliest morning, the bells had rung, the flies had fussed, the chairs and tables had seemed like hot baked biscuits, the very jugs and basins were full of smoking water on the washstands; but here all is peace, and Louise the head chambermaid has just brought the authoress word that madame can have a shady room upon the front, if she likes, and that her place in the omnibus is i-etained, and that she (Louise) will see that all the things are safely moved in the course of the morning. So madame sits, lazily enjoying the happy moment, and speculating upon her book and her journey what the morning will bring forth.
We are most of us used to translating our daily im- pressions and fancies into pen-and-ink and pencil jottings, and to find an incontestable pleasure in so doing. But there is another entertainment still more fascinating, in which the result far outstrips the imagination — it is the process of translating the printed paragraphs back again into real life. Dean Stanley says somewhere that to see the place where a remarkable event has happened is in a measure to live the event itself over again ; and in a like manner, to see the places of which one has been reading is a real revelation ; the whole book seems to pour out of the printed page, the sentences start into sound, into colour and motion ; the reality is before one.
Some years ago, when the writer of this present diva- gation was engaged upon a translation of some of Madame d© S^vign^'s letters for Mrs. Oliphant's edition of " Foreign Classics," she became acquainted for the first
time with the story of that saintly grandmother whose virtues the Babutins so proudly counted among their many dignities, and whose name occurs in its place with the baronesses and the heiresses of blood-royal, whose arms are quartered upon their ancient heraldries. The story of this strange, passionate, aspiring, practical woman is a very striking one. She left her young son, her father, her many natural ties and associations, her very sorrow and crown of widow's weeds, in order to devote her remarkable ix>wer3 and enthusiastic piety to a I'eligious life, and to the founding of convents all about France and Savoy. Before her death no less than eighty-seven of these institutions owed their existence to her energy. A book recommended to me by a friend, called " Les Filles de Ste. Chantal," still further deepened the impression made by the history of this lady, and of her friend and director St Francis ; and thus it hap[>ened that, being in Savoy, sitting on a bench in a garden, scai-ce an hour's jottmey from Annecy, which had been Ste. ChantaFs home, I found myself planning my expedition between the chap- ters; and when the early table dlidte had come to an end in its bountiful Southern fashion, with golden grapes, and little rii>e figs and pears at intervals along the table — while the foreign ladies in their elaborate Ionic and Doric twists and bitiids of hair, the terrible old Russian Coun- tess in her conical hat, and the handsome young English- man who chose to appear for his meals in full boating costume, were each lingering over their own special share of autumn's abundance — the waiter beckoned me away, and I found myself actually starting on my pilgrimage to the shrine of Ste. Chantal, and travelling (as pilgrims do nowadays) with first-class return tickets and every convenient arrangement
The station was crowded. It was amusing enough to look about at the people. There were the soldiers, the usual thi'ee nuns travelling with a basket between them and one cotton umbrella^ the peasant-women standing by with bundles; one of them, instead of a bundle, carried a little new-bom baby in swaddling-clothes, winking itself to sleep. There was the French family, looking like a group out of a fashion-book ; dandified old grandparents, the married daughters and sons-in-law taking leave of each other, with assortments of children, attendants, and parcels and parasols, all ably marshalled by the parents, whose presence of mind and agreeable spirits never flagged to the last moment The Faris express set ofl* with a great clatter and excitement, just as the Annecy local train came up, and I followed a jolly-lookihg man, like a movable bookstall, with liis i>ockets stufled with magazines and papers, into my carriage. Thei*e in the corner sat an old French lady, reading the Fiyaro, " Here you are, maman,*' says he, ** you have kept my place," and he began packing books and wraps away in the network overhead.
It was a pleasure to watch the comfortable pair, to hear the son describing his various arrangements for their mutual benefit, and the mother gravely as-
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The Woman's World.
senting. They seemed to be systematically exploring the neighbouring restaurants and other interesting aspects of the country. " We did well to dine at Annecy yesterday," he exclaims, rubbing his hands, " we saw the lake ; we had an excellent dinner." Being in some doubt about my own plans, I ven- tui-e to consult my fellow-traveller, and tell him that I am on my way to visit the shrines of Ste. Chantal and St. Francis, and, if possible, to catcli the steamer and go round the lake afterwards. He does not know much about the saints; he advises me not to miss the tour du lac^ to take a carriage by the hour, and, above all, to dine at the Hotel d*Angleterre on my return. He good- naturedly lends me his " Guide Joanne " to compare with my Murray. I read of Annecy, where both my saints are buried, "an industrious city on the N. extremity of the lake ; pop. 11,600; H. Verdun, H. d' Angleterre ; " of a fine cheese made in the mountains, &c. There are also per- tinent details about St. Francis de Sales and the Archbishop's palace, and Ste. ChantaFs " Maison de la Galerie."
While we com- pare our guides, the train stops at a little roadside station, where stands a sports- man with huge boots^ such as I have seen
at the Lyceum Theatre. He has a broad hat, a gun, a splendid warlike appearance ; he has shot a rabbit. He looks terrible enough ; but just as the train is starting, a little child comes running up and leaps straight into the arms of this bellicose-looking personage. Then we start off again, travelling past vineyards and villages, past rural country scenes, all bounded and enclosed by swell- ing hills. As the train proceeds, the scene changes ; a torrent is rushing down far below in a shadowy defile, between rocks heaped pile upon pile; the green and golden veils of autumn are falling from every ridge ; and creepers, and straggling ivy, and unaccustomed flowers, with wild, sweet heads, are starting from the rocks ; and mountain ash trees here and there, with their red berries lighting up the shade. A sound of dashing waters from the stream is singing an accompaniment to the wheels of
the railway-can-iages which whirl the tourists along the heights. The tourists, with their heads at the railway- carnage windows, are peering down from their altitudes into the celebrated Gorges du Fier below. A number of l)eople get out at a roadside station, in order to visit the waters, and we who remain in our places presently leave rocks and ravines behind us, and come to Annecy in the blazing plain of sunshine. I followed my traveller's advice, and took a little carriage at the station. There was the old town before me, basking under the blue sky, with many spires and gables and weathercocks round
about the stately
castla
II.
MiDAint DE CHjLNTAL.
The streets of old Annecy are not un- like the Gorges du Fier itself in their narrow gloom and defiles of stone, and of rock-like solidity, with a torrent of life passing on. Every- thing at Annecy be- longs still to the past; the women sit beneath the arches and galleries which line the streets, or lean from their stone- carved windows. There is the stone front of the old Pa- lace of the Sales, with its balconies and tracings ; the old con- vent of the Sisters of the Visitation, stand- ing in full view of the lake; and hard by the window of the seminary, where Jean Jacques first began to spin his web and to glare out upon the world — one could almost see the wild flash of his crazy eye, as one looked up at his window ; and how all these streets and places still seem to echo to the step and the voice of the woman who travelled among them for so long and to such purpose ! In the oldest part of the town the house is still shown where Ste. Chantal dwelt before the " Maison de la Galerie " was taken, that one in which she first began her conventual life ; and it was thither I told the coachman to drive me, before visiting the convent itself.
The man pointed with his whip, and I got out of the carriage and looked up the old perpendicular street, at the tall houses, piled each upon each, with broad eaves casting their shadows, and broken wooden galleries running along the weather-stained fronts, where rags that seemed almost as old as the houses themselves were
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Madame de S6vign6's Grandmother.
13
fluttering. Here, indeed, was a chapter come to life out of my printed book, with sounds in the air and a burn- ing sky, with the women knitting at their doors, and the children starting from every flight of steps. It was not quite Italy, but almost Italy. Every one stared at me as I went along. Once I stopped, breathless, half-way up the hill, opposite a house with a carving over the door, and **1602" cut deep into the stone. Somehow, as I looked, this ancient date seemed to turn into the present. It was like Hans Andersen's story of "The Shoes of Fortune." 1886 was not ; the hour was twelve o'clock, the month was September, the year was
1602. Who was this
coming striding down the street, with heavy footfalls, and long, flap- ping robes ] Was it St Francis in his well- known square cap, with earnest looks and ges- tures, and dark, burn- ing eyes, not to be for- gotten ? No ! it was only a dull priest from the seminary up above, with a vacant, indiffer- ent face, who shrugged his worn and greasy shoulders, pointed vaguely, and trudged on without answering when I asked him which was the house where Ste. Chantal had lived. As he disappeared down the hill, an aged woman, with a long, shabby gar- ment hanging from her bent back, came slowly up, looking curiously at me with a bright in- quisitive face. " Ma- dame, madame, you are
looking for the house of la mhre Chantal ? ' This is it, this is it ; look at the date over the door ! Oh ! many come, and we show it to them all. Here is Marianne ; she will tell you the same ; we live in the street now — the nuns are all gone."
Poor souls ! I wondered to what denomination of Suffering Necessity they themselves belonged, to what Order of that wide community in which no dignities of renunciation and self-infliction are needed to add to the austerity of its daily rule. They hobble into the house, and beckon for me to follow.
" Not upstairs," says Marianne ; " we cannot take madame upstairs, Antoinette ; there are too many loca- taires for that ; but Jean shall show the place where the dead body was found." And Jean, a young locksmith in a big leather apron, appears with a spluttering candle from out of a low, arched, ground-floor room, in which he had been at work. While he was unlocking a heavy
Maduce db SivioNB.
door, I looked up the heavy stone staircase, and round and about the filthy old house, and tried to imagine it in its once order and good trim, and inhabited by the saint and her faithful companions ; and then I somehow find myself descending by a black and gloomy staircase into a cellar below the level of the street.
" This is where the corpse was found," says Marianne, pointing with her skinny finger to a hole in the masonry ; and I then learn that it had been a promiscuous discovery not in any way connected with the saint or her times. As I look from the black hole to the gloomy exit and remember my purse and my gold watch, I give one
thought to my distant home and family, and cannot help wondering whether Jean and Ma- rianne would have much difficulty in addingto the attractions of this inte- resting burying - place ; but one glance at their honest faces makes me ashamed of my terrors.
** Have you seen enough]" says old Ma- nanne. " Dark, isn't it ? and what a hole, ehl" And so we all file u^ again after the candle, which Jean blows out when we get to the top once moi*e.
Absurd as this hunt after associations had been, I seemed to come away from the old street with a clearer impres- sion in my mind of the life which I was ti'ying to realise than that which any relics or printed words could con- juriB up. I could imagine the determined woman, with her strong, unbending will, toiling up the steep, passing under the stone doorway, coming hither, the first stage of her long life's journey over, bent upon the sacrifice of all that remained of her past, with a selfish, irrepressible passion to serve God and to find herself: that motive self, in pursuit of which we are unconsciously struggling and striving all our livejsj long.
III.
It is not often that one can get into the confidence of saints ; they rarely belong to a world which one can in the least realise, but here is an exception, for before being a saint, Ste. Chantal was a great lady, belonging to that seventeenth century of which we have all read and heard so much, the grandmother of the incomparable Marquise, whose affairs, whose moods, whose many troubles and in- finite pleasures seem almost our own at times. You can trace a certain likeness of mind as well as of feature
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between Sevign6, the brilliant Court lady, and the clear- headed and impressionable saint of blessed memory.
Jeanne Fremyot, Baronne de Babutin Chantal, better known as Ste. Ohantal, was the daughter of a well- known President Fremyot, the upright defender of the King's i-ights in Burgundy in th^ wars of the Ligue. She was the wife of Cristopher, Baron de Rabutiu- Chantal It was in 1601 that this brilliant and fiery gentleman left the Court of Henri IV. to retire to his castle at Bourbilly, where his wife, his son, and his daughters were living and anxiously desiring his pre- sence. He was a man of great cultivation, as well as of great valour. He was tenderly attached to his wife ; no wonder that he soon wearied of the routine of Court life and its wearisome and unresting parade. Perhaps some presentiment warned him that his time at home was not to be very long. Little Marie- Aym^e, the eldest girl, was about three, the boy was five, little Fran^oise de Rabutin was but two years old when the father returned, to leave his home no more. The third little girl, who died in childhood, was bom only a fortnight before the cruel accident which carried ofi" Baron Cris- topher in his piime. He was shooting bStes/auveSf " wild animals," in a wood behind the castle with a friend, when this latter, deceived by the colour of the Baron's dress, fired at him through the trees and gave him his death- wound His wife, rising from her bed, hurried to his side. " Madame," he said to her, " the decrees of Heaven are just ; we must love and die.*' " No, no ! you must live," said she passionately, and she urged the physicians to cure him. "If it does not please the Heavenly Physician, these doctors can do nothing," says the Baron ; and after nine days he died, forgiving and resigned. It was after his death that the widow deter- mined to devote the remainder of her life to the service of God. She dismissed her numerous servants, gave away her jewels and precious stones, redoubled her prayers. "If I had not been withheld by the bond of my four little ones," she once wrote, " I should have hidden myself away in the Holy Land to end my days." But as it was, she determined to fulfil to the utmost her duty by her children. Little Marie- Aym^ was the only one among them who was able by her tender caresses to bring any comfort to the anguish of the mother. Sad as Jeanne's condition then seemed, it became still more cruel when the old Baron de Chantal, her father-in-law, desired her to come with her children and dwell with him in his Chateau de Monthelon, threatening to marry again and to disinherit them if they failed to obey.
For seven years Madame de Eabutin-Chantal re- mained patiently in the house of this very violent and ill-conducted old gentleman, devoting herself to the care of the neighbouring |>oor ; to that of her own children, whom she carefully kept from all evil communication ; and also trying, by gentleness and good example, to mitigate the evils of the old Baron's way of life, and to improve the condition of some illegitimate children, whose presence, and that of the upstart servant their mother, was not the least of her daily trials. Her chief consolation lay in the charity with which she met the troubles of her life, and in her prayers. Occasionally she
went home to her own family for rest and refreshment. She was once visiting her father at Dijon when she had a vision which influenced the whole of her future life ; she was walking along one day, sadly meditating upon her difficulties, and praying for help and guidance, when she suddenly saw the form of a priest sitting at the foot of a mound in front of her. He wore a cassock and rochet, and a square cap, unlike anything she had ever seen, and a voice within her told her that this was one beloved of God and man, into whose hands she was to place her conscience. The vision disappeared, but when Jeanne afterwards met the Bishop of Geneva, St. Franqois de Sales, at her brother's house in Dijon, she immediately knew him to be the person she had seen in her vision. The Bishop had also, so the story runs, already made the acquaintance of Madame de Chantal in a dream. Acting by his advice, she returned to Mon- thelon, and patiently submitted herself for some years more to her father-in-law, though her hearc already burned within her in her desire to be about her life's work. But Jeanne now had a friend and an adviser whom she could trust, who assisted her in alL her diffi- culties and cares. The Bishop's remarkable insight into other people*s hearts and experiences still impresses us, as well as his unremitting and unstinting efibrts to help to direct and stimulate all those depending upon him. Ste. Chantal has herself described him in distinct and vivid terms. " No one," says Ste. Beuve — " no one ever better painted a man's spirit, nor expressed so clearly things which might have seemed almost inexpressible." St. Francis seems to have been a sort of Dr. Arnold among saints, with a practical genius for saving other souls as well as his own, and an especial sympathy for the young life around him. Little Marie-Aym^e, Jeanne de Chantal's daughter, had a strong feeling for him ; she used to hide behind a curtain so' as to gaze at this great Bishop, who use to call the children his petit peupUf his petit menage, and who loved to be surrounded by them. It was by his advice that Madame de Chantal, who had been admirable but some- what stern as a mother, now relaxed her rule, and allowed something of "that gaiety necessary for their tender spirits." " Vivez toute joyeuse," the Bishop used to say to her — " be happy in God, who is your joy and your consolation. " Little Marie- Ay m 6e was a remarkable, beautiful, and well-grown child. Her mother had once destined her for the Life Religious ; but when Marie- Aym^ had reached the age of eight years, it was deter- mined, in a consultation with the two grandfathers and with the child herself, that she was more fitted for the world than for the cloister. St. Francis was certainly in advance of his time when he ui-ged upon parents the duty of respecting their children's will Little Aym^ grew up the delight of her aged grandfather De Chantal, and of President Fremyot. She is described as beautiful as an angel, daily kneeling in the chapel by her mother, and praying in silent orison. Very early in life her fate was decided. On one occasion, when Madame de Chantal had followed the procession of the Holy Sacra- ment through the streets of Annecy, she returned, breathless with fatigue, to the Bishop's palace, and
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15
Bernard de Sales, the youngest brother of St. Francis, among other gentlemen, advanced to help her up the steps. Madame de Chantal accepted young Bernard's arm. " I shall take him," she said, smiling, to one of the company ; and these words, being repeated, had seemed prophetic to Madame de Boisy, the mother of the De Sales brothers. * When Marie-Aym^ had reached the mature age of twelve years, Madame de Boisy sent St. Francis to ask the little girFs mother for her hand in marriage for Bernard, her youngest and most cherished son. Never was Madame de Chantal more troubled, more perplexed, says the history ; by degrees she came to share all Madame de Boisy's ardent desires; but it required all her prayera, all her determination to persuade the two grand- fathers to agree to her wishes. The President Fremyot most reluct- antly consented; writing to the Bishop, he says, "Only the strength of the desire of the Baro- ness could have with- drawn the little one from his arms, from between his knees, from before his eyes.'*
IV.
The subsequent story of little Marie- Aymee — who was married at fourteen to Bernard do Sales, Baron de Thor- ens ; who at sixteen was mourning her first-born child; who died in her mother*s arms a widow before she was twenty — is one of the most pa- thetic imaginable. " To see her in her home, not yet fifteen years, was a
marvel, beautiful as a lovely day, with modesty in her countenance, with noble ways, yet affable and gracious to all who came to her respecting the conduct of the house." After Aymle*s marriage her mother felt that the time had at last come for herself to retire from the world, in company with certain pious ladies, taking with her the two younger girls to educate. The story of her parting with her son is well known ; the young Baron passionately Hung himself across the threshold of the door; the mother, bursting into tears, stepped across his body ; but, immediately turning round, she faced her desolate family with a radiant face, and burst into a triumphant Psalm.
They show Ste. ChantaFs room in the old convent at ^Vnnecy, the Maison de la Galerie, in which she finally set- tled. It is an old, sunny house, with massive walls ; and still, bare lights ; and a ti-anquil, vine- wreathed garden. The galerie fell into decay long ago, and was removed ;
but the place cannot be much changed since the saint first came thither. There are the cross-lights in her bed- room, and the tall chimney-piece where the seven hearts are carved in stone, and over which hangs the portrait of St. Francis. " He was, for all his gentleness, a man of strong and passionate temper," said the good nun, very reverently, as she showed me the old panel, and she added, " At his death they found out what restraint he had ever put upon himself : his liver was all broken into little pieces."
It was here, to the Gallery House, that little Marie- Aym^e must have come after her husband's de- parture for the army, and where St. Francis brought her the cruel news of poor Bernard's untimely death. " H^- las !" said the poor Bishop, as he hurried to the convent with his heavy tidings, " my own affliction is charged with that of our poor little one, and of our mere de Chantal." When he came to Marie-Aym^e, he heard her confession and blessed her, speaking with encouraging cheer- fulness. " And now, my daughter," he said, "are we not anxious to receive from the hand of God that which it is His will to inflict upon us]" "Ah, yes," little Aym^ answered with a deep sigh; "but, O my father, you have come to tell me that my hus- band is dead." Before many weeks the young wife herself and her in- fant child had rejoined the husband. The wonder is that any one survived in those days, for we read that immediately after the birth of the baby, while the young mother lay in great suffer- ing, all the ladies of the town came up to visit her, and to condole with her; the nuns stood round about the poor child's bedside, and listened to her dying exhorta- tions ; she made her will ; she was received, as she lay dying, into the Order of the Visitation, after communi- cating and partaking of the last urction; and so the pure spirit passed away.
Poor St. Francis, saint as he was, would not meet the bereaved mother. " I know the strength of her soul," he said, " the weakness of my own ;" and he fled away across to the fields. He spoke of la mere Chantal as a saint, but of Marie- Aym^ as though she had been an angel from heaven.
As time passed, other troubles came to try the courage
St. Fbaitcis de Sales.
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and the devotion of la mh'e OhantaL Her friend St. Francis died; her son died in the flower of his age; it was his orphan daughter, the saint's little grand- daughter, who was declared by her own generation to be the "Marquise of Marquises." There is a strongly- marked family likeness between the portraits of the two women when one compares them together — the same half-humorous, half-conscious smile, the same well- deflned brows and full, almond-shaped eyes; but the saint's features are larger and more marked, with less of delicacy and of grace than Madame de S^vign^*s. The likeness is also preserved in the picture of Fran9oise de Toulonjon, Ste. OhantaPs second daughter, no saint, but a brilliant, warm-hearted, and imperious woman, of whom we read in the S6vign^ letters. She was married to a brave soldier, the Comte de Toulonjon, and she, too, as a widow came back for comfort to her mother's arms and prayers. Before her death Ste. Chantal had lost all her children save this one ; but her adopted children were everywhere, and clamouring for her presence, her help, her advice. Though life's journey was long, and grew more and more weary towards the close, Ste. Chantal did not give in, nor cease her exhortations, her exertions. She feared neither famine, nor pestilence, nor fatigue^ nor the infirmities of time; in the depths of the last winter of her life she travelled right through France. She went in a litter, because of her great age. Queen Anne of Austria desired her presence at her Court at St. Germains. There were convents at Paris and at Moulins, eagerly soliciting her presence, and the brave old saint started courageously on this long and exhausting journey. On December 3rd, 1641, on her returning journey, she parted with Madame de Toulonjon, who had been travelling with her. She wished to give herself entirely to her nuns and their concerns, and also to the Duchesse de Montpensier, who had been awaiting her arrival at Moulins, in order to enter into religion. Tt was on December 1 3th, ten days after her anival
at Moulins, that Ste. Chantal passed away in the same great serenity in which she had lived.
She is buried near St Francis in the church at Annecy, which was afterwards built to their memory. Each rests above a golden altar, shrined in high-set crystal coffins. A few minutes' drive across the place brought me through the streets to the cool marble and gilded dome where the two saints lie safe from the heat of the sun, from the furious winter's rages.
Some schoolgirls with bandboxes, a lady carrying a carpet bag, followed by two little boys in Scotch costume, came after me up the aisle, and, putting down their encumbrances, all knelt and kissed a reliquary fastened to a column, containing a pearl-set scrap of bone. A lay sister in the dress of the Visitantines, who had been washing a marble step, advanced quietly, and, draw- ing a curtain from before the crystal coffin, showed us a glimpse of a dark robe spread upon a cushion, and a waxen hand among its folds ; these were the mortal remains of Jeanne Fremyot, Baronne de Rabutin- Chantal.
Something must be allowed for the setting of a saint's life. Perhaps St. Francis de Sales and Ste. Chantal owe something to the scenery all round about. One's imagination is seized by the sweet sights and sounds amid which the«e two people lived, by the melody of the lovely lake at their feet, the Mendelssohn-like beauty of the mountains surrounding their dwellings. From my steamer presently I could see the lovely banks of Annecy, the white oxen carting the hay, the broad shade of the chestnut-trees reaching to the water, the people resting or labouring along the banks. When we came back to our starting-place, the west was one solemn flood of crim- son, against which stood out the old battlements and spires of ancient Annecy ; the lights were beginning to shine from the windows overhanging the laka Two nuns in the black dress of the Visitantines sat motion less before me, telling their rosaries with downcast eyes. Annie Thackeray.
TIS "chill October," yet the linnet sings. Still are our brows with balmy breezes fanned —
No Winter makes a desert of this land Of my adoption, where each season brings, To charm the sense, new guerdon of good things.
And Autumn only spreads with tender hand
A richer mantle o'er the billowy sand. Golden and purple — bi-aver than a king's. Here all is light and song, with odorous breath
Of briar and pine, whilst ever, early and late, The yellow gorse, like kissing-time— or death —
Abides with us. It were a worthier fate To crawl, methinks, a worm, on Hazely Heath,
Than strut, a peacock, at a palace gate !
Violet Fane.
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%hz %TMth about ^Izmznt "Kzv:
BbINO AK ACXX>17NT OF BOXK CuBIOTTB ClBCUMSTAKCSS OONNBCTED WITH THB LiFE AND DbATH OF THE LJLTB SiB ClEXBHT KeB,
Babt., of Bbae House, Pebthshibb. Told bt his Sboond Coxtsik, Geoffbbt Kbb, of London.
INTRODUCTION.
I were writing this down as a story instead of a plain narrative of facts, I almost think that I should put it all in the third person. I should keep myself out of it altogether. I was between seventeen and eighteen years old that summer. I was pi"esent, but, except for my brother Dick, I counted for simply nothing in that big home. They let me come and go. They were invariably pleasant in their manner to me, when they realised my existence; and, for the greater part of the time, they lived their own lives, acted out their own characters before me — talked, quarrelled, made peace or made love, with as naif an indifference to my opinion as if I had been some harmless and familiar adjunct to the household furniture.
I iva$ harmless^ I hope. Sometimes, remembering those old days (I seem to myself to remember so much that they have forgotten) I am bewildered by the un- consciousness, the unaffected ease with which they bear the burden of what they have seen, of what they know. It is when I look at Eleanor that this feeling comes over me more particularly. Yet, perhaps, there I am wrong. Happiness works miracles with plastic natures. My sister-in-law is a ve-y feminine woman ; how could she be so unalterably charming if she had not that capacity to forget?
They live new lives. No doubt that growth, that eternal change, is the very condition of living. But I, whom circumstances have set aside, once and for all — who must ever remain a mere spectator of the game — I find it more difficult to shake off past Impressions. In my own mind, I often go back to that darkened experience. I ask myself what it all meant? What part I was allowed actually to take in it 1 What share I had in bringing about that end 1
1 contemplate their prosperous, their commonplace existence, and there seems to me something tragic in its very prosperity, as I recall the awful price at which it was bought As I said before, I am the only one now to remember. It is only of late that I have been fully convinced of this, and I won't deny that this singular unconcern of theirs is paHly my reason for writing dovn the facts as I do remember them, before there can be any question of my own accuracy in the matter.
These facts — these impressions of fact, if you like the term better — that mystery of strange life, or stranger, more terrible, deatli-in-life, which seemed at one time to brood over our house, making of it a place condemned — all these things which still have the power to strike my spirit dumb in awe and reverence, in a humble gratitude for what temptation was resisted, for what horror was spared — those two, the chief persons con- 5
cemed, have wellniigh forgotten. At all events they have put it outside of their habitual remembrance; holding the past lightly, as the mere stuff of which life is made. And again, I won't deny that there is some- thing gallant about their attitude, a certain " relish of courage," as old Hobbes of the " Leviathan ** would say, which atti*acts me ; the more so, perhaps, that I am so utterly incapable of it myself.
I go back now to the time of which I began to speak, and it occurs to me that probably my lameness had much to do with the singular fashion in which I was initiated into their more private affairs. They were so accus- tomed to see me spend whole days in the same room that they ended, I believe, by accepting me and my inevitable presence as a matter of course. But I don't think it would have happened so if any of them had been very clever people; although, for the matter of that, I was far enough from wishing to complain. Their most involuntaiy confidences only served to interest me. For one who, like myself, is forced to seek the chief emotions of life in sympathy, who watches all positive action with the curiosity of an outsider, it is a gi'eat, an immense gratification to have that curiosity satisfied.
And now, without further Words, I will commence writing down what happened from the very beginning. I shall begin with the morning after our arrival at Brae, and a conversation of poor Clement's, which I remember, and which took place in the little red morning room. As I write the whole place rises up before me ; the rain be^ts hard against the windows ; I see the firelight once more shining on their faces, I hear the words they use, and faces and voices alike belong to the old, old days when I was young. Grofprey Kkr.
CHAPTER I.
I LISTEN TO MY COUSIN's CONVERSATION.
" And this, my dear Richard, is the sort of thing you may expect six days of the week. We don't go to church, at least I don't, so that I have known it to clear up on a Sunday. I don't apologise. I am growing accustomed to it. The old family instincts are waking up in me. 1 already begin to feel a kind of water-soaked enthusiasm for the whole affair; for the old family house ; the old family customs ; the old family weather. I accept the entire programme. And Eleanor "
The speaker glanced at his wife, whose face was turned away from him, and at the large end window, outside of which the i-ain fell in tori'ents, and smiled.
Clement was a small, thin, well-made man, of about thirty, with an ugly face. To me it was worse than that ; it was an unpleasant countenance. It must have been his expression which repulsed me, for his features in a photograph were correct enough, with the exception of his upper lip, which was too long and out of proportion.
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But I never liked his face from the first. He was very pale ; he did not look nearly so strong as he actually was, for his muscles were like iron, and 1 have known him tire out Dick both at shooting in deep heather and at riding, more than once. His eyes, which were remarkably large, were dark and rather dull, except when he was excited. I have seen such eyes since then in people with an Eastern strain of blood in their veina But the effect of Clement's glance was spoiled by the red rims about his eyelids. He was always very well and very carefully dressed. He wore his straight black hair rather longer than was the fashion even then, and I remember that one thick lock near the top of his head had a way of getting displaced and standing on end, so that he was continually putting up his hand to stroke it down into position.
He looked now at his wife. " Eleanor likes it, too; this life suits her. We have not too much to do ; but then we have all been taught that labour is the con- sequence of a curse. We have no neighbours, it is true ; but, on the other hand, our neighbours would be Scotch, undoubtedly."
Lady Ker lifted her eyes, and then looked down again.
**/ am Scotch," she murmured under her breath. She kept her eyes fixed upon her plate (for they were still sitting about the table), and the words were all but inaudible, yet her husband caught at their meaning instantly.
" Yes, I could not have endured >ou as a neighbour," he said ; ** I preferred you as my wife. Oh ! I can assure you, I prefer it exceedingly !"
He laughed softly, tipping back his chair. "You are sure you won't have more lunch, Richard 1 A man should learn to make an occupation of his meals in such weather. But we shall have to look for some other way of amusing you, old chap. I say you, because naturally, Eleanor and I, we suffice to one another. But you will want something else — somebody else. It is always more amusing when it is somebody."
My brother Richard's face grew red all over. He has never lost that ti-ick of blushing when anything vexes him or pleases him more than usual. At times it gives him the air of an over-grown schoolboy ; he knows this, and hates to be reminded of it.
" Oh — it is very kind of you, but — I hope you won't think of a.sking any one here on my account," he said quickly, speaking in a very off-hand way, and I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was annoyed at something. " I'm the new variety of the British Work- man, Clement. I did not come here to amase myself ; I came to do a job, you know. And as far as that goes, I am going to begin on some of those inside walls of yours this very afternoon. I just gave them a glance this morning ; there are one or two nasty cracks "
He stopped short, and turned towards Lady Ker. I don't know why, but it struck me that he was em- ban-assed. " I think — I don't see* why we should make changes — I think we are very well as we ai-e," he said rather shyly.
" Pure amiability, Richard. You always were an
amiable fellow. K hontd, sua f as they say abroad. But that is no reason why we should take advantage of you : none at alL The British Workman, too, has his hours of relaxation. Think of it, Nelly — consider. Even in this neighbourhood could you not find some pretty girl who would do to invite to the house 1 Don't be too hard to please ; it is only to amuse Richard ! "
Lady Ker did not answer immediately. " I wish you would not call me by that name," she said.
" My dear Nelly ! Why, it is the name of our youth ! of innocence and early love, and — and whatever is young and ingenuous. Nelly ! Why, it takes me back seven — eight years, even to say it. I heard of you from Richard there as little Nelly Macalister, before I had ever seen you. All your old friends knew you as Nelly. You always think of her so ; don't you, Richard ? "
She rose abruptly from her seat at the head of the table. " I prefer — I have asked you this before," she repeated, a trifle incoherently, and without answering him further, crossed the long room to go and stand before the fire. She moved well — stepped lightly and freely, and her slender rounded figure more than carried out the ambiguous promise of her face.
Her husband followed her with his eyes, but he did not move from his chaii\ The same peculiar smile played for a moment over his lips ; then he looked at Richard. " The cigars are in that gimcrack silver thing on the sideboard there ; exactly behind you."
" Thanks ; I won't smoke just now."
" Oh, Eleanor does not mind it ; do you, Nell ] She sits here for hours with me sometimes when I am alone. We sit together and listen to the rain, and cultivate the minor arts of conversation. Have a cigarette, then, Richard?"
" No, thank you."
A servant had come noiselessly into the room. At the first paase in his master's drawling sentences, the man stepped forward rather deprecatingly.
" If you please, Sir Clement — *' He stopped short ; then began again with a sort of nervous volubility, ** It is old Patterson, if you please, Sir Clement — the old man. He has walked here through the rain. And he wishes to know would you please to see him. He is very sorry to trouble you, sir, but it is something — partic'lar."
Clement was holding his head down, lighting his cigar. He took two or three delibemte puffs at it ; passed his white hand thoughtfully over his hair, and then, without looking round, " Who is Patterson 1 " he asked slowly.
" Old Patterson, the old shepherd, if you please, sir. Him as lives on top of that hill where you go for the shooting, sir/' the man explained, looking puzzled. He added doubtfully, ** He does say, if you please, sir, that he's known you since you was a boy."
** Never heard of him before. Fill Mr. Ker's glass. Can't you see that it is empty ? What is the man doing here now ? "
** He is a very old man, sir ; a very old man indeed. Eighty or thereabouts, I should .say, sir, and very striking- looking. And he has come here again "
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**Come again, has he? And who the devil care« anything about his age or where he has been before ? '*
The footman, who was young and new to the place, and easily flustered, reddened all over his foolish face up to his large, innocent-looking ears. " I — I don't know, sir, please, sir," he said feebly.
I put down my book and looked at them alL I was sitting where I always did, in the south window, where is the recess. But partly for the sake of the light, and partly not to have to listen to their chatter (for I was, I remember, in a good deal of pain that day), I had drawn the heavy curtains across the opening until they nearly met. No one noticed me. There was a minute or two of silence. Dick kept his face turned to the window, and Clement was smoking. Presently —
" IJave some claret, Richard. It's not bad in its way. You don't drink and you don't smoke," he said solicitously. He shifted the position of his arm a little across the back of his chair. "You're the new man, aren't you, that Bright brought down last week ? "
"Yes, Sir Clement."
" What's your name ] Parker ] H-m ! Bright used to know how to choose a servant. Tell him to come here. And — look here. Tell him to bring in the old man with him — Peterson — Patterson — whatever he calls himself."
He leaned languidly back in his chair, and half shut his eyes. I could see his figure reflected at full length, in grotesque foreshortening, in the old-fashioned convex mirror which hung high up on the wall between the windows. The firelight twinkled and shone on all the silver and glass upon the table before him ; his face expressed nothing beyond the intimate satisfaction superinduced by warmth and light and delicate food. I did not know him very well in those early days ; but he interested me. I was always watching him when- ever he came into the room. I watched him now. The round table stood by the window in the deep embrasure of the old wall It was raining harder than ever, and the slanting sheets of grey water made a sort of silver- coloured background to his dark, indolent figure; the lashing and driving of the storm seemed only to intensify by contrast its expression of complete wellbeing and ab- solute repose.
CHAPTER II.
I SEE AN OLD MAN PAY HIS DEBTS.
Richard had left his seat by the table and followed his cousin's wife. She was standing before the high, old- fashioned fireplace, resting one hand upon the shelf, which was on a level with her head. Her attitude and the glancing firelight brought out in fullest relief the charming lines of her rounded waist and shoulders ; but Richartl hardly looked at her.
" May I give you a chair ? Won't you sit down 1 " he asked.
"No."
He looked up then, with a sort of surprise.
" But I wish you would let me get you a chair. You look 80 tired," he repeated very kindly.
When my brother Richai-d speaks to any 2>erson
— man, woman, or child — with that look and that smile, there ai'e not very many people who can resist him. And Eleanor was not one of the few. I saw her turn round slowly, and then a curious thing happened. This time she did not even answer him, but her pale, heavily-modelled face suddenly glowed under his gaze, softened, awakened, was transformed — surprised for the instant into actual beauty.
" If I had only thought of it in time — before you came ! But it never occurred to me to ask any one to meet you. I simply never thought of it," she said abmptly.
" No," the young man answered quite simply — " Why should you 1"
'* Ah ! " she said, " but you "
She turned her head sharply aside, and sat down in the chair which he had placed for her, without finishing her sentence.
" No ; don't think about me. You are too kind to take so much trouble about me, Lady Ker. You forget what a paradise this seems to a man coming straight here from two rooms in the Strand. And the Strand in September! I hadn't been out of town for eleven months when I got Clement's letter. I think I had pretty well forgotten what it was to have a holiday. Just as now," Dick added with a laugh, "now I seem to have forgotten what it is to work."
Lady Ker's eyes tilled suddenly with tears. She kept her face turned carefully away from him. "Oh, nobody does anything at Brae. Even Janet finds means to shorten her lessons," she said, in a curious hard sort of voice.
The door opened noiselessly ; I saw it move back- wards in the mirror, and Bright, the butler, came into the room, beckoning to some one else to follow.
A very tall, white-haired old man, in the decent Sunday garb of a shepherd, answered the summons. He held his bonnet in both hands, and halted just inside the doorway, bowing to each one of the pei*sons present with simple yet formal respect. His collie dog followed at his heels as far as the open door. " But she'll no come farther. She kens her proper station. Your leddyship need na fear for the braw new carpets," the old man said, with a deprecatory wave of his immense knotted old hand. He stepped, himself, upon the edge of the Persian rugs with ludicrous, almost pathetic caution. It was evident that hir gestures, his voice, the very choice of his words, were all subdued to some careful, unfamiliar standard. As he spoke to Eleanor a pleasant friendly smile flickered for an instant over his kindly, weather-beaten old face, but without altering its rugged lines — like a gleam of sunshine glancing across some rock. Then his eyes turned and rested rather anxiously upon Sir Clement
" Eh, sirs, but it is lang since we hae seen the Lain! amang us ! But uiaylw ye'll no hae forgotten my face, Sir Clement, even if ye have nae clear mind about the way they call me i "
Clement waved his hand, making some unintelligible sound in his throat, and I saw the smile die off the old man's face altogether.
" I made bold to trouble you myself," he went on
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again presently — " sirs, I came my ain sel*, tho' it's but an unwelcome messenger that brings the ill tidings "
He stopped once more, breathing heavily, and shift- ing his gaze from the master's impassive countenance to Bright's solemn and sympathetic face.
" Eh, sir — Sir Clement— there can be nae manner o' doubt but ye will remember old Patterson o* bonny Brae Head 1 Mony and mony's the time I've watched ye gang by there as a boy. It's nae so mony years syne ; sir, ye canna hae clean forgotten ? "
" Well 1 " says Clement, in his languid way. He had not looked up. He sat, I remember, playing with a curious signet ring which he always wore, twisting it around and around his finger in a fashion that was familiar to him. " Well 1 "
The old man straightened his bent shoulders. " Eh, sii*s, God forbid that we should forget past kindness. Seven-and-fifty years hae I sei-ved in this family, and never aught but gude-will between us. I'm an old man now, Sir Clement, I was shepherd to your father be- fore you, and to the old Sir Clement before that. I've served the family, man and boy, for seven-and-fifty years, sir. There's nae mony can say mair than that All but seven-and-fifty years o' wark come Lammas."
" Well ] " says Clement again.
He picked up his glass, held it at the level of his eyes, and looked curiously at the colour of the wine against the light Then he added, '* I suppose you have been paid for it, haven't you ? "
The words were rendered a hundred times more brutal by the absolute lack of purpose, the unaffected indifference of his manner of speaking ; yet, oddly enough, of all his auditors, the one directly addressed seemed least aware of the wrong done him.
" Nay, sir, I'm no complaining," he said simply. He clasped his great brown hands one over the other upon the head of his staff, and stood thei^ looking down upon his young master, patiently, without a reproach, so that I could hardly endure the sight of his honest and troubled face. " I've had my just wage all these years — and whiles, something over in consideration of the long lifetime o' wark. I'm no complaining. The labourer is worthy o' his hire, Sir Clement ; we a' ken that An' I've had mine."
"Well, then?"
" Sir," returned the old man, his voice beginning to shake and quaver with perplexity, *^ perhaps it is ye can nae understand me. Ye hae been awa' sae lang ye may weel hae forgot our gude Scot's tongue — together wi' the old faces of those that served ye. It maun be that : ye canna understan'. Eh, sirs, I cam here thro' the rain with a heavy heart the day, but it sore misdoots me but I'll carry awa' a heavier — though they've ever been kind to me i' this house ; an' God forgie me if I wrang the master by sic thinking."
" Now, look here," said Clement, quite good-naturedly, " we've had about enough of this already ; do you see 1 You are taking up all my time, my good fellow ; you can't stay there talking all night. Look here ; what you've come after is more money."
*'Sir "
"Now, my good man, just hold your tongue and listen. I tell you I know your whole story. You've been drawing extra pay from this estate for years. But you've got into trouble. You've married off your grand-daughter and you've got into debt You can't pay your rent The man the girl married has run away from her and left her on your hands. And your son has had devilish bad luck with my sheep. I tell you I know every word of it. And now you have come here after money."
" Sir, she was aye respecktit, my Jean. But it's a' true, a' true."
" Of course it is," says Clement, still quite complacent. " I don't often trouble myself about details ; but when
I do want to know a thing And now I suppose
you've been to the agent for nothing, and so came on to me, thinking I should let you off the rent."
" Sir," answers old Patterson, hanging his white head, " it's mair than just the rent of the bit cottage. It's one thing and anither. It's a matter of nigh thirty pund. And we hae sold the verra clothes frae off the women's backs to get it, and a' their bit brooches an' buckles. We hae nae mair."
" Thirty pounds, eh ] Why, this wine costs me nearly eighty shillings a dozen. Thirty pounds 1 That's about what I give for seven dozen of this claret. And you won't drink it, Bichard ! " says Clement, smiling and tapping with his long white fingers upon the bottle.
I don't — I can't — believe that he meant it as it sounded ; but Lady Ker — and, after all, his wife must have understood him better than we did — Lady Ker, sitting by the fire, rose sharply to her feet
" Mats c^est assez ; c'est assez ! Je vous en prie / " she cried out with a sudden burst of passion. Her voice thrilled and vibrated like some musical chord in that long, quiet room. The collie dog by the door blinked with both eyes ; he fixed his sagacious glance upon her, and began beating the floor with slow, heavy thuds of his tail.
The old man walked close up to the table. He laid his shaking, knotted old hand upon the spotless damask. " I hae been to your factor, sir ; he's had the master's orders. All to pay what is due, and no differences made between folk "
Clement nodded his head.
" But — God forgie us all ! — there is differences in people ! An' it's through nae seeing with their ain een and nae kenning wi' their ain minds that the warld o' men grows cruel ; so, sir, I wad fain appeal to yoursel'. They've a' been kind to me, kind an' considerate folk i' this hoose for hai-d on sixty year. That's a lang lifetime, Sir Clement — there's no promise nor yet warranty given for mair than thi-eescore years and ten. And if a mon here and there, by reason o' his strength, it may be "
His voice quavered and sunk. I thought he would break down altogether. I saw Bright turn very red and begin to fidget with his hands. But in a minute or so the old man went on speaking —
" And sae I came to yoursel'. Sir Clement. I came to your house, and ye gave me nae welcome nor greeting. Ye're young enough to be my son's son. An' I'm no beggar at your gates. I hae saved and scraped a few shillings ;
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twa pund or mair," he broke out incoherently. He thrust his hand inside his plaid and pulled out an old leather purse. " Ye'll no get bluid frae a stane. I hae na mair. It was a' for my Jeannie's lying-in ; the lass is near her time. Ye ken that, Mr. Bright. Ye can testify to your master if I lee," he said brokenly.
He poured out the little heap of silver coin upon the table. His hand shook : the sixpenny-bits rolled about among the glasses.
" Ah, that's all right. Never mind that Bright can pick them up. But you can't leave your money here, you know. Mr. Guest, the agent, is the man to give you a receipt for it," Sir Clement observed, still quite cheerfully and calmly. In all my experience of him, I never saw him manifest any outward sign of emotion more than twice, or at most thrice. His words could be bitter enough ; but at the very moment of uttering them, and afterwards, he would watch the effect of some bruising speech or wounding epithet, with a sort of irresponsible curiosity, a frank incapacity of entering into other people's feelings, which, I am convinced, was perfectly natural to him and unaffected. He never resented in the least any form of stricture upon his own conduct. I believe that he was genuinely indifferent to public opinion. ** As for Clement — Clement never cares ! " his wife said of him once in my heaiing; and it was quite true. Indeed, if it had not been for a sort of fierce loneliness which used to possess him at times — moods of uncertain duration, during which he remained chiefly out of doors, driving or riding for great distances over the country- side— (I shall never forget his overtaking me in one of the narrow lanes near the house on his return from one of these expeditions. It was wet weather, I remember ; his riding-coat and his pale face were all stained with mud; he brushed close past me, his horse nearly touching my shoulder, and, boy as I was, I remember to this hour the impression of pity made upon me by his fixed, anguished, hunted look ; a look I hope never to see again while I live on any mortal countenance) — if it had not been, I say, for these desperate variations of his humour, I, for one, should have set my cousin Clement down as a strictly unmoral being ; a creature alien to all about him, as if he lacked some saving touch of humanity to make him wholly a man.
As he turned his dull, inscrutable glance now upon the old shepherd, and even half smiled in his face. Lady Ker sprang up from her seat.
** No. Don't stop me, Bichard ! Never mind — I must speak. I — I cannot bear this," she cried out |)as8ionately. In a moment, with one movement, as it were, she crossed the long room.
" Mr. Patterson ! "
Sir Clement rose slowly to his feet " Will you not sit down, Eleanor] Allow me to offer you this chair."
She looked up then at her husband without answering him, but with a glance so wild, so overcharged with meaning and a hopeless bitter reproach, that neither Bichard nor myself, who were looking on at this scene, could ever feel any doubt again in our own minds con- cerning the real relations existing between those two unhappy people. It was only for an instant Then her
head dropped on her breast and rested there, like that of a chidden child.
** Ah, you are cruel ! " she said, speaking very low in a changed voice.
*' Won't you sit down, Eleanor 1 See, here is a chair for you," her husband repeated steadily.
She hesitated for a moment ; the muscles of her face relaxed : her eyes grew dull, and her glance wandered aimlessly about the room.
" I think — I am going upstairs to find Janet," she murmured, almost timidly. Indeed, her whole bearing was that of a woman who had been frightened. She paused for a moment in front of Patterson ; he was gone back to his place beside the door, which Sir Clement was now holding open for her to pass through. " Will you leave me your address 1 " she said hurriedly. " I mean, will you tell me where you live 1 I do not know the country very well, but I could find it. I should like to go and see your granddaughter. Perhaps I might do something."
The old man did not appear to understand her at once. " Aye, it's mair than thirty pund : thirty pund twul* shilling, an' a' the medicines an' the doctor to pay. Na, my leddy, 'tis money — thirty pund an' mair; 'tis na women's wark," he repeated with a kind of dogged despair.
He stood there, twisting his bonnet about between his hands. He had turned his back upon the master ; it was evident that he was incapable of receiving any new idea, not even a suggestion of help. Bright, the butler, laid his hand upon his arm to lead him away, and the old man yielded to the pressure like a child.
"There, that will do. Bright Well, good day to you, Patterson. Shut the door, Bright Pick up that money, and see that it gets taken to Mr. Guest; and just see that the fire is kept up, will you 1 "
Sir Clement turned away from the dreary outlook of the window, rubbing his hands. " And this, lUchard, as I have told you already, is the sort of thing you may expect six days out of every seven." He threw himself down in the armchair before the fire, which his wife had occupied. " Family scenes and rain ; 'rain and scenes of domestic interest We don't get out of that groove, my dear fellow. We don't get out of it And yet Nell is an
angel, you know ; and I '* He laughed and looked up
curiously into his cousin's flushed and angry face — " My dear Bichard, if you only knew how glad I am to. see you!"
Richard's face grew darker and hotter still. He turned abruptly away.
" I always knew that you could be a bully, Clem^t. But a woman and an old man ! And you let him pAur out his miserable money — the pennies he had scraped together. And before your wife, too. Pah ! the very thought of it makes me sick."
Sir Clement laughed again. " Well ! that's a kind sort of thing to say to a man in his own house."
" Confound your own house then ! The more shame to you that you let any human being leave it as heavy- hearted, as near despair as you have let that poor old man go to-day. And for thirty pounds ! For a dirty
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bit of money you would fling away on the first whim that you fancied ! "
Clement nodded gravely. ** Yes, I\*e lots of money. I don't cai*e very much about it Sometimes I wish that I did," he said quietly.
"For Heaven's sake, CJement— you have had your own way. You have made your show of authority. I don't understand that sort of thing myself, but I suppose you must find a kind of satisfaction in it. Well, 'tis done. And now, in Heaven's name, for very shame's sake, let me go and fetch that old fellow back before he leaves your house ! "
" No," said Clement very gently. He listened to the explosion of the other man's indignation with a puzzled, almost an incredulous air. " You don't know that old beggar, Richard. You've never even seen him before. In all likelihood you will never set eyes upon him again. You can't care about it, It's absurd. Why should you care ? " he inquired at last with an air of some amusement.
It was this implied mockery which stung Richard to the quick.
"Carel" he repeated. He halted in the middle of the room, his eyes flsishing. " No ; I don't suppose you do understand ! Do you imagine for one moment that if I had had that money in my pocket — if I were not the poorest devil alive, do you think I would not have spoiled your fine bit of amusement] Care? Isn't he a man? isn't he "
He walked abruptly over to the window and stood there, with his back to his cousin, staring out at the heavy rain. ** I don't appeal to you for tine feelings, Clement, or — or even for commonplace kindliness. But —hang it all, man ! thero are things one does not do when one is a gentleman. There are attitudes one doesn't assume towards dependents — and before women."
" Well," said Clement, " I don't know. But doesn't it strike you that you are making a good deal of fuss about nothing ? "
" I have taken your money to do this job," Dick broke out again, " and I suppose I have no choice but to stay here and finish it. You don't know, you have no means of knowing, how grateful I was to you for looking me up and sending for me just then. I've been in a good many tight places in njy life, but never in a woi-se one than that. But if I had known then what I have seen just now I — I would rather have starved," said Richard Ker, "than have accepted your commission and taken your money."
He took a turn or two up and down the room. He came and stood over his cousin. " And I was so thankful to you for your remembrance of me, Clement. Though, God knows, I hesitated about coming "
" Oh, I knew you would come fast enough. I had my reasons," the other answered, smiling. He turned his red-rimmed eyes from the fire and fixed them upon his young cousin's face. " You have assured me already that you do not believe me. And, indeed, you may still live to detect in my feeling towards you some trace of that general perversity of moral vision with which you charge me. But I am glad to see you, Richard. It is
eight years since we have met. And although I don't attach any very particular importance to friendship, I have always ked you. I liked you when we were boys together. I took some trouble to hunt up your address. I wanted you to come."
'* Eight years," Richard echoed slowly.
He was silent for a minute or two, and in the interval his face cleared and softened. " Look here," he said, " I did not mean to be rough. I am always saying things and being sorry for them. But look here, Clement, don't let me have made things worse by my clumsy interfer- ence. Do let me call back poor old Patterson ; you can't have meant to be so hard on him, you know. Let me call him back, and do you send him away rejoicing. Do, there's a good fellow."
For the first time, Clement seemed to turn impatient. His cheek flushed faintly, his eye grew restless ; he shifted his glance about the room.
" That old man " he began. Then he checked
himself with an odd sort of smile. " My dear Richard, one of my tenants owes me money. He doesn't pay me.
Well, then " He tossed the end of his cigar into
the fire. " I have nothing to say to his private aflairs. Why should they interest me ? But I am master here."
" But you said you did not know him. You affected to be ignorant of his very name ! "
" I don't remember. But I am master."
" Oh, the devil is master in hell ! " Richard cried out, losing his head.
" That's as it may be ; it's a matter of opinion," the other man retorted coolly. Then after a pause, "It seems to me that you are making this into a very awkward situation for both of us," he said. " I suppose it is your intention to insult me by using such an ex- pression? I really do not care very much about the matter, but it appears to me that I cannot allow it."
" You may take it as you please. I don't stay in the house of a man whom I cannot — respect."
" No ; you were always hard to please. You always were, as a boy. Now, I, for instance — I hardly know one man in the world whom I do respect — except yourself," Clement Ker added drily. " As a rule people strike me as a poor lot: driven like sheep, or chattering like monkeys in a tree. And what do they know of the very world about them ? Why, even 1, since I went back to India — I don't pretend to undei-stand anything ; but I could tell you such stories, Richard, if you'll give me tima Of course you can go if you please. I can't keep you. There's your work to be done, you know. And I'm per- fectly willing to ask you to stay, if that will make things any easier. Why should I want to quarrel with you when I've taken so much pains to get you here ? "
" I don't want to quarrel."
*' Well, of course you can go if you wish. But there are plenty of reasons why you should not Guest tells me there's a gang of twenty navvies coming up from Galashiels to-morrow. Who's to set them at work if you leave us ? It all depends on you." He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stretched out his feet to the fire. " And then," he said, after a pause, " then — there's Eleanor."
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"Eleanor?"
Sir Clement gave a queer sort of laugh. "Yes/' he said.
" And what has Eleanor — what has Lady Ker to do with it?
"Well," said Clement again, still looking at him
very hard, " we are an odd family, I admit. And 'tis your family as well as mine, remember ; we are tarred with the same stick. But, my dear Richard ! would it not be caiTying things rather far if I had to explain to you that you are in love with my wife ? " {To be Continued.)
Wdovz the (Sloud-line.
AM again in my beloved Engadine ! Beloved, indeed, for its quiet and beautiful valley has truly been my good friend. After hard- working seasons, and mana- gerial labour, it has for nine years given me strength and vigour for my work.
Without its healthful and peace-giving in6uence I be- lieve that neither I nor my husband would have been able to pull through our arduous duties, and I have never left Pontresina without kissing my hand to it and saying, " Thank you, my good friend, I am very grateful" There cannot be a better pi*oof of its health -giving qualities than the fact of meeting the same faces here year after year. I have seen them arrive looking worn, weary, and depressed, and very " end-of-the-London-seasonish," but with an expres- sion of "Welcome, old friend," and of hope that the dear old place will again come to the rescue. This hope is rarely, if ever, disappointed. For those who, like myself, are troubled with nerves, or suffering from nervous ex- haustion, brought on by overwork, or an overwrought brain, there is no air like that of the Engadine.
As you perhaps have never been here, a little de- scription of this lovely spot might interest you. At this time of the summer the valley (which is the highest in Switzerland) is at its best, for the heat of the day is tempered by cool breezes. The mornings and evenings, before the sun has risen and after he has gone to bed, are a little chilly, and one puts on an extra wrap, but during the day the lightest of dresses can be worn. When we rise in the morning the firet thing we instinctively look at is the Roseg Glacier, of which our hotel, the " Boseg,'' has the best view. There is the famous glacier, with the " Little Nun," and the broad face of the " Capuchin Monk,'* You see the dark beard and large mouth, the broad nose and receding forehead, the sunken eyes, which sleep only in the winter, and the head covered by a cowl of everlasting snow. It all seems so close, and yet it is seven miles away from us. In the morning's cool we take our walks, but as the sun asserts himself later on, we saunter into the woods and sit about, and in the still, soft air read or think, and feel more or less at peace with the world. Those who have gone on some big expedition started at a very early hour, and, if all goes well, will re-
turn some time in the evening, healthily tired, and de- lighted with their wonderful experiences — experiences of which I know but little, for my snow and ice climbs have been few. I can only listen to the accounts of these expeditions, and wish that I were a man and able to go too. I content myself with a limited number of climbs, sometimes very long and tiring ones, but within any woman's capabilities. There are some tempting little stalls in the village, laden with coral, Swiss embroideries, mosaic ornaments, /abrique de sculptures sur bois, Swiss hats, <!ec., and various odds-and-ends which one delights to purchase to carry home as souvenirs to one's friends. There are lovely drives and charming walks, during which one would not be surprised to see fairies tripping about, if it were not that one may hoar a voice amongst the trees bursting forth with " Jolly coffee they make here," which awakens you from your reverie and tells you that the place is still material ! But one wanders on and on to get as far as possible from these unpoetic minds, and then, choosing some sweet secluded spot, one sits down and meditates on the beauty of everything around ; with the bright hot sunshine dancing amongst the rushing waters, its warm breath bringing forth the loveliest of wild flowers, and making the earth one vast nature-tinted cai*pet. The busy ants are ever at work, carrying all day long their contributions for winter housing to some place best known to themselves. The cascades of laughing waters dance through the rocks and trees, accompanied by the tinkling of cow-bells, while the ever-welcome sun peeps into nooks and corners playing at " hide-and-seek." There you sit quite lost in poetic ad- miration of Nature's boundless wealth of beauty, until a gentle touch of appetite for the next meal acquaints you with the fact that you yourself are after all but mortal. So with a sigh of regret one leaves the sweet spot, where so many romantic thoughts have filled the mind, to enter once more upon the dull materialism of Ufa As you walk below, the watchful marmots, that sleep from autumn until spring, announce to you, by their well-known signal, that they are awake and on the mountainside, and scream warnings to their companions. In the evening after dinner one strolls in the garden^ g&zing constantly at the starlit sky ; stars so bright and big ! "That vast canopy, the air " is crowded with them, the blue sky thickly be- decked with glittering gems. And then the various lights which gather round the mountains as the night draws in are beyond all description. No such purples, blues, pinks, or yellows could ever be reproduced on canvas. Many a time during dinner we have been called away to look at
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The R08KO Glacieb.
the setting sun upon tlie Roseg Glacier. Our admiration has been expressed in one largo " Oh ! " The stars are so much bigger here than at home, but then we are 6,000 feet nearer to them. They glitter and shimmer like diamonds. The little graveyard above the village at the back is an interesting spot. I often wander to it. The disused church is very old ; on its porch is the date 1477. The gravestones bear the simplest inscriptions in Romansch, but some of them are very touching in their simplicity : —
'* Bun ans vair miens chers amos.** (May we meet again, my beloved ones.)
'* II sain della terra contain miens amos.** (The bosom of the earth contains my love.)
** La memoria dels giists resta in benedicziun.** (The memory of the just rests in blessing.)
There are some English graves. One covers the remains of a clergyman who lost his life here twelve years ago. He wandered on to some rocks above, and must have gone too far, and was overtaken by the darkness of the night When he was missed every effort was mode to find him^ and guides were sent out in all directions, but in vain. At last a large reward was offered, but still the search was useless. At the end of a year the body was accidentally discovered by a poor shepherd at the bottom of a rock, where the unfortunate gentleman must have fallen. Parts of his body were devoured by birds of prey, but his money and watch were untouched.
The Burgamasque shepherd got the reward and became afterwards a prosperous man.
Since I was here last an addition has been made to the sad group of graves : Madame Leupold, who was music-mistress to the Princess of Wales's children. She had been a sad invalid for a long time, and spent all her summers here in company with a most devoted son, who gave up the promise of a fine career to be ever by his mother*s sida She has often spoken to me of him with her eyes full of tears, and thanked God for giving her such a son. They at length built a sweet little ch&let up on the hill-side, and there they both lived summer and winter ; the son never tiring of his devotion and attention to his mother. She died two winters ago, and her grave can be seen carefully tended by the son, who remains near, that he may watch over her in death as lovingly as he did in her life. She was a most amiable and kindly lady, and all who knew her loved her. The children of the village stood round her grave with garlands and bunches of Engadine flowers, gathered and formed by loving hands, and sang the hymns and chants which slie herself had taught them.
There is a beautiful walk through the woods to St Moritz, and a sweet shady path to the left, where there is a rustic bench bearing the words "3Iarie Bancroft's seat" It was placed there by the people of Pontresina in recognition of services I rendered. There is a pretty old bridge, of which you read in Rhocia Broughton's book, " Good-bye, Sweetheart," which affords
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much pleasure to sketchers. At the end of your walk through the pine-woods to St. Moritz you see the soft lake of emerald-green spreading out between the trees and sloping meadows. Turn where you will, the giant snow-tipped mountains tower above you, shrugging their shoulders and looking down upon us poor creatures with silent pity — for what pygmies we are in their presence ! We must look up at them with respect, they are so dignified and independent. There is a lovely excursion for ladies to the Val del Fain (Valley of Hay). It has an abundance of the most exquisite flowers. Ladies take their lunch with them, and return home laden with lovely blossoms. I could fill reams of paper in telling of all the grandeur and beauty of this valley, but I must limit myself to a mere glance as it were ; and now as I write the day is fading away, and the groups of Italian hay-makers who are studded about, relieving the bright green grass by their picturesque costumes, are preparing to return to their homes; but the early morning will see them again at work, singing and laughing as if toil were pleasure. The inhabitants of the Engadine are a thrifty and industrious people ; they are comfortably off, and there is not a beggar amongst them. You will now and again meet with one, but he comes from the Italian side, and you are requested not to encourage him and he will soon dis- appear.
The Diavolezza tour is an expedition which is long and hard, but many ladies accomplish it. I did it once, but I don*t think I could go through it again. Be- fore I went I could not form a notion of the wonders of the ice- world, and so I am glad that I have done it. We started at a quarter to six in the morning, and went by carriage to the foot of the mountain on the Bernina side, where some of us mounted mules, and others walked. I prefer walking, as a mule to me is an anxiety in many ways. He likes to stop now and then to nibble grass, and always on a nasty dangerous place, where the slightest misunderstanding be- tween you and the mule results in a tumble, which might or might not be serious ; so there you must sit mounted on the back of this thing waiting patiently until 4
Rhooa Bbououtom^s B&idoe.
he feels inclined to go on. You don't look your best at such a moment, for, although you dare not express your impatience in words or movements, your looks are awful ! But then our friend the mule does not see this, so " his withers are unwrung." In about two hours we reached the Diavolezza lake, with small and picturesque floating icebergs. On again, on foot this time, having discharged our tiresome friend, till we reach, after pulls and tugs and gasps, the snow-field; in another half-hour or so we arrive, after a long and tedious up-hill drag, look- ing like goodness knows what, our faces covered with cold cream to spare our skins, huge hats, gauze veils, and blue spectacles, and pulled along by our guides. I began to wish that I had never started, but when we reached the ** saddle " we were speechless with wonder ; thei*e we looked down upon a sight which I shall never forget. A gigantic basin filled with enormous masses of weirdly-rfiaped ice, an'd fringed with snow -peaks that seemed to almost touch the deep blue sky. Here, with this vast ice-sia below us, we halt to eat our lunch, and our enjoyment of it, with an appetit de loup, must be imagined. After a good rest, we prepare to descend towards the sea of ice, and it is terribly fatiguing and trying. But it was a wonderful experience, and one which any woman who has powers of endurance can attempt I had a slight accident on
the way. Just as I was congratulating myself on my progre.ss and ascer- taining every now and then as to whether my small nose was still com- plete, I discovered that the entire sole of my boot had come off. The guide secured it to the upper part by means of a strap as well as he could, but the cold pene- trated to my foot and one of my toes was frost- bitten, and I did not recover the use of it for months. The walking parts took seven hours, and the excursion lasted nina This experience is quite enough to give a woman a graphic no- tion of the ice- world; although it b of course as nothing compared with the climbs which big mountaineers take, and which I maintain ought never to . be at- tempted by any but a very strong woman. High expeditions re- quire not only a strong body but a strong head.
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It is luouBtt'ous for a woman to join in a difficult ascent unless she is quite equal to it ; it is sure to do her harm, and the whole ex]>edition is spoiled by the fear of her fainting, which has frequently happened, thei*eby causing uneasiness and destroying the pleasure and upsetting the nerves of all the rest of the party. There is an abund- ance of lovely walking to be had, and good ascents which a woman can make with perfect safety and enjoyment. After the heaviest rains the roads dry in an hour or two. At the beginning of September sometimes bad
l>laces, hidden under rocks and in corners, guarding themselves from the keen winds. Many a dangerous expedition is made to find them. It is considered a great achievement to pluck them yourself, and serious accidents have happened in the attempt ; I care not for the glory, so I buy tliem ; they don't cost much, and it is safer ! For a few centimes I can possess myself of a good bunch, and return home whole. I come here for health, and not to leave behind me a leg or an arm, or maybe my whole body ; I can do that at home !
The Bbbiona Fall.
weather sets in, and people make a great rush to get away, and the place becomes deserted ; then the sun bursts provokingly out again, and there is a long spell of most exquisite weather. June and July bring forth the most perfect flowers. Wild pinks grow here in abundance, and the perfume from them is delightful. The gentian is a lovely deep blue, and the marguerite daisies larger here than I have ever seen them elsewhere ; but flowers are everywhere, and the grasses are extraordinary in their variety. Then there is the pale and modest edelweiss, the last flower that grows on the mountain - tops. It seems strange that anything should bloom so high, near and amongst the snow where the cold is so intense ; but kindly Nature has provided them with a coat of flannel. They are only to be found in the most out-of-tlio-way
There is an excellent Swiss doctor resident at Pont- resina ; he is not only clever but a favourite with every one. You meet him in the morning going his rounds, always with a pleasant smile upon his face, and a joke ever ready. ** Why, you look too well, you are not a friend to me; not even a broken leg to offer me ! " The change from our own climate is so great that all visitors should be cautious in protecting their throats as evening draws in. Many have im- prudently walked about the garden unprotected in this way, and the consequence has been a feverish sore throat. But tliis is soon put right, and after benefiting by the experience, it does not occur again. The hotels are most comfoi-table. We always stay at the Roseg, where it is like home, and everything ia done to make our visit as agreeable as possible. The coffee and cliocolate are deli-
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cious, and the cream — well, you must come und taste it I All the people in the place seem happy, and somehow or other it appears to me that there is an absence of ill- nature and unkindness. I wonder if it is because we are so much nearer the skies. The higher we go the better we seem to be. But though the scenery around us is so like fairyland, one is now and again reminded that we are of the worhl, for what would not aflTect fairies will affect us ; and lovely as the valley is, nettles can be found in it ! But then that is not serious, for the friendly dock-leaf is close at hand to soothe and cure the sting. We are most fortunate with the weather. If we have rain it comes at night, but by the time we are ready for our walk the roads are dry and the gaily-
coloured butterflies are flitting about again, none the worse for their washing, and are ready to precede us in our wanderings as avant-coureurs^ stopping now and then to drink, by way of refreshment, the sweets which ai*e hidden in the wayside flowers. Should you ever come to the Engadine I hope I may be here to witness your delight You must look out for the Wishing-stone, where many a woman, and man too, I'll be bound, have whispered their heart's best desire. I am not sure though whether they are aware of the i)roi)er form of expressing their wishes. I hope when you come you will obtain what you ask.
Adieu. Potitresinay August, 1887. Marie E. BANCROFT.
»-.X^*0l<E4*-
%hz Children of a ©rcalF (SilF^.-T.
AMONG the many problems which perplex and dis- turb the minds of those who ponder on the relative position of the rich and poor, none is more harassing, none more inexplicable, than the sufferings of the child- ren of the poor. The lives of needy men and women may be full of misery, distress, poverty — hard to bear, harder still to stiniggle against; but somehow a vague belief exists that they are more or less the victims of their own actions ; that drink, improvidence, and their many attendant consequences, have been the cause of the abject conditions under which they exist ; and while pity is not lessened towards them, their condition forces on the minds of those who strive to alleviate the sadness of their lives the conviction, melancholy though it be, that nothing can be done, in any real degree, to repair the mischief which their own follies and weaknesses have brought on them. Their lives are made and partly over ; they have settled into grooves and ways of thought and life from which no efforts can raise them to any appre- ciable extent ; and the knowledge of this makes every one who works among the poor regard with a saddened heart the hopelessness of the task.
Knowing the difficulties that their surroundings ci*eate in the lives of the poor, we look around us for some means to help and elevate them, but slowly and surely the conviction is borne in on us that with the majority very little, if anything, can be done; that imperfect education has made the task almost imjiossible ; and that if we are to achieve any real and permanent good we must seek to do it among those whose lives are still before them, and who with the vigour and elasticity of youth may, if properly helped, grow up into good and healthy men and women.
The great difficulty in such a task is encountered at the outset ; for, in helping the victims of the faults of the parents, it is impossible to overrate the danger of depriving the parents of the sense of responsibility. It is easy, in following the natural impulse of indignation and pity at the sight of the sufferings of the children of a drunken home, to give way to the most ardent philan- thropy, and to seek to find the cure for the misery and
want we witness in the application of the mere elemcu taiy forms of charity, such as supplying food and clothing. The feeling which prompts us is in the highest degree laudable ; and yet such indiscriminate charity would be fatal to all habits of thrift and self-respect among the \KK>r. In the poorest and most degraded homes often the only incentive to make a lazy parent work is the cry of the children for bread ; and if we were in the smallest degree to diminish that influence we should be increasing the evil we desire to destroy. We can hardly yet help the children of such parents through the natural source to which they should look for conduct and example, but we can, by external influences and ]>rac- tical work, I'aise the standard of life, and give birth to an intensely strong desire among the young for lives higher, purer, and happier than those of the people they see around them. Education is doing this woi-k, perhaps slowly, but surely, and education must be the basis on which all true improvement is to be built up. The power that knowledge gives, the craving to know more, must inevitably bring with it a desire for improvement, and a longing for something better and nobler. Indeed, the best results of education are to be found in the aspirations which it creates, and the hopes which it fosters.
1 think we can elevate the children of the poor and improve and beautify their lives to some extent, though all we can do must be limited in its scope and results. If, however, we wish more directly and immediately to raise and improve the lives of the young, we can only do it by gaining an influence and position among them, which will give us the right to counsel and instruct. This position and right can only be attained by personal work and intercoui-se with them.
So much work is now being done among all classes of the poor, that it is very difficult to signal out any special undertaking as possessing higher claims than another. There are a few, however, that we may discuss, and these can be divided into two classes : those for the older boys and girls, or rather young men and women, and those that deal exclusively with children. Among
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the former there are some societies that come at once to one's mind, and that, within the last twenty -five years, have altered and improved the condition of the young women of the working classes. They hardly come within the scope of our paper, so that we need do little more than mention the Girls' Friendly Society, instituted in 1875 with 24 branches, now numbering 903 branches, with 109,223 members and 25,435 asso- ciates. It has its branches all over the kingdom and in the colonies, and is so comprehensive in its work and objects, that no really respectable girl need ever find herself in any part of the kingdom far removed from active and practical help, should she require it The Young Women's Christian Association is more purely i*eligious in its aims and operations, while, at the same time, it does not lose sight of the material wants of its members. Its life is a longer one than that of the Girls' Friendly Society, and it has steadily increased in numbers every year since its birth. The Young Women's Help Society — the outcome of a difficulty that presented itself to the Girls' Friendly Society in its earlier years — has grown in a corresponding manner, and, from its peculiar constitution, may be said to be somewhat more comprehensive in its scope than its parent society. Perhaps the more recent develop- ment of work of this class has been the numerous clubs for working girls, and young women engaged in business, which have increased with great rapidity during the last ten years, especially those combined with lodging-houses, where board and lodging are provided at a cost within the earnings of the inmatea Charitable people long ago realised the difficulties and tempte.tions that beset the life of a young and inexperienced girl engaged in business in London, as well as the fact that merely to provide a room, where she could spend her evenings profitably and pleasantly, was not grappling with the whole difficulty. It was not enough to give a girl such a place alone, for unless she could also be lodged and fed at a price within her moans, she would be under strong temptation to eke out her living by immorality. And thus the lodging-house, with its tidy, clean cubicle and its bright club- room, h:;s grown out of the original intention of the founders. Twenty years ago such a work was not thought of ; ten years ago it was in its infancy ; and now thei*e are thirty girls' clubs in London and the large provincial towns, and more being organised rapidly. It is difficult to Idealise the labour and anxiety, to say nothing of the personal responsibility, such a work has entailed, and, but for the untiring energy of those who founded it, and at whose heart the welfare and well- doing of these girls lay very near, it would never have attained the position of permanence and influence it now possesses. In this work, above all others, the mainspring has been the strong personal influence brought to bear on each inmate, the result of which has been the preservation and rescue of many a friendless girl from the snares and temptations which crowd round the path of every unprotected young woman in London. There is hardly any parish in London now that does not possess some organisation for helping working girls, either as a club or as a branch affiliated to the Girls'
Friendly Society or the Young Women's Help Society, where the members receive lessons in cooking, needle- work, singing, and many other subjects that enable them to improve their education and brighten their lives. The success or failure of these, as well as of other kindred institutions, depends almost entirely on the ))ersonal in- fluence and work of some one, or perhaps of two or three persons. As with children, so with older boys and girb, their love and confidence must be won and retained, and this can never be accomplished by the work of a committee alone. It must be the pei<sonal work of individuals, who, by taking definite subjects on a particular day, or for a given time, make acquaintance with the girls, who know they can reckon with perfect confidence on finding them at the club at the time they have promised to attend. No duty needs more constant attendance than this. The motives that impel a woman to work among girls may be the most noble, her enthusiasm may be unbounded, her generosity unlimited, but if her eflforts are spas- modic and irregular they are almost worthless. No girls, no children, will continue to go to a club or Home if they have a constant change of visitors, and find — when they arrive tii-ed out at night from a hai-d day's work, perhaps with their heart full of some little sorrow or confidence they may wish to make, or longing for some counsel they stand much in need of — that a strange face meets them, and the voice they hoped to hear is silent for that night at least. Such a reproach, however, cannot, I think, be made against those who have hitherto attempted such work, for the manner in which the con- fidence, and aflection, of the girls in the clubs is won and maintained is a perfect proof of the devoted way in which it is carried out
With regard to clubs and institutions for working lads and young men, the same principle is carried out, with much the same results. Lads and boys do not require the same assistance and help as girls, and the Bands of Hope, Templars, and Blue Ribbon Army are doing a glorious work in combating with the greatest enemy and temptation a boy has. If a lad is sober and can be started in a good trade, or in some way enabled to earn his living, he will get on ; and when his home is a decent one, however poor, he is best living at home, provided he has some place to spend his evenings other than the public-house. We should endeavour as much as possible to keep up the love of home, and to encourage the feeling of reverence to parents, for the two sentiments are heavily handicapped in the life of the poor. It would be worse than a crime to diminish the strong feeling almost all boys have, that they must bring the greater part of their earnings home to their mothers, and very few people can realise how, duiing the past few years of bad trade, many thousands of poor families would have drifted into the workhouse but for that help. There are many boys, however, to whom the word " home " has never conveyed any meaning but that of a hell on earth — a place where the drunken father and mother, lost to all sense of shame and self-respect, have forced him into the streets for even the rest and food he could not get in his wretched home ; where no decency, no moral sense of any kind, remained, and where even the kinder instincts of the animals were dead. To such a
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boy the club or Home, where after his day's work he can spend his evenuigs in quiet comfort, is like a heaven, a harbour of rest after all the storms he has passed through. The St. Andrew's Club for Working Lads, in Soho, was one of the earliest institutions which had for their object the providing of decent lodging and wholesome food for lads engaged in work all day. The club owed its existence in 1886 to some young men employed in an architect's ofiice in London, who formed themselves into a society for visiting the poor alter their work for the day was finished. In one of their evening expeditions in Soho they came across a poor lad asleep on a sack in an empty shed, his only companion a little dog, that slept at his feet and kept them warm. The circumstance suggested some scheme of action to help such lads, of whom many existed in London, and a house was found and opened soon afterwards in Market Street, Soho, the first inmates being the boy and his dog. The first intention of the founders of the Home was to provide food and lodging for homeless working boys of good character, who were en- gaged in daily work in shops and warehouses, earning on an average little over five shillings a week. This sum was quite insufficient to do more than provide the bare necessaries of life, and the boys being left to themselves were exposed to all the temptations which surround cheap lodging-houses and places of amusement. But, as is usually the case in work of this kind, it was found im- possible to keep within the limits of the original plan, and a nightly club for respectable boys, other than inmates of the Home, was opened soon after. An en- trance fee of one shilling and a weekly fee of twoi)ence were requii-ed, and the small old-fashioned house in Dean Street, Soho, became the centre of a work that has in- creased and brought untold blessings in its ti-ain.
A good gymnasium was i>rovided, while fencing and drill were taught by a sergeant In the little room made into a chapel prayei-s were held twice a day ; and the small brass tablet on the wall, in memory of one of the boys who died in the Home, served to keep the solemn warning of the shortness and uncertainty of life before the boys' minds. All kinds of harmless and innocent amusements were allowed and encouraged, such as acting, recitations, concerts, &c The most cherished possession of the club was an old ship's jolly-boat, which was purchased by one of the committee and rigged up for the use of the boys. We can fancy the pleasure and delight of the sails on the river, and the Saturday afternoon and Sunday away from the never- ceasing noises of London. Who could but be glad, that the boys' Sunday should be spent away among the end- less delights of the river, and far from the countless temptations a Sunday otfers to boys in London ? And so the work has gone on, increased, and prospered ; and a new Home is now building not far from the site of the present one. It will be larger, more commodious, and more comfoi-table, but it can never do a more blessed or a more successful work than that done by the old club, and by the young men who found the poor boy and his dog in Soho, and in consequence opened the shelter which raised many a poor child from despair and enabled him to grow up an honest, happy man.
We must always remember that while the clubs and Homes for lads and young girls, of which we have been writing, do assist tlie very i)oorest and neediest among the working classes, they must not be classed among re- formatories, and institutions of such nature, where young persons, who have been convicted of crime, are trained and rescued. The principle of these clubs and Homes is to maintain and create that spirit of true independence which alone enables boys and girls engaged in daily work, and without homes of their own to return to, to live honestly and respectably.
Apart, however, from the criminal class of children in England, there is the other and by no means the smaller class of children, who are not bad enough to come under the jurisdiction of reformatories, and are too young for the*. protection of Homes, such as we have been describing. The history of this class of children is told most eloquently and feelingly in the life and work of the late Lord Shaftesbury, whose ceaseless care and affection for the poor little ragged children, the waifs and strays of humanity, will never be forgotten while English men and women live. The desire of his heart, and the unending work of his life, was that every desti- tute child should l»e taught and trained. Long before the passing of the Elementary Education Act of 1870, many excellent institutions were founded, mainly through his instrumentality, to succour and rescue these little waifs. These children may be classed broadly under two heads — those who, from loss of parents, have no home ; and those whose parents, by deserting them, or by treat- ing them with cruelty, have been deprived of their custody.
There are many Homes and institutions that endea- vour to assist the first class pf children, and to prevent their being educated in the workhouse school, which is much too large to enable the superintendent or matron to gain the love and confidence of their chargea In many large Homes the cottage system has been adopted, with signal success. It is much better in all ways, when possible, that ten or fifteen children should live in a house small enough to enable the home feeling to be retained, than be herded in large schools of 400 or 500, or even more, where each child represents only a number, and where all individuality is stamped out. In Dr. Barnard o's Homes, and in the Homes of the Ragged and Reformatory Union, and the Church of England Homes for Waifs and Strays, this plan has been earned out The first object of Homes where children are received too young for the evil infiuences of their former life to have impressed them permanently, should be to create emigration centres, where the technical education and training the children receive will enable them to start with a knowledge which in their new life will make them practically independent. Many of the existing Homes do make emigration the object in a great measure of their work, but I think it might be more developed. We ni-e all crying out at the evils of over-population, and trying emigration as a remedy for it ; but we find, when we trv to carry out our theories, how very difficult, nay, almost impossiUe, it is to i)er8uade the poor to leave England. They are, in many cases, too old, with rooted habits of
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The Woman's World.
life and cliaracter, very often diunken, seldom thrifty, and they prefer the misery and uncertainty of employment of their life hei-e to the fresh start they would have to make in a new world, with surroundings entirely strange to them. And, quite apart from the difficulty of per- suading them to make the eftbrt to go, we are not justi- fied in sending to our colonies those whose lives here have been failures. But a lad of eighteen going to Canada, or Queensland, with the knowledge of a trade is in an entirely different position. The Old World is behind him, his new life before him, his trade is his capital, and, with health, he should never know what want is.
There are difficulties often in perhuading widows to allow their boys, when admitted to these Homes, to sign the pa})er which gives the Home the power of emigrating them ; but in cases of orphan children, where no such obstacle can arise, a boy should be distinctly trained and brought up there, with the avowed object and understand- ing that he is to go to the Colonies. And the same arrangement should be made in girls' Homes. The de- mand in the Colonies for good domestic servants is very great, and the training and education here should be of a nature to fit them to be such when they arrive. The probability is, however, that any time of service with any well-trained young women would be of short duration, as the demand for wives is even larger than that for cooks and housemaids. There is one society well known, perhaps better known than any other, because associated 80 nearly with the life and work of Lord Shaftesbury, which deserves some notice, though it must be a short one. For moi-e than thirty years he took the warmest personal interest in an enterprise that was the fulfilment of the desire of his life. The National Refuge for Home- less and Destitute Children began its oi)erations in a very humble way, fifty-four years ago, in a hay- loft over a cow- shed in what was then known as the St. Giles' Kookery, a place well known for the miserable and wretched con- dition of the people who lived in the locality, as well as being one of the harbours for the vicious and criminal classes. A small Home for the reception of homeless and destitute children was opened, though at first the means of the Committee only allowed of nine children being re- ceived ; but before a very long time had elapsed, the efforts of the Comtuittee to raise means to rescue these i)Oor chil- dren from a life of wretchedness and degradation were rewarded. The public appreciation of the good work they were attempting to caiTy out increased rapidly, funds came in largely for the support of the scheme, lai'ger premises were soon secured, and the undertaking rapidly developed, and is now one of the most powerful and useful institutions of the kind. The various Homes of the Society, both for boys and girls, now contain 1,000 childi:en. The aims of the Society are large and varied. It has six Homes and two training-ships, and since its oi)ening it has admitted 10,000 children, 9,000 of whom have been started in life. The only qualification for admittance to the Home is that a boy or girl must be destitute and homeless. The central office and Home in Great Queen Street is the point from which all the organisation is carried out, and the work done at the
various Homes is made to suit the requirements and ultimate object that Home has in view.
Thus, in the training-ships Arethusa and Chichester, the boys are trained for a seafaring life, and many good sai]oi*s have gone from them. The ships could take many more boys now, but that the shipping business is so dull, and the openings to get boys off to sea are not as numerous as formerly. In the Farm, and Shaftesbury Schools at Bisley, 300 boys are being trained and educated to go princii)ally to the Colonies, and 32 boys were sent to Canada last year. The training at this Home has been so successful that the superintendent of the Home in Canada was able to place most of the lads in situations at once where they could earn wages, according to the rate paid in the district. There are 300 girls also being trained for domestic service in the two Homes at Ealing and Sudbury, and no less than 1,000 girls have been trained, and sent to service, since the Society began its labours. A Working Boys' Home, on the same principle as the St. Andrew's Home for Working Boys, is also in existence in Great Queen Street ; and in connection with the work of the Union, are the winter's dinnei^s for destitute children, and the summer holidays when funds allow of them.
Any notice of Homes for children would be quite imperfect without some mention of the Gordon Boys' Home, the offspring of a great wave of national affection and reverence for the memory of the brave English soldier. It was founded to carry out a scheme he had always keenly at heai*t, namely, to supply a refuge for lads between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, which no other institution had yet provided, although many lads at that age are unable to earn their own living from their forlorn and destitute condition. The discipline of the Home is, owing to the age of the inmates, neces- sarily very strict, and a military system of management has been adopted. There are 100 boys now in the Home, and the large building which it will ultimately occupy is approaching completion. The age at which the boys are taken is a difficult one, as they are inclined to be very insubordinate ; but there is no time in a boy's life so critical, or when control is more importajit, than from fourteen to sixteen years of age. Most boys leave school at fourteen, and they get employment while their character is unformed, and they have not acquired any habits of self-restraint. Knowing the dangers to a boy at such a time, Goi-don's great desire was to found an institution where boys could be put, as nearly as possible, under some military control, to train them for the profession they would eventually enter upon. The ultimate work of the Gordon Boys' Home will probably be to train most of the inmates as soldiei^s. But the coui-se of instruction they pursue qualifies them to make a good start in life as civilians, soldiers, or sailors. The Government has presented the Home with fifty acres of land at Bagshot, and the Home will move from its temporary quarters on Portsdown Hill as soon as the buildings are completed. These buildings will give acconmiodation for 1 60 boys, and will contain gymnasiums, kitchens, and workshops. The Home has been too short a time in existence for us to iudge of the success of the work. It ought to succeed
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if anything of such a nature can. It supplies a much- needed want, and it appeals in a special manner to the people of England. Every age has had its hei-oes, and every age has endeavoured to honour them. The hero of our time is Gordon, and his memory will never fade from the hearts and memories of the English people. His life, arid example, were the embodiment of everything that was good and chivalrous in man. Deep and earnest
in his convictions, temperate in his life, simple and trusting as a child in his God, loving bis country and caring for her honour with all the passion of his nature, he laid his life down in her service, and asked for no re- wai*d but the knowledge that he had done his duty. Can we have a nobler tale to tell the young men who ai*e tmining up in the national memorial a sorrowing nation has erected to his memory 1 Mary Jeune.
%hz ^ceenlf *^elepalFhie 0eeuprenee air the
IBrilrigh TOuzeum.
SHE lay dying ; soon she would be dead, and her secret would have died with her.
All about her, her friends were weeping, or standing with pale faces from which they strove to keep back the tears. For each she had a look, a word, a pressure of th(j hand. For the absent there were little gifts and mes- sages of farewell ; it seemed that none were forgotten.
Yet, for him whom first and most she remembered, there was no token of remembrance. It is often so with women.
Through long and weary days had she kept her own counsel ; now, at the last, there should be no betrayal of her womanhood. The secret which lay hidden in her heart was a hard and cruel one, crushing with its weight the tender breast, sapping the young life at the very spring. Nevertheless, the fact that it too must die with the rest of her was what made the thought of death a bitter one.
By-and-by, when they had left her, all save one silent watcher, when she herself had grown too weak for speech, she heard the passionate voice of her secret crying out to her in the stillness.
" Oh, my love, my love," it said, " and must it be so ? That all hope and chance depart this hour for evermore ? That the mighty force in my breast shall be as it had never been *?
♦•Almost it seems that in dying I play a ti*aitor's part ! That there must have been virtue in the love with which I encompassed you ; you, that knew or heeded it not. Now that great love shall hover no more about you, poor human creatui'e, knowing not your own forlomness.
** And what was the cloud tliat came between us ?
** Cruel, oh, you were cruel ! but you were mme, and I was yours, though the truth of this knowledge may never dawn in your heart. Ob, love, there is so much that I would have done for yoiL . . ."
The daylight was growing dim, and came in grudgingly through the pane ; in her seat the silent watcher stirred wearily ; and the body of the dying woman shook and quivered with a mighty yearning.
11.
The Professor was young (as Professors go), but al- ready he was growing bald at the temples ; and much
poring over manuscripts had made eye-glasses a neces- sity for eyes that once had been keen as a hawk's.
And this afternoon his back ached with stooping, his head throbbed, he was conscious of unusual weariness.
Leaning back in his chair, he let the pen fall from his hand, while his glance wandered round the vast reading-room, with the domed roof and book-lined walls, the concentric circles of catalogue cases and radiating lines of the reading-desks.
How familiar it all was to him ! The thick atmo- sphere, the smell of leather, the dusty people who bustled and dawdled, whispered and flirted, and whose faces he knew by heart.
A more miscellaneous throng, perhaps, that of these seekers of literary honey, than you anywhere else find pursuing its avocations under one roof.
" How dark it is ! ^' grumbled the Professor. " Why do they always wait to the last moment before lighting up ] And what a tramping and a whispering on all sides ! It's the women — they've no business to have women here at all," he added, as a clergyman and a law- student passed by in loud consultation.
That woman there, for instance, standing near him at the outer circle of the catalogue desks ; what did she mean by staring at him in that unearthly fashion ]
Sfte here ! She, of all people ; here, of all places in the world !
What had brought her? what cursed feminine im- pulse had prompted her to disturb him, to come be- tween him and his work ? — his work, which was all he lived for now.
Pshaw ! She wanted, no doubt, the answer to an aci*ostic, the pattern of some bygone fashion for a ball.
And did she expect him to fly to her side with oflTers of help, that she fastened on him that lingering, wistful glance of ap2>eal ?
*• Get thee behind me, Satan," said the Professor to himself, and turned to the books of which he was so weary.
At the same moment the great dim globes 8us|>euded from the roof grew white, and their i-adiance was spread throughout the hall.
The Professor i*aised his head, and involuntarily his eyes sought the woman with the wistful face.
She was not there.
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TnK Woman's World.
Strange ! His seat was the last of the row towards the centre of the room j she Imd been, therefore, quite near him, and he had heard no sound — no oft-vitu- perated rustic of feminine skirts.
The Professor sprang to his feet, and snapped liis eye-glass on the bridge of his nose.
She should not escape liim thus ; for once, from his own lips, she should hear what he thought of her — with her own lips should make what reply she could.
There was something of exaggeration in his rage. His lips twitched a little, as he made his way to the centre of the room, a good point of observation.
The Professor came back to his seat with a curious look on his face ; mechanically he restoi-ed the books at the desk, received the tickets, put on his hat, and made his way from the Museum.
A few hours later some one stopped him in the street and told him that she was dead.
The street lamps, the shop lamps, the red flashing lights of the cabs swam and reeled before liis eyes in chaotic brightness, and then, somehow, he was stumbling up the dark staircase of his lodging to his room.
Oh, the wasted days, the wasted loves, the wonderful wasted chances !
Crouched there by the table, his head bowed over the papers and manuscripts, he saw it all as by a flash— saw it, and understood.
She had thought that it would die with her, the poor secret, so jealously guarded. Love stronger than death, and for once more merciful, had betrayed her.
For two i>eople knew it now — her secret, which was also his. Amy Lkvy.
%hz Oxford %siidizz' (Sollegez.
BY A MEMBER OF ONE OF THEM.
PE RH APS few things are more curious than the popular views on ladies' colleges in general, and the motives which actuate those girls who go to them in par- ticular. At present the movement in favour of a University education for women is still young enough, and the number of these availing them- selves of the opportunity is still small enough, to make the girl in a country neigh- bourhood, who is known to be "at college," an object of curiosity — not, perhai)s, unmingled with distrust — to her circle of friends and acquaintances. On the one hand, it is thought that any one who goes to college must, of necessity, be the conventional bluestocking, or at least possessed of very exceptional abilities. " How clever of you to be there!" was once said to me by a lady (whom I had not previously supposed to be exceptionally foolish) on hearing that I was at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. Some peoplr, «gain, suppose that all girls at college must be intending to take up teaching as a profession. This is by no means the case, nor is it at all desirable that it should be so. Quite the reverse. Any one who has ever lived in a ladies' college knows quite well that there is always amongst a considerable number of the students (the very name almost suggests it) a tendency towards what the Spectator, criticising a recent article on Newnham College, called " a spirit of dowdyism," and this tendency can only be counteracted by a large admixture of the outside world — the world which is not professionally coimected with education technically so called — the world which has other interests, frivolous interests, society interests — which, a>»ove all, does not
make its sole aim the furtherance of the Cause (with a capital C) of the higher education of women. Again, some people, still more ignorant, have supposed that the chief object of the students is to imitate as closely as ]x>ssible the manners and customs of imdergraduates, or to amuse themselves with their brothers and cousins and with their brothers' and cousins' friends. This T need hardly say is quite untrue ; but that such ideas should be common amongst people, not S|)ecially stupid or specially prejudiced, shows the widespread ignorance which prevails with regard to ladies' colleges in general, and the Oxford colleges in particular. It is by no means true that all the girls at Somerville Hall and Lady Margaret Hall are exceptionally clever — the fact is almost too obvious to be worth stating; nor does the atmos- phere of Oxford, as my lady-friend seemed to suppose, necessarily produce this result ; a short acquaintance with the performances of the average pass-man would be quite enough to dispel that illusion for ever. Nor, again, are these girls all destined for the teaching pro- fession ; indeed the proportion of intending teachers is only, at the outside, about one-half. Why then do girls go to college 1 may fairly be asked ; and it is diflicult to give any one answer to the question. Perhaps it would be truest to say that the greater number are attracted by the larger life, the more real education, the manifold in- terests which life in a community must always afford, and by the atmosphere of culture attaching to an old histoiic university. To some, no doubt, the education strictly so called is the firat object, to others the society of girls of their own age and the pleasures of the life generally furnish the chief inducement. Hence there are girls w^ho care most for work, girls who prefer a certain amount of society, girls who boat and play tennis, and so on ; nor is it by any means necessary that these classes should be mutually exclusive. A college in which they insensibly shade into each other, and in which no one class is especially prominent, would be the ideal girls' college.
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Every girl at college has her own room, which, with the aid of screens and pretty hangings, is by day con- verted into quite a charming sitting-room — so success- fully in many cases, that visitors might very well go away with the impression that it is put to no other use. With regard to furniture, only the bare necessaries of life are supplied ; the rest is left to individual means and taste; and, indeed, so variously is this exercised that a survey of the rooms affords a most amusing iield for guesses as to the characters and pursuits of their respective inmates. One room was chiefly remarkable for the enormous amount of flowers which its owner contrived to get into it, making it appear as if she perpetually inhabited a conservatory. Two girls with a taste for natural history used to fill their rooms with all kinds of live pets, a white rat and a slow- worm being amongst the number, but this menagerie met with small favour from their immediate neighbours, as may easily be imagined. The chief adornment of another room consisted in a large collection of fur lugs, thrown over every conceivable article of furniture. Some are so full of knick-knacks that it seems doubtful whether their inmates can really have room to do anything serious, whilst a few affect a severe simplicity, which they fondly imagine is in keeping with literary and studious tastes. In every room may be seen the inevitable tea-cups, and many are the cheerful parties which assemble to partake of the beverage popularly supposed to be so dear to the feminine mind. Besides the private rooms there is the library, where magazines and papers are to be founds where general notices are posted up, and where many after-breakfast half-hours are spent — as some say, wasted — in talk. Then there is the dining-room, the drawing- room sacred to visitors and to the meetings of the various societies; and in Lady Margaret Hall also a small gymnasium and a chapeL
From the smallness of the numbers it is compara- tively easy for all the members of a college to know each other more or less intimately. There is naturally more constant daily intercourse between them, and, according to present arrangements, they certainly live much more together than is the case in the men's colleges. The day begins with chapel at eight a.m. A register hangs outside the door, and every one attending is expected to place a mark after her name; frequent absence, therefore, tells its own tale in a long line of blanks to all the world, if there be any of that world curious enough to inquire into the matter. Though a good deal of latitude in this respect would probably escape notice, it must be allowed that, taking into con- sideration the cold and darkness of December and January mornings, the standard of virtue is remarkably high. Indeed, so irksome did the general punctuality become to some of the weaker brethren — or rather sisters — that they announced their intention of being late on principle a certain number of times a term, lest the standard should be allowed to become too high for poor average humanity— an intention which, I may say in passing, was conscientiously put into practice. After (^pel comes breakfast, which is served in the dining- room lor all together, late-comers having to take their 6
chance of finding their coffee cold, though the quarter of an hour's chapel gives them a chance of overtaking the earlier risers. By nine o'clock most people begin work of some kind or another; indeed, some exceptionally industrious individuals insist on producing their books before that hour and sitting down in the library — the common after-breakfast resort — with a stem determina- tion depicted on their countenances to wage war against all vain, and frivolous conversation. Such conduct is, however, commonly considered an offence against un- written social laws — even the most serious-minded of students might reasonably be expected to give up twenty minutes to the interchange of ideas with her fellow- creatures, and these would-be industrious people usually find themselves either com[)elled to give in or driven ignominiously from the field. So great, however, did their number at one time become, that one individual, more frivolously disposed, was obliged, in self-defence, to found a society which she entitled the " Society for the Cultivation of Graceful Leisure." This society required of its members that they should never, uj)on any con- sideration, open any instructive book before nine a.m. ; should use all available means to prevent others from doing so, and should spend at least a part of each day in doing absolutely nothing as gracefully as possible. Sad to relate, however, this philanthropic attempt was a fiaiilure, for the president could never induce more than one member to join her society — a just reward possibly for her obvious inconsistency in founding a society after having previously avowed herself the enemy of all societies.
From nine till one o'clock is spent in work of some kind, either in reading at home or in attending lectures at the men's colleges, that grant admission to women, or at the lecture-rooms of the Women's Association. It is not many years since the first college lectures were opened, and a good deal of amusement was afforded to those who earliest availed themselves of the permission to attend, by the evident astonishment, and in some cases consternation, which their advent occasioned amongst the undergraduates. One college tutor relates that on going down to his lecture-room one morning he found, to his surprise, all the men congregated outside the door, on opening which two ladies were discovered sitting in solitary state, probably quite as shy, if the under- graduates had only known it, as they could possibly be, and with much better reason; indeed, it does take a certain residence in Oxfoixi to get used to being always so very much in the minority. On entering the hall of another college for the first time a very audible whisper of " Qu'est-ce que c'est que 9a ] " reached the ears of the two or three girls who made their appearance. The Association lecture-rooms are so skilfully hidden that the uninitiated visitor to Oxford might easily spend an hour hunting in their immediate neighbourhood without the smallest chance of ever lighting upon the object of his search. The recipe for finding them would run some- what in this wise : Go down a street which apparently leads nowhere, follow a blank wall until you come to a most insignificant-looking doorway, through which you pass into a back garden ; then, before you, you will see the
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The Woman's World.
lecture-rooms of the University Association for the Higher Education of Women ! Never was a finer name be- stowed upon a less imposing-looking building ! These rooms have gone through many strange vicissitudea They were originally a Baptist Chapel, then a mission chapel attached to St. Giles' Church, and finally they have been converted to purposes wholly secular, and are distinguished as the coldest and worst- ventilated lecture- rooms to be found in the University of Oxford — prob- ably it might with truth be added, in any University whatever. It is sincerely to be wished that all friends of female education poss(?ssed of full purses and suscepti- bility to draughts could be induced to spend an hour or two there on a wet winter moniing ; then, indeed, the question of where to get funds suflScient to build new and suitable rooms would be answered once and for all.
One o'clock finds every one wending their way home to lunch, which can be had at any time from one till two, and is a quite informal meal, people coming and going exactly as they please. From lunch till afternoon tea-time is almost always given up to amusements of some kind— boating, tennis, and the like. In summer there are the University cricket matches to go and see, for those who are fortunate enough to have brothers or friends to take them ; and in winter there are afternoon concerts, friends to visit, and ten thousand and one things to do — more, in fact, than can ever be crowded into the eight weeks' term. No one but the most per- sistent hard-worker would ever dream of spending these precious afternoon hours in reading, unless it be in the hopelessly wet days, far too plentiful, alas ! in an Oxford autumn. The chief out-door amusement is certainly tennis; boating is entirely confined to Lady Margaret Hall, whose members have a boat on the Cherwell ; and even amongst them the numbera are further restricted by the requirement of a swimming certificate before per- mission to use the boat can be granted. Still, many can and do spend a great deal of their time on the river, finding much amusement even in winter in boating over the flooded meadows, dodging the various obstacles which come in their way. There are both winter and summer tennis-courts, and every term a match is played between the two Halls, amidst much cheering and ex- citement. So far the victories have been pretty evenly divided, and neither Hall can claim any remarkable superiority. But the great event of the tennis year is the annual match against Cambridge. This is played in some private garden in or near London at the beginning of the Long Vacation, and always attracts a large number, both of past and present members of the various colleges. It must be confessed that Cambridge is most frequently, though not always, the winner; but against this may be placed the fact that its numbers are at least four times as great at present, 80 that Oxford may fairly hope to do better in the future. In the matter of in-door amusements there have been various changes of fashion. At one time games of all kinds were exceedingly popular, at another time dancing; but the forms of entertainment which have found the most lasting favour are certainly amateur concerts and theatricals, esi)ecially the latter. The
musical members of the college generally give a concert once a term, to which a certain select few of the outside world are invited ; but the concerts cannot compare in popularity with the theatricals, which are got up to cheer spiiits depressed by the fogs of the winter terms. Some of these performances have been, to say the least of it, ambitious ; Shakespearean plays have been per- formed with a good deal of arrangement and adaptation to the capabilities of a very modest stage, and much histrionic talent hitherto unsuspected has been thereby brought to light. In excuse for such presumption it must be said that these performances are strictly private, the audience including hardly any outsiders but members of the other Hall. More impromptu performances of charades and the like are often got up, sometimes as an entertainment for wet afternoons, and sometimes when an inspiration occurs to some inventive genius which she can prevail upon her friends to put into execution.
To pass to more serious matters, in these, as ap- parently in all colleges, thei'e exist any number of societies for every kind of object. Lady Margaret Hall, indeed, is far less rich in this respect than Somerville Hall ; but still, even there, there are societies enough and to spare. One of these was a sort of mutual im- provement society, which met originally once a week, but which has now become less energetic, and finds that two or three meetings in a term furnish quite as much improvement as its members appear capable or desirous of receiving. This society sometimes devotes its energies to reading plays of Shakespeare, but more often captures some unlucky or good-natured individuals and compels them to discourse on all manner of subjects — the Fourth Dimension, the Italian painters, the history of music, Plato's views on the immortality of the soul, and what not. In striking contrast to this society there exists another, which engages in the domestic occupa- tion of making clothes for a Home for factory-girls. At one time, too, there flourished a Browning Society, which, however, like its larger namesake in the University, though from a somewhat different cause, came to an untimely end. It owed its decease mainly to the fact that its president would insist on holding the meetings late on Sunday night, when the world in general was sleepy, and having had enough of sermons, whether in poetry or prose, was unable to rise to the heights of Browning, pref ending arm-chairs, and the peaceful study of character in the persons of their immediate friends and neighboui-s. Last, but by no means least, must be mentioned the Debating Society, in which the two Halls unite, and which, with the addition of a few outsiders, numbers some fifty or sixty members. This society has a president and secretary elected afresh every term, and conducts all its debates with an orderliness and a strict attention to rules of procedure, which might favourably compare with the conduct of other public bodies of a similar nature. After the private business has been dis- posed of, the president reads the motion before the House, and calls upon the "honourable proposer" to state her case. She is immediately followed by the ** honourable opposer," both these being allowed either to read papers or make speeches, according to their own
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wishes. Then comes a discussion for about an hour, which, like Gratiano*s "grain of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff," produces generally two or three really good speeches, and an ** infinite deal of nothing." In passing, I should like to inquire why it is that every one when speaking in public thinks it necessary to assume an appearance of such excessive modesty and self -depreciation. Certainly any chance auditor of the Somerville and Lady Margaret Hall Debating Society might reasonably wonder why the majority of the speakers should ever open their lips at all, since two out of every three seem invariably to preface their remarks with the sometimes wholly un- necessary assurance that they have really nothing to say worth hearing, and do not in the least understand the motion before the House. Nor, so far as I can learn, is this practice of making a preliminary apology, and then proceeding to state their views at length, by any means entirely confined to the members of the society in ques- tion. The subjects proposed for debate are many and various. Literary debates were at one time much affected — g.</., "That the Nineteenth Century is the golden age of English prose," or "The comparative merits of the female characters of George Eliot and Shakespeare," but they seldom produced very lively discussion. Debates on the political and social ques- tions of the day, on the other hand, wax frequently long and furious. One on the Disestablishment of the Church, particularly, produced much good speaking on both sides, and considerable excitement ; whilst another crowded House a short time ago acquitted Mr. Gladstone by a large majority of exercising a degrading influence on modem politics. The greatest amount of amuse- ment is, however, produced by the discussion of some of those more vague and general questions, on which every one can, on the spur of the moment, bring forward a few ideas, and about which no one has any very definite or deep-rooted convictions. Experi- ence shows, too, that the more paradoxical the motion, the better speaking it will usually produce. To leave large holes in your logic is a sovereign recipe for stirring up the lazy, and firing them with the desire to prove their quickness by fastening upon the weak places in the arguments of the more public-spirited proposer. A very lively debate was raised by the motion that " Every man or woman who does not like gossip is inhuman," and the motion was carried by an over- whelming majoiity. Another motion^ "That the chief end and aim of life ought to be the cultivation of graceful leisure," was chiefly remarkable for the strenuous and almost unanimous opposition it called forth, and for the expression of serio-comic alarm which it elicited from an influential member of the society, who affected to see in it a tendency in the direction of — cigars ! as a suit- able substitute for which, guaranteed to produce the same soothing effect u|>on the brain, she hastened, amidst shouts of laughter, to propose crochet !