CHAPTER VII.

THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD.

I have said that from the first moment I had felt a singular attraction towards my new mistress. As the days went on, and I became better acquainted with the rare beauty and unselfishness of her nature, my respect and affection deepened. I soon grew to love Mrs. Morton as I have loved few people in this life.

My service became literally a service of love; it was with no sense of humiliation that I owned myself her servant; obedience to so gentle a rule was simply a delight. I anticipated her wishes before they were expressed, and an ever-deepening sense of the sacredness and dignity of my charge made me impervious to small slights and moved me to fresh efforts.

I was no longer tormented by my old feelings of uselessness and inefficiency. The despondent fears of my girlhood (and girlhood is often troubled by these unwholesome fancies), that there was no special work for me in the human vineyard, had ceased to trouble me. I was a bread winner, and my food tasted all the sweeter for that thought. I was preaching silently day by day my new crusade. Every morning I woke cheerfully to the simple routine of the day’s duties. Every night I lay down between my children’s cots with a satisfied conscience, and a mind at rest, while the soft breathings of the little creatures beside me seemed to lull me to sleep.

It was a strangely quiet life for a girl of two-and-twenty, but I soon grew used to it. When I felt dull I read; at other times I sang over my work, out of pure lightheartedness, and I could hear Joyce’s shrill little treble joining in from her distant corner.

“I wish I could sing like you, Merle,” Mrs. Morton once said to me, when she had interrupted our duet; “your voice is very sweet and true, and deserves to be cultivated. Since my baby’s death my voice has wholly left me.”

“It will come back with time and rest,” I returned, reassuringly, but she shook her head.

“Rest; that is a word I hardly know. When I was a girl I never knew life would be such a fatiguing thing. There are too many duties for the hours; one tries to fit them in properly, but when night comes the sense of failure haunts one’s dreams.”

“That is surely a symptom of overwork,” was my remark in answer to this.

“Perhaps you are right, but under the circumstances it cannot be helped. If only I could be more with my darlings, and enjoy their pretty ways; but at least it is a comfort to me to know they have so faithful a nurse in my absence.”

She was always making these little speeches to me; it was one of her gracious ways. She could be grateful to a servant for doing her duty. She was not one of those people who take everything as a matter of course, who treat their domestics and hirelings as though they were mere machines for the day’s work; on the contrary, she recognised their humanity; she would sympathise as tenderly with a sick footman or a kitchen-maid in trouble as she would with any of her richer neighbours. It was this large-mindedness and beneficence that made her household worship her. When I learnt more about her former life, I marvelled at her grand self-abnegation. I grew to understand that from the day of her marriage she had simply effaced herself for her husband’s sake; her tastes, her favourite pursuits, had all been resigned without a murmur that she might lead his life.

She had been a simple country girl when he married her; her bees, her horse, and her father’s dogs had been her great interests; to ride with her father over his farms had been her chief delight. She had often risen with the lark, and was budding her roses amid the dews.

When the young rising politician, Alick Morton, had first met her at a neighbouring squire’s house, her sweet bloom and unconscious beauty won him in spite of himself, and from the first hour of their meeting he vowed to himself that Violet Cheriton should be his wife.

No greater change had ever come to a woman. In spite of her great love, there must have been times when Violet Morton looked back on her innocent and happy girlhood with something like regret, if ever a true-hearted wife and mother permits herself to indulge in such a feeling.

Mr. Morton was a devoted husband, but he was an autocrat, and, in spite of many fine qualities, was not without that selfishness that leavens many a man’s nature. He wanted his wife to himself; his busy ambition aimed high; politics was the breath of his life; unlike other men in this, that he lived to work, instead of working to live.

These sort of natures know no fatigue; they are intolerant of difficulties; inaction means death to them. Mr. Morton was a committee man; he worked hard for his party. He was a philanthropist also, and took up warmly certain public charities. His name was becoming widely known; people spoke of him as a rising man, who would be useful to his generation. If he dragged his wife at his triumphal chariot wheel, no one blamed him; these sort of men need real helpmeets. In these cases the stronger nature rules: the weaker and most loving submits.

Mrs. Morton was a submissive wife; early and late she toiled in her husband’s service; their house was a rallying point for his party. On certain occasions the great drawing-rooms were flung open to strangers; meetings were held on behalf of the charities in which Mr. Morton was interested; there were speeches made, in which he largely distinguished himself, while his wife hovered on the outskirts of the crowd and listened to him.

He kept no secretary, and his correspondence was immense. Mrs. Morton had a clear, characteristic handwriting, and could write rapidly to dictation, and many an hour was spent in her husband’s study.

This was at first no weariness to her—she loved to be beside him and share his labours. What wife begrudges time and work for her husband? But she soon found that other labours supervened that were less congenial to her.

Mr. Morton was overworked; the demands on his time were unceasing. Violet must visit the wards of his favourite hospitals, and help him in keeping the accounts. She must represent him in society, and keep up constant intercourse with the wives of the members of their party during the season. She worked harder even than he did. Her bloom faded under the withering influence of late hours and hot rooms. Night after night she bore, with sweet graciousness, the weary round of pleasures that palled on her. It was a martyrdom of human love, for, alas! in the hurry of this unsatisfactory life, the Divine voice had grown dim and far off to the weary ear of Violet Morton; the clanging metallic earth bells had deadened the heavenly harmonies.

Sometimes a sad, pathetic look would come into her eyes. Was she thinking, I wonder, of the slim, bright-eyed girl budding roses in the old-fashioned garden, while the brown bees hummed round her? Was the fragrance of the lilies—those tall, white lilies of which she so often spoke to me—blotting out the perfume of hothouse flowers, and the heavy scents of the crowded ball-room?

It was a matter of intense surprise to me that Mr. Morton seemed perfectly unconscious of this immense self-sacrifice. He could not be ignorant, surely, that a mother desires to be with her children, and that a woman’s tender frame is susceptible to fatigue. Selfish as he was, he loved her too well to impose such intolerable burthens on her strength, if he had only known them to be burthens. But her cheerfulness blinded him. How could he know she was overtasked, and often sad at heart, when she never complained, when she sealed her lips so generously?

If she had once said, “I am so tired, Alick; I cannot write for you,” he would at once have pressed her to rest; but men are so dense, as Aunt Agatha says. Their great minds overlook little details. They take in wide vistas of landscape, and never see the little nettles that are choking up the field path. Women would have noticed the nettles at once, and spied out the gap in the hedge beside.

I had not been many weeks in the house before I found Sunday was no day of rest to my employers, and yet they were better than many other worldly people. Mrs. Morton always went to church in the morning, and, unless he was too tired or busy, Mr. Morton went too. They were careful, too, that their servants should enjoy as far as possible the privilege of the day. The carriage was never used, so the horses and the coachman were able to rest. They dined an hour earlier, and invited only one or two intimate friends to join them, and there was always sacred music in the evening. But there was no more leisure for thought on that day than on any other. In the afternoon Mr. Morton wrote his letters and read his paper, and Mrs. Morton had her share of correspondence; the rest of the afternoon was given to callers, or Mrs. Morton accompanied her husband for a walk in the park. She was always very careful of her toilet on these occasions, and if it were Travers’s Sunday out, my services were in requisition. I had once offered to assist her, and I suppose I had given satisfaction. More than once Mr. Morton had found fault with some part of her dress, and she had gone back to her dressing-room with the utmost promptitude to change it.

“I have not satisfied my husband’s taste, Merle,” she would say, as cheerfully as possible; “will you help me to do better?” And she would stand before the glass with such a tired look on her lovely face, as I brought her a fresh mantle and bonnet.

I hate men to be over critical with their wives, but I suppose it is a greater compliment than not being able to see if they are wearing their best or common bonnet. I confess it must be trying to a woman when a man says—and how often he does say it?—“What a pretty gown that is, my dear. Have I seen it before?” when the aggravating creature must know that she wore it all last summer, and perhaps the previous summer too.

I found out that Mrs. Morton was ill-satisfied with the way they spent Sundays.

I remember one Sunday evening I was sitting in the twilight with Reggie on my lap and Joyce on her little stool beside me. I had been teaching her a new verse of her hymn, and she had learned to say it very prettily. We were both very busy over it, when the door opened, and Mrs. Morton came in.

Joyce jumped up and ran to her at once.

“I know it, mother—my Sunday hymn—it is such a pretty one.”

“Is it, my darling? Then, suppose you let mother hear it.” And Joyce, folding her hands in her quaint, old-fashioned way, began very readily:

“I love to hear the story Which angel voices tell, How once the King of Glory Came down on earth to dwell. I am both weak and sinful, But this I surely know, The Lord came down to save me, Because He loved me so.”

“Very pretty indeed, Joyce,” observed Mrs. Morton, rather absently, when the child had finished. But Joyce looked up in her face wistfully.

“Do you ever say hymns, mother dear?”

“I sing them in church, my pet.”

“But you never teached them to me, mother; they are all nurse’s hymns, the little one and the long one, and the little wee hymn I say with my prayers. Would you like to hear my little wee hymn, mother dear?”

“I will hear all you know, my darling.” But there were tears in the beautiful eyes as she listened.

“How nicely she says them! I am glad you teach her such pretty hymns, Merle,” as the child ran off to fetch Snap, who was whining for admittance. “Somehow it seems more like the Sunday of old times up here—so quiet, so peaceful. We must do as the world does, I suppose; but these secular, bustling Sundays are not to my taste.”

Her words jarred on me, and I replied rather too quickly, considering my position, “Are we obliged to follow a bad fashion? That is indeed going with the crowd to do evil.”

She looked up in some surprise. It must have been a new thing to the petted mistress of the household to hear herself so sharply rebuked.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I exclaimed, penitently; “I had no right to say that; I forgot to whom I was speaking.”

“Do not distress yourself, Merle,” she returned, in her sweet way; “it is good for all of us to hear the truth sometimes. It was foolish of me to say that. I only mean that in our house it is very difficult not to follow the world’s custom.”

“Very difficult indeed,” I acquiesced; but she continued to look at me thoughtfully.

“Do not be afraid of saying what is in your mind; you may speak to me plainly, if you will. You are my children’s nurse, but I cannot forget that in many ways we are equals. You never intrude this fact on my notice, but it is none the less apparent. I know our Sundays are terribly secular,” as I continued silent; “sometimes I wish it were not so, for my children’s sake.”

“Not for your own sake, Mrs. Morton?”

A distressed look came over her face.

“I seem to have no time to wish for anything.”

“I could well believe that; but, Mrs. Morton, it seems to me as though we owe some duty to ourselves. If we neglect the highest part of ourselves we are committing a sort of mental suicide. How often has Aunt Agatha told me that!”

“How do you mean?” she asked, anxiously.

“We all need a quiet time for thought. It always seems to me that on Sunday one lays down one’s burthens for a time. It is such a rest to shut out the world for one day in the week, to forget the harass of one’s work, to take up higher duties, to lift one’s standard afresh, and prove one’s armour. It is just like abiding in the tents for shelter and rest in the heat of battle.”

I had forgotten the difference in our station, and was talking to my mistress just as though she were Aunt Agatha. Something seemed to compel me to speak; I felt a strange sort of trouble oppressing me, as though I saw a beautiful soul wandering out of the way. She seemed moved at my words, and it was several minutes before she spoke again.

“Your words recall the old Sundays at my own dear home,” she observed, presently. “Do you not love Sundays in the country, Merle? The very birds seem to sing more sweetly, and the stillness of which you speak seems in the very air. My Sundays were very different then. We lived near the church, and we could hear the chiming of the bells as we walked through the village. I taught in the Sunday-school; I recollect some of the children’s names now. Father always liked us to go to the evening service. I remember, too, we invariably sang Bishop Ken’s evening hymn. One evening a little robin found its way into the church. I remember Mr. Andrews, our vicar, was just reading that verse, ‘Yea, the sparrow has found her a house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young,’ when we looked up and saw the little creature fluttering round the chancel. Oh, those sweet old Sundays!” And here she broke off and sighed.

I thought it best to say no more, and leave her to those tender memories. A word in season may do much, but I was young, and had no right to teach with authority. I suppose she understood my reticence, for she looked at me very kindly as she rose from her seat.

“It does me good to come up here, Merle; I always have a more rested feeling when I go down to my duties. If I did not feel that they were real duties that called me I should be very unhappy.”

She bade her children good-night, and left the nursery. What made me take up my Bible, I wonder, and read the following verse! “In this thing the Lord pardon Thy servant, that when my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth on my hand, and I bow myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon Thy servant this thing.”

(_To be continued._)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

CHATTERBOX.—Your acquirements are satisfactory, and might gain for you perhaps £30 per annum. But these are to be weighed against two serious drawbacks—extreme youth, and consequent lack of weight and authority with your pupils, and complete lack of experience in reading their several characters and bodily condition, and the modifications and changes of method requisite to suit these different subjects under your training. Teaching lessons is but a small part of the duties of a governess. The characters of her pupils have to be carefully read and moulded, their manners and habits trained according to those of polite society, and she should discover what natural gifts should be cultivated and what studies should be remitted, more or less. At sixteen you are scarcely more than a child yourself, and quite such in inexperience. Thus, you are really only fit for a visiting governess, teaching under the direction of the mother; and if you take a residential situation, it could only be at a low salary.

DESIREE.—If you wish to prepare yourself for being a nurse at home, we recommend you a careful study of a small manual, often named for the purpose, “Sick Nursing at Home” (L. U. Gill, 170, Strand, W.C.). When you could be examined on that you will have made great progress towards efficiency. You do not name your age. Had you done so, we could have advised you further.

DAUGHTER OF GENTLEMAN FARMER (Dublin).—If you have artistic taste and can design, and, in addition, have a delicate touch, write either to the City and Guilds Technical Institute, Exhibition-road, South Kensington, S.W., or to the Polytechnic, Regent-street, W., where classes for wood-carving are held. Address the secretary in both cases. If you think of training for the teaching of children under the Kindergarten system, there are many schools for the purpose. Write to the Misses Crombie, 21, Stockwell-road, S.W., with a view to entering the college established by the British and Foreign School Society. Or else to the secretary, Home and Colonial Training College, in Gray’s Inn-road, W.C.

MUSIC.

M. L. P.—It is to be regretted on your own account, if not on that of others, who might be glad to avail themselves of your musical society, that you should contemplate giving it up without first inducing someone to take your place. Your society, we imagine, is already entered in a directory of girls’ clubs, shortly to appear, and too late now to be omitted.

OLD MAN’S DARLING.—You will often find songs in our paper. It is sad to hear that you “get wild with your nose,” which at seven or eight o’clock p.m. “gets puggy.” What can that mean? As we cannot hope for the pleasure of witnessing such a phenomenon, we advise you to consult your mother about it. If an hereditary “pug,” we do not understand why it should be otherwise during the day.

COURTLEROY.—We are obliged to you for the information you give respecting the tonic sol-fa system. It was invented by Miss Glover, of Norwich, and afterwards improved upon by John Curwen, in about the year 1847; but the Tonic Sol-fa College was established a year earlier than that.

ROMOLA.—The class of music known us the “cantata” was invented by Barbara Strozzi, a Venetian lady.

A GREEK GIRL.—1. The song you name is one in the Christy Minstrels’ collection, and is, we believe, one of the late Stephen Foster’s, who died in March, 1864. He was the originator of that class of music. You write English so well, that we should have thought you a countrywoman. 2. If you wish to see the prettiest parts of England, you should visit some parts of Surrey, Devonshire, Derbyshire, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and portions of Wales. We are glad you are partial to the English, and that you appreciate our series of articles on good breeding and etiquette. Your writing is good, and thoroughly English.

MISCELLANEOUS.

POPSEY.—Perhaps Blackwood’s “holdfast” would prove satisfactory in securing the scraps on your screen. We imagine that you are not very careful in brushing the gum or paste quite over the corners that you complain curl up. Very little of the above-named “holdfast” will be required to make the scraps adhere firmly.

TENNYSON.—The precise origin of the office of “Poet Laureate” does not appear to be known. There was a _Versificator Regis_ in the reign of Henry III. Chaucer was Poet Laureate by his own appointment, and he subsequently received an annuity from Richard II. Some twenty-one poets succeeded him in the office. The immediate predecessor of Tennyson was William Wordsworth, and he was succeeded by Dr. Robert Southey. Tennyson, who was born in 1809, received the appointment in 1850.

ALICE GREY.—See page 519, vol. vi., for description and illustration for a supper table. Add some chickens and a ham, and you could make it do for your plain wedding breakfast. The bride and bridegroom sit together and lead the way to the dining-room, and place themselves in the centre of the long table opposite the wedding cake. The father of the bride takes the bridegroom’s mother, and seats himself next his daughter, and the bridegroom’s father takes the bride’s mother, who sits next the bridegroom. The bridesmaids generally sit opposite the bride and bridegroom.

MARCELLE’S question was answered on page 704, vol. vii. The poem, “Pleasures of Memory,” is by Samuel Rogers.

A DELICATE COUNTRY LASSIE.—1. We have read your nice little letter with much interest and sympathy. It is pleasant to hear that our advice has been helpful to you, and we only wish your health would improve. But we think you might lay the matter before God in faith, and ask Him to cure you and raise you up, according to the promise, “the prayer of faith shall save the sick.” See St. James v. 15, and Matt. viii. 17. 2. The 26th June, 1874, was a Friday. Write to the secretary, Lifeboat Institution, 14, John-street, Adelphi, W.C.

EARNEST INQUIRER.—It is impossible for us to tell you when the Government will legislate in behalf of shorter hours work for shop assistants. To work from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. on ordinary days, and from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. on Saturdays, is slave-driving indeed. We can only wonder that ostensibly respectable tradesmen could be guilty of treating their assistants in so cruel a manner, and that in a Christian country. They ought not to need legal coercion in a matter of mere humanity.

E. A. A. B.—Almeida is the name of one of the strongest fortresses of Portugal, in the Province of Beira, and on the north-east frontier of Spain. It was taken by the Spaniards in 1762, and afterwards surrendered. Massena captured it from the British in 1810, and Wellington re-took it the following year, and restored it to Portugal. As the Spaniards had once captured the fortress, they naturally commemorated their victory and great acquisition by naming an avenue after it in Madrid. You spelt the name incorrectly.

D. M.—The origin of the designation of those days beginning on July 3rd and ending on August 11th, as dog days, has nothing to do with dogs becoming mad from the heat and lack of water. In the time of the ancient astronomers, the heliacal rising of Sirius, the dog-star, occurred in July, and superstition attached to his rising the rabies in dogs. But this was quite untrue, for this disease is not produced even under tropical suns in mid-summer, where the animals are not inoculated with the virus of one already itself bitten. If no biting were permitted there would be no more mad dogs. Besides, it is not during the excessive heat of July that dogs do go mad, the colder months of winter and early spring being far more usual seasons for it.

CHRISTINA S.—Perhaps you set yourself too much to do. In the Christian life it is often so, and then you are discouraged because you fail. The first rule seems to be, To love your brother as yourself; for if you cannot act unselfishly, kindly, and affectionately towards those you see, you cannot love the God you have not seen. Begin with thinking of everybody around you first, and in that love and service, combined with faith, you will, in time, see God, for God is love.

AN ANXIOUS ONE, PRIMROSE.—There is a valuable book published by the R. T. S., 56, Paternoster-row, E.C., “A New Introduction to the Study of the Bible,” by Barrows, which you would find it an advantage to study. But do not make it the habit of your mind to fret about dogma; turn to the practical side of religion, and serve the Lord Christ by your daily life and conversation.

PRIMROSE LEAGUE.—Having given your sister the best advice, you are not bound to do more, but try to win her by love with patience. It would be better for her to have a governess at home than to go to school.

M. A. B. Z. E.—Look at any of our completed volumes and you will find the index is a list of the subjects written upon in the G.O.P., with the page on which they are to be found added. The first of April, 1872, was a Monday.

AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN RUSSIA.—You will need to write many stories and to gain much experience in writing before you produce one fit for publication. We could not give advice about publication; but you will find the addresses of all London publishers in a London directory; and you must follow the example of Charlotte Brontë, and all our best writers almost, _i.e._, to try and try again until you gain a hearing. There is no royal road to success. You would probably find Vincent’s “Dictionary of Biography” in Haydn’s series a useful book.

SHINING LIGHT (?).—“R. S. V. P.” are the initials of the French sentence “Répondez s’il vous plait,” _i.e._, reply if you please. They are put in the corners of invitations to various entertainments.

HAPPY MINNIE.—The inner skin of the broad bean pod is said to be a cure for warts, if rubbed on gently several times a day.

IRENE AYNSLEY.—1. In England drive to the left, but on the Continent and in America one keeps to the right. We do not know the custom in New Zealand, but doubtless it is the English. 2. Can you not get a small book on fancy knitting?

REX.—Certainly call on and visit your pupils’ mothers, if invited. You do not need any other introduction. Unless introduced to the friends met in the street, it is well to walk on a short distance and wait.

EIN UNARTIGES MADCHEN.—1. Punch and Judy dates its origin to one of the old mystery plays, _Pontius Pilate and the Jews_. The story as we represent it is attributed to Silvio Fiorillo, an Italian comedian of the seventeenth century. The moral is decidedly bad, as the evil is made to triumph over the good, and defies and defeats all law and justice. 2. Slope your writing more from right to left.

ONE WHO IS WAITING.—The story you tell us of a cat taking care of two chickens when her kittens were taken from her is very wonderful; but we believe it has its parallel in one told by Sir John Lubbock, of a cat that brought up two ducklings, and was distracted at seeing them take to the water. We much approve of the wishes and feelings you express, and you have our sympathy. We wish you God-speed.

WINIFRED H.—1. Grey is a very delicate colour, and probably the rain has extracted the dye, and nothing could restore the loss but having the material redyed in a darker shade. 2. It is not necessary that the name of a writer should appear; but the difficulty is that we cannot accept the articles and stories of unknown writers. We rarely take those of authors who have not made their names as such.

“TRULY SWEET EIGHTEEN” (?).—We should say that, as a descriptive name, “Truly Vain” would be _truer_. If you find that you earn too little by dressmaking, perhaps you could turn your four years’ experience of that trade to good account by adding to your acquirements that of hair-dressing, and then you could take a situation as lady’s-maid.

HUMBLE MINOR.—We never heard of an infant who would not go to his mother voluntarily, unless to go to a wet-nurse, whom he might naturally suppose, if he could not think, was his real mother. If he have a fearful temper, and be not a screamer from teething, or any other pain, he should be gently corrected for his violence. Some children scream themselves into fits. Children should have the best and richest _unwatered_ milk.

ONE IN TROUBLE.—It is well that you only broke one looking-glass, and that your father only tries to comfort you. Be more careful in the future, and do not listen to silly “prophets of evil.” Those who trust in God’s care and commit themselves to Him in well-doing, need not “take thought for the morrow” in an anxious way. It would be a want of faith.

OAK TREE.—Do as your mother wishes. You are not yet nineteen, and are under her authority. But perhaps she might spare you to go out for a few hours daily, to take children out for a walk, and teach them to write, read, sew, and some few other lessons. If not, she might let you assist in some shop where the hours were not long. Perhaps you might hold a little class of children at home.

CHARITY.—1. We do not know to what your mother refers by that name, but you will find allusions to the “Book of Life” in the Epistle to the Philippians iv. 3, and in the Book of Revelations iii. 5, and in five more places. 2. If you wish some day to be a doctor, begin by studying a shilling manual called “Sick Nursing at Home” (Gill, 170, Strand, W.C.), and then join an ambulance class.

ELLA MARY.—What are known as “Mystery plays” are referred for their origin to the pilgrims who journeyed to the East in the eleventh century. The earliest known in England took place at Dunstable early in the following century. The oldest extant dates to the reign of Edward III. The “Chester Mysteries” date back to 1327. Those of the French only commenced in the fourteenth century.

THE OWNER OF “MUFF.”—1. We do not undertake to teach quadrupeds, though we endeavour to teach bipeds, but these latter only provided they be not “muffs,” as that would be beyond our patience, and perhaps our ability, for there are more “muffs” than those that walk on four legs! 2. The 1st of September, 1873, was a Monday.

PHLOX.—Fidgets in the legs usually arise from acidity, and perhaps indigestion. You should take some anti-acid, such as magnesia, before going to bed, if suffering much. A doctor should prescribe for you, as you seem out of health. Avoid sweet things, and any food that produces acidity in the system.

PALE FACE.—We do not know what could now be done to give you a pair of straight legs, unless you could have them exchanged, and screw on a pair of wooden ones. Wear a full skirt, and the defect may be concealed to a great extent, especially if you take pains in walking well.

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 116: opus 3 Schumann to “The opus 39. By Schumann.”

systematicaly to systematically—“systematically fingered”.

Page 118: one to own—“one’s own transactions”.]