CHAPTER IX.

The following Saturday turned out to be a misty November morning. Towards noon the fog lifted, and at half-past one, when Dame Hursey prepared to start to keep her appointment with her son, it was tolerably clear, but the old wool-gatherer, who was as weather-wise as John Shelley himself, shook her head as she scanned the horizon from the door of her miserable cottage, and muttered to herself she doubted the fog would come on worse than ever at sunset.

As this was the first time she had seen her son for twelve or thirteen years, and would probably be the last, seeing that he was going back to Australia, probably never to return, at least in her lifetime, Dame Hursey regarded the occasion as a festive one, and had taken a holiday in honour of it. Her morning had been spent in cleaning her miserable cottage, in the faint hope that her son might be persuaded to come home and spend the evening with her. In this hope all her wool-gatherings had been taken upstairs instead of lying about the floor and corners of the kitchen, as they usually did; the floor had been scrubbed, a fire was lighted, two rickety armchairs drawn up to it, and a cup and saucer, a mug, and two or three plates—Dame Hursey’s stock of crockery—placed on the table. She dispensed with dinner, and contenting herself with a piece of bread and cheese, reserved two red herrings for her tea on her return with her son.

Then she dressed herself in her Sunday dress, not without some qualms lest the fog should turn to rain. Even if it did, on such an occasion as this she must wear her best things, so she put on her black stuff dress, a black and white plaid shawl, and a bonnet that might have come out of the ark, judging from its antique shape, and which, to Dame Hursey’s pride, was ornamented with some dirty old artificial flowers. Thus attired, and having made up the fire and left the kettle on the hob, she locked up her hut, put the key in her pocket, and providing herself with a gigantic cotton umbrella, to answer the purpose of a walking-stick as well as in case of rain, she set out for Mount Harry.

Though Dame Hursey knew all the short cuts, it was more than an hour’s walk from her house to the top of Mount Harry, but the old woman was longing to see her son again, so she started in good time, and reached the spot a quarter of an hour before he did, though he was punctual. The fog was rolling up again, as the old wool-gatherer had predicted, and, accustomed as her black eyes were to piercing the mists which so often wrap those rounded hills like a damp clinging garment, her son was close upon her before she saw his form, looming like a gigantic grey figure close beside her. It was twelve years and a half since they had met, and George Hursey was very much altered in appearance since, in the character of John Smith, carpenter on board the French yacht Hirondelle, he had laid the baron’s little daughter on John Shelley’s doorstep; but for all that his mother declared she would have recognised him in a crowd.

“You’ll come home and have a cup of tea and a chat, George, after all these years, won’t you?” said the old dame, gazing with pride and affection on her ne’er-do-well son.

“No, mother, no; I might be recognised, and I don’t want to be arrested for making off with a child, before I go back to my own wife and children.”

“The child is safe enough, if you mean the child you left on John Shelley’s doorstep thirteen years ago come next June.”

George Hursey gave a sigh of relief, for many a nightmare had that innocent baby, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might have perished from cold or exposure through his fault, given him.

“John Shelley took it in then, as I thought he would?”

“Yes, and a beauty she is, and no mistake. George, tell me who the child is, will you, honey?” said Dame Hursey, in a wheedling tone.

“That’s what I have come here for chiefly, that and to see you once again, for when I say good-bye to England to-morrow it will be for good this time; I am going to give up the sea, and live at home now.”

“Well, you know your own affairs best; but about the lassie, George; whose child is she? No poor person’s, I’ll be bound,” said Dame Hursey, whose curiosity about Fairy exceeded even her interest in her son’s family affairs.

“She is the niece of my late master, a French gentleman, and it was by his wish I took her to John Shelley, only instead of going in as I pretended I had done, I left her on the doorstep, and went off with the purse; and if ever I cursed in my life I have cursed that money, which, for aught I knew till a few minutes ago, had made me a murderer, though for that matter I may be one still, for the baroness may have fretted herself into her grave for her baby.”

“The baroness, did you say, George? Sure, I was right, she is no common child, no fit wife even for gentleman Jack,” exclaimed the old woman, opening her umbrella, partly to keep the fog off, partly as a sort of screen to shut in the secret she had yearned so long to learn. But George was following up his own train of thought, and went on, heedless of her interruption—

“Though, as true as I stand here, I never knew till last week that Monsieur Léon was drowned, and the Hirondelle lost a day or two after I left her. Likely as not the baron thinks the child was drowned too, since they have never found her. I might never have known, only I happened to ask at Yarmouth if they had ever had a French yacht named Hirondelle over there, and some of the fishermen remembered all about the wreck. When I heard that I determined to come and see if the child was safe, and now I know it is, I want to do the rest, mother.”

“Yes, honey, what is it? You may trust me. I guessed the night I met you you knew all about the fairies’ child, and I have kept your secret and watched the child ever since, for your sake, George.”

“Well, I want you to go to John Shelley, or to the parson if you like, or both, and tell them the child belongs to the Baron de Thorens, of Château de Thorens, near Carolles, in Normandy. Shall I write it down for you?”

“No, no, I can’t read it if you do; I shall remember fast enough—Baron de Thorens, Château de Thorens, near Carolles, Normandy. I shall think of Christmas carols, De Thorens, Château de Thorens,” repeated Dame Hursey.

“Never mind château, it only means castle, but don’t forget the name, De Thorens. Here, I’ll cut that word on your umbrella handle with my knife in printed letters. You can read print, I know.”

“All right; and what else am I to tell them?”

“Why, that my master and the baron gave me the child twelve years and a half ago to put out to nurse with an Englishwoman. I went ashore at Brighton in a little boat with Pierre Legros, one of the sailors, and I walked across the downs with the child, and left it on John Shelley’s doorstep; then I told Monsieur Léon John had taken it in and promised to look after it. He took the address, and the only person I thought I had robbed was John Shelley, though I knew the baron would make it up to him when he heard of it.”

“Are they rich, George?” asked the old woman, taking a pinch of snuff as she peered at her son through the fog.

“Yes, I think so. The château is a beautiful place, and stands in a park.”

“Is that all I am to say?”

“Yes, leave the rest to the parson to decide; he will write to the baron in French very likely. You may tell them as soon as you like, for I shall be out of the country to-morrow.”

“I shall wait till you are gone; one day more can’t make any difference, and it is best to be on the safe side, then if they want to know where you are, I can say on your way to Australia, so there’ll be no fear of their catching you, though it is so long ago there isn’t much danger of that now.”

“Please yourself, and now I must be off. Here are five sovereigns for you, mother; they are honestly earned, so you need not be afraid to take them, and now I must say good-bye. How thick the fog is; there is no danger of anyone seeing me this evening; it is as much as I shall do to find my way down to the Brighton Road without breaking my neck in a chalk pie. Take care of yourself, mother; but you know these downs better than I do,” said George Hursey, kissing his mother.

“Ay, ay, lad, never fear for me; I have been out in worse fogs than this. Good-bye, God bless you,” and the old wool-gatherer strained her eyes till her son’s figure disappeared, as it very quickly did, in the fog.

She stood still for a minute or two after he had gone, gloating over the secret she had at last discovered, and muttering to herself again and again, “Baron de Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and then she too turned and walked slowly off through the fog in a different direction.

It was quite true she had been out in worse fogs than this, but whether it was that she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to think of where she was going, or whether the fog, which gradually increased, was worse than she fancied, she suddenly, after wandering about for half-an-hour, awoke to the conclusion that she did not know where she was. If she had come right she ought to have been at the bottom of the hill by now, whereas she was still on flat ground, and had not begun the descent.

She had been so absorbed in wondering what the Shelleys, particularly “gentleman Jack,” as she always called Jack, would say to her news, and in picturing to herself the amazement on learning that Fairy was the daughter of a French nobleman, perhaps a baroness herself or a countess, for Dame Hursey had very vague ideas on the subject of French titles; and in thinking how pleased Fairy would be to hear she was a rich lady, that she forgot all about the fog and where she was going. Loving gossip as she did, the secret George had put in her power was dearer to her than the five sovereigns tied up in the corner of her pocket-handkerchief; it would add to her importance in the neighbourhood more than the gold. Moreover, it might lead to a reward for her, since she had had no part in leaving the child to the care of the shepherd, and Fairy she was sure would not suffer her to be forgotten when the Shelleys came to be rewarded.

“Why, but for me Fairy might never find her parents after all; if I were to keep this secret to myself she would never know for certain she was a lady born, perhaps a countess. I shall make them understand that before I tell them. Or, if anything was to happen to me now before I have told them, why they’d like to never know it. Bless me, where am I? This fog is worse than I thought; I ought to have been home by now, and here I am still on the top. De Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and so muttering to herself Dame Hursey disappeared in the fog.

That same afternoon, Fairy, little thinking her name and birth were so soon to be revealed, and her happy life in the shepherd’s cottage exchanged for a very different one in a French château, had gone for a walk with Charlie, and, to Mrs. Shelley’s great anxiety, at half-past five o’clock, when her husband and Jack came in to tea, they were not home. The fog now was so dense that you could hardly see your hand before you, and even with a lantern you could not discern anything a yard or two in advance of you, and Mrs. Shelley was intensely relieved when John and Jack came home safe.

“Thank God you are both back safely; it is an awful fog, isn’t it, John?” asked Mrs. Shelley, as John stood wiping the fog from his beard and face.

“Yes, it is a bad one; luckily both Jack and I saw it was coming on and got the sheep home before dark, or we might have been half the night on the downs.”

“Isn’t it tiresome? Charlie and Fairy went out for a walk soon after dinner, and they are not back now; I have been in such a fright about them,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“What, mother? Fairy out in this fog? Good heavens! the child may be killed! What on earth does that little idiot mean by taking her out in a fog? He deserves a sound thrashing,” burst out Jack.

“Hush, Jack; Charlie may be in danger as well,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“Serve him right too,” muttered Jack, as he went in search of a lantern without another word.

“Fairy and Charlie out, wife? Dear me, we shall have to go and look for them; why, they may fall into a chalkpit and break their necks. Where have they gone?” asked John, leisurely putting on his hat and scarf.

“I don’t know, but I fancy to Mount Harry; I heard Fairy talking about it.”

“Here, Jack, we shall have to go and look for them children, I think,” called out the shepherd to Jack.

“Of course we shall; I am lighting the lantern; let’s be off at once, father,” said Jack, who had made the necessary preparations for the search while his father was taking in the fact that the children were lost, and now stood with the lantern in his hand and his dog by his side at the open door.

“Where are we to go, father?” said Jack as they started.

“Well, your mother says they are gone to Mount Harry, so if we were to go along the Oatham-road and search those chalkpits as we go, that is the only place they are likely to have fallen down. If they are not there, and God forbid they should be, we shall know they have not come to much harm beyond a fright. When we have passed the chalkpits we can climb up Mount Harry and come back by the jail; I have my compass, we can’t go far wrong with that.”

Jack fell in with this plan at once; it was by far the best thing they could do; but then John Shelley, in his slow, methodical way, invariably hit upon the wisest plan of action in an emergency, as Jack very well knew. Accordingly, off they started, each with a lantern and the shepherd’s dog leading the way. Jack’s own dog was younger and not so steady as Rover, so he kept him at home. This Rover was a son of the Rover who had first discovered the fairies’ baby on his master’s doorstep that midsummer evening, but John Shelley called all his dogs Rover, and was rather scandalised when Jack insisted on naming his dog Bruce; it was an innovation, and the shepherd disliked anything new; however, in this he was persuaded to yield, Mrs. Shelley and Fairy taking Jack’s part, and saying two Rovers in one family at the same time would never do.

(_To be continued._)

OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.

BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.

After leaving Lugano, the train enters two tunnels, shortly after which it crosses the Lake at Bissone, by means of a most hideous stone bridge. Bissone is a very picturesque village. The little steeple of the church rises romantically from the luxuriant foliage, and numerous cottages are scattered on the side of the lake. The charm of the scene, however, is much marred by the aforementioned bridge.

After leaving Bissone, the train goes directly south to Mendrisio, the station for Monte Generoso, the view from which is said to be equal (if not superior) to that from the Rigi. We had intended to climb Monte Generoso, but it being a very misty day, there would, of course, have been no view, so we continued our journey, passing Chiasso and Como. At Chiasso the luggage is examined, for, strange to say, one is in Swiss territory until arriving at Como.

We did not stay at Como, as we had decided to see that city and its beautiful lake on our return journey. The route from Como to Milan interested us, from the variety it afforded to the mountainous districts we had recently visited. There is, indeed, a great charm in the dead level of this huge Lombard plain; for apart from its cities, so interesting, historically and archæologically, we felt a certain sense of relief in getting again into a flat country, luxuriantly fertile and productive.

We made a mistake in not staying at Monza, a very ancient city containing, amongst other interesting buildings, a cathedral, founded by Queen Teodolinda in the sixth century, and a Broletto, or town hall, attributed to Frederic Barbarossa. We arrived at Milan early in the afternoon, and immediately drove to our hotel, through one of the magnificent gates which guard the approaches to the city.

On entering this, the first great Italian city which we had seen, many thoughts crowded into our minds. Here we were in a country the very cradle of European art, where through all times, even down to the present, art seems a vital necessity to the people. In other lands art has been an ornament or a luxury, but in Italy it seems to enter into the very life of the inhabitants, and nothing seems to have been able to wean them from their devotion to the beautiful creations of the hand of man. We find them revelling in art when foreign armies were overunning the country and decimating the population. We find it under tyranny and oppression of the most galling description—surrounded by acts of horror and infamy of the most despicable kind. We find it often in combination with ignorance and folly that are simply contemptible. We find it existing when liberty was utterly suppressed. Thus during all the Middle Ages and the period of the Renaissance, whether the Italians were slaves or free, whether they were conquered or victorious, whether they were united or divided, still this marvellous spirit of art seems to have pervaded everything from their religion down to the most ordinary acts of everyday life.

Another thought which naturally suggests itself on entering Milan is that of the two noble characters whose lives stand out like brilliant meteors amongst the gloom, horror, wickedness, and folly, which stain so much of her history. We refer to her two Archbishops—St. Ambrose, the light and glory of her early history; and Charles Borromeo, the bright star which illumined her deepest gloom. And one cannot help thinking of the good and great man pursuing his mission of charity amongst the sick and dying of the plague-stricken city.

Our first thought was to find our way to the cathedral, the second largest Gothic church in Europe, about which probably more has been written, and a greater number of conflicting opinions as to its merit expressed, than about any building in the world, with the exception of St. Peter’s, Rome. As it is impossible to say anything new about this wonderful cathedral, we shall principally confine our remarks to our own individual impressions and opinions.

To commence with, the first view of the interior struck us as far finer than the more popular exterior. Indeed, so great an effect had it upon No. 2, that he turned as white as a sheet, and seemed completely overcome with the wonder of the buildings. The enormous proportions of the church, the great height of the pillars, with their canopied niches over the capitals, and the rich religious effect of the whole, formed a picture, in comparison to which (in our eyes) the blazing but meretricious glory of the exterior, with its 4,000 or so niches and vast masses of carving, was not to be compared. It is said that an intimate acquaintance with both exterior and interior will fall far short of one’s first impressions.

Now this did not strike us with regard to the interior. No, not even after we realised the tracery of the roof to be painted, and the tracery of the windows to be somewhat straggling and unmeaning. But it is a different matter from the exterior; after the first astonishment is over, one sees at once the great over-elaboration and the general “spikiness” of the effect, though No. 1 thought the admixture of the Renaissance style in the façade saved this portion of the cathedral by supplying that solidity and “sobriety of line” which the building otherwise so painfully lacks.

Even before we heard that the architect was supposed to have been a German, we recognised the Teutonic character of the cathedral, especially of the interior, which seemed to be not entirely unlike that of Cologne.

To enter more into detail, the plan is a Latin Cross, terminated by an apse, and divided into a nave and four aisles. The interior is 477 feet in length, by 183 in breadth, exclusive of the transepts, and is supported by fifty-two pillars, which are eighty feet in height and twelve feet in diameter. The before-mentioned niches, which crown the pillars, are a great feature, each niche being of different design, and all remarkably beautiful. The roof is elaborately painted in imitation (so it is said) of tracery. Street calls this an “abominable device, which never ceases to offend and annoy the eye more and more every time it is observed.” The effect did not seem to No. 1 at all disagreeable; quite the contrary. He thought it added great beauty and richness to the design, and does not believe that it was ever intended to deceive the beholder into the idea that it is real tracery. “Why not believe it to be mere decorative painting, and beautiful art as such?” he asked. But No. 2 was really deceived into believing that the imitation of tracery was actually what it represented, particularly as the design, which is in dark-brown colouring upon a light ceiling, represents carvings of beautiful patterns and filigree work, very much like the Gothic screens of some of our English cathedrals, only fixed upon the ceiling instead of being on the line of sight. But when, after investigation, he found the paint obliterated here and there by damp and other causes, showing blotches of brown and white, he was disgusted beyond measure, and began to look upon other work with suspicion. “Why,” cried he, “should a Christian church impose on the unwary, or to the wary preach affectation and artifice?”

There is no triforium, and the pavement is a mosaic of various coloured marbles. There is a great quantity of old stained glass in the windows, which, though not equal to our old English glass, yet gives the building a very religious effect, which is still more enhanced by the colour of the stonework, which has the appearance of old ivory. The interior is well filled with ancient monuments; but we have no space to describe them, and will simply add that the most remarkable are those of Gian Giacomo and Gabriele de Medici, attributed to Michael Angelo; of Cardinal Caracciolo, in black marble, by Bambaja; and of Ottone Visconti, Archbishop of Milan, which is earlier in date than any portion of the cathedral. In the north transept is the bronze candelabrum for holding seven lamps, constructed in imitation of that which existed in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem—a magnificent work erected in the thirteenth century. And in the south transept is a famous statue of St. Bartholomew being flayed alive.

St. Charles Borromeo, the great Archbishop of Milan, is buried below the dome in a subterranean chapel. It may interest our girls to know that he was the originator of Sunday-schools in Europe.

The Duomo of Milan is like no other building in the world, it belongs to no distinct style of architecture, and in art it had neither parents nor children. Nothing was ever built like it before, and nothing will ever be built like it again. We do not say that it is the most beautiful church ever built, nor do we deny that, architecturally speaking, it possesses many grave faults, but what we mean is this: Of all other churches we say they are built in such and such a style, or are of such and such an order of architecture. But of this we say simply, it is the Duomo of Milan.

When this vast structure, with its countless pinnacles of pure white marble glittering in the sun, and backed-up by a dark blue sky, breaks upon our astonished gaze, the mind is absorbed with wonder.

Is it a vision? What have we seen before like it—possibly only one thing—the snow-clad peaks of the Alps. One cannot get rid of the notion that some kind of relationship exists between the two. We begin almost to suspect that some mighty Alp, with its snow-clad peaks, must have been its mother—so much is it like the kind of architecture that would have sprung from the mountains.

It was after leaving the Duomo that the two bachelors had their first quarrel. This is how it came about:—The older bachelor, who is impressionable and of a poetical and non-technical turn of mind, enjoys an undisturbed first sight of a magnificent building, without first of all inquiring into its structural and architectural details; and if there is one thing more than another which annoys him, it is to have the “dry bones” of workmanship dinned into his ears and thrust before his mental vision when the complete building should rather impress on him all that it has to say of great achievement and power.

Now the younger bachelor is technical and fond of dates, so seized the opportunity of showing off his knowledge of history and archæology at the very moment when his friend was first gazing at the religious splendour of the interior of the cathedral. This made No. 2 insist on a judicial separation, at any rate for the first hour, so the greater part of the building was explored in “single blessedness.” The quarrel, postponed, of course, until we had left the Duomo, was happily of short duration, and the two bachelors compared notes, and came to the conclusion that, after all, more permanent unity is created by contradictory temperaments. Whether this would apply in the case of man and wife they unfortunately could offer no opinion founded on experience, so they wended their way through some very narrow, uninteresting streets to the church of St. Ambrose, at the west of the city.

St. Ambrogio, founded in the fourth century, is full of ancient epitaphs and early Christian antiquities, notwithstanding that it was very much repaired in the seventeenth century. The walls of the “atrium,” or open court, in front of it, contain fragments of frescoes, ancient inscriptions, etc., which, backed up by the Romanesque red brick church (dating from the ninth century), form one of the most picturesque scenes in North Italy.

The interior of St. Ambrogio is, if possible, more interesting than the exterior; it is of grey stone, with arches of red brick, a quaint effect of colour. There are no transepts, and the building terminates in an apse.

It would take pages to describe all that is remarkable in the interior of St. Ambrogio, so we shall only mention some of the interesting features. On first entering the nave we noticed two pillars, on one of which is a brazen serpent, said to be the brazen serpent of Exodus. The vaulting of the apse is very ancient, and is covered with mosaic work as fine as anything in St. Mark’s, Venice. Below we noticed the old chair of St. Ambrose. The high altar is interesting, as being the place where some of the German emperors received the iron crown of Lombardy; a baldachino or ciborium covers it.

On the front of the high altar (itself a blaze of glory) are depicted scenes from the life of Christ, while on the back are represented incidents in the life of St. Ambrose, the former in plates of gold and the latter silver-gilt.

St. Ambrogio contains several frescoes. The finest are “Legend of St. George,” by Bernardino; and “Ecce Homo,” by Luini. In it also are the shrines of Saints Gervasius and Protasius—very popular saints in Italy.

On leaving St. Ambrogio we wished to get straight back to our hotel; but we unfortunately lost our way, and were obliged to ask an Italian gentleman to direct us. He not only put us on the right road, but actually went out of his way to ensure our not losing ourselves again. This is characteristic of the North Italians. They are really polite, and, according to the elder bachelor, the most gentlemanly people he has visited.

After _table d’hôte_ we strolled out of the hotel, and walked through the magnificent Galleria Vittorio Emmanuel (containing some of the best shops in Milan) into the Piazza del Duomo. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the cathedral looked simply glorious—its dazzling whiteness almost frightening us as it suddenly burst on our view. After due deliberation No. 2 irreverently said that the appearance was similar to that of a colossal wedding-cake, with its sugary-looking ornamentations under a strong light. The Duomo, though not a very pure example of Gothic, possibly over-ornamented, and its detail not always in the best taste, is certainly one of the most extraordinary examples of man’s industry, perseverance, and wealth to be found in the whole realm of art.

It was about 9 o’clock p.m. that the first scene was enacted of what might have completely wrecked our holiday, viz., the longing of the younger bachelor to smoke one of the long cigars, with straws in them at either end, which foreigners, especially Italians, seem so to enjoy. No. 2 (the older) bachelor being the better linguist, went into a tobacco shop and ordered one of these cigars. It was in vain that the shopman declared they were never bought by English; it was of no use his repeating that they were so inferior—No, No. 1 had set his heart on possessing one of them, and have one he would.

We bought two, one of which the younger bachelor immediately smoked, having first carefully extracted the straws. The other was given to the waiter, and it is safe to predict that neither of us will ever be seen with one of those terrible cigars again. About 10 p.m. No. 1 began to show signs of a violent bilious attack, which grew worse as the night came on. This was the commencement of an ailment which afterwards turned out to be “gastric fever.” There was little sleep that night for either of the bachelors, as No. 2 sat up by his friend during a great part of the night. The next morning, however, though still unwell, No. 1 insisted on going to church. On returning hotel-ward the younger felt alarmingly ill, and could not walk further without help.

When we got to the hotel, No. 2 determined to send for a doctor, and, looking into his Baedeker, chose one of those recommended. Our girls must not think it was entirely the horrible cigar that made No. 1 so ill. They must remember he was described as having a shocking digestion, which had been “upset” by the continual travelling and the change of food; also, the sudden change from the bracing mountain air to the comparatively enervating climate of Milan, no doubt accelerated the illness. The doctor came about four hours after he was sent for, and, after asking innumerable questions as to the occupation, rule of life, etc., of the bachelor, seemingly unnecessary—not to say impertinent—prescribed an alarming amount of medicine. We shall remember that doctor, with his important manner and soft, deep voice. He was a smart, healthy-looking man, with an imposing moustache and short black hair. We shall also remember the answer he gave to the older bachelor, who had inquired how long it would be before his friend would be well enough to resume his travels—“Maybe in two or three weeks,” being the encouraging reply.

The younger bachelor is here reminded of the interesting view of chimney-pots and house-roof visible from his bedroom window, which it was his fate to watch incessantly for two whole days, miserably ill, with one longing in life, viz., to quench his burning thirst with “a lemon squash.”

As it seemed the less expensive method, No. 2 shopped for the lemons, bringing in a dozen at a time, and squeezing them with his fingers into a water-bottle glass. The sugar was purloined from the _salle-à-manger_ (as we wish this narrative of ours to be a strictly truthful one, we resolutely admit our guilt, but hope the Italian Government will not be too hard on us), for we preferred the charge of one halfpenny per “squash,” instead of one franc, the probable price of one bought at the hotel. If any one of our readers has had a brother to supply incessantly with “lemon squash” for two days and one night, without the use of a proper lemon-squeezer, she will appreciate the sad intelligence that No. 2’s finger joints are now less supple and powerful than before this Italian tour.

_La femme de chambre_ was, as most young women are to forlorn and helpless bachelors, tender and kind. In fact, at the end of two days she quietly suggested that a lemon squash was the worst drink for the poor patient, and actually the dear thing made for him some oatmeal, bringing into the room a sieve, a basin, some warm water, and a screw of paper containing oatmeal. Then (_à la_ Useful Hints in the G. O. P.) the recipe was as follows:—A little oatmeal in the strainer, hold over the empty basin, and with the warm water (by this time very lukewarm), percolate through the sieve, and behold a dish of Scotch oatmeal!

That preparation did not seem to improve the condition of the poor patient.

“Oh, that we had some English lady with us,” cried No. 2.

“Never no more,” groaned No. 1, with his face to the wall, though whether this depressing remark had a reference to the oatmeal, the gentler sex, or the “holiday” (save the mark!), No. 2 has not yet been able to determine.

(_To be continued._)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

GUINEVERE must take her money to the nearest post-office, and say she wishes to have a book and become a depositor. There is no difficulty about so doing.

EMMY.—“They also serve,” etc., is from Milton’s poem on his blindness. The 7th April, 1868, was a Tuesday.

ENID.—Ithuriel, the angel sent by Gabriel to find Satan. He finds him squatting like a toad beside Eve, as she lies asleep, and brings him to Gabriel. Ithuriel is armed with a spear, which by its touch discovered falsehood at once. You will find all this in Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” which you ought to have read.

LILITH A.—“In Memoriam” was written in memory of Tennyson’s friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died in 1833.

GRACE.—The beer made with the ginger-beer plant is quite wholesome, we believe.

VIRAGO.—“A young lady, who is nine years old and two months over,” is certainly not old enough to choose her books, nor must she think just yet of being guided by her own judgment in any way, except in obeying others older than herself, and should be punished if she do not.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.—The address of the secretary of the Princess Louise Home is 54, New Broad-street, E.C. Write to the secretary. Young ladies should have their names on their mother’s card.

E. AUSTILL.—The first two chapters of “A Lady’s Journey to Texas” will be found in vol. iv., pages 362 and 713.

PHISIEGIG.—The real name of “George Sand” was Aurore Lucille Amantine Dudevant. Henry M. Stanley, the African explorer, was born at Denbigh, Wales, in 1840.

C. H. S.—The answer to the riddle, “Man cannot live without my first,” is _Ignis fatuus_, otherwise called “will o’ the wisp,” or “corpse candle.”

VIOLET.—The lines do much credit to your tenderness of heart and love for your parents, but as poetry they are not worth much, and are full of faults.

CONSUMPTION.—We regret that we cannot give you any information, as we do not know the medicine by name, and we could not advise anyone to use it without the consent of a doctor. We should think a change of climate would be advisable. Cold, dry climates are apparently more recommended now than warm ones.

DIE LORELEI.—The lines you send have some power about them, but they are not correct in rhythm nor in construction. Count the feet and position of the beats in each line carefully while composing.

MARION MOSS.—Seals are found in the Arctic seas. Dundee and Hull are the principal British ports whence the seal-fishers sail. They are also found in Russian America, now called Alaska.

PERPLEXED ONE.—Why not try to obtain a good situation as nurse—head nurse, with a junior under you?

MAGGIE might obtain the first volume by means of an advertisement in the _Exchange and Mart_.

WATER LILY.—Mr. Herbert John Gladstone, M.P., is the youngest son of the Prime Minister, and was born 1854.

SEVEN YEARS FOR RACHEL must get her sister to read aloud, alone, and with someone slowly and carefully, being particularly careful to take her breath regularly, easily, and deeply when reading or speaking. The lungs must be well filled.

A CHRISTIAN.—We agree with your mother that you are both very young, and had better wait till you be older. Then we should repeat to you the saying of Christ, “Have salt in yourselves,” which means that you must form your opinions and actions on eternal principles, which are the salt which should savour our lives.

TILDA.—We quite agree with you that the manners of lady district visitors should be very courteous, and that they should certainly knock at people’s doors, and not go in until they be asked, nor should they go at the dinner hour. Alas! good breeding and sound common-sense seem both rare qualities everywhere. Either of them would have made your visitors behave differently.

GIPSY.—You should say, “Lady So-and-so,” and write it with a capital “L.”

ETHEL.—Show your teeth to a dentist. We regret that we could not give you a recommendation of the kind. Your medical man would do so. The loss of an eye-tooth does not affect the sight. It is believed that eating very fine white bread has tended to injure the teeth. Wholemeal bread is the best for producing good bone.

SARAH BROWN.—You cannot re-silver a good looking-glass yourself. You must send it to a manufactory for the purpose. Any furnishing upholsterer or looking-glass seller would undertake to do that for you; but you must make a bargain before you send it, and you might obtain a good secondhand glass at less cost.

DICK.—Dentists usually have a medical man to see and attend to the patient when gas is employed. It is not dangerous to take it.

“IN GREAT TROUBLE.”—Yours seems a case for a doctor’s advice. You had better consult one. The word “silly” is not spelt “scilly,” like the islands of that name, and “disappointed” should not be written “dissapointed.”

DOROTHY DRAKE.—You will find the answer to your question several times repeated in our correspondence columns.

EVELYN.—We do not place ourselves between our young readers and their parents, by expressing an opinion respecting the punishments they inflict. If severe, we imagine that their statement of the case you describe would be of a different character from yours. Probably there were attendant circumstances which aggravated the misdoing on your part. What business had you to go out without leave, and not fully dressed for so doing? Besides, you may have been disobedient or impertinent.

DITTO.—You will find instructions in riding in the monthly part for October 1st, 1881, page 3, vol. iii., and, as we told you before, at page 131 in the same volume. You cannot read figures, one would suppose. There is a picture of a girl on horseback on the same page. Look again.

JO.—Perhaps you could receive some little pupils daily for two or three hours at your own home, and teach them the rudiments of an English education—reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar, geography, and needlework.

MOTHER OF SIX.—The Paddington Green Children’s Hospital might suit you, boys under twelve years of age and girls under fourteen being eligible, and no letters of recommendation being required. Write to the treasurer, George Hanbury, Esq. 21, Portman-square, W. There are also the Belgrave Hospital for Children, 77 and 79, Gloucester-street, S.W.—lady superintendent, Miss Munro; The Eveline Hospital for Sick Children, Southwark Bridge-road, S.E.;—secretary, T. H. Chapman, Esq. All three are free.

SOPHIA FALCONER.—Cod-liver oil is specially beneficial to consumptive persons or those suffering from a severe cough, not from the stomach. In cases of atrophy we should think it would be of service. Many persons, strong or delicate, find a plunge or two in the sea of much benefit; but few comparatively could go into still, cold, fresh water. A cold sponge bath is quite a different thing, and cold salt-water sponging of the spine, throat, and chest is much to be recommended, or a good quick rubbing with a wet towel half wrung out, and drying with a rough one.

CURLY and FLUFFY.—Avoid meeting the men who try to force unwelcome attentions upon you. Speak to your mother about it, and let her direct you. She can put a stop to the persecution with authority. If she were to go out with you a few times she could dismiss them at once. Avoid seeing them, and go into a shop or turn a different way if they try to join you. It is an important part of her duty to protect and chaperone you.

AN OLD GIRL OF POLAND.—In adopting a new country it is always wise to be provided with a passport, a copy of your certificate of baptism, and letters from your clergyman, and any leading men, magistrates or others; also your banker, if you have one. Such papers might prove very valuable as introductions into society, or to facilitate your obtaining employment. Besides this, they would be very essential in case of mistaken identity. No passport is needed in coming to England, yet it is wise to have one.

J. B.—To know the colour called primrose, you have only to look at the flower and at the enamelled or painted representations of it. Why ask anyone else when your own eyes could act better for you than any description by another person?

CLANSMAN.—We should like to encourage you to write, as the lines speak well of the mind and the heart; but we think you would succeed better in prose than poetry.

“EUCHARIS LILY.”—We have no recollection of the MS. of which you speak, and regret you have waited so long for an opinion. The lines you enclose show good feeling, but lack originality. We thank you for your kind letter.

F. A. B.—We feel sincere sympathy for you, and scarcely know how to advise you. At your early age you are only eligible for the Children’s Hospital, Great Ormond Street, W.C. You might write for particulars to the lady superintendent. You would have to supply certificates both as to character and health.

GERTRUDE MCKENZIE.—No licence is required to enable you to keep a registry office for servants.

SNOWDROPS.—Certainly, wear your gloves in church. Why not? A correspondent some time ago advised that maidenhair ferns should be watered with tea, and tea-leaves from the tea-pot should be put round them.

INEZ and PHILIP.—We are of opinion that the amount allowed by your brother for his dinner is much in excess of what is needed, and may prove a temptation to him if continued. We were interested in your letter, and we hope your mutual happiness will long be continued.

ONE YOU HAVE BENEFITED.—Many thanks for your kind letter. We quite see all your difficulties, but we think you must not make too much of them. The real use of all training at home is to help young people to stand alone some day, and act in the fear of God, for themselves; they cannot be always children, nor in leading strings, so you must excite in them conscientiousness and a constant desire to do right. The conduct they propose, _i.e._, of going out and in, of accepting invitations as they please, without consulting you, is, in the first place, ill-bred and unladylike. No one treats the lady of the house, be she mother or step-mother, in that manner, and even in society they would not be guests a second time in any house where they ignored the lady who invited them.

ALEA EUROPEA.—In the “Chapel in the Tower,” by Mr. Bell, we find the following notice of Arthur Pole, who, with his brother Edmund, was imprisoned for life, and died in the Tower—They were the sons of Sir Geoffrey Pole, and grandsons of Margaret of Clarence, Countess of Salisbury. Cardinal Pole was, therefore, their uncle. In 1562 they were implicated in a conspiracy to depose Queen Elizabeth, and place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne. It was also alleged that one of them designed to marry her. They were tried for high treason at Westminster Hall, 26th February, 1562, and sentenced to be executed as traitors at Tyburn. The sentence was commuted by Queen Elizabeth to imprisonment for life in the Tower, and on the walls of the Beauchamp Tower, which was their prison, their names will be found carved several times. The last written was as follows:—“A passage perillous makethe a port pleasante, I. H. S., 1568, Arthur Pole, aged 37.” The date of his death and that of his brother seems not to be known, but both were dead in 1578, and buried in the chapel in the Tower.

DAISY.—Take no notice of the matter, unless you are directly charged, when you can deny truthfully the authorship of such an unmaidenly epistle.

ALICIA.—If the jewellery be good and old, it is better to employ a jeweller to clean it.

SNOWSTORM.—We think you should go to New Zealand to your affianced husband, and keep your promise, especially as you leave a sister at home to take care of your mother. It would indeed be foolish to bring him to England if he be doing well out there, and is able to marry and give you a comfortable home.

SYBIL.—We think you may need a tonic of some kind. A little alum and water is sometimes good for moist hands, but it is never safe to check perspirations, unless under a doctor’s orders.

BUTTERCUP.—We know of no situation easier than a nurse’s, where there are only one or two children, unless, perhaps, you could manage to get one as parlour-maid only.

A. S. F. T. F. (New South Wales).—There would be no value if the dates of the half-crowns were erased, because coins of the House of Brunswick are only valuable when in perfect order.

MIZPAH.—The word “Mizpah” means a watch-tower. On a ring it would mean, “The Lord watch between thee and me, when we are absent from each other,” a solemn pledge of faithfulness and truth in a betrothal. It was used as a solemn warning to one suspected, not trusted, in the original case.

I. H. B.—“Ban” is an Irish prefix, and means “white.” We cannot find any other clue to the word, and we think you should have written “Wenham,” which is the name of a lake near Boston, U.S.A., from which the ice derives its name.

OMEGA.—The only way to be comfortable is to prevent the chilblains from coming at first, by rubbing the place you feel affected with a little dry mustard and flour very gently, which will generally put the chilblains back. When a chilblain has broken, a decoction of poppy-heads with hot water may be soothing, and bread poultices are used by many people, but we are doubtful of their expediency. When the inflammation has subsided, a little creosote ointment may be used, but when so bad it would be well to consult a doctor.

R. A. A.—The editor declines, with thanks.

DUM SPIRO SPERO.—The words are French, and are used when picking the leaves from a daisy. They mean, “He loves me a little, much, passionately, not at all.” This is one of the many ancient charms, or really auguries, which we have obtained from unknown ancestry.

F. A. H. B.—We regret that we can make no use of your essay.

DADDY LONGLEGS should send her locket to a jeweller’s to be cleaned and repolished.

LADY GODIVA.—Probably digestion. Ask your doctor about it.

ESTHER BLACK.—The notice of the marriage in the different newspapers is a sufficient announcement to friends at a distance. Neither cards nor wedding-cake are sent now.

FLORENCE MOORE.—Does your sister wish to look like a balloon, tied in at the middle with a string? or, still worse, does she wish to cut her liver in two? Her other plan, “to drink vinegar,” would so thin her blood that she would exchange her wholesome fat for dropsy, and become blown out like a skin-bag used for water in the deserts. For your own infirmity you should wear a backboard and faceboard daily while at your studies. We have often described and prescribed them already.

CURIOUS.—The origin of the name given by Handel to his composition called “The Harmonious Blacksmith” was a very natural one. He was on a visit to the Duke of Chandos, at Edgware, and, overtaken by heavy rain, he took shelter in a smith’s forge. The ringing strokes of the hammer, combined with the song of the smith, told a story to the lively imagination of the composer, and gave birth to the piece in question.

LAURA.—It is not very evident as to when the Manx House of Keys was first established, but it existed in the time of the Dane King, Orry, at the beginning of the tenth century. This sovereign established an independent throne in Mona. The term “Keys” is derived from _Kiare es feed_, “twenty-four,” and applied to that number of men of the island who form the Lower House, while the Upper House, or Council, is appointed by the crown, and consists of the bishop, archdeacon, clerk of the rolls, and some civil officials.

STRAWBERRY CREAM.—Have you learnt any branch of domestic service? If so, make use of it. Better trained servants are much required. You might, at least, look for a situation as schoolroom maid, under nurse, or mother’s help. These would serve to give you practical training.

LOLLY.—It is for ladies to recognise gentlemen, if acquaintances, not the reverse. This being the case, we do not see what your bowing to your clergyman can have to do with “fastness.” Of course, the character of the recognition must depend on your position in life. Good Friday is a fast, not a feast day. That is the reason, as you will perceive.

ADMIRER OF THE G.O.P.—Why should you ask your clergyman to give you a severe talking to? If you know you deserve it, why not administer it to yourself? Tell your mother that you lament your want of self-control and respect in giving way to unseemly ill-temper, and ask her to help you by a timely check and reproof, and by her prayers to rule your spirit. “He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.” Leaving off your spectacles will not only make your eyes ache, but injure them, by overstraining the nerves.

ENID.—If the ends of your hair split, you should have them carefully singed by a hairdresser accustomed to do so. You might set all on fire if you attempted to do so yourself. Improve your handwriting by writing copies daily, and perfect your acquaintance with the first three or more rules in arithmetic, and then you will be eligible for a situation as shop assistant.

GRETTA’S SISTER.—A surgeon should examine your sister’s tongue to see whether it be paralysed. If she can hear, then no other alphabet is needed for her than ours.

YOUNG STEPMOTHER.—The advice of your governess is good. As you have so high an opinion of her discretion, as well as amiability and experience, you had better give her the due authority to act for you. In a month’s time, or during the first quarter, you will see with what success it is attended. One thing is certain, obedience must be enforced.

HOPE has some poetic feeling, but whether she will rise to the level of “poetry” in future we could not say, nor could we recommend any magazine or publisher likely to take literary and poetical compositions. That is a question for the industry and perseverance of the writer to solve.

DOROTHY FORSTER.—The lines you send us are very halting, both as to rhyme and reason.

CHERRY RIPE.—The word “fiat” means an order or decree. We thank you for your good wishes and praise of our paper.

J. F. C.—We have pleasure in giving out readers the address of the Santa Claus Society, for providing toys and dolls for children in hospitals. To make them during leisure hours would be a nice occupation for young people. For the benefit of those who would like to aid in a truly charitable and Christian work, as well as for the sake of the poor children, we copy your address, as one of the managers of the society—Miss J. F. Charles, Hillside, Southwood-lane, Highgate, N.

A. M. C.—There is a home of rest at 9, Albion-place, Ramsgate. Apply to Miss Bennett. You may be taken in for three weeks, and the lowest terms for board, lodging, and attendance are 10s. a week.

POMME DE TERRE.—We have seen the grave of the late novelist, Charles Reade, to which you refer, and the outside public knows no more than just what the inscription states. This is all we can say in reply.

WHITE HEATHER.—The falling of the hair is often due to a condition of the general health and failure of nerve power, and the remedies need to be internally administered, as well as externally. Go to a skin doctor, and obtain his advice.

MARY LEEMING and ALICE HAUGHTON.—Some collectors of insects use the fumes of chloroform or brimstone. Where there are many wild flowers you will find butterflies.

PROGRESS.—Yes, women have been returned to Parliament in past times. In 1360 writs were issued, to four abbesses, requiring their attendance at Westminster, and the year following five ladies of the nobility were likewise returned (35th Edward III.)—viz., Marie Countesse de Norff, Alianor Countesse de Ormand. Agnes Countesse de Pembrook, Philippa Countess March, and Catherine Countesse de Atholl. Whether they actually took their seats, we do not say positively. The only woman ever made a Freemason was Miss St. Leger, a daughter of Lord Doneraile, about the year 1739.

NIL DESPERANDUM.—You may say “intreat,” but “entreat” is more correct.