Part I.
Allemande.—Concentrated white velouté (see velouté) sauce, seasoned with nutmeg and lemon juice, and thickened with yolks of eggs and cream.
Angelica.—A plant, the stalks of which are preserved with sugar; as it retains its green colour it is pretty for ornamenting sweet dishes, cakes, etc.
Appareil.—This word is applicable to a preparation composed of various ingredients, as appareil de gateau (mixture for a cake).
Aspic.—Name given to clear savoury jelly, to distinguish it from sweet jelly. Cold entrées, which are moulded and have the ingredients set in jelly, are also called aspics.
Assiette volante.—A small dish (holding no more than a plate) which is handed round the table without ever being placed on it. Things that must be eaten very hot are often served in this way. Little savouries, foie-gras, or cheese fondus in paper cases are thus handed.
Au bleu.—An expensive way of boiling fish. A broth is made by boiling three onions, two carrots, two turnips, some parsley, pepper, salt, sufficient water, a tumbler of white wine, and a tumbler of vinegar together; the scum is removed as it rises, the fish is simmered in the broth. This broth is called Court bouillon. Fish cooked thus is eaten hot or cold, with suitable sauce.
Baba.—A Polish cake of a very light description.
Bain marie.—A sort of bath-saucepan, which stands on a stove with hot water in it, and has small bright saucepans stood in the water for the contents to cook slowly without reducing or spoiling them. A bain marie has no cover.
Bande.—The strip of paste that is put round tart; sometimes the word is also applied to a strip of paper or bacon.
Barde de lard.—A slice of bacon. To barder a bird is to fasten a slice of bacon over it.
Béchamel sauce.—Equal quantities of velouté sauce and cream boiled together. The sauce was named after a celebrated cook.
Beignets.—Fritters.
Beurre noir.—Butter stirred in a frying-pan over a brisk fire until it is brown, then lemon-juice or vinegar, and pepper and salt are added to it.
Beurre fondus.—Melted, that is to say oiled, butter.
Bigarade sauce.—Melted butter, with the thin rind and the juice of a Seville orange boiled in it.
Blanch.—To parboil or scald. To whiten meat or poultry, or remove the skins of fruit or vegetables by plunging them into boiling water, and then sometimes putting them into cold water afterwards, as almonds are blanched.
Blanquette.—A kind of fricassée.
Boudin.—A very delicate entrée prepared with quenelle forcemeat or with fine mince.
Bouquet garni.—A handful of parsley, a sprig of thyme, a small bay leaf, and six green onions, tied securely together with strong thread.
Bouilli.—Boiled meat; but fresh beef, well boiled, is generally understood by this term.
Bouillie.—A sort of hasty pudding. Bouillie-au-lait is flour and milk boiled together.
Bouillon.—Thin broth or soup.
Braise.—To stew meat that has been previously blanched, very slowly with bacon or other fat, until it is tender.
Braisière.—A saucepan with a lid with a rim to it, on which lighted charcoal can be put.
Brider.—To put thin string or thread through poultry, game, etc., to keep it in shape.
Brioche.—A sort of light cake, rather like Bath bun, but not sweet, having as much salt as sugar in it.
Brandy butter.—Fresh butter, sugar, and brandy beaten together to a cream.
Caramel.—Made by melting a little loaf sugar in a saucepan, and as soon as it is brown, before it burns, adding some water to it. Sometimes used as a colouring for stews. Made into a syrup by adding more sugar after the water, it is a very good pudding sauce.
Casserole.—A stew-pan. The name given to a crust of rice moulded in the shape of a pie, then baked with mince or a purée of game in it.
Cerner.—Is to cut paste half way through with a knife or cutter, so that part can be removed when cooked to make room for something else.
Charlotte.—Consists of very thin slices of bread, steeped in oiled butter, and placed in order in a mould, which is then filled with fruit or preserve.
Chartreuse of vegetables.—Consists of vegetables tastefully arranged in a plain mould, which is then filled with either game, pigeons, larks, tendons, scollops, or anything suitably prepared.
Chartreuse à la Parisienne.—An ornamental dish made principally with quenelle forcemeat, and filled with some kind of ragoût, scollops, etc.
Chausse.—A jelly bag.
Compote.—Fruits preserved in syrup. Apple and any other kind of fruit jelly. This term is also used to designate some savoury dishes, prepared with larks, quails, or pigeons, with truffles, mushrooms, or peas.
Consommé.—Strong and clear broth used as a basis for many soups and gravies.
Conti (potage). Lentil soup.
Contise.—Small scollops of truffles; red tongue, or other things that are with a knife inlaid in fillets of any kind to ornament them, are said to be contisés.
Court bouillon.—See au bleu.
Croquettes.—A preparation of minced or pounded meat, or of potatoes or rice, with a coating of bread-crumbs. Croquettes means something crisp.
Croquantes.—Fruit with sugar boiled to crispness.
Croustades.—An ornamental pie-case, sometimes made of shaped bread, and filled with mince, etc.
Croutons.—Sippets of bread fried in butter; used to garnish. They are various sizes and shapes; sometimes served with soups.
Cuillerée.—A spoonful. In most French recipes I have found ten spoonfuls equal to a quarter of a pint of fluid.
Cuisson.—The name given to the liquid in which anything has been cooked.
Dariole.—A sort of cake served hot. The name of small round moulds in which various little cakes are baked or puddings steamed.
Daubière.—An oval stew-pan in which daubes are cooked. Daubes are meat or fowl stewed in sauce.
Dégorger.—To soak in water for a longer or shorter time.
Dés.—Very small square dice.
Désosser.—To bone; to remove the bones from fish, meat, game, or poultry.
Dorer.—To paint the surface of tarts or cakes with a brush, with egg or sugar, so that they may be glazed when cooked.
Dorure.—The glaze one uses for pastry; sometimes beaten white of egg, sometimes yolk of egg and cold water, sometimes sugar only.
Entrées.—A name for side dishes, such as cutlets, fricassées, fricandeaux, sweetbreads, etc.
Entrées (cold).—Consist of cutlets, fillets of game, poultry, &c.; salads of various kinds, aspics, ham, and many other things.
Entremets.—Second course side dishes. They are of four kinds—namely, cold entrées, dressed vegetables, scalloped shellfish, or dressed eggs, and lastly, sweets of any kind, puddings, jellies, creams, fritters, pastry, etc.
Escalopes.—Collops; small round pieces of meat or fish, beaten with a steak beater before they are cooked, to make them tender.
Espagnole.—Rich, strong stock made with beef, veal and ham, flavoured with vegetables, and thickened with brown roux. This and velouté are the two main sauces from which nearly all others are made. The espagnole for brown, the velouté for white.
Etamine.—See Tammy.
Etuver.—To stew meat with little moisture, and over a very slow fire, or with hot cinders over and under the saucepan.
Faggot.—A bouquet garni.
Fanchonettes and florentines.—Varieties of small pastry, covered with white of egg and sugar.
Faire tomber à glace.—Means to boil down stock or gravy until it is as thick as glaze, and is coloured brown.
Farce.—Is ordinary forcemeat, such as is used for raised pies.
Feuil etage.—Very light puff paste.
Flamber.—To singe fowls and game after they have been plucked.
Flans.—A flan is made by rolling a piece of paste out rather larger than the tin in which it is to be baked, then turning up the edge of the paste to form a sort of wall round. Flans are filled with fruit or preserve, and baked.
Foncer.—To put slices of ham or bacon in the bottom of a saucepan, to line a mould with raw paste, or to put the first layer of anything in a mould—it may be a layer of white paper.
Fontaine.—A heap of flour with a hollow in the middle, into which to pour the water.
Fondu.—Or fondue. A cheese soufflé.
Fricandeau.—Fillets of poultry or the best pieces of veal, neatly trimmed, larded, and well glazed, with their liquor reduced to glaze. They are served as entrées.
Fricassée.—A white stew, generally made with chicken and white sauce, to which mushrooms or other things may be added.
Fraiser.—A way of handling certain pastry to make it more compact and easier to work.
Frémir, frissonner.—To keep a liquid just on the boil—what is called simmering.
Galette.—A broad flat cake.
Gateau.—Cake. This word is also used for some kinds of tarts, and for different puddings. A gateau is also made of pig's liver; it is therefore rather difficult to define what a "gateau" is.
Gaufres.—Or wafers. Light spongy biscuits cooked in irons over a stove.
Glacer.—To glaze; to brush hot meat or poultry over with concentrated meat gravy or sauce, so that it shall have a brown and shiny appearance. Glaze can be bought in skins. Glacer, in confectionery, means to ice pastry or fruit with sugar.
Gniocchi.—Small balls of paste made with flour, eggs, and cheese to put into soup.
Gramme.—A French weight. An ounce avoirdupois is nearly equal to thirty grammes.
Gras.—Made with meat and fat.
Gratins (au).—Term applied to certain dishes of fish, game, poultry, vegetables, and macaroni dressed with rich sauces, and generally finished with bread-crumbs or bread-raspings over the top.
Gratiner.—Is to brown by heat, almost burn.
Grenadins.—Similar to a fricandeau, but smaller; grenadins are served with vegetable purées.
THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
By DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.
CHAPTER III.
DAME HURSEY THE WOOLGATHERER.
"HE STRUCK ACROSS UNBEATEN PATHS."
hen John Smith, as for reasons of his own he called himself, left Pierre, he pulled his hat well over his eyes and started off across the downs in the direction of Lewes. He knew the country well, and partly on this account, partly because he did not wish to be recognised, he struck across unbeaten paths, where he was not likely to meet anyone, avoiding the high roads as much as he could, and travelling as near as possible as the crow flies, over downs and meadows to the village he was seeking. It was a good six miles, and he had neither time nor inclination to pause and look at the scenery around him, so full of charm to those who live among it, so repellent at first to the stranger's eye, which has not been educated to notice the various tints and colours which sweep over the soft rounded outlines of those purple downs, but is at once caught by the grey hollows of the hills and the patches of white chalk which peep out every here and there on the steeps, and at a distance look like the perpetual snow of Alpine regions. The scenery of the Sussex Downs is like the Sussex people in this respect—it requires to be well known to be thoroughly appreciated; cold and reserved at first, it is only on better acquaintance you learn the sterling worth, the truth, the real kindness of heart, and the hospitality which characterise the Sussex people. And the downs themselves will not yield all their beauty at once; you must live among them to thoroughly know and love them; cold and grey and monotonous as they look at first, in the autumn especially, you will see what a variety of colours they can show when the fields are golden with corn, and the downs themselves richly dotted with wild flowers, and the clouds cast fleeting shadows over the slopes, and the purple and green of the nearer hills melt away into delicate blues and rosy greys in the distance. And then in winter the clouds play such tricks with the soft rounded hills and their white chalk sides, which chalk will reveal itself in all its nakedness every here and there, that it is often easy to imagine yourself in Switzerland, and difficult exceedingly to tell where the downs end and the clouds begin, so softly have they blended together, those grey clouds, those white and purple downs. No, the downs are not monotonous to those who look with careful eyes, at least, though the casual observer may see nothing in them but multitudes of sheep. Unique they may be, unlike the rest of England they certainly are, but not monotonous. And then the dales, with the villages nestling in the bottom, are so picturesque, and the green pastures, separated by dykes, have a homelike appearance, with the small black Sussex cattle with their long white horns, at least to a Sussex eye.
Over some of these meadows the carpenter, with the little French baby in his arms, now made his way. Hitherto he had been lucky and had met no one, but now he was approaching a village a few miles from Lewes, which, for the purposes of this story, we will call Bournemer, and though the sun had set, it was still too light for him to risk being recognised, so he still kept to the fields, which he could the more easily do, as the house he sought was nearly a mile from the village. At last he saw it standing in the next field with a clump of trees on one side of it; it was little more than a cottage, though from the sheds adjoining it might have been taken for a small farmhouse; it was sheltered from the north by the down at the foot of which it lay, its red roof telling well against the soft grey background in the evening light. It faced the field, the road at the foot of the down running at the back of it, and already there was a light in one of the lower rooms; the front door was closed, but the gate of the field was open, details which the carpenter took in at a glance, and interpreted to mean that the shepherd was gone to fold his sheep for the night, and his wife was at home awaiting his return to supper.
"He will be back soon. I must be quick; now is my time," said the carpenter to himself, making his way towards the house by the clump of trees, which afforded him a little shelter. Here he paused for a few minutes, and, after listening intently, put the baby on the ground while he took off his shoes. Then, picking it up, he crept quickly and noiselessly across the path towards the front door, on the step of which he laid his burden, and then crept back to the trees, where he put on his shoes, and with the purse which Léon had given him for the baby's maintenance in his pocket, he made his way back to the boat on the beach, congratulating himself on the success of his scheme. No one, he argued, was any the worse for it, while he was one thousand francs the better. He had wronged no one, as the baby was sure to be well taken care of. John Shelley was certain to take it in, and would probably think the Lord had sent it to him, and, with a chuckle over the shepherd's simplicity, he went his way.
The baby was asleep when he deposited it on the doorstep, but it woke shortly after, and began to cry lustily for food, but the doors and windows being all closed, its wailing did not penetrate to the inside of the house. But before the carpenter had been gone half an hour footsteps approached the house, and the shepherd and his dog entered the gate of the field in which it stood. A fine, big, handsome man looked this shepherd as he paused to fasten the gate; about thirty years old, fair, with a florid complexion, blue eyes, and a long, yellowish beard, a face more remarkable for its kindly good humour than for its intelligence. He was dressed in a long smock, and he carried a crook, so that there was no mistaking his occupation, of which, by the way, he was very proud; his father and his grandfather and their fathers and grandfathers had been shepherds before him for many generations, and that he should ever be anything else than a shepherd was the last idea likely to enter John Shelley's mind. A shepherd by birth and education, he followed his calling with an ardour which would have amounted to passion in a warmer temperament. His sheep were his first thought on waking, his last as he closed his eyes at night, and he understood them and their ways thoroughly. The life suited him exactly; it might be a lonely life, wandering for hours on the downs without meeting a living creature day after day, except, perhaps, occasionally a neighbouring shepherd, but he was used to it. It might be an anxious life, especially in lambing time, but he was lucky, and rarely lost any lambs. It might be a dangerous life sometimes in the winter fogs, rambling about on the hills with the risk of falling into a chalk pit and breaking his neck, but he was always too anxious about his sheep when overtaken by a fog to think of his own danger. Then the wages were good, and the same all the year round, with the chance of making some extra money in the shearing season, and so much a head on each lamb that he reared; and to all intents and purposes he was his own master, for the farmer to whom the sheep belonged entrusted the management of the flock entirely to him.
But while the shepherd was fastening the gate the dog ran to the baby, whose cry had reached his quick ears before it did his master's, and having sniffed all round it, he set up some short, quick barks, and ran back to the shepherd, calling his attention to the baby as plainly as his inability to speak would allow him.
"What is it, Rover? what is it? Down, sir, it is only the baby crying; the window must be open," said the shepherd, as he approached the house, but Rover, as if to contradict his master, ran up to the bundle on the doorstep, and barked louder than ever.
John Shelley took longer to take in the fact that an infant was lying crying on his doorstep than his dog had done. He stooped and looked, and took off his hat to rub his head thoughtfully and stimulate his brain that he might grasp the idea, and then he stooped again, and this time picked up the baby, and throwing open the door of the large kitchen, with its sanded floor of red bricks, stood on the threshold, holding out the wailing child, and saying—
"Look here, Polly, see what I have found on the doorstep."
Mrs. Shelley, who was sitting working, with her foot on a cradle which she was rocking gently to and fro, more from habit, since the baby was asleep, than for any real reason, looked up and saw in her husband's arms a bundle wrapped in a red shawl embroidered with gold.
"What is it, John?" she asked; but a cry from the bundle answered the question, and she sprang to her husband's side in astonishment.
She was a tall, good-looking woman, five or six years younger than the shepherd, with brown hair and eyes, and a rich colour in her cheeks, which came and went when she was excited; a bright intelligent face, not beautiful, scarcely handsome in repose, but which at times was so animated that she often passed for a very pretty woman.
"Give it to me. Oh, John! John! where can it have come from? The dear little creature! And see what lovely things it has? Only look at this satin quilt in which it is wrapped, and, see, John, a toy of coral with gold bells! My pretty one, hush! hush! hush!" And Mrs. Shelley rocked the child in her arms; but her astonishment and admiration got the better of her motherly instinct for a moment, and she proceeded with her examination of its clothes. "Its nightdress is the finest cambric and trimmed with real lace, and see this exquisite handkerchief tucked in for a feeder; look! there is a coronet on it, John. I verily believe the 'Pharisees,' as the children say, brought it. Do go and see if there is a fairy ring in the meadow, then I shall be sure they did!"
Now, Sussex peasants—shepherds, especially—were very superstitious in the days in which this baby was found, and both John Shelley and his wife half believed that the fungus rings, so often found on the downs, were made by the fairies, or "Pharisees," as they called them. So, partly to see if he could find any further clue to the child, partly to look for the fungus ring, John Shelley took a lantern and went out to explore the premises.
As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Shelley, who was an impulsive woman, gave the little stranger the supper that by right belonged to her own infant.
A VISIT FROM DAME HURSEY.
"My boy is stronger than this little fragile creature, and he must wait till I have fed it," she said to herself. "Poor little mite, I don't believe it has been undressed for days, its beautiful dress is so dirty. I shall have time to bathe it and put it on some of Charlie's clean things before John comes in to his supper."
And as John was very slow and deliberate in all his actions, and his wife very quick in all hers, by the time he came back the little stranger was washed and dressed, and fed, and sleeping quietly in the cradle, while Mrs. Shelley nursed her own boy.
"Well, John, have you found any fairy rings?"
"No, Polly; no, I can't make it out at all; it is very odd—very odd indeed. I can't think where the child came from," said John, shaking his head, slowly. "I don't believe the fairies brought it, though," he added, after a pause.
"Who do you think did, then?" asked Mrs. Shelley, quickly.
"I don't know who brought it, but I tell you what, Polly, I believe God sent it and means us to take care of it."
"Take care of it! Why, of course we must, John. You don't suppose I dreamt of sending it to the workhouse, do you? Little darling! Why, it is the very thing we have been longing for, a little girl; it shall be Charlie's foster-sister. All I hope is, whoever brought it will let us keep it. I love it already!"
"But, Polly, it isn't our child. We must take care of it, of course, for to-night, but you will have to go to Parson Leslie to-morrow and ask him what we ought to do to find out who it belongs to."
"Indeed, and I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Shelley, hastily.
But the shepherd was master in his own home, and announced decidedly—
"Then I must go to-night, late as it is."
"And knock the parson up? It will be eleven o'clock before you get there. Sit down and get your supper, do, John, and we can talk about consulting him to-morrow."
"That won't do, Polly; either I must go to the rector to-night or you must promise to go to-morrow. Which is it to be?"
"There never was such a pig-headed man as you. If you set your mind on a thing there is no turning you. I suppose I shall have to go, or you'll be rushing off now, and I want my supper. One thing I am sure of, John, and that is, the baby belongs to rich people, and, I think, to some nobleman, for all the things have a coronet on them, and its clothes are all so fine."
"Is there no name on any of them?"
"No, nor anything to give us the least idea who the child is. It has evidently been accustomed to luxury, though, and somehow I fancy it is a foreign child. I never saw any baby's clothes made as these are," said Mrs. Shelley.
A foreign child was an idea John Shelley could not accept so suddenly. His slow phlegmatic mind could not travel beyond his own country—scarcely beyond the Sussex downs.
"More likely to be one of the quality's children. They don't make their clothes as we do, I expect; but if you show Mr. Leslie that coronet he may be able to make something of it."
And so it was arranged that Mrs. Shelley should go the next day and consult the rector about their new-found treasure; but she fully made up her mind to use all the eloquence in her power to persuade Mr. Leslie to convince John it was plainly their duty to keep the baby which had been so mysteriously brought to them until its rightful owners claimed it.
The next morning John Shelley was up betimes, as, indeed, he always was; but it was shearing time, and he was unusually busy, and it was, moreover, Saturday, and he hoped, with the help of the men who went round the country shearing in the month of June, to finish his flock that evening, so taking his breakfast and dinner with him, he told Mrs. Shelley not to expect him back till the evening. Across the dewy meadows in the fresh June morning, the loveliest part of the day, went John Shelley, startling a skylark every now and then from the ground, from whence it rose carolling forth its matin song, gently at first, but louder and louder as it sprang higher and higher, until lost to sight, its glorious song still audible, though John Shelley was too much occupied with his own thoughts, and, perhaps, too much accustomed to the singing of the lark, to pay much attention to it. Even his dogs, Rover and Snap, failed to wake him from his meditation, until he reached the meadow where he had folded his sheep for the night, and then every thought, except whether the sheep were all safe, vanished from his mind as he stood counting them. A few words to the dogs explained his wishes that the shorn sheep were to be driven out and the unshorn left in the fold for the present; and then, after a great deal of barking on the part of the dogs, and shouting from the shepherd, and rushing and scrambling on the part of the sheep, their bells jingling a not unmusical accompaniment to the thrushes and blackbirds, which were pouring out their morning song in the adjoining copse, this manœuvre was effected, and John led his shorn flock to the downs, walking in front with his crook in his hand, while the dogs brought up the rear, yelping and barking at the heels of any erring sheep that strayed outside the flock.
The shepherd was a man who concentrated all his thoughts on the business he had on hand, and as he led his sheep to the down on which he meant to leave them to the care of the dogs for the day, he was making a nice calculation of how long it would take him and his assistants to finish the shearing, when, just as he was about to leave the sheep, he was accosted by an old woman. She was tall, thin, with a slight stoop, a hooked nose, bright black eyes, and rough, crisp, grizzly hair, which gave her rather a witch-like appearance; nor did the bonnet perched on the top of her head, its crown in the air, tend to dispel this notion. She had a knotted stick in one hand, and a basket with some pieces of wool off the sheeps' backs which she had collected from the bushes in the other. It was Dame Hursey, the wool-gatherer, well known to John Shelley and every other shepherd in the neighbourhood, with all of whom she often had a gossip, and celebrated in the district as the mother of an unfortunate son, a fine, promising young sailor, who, having been convicted of robbery some years ago, and served a long sentence in Lewes gaol, had never been heard of since, unless his mother was in his confidence.
A great gossip was Dame Hursey; she always knew all that went on in the neighbourhood, for she led a wandering, restless life, never at home except at night, sticking and wool-gathering in the autumn and winter, haymaking and gleaning in the summer, gossiping, whenever she had a chance, at all seasons. If anyone were likely to know anything about this strange baby, always supposing the fairies had had nothing to do with it, it was Dame Hursey, and the shepherd, being relieved of any further anxiety about the sheep, walked with her and told her the story.
John Shelley was neither a quick-witted nor an observant man, except with regard to the weather, every sign of which he took in, or he would have noticed that Dame Hursey started perceptibly when he told her the time he found the baby, and that a glance of quick intelligence shot into her bright eyes as she heard the story; but when he had finished she gave it as her firm opinion that the "Pharisees," and no one else, must have brought the child, and she urged John on no account to part with it, as there was no telling what revenge the fairies might take if their wishes were set aside. And the old wool-gatherer proceeded to tell such wonderful stories of the terrible vengeance wrought by these mysterious little beings on people who had despised their gifts, that the shepherd was glad to put an end to such unpleasant suggestions by walking off at a rapid pace to his unshorn sheep.
"It is strange, very strange, that I should have met my George the very same night, coming from Shelley's place too. He has had something to do with this baby as sure as wool is wool. I'll go round by Mrs. Shelley's and have a look at this wonderful child; perhaps I may find out something. I doubt it will be a bad thing for George if he is found out this time, if, as I suspect, he knows a deal more about it than we do, and he was up to no good last night or he would not have made me swear not to say I had seen him as he did. Well, the child is safe enough with the Shelleys, and I'll do my best to frighten them into keeping it," muttered Dame Hursey to herself, as she bent her steps towards the shepherd's house.
VARIETIES.
"Excellent Heart."
Take a good-sized, tender heart. Extract all seeds of selfishness, and proceed to stuff as follows:—
1 lb. crumbs of comfort.
1 quart milk of human kindness.
Several drops essence of goodness and happiness.
Good dripping from the eaves of Love's dwelling.
Blend these well with a little of the oil of Time to mellow and soften.
Place the heart on a warm hearth with Love's rays full upon it and some of the light of other days. Move it now and then, but do not probe it. Keep the world's cold blasts from it if possible, but do not allow it to be absorbed in its own juices. It will take time to prepare, but when ready is fit for king or peasant and welcome at any table.
sauce for above.
Pint or more good spirits, a few honeyed words; a little cream of society may improve, but is not necessary. Carefully avoid cold water, vinegar, or pepper, or acidity in any form.
The above will keep for years.—S. L.
Contented.—If you can live free from want, care for no more, for the rest is vanity.
The Storms of Adversity.—A smooth sea never made a skilful mariner, neither do uninterrupted prosperity and success qualify anyone for usefulness and happiness. The storms of adversity, like the storms of the ocean, arouse the faculties and excite the intention, prudence, skill and fortitude of the voyager.
A Wise Mother.—The celebrated Orientalist, Sir William Jones, when a mere child was very inquisitive. His mother was a woman of great intelligence, and he would apply to her for the information which he desired; but her constant reply was: "Read, and you will know." This gave him a passion for books, which was one of the principal means of making him what he was.
Twenty-four Notes in One Bow.—The Daily Post of February 22nd, 1732, contains a curious announcement with regard to Castrucci, the violinist, namely, that he would play a solo "in which he engages himself to execute twenty-four notes in one bow." This piece of charlatanism, so misplaced in a truly able musician, was excellently capped on the following day by a nameless fiddler advertising his intention to play twenty-five notes in one bow.
A Cat Story.—There was a favourite Tom cat owned by a family in Callander, in Scotland, and it had on several occasions shown more than ordinary sagacity. One day Tom made off with a piece of beef, and the servant followed him cautiously, with the intention of catching him and administering a little wholesome correction. To her amazement, she saw the cat go into a corner of the yard, in which she knew a rat-hole existed, and lay the beef down by the side of it. Leaving the beef there, puss hid himself a short distance off and watched until a rat made its appearance. Tom's tail then began to wag, and just as the rat was moving away with the bait he sprang upon it and killed it.
Hearing with Difficulty.—"Dr. Willis tells us," says Burney, in his "History of Music," "of a lady who could hear only while a drum was beating; insomuch that her husband actually hired a drummer as a servant in order to enjoy the pleasure of her conversation."
Courage.—Courage which grows from constitution often forsakes people when they have occasion for it; courage that arises from a sense of duty acts in a uniform manner.
The Influence of Fortune.—Fortune, good or ill, does not change men or women; it but developes their character.
Weak Minds.—Two things indicate a weak mind—to be silent when it is proper to speak, and to speak when it is proper to be silent.—Persian Proverb.
A Successful Wedding.—A New York girl has just enjoyed the triumph of having the biggest wedding given in that city for years. She whispered around that the man she was to marry had a red-haired wife somewhere, who would be at hand to interrupt the ceremony. The church was crowded.
Two Sides to Pleasure.—Pleasure is to woman what the sun is to the flower; if modestly enjoyed it beautifies, it refreshes and improves; if immoderately, it withers and destroys.—Colton.
The Ills of Life.—There are three modes of bearing the ills of life: by indifference, which is the most common; by philosophy, which is the most ostentatious; and by religion, which is the most effectual.
An Observation on Rogues.—After long experience of the world, I affirm, before God, I never knew a rogue who was not unhappy.—Junius.
Answer To Double Acrostic (p. 30).
1. L i P
2. A ristotl E (a)
3. M a r t y R
4. B l o c K
5. E l I
6. R e s i N (b)
7. T h ur lo W
8. S cœvol A (c)
9. I ndicato R (d)
10. M e r a B (e)
11. N a z E
12. E clipti C
13. L o K (f)
Lambert Simnel. Perkin Warbeck.
(a). His adage was "Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates, magis tamen amica veritas." From his custom of delivering instruction whilst walking, his disciples were styled "Peripatetics."
(b). Familiarly pronounced "rosin."
(c). Left-handed.
(d). Indicator Major, the great honeybird of South Africa.
(e). See 1 Samuel, xviii.
(f). Lo(c)k.
Edited by CHARLES PETERS.
The Poems are written by the Author of "John Halifax Gentleman," Sarah Doudney, Helen Marion Burnside, F. E. Weatherly, Annie Matheson, Anne Beale, Mrs. G. Linnæus Banks, the Rev. W. Cowan, Sydney Grey, Edward Oxenford, Isabella Fyvie Mayo, Clara Thwaites, Harriet L. Childe-Pemberton, the Dowager Lady Barrow, and others.
Illustrated by Frank Dicksee, A.R.A., M. Ellen Edwards, W. J. Hennessy, Davidson Knowles, John C. Staples, Robert Barnes, Charles Green, Arthur Hopkins, William Small, Frank Dadd, the late Cecil Lawson, and others.
"As A Crown of Flowers is carefully printed upon fine paper, full value is given to the engravings, which is one of the features of the magazine from which they are selected, and shows what a marked advance has been made of recent years in the character of such illustrations, which will, in the present instance, vie with anything of the kind produced on this or the other side of the Atlantic."—The Pictorial World.