CHAPTER XII.
A FAIR ISLAND.
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Sheila.
The glow of a golden sunset was on sea and shore, as the great vessel rounded the corner and came into view of the harbour of Funchal. The lonely Desertas to their left lay bathed in the reflected light from the westering sun, whilst upon their right lay the fair island of Madeira, its wild mountain range cleft with great ravines, and dotted with innumerable quintas and little houses shining in a sort of shimmering glory, the white city with its many buildings and spires lying peacefully on the margin of the sea, the shore alive with little boats, looking like so many caterpillars upon the green water as the rowers pushed them outwards towards the great in-coming steamer.
“Oh, Miss Adene, I am quite sorry the voyage is over; but how lovely Madeira is!”
“Yes, I told you you would be pleased! And see over yonder, beyond the town, on that sort of promontory as it looks from here, that is the New Hotel, where we are all going. It looks a little bare from here, but the garden is a wilderness of flowers when we get there. It is the most homelike hotel I was ever in, and I have had a good many experiences. Yes, those boats are to take us off. We cannot get very close inshore. The harbourage is not good, and in rough weather the mails have to stand a good way out, and I have known passengers swung on board in baskets by the steam-crane. But that is quite exceptional. Generally it is like to-day, calm and quiet, and the boats take us off without any trouble. Mr. Reid will come out in one, and take all trouble off our hands. We just give him our keys and tell him the number of our boxes, and he passes it through the Customs and brings it up, and we have no sort of trouble at all.”
Mrs. Cossart was very much relieved to find how easily everything was done when once the kindly hotel proprietor came on board. She was able to give her undivided care to Effie, whilst Sheila was running about saying good-bye to captain, officers, and such passengers as were going on to the Cape or the Canaries, and in the end found herself left behind by that boat, and had to go ashore under Miss Adene’s wing, which, however, troubled her no whit.
“A bullock-cart! Oof! How perfectly delicious!” she cried, as they were shown the conveyance in which they were to be carried to the hotel. “Oh, you dear creatures! What sweet faces they have! Oh, I hope they are kind to you! Miss Adene, isn’t it lovely to go in a bullock-cart? Oh, I hope it is a long way!”
“It takes about twenty minutes. You see, the bullies do not go very fast,” laughed Miss Adene, as she took her place. “This is what we call a carro; it has runners like a sledge instead of wheels. You see, all the streets are paved with cobble-stones, so that the runners slide easily along them; and it is the same everywhere in the island right up into the hills; nothing but these paved roads for bullock carros, and running carros, and sleds for carrying goods. But the mountain carros are much lighter than these that they use in the town, or they could not get them up the steep, steep roads.”
Sheila was in an ecstasy as they went jogging along through the quaint little town. She exclaimed with delight at everything she saw, the little brown-legged, dark-eyed children, the women with shawls over their heads, the little boys running with strange calls at the heads of the bullocks, and, above all, at the gorgeous masses of the flowering creepers which draped the walls of the houses and fell in great curtains over the outside mirantes. Deep orange bignonia, bougainvillia, purple and scarlet, delicate plumbago, with roses and heliotrope in such masses that the eye was dazzled and the air heavy with perfume.
“I could not have believed it if I had not seen it!” cried Sheila again and again. “And, oh, how hot and delicious it is! Effie must get well here!”
The New Hotel was a fine building, and there was pretty little Mrs. Reid waiting smiling in the hall to give them a welcome. Miss Adene had several kindly questions to ask, and went off with Mrs. Reid to the suite of rooms which had been bespoken for the Dumaresqs, whilst Sheila was handed over to the care of a tall, slight, ladylike girl, who took her up and up to the rooms selected by Mrs. Cossart.
“It is a long way up, but they thought the air would be fresher and the rooms more quiet for the lady who is ill,” she explained; and Sheila, to whom stairs were no trouble, was delighted. After all, it was only on the second floor; only, the rooms being lofty, the journey seemed a little long.
“Oh, Effie,” cried Sheila, “what a splendid room! How high, and cool, and delicious! Oh, I do like these white walls! And what views we get! Oh, how I love those great, great wild mountains! And there is the dear sea out of this one. It is nice to have two different views, and both so lovely! Oh, how happy we shall be!”
Effie was lying on the sofa, but she was looking interested and animated. The maid passed in and out, looking about her, and keeping an eye on her young charge.
“Yes, I like being up here. I feel as though I could breathe. I was afraid it might be too hot below. Father and mother have the room next but one looking south over the sea, and Susan has the next one, though it is big, so that we are all together. She may have to move when the hotel fills up; but she is to be there now. I think I shall like this place, Sheila; and the people seem so kind.”
Kindness indeed seemed to prevail here. The Portuguese chambermaid, in her odd, broken English, was wishful to know what kind of bedding and pillows the ladies liked; and when she brought in anything asked for, she would set it down with a beaming smile, saying, “Sank you, my ladies.” The curly-haired waiter who brought up afternoon tea almost at once was wishful to know what the ladies liked; and before long, Mrs. Reid had come up to see if Effie were comfortable, and talk cheerfully and kindly to her till called off in another direction.
“I must just run down and round the garden!” cried Sheila, after they had eagerly drunk their tea. “I wonder if I might bring you back some flowers? If I see Mrs. Reid, I will ask her.”
Mrs. Reid quite laughed at the question as Sheila passed her going out.
“As many as ever you like. And take care not to slip on the pebbled paths. People have got to get used to them.”
Ronald was outside, and hailed Sheila eagerly.
“Come along and let us explore!” he cried. “Give me your hand. These cobbles are mighty slippery. They say gravel would be washed away by the tropical showers even if they could get it. But it’s precious queer walking down these steep places. One wants to be a bullock for that.”
It was a strange, wild garden, with great palms growing in the beds, and the walls of the terraces, for it was all more or less terraced out of the face of the cliff, covered with curtains of creepers, most of them a mass of bloom. Roses in sprays as long as your arm drooped temptingly within reach, and the little heavy-scented gardenia filled the air with fragrance.
Sheila ran from place to place, exclaiming and admiring, glancing with shy interest at other visitors strolling about, and making her companion laugh again and again by her enthusiasm.
“Oof, a tennis-court!” she cried, darting suddenly through an opening. “Oh, did you ever see anything so lovely? It is like a Tadema picture!”
It was rather, for the floor was of concrete, looking white in the fading light, and there were stone seats all round it for spectators, whiter still. All round a trellis had been placed, wired in against balls, and this trellis was just one sheet of glorious colour. Curtains of bougainvillia hung over at one place, at another heliotrope of roses made a perfect screen, intermingled with scarlet geranium, poinsettia, and plumbago. Through little gaps in this floral curtain, and through vistas of palm and cactus beyond, could be caught glimpses of the blue sea, and overhead the sky rose sapphire clear, with that peculiar purity and depth of colour which characterises those latitudes.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” cried Sheila in ecstasy.
“Awfully pretty,” replied her companion, “though the floor might be better for playing. There are some big cracks. Do you like tennis, Miss Cholmondeley?”
“Oof, yes!” cried the girl eagerly; “but I have not had much practice this summer. Effie was ill, and I was not going to parties. Do you play well, Mr. Dumaresq?”
“No, not well according to the modern standard; but perhaps you will condescend to play with me. But come along; I want to see what that little building is up there. In there is the bungalow, a sort of dependence of the hotel. The Reids offered it to us as an independent home of our own, but as Guy is rather lame and weak, and we should have to come up to the hotel for meals, we declined; there are too many steps. But it is a pretty place; such a sheer drop to the sea below. It must be like living in a ship’s cabin. Now I want to see how to get to that other building. I think there’s a sort of a path round here. I’ve a fancy it may be the billiard-room from my aunt’s description of the place.”
A billiard-room it was—half of it, at least; the other half was quite empty save for a piano and some chairs round the walls.
“It looks made for a dance!” cried Sheila, pirouetting round. “Are all hotels as perfectly delightful as this?”
The sun had just dipped behind the hills, and the shadows were coming on apace.
“I suppose it gets dark pretty soon here,” said Ronald. “Let us go back to the house now. We must finish the garden to-morrow. There is plenty more to see.”
Sheila had sprays of roses and heliotrope in her hands as she ran upstairs to Effie. A lamp had been brought in, and the big, lofty room looked quite gay.
“Oh, what roses!” cried Effie in real delight. “Aren’t they splendid? I am going to like this place immensely, Sheila, and we have such a good plan. Susan isn’t to have the big room next door; it’s to be turned into a sitting-room for us. Mrs. Reid will get it done to-morrow, and Susan will sleep in a little room close by; then this great turret place will be all our own, and we can have our friends up to tea and all that sort of thing. I want to get to know the Dumaresqs better. You get on with them very well, don’t you, Sheila?”
“They are very kind to me. I think they were sorry for me on ship-board because I was alone at first. Lady Dumaresq is lovely, and the little boy is so sweet, and Miss Adene has always been like a friend.”
Effie was moving about the room a little restlessly.
“I don’t quite know how it is—I suppose it’s being ill—but I don’t seem to get on with people quite in the easy way you do, Sheila; but you know at home, before I was ill, they all used to listen and laugh as they do now to you. I don’t want to be left out in the cold.”
“Oh, no!” cried Sheila eagerly, though with a slightly heightened colour. Somehow she too had the feeling that people did not take very much to Effie. They all asked kindly after her, but a little of her conversation seemed to go a long way.
Mrs. Cossart here came in to say that she would dine upstairs with Effie, but that Sheila had better go down with her uncle. So Susan was sent for to get at a dress, the luggage having arrived all safe, and the girl was soon arrayed in a soft black net evening gown, very simple, but very becoming, with a spray of white roses fastened upon her shoulder.
“Mind you tell me about all the people when you come back!” said Effie, who was quite lively and bright in spite of the fatigues and excitements of the day; and Sheila was all curiosity herself, for she had never before stayed at a big hotel, and the novelty of the life amused and interested her immensely.
In the drawing-room there were a few old ladies and a couple of gentlemen reading the paper. They did not look very amusing, Sheila thought. Then the Dumaresqs came in, except Sir Guy, who was not well enough to appear. But Lady Dumaresq looked bright and happy, confident that the warmth and beauty about him would soon put him right.
A gong sounded, and there was a move to the adjoining dining-room, and Sheila found herself seated at a long table between her uncle and Ronald Dumaresq, who coolly took possession of the empty seat laid for Effie, whilst the other guests filed in, some to the long table, and some to the small ones at the side, and the business of dinner began.
Sheila was not hungry, but she enjoyed watching and listening. A rather handsome lady opposite was making advances to their party with an air of assurance and friendly patronage which rather amused Sheila.
“A regular old hotel stager,” whispered Ronald to her in an aside, “would know the sort anywhere. Keeps her husband in good order, one can see. Rather a fine woman, but I don’t care for her style.”
Then there were the usual habitués of a health resort—a wife with a delicate husband, a husband with a delicate wife, a mother with a little asthmatic boy (who would have been better in bed at such an hour), a few travellers bent on pleasure and relaxation rather than health. Sheila tried to piece histories on to the different faces, and Ronald made some comical remarks and shrewd guesses. But the party was not large for the size of the hotel. The season was quite early. It was not often so full as this till after Christmas. A rather wet summer and the threatened outbreak of influenza had frightened a good many people off before the usual time.
“I think I’m glad of it,” said Sheila. “It is such fun watching them. They are all rather quiet now, but I suppose they will make more noise when they get to know each other.”
“We must try and set a good example,” answered Ronald. “Now come on to the verandah outside and see the moonlight on the sea.”
The covered verandah outside the drawing-room, with its comfortable chairs and lounges, was quite an institution at the New. Although on the entrance side the drawing-room appeared a ground-floor room, from the verandah one looked right down over the terraced garden with a sheer drop on to the next level of twenty or thirty feet. The view over the harbour was lovely, the town lights and those of the ships gleaming out in the soft darkness.
“There goes the Plymouth Castle,” said Ronald, pointing out the vanishing lights of the great steamer. Sheila waved her hand in a parting salutation.
“Good-bye, dear old ship. I liked being on you very much, but I don’t want to be on you now, for you have brought us to the most charming and delightful place. Oh, how happy I am going to be here!”
(To be continued.)
[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]
By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”
THE TUNIC SKIRT.
Our sketches of to-day’s fashions in our present issue are so absolutely true to life that there is no difficulty in guessing the nature of the frocks for to-morrow. As will be gathered from them, we are quite out of date if we be fat; therefore, if ambitious of shining in the world of dress, we must begin to reduce our size at once. Have you noticed, as I have, how much the number of fat women is decreasing? Perhaps, after a time, they will be a marvellous exception, and we shall notice them just as we notice sloping shoulders and attenuated waists; to both of which our immediate forbears were addicted. The waists of the present day seem generally in excellent proportion, and for this we have to thank our adoption of the bicycle, on which the corset cannot be worn, or, at least, very short ones, and not at all tight. In one way, at least, we need improvement, and that is in our carriage, for in that so many women and girls fail. They stoop from the neck, or from the waist, and slouch along in a most ungraceful way.
I must begin with a few notes on underclothing. So far as I can see, the petticoat bodice is very little worn; most ladies seem to prefer having the bodice fitted over the corset, and wearing it in that manner, the corset itself being worn over the petticoat. The only drawback to this is that the dress-bodice would so speedily become soiled at the back of the neck. So I think one of those pretty muslin under-bodices, which are cut in Bolero style, and trimmed with lace, would be the best thing to prevent it. I have lately found some very good and well-woven cotton combinations, which ranged in price from 1s. 9d. up to 4s. and 5s. They are more economical wear than either woollen or silk ones, and entail less risk of catching cold than either. They wash well, and are very well-fitting. I find this woven underclothing, either as combinations or vests, is more used than anything else. Indeed, one could fancy as much from the enormous supply laid in at the shops, of every material, size, and colour. Many of them are so thin that they will hardly bear washing.
In the way of petticoats, we have an unlimited choice, and a vast improvement in the cut and manufacture, as well as in the material. The fashionable colour of the season for them is pink—a bright and rather violent shade, but it looks well with most things, especially black. The new moreens of the present season are of such a good description that they are almost like a watered silk, and they quite rustle like one. They have, however, rather changed their names, and they are called by some Marshallette, or watered woollen moirés.
The new collars for our dresses are, most of them, very high indeed, and pointed up to the ears at each side. The swathing of the neck with lace and the high collars make everyone look very much covered up indeed, and as the season progresses it will be very hot. There are all kinds of boas made, and they appear to be the only season’s wear. These boas are made of feathers—ostrich, of course—in black, white, grey, and black and white mixed; in silk, lace, fringe, in chiffon of all colours, silk muslin, spotted nets, and gauzes, the spotted nets being, I think, the prettiest, though, of course, the most perishable. Although they are so expensive, everyone seems to find money to purchase them, and some few girls manage to find out the way to make them for themselves.
Where skirts are concerned, we appear to have no choice but to make them quite tight-fitting about the hips, and they must flow out about them; but we need not quite adopt the eel-skin skirt, for there are several shapes from which we can make our choice. First, there is the old umbrella skirt, as it used to be called, which is cut without seams, and from material wide enough to cut it without any join, save the one. Then there is a skirt cut in the same manner, with a join up the back, and then a skirt with two widths, one of which is very wide and the other narrow. This seems to be the most popular, as it is more easy to fit. The last skirt that I have seen is one with three widths, the front one being narrow and the other two wide, meeting in the centre of the back in a bias seam. This, I am told by a first-rate dressmaker, is the best skirt-pattern for very thin people, who are gifted with big hips, however, and who are tall.
I am bound to notice the extravagances of fashion, so I must tell you that if you have not enough width of hips to make your dress look well, you can make up the deficiency by purchase; and a large drapery firm in the West End was exhibiting a few days ago the necessary framework in their windows. But it does not do always to trust to such machinery pour se faire belle, as I must tell you also that they sometimes get out of place, and then you have hips where you do not want them! I heard this funny story told the other day, but I cannot vouch for its truth, though I think the foolish people who adopt such things would deserve to be made ridiculous.
There is one great comfort in the midst of the frills and furbelows of fashion, that we may be quite as fashionable, and twice as happy, if we elected to stick to our coats and skirts and our pretty blouses of cotton and muslin. The newest ones of this year are really quite tight-fitting bodices. They are not gathered at the shoulder seams nor at the neck, and they are cut so tightly to the figure that they allow of next to no fulness at the waist, which makes them sit in a far more tidy and neat way. They are all made with yokes at the back, and they have generally a very tight bishop’s sleeve.
The tunic, or, as perhaps you may hear it called, and more usually so, the double skirt, as they are really only modifications of each other, looks as if it had come to take up its abode with us, having been threatened for a long time. We have illustrated two or three of the most popular, which are undoubtedly the ones with points which fall nearly to the hem. Besides this there is a very long all-round tunic, the edges of which are scallopped, and fall very low on the under-skirt. As all our gowns are made much too long, and must be held up, this is the most uncomfortable shape of all.
Perhaps the greatest change of the year has taken place in the sunshades, which are striped in various and wonderful ways, and some surprising colours. As to the embroideries, chiffons, laces, and ornaments lavished on them, they are so many I have no room to describe them. The latest I have seen was of chiffon, embroidered in straw; and on another I counted sixteen rows of gathered baby-ribbon in three colours, the foundation being in green satin.
A CLOTH GOWN.
Our first group of three figures shows, as we have already said, three varieties of the tunic. The gown on the extreme left is of heliotrope canvas, over white silk. It has a pointed tunic, trimmed with white silk, or satin, ribbon, or tucking. The same is placed in rows on the top of the sleeves, and there are rows of heliotrope satin on the collar and on the edge of the skirt. This is a very pretty and girlish gown, which could be carried out in any thicker material if desired. The figure on the right hand side wears a gown of plain grey alpaca, with an under-dress of a crimson-figured poplin, which has rows of narrow black velvet round the edge. The tunic is also trimmed with rows of black velvet, with cream lace, and the bodice has a white satin yoke, with a front of crimson and trimmings of black velvet also, with double revers, which fold back. The hat is of the new boat shape, and has three ostrich feathers in it. These are very much uncurled, as it is no longer the fashion to curl them very tightly, and the stem must show down its entire length. They are often of shaded colours, and are of moderate length.
TWO CAPES AND HATS.
The centre figure wears a very smart gown in muslin, with flowers, the colour being blue, in shades. It is made up over blue. There are three scalloped flounces, and a tunic, which are edged with blue velvet, and a tiny lace. The bodice has revers of cream-coloured chiffon, and there are frills of the same at the side front, and the waist-band is of heliotrope velvet, and is very narrow.
The charming figure in a fawn cloth tailor-made gown wears one of the rather long and rounded jackets. The trimmings consist of rows of satin ribbon and cream lace, three rows of which go round the skirt and jacket. The front is of white satin and cream lace, and the collar has rows of satin on it to correspond. These narrow satin ribbons and tuckings, made of silk and satin, are the special trimmings of the year, and they seem quite ubiquitous, and look so pretty that we have not got tired of them yet.
There are so many muslins—organdies, and the ordinary corded ones—that it is quite a muslin year, and the lace and narrow ribbons used on them are enormous in amount. Lawn of the same colour is generally used for the linings if you do not choose to afford silk. A fine sateen will also answer.
Our third drawing shows two pretty hats and two of the most fashionable capes, which still contrive to hold their own in the dress of the present season. The figure on the left wears a short cape of heliotrope silk, tucked and trimmed with frills of white chiffon, and it has one of those stoat fronts, which are quite new this year. The cape to the right is of grey satin, with pointed fronts, and a large collar of white satin, with front revers of the same. The whole is edged with a ruche of black chiffon. The hat is of the new Cavalier shape, with feathers and a buckle.
The prettiest change of the year is in the sailor hats, which are now trimmed and made to look quite different from the plain and useful things they used to be. A white one that I saw the other day had six rows of narrow velvet ribbon at equal distances round the crown, and a rosette of the same at the right side. Another had a wide band of red velvet on it, with an upstanding spray of cherries at the side, and bows of red velvet mixed in with them. Both were to be worn with washing veils.
[VARIETIES.]
A Sufficient Reason.
Author: “But why do you charge me more for printing this time than usual?”
Publisher: “Because the compositors were constantly falling asleep over your novel.”
Living happily together.—A few more smiles of silent sympathy, a few more tender words, a little more restraint on temper, may make all the difference between happiness and half-happiness to those we live with.
Friendship.
Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double
And into halves divides our trouble.
Denham.
How they Closed the Day.
When Dr. Walsham How was rector of Whittington, an old woman, on the occasion of his first visit, said to him—
“The old man and me, sir, never go to bed without singing the Evening Hymn. Not that I’ve any voice left, for I haven’t, and as for him, he’s like a bee in a bottle, and then he don’t humour the tune, for he don’t rightly know one tune from another, and he can’t remember the words, neither, so when he leaves out a word I puts it in, and when I can’t sing I dances, and so we get through it somehow.”
Showing and Seeing.—Behaviour is a mirror in which everyone shows and might see her own image.—Goethe.
Mental Exertion.
A lady took her Irish maid to task for carelessness and forgetfulness. “Why is it, Mary,” said she, “that you keep on making the same mistakes over and over again? Why don’t you try to remember what I tell you?”
The day happened to be very warm, so Mary returned the quaint reply, “Sure, ma’am, I can’t be aggravatin’ me moind this hot weather.”
Consolation.—There never was a night which was not followed by a morning, nor a winter which was not succeeded by a summer. A most consoling reflection, this, to those distressed in the night and winter of spiritual trial and trouble.
[COURTESY.]
By ELIZABETH A. S. DAWES, M.A., D.Lit.
“Plus fait douceur que violence.”—La Fontaine, vi. 3.
“A beautiful behaviour is better than a beautiful form; it gives a higher pleasure than statues and pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts.”—Emerson.
have chosen “courtesy” as the subject of my little address this time, as it is a virtue which is perhaps somewhat in danger of being forgotten and overlooked in these modern days of continual hurry and bustle; and yet it forms such an essential part of a beautiful character that nobody can justly claim the title of “gentleman” or “gentlewoman” if he or she neglects the practice of it, which is, too, the opinion of our Shakespeare, for he writes, “We must be gentle now we are gentlemen” (Winter’s Tale, v. 2).
The derivation of the word, which really means the manners and behaviour to be observed at a royal court, is neatly given by Spenser in his Faerie Queene, Book vi. 1.
“Of court, it seems, men courtesie do call,
For that it there most useth to abound;
And well beseemeth, that in princes hall
That vertue should be plentifully found,
Which of all goodly manners is the ground
And root of civil conversation”;
and Milton likewise says that “courtesy was first named in courts of princes.” And as an example of a prince who practised this virtue we may quote from an old memoir about Henry VIII., “We cannot omit to observe this courtly (shall I call it?) or good quality in him; that he was courteous, and did seem to study to oblige.” However, the English girls of to-day need not look far for the pattern of a perfectly gracious and courteous woman, for who fulfils this ideal better than her Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria? Who better known than she for the courteous message of thanks to her troops when they have nobly done their duty, or for the quick expression of sympathy to the suffering victims of an accident or some personal bereavement?
Then for a definition or short explanation of what courtesy is we cannot do better than turn to The Greatest Thing in the World. Here on p. 26 we learn that courtesy is an ingredient of Love, that it is “Love in Society, Love in relation to Etiquette,” and has been defined as “love in little things”; in a word it is the quality denoted by the sentence, “Love doth not behave itself unseemly.” From these words we can also gather the reason why we should all show courtesy, for, as it is one of the components of love, and Christ said that all His disciples were to be distinguished from the rest of the world by their love for another, we shall not be true followers of Christ, or have a really beautiful character, if we omit any part of love; just as a beautiful mosaic could never be otherwise than imperfect, if, though complete in all other respects, the stones of one certain colour were everywhere missing.
It must also be remembered that a courteous behaviour should be worn always and everywhere, and not only put on like a grand robe for state occasions, for courtesy is “a happy way of doing things, and should adorn even the smallest details of life, and contribute to render it as a whole agreeable and pleasant.” Hence, first and foremost, courtesy should be practised in the home by the children both towards their parents and towards each other. This is a matter which merits more attention and thought than is generally given to it, for by a courteous manner and a gentle tongue, more influence in the government of others is often attained than by qualities of greater depth and substance. Now woman, not man, is the true home-maker, therefore girls should take great pains to be courteous, and thus by their gentleness lead and direct the perhaps rude and selfish brother who will probably unconsciously sooner or later imitate and adopt his sister’s gracious ways. A sweet-tongued gentle maiden cannot fail to render the home, be it a poor or rich one, both pleasant and dear to her brothers and sisters. And then to parents how far more gentle and courteous we all should be than we are. It has been well said that a blessing is never fully realised until it is lost, and so I fear we hardly any of us realise clearly and distinctly to ourselves how much our parents, especially our dear mothers, do and suffer for us until the day comes when we know what it is to be without them.
Dr. Miller, in his book The Building of Character, which I should earnestly recommend every girl to read, says, “Wherever else we may fail in patience, it should not be in our own homes. Only the sweetest life should have place there. We have not long to stay together, and we should be patient and gentle while we may.” And to enforce this teaching, he quotes one of the tenderest little poems ever written, and of which I subjoin a couple of verses:—
“The hands are such dear hands;
They are so full; they turn at our demands
So often; they reach out
With trifles scarcely thought about;
So many times they do
So many things for me, for you,
If their fond wills mistake,
We may well bend—not break.
They are such fond frail lips,
That speak to us. Pray, if love strips
Them of discretion many times,
Or if they speak too slow or quick, such crimes
We may pass by; for we may see
Days not far off when those small words may be
Held not so slow or quick, or out of place, but dear,
Because the lips are no more here.”
Further, a courteous manner should be used towards the servants, orders given politely and unnecessary troubling of them avoided; for instance, lying late in bed, though intensely pleasant, often necessitates the disarrangement of the servants’ morning work, for which the delinquent herself will perhaps blame them later in the day.
At school, again, how many “open doors” are there for doing little courtesies to mistresses and schoolfellows, and for aiding to maintain the peace and harmony both in class-room and playground by a gentle look or word, and for the “soft answer which turneth away wrath,” and stays the rising quarrel. The girl who will be most beloved, and who will have the best influence in a school, is undoubtedly she who is ever ready with a pleasant smile to play with the little ones, to say a kind word to another when in trouble, and who shows by her whole behaviour that she wishes to make those around her happy and comfortable. Then on those days of discouragement, when, in spite of all endeavours, the lessons are not well known, and it seems useless to go on trying to do as well as the other girls, or when, perchance, unmerited blame or irritating teasing has unnerved and tired you, how you welcome the friend who, without being told, knows how “wrong everything is going,” and with gentle loving words strives to cheer you, and bids you take heart again and bravely return to the fight.
If we look at the reverse of the picture and contemplate the discourteous girl, be it at home or at school, we cannot fail to observe how many opportunities she loses of giving pleasure. She may come down to breakfast, and just mutter a “Good morning” and omit the morning kiss; during the day she may never notice how often she might fetch something for her mother or mistress, jump up or open the door for somebody with their hands full, or try to subdue her loud boisterous laughing or talking in a room where others are busy reading or writing—she will also pass in and out of a door in front of her elders, pay little attention to the wants of her neighbours at table; in short, she will not increase in any way the pleasantness of her surroundings.
A word of warning, too, must be given to those girls who, with the best of intentions to try and do right and help others, make the mistake through their very excess of zeal of directing or correcting others in a rough, brusque way, and perhaps enforce their words by a not too gentle push or shove! These must read La Fontaine’s fable of Phoebus and Boreas, or The Sun and the Northwind, and see how the north wind, for all his violent blowing, could not divest the traveller of his cloak, whereas the sun by the influence of his gentle warming rays soon accomplished that in which the rough blasts of Boreas had failed. And if they follow the teaching of this fable, they will soon see how much more the gentle word accomplishes than the rough one.
And now to close, I would like to ask you, who read these few remarks of mine, to endeavour to put more gentleness and courtesy in your dealings with other people than you have done heretofore; for in all of us there is always room for improvement, and there is not one of us surely but must admit that we often leave little courtesies undone and little gentle words unsaid. Courtesy is like the drop of oil that enables machinery to work noiselessly and smoothly, for it lessens the jars and friction of life and the consequent worry and fretfulness. Little things make or mar the peace of life, therefore exhibit courtesy which is “Love in little things,” and you will gain the gratitude and esteem of those around you, and carry away in your minds these lines of Lord Houghton, and never, if you can avoid it, lose an opportunity of putting them into practice—
“An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.”
[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]
By LA MÉNAGÈRE.
lorious June! Can anyone complain of a lack of the least good thing? Rather we have un embarras de richesse; so much so, indeed, that we hardly know what to select for our typical menu. Look at the vegetable market, for instance. See the piles of snowy cauliflowers, the crisp cabbages and spinach, the quantities of salad stuffs, cucumbers, spring carrots and turnips, asparagus, artichokes, peas and French beans, while the very potatoes look attractive. Then see the fruit, the ever-welcome green gooseberries, strawberries, early raspberries, and ripe cherries galore. The fruiterers have golden apricots, nectarines, custard apples, and many other luscious things. The fishmongers are showing plovers’ eggs in their little nests of moss, the pinkest of prawns and crabs, scarlet lobsters in a garnish of parsley, magnificent salmon, salmon-trout, speckled trout, and beautiful fine soles, with mackerel that glisten like the whitebait.
Game is, of course, of no account now; but young chickens are coming to the fore, and pigeons are excellent, so also are the plovers.
Then look at the wealth of June blossom that is poured into the market. Can anything surpass the beauty of these roses? Lilies and hydrangeas, snowy narcissi, gorgeous tulips, iris, and peonies, and if you can find a sweeter or a more splendid flower than a blush peony of the Dutch variety, you will be clever indeed. Sweet mignonette, sweet peas, and still sweeter pinks, make the air quite heavy with their fragrance. Then we have quantities of beautiful grasses, mosses, ferns, and foliage plants here for all sorts of purposes, for June is the harvest month of the floral decorator. Dinners, balls, receptions, weddings, at homes—all make great demand on the markets this month.
The place of game at fashionable dinners is taken by plovers’ eggs, or by an aspic jelly. As the eggs are usually sold ready boiled, and require no accompaniment, we may leave them without further remark; but it might be useful here if we considered the making of a simple aspic jelly such as could be manufactured by the home cook.
Aspic Jelly.—Get a knuckle-bone of veal and one of ham and crack them in pieces. Put with them a large onion, with two cloves, a large carrot, a bunch of savoury herbs, and two quarts of water. Let these simmer gently in a brown stone jar for several hours, then strain off. To a pint of this stock (which should be perfectly clear) add one ounce of Swinborne’s isinglass previously soaked in cold water, also a teaspoonful of salt, a little pepper, a tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar; and then a wineglassful of strong sherry. Stir over the fire until it nearly boils, then break into the liquor the whites of two eggs and the shells, stir well, and draw to the side of the fire; let it simmer for a quarter of an hour, then strain through a jelly-bag three or four times until it is perfectly clear. Keep the mould in a very cold place until it is wanted. The quart should make two moulds of jelly. A good jelly will keep for some time, and is often most useful for an invalid.
An aspic of game or poultry makes an excellent luncheon dish, and will prove an easy and dainty way of serving up the remains of cold poultry, etc.
Pour some ready-made aspic jelly into the bottom of a plain round mould which has been wetted with cold water. Next make a layer of stars and diamonds from the white and yellow of a hard-boiled egg, a few fine sprigs of parsley, and the red part of a cold tongue here and there. Let this set, then lay on thin slices of cold fowl and ham, leaving plenty of space to run more jelly in between. Fill the mould up to the top with jelly, then put it away to set. When quite stiff turn it out on to a dish.
Suppose that for our June menu we take the following:
Bisque of Crab.
Devilled Whitebait.
Grenadines of Veal. Jardinière Sauce.
Aspic Jelly.
Saddle of Lamb. French Beans.
Gooseberry Tart.
Cream Cheese. Oaten Wafers. Coffee.
Bisque of Crab.—Wash well in several waters half a pound of the best rice, put it into a saucepan with a quart of the best clear white stock, and add a little milk. Add also an onion, a small piece of cinnamon, a little salt and pepper and a good bit of butter. Let the rice simmer a long while, then add to it the pith from the body of a freshly-boiled crab, and another pint of milk or stock. Rub all carefully through a sieve, then pour it into a stewpan with the flesh from the claws torn into flakes, add a teaspoonful of the essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful of arrowroot dissolved in a little milk, and a few drops of cochineal to deepen the colour. At the last moment, before serving, after the soup has boiled up once, add a small cupful of hot cream.
Devilled Whitebait.—To fry whitebait a good depth of clear frying fat is needed, and a frying basket in which the fish can all be plunged into the fat at once. They should be carefully wiped, then lightly shaken in a well-floured cloth, just so as to coat them sufficiently. Plunge into boiling fat for about three minutes, then withdraw them from the fat, sprinkle them with black and red pepper, return to the pan for another minute, then drain and serve on a napkin with fried parsley as a garnish. Send quarters of lemon and brown bread and butter to table with them.
Grenadines of Veal, Jardinière Sauce.—A slice of the best lean fillet of veal, about two-thirds of an inch thick, should be shaped into small pieces, and then dipped into beaten egg and into a mixture of breadcrumbs, minced ham and seasoning. Fry these carefully on both sides to a light brown, then put between two plates and stand in a hot oven.
For the sauce take a pint of stock, and one onion, a large carrot, a turnip, a few French beans, a few peas, and any other available vegetable. Mince these finely and evenly, fry them in dripping, drain and add to the stock. Thicken this with a spoonful of potato flour, and season highly. Boil gently for a while, then pour in the centre of a hot dish and set the grenadines around the edge. Let boiled potatoes (small ones) accompany this dish.
The saddle of lamb should be simply roasted and served with its own gravy; the French beans boiled first, then sautéd, in butter with chopped parsley, and potatoes, if liked, treated the same way. Pass mint sauce around as well.
Cream should accompany the gooseberry tart, and strawberries with cream might appear at the same time, or in lieu of the tart as preferred.
A roast duck and green peas might take the place of the saddle of lamb, according as means and circumstances permit.