CHAPTER XXI.
IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE.
s prodigious an admirer as ever of Sir John Moore, Jack?”
“’Tis not my mode, Molly, to admire a man one week, and to cast him overboard the next!”
“And if ever so be that Sir John hies him to the Indies, sure you would be set on going too?”
Jack was not so quick in response as Molly expected. Would he, or would he not? He could not feel quite sure either way. Wherever Sir John might be, there no doubt Jack would wish to be also; yet it lay within the limits of possibility that he might still more strongly desire to be somewhere else. India in those days lay very far distant. Miles are miles in these days as in those, but actual distance is greatly diminished. A man writing from India to his friends in England may now look for a reply in six or seven weeks; but then he could not look for a reply in less than as many months.
Jack felt that such a separation from people at home—from Molly in particular—would be serious. He had not thus far gauged his state of mind critically. He was not in love with anybody; he had no particular wish to marry anybody—so he would have said. Jack still counted himself exclusively in love with his profession. He looked upon Molly as his particular friend—as the being beyond all others upon whose interest and sympathy he might most surely rely. She was not his sister—he quite scouted that notion—neither was he her lover. They were simply friends—bons camarades in the more modern phraseology. Where Molly happened to be, there Jack gravitated as naturally as a stone gravitates earthward; and whatever Jack had in his mind, that he told to Molly as naturally as water pours out of a tilted jug. He cared a good deal for Molly’s opinion. If Molly disapproved of aught that he did, he was discomfited; and if Molly put anyone before himself, he was conscious of jealous sensations. That was about all.
It seemed to him this evening that Molly was looking particularly nice and ladylike—or, in the language of the day, “pleasing and genteel.” She was not pretty; Jack would have said that he did not wish her to be pretty. He liked her better as she was. But she was not without her own measure of attractiveness.
“Of course you would wish it,” Molly added decisively. “In your place I would do so. And if—if I could be a soldier, Jack, I would feel as you do. I would wish to go where Sir John goes. ’Tis a thousand pities I am a girl and cannot be a soldier.”
“You would wish to go to the Indies, if I were to stay at home?”
Molly smiled at the conceit, as it seemed to her.
“’Tis vastly more likely that you may be the one to go and I to be the stay-at-home.” She did not speak as if it were in any sense a distressing question, though as a secondary consideration she remarked placidly, “And I should miss you, Jack.”
“As much as ever you profess to miss Roy?”
Molly laughed outright this time.
“Jack—why, Jack, what a question to ask! Roy is my twin. He is more to me than all the whole world beside. He always will be more. If I did not see Roy for fifteen years—for fifty years!—it would make no difference! Oh, none whatever! Never in my life shall I care for another as I care for Roy!”
Jack laughed in his turn derisively.
“Never, never, never!” repeated Molly. “I love my father and my mother dearly, and I love Polly, and I like you too, Jack. But Roy—Roy is more to me than all. If I could see Roy——”
“That is vastly well, Molly! But wait—wait till your time shall come—till somebody will be more to you than even Roy.”
“Never!” reiterated Molly. “You mean that one day I shall have a particular preference for—for some gallant gentleman, Jack. Nay, but I shall never marry, for I could not care for any beyond my caring for Roy. And so that matter is for ever settled!”
Jack was silent—perhaps a degree nettled by Molly’s assured indifference. He did not count himself in love with Molly; but he wanted her to love him.
“’Tis no more my mode than yours to change and change about. Some people sometimes would seem to forget.” That slight pucker came again to her smooth brow.
For one instant Jack imagined the words to be a possible reflection on himself, despite what went before, and his lips opened in ready protest. Then he saw where Molly was gazing; and as his glance followed her lead, his forehead drew into, not a mere pucker, but a frown.
Polly did look uncommonly lovely; there was no denying that fact. Jack and Molly both gazed hard at her, and then their eyes met.
“She is wondrous pretty!” Molly said softly.
“But Peirce? What business has Peirce?” Jack paused, frowning still. “He knows, sure, as to Ivor?”
“Why, Jack, all the world knows! Captain Peirce has known it pretty near from the beginning.”
“And Polly permits——”
“Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it?” asked Molly. “I in her place would help it; but I am not fair like Polly, and that makes so great a difference. For her, with all the world looking and loving, ’tis not easy. If she holds aloof and seeks to check them, why, they do but come after her the more—and Polly cannot be sharp with folks. She is so sweet, and ’tis not her way. And Mrs. Bryce, too, ever talking”—Molly breathed this very low—“ever seeking to persuade Polly that Denham will forget and will care no more for her.”
Jack muttered something to himself.
“Then, ’tis her wish?”
“Mrs. Bryce’s?” Molly’s face took an arch set. “Ay, since Captain Peirce came in for a great sum of money on the death of his grandfather. He will be a richer man than Denham—by a matter of ten pounds to one pound.”
“Phew!” muttered Jack, in disgust. “Ivor will have enough. But as to Polly—I cannot verily believe that her affections are engaged in any other direction.”
“Nor do I believe it, Jack. Yet—I am not always sure.”
“If she casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it, all her life long. She will lose one of the best men living.”
“Second only to Sir John Moore!”
“’Tis easy to jeer! If you knew Sir John as I do——”
“Nay, but Jack—nay, you need not be vexed with me,” protested Molly. “I did not jeer truly. And ’tis a fact that when last I saw and spoke with Sir John, he brought to my mind the thought of Denham. Not that the two have the same face or the same way, but that both are soldierly and tall, and each holds his head as stately as a prince. And for the matter of Sir John Moore—why, I am proud of him as ever you can be.”
Jack nodded slightly, mollified at once by her apologetic tone. His gaze returned to Polly.
“And for the matter of Denham,” Molly continued, dropping her voice once more, “he has been always as a brother to me; and it would go hard with me to believe any ill of him. Yet—I wonder often that no letter comes from him to Polly. And Polly watches and grieves, I know, though she says little, and will not talk of him. Sure, if he had writ to her often, one letter now and again would find its way hither.”
“Who can say? But I would distrust the post and Boney a thousand times, before ever I would doubt Ivor,” Jack answered firmly. “And Polly, if indeed she knows him, sure would feel the same. He is no man to change.”
“Nor, I think, is Polly the girl to change—either!”
“In this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade into insignificance.”
So spoke Captain Albert Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene; and he felt that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these; and such speeches did not necessarily mean much.
Ninety years later the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce would merely drag his moustache, and mutter, “Awfully pretty girl!” But the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and imply much the same in the end.
Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache—partly because it was not the fashion to do so, but yet more for the sufficient reason that he had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the moment when Jack’s glance followed Molly’s in their direction.
Polly did not appear to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing! One flowery speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been for the persistent pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant or could mean anything seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with a large fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her round fair arms.
“Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may be, sweet Polly?”
This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in consequence.
It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly, almost amounting to a shiver. She too was instantaneously carried back, as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long slow years.
“Sweet Polly, may I speak?” Captain Ivor had said.
The voices were different. Ivor’s was deep and quiet, with clear enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.
The other face too came up before Polly’s mind—a face generally of still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when they did frown there was no mistake about the matter, and a smile as quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make, and his features, as well as his tones, underwent much more rapid changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a certain fascination of manner too, when he chose to exert it. Polly was not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him. But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle connection between her mind and Molly’s?—brought with it a totally different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face. Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression was due to his own words.
“Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair, who——”
This was going too far. Polly woke from her dream. She withdrew one step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.
“Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware.”
“Ah! adored one! so hard-hearted to your humble slave!”
“My word, Albert!” And the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell with a smart slap upon the Captain’s shoulder. “So you do not fail to make hay while the sun shines! But there’s such a thing as poaching in another’s preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?”
Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this interruption, which he dared not openly resent, not only because young men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but because, also, had he aroused the Admiral’s ire, he would have drawn upon themselves the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was known to be hasty and prompt in speech, and not slow to speak out his mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.
“Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them; and ’tis but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds. Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose.”
“Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He’ll not help forward the post. Well, well, every lane in time has its turning; and Boney will come to his turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already, at the glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?”
“And on land too, sir; in time our brave soldiers will have the best of it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour,” suggested Polly.
Captain Peirce’s opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral acted accidentally or on purpose? And was Polly glad or sorry? Neither question received an answer.
In the small hours of the morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce drove home, with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was considered to be a suitable “equipage” for one in her position. Mr. Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few words passed between them, before they crept into bed.
Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep, when it aroused her. She listened carefully.
“Polly!” No answer. “Polly—are you awake?”
A pause, and then—
“You must go to sleep, Molly!”
“You are not crying, Polly?”
Polly’s hand gently pressed hers, but Polly’s face was turned away, and another short break took place before she replied in a tone of strained cheerfulness—
“’Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream. No, not one little word more.”
Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long, listening. Was Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain Peirce?
This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of existence do not cease, though the whole world should be at loggerheads.
The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Great Britain was supreme upon the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible upon land. Of all the nations, England still alone withstood him; and at this date she fearlessly faced a Europe in arms. For the Continent as a whole had crouched beneath the heel of the tyrant and was tamely ranged on his side.
In the year 1807 Britain had not one ally. Sweden, the last remaining, had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon’s was king of Holland; another brother was king of Westphalia; a third brother was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.
Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas, attacking sea-board forts, fighting vessels double their own size and tonnage, capturing prizes, making prisoners, in all directions. At this date there were some thirty thousand French prisoners in England; and before the close of the Peninsular War their number had risen to ninety thousand.
In 1807 Britain had as yet been less successful on land than at sea. Many a battle indeed had been gained, many a deed of splendid valour had been done; but while one expedition after another had been despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to administer any serious check to his advances. At that date England seems to have had an army inadequate to her needs, if not in numbers, at least in military equipment; and the expeditions sent were usually far too small for the work they were intended to do.
All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed, yet the spirit of the people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of liberty would prevail.
Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers. There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their patriotism; and there are commonly a few also who will sentimentally put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart from questions of character. This they did with Napoleon, adoring his genius, worshipping his success, ignoring his selfishness and the darker shades which belong to his history. But though such people made a good deal of noise with their opinions, after the fashion of excitable minorities, they were in numbers small. The mass of the people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last warm drop of blood in its body.
One more tragic story had yet to be told! One more apparent failure, which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the very moment of a success, which at the moment could only be read as a defeat. Then the ebb of the tide would have begun.
(To be continued.)
“‘YOUR PARDON, SIR. MY NAME IS MISS KEENE, AS YOU ARE AWARE.’”
[EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.]
By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”
here is a temptation to all to eat too much and take too little exercise. Many of us have from childhood learned to suppress this temptation; but we fear that there are many more who are constantly fighting the battle against laziness and over-eating, and not a few who give up the struggle altogether.
Of all earthly gifts we look upon good health as the greatest. We should doubt if anyone would choose gold in preference to health. And yet why is it that most persons strive so much harder for the former than for the latter. Perhaps it is that a healthy person has an idea that her health can take care of itself; whereas she knows full well that wealth cannot be acquired without working for it. Or perhaps it is that people do not know how to take care of their health.
It is all very well to talk about Nature being able to look after herself (or rather ourselves), that she is an infallible guide for us to follow, and that she tells us what to eat, when to sleep and how to be generally happy and healthy. But does Nature do this for man? Perhaps she would be so obliging if man were a natural animal.
But a civilised man is not a servant of Nature, and though he is unable to rebel against her, still he has the power to question her promptings and the will whereby to alter or nullify them. And if we think ever so shallowly we cannot escape from the knowledge that Nature very often prompts us to do what our higher understanding tells us is wrong, and if we do our duty we set aside the dictates of Nature in favour of our own consciousness. Even in cases dealing with the lowest vital points, such as eating, dressing, or sleeping, Nature by no means always directs us aright. When you have been running on a warm day and have got very hot, what does Nature tell you to do? To sit in a draught and get cold. And yet if you value your health, this would be the very last thing that you would dare to attempt.
Since we have no natural instinct to tell us how to keep healthy, we have founded upon our experience a code of laws to regulate our bodily functions. These laws of health, which we should all observe have been gradually evolved from the observations of generation after generation of physicians and others, and though they may have differed in detail at different times and in different countries, in the main they may be considered as absolute.
Everybody must have heard of these laws of health, but there is a very large number of persons who do not know what they are or how to carry them out.
There are six chief laws of health. The first deals with the sanitation of our homes and dwellings; the disposal of sewage; the draining of the soil; the laws of ventilation; the supply of sufficient quantities of pure water, and the general hygiene of the community. We support governors and committees to look after this part of the business, so we need not worry ourselves about it.
The second law of health concerns itself with personal hygiene. It tells us how we should wash and clothe ourselves; how we should ventilate our rooms; how to cool ourselves in hot weather, and the means by which the animal heat is maintained in winter.
The third law tells us about our food; how we should eat; what is the best food for man in health and sickness; what we should drink; and other matters connected with the supply of fuel to our bodies.
The fourth law deals with sleep. It tells us its nature; why we sleep. It insists on the necessity of sufficient sleep, and sleep at the right time.
The sixth law deals with the proper education of the mind. How to educate our children. The absolute necessity of mental study for the physical health of our bodies as well as its more important functions.
We have omitted the fifth law, but will now refer to it, and we will devote the rest of this article to its consideration. This law deals with the question of physical exercise.
Physical exercise is as essential to health as is food or sleep; but, because the need of it is not brought home to us so forcibly as these two other necessities, it rarely receives that attention which it deserves. Everyone knows full well that we may eat too little or too much, that we may eat at improper times, that everything that we can put into our interiors is not equally wholesome, that much that we can eat is positively injurious, and that we must eat every day, be the weather fine or rainy. But how few there are who know that the laws of exercise are in every way comparable with these! Most people are aware that we can take too little exercise; some moderate persons likewise know that we can overdo exercise, and that exercise is not equally good at all times. We have met people who know that all forms of exercise are not equally good, and a few who are aware that some forms of exercise are positively injurious; but we have seldom spoken to anyone who would admit that exercise is essential every day in all weathers.
The first question that we will discuss is, how much exercise is needed every day, how much will give the greatest benefit, and how much is positively injurious?
And on the threshold we are met with the greatest difficulty of the whole subject; for persons vary extremely in their endurance of exercise, and a walk which would be insufficient for one person may be infinitely beyond the powers of a second to endure. We cannot lay down a rule in this particular. Every person must find out for herself what amount of exercise she must indulge in daily. For a perfectly healthy girl of sixteen to twenty, three to five miles’ walk daily, or an hour’s bicycling, or, if outdoor exercise is not permissible, half an hour’s gymnastic exercise is the minimum amount of exercise which she should take daily.
Ever so many people have an idea that you can lay in a stock of exercise, as you can fill a coal-cellar, and draw on the reserve when you are too lazy to renew the supply. These persons will tell you, “I do all my walking on one day, so that there is no necessity for me to go out any other day in the week. I walk twenty-one miles on that day, that is three miles for each day in the week, so I am all right on this score.” Now just consider one moment what you are doing, and you will agree with us that your method is not only fallacious, but exceedingly harmful.
Suppose that you eat on an average two pounds’ weight of food a day. Do you think that it would be equally beneficial to take the fourteen pounds of food on one day and then have six days’ starvation? Some animals can do this, but man is not fitted for living in this way. With the usual logic evinced by most people when they are contradicted, we are at once answered, “Oh, if what I do is no good, as I cannot take exercise when I like, I shall not go out at all!” Evidently concluding that she takes care of her own health out of consideration for our feelings!
You must be a physician to hear this form of argument without smiling. Perhaps you would feel inclined to answer this lady, “Well, it does not matter to me what you do. It is your health, not ours, that is at stake.” So, indeed, would we like to answer; but if we did, what would be the good of us? No, we will not offend this lady; we will wait till to-morrow, when she will have come to the same way of thinking as ourselves.
You must never walk so as to over-tire yourself. We are not going to say that an occasional long walk is injurious. It is not, but it is not the proper way to take exercise.
All forms of exercise are not equally good. Some are very beneficial, others are doubtfully healthy, others again are downright noxious.
Walking is so infinitely the best form of exercise, that to compare any other with it is ridiculous. Walking is essential to health, and no other form of exercise can be substituted for it.
Boating, riding, and bicycling are fairly good forms of exercise, but none of these possesses the value of walking. Driving in a carriage is simply not exercise at all. You get a little fresh air and change of scene in driving; but as there is no exertion required in the process, there is no exercise.
Many of our outdoor games are good exercise, many are a little hard and excessive perhaps, but on the whole they are very healthy, unless carried to excess. These games are good because walking or running is an essential part of them. Golf is by far the most healthy of all games. As far as outsiders can tell, it seems to us to be walking with a little skill and excitement added to render the walking pleasant to those who will not walk for walking’s sake alone.
Of the forms of exercise that can be carried on indoors, we will say but little. A little dumb-bell or Indian-club exercise in the morning after the bath is very beneficial to healthy people. The dumb-bells should be made of wood, should not weigh more than two pounds, and should be used for a few minutes only. The heavy iron dumb-bells so often used to “improve the figure” are exceedingly injurious and should never be used.
Of gymnastics we would rather be silent altogether; but, since this form of exercise is very popular and largely on the increase, we must say a word or two about it. In our opinion gymnastics of any kind are poor forms of exercise, and the severer kinds and “strong man exercises” are exceedingly injurious to everyone.
We have been accustomed, when we look at a man whose muscles are enormously developed to consider him a strong man. But if you were to question him on his health or powers of endurance, you would probably discover that he was a very sickly specimen. We have seen a “strong man,” a rather famous one too, sit down in a corner and cry for half an hour because a boy threw a cherry stone into his eye—an injury at which a healthy person would laugh. Does this denote strength? Another strong man whom we knew was always shivering with the cold both in summer and winter. And once, when he happened to catch a cough, he was completely prostrate for weeks.
Another strong man told us that he was careful never to read or use his brain in any way because it interfered with the development of his muscles! Yet another who prided himself on the enormous expansion of his chest—we forget how many inches’ difference there was in the diameter of his chest in inspiration and expiration, but it was something sensational—caught cold, contracted consumption, and died six weeks later! Yet the exercises for expanding the chest are said to prevent phthisis!
The man with great muscles is not the strong man, but a sickly monster. What good can it do to anyone to lift a horse and cart, or break iron bars? Develop his muscles as far as he can, no man will ever excel a steam-hammer or an engine in force or weight.
Give us the thin wiry person who has cultivated his mind and body to do that work for which he was made. He is the man who can brave disease, and who, if he by any misfortune happens to be injured, can bear the suffering like a man, and whose body is well capable of recovery from the many vicissitudes to which it is liable.
Exercise is essential in all weathers. Because to-day is wet, are you going to forego your walk? In England about one day in three is rainy. Are you going to suppress one-third of your necessary exercise from this cause? Oh, you are afraid of catching cold! Now English people talk a lot about catching cold, for they of all nations suffer most from this cause. But very few persons indeed really understand what catching cold means or how it is produced. We hope to give an article on this subject shortly. At present we will merely state that, unless the day is very cold or windy, walking in the rain, if you are sufficiently protected, will not cause you to take cold. We would not, however, advise any invalid to go out on rainy days; but still they must not abandon exercise altogether. Half an hour’s dumb-bell exercise or mild gymnastics may be substituted for the day’s walk.
Exercise is best if taken in the morning. For very strong people it is preferable to take a walk before breakfast; but people who are not feeling up to the mark should not attempt to walk before having had some food.
You should never take exercise immediately after a meal, and conversely you should never eat till half an hour after a long walk, and you should never go to bed immediately you come home from a walk, but sit down quietly for at least half an hour before retiring.
[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]
FEBRUARY.
By LA MÉNAGÈRE.
It might seem a superfluity to be at the trouble of compiling and writing a menu for the small home dinner-table. If anyone thinks this, let them first give the experiment a trial before pronouncing upon it; they will, I venture to think, be gratified by the result.
In every household the dinner, be it early or late, is the important meal of the day, and it merits whatever dignity can be given to it by such accessories as service, care in laying the table, decoration, etc., and not the least of these will be found the menu written for every day. Especially if there be a guest at table is this little mark of attention appreciated.
We must remember that imagination plays a very important part in the human organisation; a good name goes a long way towards bringing a dish into favour, and I have found that the very fact of a name being given to a dish has its influence with the cook, who feels in a way bound to see that its character is “lived up to.” Then again it is a help to the caterer if the menus are kept, and those which have been particularly liked marked for future repetition. Much racking of brains is spared, and precious minutes are saved that else would have been spent in answering the puzzling question, “What shall we have for dinner to-day?”
Our market list in February varies little if at all from the previous month in the main things, but as the game season is practically drawing to an end, we find our resources fewer than they were. Guinea-fowl however are excellent, so are woodcock and snipe, also ptarmigan. Turkeys are still to be had, but they are very dear, as all poultry is. Hares and rabbits are very good.
Our supply of vegetables will be apt to run short if the weather is at all severe; savoys will not have suffered so much, and about this time we usually receive large consignments of cauliflowers from Italy. The South sends us also fresh lettuce, chicory, forced beans, and other “primeurs,” but their price is often beyond what a slender purse can afford. Anyone with a garden may at this time have corn-salad growing therein, which will be getting tender and eatable. Celery should still be good, and we ought to have an abundance of Jerusalem artichokes, Swede turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions and suchlike root vegetables.
In fruits we have imported apples and pears, oranges—getting to their best—lemons, citrons, and all dried fruits.
This month, by the way, is the time for making our yearly supply of orange marmalade; if we delay any longer the true Seville oranges will be gone, although bitter oranges are procurable up to April. After we have studied our menu we will consider the subject of marmalade making, for that toothsome sweet has now become one of our necessities of life.