[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER] VOL. VIII.—NO. 373.] FEBRUARY 19, 1887. [PRICE ONE PENNY. SPRING: ITS TROUBLES AND DANGERS. BY MEDICUS. [Illustration: A TREACHEROUS SPRING DAY.] _All rights reserved._] Although the subject I have chosen for this month’s paper might seem to some an uninteresting one, I feel I should be casting a slur upon the good sense of the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN if I doubted for a moment their willingness to hear what I have to say. I confess to you, however, that I would far rather discourse to you in pleasant language of perfumes distilled from flowers, of health-giving rambles by moorland, mount, or sea, of the ozone-laden air that gladdens the heart, or the sweet sunshine that warms and thickens the blood, than of rheums and aches and pains. But, was it not Solomon himself who said there is a time for all things? Yes, and the spring months in this country are fraught with a deal of little disagreeablenesses, which prudence and a modicum of care might enable us to avoid. Perhaps the state of the weather to-day may have something to do with the production of this article. My minimum thermometer has been down to 31° during the night, and winter not yet ended. As I write a wild east wind is roaring through the trees, bending the poplars as if they were fishing-rods, tearing the brown leaves from the elms, and whirling them high over the chimneys. Determined not to have fires in my study, I am fain, nevertheless, to envelop myself in my ulster, and thus I sit defiant; the surging, sea-like roar of the storm cannot disturb my equanimity, nor eke the swaying creepers that tap at the windows like dead men’s fingers. Winter will last with us far into April, and on the wings of east winds are borne along many of the seeds of illnesses we would do well to be prepared for. I was looking at a lime or linden tree last autumn, when the sun was shining brightly, and ere the leaves had commenced to turn from green to yellow. All know the graceful and beautiful linden tree, with its wealth of heart-shaped leaves, so close and thick that if a man climbs but half-way up, he is hidden in a cloudland of verdure, and might consider himself a hundred miles from the earth for all he can see of it. And the linden is a spreading tree, its lower branches stretch far outwards, and their tips almost touch the ground, so that once beneath it you are in a kind of fairy alcove or bower, into which even rain cannot find its way. The tree I was looking at was covered with myriads of its strange, wee flowers, the perfume from which had attracted bees in countless thousands. As I stood beneath its shade I was delighted with the fragrance of the wee flowerets, and charmed with the drowsy music of the little artisans, that were so busy gathering honey therefrom—the sweetest and best honey in the world, by the way; but I could not help wondering when I thought of the tens of millions of seeds, which, in a few weeks, would be scattered broadcast upon the earth, not one of which from this particular tree I have ever known to take root and grow. And why not? Listen, because the answer to the question has a bearing upon the subject I have under consideration. The reason why the seeds do not germinate, lies in the fact that the ground on which they fall resists their efforts to take root and grow. As the air is full after a time of the seeds of the linden tree, when the south wind blows, and, as the earth beneath is bedded with them, so, when the chill, cold breezes of spring are blowing, is the sky filled with seeds of illness, which fall on the lungs of those breathing them, and it depends upon the state of one’s blood and constitution, whether those seeds shall take root and develop coughs and colds, and aches and pains and rheums of every kind, or be repelled and do nought of harm. From this we may learn a lesson. For it is strange but true enough, that so great is the struggle for existence in this world—I do not mean among human beings, but among the living though invisible germs which—everywhere and at all times surround us in clouds, that no sooner does the health of anyone of the higher forms of animal life fall below par, than it is attacked by these, and if the weakness is extreme he falls a victim, and severe illness, that may even end fatally, is the result. It is a well-known fact, established long, long ago, that all such plagues as cholera, for instance, or typhoid fever, are caused by germs of disease afloat in the air, or in the water, and through these media introduced into the human system. These germs are ferments so strong, poisons so powerful, that if they once succeed in gaining ingress to the blood, hardly can all the skill of medicine destroy them or render them innocuous. Yet we daily hear of medical men and nurses walking about in the midst of plague and pestilence, but coming through the outbreak all unscathed. We can only account for this by believing that these individuals have well-kept up systems, that the lungs are constantly so healthy, and the surface of their bronchial tubes so smooth and pure, that the disease germs can find neither food nor foothold therein or thereon. Now the two great enemies to the health of the delicate during the spring months are cold and damp, and just as often as not they both attack one at the same time. Nor is it the delicate in constitution alone who have to fear the evil influence of these foes to life and comfort, for strong men and women, too, must be careful. If I were to ask any of my older readers what she considered the cold and damp of spring were most likely to give rise to in the shape of illnesses, the answer would almost certainly be, “Colds and coughs.” So far she would be right, but there is another ailment very prevalent at this time, and too often the result of exposure to the weather, namely, fits of indigestion. The sufferer feels chilly and not over well in the evening; perhaps she retires early, has a restless night, and awakens in the morning with disagreeable headache and complete loss of appetite. There may even be nausea and sickness. These symptoms are generally put down to a chill caught, or to a bilious attack, and the patient—for patient she must be now for a few days at all events—tries to think back what she has been eating. This kind of self-examination is usually somewhat unsatisfactory, and it would be better were she to ask herself, “Where and when did I expose myself to cold and damp _on an empty stomach_?” You notice I have italicised the last words, because I want you to get a firm grasp of the fact that when the system is, for the time being, weak and below par, with no food pouring into the blood, it is ten times more liable just then to become the victim of unhealthful influences. A little attack like that which I have mentioned is best got rid of by confinement for a day or two to the house, on a sofa, in an easy chair, but not in bed if possible, by diet of an easily-digested and nourishing kind, by a mild aperient and warm bath at bedtime, with, if it be deemed needful, about ten grains of Dover’s powder, while before being again exposed to this weather, a warmer woollen garment should be worn next to the skin. In the spring months the delicate, who would avoid aches and rheums, must be careful to keep the body well-nourished. Beware, however, I pray you, of that deluding sentence, which is the cause of so much human misery, “Keep up the strength.” To do this some people resort to the madness and folly of constantly cramming—I can use no milder verb—the body with all kinds of nourishing food and drink, till the liver and other internal organs are gorged with blood, and this blood itself is poisoned with bile and acid, and the stomach is utterly prostrated with the efforts it has to make, and the unusual strain put upon it. In this heated, half-fevered condition of system, if a person be exposed to cold wind or to damp, can she wonder that illness is the result? And this illness will take the form of rheumatism in the joints in one, muscular pains and stiffness in another, chest complaint in a third, and so on through every scale of trouble. The corollary from the above may be summed up in these words: in spring time get up soon in the morning, and after a pleasant bath and a breath or two of fresh air, sit down to a quiet breakfast of a palatable, but not over rich nature. Ring the changes, day after day, on eggs, cold fowl or game, fish (white), mild bacon, etc., and toast—invariably toast—with sweetest of butter, and either good tea, coffee, or cocoatina. Fruit should be eaten before breakfast, or the juice of oranges in sugar and water may be drank. Be moderate in eating, and if hungry at midday take a biscuit with a cup of cocoatina. Let luncheon and dinner be all partaken of under the same restrictions, and exclude stimulants and cordials as you value your health. At bedtime, if a bad sleeper, a tumblerful of sodawater may be drank with ten grains of bicarbonate of soda dissolved therein. This system of living is the only true way to keep up the system in spring, and to guard against its cold winds and the troubles that fly on the wings thereof. But there are other rules to be attended to if one would have perfect health at this season. Exercise must not be forgotten, to keep the skin acting freely; nor recreation, to keep the mind from becoming dulled and low. Depend upon it that exercise and real healthful recreation go very far to keep sickness at bay. Older people often suffer from cold in spring. They will not do so if they take the following advice. Sleep in a comfortable, well-ventilated room. Very great pains must be taken with the ventilation; it must be scientifically done by door and windows, and probably by chimney. I may dwell at some length another day about this; meanwhile, remember that a draught is not to be tolerated, and that this can easily be avoided by using perforated zinc, which can be painted most ornamentally, the little holes being afterwards freed with a long needle. Too heavy or too hot bedclothing should not be used, and if a fire is lit it should be so banked before retiring that it will smoulder away all night. All kind of stimulating cordials should be avoided, but cod-liver oil should be taken. About clothing for spring I have spoken before, and always do speak in favour of wool for young or old. I have also many times raised a warning voice against the dangers from wearing mackintoshes. The following is from a medical contemporary, and although it refers to topcoats, it is equally _àpropos_ of any extra over-garment. “The general effect is well enough while the overcoat is kept on, but the moment it is removed evaporation recommences, and the body is placed in a ‘cooler,’ constructed on the principle adopted when a damp cloth is wrapped round a butter-dish—the vapour passing off, abstracting the heat, and leaving the contents of the cooler refrigerated. The point to make clear is that the overcoat, let it be fashioned and ventilated as it may, does not prevent the underclothing from being saturated with moisture, but actually tends to make the moisture accumulate therein. This is proved by the sense of genial warmth felt while the overcoat is worn, and the evidences of perspiration easily perceived, under the arms and at the sides of the chest particularly, after the overcoat has been removed. Moreover, we take off the coat when we enter a warm house, and precisely at the moment when muscular activity is suspended. A very little consideration will suffice to convince the common-sense thinker that nothing can well be worse managed than this process, both as regards its nature and the time and condition of its operation. It is opposed to all the canons of health to allow the clothing to become saturated with perspiration, and then to take off the external covering and suffer rapid cooling by evaporation; while if it were designed to do this at the worst possible time, probably none worse could be found than when muscular exercise has been discontinued. The suggestion we (_Lancet_) have to offer is that it would be far better policy to wear only one coat at a time, and to make whatever change may be necessary by removing a thin coat and replacing it by a thicker one when going out of doors, and the reverse when coming in. If, instead of wearing overcoats, people would wear coats of different thicknesses, according to the weather and conditions generally, they would avoid the danger of cooling by evaporation; the garments saturated with moisture would be removed, and dry off the body instead of on it. We believe no inconsiderable portion of the ‘colds,’ attacks of lumbago, and even more formidable results of what are popularly called ‘chills,’ may be traced to the practice of wearing overcoats, which arrest the ordinary process of evaporation, cause the clothing within to be saturated with accumulated perspiration, and are then removed, when rapid cooling takes place. The avoidance of this peril is to be attained by such change of coats as the conditions require.” A DAUGHTER OF SORROWS. CHAPTER III. EXILE AND RESTORATION. It was midnight on the 19th of December, her seventeenth birthday, when Madame Royale left the Temple. M. Benezech, the Minister of the Interior, escorted her to the Porte St. Martin, where the travelling carriage provided for her journey to Vienna was in waiting. There went with her the Marchioness de Soucy, sub-governess to the children of France, an officer of the gendarmerie, and M. Gomin, one of the commissaries of the Temple. Hué joined her at Huningen, which she reached on Christmas Eve. Although all precautions were taken to prevent her being known, the princess was frequently recognised, and greeted with silent respect, in the course of her journey. She stayed over the 25th at the sign of the “Crow” at Huningen, and set out for Basle on the next day. As she left her room the innkeeper fell at her feet and asked her blessing. Tears stood in her eyes as she entered the carriage. “I leave France with regret,” she said, “and shall never cease to regard it as my country.” At Basle the exchange was effected, and Madame Royale left on the night of the 26th, accompanied by Madame de Soucy and escorted by the Prince de Gavres, who had been appointed by the Austrian Emperor for the purpose. At Lauffenbourg she stayed a day to celebrate a service in memory of her parents, and at Innspruck she remained two days to visit her aunt, the Archduchess Elizabeth. She arrived in Vienna on the 9th of January, 1796. Warmly received by the Emperor and Empress, with a household appointed for her in accordance with her rank, Madame Royale took her place at the Austrian Court, and here she spent the next four years. But amid the glitter of the Court of Vienna she was, perhaps, more truly lonely than she had been in the Tower of the Temple. Her heart was in the graves of those she loved, and the mourning garments which she wore told truly that she lived in the past. The Archduke Charles sought her hand, and the Emperor and Empress urged, and even insisted, that she should accept him. But Madame Royale steadily declined. She had no heart to give a lover; but the wish of her father and mother pointed out the path she was to take, and if she must wed it could only be her cousin, the Duc d’Angoulême. Her refusal drew down on her the Imperial displeasure, which was augmented by her careful avoidance of various political schemes into which it was sought to entangle her. It was a great relief, therefore, to the princess when this anomalous position was put an end to in the spring of 1799 by a demand on the part of the Emperor of Russia, made at the request of Louis XVIII., in terms which allowed no refusal, that Madame Royale should be permitted to join her uncle and the other members of her father’s family at Mittau, in Courland, where they were then residing. The princess gladly set out from Vienna in May, and on the 4th of June she was met at the gates of Mittau by Louis XVIII., his wife, and the Duc d’Angoulême. It was a touching meeting, memories of the past crowding up and dimming the happiness of the present, while rendering it more sacred. Not only her relatives, but loyal nobles of France and faithful servants of her father received Madame Royale at Mittau. Of these the most notable was the Abbé Edgeworth, who had attended Louis XVI. on the scaffold. The princess was, at her own request, left alone with the abbé, that she might learn from him the details of her father’s last moments. She ever cherished for the good man the warmest regard, and when, some years after, a dangerous fever broke out at Mittau and numbered him among its victims, it was Madame Royale who took her place by his bedside, closed his dying eyes, and followed his remains to the grave. The thought that lay uppermost in the minds of all when the first emotions of meeting were over, was the permanent union of Madame Royale to her family by her marriage with the Duc d’Angoulême. Where the wishes of all parties were at one, there was no need for delay. On the 10th of June, six days after the princess’s arrival, the marriage ceremony took place in the gallery of the ducal castle. Loving hands had decked the altar with branches of lilac and summer flowers, and here, in a strange land, in the presence of the little court of Louis XVIII., the prince and princess plighted their troth. It was the fulfilment of a vow rather than the consummation of a love match, and the faith was plighted to the dead as much as to the living. We have lingered so long over Madame Royale’s early life that we have no space to do more than glance at the years which immediately followed her marriage. In 1801 the exiles were obliged, through the caprice of the Czar, to quit Mittau in the depth of a severe winter. They appealed to the King of Prussia for a refuge, and he appointed Warsaw, where they remained some years. In 1805 they were again at Mittau. In 1808 they came to England. Here for two years they resided at Gosfield Hall, a seat of the Marquis of Buckingham in Essex, and here, in November, 1810, Louis XVIII. lost his Queen. They then removed to Hartwell Hall, a fine Elizabethan house between Oxford and Aylesbury, which they occupied until the year 1814. Some memories of the Duchess of Angoulême at Hartwell have been preserved. She is described as reserved and sad, and averse to the notice or attention of strangers. But she would often be seen standing in the porch of the little church a silent spectator of the Protestant service, and she expressed to the minister her pleasure at the reverence and fitness which characterised the English mode of worship. When the events of 1814 drove Napoleon into exile, and brought back Louis XVIII. to the throne, the Duchess of Angoulême was at Hartwell with her uncle. It was on the 25th of March that the news reached them of the proclamation of Louis XVIII. at Bordeaux. A month later they set out on their return to France. The Prince Regent accompanied them to Dover, the Duke of Clarence escorted them across the Channel. From Calais to Paris their progress was one long triumphal procession. The state entry of the King into Paris took place on the 3rd of May. Seated in an open carriage drawn by eight white horses, Louis XVIII. had on his left hand the “daughter of the last King.” It was on her that all eyes were turned, and to her that the warmest tribute of welcome was paid. Dressed wholly in white, there was on her countenance a kind of grave joy which struck all beholders. What strangely mingled thoughts were passing through her mind may well be imagined. Tears which she could not restrain fell frequently from her eyes. When she reached the Tuileries, which she had not seen since the fatal day when her parents had left it to take refuge in the Assembly twenty-two years before, the thronging memories of the past were too much for nature to bear, and she was carried into the palace in a swoon. There had reached Madame Royale, year by year during her exile, a bunch of flowers gathered from her mother’s grave. A faithful old Royalist, M. Descloseaux, had bought the ground in which the King and Queen, amongst many other victims of the Reign of Terror, had been interred, and to keep it sacred had converted it into an orchard and planted it with flowers. To this sacred spot the Duchess of Angoulême bent her steps the day after her entry into Paris, and there, as she thanked M. Descloseaux in a voice broken by emotion, the loyal old man made over to her the ground he had been preserving for her for the past seventeen years. Public rejoicings followed the restoration in abundance. At the opera “Edipus at Colonos” was presented, and at the passage where Edipus recounts the tender care of Antigone, Louis XVIII. turned to the Duchess of Angoulême and kissed her hand. Crowds came to the Tuileries to be presented to the duchess. She received twelve at a time, and the ladies so presented all wore white, with coronets of fleur-de-lys. The likeness which the duchess bore to her mother was much remarked; but it has been called “the resemblance of cold marble to animated flesh and blood,” and young _débutantes_ were apt to look upon the reserve and self-repression of the princess as austerity or want of sympathy. The terrible past was too deeply impressed on her mind for her to shake it off. The blessing of children, whose care and training might have brought her new hopes and new associations, had been denied her, and her thoughts went back constantly to the days of her youth and to the loved ones who had been so cruelly torn from her. Within the year of the Restoration the Duchess of Angoulême found new work to her hand. Ten months after Louis XVIII.’s entry into Paris came the tidings that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and once more landed on French soil. The hearts of the French people, never aroused to enthusiasm for Louis XVIII., turned instinctively to the Emperor. The Duchess of Angoulême was at Bordeaux when the news reached her. The men of the city were loyal to the monarchy, but the soldiers of the line awaited the course of events in silence. It was to win these that the duchess bent all her energy. Mounted on horseback, she reviewed the troops day after day, and sought earnestly to make them declare for the King. She met with little or no support, and when, on the 1st of April, the Imperial forces, under General Clauzel, arrived before the city, it was evident that all their sympathies were with the Emperor. Perceiving this, the duchess addressed herself to the National Guard and the citizen volunteers. These, regardless of personal danger, she reviewed in face of the enemy, whose loaded guns on the other side of the river commanded the position. General Clauzel, in the true spirit of chivalry, kept his men from firing. His first duty, he said, was to respect the courage of the duchess. He could not order her to be fired upon when she was providing material for the noblest page in her history. The Duchess of Angoulême did not forget General Clauzel’s chivalrous conduct. When he afterwards fell a prisoner into the hands of the Royalists, she interceded with the King and saved his life. But it was too evident that the duchess’s efforts were in vain. With tears in her eyes she thanked the National Guard for what they had done, and begged them, as a last favour, to lay down their arms and so avoid bloodshed. Then, with a sad heart, she set out for Pouillac, where she embarked for Spain. As she once more quitted the shore of France as an exile, she turned to the people who were assembled to witness her departure, and distributed amongst them the plume of white feathers which she wore in her hair. “Bring them back to me with better days,” she said, “and Marie Thérèse will show you she has a good memory, and has not forgotten her friends at Bordeaux.” The King had fled already, and the Duc d’Angoulême was temporarily a prisoner. But who does not know the story of the Hundred Days? It was on the 3rd of April that the Duchess of Angoulême left France; on the 18th of June Napoleon staked and lost all on the field of Waterloo. Five weeks later the duchess was once more on her way to Paris, her path strewn with flowers and the air rent with shouts of welcome. Louis XVIII. was already there, and as she rejoined her uncle at the Tuileries, it might have seemed that the cries of the populace were but the echoes of those of the year before, which time had not yet allowed to die away. But the orphan of the Temple—the _filia dolorosa_ of France—had had bitter experience of the fickle, easily-swayed French people. Was it matter for wonder if she withdrew more than ever into herself, and appeared more than ever cold and austere? Taking as little part as possible in Court festivities, she led a simple, retired life. Rising early in the morning, she lit her fire and made her early breakfast with her own hands. At seven o’clock she went to mass in the chapel of the palace. The day passed in simple routine; no sumptuous dinners or late hours were known in her household. But her charity flowed forth freely to all who were in need, although it was wisely administered so as to reach only the really deserving. The anniversaries of her parents’ deaths were always kept by her in strictest seclusion, and it was noticed that in her daily drives her carriage always made a wide detour, rather than pass the fatal spot where they had perished on the scaffold. (_To be concluded._) VARIETIES. A BROAD HINT. A prudent and parsimonious old lady, who lived in one of the Western Isles of Scotland, took the following method to get rid of the visitors and strangers who came to her house. Having set before her guests an ample Highland breakfast, she said, towards the conclusion of the meal:— “Pray, take a good breakfast; there is no saying where you may get your dinner.” A FAITHFUL DOG.—The following instance of canine fidelity has seldom if ever been surpassed. When nearing Montreal the engine-driver of a train quite recently saw a dog standing on the track and barking furiously. The driver blew his whistle; yet the hound did not budge, but crouching low was struck by the locomotive and killed. Some pieces of white muslin on the engine attracted the driver’s notice; he stopped the train and went back. Beside the dead dog was a dead child, which it is supposed had wandered on the track and gone to sleep. The poor watchful guardian had given its signal for the train to stop; but unheeded had died at its post, a victim to duty. AVARICE.—Extreme avarice almost always makes mistakes. There is no passion that oftener misses its aim; nor on which the present has so much influence, in prejudice of the future.—_Rochefoucauld._ A GOOD BEGINNING. When children first leave their mother’s room they must, according to an old superstition, “go _upstairs_ before they go _downstairs_, otherwise they will never rise in the world.” Of course it frequently happens that there is no “upstairs,” that the mother’s room is the highest in the house. In this case the difficulty is met by the nurse setting a _chair_ and stepping upon that with the child in her arms as she leaves the room. HOW TO PLAY AT SIGHT.—To play at sight the following conditions are necessary: First, a good grounding in technical execution; secondly, a regular and systematic knowledge of fingering; thirdly, a cheerful and ready disposition; and fourthly, undivided attention and concentration of the mind on the work in hand.—_Ernst Pauer._ GOOD COUNSEL THROWN AWAY.—A draught of milk to serpents does nothing but increase their poison. Good counsel bestowed upon fools does rather provoke than satisfy them.—_From the Sanskrit._ IN PERIL.—Women are safer in perilous situations and emergencies than men, and might be still more so if they trusted themselves more confidingly to the chivalry of manhood.—_Hawthorne._ DEGREES OF LIGHTNESS. Pray, what is lighter than a feather? Dust, my friend, in driest weather. What’s lighter than that dust, I pray? The wind that sweeps it far away. Then what is lighter than the wind? The lightness of a woman’s mind. And what is lighter than the last? Now, now, good friend, you have me fast. ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT.—An insane author, once placed in confinement, employed most of his time in writing. One night, being thus engaged by the aid of a bright moon, a slight cloud passed over the luminary. In an impetuous manner the author called out—“Arise, Jupiter, and snuff the moon!” The cloud became thicker, and he exclaimed, “The stupid! he has snuffed it out.” BE SATISFIED.—I say to thee, be thou satisfied. It is recorded of the hares that with a general consent they went to drown themselves, out of a feeling of their misery; but when they saw a company of frogs more fearful than they were, they began to take courage and comfort again. Compare thine estate with that of others.—_Robert Burton._ UNDESERVED PRAISE.—The shame that arises from praise which we do not deserve often makes us do things we should never otherwise have attempted.—_Rochefoucauld._ ADVERTISING SWINDLES. BY THE HOME PHILOSOPHER. Now, girls, I want you to take the Home Philosopher very much into your confidence, though I am going to begin by warning you to be very careful whom you trust. I have lived a good many years longer than any of you, and I have suffered in many ways that I am anxious to show you how to avoid, by not acting rashly on the spur of the moment, as, alas! I have so often done. Many of you would, no doubt, be glad to earn a little additional pocket money, even if you are in no way obliged to get your own living. In our day, nobody seems to be ashamed to make a little money; on the contrary, they show a great deal of honest pride if they are fortunate enough to be able to do so; and in my experience—and depend upon it, girls, it will be yours too, no money is so sweet in the spending as that which is earned. But few things that are very good, or very pleasant, are to be procured without trouble. Competition is so keen now, that it is no easy matter to make a few pounds, or even a few shillings, without some special talent, or, better still, some special training. Moreover, caution is necessary, or the unwary and inexperienced fall an easy prey to the rogues, ever on the alert to make their want his or her opportunity; for, worse luck, there are female as well as male rogues. One of their most successful modes of proceeding is the insertion of specious advertisements in newspapers. When one’s eyes are open it is easy to wonder how other folks can be so readily taken in—this, by-the-bye, generally after we ourselves have suffered. Years ago the writer of the following advertisement made quite a large sum, and I daresay you and I think his victims must have been very gullible. [Illustration: READING THE ADVERTISEMENTS.] “Music.—An extra opportunity for being instructed in music, either in town or country. The advertiser has found out a method by which he teaches to play on either the piano, violin, or guitar, in the completest manner, by only the practice of one single lesson, which he does on the most reasonable terms.” Imagine anyone thinking they could learn the use of an instrument in a lesson! Yet it is not one whit more absurd than the many employments offered and advertised, “without any previous knowledge being necessary,” even if it be merely colouring photographs. I have seen such an announcement with regard to painting on china, a palpable absurdity, for the very nature of the work demands a certain facility in manipulating colours and mediums, even if no skill in drawing be needed, and without this it must be very rudimentary painting indeed. As a rule, the more tempting such advertisements are, the more likely they are to be catchpennies, though, of course, among the many there are a few that are _bonâ fide_. I was myself a victim to a well-known fraud, which is a good example of many others. Lucrative employment in the form of lace, church work, etc., was offered to ladies in their own houses. Like hundreds of others, I applied by letter to M. D., Fern House, West Croydon, and in reply received a printed letter, in which constant employment was offered, all work to be paid for on delivery, if properly executed, and materials would be sent on receipt of one guinea. I rashly sent a guinea I could ill afford, and duly received materials and instructions for making lace for washing dresses. The lace I returned when the work was done, and was sent an acknowledgment for the same, but no money. While I was meditating what steps to take to regain my guinea, M. D., who proved to be a Mrs. Margaret Dellair, was brought up at the Surrey Sessions, “for obtaining divers sums of money and certain valuable securities by means of false pretences, with intent to cheat and defraud.” She had received over 200 post office orders for a guinea, but none of the many ladies who appeared against her had had payment of any sort. She was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude, her husband at the time undergoing a like sentence for the same class of offence. It was proved that the woman had no connection with any leading firms from whom she told her dupes she had constant orders; and I tell you this because I would advise you, whenever it is possible, to go to the fountain-head yourself. There are many good firms who will give orders for articles which girls could do at their own homes, if—but the _if_ is all important—the work is done in the best possible manner, and the whole transaction carried out on business principles and with business exactness. Punctuality is a most necessary part of the agreement. Work must be done to time if you wish to have the orders renewed. It is a pretty safe rule that whenever a demand is made for money over and above the value of goods sent, there is a necessity for being on the alert. A rascal used to take in a number of poor women by advertising for ladies to copy sermons at twopence per hundred words. Applicants were, as a preliminary, required to deposit half-a-crown, which was said to be returned if no work was sent, but before that could be done another seven and sixpence was demanded “to avoid any possibility of unscrupulous persons obtaining valuable sermons on pretence of copying.” Neither the half-crown nor seven and sixpence were ever returned, and in time the advertiser paid for his ingenuity by twelve months’ imprisonment with hard labour. There is no doubt many women have answered the advertisements which offer to teach a system of dressmaking, or give employment in painting lace, or painting Christmas cards, or turning the use of a knitting-machine to account, and have profited thereby; but you may be quite sure that if these lead to any good results the proceedings did not begin by the applicants being mulcted of shillings, half-crowns, half-sovereigns, or larger sums. Girls, if you want to earn money, draw your purse-strings tight. I have made many inquiries respecting societies and associations professing to be established with the benevolent object of assisting ladies to dispose of their handiwork, either artistic or needlework, and I have come to the conclusion that, however well such advertisements may read, they are to be accepted with caution. I should advise none of you to send any article or to put down any annual subscription to any such societies unless they have a working committee of people whose names carry weight and issue a properly-audited balance-sheet annually. Many of these sort of things are stated, perhaps without any intention of fraud, but without the power of commanding a sale or sufficient means in the background to find the rent and other expenses, or perhaps lacking the necessary business aptitude on the part of the promoters. They go on for a while, and then too often suddenly collapse. The goods, if returned at all, are mostly much the worse for wear, and, as a matter of course, the entrance fee is sacrificed. But perhaps some of you girls have literary talents, and desire to publish tales or essays, poems, or whatever else you are able to produce. If so, send them to well-established periodicals or country newspapers. Do not be discouraged by failure. Many a good article rejected over and over again has appeared in print and laid the foundation for a literary career. Let your copy be clear, carefully written on one side of the paper only, and the matter something about which you have some specific knowledge. Few well-established publications need to advertise for contributors, and it certainly is not necessary for you, a tyro in the art, to subscribe towards the publishing of a magazine in which your productions are to appear. Few such publications would have the faintest chance of success under such auspices. It might, under exceptional circumstances, when needlework is ordered, be necessary to deposit a few shillings as a guarantee that the materials sent to you will be duly returned or paid for; but if your writings require a deposit of any kind to get them read or published, the waste-paper basket is the best place for them, however highly you may yourself value them. Literature, after all, is a very open market, and fresh blood is always needed, though it may be a difficult matter to get your first step on the ladder. “Try, and if you don’t succeed, try, try, try again,” is the very best advice, but don’t subscribe to any association which offers even the most tempting terms to publish in any magazine issued by the joint subscriptions of amateur authors. Nor do not be tempted by offers of introductions to publishers for a consideration. Attack the publishers yourself, without any intermediary. No paid one will help you. I was asked to subscribe to something of the kind not long ago, and among the advantages the subscription was to give me was the power to try for the acrostic and other prizes offered by a well-known weekly paper, which was open to everybody. If as much ingenuity were employed in securing honest work as we find in these bogus advertisements, the perpetrators, I think, would be much better off. The addresses change so frequently, applicants are so deluged with printed testimonials, that they are the more easily gulled. Sometimes the advertisers are obliged at last to send something in return for the money. One Everett May, for example, who for eighteenpence undertook to teach how to earn four guineas a week. For a time he would declare that the packet was posted, and must have been lost in transit, but after a long correspondence and constant demands for more money, if very hard pressed, something arrived, as, in one case, a last, a small boot for a child, and a few pieces of leather, from which it would be impossible to make a fellow boot, and a note concluding with, “As soon as we receive from you a specimen equal to pattern we shall be glad to afford you constant employment.” Another advertisement offered to gentlemen in a respectable circle of acquaintance the means of increasing their incomes, and on receipt of thirty stamps advised the purchase of a cwt. of potatoes for 4s., a basket, and 2s. worth of flannel, to have half the quantity of potatoes baked nightly, put them in the basket well wrapped in flannel, sell them at a 1d. each, and so earn £2 a week. Perhaps some of you girls may be attracted by the advertisements which seek for a depôt where some everyday article may be sold, and if you are in a position in which such a sale at home is possible you may, perhaps with a good deal of trouble, make a little money in that way. Such advertisements are far more _bonâ fide_, I expect, than £2 and upwards offered by certain firms to persons of either sex without hindrance to present occupation. To any girls about to have recourse to these, my advice would be like that of Albert Smith to those about to marry—“Don’t.” Just now the word competitions occupy many advertisements in the newspapers. I counted fourteen different addresses in one number. The amount offered in prizes is tempting, and those of my friends who have competed have found the promoters apparently fair dealing. But it is not easy to obtain a prize, and the shilling paid by each competitor is, I expect, the most important point to the advertiser. One other class of advertisement I am about to touch upon, viz., the fortune-telling ones. Seeing the penalties the advertisers lay themselves open to, it is wonderful that they appear at all. If any of you send your shilling in the hope of obtaining your horoscope or any revelation as to your future life, based on the information you furnish as to your height, colour of hair, eyes, and date of birth, even supposing you receive any reply at all, you will very surely have wasted your money. None of these folks know any more of your future than The Home Philosopher, and if I could tell the future, I should know what stocks were going to rise, and what horse will win the next Derby, and thereby make more money in a week than the fortune-tellers, if they had ten lives. Depend on it, if they could they would do the same. ARDERN HOLT. THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND; OR, THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. BY EMMA BREWER. CHAPTER V. In our last interview you saw me firmly and proudly established in my new home in Threadneedle[1]-street. By this move I became a parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks, whose church and burial-ground were quite close to my new house. It was but a small parish of ninety-two houses at the time of my entering it. The church was old, for mention is made of it as early as 1368. I cannot give you many particulars about it except that it was rebuilt or renovated in 1462, and that it was slightly injured by the Great Fire in 1666. It had a certain sort of melancholy interest for me, for it was the burial-place of many who had been my early friends, among others, the Houblon family. The living, which was in the gift of the bishops of London, was worth only £120 per annum; not a very rich one, you will say. To save returning to the subject of this parish again, I will tell you now how it is that at the present moment you see neither church nor churchyard, neither parish nor parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks. The increase in my duties and the variety of work put upon me, rendered the size of my house wholly insufficient for the purpose, therefore, from time to time, as opportunity offered, I purchased houses in the parish, power to do so being granted me by Acts of Parliament, and so rapidly were my purchases made that in fifty years from the time of my settling in Threadneedle-street, I owned the whole parish of St. Christopher le Stocks, save and except seven houses on the west side of Princes-street and the church and burial ground. And of the rates and taxes of the parish I paid five-sixths of the whole. Even with this extension of room I could not get on, and an Act was passed vesting the glebe land and parsonage belonging to the rector of the parish in the governor and directors of the Bank of England. Nor was this all; I wish it were. The riot of 1780, which I will tell you about a little later, suggested that the church might prove a dangerous fortress for rioters in case of any attack made on my cellars, and after long consultations I and my directors entered into an agreement with the patrons and rector, with the sanction of Government of course, that the church and churchyard should be ours. On this site, therefore, the west wing of my residence is built, upon a plan designed by Sir Robert Taylor. I am glad to get over this point in my story, for the demolition of the church caused such pain to those who had friends and relatives buried there, that I would not witness it again for any consideration. Even at this distance of time, when I look out from my parlour on to the churchyard, which is now full of flowers, and is, in fact, my garden, my conscience is troubled, and I should have been happier if a building devoted to God’s service had not been destroyed to increase my domain. It is a painful subject with me, and so I am sure you will excuse my referring to it when the years come under review in which they took place. Should any of you wish to see memorials of the Church of St. Christopher, you will find one or two in St. Margaret’s, Lothbury, with which parish that of St. Christopher’s was united. They consist of two flat figures placed in niches on either side of the altar, and a metal bust inscribed to Petrus le Maire, 1631, which stands at the west end of the church. And now to go on with my story. You may not be aware of it, but I have several children of various ages, each with distinct characteristics and purposes, and if you are ever to gain any advantage through your introduction to me it must be by means of one or more of these. They differ from other people’s children in many respects, and yet I would not have them other than they are. They bear a high character throughout the world, and are, I may say, blindly trusted, for those who place implicit confidence in them know little or nothing of their daily life and character, which are known thoroughly only by their own circle, and would, I think, be puzzled to give a reason for their trust. They speak a language peculiarly their own, a language which not one in a thousand of their admirers can understand, yet it is one which, with a little attention, might be taught in our public schools with as much ease as French or Latin, and would richly repay the trouble of learning. The remark of a man known as Captain Cuttle illustrates the want of education I refer to. He says, “I feel bound to read quotations of the funds every
{'title': "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 373, February 19, 1887 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}