Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER. VOL. VIII.--NO. 357. OCTOBER 30, 1886. PRICE ONE PENNY. THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY A PASTORALE. BY DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc. [Illustration: "THE POOR LITTLE BARONESS, WHO WAS ASLEEP, STARTED UP."] CHAPTER V. THE CHATEAU AFTER THE LOSS OF THE BABY. As the baron had conjectured, the housemaid whom he had called out of the nursery to look for Léon's cane, on finding her master had gone without it, did not hurry back, but stopped talking to some of the other servants for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when she returned to the nursery, and to her amazement found the baby was gone. She was not alarmed at first, except she supposed she should get a scolding from the nurse, who she imagined had come in and taken the child to another room; however, having the excellent excuse that her master had called her away she went in search of the nurse, but now not finding her anywhere, and hearing from the footman that she was not expected back till very late, Marie became seriously alarmed. "Perhaps madame has taken it into her room; she might have heard it crying, and fetched it," suggested the footman, and Marie, very much against her will, felt she was in duty bound to go and see. So, knocking at her mistress's door, she called out, "Madame, has she taken the baby?" The poor little baroness, who was asleep, started up, and called to the servant to come in. "Madame, has she the baby?" repeated the girl. "The baby? No, what do you mean? Where is it, and where is nurse?" cried the baroness, jumping up and slipping on a dressing-gown and slippers. Marie began to cry, and to pour forth such a volley of words, excuses, fears, alarms, and wonders that the baroness could make out nothing, and rushed to the nursery to see for herself what had happened. The empty cradle did not, however, throw much light upon it, and the servants who answered the bell, which the baroness clashed wildly, looked as scared as the sobbing Marie to find the baby had disappeared. A search from attic to basement was at once instituted, the men-servants were sent into the grounds with lanterns, the whole house was turned topsy-turvy, in the midst of which the nurse returned, and finding her baby was gone, went into violent hysterics, while the young baroness, with flying hair and dilated eyes, rushed about, wringing her hands, and looking, as she felt, distracted with grief. The search was, of course, in vain, and they were just coming to the conclusion that the baby had been stolen, when the baron returned from seeing Léon off. The moment the baroness heard his voice in the hall she flew down the wide oak staircase, crying, "Arnaud! Arnaud! My precious baby is gone, it is stolen; find her, find her, or I shall go mad." And a glance at her wild eyes almost testified she spoke the truth. "She is not stolen, she is safe enough," said the baron, sulkily. "Safe? Where? Where? Take me to her, my precious one; where is she?" cried the baroness, with a loud burst of hysteric laughter on hearing her child was safe. "Silence, Mathilde, don't behave in this ridiculous style. Come with me," said the baron, in a tone his wife had never heard him use to her before, and which had the effect of reducing her to tears; and, sobbing wildly, she hung on her husband's arm as he half led, half carried her upstairs, and laid her on a sofa in her own room. "Now, Mathilde, if you will try and compose yourself, I will tell you what I have done with the baby. For some time I have felt sure that you were ruining the child's health by the absurd way in which you coddle it up, and, moreover, making yourself a perfect slave to it, neglecting all your other duties," began the baron, as he seated himself on the edge of the sofa by the side of his sobbing wife, who was, however, much too anxious about her baby to be able to listen patiently to the marital lecture to which the baron was about to treat her. "But Arnaud! Arnaud! where is the baby? Oh, do tell me; it is cruel to keep me in this suspense," sobbed the baroness. Now, to be cruel to his wife was the very last thing the baron intended; it was only out of the extremity of his jealous love for her that he had sent the baby away. Thoughtless and selfish he might have been, but surely no one could say he had been guilty of cruelty to this wife, whom he loved so madly that even her love for her child had raised the demon of jealousy within his breast. The word "cruel" stung him to the quick; it was a new phase of his conduct, one that had never struck him before, and as he glanced at the poor little baroness, who had half risen on the sofa, and was looking at him with an agonised look on her pretty face, he was seized with remorse, and felt it impossible to go on with the _rôle_ he had attempted to play of the wise father and husband, who had only acted for the good of his wife and child. Already he was beginning to repent of his rash act, and if it had been possible to go after the yacht the chances are the baron would have started at once, and brought back the baby for the pleasure of seeing its mother smile again. As it was impossible, the next best thing was to make the best of it, and if Mathilde could not be comforted in any other way, why he must promise to let her have it back again. He decided all this as he petted the baroness, and tried to comfort her by whispering fond nothings into her ear; but he soon found all his caresses were useless, unless he yielded to her entreaties and told her where the baby was, and as all he knew about it was that it was on board Léon's yacht, on which it was being taken, he believed, to England, though he was by no means sure, this did not tend to allay the poor mother's anxious fears. Her baby confided to the wild Léon's charge, tossed about in a yacht with not a woman on board to take care of it, her fragile little daughter, on whom the wind had never been allowed to blow, now at the mercy of wind and waves for days, and then, supposing the child was alive, which in her present mood the baroness declared to be impossible, even if it were, not to know where it was till Léon came back, perhaps for a week or more, for the baron dare not tell her it would probably be a month before he returned--oh, it was unbearable! She was sure she could neither eat nor sleep until she had her baby back. Life until then would be a burden to her. What could she do without it? Already she was sure it knew her; and oh, how happy she had been watching by its cradle! If Arnaud only knew how she delighted in nursing and playing with it, even to gaze on it while it slept was a joy to her! Oh, if he only understood, he would never have been so cruel as to send it away. All the baron's arguments as to the advantages to the baby which were to be derived from his scheme, and the wonderful health and strength it was to derive from leading a less luxurious life, failed to reassure the baroness, and she passed a sleepless night, and looked so ill and miserable the next morning that the baron was angry with her for looking ill, and with himself for being the cause. No one in the house but the baroness had been told the night before what had become of the baby, the general opinion being that it had been taken or sent to some woman in the neighbourhood to look after; but when it became known that it was sent away in Léon's charge no one knew where, the sympathy with the baroness was universal, and the baron found himself looked upon as a jealous tyrant, with no real love for either his wife or child. "A nice father you are," cried his brother Jacques. "The idea of trusting Léon with a baby. Why, he will pitch it overboard if it cries," said little Louis, a remark which so annoyed the baron that he promptly seized Louis by the collar and turned him out of the room. "You really must have been mad, Arnaud, to dream of such a thing as entrusting Léon, of all people in the world, with an infant," said the old baroness, for once taking the part of her daughter-in-law against her son. Père Yvon said nothing just then; it would not have been wise to have done so while the baron's temper was ruffled by the criticisms of his family or in their presence, but when he was alone with Arnaud, Père Yvon spoke his mind pretty freely, and read the baron a severer lecture than he had ever done all the years he was under his tuition. It was nothing but jealousy which had prompted such a mad, cruel act, and jealousy of the most unreasonable--he might almost say unpardonable--kind: a father to be jealous of his wife's love for his own child! There was a German saying, excellent in the original, but which lost the double play upon the words in the translation which Père Yvon quoted to the baron-- "Die Eifersucht ist eine Leidenschaft, Der mit Eifer sucht muss Leiden schaffen," which means, freely translated, that jealousy is a passion which brings misery to him who indulges in it; and Père Yvon impressed upon Arnaud that if any misfortune happened to the baby, he would have no one to blame but himself, for though all sins bring their own punishment, jealousy is undoubtedly one that can never be indulged in with impunity. This, and much more to the same effect, Père Yvon said, and the baron, lying in an easy chair, listened patiently enough, partly because he was very fond of the chaplain, and partly because he was so angry with himself now for his folly that it was a relief to him to be blamed roundly for it. All that day the baroness wandered about the house in a vague, restless way, unable to settle to anything, and trying to amuse herself by consulting with the nurse as to how they should go and fetch the baby back when they discovered where it was. She ate little or nothing, and after another sleepless night looked so worn and ill that the baron sent for a doctor, who came and urged strongly that the baby should be sent for at once, or he would not be answerable for the consequences; the suspense and anxiety were telling so on the baroness that if the strain lasted much longer he feared she would have an attack of brain fever. On hearing this the baron was dreadfully alarmed, and telegraphed to Léon's agent at Havre to let him know immediately he heard from M. Léon de Thorens, who had sailed two nights before in the Hirondelle for a cruise in the Channel. The agent telegraphed back that he knew no more than M. le Baron at present, but so soon as he received any further information he would let the baron know. This did not reassure the baroness, who had taken it into her head that something had happened to the yacht, and not all Arnaud's promises that the moment he knew where the child was he would go himself and bring her back could comfort the poor, anxious little mother, who, with pale cheeks and black marks round her great brown eyes, which were always large but looked bigger than ever now that they had not been closed since the baby left, wandered about the château, looking like a picture of despair. This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was handed to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the message over again and again before the words, though they were burnt indelibly into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind. Slowly he grasped the terrible truth; poor Léon, the life of the house, wild, handsome Léon was drowned, and his own poor innocent baby as well, drowned, and by his fault. He was little better than a murderer, he thought, in the first outburst of his grief, and he must tell Mathilde, and perhaps kill her too. How should he ever have the courage to do this? Strange to say, though perhaps, after all, it was not strange, the baron was far more cut up at the sad fate of his little girl, whom, a few days ago, he had been so anxious to get rid of, for a while, at least, than he was at the news of poor Léon's death. So much hung on the baby; Mathilde's life might almost be said to depend upon its recovery, and now he must go and strike the blow which would perhaps kill her. Père Yvon was indeed right; his jealousy was truly bringing a terrible punishment in its train, and the baron buried his face in his hands, and sobs of bitterest grief shook his whole frame. At last, rousing himself, he went to the door of the study where the chaplain was engaged teaching the younger boys, and beckoned him out. Père Yvon saw at a glance by the baron's pale, scared face, as well as by the telegram he held in his hand, that something terrible had happened, and drawing Arnaud into the nearest room, he asked eagerly what was the matter. The baron answered by placing the telegram in his hands, and paced the room in a frenzy while Père Yvon read it. The chaplain's first thought was for the poor widowed mother, whose darling son was thus cut off in the beauty of his youth. He had known her so many years, and had comforted her in so many sorrows, it was natural he should think of her first, before the other mother, who had her husband to comfort her, and whose child was only an infant of a few months old. "La pauvre baronne! My poor madame! It will break her heart: her darling son," murmured the chaplain. "Ah, poor Léon. I can't realise it yet that we shall never see him again, and my poor, innocent baby too; it will kill Mathilde. Oh, mon père, how are we to tell them?" groaned the baron. "I will tell your mother; it is not the first time I have been the bearer of ill news to her, and you must break it as gently as you can to your wife. It is a sad day indeed for this household, but the Lord's will be done. He knows best, and He will not send any of us more than we are able to bear," replied Père Yvon, as he went on his sad mission to the old baroness. As he had said, he had broken many sorrows to her, but he had never had to deal a heavier blow than when he told her her favourite son was drowned, the son of whom she was so proud, whom she loved better than all her other children; but the baroness was a saintly woman, and one of her first sayings after she heard the news was, "Mon père, it is hard, but it is just--he was my idol." She did not grieve in any extravagant way; she did not absent herself from any meals; she attended mass, for she was a devout Catholic, in the private chapel every morning, and, indeed, spent a great deal of time there in prayer; she never gave up one of her accustomed duties, visited the poor as regularly as ever, but from the day she heard the sad news to her death, which happened a few years later, she was scarcely seen to smile again, and she was never heard to mention Léon's name except to Père Yvon. Hers was a life-long sorrow, too deep for words, too deep for even tears to assuage its poignancy; her heart was broken; she had no further interest in this life; all her hopes were centred on that life where she hoped to meet her darling son again, never to be separated from him. The young baroness bore her trial very differently. She gave way to a passionate outburst of grief on learning that her baby was drowned--a grief in which the baron shared, and was, indeed, in more need of consolation than his wife, for to his sorrow was added remorse and bitterest stings of conscience for having brought such sorrow to his wife, about whom he was very anxious, until the doctor assured him the sad certainty was even better for her than the terrible suspense she had been enduring for the last week. To a young, passionate nature hitherto undisciplined by the sorrows of life, like the young baroness's, anything was easier to bear than suspense, and the doctor assured Arnaud that the passionate grief in which his wife indulged would do her no harm--on the contrary, she was more likely to get over it quickly. Violent grief is rarely lasting; there invariably follows a reaction. A few days later the baron received another telegram from the Havre agents, telling him they had found out that the Hirondelle had left Yarmouth, on the Norfolk coast, where she had been lying for two or three days, the day before she was lost, and was then intending to cruise round the coast of Great Britain. The baron was immediately raised from the depths of despair to the highest pinnacle of hope on hearing this, for he felt sure Léon had gone ashore at Yarmouth to place the baby with some Englishwoman, and had remained there some days on purpose. Confiding his new hope to Père Yvon, he at once decided to start that night for England by Dover and Calais, for already steamers ran once or twice a week between these ports. He would then go on to Yarmouth by stage-coach, and make all inquiries for his baby. His difficulty was, he did not know the language, but living near the Château de Thorens was a Monsieur de Courcy, who had married an English wife, and spoke English very well. He was intimate with the De Thorens, and the baron hoped he might be able to help him in his trouble. Accordingly he called on the De Courcys at once, and, to his great relief, Monsieur de Courcy offered to go to Yarmouth with him, while Madame de Courcy suggested that the baroness should come and stay with her during their husbands' absence, for the château was a very gloomy place for the poor young mother while the shadow of death rested upon it. Arnaud jumped at this, for he had never been separated from his wife since their marriage, and he would far rather leave her with this pretty young English lady than at the château, while his mother's grief for Léon saddened the whole household. It was easy to account for his journey to England, by saying that he was going to get particulars of the accident from the place off which it happened. This would seem only natural to Mathilde, who must on no account be told that he had any hope of finding the child. She had accepted the news of its death without questioning it, and it was far better to let her continue under this impression than to raise fresh hopes, which, after all, might never be realised, and if he could only persuade her to come to Parc du Baffy while he was away he would feel quite happy about her. Madame de Courcy and the baroness were on intimate terms with each other, although Madame de Courcy was a staunch Protestant, and both the baron and baroness bigoted Romanists; but the great attraction to Mathilde, as Madame de Courcy guessed, would be her child, a beautiful boy of three years old, in whom the baroness had delighted until her own baby was born and absorbed all her time and affection. Knowing this, Madame de Courcy offered to send her boy to the château with the baron, hoping to inveigle the baroness to return with him to Parc du Baffy, a manoeuvre which succeeded admirably, for Mathilde, not having seen the little Rex for some weeks, was so enraptured with him that she could not part with him, and as Madame de Courcy could not be asked to spare her child as well as her husband, the baroness consented to go and stay at the Parc while the baron was away. The little Rex was too old to remind her of her own baby, and his pretty mixture of French and English amused her immensely, and for the moment charmed away her sorrow. Had she known the real object of her husband's visit to England, the suspense and anxiety would have made her seriously ill; not knowing it, the change and Rex's society did her good, so that Madame de Courcy was able, after a day or two, to write to the baron and tell him his wife was certainly better and more cheerful since she had been at the Parc du Baffy. Meanwhile the baron and M. de Courcy reached Yarmouth safely, and learned the day and hour on which the Hirondelle arrived and also left Yarmouth, and that the cause of her remaining so long there was the absconding of an English sailor, named, or, at all events, calling himself, John Smith. The baron was more elated than ever at hearing this, for he knew the Englishman was to place the baby out to nurse, and if he were safe, the chances were that the child was too; but when, after having run two or three John Smiths to earth and discovered that they bore no resemblance to the original, it became evident that the real John Smith had made himself scarce, and was probably not John Smith at all, the baron's hopes of recovering the child again fell, though he could not abandon the idea that if he could only find the runaway sailor he should hear some news of the child. The wish was, perhaps, father to the thought, but he could not help thinking the child was not on board the Hirondelle when she went down, now that he found the English carpenter had left the yacht at Yarmouth. But the baron felt his inability to speak English a great drawback to prosecuting his inquiries as fully as he would have liked, although M. de Courcy was very kind and did all any friend could have been expected to do; still, it was not the same as speaking the language himself, as the baron felt, and he bitterly regretted he had never tried to master its difficulties. Many of the Yarmouth fishermen and boatmen remembered the Hirondelle and the handsome French gentleman to whom she belonged, but not one had ever seen the sign of a baby on board her, though this did not throw much light on the matter, as the baby might easily have been kept below or removed at night. At last, after spending a week or ten days in fruitless inquiries, the baron and his friend returned to France, the baron convinced in his own mind that some hope of his child being safe still existed, a hope which he dared not communicate to the baroness, but which, nevertheless, lingered in his breast for many a long day. (_To be continued._) THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND; OR, THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. BY EMMA BREWER. INTRODUCTION. A gentleman asked me the other day upon what subject I intended next to write, and on telling him that the Editor had kindly permitted me to deal with the Bank of England and the National Debt, he said, "Nonsense! what do girls want to know about the Bank of England and the National Debt? Let them be content to leave all such knowledge to men, and rest satisfied if they get their dividends all right and know how to spend them properly and keep out of debt." He seemed to forget that to do even the little he permitted us would require knowledge and education of a liberal character, and that without these our desires might outrun our income, and getting into debt might prove our normal condition. A thorough knowledge of our circumstances is better than partial blindness, and to see things all round and weigh them justly is better than sitting with hands folded while men see and judge for us. The subjects of the Bank of England and the National Debt are well worth a study, and will not fail to afford us both varied and interesting information. Among other things they will tell us how the Bank of England came into existence; what the nation did previous to its existence; how our country came to have a debt which it has never been able to pay off, and how it would prove a calamity if it were possible to pay it off suddenly. Again, we shall learn the meaning of "selling out" and "buying in" money, and what is understood by "consols," "reduced threes," "stocks going up and down," "a run upon the Bank," "panic," and many other such terms. There is no reason why girls should not be able to give answers to all of these, and every reason why they should, seeing that an intimate knowledge of these subjects is as much a part of our nation's history as is the history of our kings and queens, our wars, and our institutions. And even beyond this, it is a matter of importance that girls having property, little or much, should understand the character of those to whom they entrust it. There are many and valuable books published upon these subjects, but they are expensive to buy and take a long time to wade through; in addition to this, they are so learned that we women-folk fail often to get the simple information we require, even when we have read them. The Bank of England, either by name or by sight, is known, I suppose, to all of us; but its origin, its working, its influence, is not so familiar to us, and it does not seem to me that we should be going at all out of our province if we were to ask the "Old Lady of Threadneedle-street" to tell us something of her history, her household, and her daily life, seeing that most of us contribute to her housekeeping, some more, some less. We trust her so completely that "safe as the Bank of England" has passed into a proverb; yet, for all that, we should like the old lady's own account of how she came into existence, and how she became such a power in the land, and what she does with all the money we lend her, and out of what purse she pays us for the loan. She certainly ought to be able to tell an interesting tale--for her palace, her servants, her house-keeping, her treasures, her cellars, her expenditure, her receipts and clearing, the frights she has every now and again both given and received, must each and all be more amusing and full of interest than any fairy tale told by Grimm or Andersen. CHAPTER I. THE STORY OF THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. And so you want me to tell you the story of my life! Telling tales is not quite in my line, but I will do the best I can; and should I become garrulous and tedious, as old ladies are wont sometimes to be, you must recall me by a gentle reminder that you live in the present century, whose characteristics are short, decisive, and by all means amusing. My career has been a strange and eventful one, as you yourselves will see if I can interest you sufficiently to listen to the end. Of course, I was not always known as the Old Lady of Threadneedle-street; indeed, I can well remember the feeling of annoyance with which I saw _Mr. Punch's_ illustration of me in 1847, as a fat old woman without a trace of beauty, except in my garments, which were made of bank notes. I have kept a copy of it, and will just pencil you the outline. The annoyance was intensified when I found myself handed down to posterity by him as the _Old_ Lady of Threadneedle-street. He could have no authority for this picture, seeing that, like the Delphian mystery of old, I am invisible, and deliver my oracles through my directors. You are girls, and will quite understand the distress of being thrust suddenly into old age. Up to 1847 I was young, good-looking, and attractive, and to be bereft of my youth and romance at one blow; to know that from henceforth all would be prosaic and business-like, that I should never again have lovers seeking my favour, was a condition of extreme pain. I had always prided myself on my figure, but even this _Mr. Punch_ did not leave me, but told the world that it was due to tight-lacing. It was very cruel, and I have sometimes thought it was envy of my position; but let that go. I took counsel with myself, and determined to face the future with the resolve to be the very nicest old lady in the world, and to make myself so useful to my fellow-creatures that they should love me and stand by me even though my first youth had passed. And I am sure you will agree with me in thinking that I have accomplished this, and that not only have I kept clear of weakness and decrepitude, but have achieved for myself a reputation and position second to no lady in the land. It has been necessary for me to make this little explanation, otherwise you might have thought I had never been young. And now to proceed. It was in the reign of William and Mary that I first saw the light, being born in Mercers' Hall on the 27th of July, 1694. From this place, after a few months, I was removed to Grocers' Hall, Poultry; not the stately structure with which you are acquainted, but one much more simple, which was razed to make room for the present building. I may say, without vanity, that my birth created a sensation throughout the length and breadth of the land. The House of Commons even was not exempt from this excitement, but set aside its serious work to discuss whether or not I should be strangled and put out of the way, or nurtured into strength by its support and countenance. Those members who were in favour of the last resolution declared that I should rescue the nation out of the hands of extortioners, lower interests, raise the value of land, revive public credit, improve commerce, and connect the people more closely with the Government, while those of the contrary opinion assured the House that I should engross the whole money of the kingdom, that I should weaken commerce by tempting people to withdraw their money from trade, that I should encourage fraud and gaming, and corrupt the morals of the nation. Little recked I of all the stir and commotion my birth was causing, as, nursed and cared for by my father, William Paterson, a Scotch merchant, and his friend, Mr. Michael Godfrey, I gradually grew into strength. It was not till long afterwards that I heard and understood the circumstances of my birth, and how around me were centred the interests of the kingdom. When I was only twelve months old, those who were bound together to take care of my interests separated my father from me, giving as an excuse that he was of too speculative and adventurous a spirit to be entrusted with my welfare. Poor father! It has always seemed to me very sad that he who had worked so long and so persistently for my success should have been condemned to spend the last years of his life in solitude and neglect in Scotland, while I, his child, was gradually becoming everything that his highest ambition could have pictured; but so it was. [Illustration: THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. From "Punch."] I have often wished that he had employed those last weary years of his in writing a history of his life. I am sure it would have interested all classes of readers, but I suppose he was too sad and out of heart. He was forty-one years of age at the time of my birth, having been born in Dumfries in 1658. He was one of those who may be said to live before their time. He possessed great ability, knowledge, and experience, and was a great traveller, yet, with all this, his life was a series of disappointments and failures. His great friend, Michael Godfrey, who had worked so faithfully by his side, would, I am sure, never have forsaken him, but he was struck down by a ball in the trenches of Namur, in 1695, while seeking the king in my interests. He was a great loss to me, although I was too young at the time to estimate it fully. He has left behind him a quaint and graphic account of my infancy, with which I shall hope to make you acquainted later on. Should you feel any interest in him, look in St. Swithin's Church some day when passing, and there you will find a monument to his memory, which records that he "died a batchelour, much lamented by his friends, relations, and acquaintances for his integrity, his knowledge, and the sweetness of his manners." My name "Bank," which signifies "bench" or "high seat," I derived from Italian forefathers, who, in early days, carried on their business in the public places or exchanges on _benches_. This business of theirs consisted chiefly in being the depositories of the wealth of rich people, and making payments for them according to written orders, and further in receiving money from some people on interest, and lending it to others at a higher rate. I have been told that in their day making a profit by lending money was not considered at all an aristocratic proceeding, and procured for those who indulged in it the name of usurers, a word I do not like; it savours of sordidness. From my very birth I was educated to be reliable, steady, secure, and faithful, and to be true and just in all my dealings. It was made clear to me that it was the lack of these qualities in the money affairs of the kingdom which had led to the necessity of my existence, and I was made distinctly to understand that it was only upon my developing largely these peculiar traits of character that I should continue the existence thus begun. * * * * * My education was quite different from that of other girls. I had to learn arithmetic almost before I could speak, and the state and condition of kings and governments were instilled into my mind as regularly as food into my body. There were no novels, no light literature for me, except what I could extract for myself out of the dry material placed before me. Still, my mind was not warped with this peculiar bringing up, and now that I am an old woman, I think I can see that I owe this to the character of those who governed and directed me. Of course, this peculiar education and training kept me far ahead of other girls, and while they were scarcely out of the nursery, and still enjoying battledore and shuttlecock, I was seeking information, either by reading or conversation, concerning my forefathers, position, duties, and property. Young as I was, I began to feel creeping over me a sense of responsibility, and a longing to know how best to fulfil all that was required of me. I knew that I was rich, but how did I become so? I knew that my riches were expected to make others rich, but how? I was always asking questions, and sometimes succeeded in getting an answer, which served as a clue, and sent me to search old parchments or to make comparisons. It was some time before I could piece the scraps of information together, but gradually I did so, and then assuredly I saw the awfulness of my influence and position, and determined, with God's blessing, to be a comfort and support to the widows and orphans who trusted in me, as well as a source of strength, security, and honour to the nation and its rulers, and I resolved that henceforth my name, _the Bank of England_, should carry with it a meaning wherever it was heard, far beyond its original signification; it should be another term for wealth, honour, and thrift--a something to be trusted, and in which nothing foul, mean, or sordid must be found. (_To be continued._) HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF MUSICAL FORMS. SKETCH I.--THE ORATORIO AND PASSION MUSIC (SACRED DRAMA). BY MYLES B. FOSTER, Organist of the Foundling Hospital. In a former number, in prefacing reviews of new music, we said sufficient upon the subject of listening to music to call the attention of our many readers to the performances going on so frequently in all parts of the world, and now we persuade ourselves that there may be some to whom a short account of the various and varied forms, to which our attention as audience is most frequently invited, would be of interest, even though they have some knowledge of the subject already; and that there may be others to whom these very incomplete sketches may appear as information, and as an incentive to further investigation. For our first sketch we have chosen the oratorio, for it is undoubtedly the highest form of musical dramatic art, and is founded upon and contains the greatest and deepest truths of the Christian life. As regards the actual music forms employed, we find, indeed, similar ones in the operas, such as the various forms of recitative, the aria, the duet, and the chorus, and even the scena; but in the sacred works, who are the heroes and heroines? Are they not the instruments of the Divine power, the messengers of the good tidings? And what are the subjects? Are they not the struggles, the trials, the victories of noble souls? With such sacred characters, with such lofty thoughts, the composers of the oratorio, dealing, not with the semblance of truth that the opera contains, but with the truth itself, are bound to express their feelings and emotions in the grandest and most perfect thoughts. Purely sentimental ideas, and the whole list of passions and struggles in human existence, rather form the basis of opera than the proper subjects for oratorio, and the modern attempts to transform the sacred ideal into the region of operatic and dramatic realism seem to fall singularly short of expectation. To our minds, the strongest period in the history of oratorio was the time of Handel and Bach, and writers of to-day have yet to graft on to their work the more careful study, and the strengthening influence of these noble masterpieces in stronger cuttings, to make the struggling young plant a healthy and beautiful tree. Let us progress, by all means, but true progression is but the joining of all that is good in the preceding age with all the fresh beauty God bestows upon us in this our day. We seem to be comparing or contrasting the secular form opera and the sacred oratorio, and it is interesting to know that the origin of both may be traced back to the same source--viz., early miracle plays and moralities. For some time after the introduction of Christianity into Eastern Europe, the new converts seem to have retained their fondness for the heathen practice used in religious, as in secular, celebrations of theatrical representations, which were chiefly upon mythological subjects, and all of which angered and distressed the priests of the new religion. However, the latter soon found out that it was necessary to reach the minds of these people through their more acutely trained senses and the medium of their old traditions, and thus in these early ages the dramatic element worked its way into the church worship. Spiritual plays were arranged by the priests in all parts of Christianised Europe, who chose scenes and stories from both Old and New Testaments, and from the lives of the saints and holy men. The plays were acted upon a stage, usually erected under the choir of the church. As women were not permitted to appear, priests took all the characters, male and female. We learn, from many reliable sources, that these sacred representations had a great effect upon the pious worshippers. In the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and chiefly in the west of Europe, profane elements crept in amongst the holy legends, and these religious entertainments also developed so greatly, that hundreds of actors would be engaged in representations lasting over several days, whilst the eager audiences were so large that the churches could not contain them, and the stage had to be erected in the market-places, and out of doors. The direction passed more and more into the hands of the laity, who employed jongleurs, histrions, and strolling vagabonds, whose acting included gross buffoonery, and whose profanity completely choked the religious growth first implanted by these miracle plays. The stages, it should be explained, were of curious construction, being divided into three stories, the upper one containing the heavenly characters, the middle one being for the people upon earth, and the lowest for the denizens of hell. At the beginning of the sixteenth century the whole Catholic world was influenced by those reforms so necessary to the Christian Church of that time, and so bravely contended for and gained by Luther. The demoralisation which weakened all the church's fabric was deeply deplored by the Catholic clergy, and we find at the close of this century St. Philip Neri founding a congregation of priests in Rome and drawing youths to church by dramatising in simple form such stories as the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, etc., which were set to music in four parts with alternate solos, first by Animuccia (a pupil of Goudimel), and later on by the great Palestrina. These "sacred actions" or plays were not performed in the church itself, but in an adjoining chamber, called in Italian "oratorio," an oratory, and the title has since then adhered to this species of sacred work. Our girls will be pleased to know that the first oratorio, set to music by Emilio del Cavalieri, was written by a lady, Laura Guidiccioni. It was acted for the first time in the year 1600, probably in the oratory of the Church of Santa Maria della Vallicella, in Rome. The name of the work is "The Representation of the Soul and the Body." It was to be played in appropriate costumes, and certain choruses were to be accompanied, in a reverent and sedate manner, by solemn dances. Some of the characters were Time, Pleasure, the World, Human Life, the Body, etc. As the various forms of music, already named as common to the opera and oratorio, developed in the former, so in proportion they expanded and became freer in the latter; those portions which had been mainly founded upon plain song became more expressive and dramatic, and the melody assumed a flowing and cantabile character. But whereas you would imagine that a closer connection between the secular and sacred would be the result of this change, nevertheless, the composer's conviction that the music must strive to be of adequate importance to the sacred words and subjects caused a line to be drawn, ever growing more and more marked, as time and growth in grace and knowledge went on, between the secular and sacred musical drama. In the seventeenth century we find Carissimi greatly advancing oratorio, and composing really noble music. You may remember a revival of his "Jephtha," by Mr. Henry Leslie, a few years back. Scarlatti, Stradella, and others also contributed to this period. But, notwithstanding its Italian birth and infancy, it remained for Germany to bring oratorio to a vigorous manhood, and to its lofty position in the world of music. The compositions of Handel and Bach, early in the eighteenth century, placed this sacred art form upon a pinnacle of such height and strength, that few composers have the stamina or knowledge wherewith to reach it. Having gazed at this, for a time, culminating summit, let us go back to the early days again for a moment to notice a branch of this tree, a member of this sacred family, whose growth has been parallel with that of the subject of our sketch, viz., the Passion oratorio, one dealing with the sufferings and death of our blessed Redeemer. Foremost amongst the miracle plays, in which originated the sacred drama, was the representation, during Holy Week, of the Passion of our Lord. To this day we have interesting relics of this custom, such as the Oberammergau play in South Bavaria, the performances in the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and in some parts of Spain. The oldest Protestant composition on this subject was published in 1570. At the commencement of the seventeenth century a great development followed in the writings of Heinrich Schütz, who wrote music to the Passion, as told by all four evangelists, and whose tercentenary was celebrated last year by commencing the publication of all his works. He did much towards the great musical development in Germany. Following in his footsteps came Sebastiani, at the end of the century, and Keiser at the commencement of the eighteenth. In Keiser's Passion we find, in addition to the Bible narrative, reflective passages for a chorus, holding much the same functions as the old Greek chorus, with interpolated solos for "the Daughter of Sion" and "the Believing Soul," some of which are used later on by Bach, especially in his setting of the subject according to St. John's Gospel. John Sebastian Bach added, moreover, many well-known chorales in which the people could join, and these favourite old hymn tunes had the greatest power over the hearts of the worshippers. Now we have returned to the period at which we left oratorio, and side by side with Bach's great Passion music stand up those massive monuments, the oratorios of Handel, of which so much has been written, and many of which you all know and love so well. It is worthy of notice, if only to show how recently (viz., almost halfway through the eighteenth century) action, and costume, and other accessories were tolerated in connection with the sacred subjects, to tell you that at the performance of his first English oratorio, "Esther," at the theatre in the Haymarket, Handel appended the following note to the playbills:-- "N.B. There will be no acting on the stage," this being called shortly after "oratorio fashion," even when applied to performances of secular dramatic subjects which were to be sung, and not acted. After these great works of Handel, no important oratorio was heard in England until Haydn's "Creation," in 1798. Then, in the present century, Spohr followed with his "Crucifixion," "Last Judgment," and "Fall of Babylon;" and then Mendelssohn, that greatest disciple of Bach, whose "Elijah" and "St. Paul" quite revived the taste for oratorio, and gave an impetus to it, which extends to our day. To end this fragmentary sketch, we may fairly say that oratorio should contain two important elements:-- I. The narrative form, as subject of the whole work. II. The didactic and contemplative, as interpolations in soliloquy, or in chorus of adoration, prayer, and warning. A third element, the dramatic accessories of costume, scenery, and action, we have dispensed with, and, I
{'title': "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 357, October 30, 1886 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}