THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

[Transcriber's Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES. HOUSEHOLD HINTS. "OUR HERO." LESSONS FROM NATURE. ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE. HAWKWEED. IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE. QUEENS AS NEEDLEWOMEN. WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. THE GIRL'S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION. ENTHUSIASM: AN ADDRESS TO SCHOOL-GIRLS.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES; OR, VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

All rights reserved.]

As our papers upon "The Characteristic Church Towers of English Counties" appear to have interested our readers, it is possible they may be willing to peruse these remarks upon the old dwellings, and some other objects which surround country churches.

We fear there can be no doubt that our village architecture has deteriorated, and that the cottage of to-day is scarcely, if ever, as beautiful as that of former times.

Nor is this our only cause for regret, for, unfortunately, our beautiful old village architecture is disappearing so rapidly, that it is to be feared there will be nothing left to convey to the minds of those who come after us any idea of its charm.

When one speaks of "English villages," it is advisable to point out that those small country towns which are erected after the same manner and method are included; that is to say, those which are contained in one single parish, and which possess houses of small scale with rustic adjuncts, gardens, orchards, farm-buildings, etc. There is architecturally no difference between a village and a town of this description. It makes no difference whether the houses are built in rows or are detached. The beautiful village of Ayot St. Lawrence, in Hertfordshire, has houses arranged in rows, and so had Eaton, in Norfolk, before its rebuilding some years back. The notion that country houses should always be detached, or semi-detached, has led to much injudicious arrangement in suburban building estates. If there is land to spare, isolate your houses, but if not, no good end is answered by detaching them so as to leave wretched narrow passages between them, which are always damp, gloomy, and too frequently become{34} receptacles for disused and broken articles,

which would be far better put on the fire or given to the dustman. If houses are detached, or semi-detached, there should always be a space twelve or fifteen feet between them (unless, of course, the houses are very low), otherwise the rooms bordering upon the opening are damp and cold.

English country towns differ completely from continental ones chiefly for this reason. On the Continent, towns were nearly always fortified and surrounded by walls, though often their population was that of a mere village. These little fortified places are in Germany called "dwarf cities," to distinguish them from the "dorf," or "village." In England, however, small towns were rarely fortified or walled, except when they were situated upon the sea-coast, where they had to be ready to resist the landing of some foreign enemy. Lyme-Regis, Dorsetshire, is an example of a small English fortified town, and it is quite strange how much the place (of course we refer to the old portions of it) impresses one with its continental aspect, because directly a town is "circumvallated," every building within it has to be erected upon a contracted space, and the houses are consequently developed in height, so that they in no way differ from those of a city; in fact, the small town might, architecturally, be a piece of some large city.

Such English towns as Amersham, Lavenham, Clare, Wheathamstead, etc., are, architecturally, large villages, and probably originated in the same manner—i.e., they were dependencies upon some lordship or monastery.

The English word "village" is derived from the Roman word "villa." The villa was the castle or manorial house of the proprietor of the land surrounded by a series of humble structures inhabited by his labourers and "serfs." This was the "village" or dependency of the villa, and hence its inhabitants were called "villains" (villani). Now we are aware that some modern writers attempt to derive these words from the German "wealh" (a welchman), yet the old and usually received idea seems so obvious that we accept it.

How the meaning of the words "villa" and "villain" have been changed, and yet how singularly the old word "village" has retained its meaning!

The modern stucco, semi-detached "desirable residence," with its four or six rooms, with its "rustic porch" and gritty front garden, is a strange parody upon the stately villa of old, and the good, honest villager is neither a "villain" nor "a Welshman." He may sometimes be the latter, and justly proud of his origin, but, in any case, he is very unlike our conception of a villain. If recent newspaper reports can be trusted, that character is rather personified by the London "loafer" and his most modern representative "the Hooligan."

When the villages increased in size and became important, usually in the 13th century, many of them claimed municipal privileges, were called towns, and erected "town halls," which are often highly-picturesque structures. That at Ledbury, Herefordshire, is an interesting example which probably dates from the 16th century. They are generally supported upon pillars so as to leave the ground-floor an open, covered space which served as a market.

Very charming are these villages and small country towns with their quaint old cottages and picturesque little houses bordering the wide street. Great elms shade the foot-path, and sweet gardens are at the side or back of each dwelling. Perhaps a clear river winds its way amidst the ruddy buildings, its banks converted into diminutive kitchen-gardens, and crossed here and there by bridges. The long low building of a water-mill seems to block the way altogether, but in reality it simply utilises the water to turn its wheels, and we shall find the river on the opposite side with its waters banked up some six or eight feet higher, changed in character, looking more still and deep, reflecting the surrounding objects in a still, silent pool, shaded by lofty trees, its banks clothed with deep grass plantains, huge docks and marsh mallows, a spot where, on a sunny day, an irresistible inclination seizes one to lie down on the cool earth. The clinging foliage seems to second the invitation, and one throws oneself down upon this sweet verdant couch to "dream with

one's eyes open," for who could close them in such an enchanting spot? But somehow or other, whether it is the "whirr" of the water-wheel, the fragrant scents of the plants we are crushing, or the peace surrounding one, time seems to glide away, and, upon consulting our watch, we discover the mysterious fact that the day has become two hours shorter! Of course we have not been to sleep!

Such village scenes and sensations are to be witnessed at Amersham, Cringleford, and many other spots in England which have still retained their old village surroundings.

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

A good black straw hat and bonnet, changed at the seasons with suitable blossoms, is the most economical and ladylike fashion, but the artificial flowers should be very good of their kind—those with silk or velvet petals look the best and most natural, and can be used a second season if carefully brushed and put away.

Those who have to wear spectacles and eyeglasses should be very careful that the centre of the glass is exactly opposite the centre of the eye. If not, they should be altered to make them so.

If hair is washed with soap it is apt to make it brittle, so it should be afterwards rinsed with a little borax in water.

A little ammonia in the water in which china is washed makes it glossier and nicer in appearance.

A dress well made and of good material outlives several that are not, and gives more satisfaction to the wearer, but it should be carefully chosen as to colour, and not be too aggressive in pattern or tint.

{35}

"OUR HERO."

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.

CHAPTER III.

IN THE YEAR 1803.

"A letter from Paris! Grandmamma, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly, as she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's Bath house, situated not far from the renowned Pump-room. "Look! And it will be about Roy! And it is in my papa's handwriting."

Polly followed close in rear of the eager child, hardly less eager herself. She might at least hope for a message from Denham, perhaps to say that a letter was coming.

Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady—in these days, with the same weight of years, she would be no more than cheerfully middle-aged—adjusted her horn spectacles, laid the letter on her knee, tied her loosened cap-strings, and scrutinised Molly's excited face.

"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever may befall, it is never worth while to discompose yourself."

Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand, laid it down anew, and resumed her knitting. Molly's agony of suspense and Polly's wistful eyes alike failed to touch her. Young folks, if well brought up, were expected to submit without question to the will of their elders, and Mrs. Fairbank had always been an excellent disciplinarian. This was, in her eyes, much too good an opportunity for a lesson in self-control to be neglected.

Molly stood, squeezing her hands together, wondering if the slow moments would ever pass. Mrs. Fairbank serenely knitted, stopped to count, and knitted again.

"I met Mrs. Peirce and Will in Milsom Street after breakfast," she observed. "Mrs. Peirce informed me that the Admiral had a letter yestere'en from his nephew, Mr. Albert Peirce."

Mrs. Fairbank's eyes wandered round the room in quest of something else to remark upon.

"My dear Polly, you must surely have forgot! That piece of knitting which was to have been done to-day——"

"I'll set to work upon it, ma'am. It won't take me but a very short time. O Jack!"—and a note of relief could be heard.

"Jack!" gasped Molly, under her breath.

"My dear Jack!" and Mrs. Fairbank suspended her knitting to glance up in pleased surprise.

The young man who walked in—he was hardly more than a boy in years—bore small resemblance to Polly, though he was her brother. He was of squarer build, slightly under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue instead of brown. Beyond those good-humoured blue eyes and a fresh complexion, Jack Keene had no pretensions to good looks; but many people, beside his grandmother, counted him a very pleasant young fellow. Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of old ladies, simply doted on her grandson. In her view he could almost do no wrong.

"Jack, Jack, there's a letter," whispered Molly, clutching at him. "And, oh! she won't open it. She won't tell us how they are!"

"All right," murmured Jack. He understood Molly's whisper and the look in Polly's face; and as he kissed his grandmother he took up the letter which reposed upon her knee. No human being except Jack might have ventured on such a liberty, but he was a privileged being. "Ah, from France!" quoth Jack, with composure. "Will you allow me to open it, ma'am? You are busy, and news of any sort or kind from France in these days is to be welcomed."

Mrs. Fairbank took the letter from him with as near an approach to displeasure in her manner as she ever showed towards Jack.

"You are pleased to be impatient," she remarked, with a sound of reproof.

"Exceedingly, ma'am." Jack was always extra polite when bent upon his own way.

Mrs. Fairbank examined the foreign missive afresh, studied the stamp, and at length broke the seal, taking out a tiny enclosure, which was addressed to Molly.

"From Roy," she said. "I think"—and there was a dubious pause—"I think I may permit you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your mamma has already seen it."

Molly fled to the window-seat, curled herself up there, and plunged into the delights of Roy's epistle, seeing and hearing nothing else. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to reach her perceptions, and a murmured consultation which took place might have gone on in China for all the impression that it made upon Molly. Roy's prim round handwriting spoke to her as follows:—

"My dear Molly,—We got here yesterday all right, and it pours with rain to-day, so I am going to write to you. It is great fun being abroad, and all the children jabber away in French lingo, and don't know one word of English. I tried to speak to one man in French, but he didn't know what I meant any better than when I talked English, so I think they must be rather stupid, don't you?

"We had such a voyage. It took ten whole hours getting from Dover to Calais, and I was dreadfully ill, and I haven't got right yet. My back aches like anything, but I don't mean to make a fuss, because that wouldn't be like a soldier.

"We had to stop a night in Calais; they do fidget so about papers and things, there was no getting on sooner. And then we had a chaise de poste, with three horses side by side, and the horses were harnessed with ropes, not like our English harness. The ropes broke twice, and the postillions jumped off, just like monkeys, to put things right. They didn't seem to mind the ropes breaking one bit, and Den says he supposes they are used to it. But we hadn't got used to it.

"We slept one night at Montreuil, and another at Amiens, and then we got to Chantilly. And the roads were most horribly bad, and so they are here in Paris, and when it rains hard, like to-day, the streets are flooded, and it smells so, and nobody can walk along without wading, at least in some parts.

"We saw such a lot of ruined houses on our way to Paris, called chateaux. They used to be so pretty, Den says, and people lived in them, ladies and gentlemen, just as they do in country houses in England. And then they had their heads cut off in the Revolution, and the chateaux were left to go to wrack and ruin. I heard a lady say so yesterday. She is English, and she said it was very horrid, such a lot of people being killed, only just because they belonged to the nobility. Some of the chateaux that we saw had only poor people in them, and the windows were broken and the roofs were gone from the summer-houses, and the gardens were all wild and untidy. It is thirteen or fourteen years since the Revolution began, and when I get home I mean to read about it all with you.

"I do wish you were here too, for there are heaps of things that I want to tell you. Everything is so different from England. It is nice to see, but I don't want to live in France. I like old England much much the best.

{36}

"I have not been out to-day yet. Mamma thinks I have caught a bad cold. I wish people didn't take colds; they are such stupid silly things. Perhaps I shall be all right to-morrow, and then Den will take me all about everywhere. O dear me, I don't think I can write any more; I feel so sea-sick and funny. And Papa says——"

There was no ending to the letter, and Molly read it through a second time. Then she hugged and kissed it tenderly, and at length carried it across to the others.

"Roy has forgot to sign his name," she said. "I suppose he went out to see the sights, and did not remember. My mamma thinks he has caught a cold."

"Roy is far from well, my dear," Mrs. Fairbank observed solemnly. "He was taken ill with a most unexpected disorder while writing to you, and could not conclude. It is truly unfortunate."

"Roy—ill!"

"'Tis not good manners to repeat other people's words, Molly. Yes; Roy has the small-pox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before ever he left England. He must have caught the infection from one of his school-fellows."

Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.

"But numbers and numbers of people have the small-pox, Molly," she said. "'Tis truly but a few who altogether escape, you know. And many get over the complaint. Doubtless Roy will soon be well again—in a few weeks." This was lame comfort, but what better could Polly say, in those days of the awful unchecked scourge.

"Will his face be all marked?" sadly asked Molly, thinking of the innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he become like to Mr. Bryce?"

"Oh, I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor is not, yet he has had it." Polly's lips trembled, and she set them firmly. "Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor a dear brave man? He has taken Roy into another house, and he will not let your father or mother go near to Roy, or anyone that has not had the disorder. They never have, as you know. And they were never inoculated, so they might catch it. And he is nursing Roy himself. The people in the hotel would not keep Roy, so soon as they knew that he had the small-pox, but a room has been found, and Captain Ivor is there with him. And they hope it will not be a severe attack. So in a little while I do think we shall hear that he is better."

Molly was hard to comfort, and what wonder? Polly would have liked to keep the ill news from her for some days, till perhaps better accounts should arrive, but Mrs. Fairbank viewed the matter differently. "Worse news might come, instead of better," she said.

No doubt that was true. Still, Molly might have been spared many weary days of suspense. All her spirit went out of her, and she seemed to care for nothing, except clinging to Polly and being told over and over again that Roy would probably soon be well. Letters then were not, as now, an everyday affair. Posts were slow and uncertain, and postage was expensive, and people thought twice before putting pen to paper. Roy's father promised to write again speedily, yet he waited till there should be something definite to tell.

So day passed after day, and no further tidings arrived. The suspense was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly; harder, perhaps, in some respects, only as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a friend through it two years earlier without being affected, he might be counted personally safe. Nursing in those days was not a science; trained nurses were unknown; and Roy could hardly have been in better hands than those of the young Grenadier officer. But Polly knew that his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened. Weeks might pass before Roy would be well enough to travel, and before it would be safe for either of them to go freely among other people. Ideas as to the nature and extent of infection were vague, but small-pox was the terror of everybody, and while there was little system in avoidance of the danger, there was any amount of scare.

In all probability Denham would spend the whole of his leave in attendance upon the boy, and when he returned he would have no time to spare for Bath. Polly would have no chance of showing off her tall Grenadier among friends and acquaintances. At present her fears extended no further.

Meanwhile public events marched on with strides, and that month of May, 1803, was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England and France became daily more and more precarious. The feverish ambition of Napoleon could know no rest, so long as he was fearlessly confronted by a single nation in Europe.

One chief bone of contention was Malta. Napoleon had set his heart upon getting Malta for himself, and England was equally bent on keeping him out of Malta. By the treaty of the preceding year, England had undertaken to evacuate the island, and to restore it to the knights of St. John. But the withdrawal of English troops had been of necessity delayed, until some means could be devised to save it from the grip of Buonaparte; and the First Consul, by deliberately breaking some of his own undertakings in the treaty, set England free as to her undertakings also. Therefore Malta still remained in the hands of England, as did Egypt and the Cape of Good Hope, each a source of jealous longing on the part of the First Consul.