FROM A WOMAN'S 
 NOTE BOOK 
 
 CAWTHOKN, EUTT & SON, 
 
 '&S1ILILIEI&S AilHD OI&EJUEIIAHS, 
 24, COCKSPUR STREET, 
 CHAEING CEOSS, b.^
 
 FROM A WOMAN'S 
 NOTE-BOOK
 
 > GeoRGg > -n u b n.
 
 FROM A WOMAN'S 
 NOTE-BOOK 
 
 STUDIES IN MODERN GIRLHOOD 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. E. T. COOK 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BRIDE'S BOOK," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ALLEN, 156, CHARING CROSS ROAD 
 1903 
 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 Printed by BAI.LANTVNE, HANSON &* Co 
 At the Rallantyne Press
 
 NOTE 
 
 The papers collected in this volume were 
 written by the author at various times between 
 1891 and 1903; their unity is that of the 
 point of view. Most of them appeared in 
 one or other of the following publications: 
 " Belgravia" the "Gentleman's Magazine" 
 "Good Words" "Macmillan's Magazine" 
 the " National Review" " The Outlook" the 
 "Pall Mall Gazette" "Temple Bar" and 
 the " Woman at Home" I am indebted to 
 the proprietors of these periodicals for per- 
 mission to reprint the papers here. The author 
 put her observations into a personal form, but 
 it need not be inferred that every such 
 characterisation is biographical. 
 
 E. T. C.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. A MODERN HIGH-SCHOOL GIRL i 
 
 II. SHADOWS 22 
 
 III. ON THE EDUCATION OF GIRLS 31 
 
 IV. THE NEW CHILD .... 50 
 V. THE TYRANNY OF THE MOTHERS 71 
 
 VI. STAGE-STRUCK .... 83 
 
 VII. LITERARY LADIES. . . .113 
 
 VIII. THE MODERN NOVEL . . .128 
 
 IX. IBSEN AND THE MORBID TAINT 147 
 
 X. CHARACTER IN DRESS . . .162 
 
 XI. CLORINDA AT HOME: 
 
 1. A VIRTUE ASSUMED . . . .180 
 
 2. THE REGISTRY OFFICE . . .187 
 
 3. THE USEFUL MAID . . . .196 
 
 vii
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XII. CHILD STUDIES: 
 
 1. THE MUMMY-ROOM .... 205 
 
 2. CLOUDS OF GLORY . . . .212 
 
 XIII. MRS. CARLYLE AND HER SER- 
 VANTS 222 
 
 Vlll
 
 FROM A WOMAN'S 
 NOTE-BOOK 
 
 I 
 
 A MODERN HIGH-SCHOOL GIRL 
 
 ETHEL is a High-School girl of seventeen ; 
 and I am going to tell of a tour I made with 
 her in the summer vacation. 
 
 Now Ethel is a pretty girl, sweet and well- 
 mannered ; indeed she comes up generally to 
 so high a standard of excellence in girls, that 
 I am afraid I shall seem but a cross-grained 
 female for relating the following story : and 
 yet it is all true ; I have not enlarged on it 
 by one word. What I would like to discover 
 is where the fault lay. I will explain how it 
 all came about. 
 
 But first I must mention, that as I had lived 
 a rather secluded life in the country, perhaps I 
 was a little old-fashioned in my ideas. My 
 
 A
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 views on education have perforce been theo- 
 retic, my chief companions being my books. 
 I had a family of nieces who attended a High 
 School recently founded near London, and said 
 to be most excellent in its teaching and results. 
 I did not often see the girls, but I duly re- 
 ceived from their mother accounts of their 
 progress ; how Ethel had just begun Latin, 
 how Rose was first in chemistry, and how 
 Daisy had got the second prize in mathematics. 
 I have still the letter which Ethel (aged then 
 about nine) wrote me, in a scrawly child's hand, 
 to tell me of her first going to school. This 
 was it : 
 
 "Mv DEAR AUNT, I have begun at the 
 High School this Christmas, I like it very 
 much. Mother can't teach me any more. 
 She used to help me with French, but French 
 isn't what it was. The teaching at the school 
 is quite equal to harrow Winchester and eton. 
 I am your loveing niece, ETHEL." 
 
 (The child is mother of the woman or 
 girl ; and Ethel, it may be observed, even then
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 knew how to make the best of her small 
 attainments.) 
 
 The girls' progress seemed to be excellent, 
 and I, too, became a firm believer in High 
 Schools. All that the girl of the past lacked, 
 I thought to myself, the girl of the future 
 will possess. She will have wasted none of her 
 time on the foolish samplers and cross-stitch 
 of her grandmother's times, or the still more 
 useless crewel-work of her mother's youth. 
 She will have a well-trained mind, keenly 
 alive to new impressions, and ready to seize 
 upon the best part of everything that comes 
 in her way. 
 
 Accordingly, when she was just seventeen, 
 I determined to give Ethel a treat, and take 
 her for a foreign tour during the summer 
 vacation. Her small outfit was soon ready, 
 and she met me at Charing Cross one 
 bright July morning in the happiest frame of 
 mind. She had never been out of England 
 before. 
 
 (Human Nature has always been my 
 favourite study, and I must here confess that 
 the wish to take Ethel as my travelling 
 
 3
 
 From a Woman s-Note-Book 
 
 companion had originated partly in pure selfish- 
 ness, as I promised to myself much enjoyment 
 from seeing the effect of foreign travel on a 
 young and untried mind, fresh from the stimu- 
 lating power of a High School education.) 
 
 Ethel, as I have said, is pretty. Although 
 tall, she has none of the awkwardness and all 
 the grace of youth, which makes people often 
 think her less of a child than she really is. 
 She was quietly and tastefully dressed, in a 
 pretty blue serge travelling dress " picked out " 
 with red. I saw many people look at her 
 admiringly, and felt proud of my charming 
 companion. She enjoyed the breezy crossing, 
 and did full justice to the delicious lunch of 
 the Calais " Gare Maritime." Two little, 
 plaintive English ladies who were surrepti- 
 tiously eating their own ham-sandwiches to 
 a " demi-siphon," which they had ordered 
 from the waiter, looked at her approvingly. 
 
 " Dear me," said Ethel, as we travelled to- 
 wards Bale, " how very like * abroad ' is to 
 England ! " 
 
 She quite enjoyed the night journey, and 
 emerged rosy from it, while I, alas ! was racked 
 
 4
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 with sick-headache. She had brought in her 
 bag two school-books, which at first she made 
 a continual show of studying ; one was a 
 history book, the other experimental chemistry. 
 I do not exactly know of what use the latter 
 was supposed to be, as one could hardly practise 
 chemistry in the train especially during a 
 night journey but I shall have more to say 
 of both these works anon. 
 
 We had lovely weather, and stayed, before 
 leaving the beaten track, at the usual kind of 
 cosmopolitan first-class hotel. Ethel liked the 
 lifts in these, and never lost an opportunity of 
 going up or down in them. I think it was 
 with something of this feeling that she enjoyed 
 the St. Gothard railway. We stayed at Lugano, 
 and here, after several days of comfortable idle- 
 ness, I suggested that Ethel should indite a 
 letter home. She yawned. 
 
 " Oh, auntie, what's the use ? They'll know 
 that nothing can have happened to me. Besides, 
 letter-writing is a thing of the past." 
 
 Is filial affection a thing of the past too ? I 
 thought as I reflected on the long double- 
 sheeted effusions I had been used to pen in my 
 
 5
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 youth, whenever I left home for a day or two. 
 However, on this occasion, Ethel had to make 
 letter-writing a thing of the present, and here 
 is what she wrote : 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, We got here on 
 Thursday at 3 P.M. This is a very nice hotel, 
 and the dinners are very good, and seven 
 courses long. The railway carriages coming 
 over the t. Gothard are such curious shapes 
 little square rooms with a gallery running all 
 along one side. We had lunch at the tunnel, 
 this was the menu fish and potatoes, mutton 
 and beans (a vegetable I didn't like), and fruit. 
 I didn't think the cooking was half so good as 
 our Mary's. 
 
 " Auntie couldn't eat, as she was sick. Ask 
 Miss Hicks if she has seen my geometry 
 book. I must stop now. Your loving 
 
 ETHEL." 
 
 I gasped as I folded up this effusion, but 
 Ethel was not conscious of any shortcomings. 
 She talked away merrily all dinner-time, chiefly 
 about Miss Hicks (her geometry mistress) and 
 the school-girls. I well, later on I yearned 
 
 6
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 even to hear of Miss Hicks. For this was in 
 the early days of our travels ; and there came 
 a change. 
 
 We went up into the glacier solitudes, and 
 stayed for a week in the heart of the great 
 mountains. Ethel grew sad and silent ; all 
 her native brightness forsook her. She was 
 still docile and amiable, but it was evident 
 that she did not care much for scenery. 
 " Perhaps she longs for society," I thought ; 
 " like takes to like ; and I can be but dull 
 company for a young girl." But I must con- 
 fess that Ethel disappointed me by her lack of 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " Well, Ethel," I said on arriving, " what 
 do you think of the Alps ? " 
 
 " They don't look so very high," my niece 
 remarked feebly, raising her eyes as though to 
 look at Monte Rosa were rather a tiresome duty. 
 
 And then she wouldn't, or said she couldn't, 
 walk. I, who am elderly, tramped gaily all 
 day but Ethel, aged seventeen, strong and 
 rosy, declared that walking knocked her up. 
 
 " Nobody goes in for walking now," she 
 said ; " we play fives and cricket." 
 
 7
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Mules were seldom to be had in this particular 
 place ; so after three days of it, Ethel quietly 
 took to her bed. She called her complaint 
 " sunstroke," but as she was in no pain, had no 
 fever, and ate her dinner with a will, I have some 
 suspicion that the sunstroke existed entirely in 
 her imagination. A lady staying in the hotel 
 to whom I confided my troubles, confirmed 
 these theories. " Oh, it's nothing," she said ; 
 " girls of the present day are often like that. 
 There's nothing they won't do to avoid being 
 taken for a walk." This was unfortunate, as 
 I had taken Ethel with me abroad, for the 
 express purpose of taking walks. I remember 
 reading a story somewhere about a young 
 couple who, settling out in the wilds of Cali- 
 fornia, hired a " yeller gal " to do the house- 
 cleaning. The yeller gal cleaned just one room, 
 and was then seen quietly to walk away. She 
 had had about enough of it, she said when 
 interrogated, and she couldn't be persuaded 
 to come back. " Them yeller gals," concluded 
 the narrator, " is jest about the meanest trash." 
 Ethel, although I wouldn't wish to call her 
 " the meanest trash," yet imitated the " yeller
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 gal " in her tactics. Politely and silently she 
 declined further exercise. She sat in the village 
 meadow with her chemistry book, which, by 
 the way, is doubtless still reposing in that 
 meadow, for Ethel never found out its loss till 
 we were many miles away, and already thinking 
 of the return journey. 
 
 Ethel's not being able to walk altered my 
 plans. The mountains bored her so much, 
 that, though the weather was still perfectly 
 cloudless, and the high Alps most tempting 
 for a prolonged stay, we left at the end of 
 a week for Venice. 
 
 As we were leaving the valley, and just as 
 " the sun looked over the mountain's rim," I 
 took a farewell glance at Monte Rosa, glisten- 
 ing in the morning light, and quoted the 
 well-known lines : 
 
 " How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair 
 
 Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
 A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
 And snowy dells in a golden air." 
 
 " Is that your own composition ? " asked 
 Ethel, turning round upon her mule. 
 
 We went to Milan. Ethel recovered 
 9
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 altogether there, and, under the fascination 
 of the shops, was quite well for a day or 
 two. She enjoyed the spiral staircases in the 
 Cathedral, with something of the same feel- 
 ing, I imagine, as she had enjoyed the hotel 
 lifts and the St. Gothard railway. We visited 
 the Brera also ; but here Ethel showed such 
 evident signs of boredom that I dared not stay 
 too long, fearing a return of the sunstroke. 
 
 " Are all these pictures hand-painted ? " 
 Ethel had asked on first entering. 
 
 I think she would have felt more respect 
 for them if they had been Aspinalled by an 
 entirely new machine process. 
 
 Next day we started for Venice. I really 
 think Ethel's limpness on that journey was 
 partially to be accounted for by the heat (it 
 was hot as it only knows how to be hot in 
 the Lombard plains), and she soon relapsed 
 into the " squeezed lemon " condition that 
 Ruskin comments upon so severely in Fors 
 Clavigera, a propos of some travelling com- 
 panions on this very journey. I felt for her, 
 but could not reconcile my conscience to letting 
 her pass by all the points of interest unnoticed. 
 
 10
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 "There is Catullus' Villa, Ethel," I cried, 
 forgetting the heat, as we came upon the 
 promontory of Sirmione, and the blue Garda 
 Lake glittering in the sun. 
 
 Ethel half -opened her eyes. "Do you 
 know him ? " she asked. She had taken a 
 prize for Latin last term. In Peschiera, 
 half-an-hour later, she did not show even a 
 semblance of interest. All the great scenes 
 of history and art, all the places made sacred 
 by long association, were as nothing to the 
 mind of this highly - trained school - girl. 
 Squeezed lemons, indeed ! Squeezed lemons 
 are all too inadequate to describe Ethel's 
 martyred attitude. At Verona, I dared not 
 even mention Juliet's house, or the Roman 
 amphitheatre ! And then we crossed the 
 Mestre bridge over the lagoon, lit with 
 the golden fires of sunset. How well I re- 
 membered my first crossing of that bridge ! 
 What a thrill it brings into my heart, even 
 now, to recall how I had craned my neck 
 out of the windows to catch the first sight 
 of Venice ! But that was when I was a girl, 
 thirty years ago. My niece belongs to the 
 
 ii
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 modern school. She was yawning desperately, 
 I noticed, in her corner of the carriage. 
 
 But Ethel enjoyed Venice, too, in her way, 
 and for a time. " What a heavenly place ! " 
 she exclaimed next morning, as she took me 
 from one sham-jewellery shop window to an- 
 other. She bought a gondola - brooch for a 
 franc, and a string of blue beads for sixty 
 centimes. With these she was evidently more 
 pleased than with the shining fa9ade of St. 
 Mark. I am not certain whether she ever 
 really looked at that during our week's stay 
 in Venice. 
 
 But, then, churches in general were a grief 
 to her. There were so very many of them to 
 be seen. They made her feel so giddy that 
 she generally had to be assisted back to the 
 gondola, there to wait till I had finished my 
 inspection of some rare Bellini in the sacristy. 
 I am ashamed to say that, so far from "doing " 
 the Ducal Palace, Ruskin in hand, Ethel never 
 got beyond the courtyard at the foot of the 
 " Giant's Staircase." Here she paused, and 
 said, as if the idea had occurred to her for the 
 first time : 
 
 12
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 " How many doges were there at once ? " 
 
 " Only one," I answer, with a gasp ; " they 
 reigned in order like kings, you know." 
 
 " What a very big house for only one 
 doge ! " 
 
 Oh ! Shade of Shakespere ! 
 
 However, to do Ethel justice, she was in- 
 terested for quite two days in Venice. But, 
 when her small stock of money failed, bore- 
 dom began again as in the mountains. She 
 never spoke to the natives, either in the Alps 
 or in Venice. For one thing, she knew very 
 little German or Italian. I wondered at this, 
 as I knew that she "did" Schiller's Thirty 
 Tears 1 War^ and Pellico's Prigioni for school, 
 and these are by no means beginners' books. 
 But Ethel explained innocently, " Oh, mother 
 always looks out all the words for me in the 
 dictionary, and then I learn the bit she has 
 translated for me by heart, so that I can read 
 it off to the German mistress next day." 
 
 " But, my dear child," I remonstrated, " what 
 a way of learning a language ! Does your 
 teacher know this ? " 
 
 " Oh, it's all right. I should never keep my 
 13
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 place in the school, if I didn't do that," Ethel 
 said easily. She had, indeed, no great taste 
 for languages, and her attitude to Italian 
 generally approached nearly to the celebrated 
 Mr. Lillyvick's when informed that " 1'eau " 
 was French for water. " I call that a poor 
 language very poor." 
 
 I had expected her to take some interest 
 in the picturesque Venetians and their black- 
 eyed babies (Ethel loved babies at home) ; but 
 all the notice she took of them was to be horri- 
 fied at their mothers' ignorance of hygienic 
 principles. 
 
 " Oh, they'll die," she said comfortably, 
 turning away from a group of swaddled in- 
 fants, as if further comment was unnecessary 
 on people who didn't wear Jaeger garments, 
 and tied up their babies' legs in such a funny 
 fashion. 
 
 Ethel was essentially a child of her genera- 
 tion. .She was also very insular and very per- 
 sistent. She was much shocked with the short 
 frocks, bare legs, and late hours of the fashion- 
 able Italian infant : 
 
 " How wicked," she cried, " how shameful
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 of its parents to let it sit up till eleven and eat 
 ices ! " 
 
 (To do Ethel justice, I must say that the 
 particular child singled out for opprobrium 
 was seated between its parents on the Piazza, 
 enjoying a convert d" 1 enfant^ or dinner consist- 
 ing of -a sardine, a soup, an ice, and a dessert 
 and all this at 10.30 in the evening.) 
 
 But I argued with Ethel on the main ques- 
 tion. "As to the short frocks," I said, "-we 
 all wore frocks just as short, and had legs quite 
 as bare when / was a child. It's a matter 
 of fashion." 
 
 "That's the reason why you, none of you, 
 had any constitutions ! " cried Ethel trium- 
 phantly, as if that quite disposed of the 
 matter. 
 
 In vain I assured her that, on the contrary, 
 we had not all succumbed to disease. She did 
 not heed my remarks. It is one of Ethel's 
 little ways to think that nothing was ever 
 done rightly in the dark ages before the High 
 School days. As for me, I am convinced that 
 she often regards me with infinite pity for 
 being so ill-educated, so ignorant of the higher
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 mathematics, and I wince before her searching 
 gaze. 
 
 Ethel wrote to her mother from Venice 
 thus : 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, I like this place. But 
 we've been here two days, and seen all there 
 is to be seen, and I hope Auntie won't stay 
 much longer. I don't like going into churches, 
 they feel so mouldy inside. And the sanitary 
 system of Venice seems very bad, there are no 
 end of smells. I've bought a blue necklace 
 and some nougat. There's a lovely sweet- 
 shop near the Piazza. Is my School Report 
 out yet ? " 
 
 " I like this place," struck me as a decidedly 
 minimum view of Venice, but I forbore to 
 comment. 
 
 Ethel did not seem to want to take any 
 little presents home to her mother and sisters ; 
 all the trifles she bought seemed more or less 
 for herself, with the exception of a big photo- 
 graph she got for the School. I recalled how 
 my sister and I, at her age, had denied our- 
 selves sweets and ices, nay, would have gone 
 
 16
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 without our dinner if we could, in order to 
 buy presents for all the home circle, not even 
 forgetting the cook. Is this again, I pon- 
 dered, the result of the " unhomeyness " of a 
 High-School education ? 
 
 We had perfect weather. The Grand Canal 
 glimmered every evening in the moonlight, as 
 our gondola glided along it. Every afternoon 
 we sailed on the lagoons, and gazed on " the 
 blue islands of Paduan hills, poised in the 
 golden west." But alas for the " vital feelings 
 of delight" that should have stirred Ethel's 
 breast ! They were non-existent. 
 
 Ethel now so often wore a martyred air, and 
 her boredom increased so much, that I was led 
 to hasten the return journey to Paris. Her 
 spirits rose for this journey. " I never like to 
 stay more than a day in one place," she con- 
 fessed. She read a novel during most of the way 
 back, and this time I forbore to worry her by 
 pointing out places of interest. Once, on the 
 lake of Como, at mid-day, she started up with 
 an excited air from her book. I thought she 
 was going to expatiate on the beauty of the 
 
 situation of Bellagio shining in the sunlight, 
 
 17 B
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 but it was only : " Now the sixth form will be 
 going down to ' rec ' ! " 
 
 (I believe, in my own heart, that the only 
 pleasure she derived at last from seeing places 
 was in the prospect of being able to tell the 
 " sixth " that she had done so.) 
 
 But she did enjoy one thing in Paris the 
 Eiffel Tower. We went to the very top ; 
 nothing was to be seen, but that did not matter 
 to her. She had been up, and could now say 
 she had. Mary Robinson could no longer 
 swagger about at school as the only girl who 
 had been up the Eiffel Tower. After lunch, 
 on the first day, I suggested going to the 
 Louvre. 
 
 " What is the Louvre ? " asked Ethel. 
 
 " The Louvre is a picture gallery," said 
 I, " and there is a big hotel also called 
 by that name, and the largest shops in 
 Paris." 
 
 " Oh, the shops ! Let's go there ! " said 
 Ethel. 
 
 But Ethel came after all to see jthe works of 
 art, and was much impressed by the Venus of 
 Milo, giving her ungrudging approval to the 
 
 18
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 principles of hygiene demonstrated by that 
 famous beauty's waist. 
 
 Just as we were leaving Paris there came a 
 letter from Ethel's mother, with Ethel's 
 "School Report" for the preceding term. I 
 was amazed at this report. I cannot be too 
 thankful for having seen it ; for had I not 
 done so, I might have parted from my niece 
 thinking her the most ill-educated young per- 
 son I had ever met ; but I was now happily 
 saved from falling into such an error. To 
 my astonishment I learned that Ethel not 
 only occupied a high place in the school, but 
 was " first " in history, " first " in literature, 
 and " first," it need hardly be added, in the 
 Shakespere class, besides taking a good place 
 in mathematics. 
 
 This quite took my breath away. With the 
 " Report " was enclosed a dry little note from 
 Ethel's head-mistress, in which she much re- 
 gretted that her favourite pupil was losing so 
 much valuable time in travelling, when she 
 should have been working at chemistry and 
 algebra. Chemistry and algebra! Were these 
 
 19
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 then to be the only food of life ! Poor Ethel ! 
 mentally starving in the midst of plenty ! 
 
 And after all, if girls are now far above the 
 simple pleasures and interests that contented 
 their parents, if x+y and N 2 O are the only 
 subjects in which they take delight, then 
 why did Ethel leave behind, first, her book of 
 mathematical examples in a boat at Lugano, 
 and, secondly, her chemistry volume in the 
 Alpine meadow and then show so very little 
 concern at their loss ? That is a mystery I 
 cannot unravel. 
 
 But, making all due allowance for Ethel's 
 deficiencies (and I own that the fault was 
 mostly mine for not accepting her as she was, 
 and in yearning for more than she had to give), 
 still, there must clearly be something wrong 
 with the new system. I would not wish to 
 impugn the wisdom of Ethel's schoolmistress, 
 who must doubtless know more of girls' needs 
 than I do, but I cannot help feeling it a pity 
 to cram their minds so tightly with dry facts, 
 and to make them take up so many subjects, 
 that no room is left for " human nature's daily 
 
 food." This new system of education makes 
 
 20
 
 A Modern High-School Girl 
 
 most girls into prigs. It could not make 
 Ethel a prig, but it spoiled her. It had given 
 her a mental surfeit or fit of indigestion. Her 
 mind was like a slate on which so much had 
 been written as to leave no room for new 
 impressions. 
 
 Times are changing, and views of education 
 with them. On this subject I cannot believe 
 that the last word has as yet been said. Even 
 taking the chemistry, mathematics, Latin, &c., 
 into account the teaching that is equal to 
 "eton, Winchester, and harrow" who shall 
 say that our girls have altogether improved ? 
 
 (Ethel is not looking over my shoulder to 
 criticise this remark : I should not dare to 
 make it if she were.) 
 
 I look back upon past years and wonder if 
 after all, in this as in other things, it is not 
 true that " the old is better." 
 
 21
 
 II 
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 " Yet ah, that spring should vanish with the rose I 
 That youth's sweet- scented manuscript should close ! 
 The nightingale that in the branches sang/ 
 Ah 'whence and whither flown again, who knows ? " 
 
 MAMIE was dying. 
 
 In the pretty, peaceful room, opening on to 
 the garden, amidst all the delightful sights and 
 sounds of summer, Mamie had to die. 
 
 Only seventeen years old, poor Mamie ! with 
 all her pleasures and joys and hopes like the 
 Fata Morgana, a delusive dream, never to be 
 realised : missing 
 
 " Honour, labour, rest, 
 And the warmth of a babe's mouth 
 At the blossom of her breast." 
 
 At the foot of Mamie's little bed her mother 
 
 sat, with bowed head ; beside her was a grey- 
 
 22
 
 Shadows 
 
 robed sister from the nursing home ; hardly a 
 sound broke the June stillness. 
 
 Mamie did not want to die : she wanted 
 very, very much to live. She enjoyed life ; 
 she liked going out to dances and parties ; 
 she liked being admired ; she liked being 
 thought clever; she wanted to grow up to 
 be a great genius; but, above all, she wanted 
 to win the prize in her examination. She had 
 worked so hard for it, and had thought of 
 nothing else for so long : it did seem hard that 
 she should die before she could get it. 
 
 The tassel of the window blind, waving 
 gently to and fro, made a pattern of light and 
 shade on Mamie's bed ; her fingers played 
 restlessly with the sheet Oh ! how tired she 
 was of that particular pattern ! How long, 
 how long it seemed that she had been in bed ! 
 Many, many days first days of pain, fever and 
 tossing to and fro, days when she knew she 
 had been cross and fretful to everybody and 
 now only weakness and feeling oh ! so tired. 
 
 The light from the garden flickers and 
 fades ; Mamie opens her eyes again ; a grey- 
 headed Doctor is standing by her bed ; he 
 
 2 3
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 looks grave ; he seems to be talking to some- 
 body. 
 
 " Has the class-list come out yet ? " asks 
 Mamie, rousing herself. She asks this question 
 regularly every day. " No ? then perhaps you 
 can tell me tell me the principal exports of 
 Bombay ? and I can't, no, I never can remember 
 the name of the capital of the Isle of Wight." 
 
 Mamie relapses into a doze. " Over pres- 
 sure," mutters the Doctor, holding her thin 
 little wrist. Somebody in the room seems to 
 sob. 
 
 Now it is darkness again Mamie does not 
 know how long she has been asleep. Some one 
 the Sister is giving her a drink. Mamie 
 does not want anything ; she only wishes they 
 would leave her alone. 
 
 Why are the birds awake so early ? Ah, it 
 is morning again. Mamie is always glad when 
 it is light enough to count the row of bottles 
 on the shelf anything but that tiresome 
 pattern of the blind on the bed. Oh that 
 ugly blind ! But some one draws it up, and 
 " visions of the world appear " from outside ; 
 
 the delicious scents of June float in through 
 
 24
 
 Shadows 
 
 the French windows from the lawn there. A 
 little sparrow hops in, impertinently chirping. 
 Mamie turns her head to watch him. Happy 
 little sparrow ! he has not got to die yet. 
 
 " Shall I read a psalm ? " says a soft voice. 
 It is the Sister. Mamie does not answer. She 
 is so tired, tired ; and it makes her head ache 
 to think. She listens mechanically : 
 
 " Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty ; 
 they shall behold the land that is 'very far off." 
 
 Can that be the Nurse reading ? and how 
 far distant her voice sounds ! Mamie raises 
 her eyes and sees not the far-away country, 
 but the sweet mystic eyes of the Child in the 
 arms of the Sistine Madonna, watching her 
 from across the room. " Poor Mamie," the 
 Child seems to say so wistful are His eyes, so 
 divine His pity. 
 
 Mamie looks at the Child, and she feels that 
 it will understand her. Has she worked so 
 hard, all these years, for nothing ? Is she to 
 lose the prize just as it is within her grasp. 
 What then was the use what was the use of 
 it all ? Mamie had made such plans for the 
 future ; she was to be beautiful, clever, a genius, 
 
 25
 
 From, a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 yes, the greatest genius the world had ever 
 seen. Every one would be proud of her every 
 one would love her ah ! how charming and 
 how great she would be and now this was 
 the end of it all ! What was the use, indeed ? 
 
 Mamie tosses restlessly to and fro ; her 
 spirit " flutters and fumes for breath ; " her 
 poor little white soul cries out against extinc- 
 tion. Is that the Doctor again ? Who said 
 " no hope " ? Yes, yes, there shall be hope. 
 Mamie will live. 
 
 " When thou goest through the darkness I wih 
 be with thee" 
 
 Ah yes, Mamie wants some one with her in 
 the dark. She has always been afraid of the 
 dark who was that sobbing ? Mamie tries to 
 ask, but she cannot speak ; with all her strength 
 she cries in her heart for life. And the divine 
 Child in the picture seems to bend forward and 
 say, " Poor Mamie, you shall live. You shall 
 see that Life itself is only sorrow. Go to sleep 
 and dream." 
 
 And Mamie falls asleep, and dreams. 
 It seems to her that she is well and strong 
 26
 
 Shadows 
 
 again. Her cheeks are rosy ; there is light in 
 her eyes and lips. She will not trouble about 
 learning or examinations any more. They are 
 empty after all. That is not what life was given 
 for. No, she will live; and love. Since she 
 must marry somebody, she will marry Tom 
 it is easy to choose since so many boys have 
 said they liked her. They walk about the 
 meadows hand-in-hand and are happy. Then 
 they are married, and the organ is played in 
 church, and Mamie has pretty frocks, and 
 every one kisses her. The frocks are really 
 nicer than Tom is. Tom does not seem always 
 so nice after they are married as he was before. 
 Sometimes they quarrel, sometimes Mamie 
 cries, and her pretty eyes are red. And a faint 
 shadow gathers at the end of the room, and 
 rolls slowly towards Mamie. And Mamie 
 knows it is the Shadow of Disappointment. 
 And the Shadow passes, but it leaves two little 
 wrinkles on Mamie's pure white brow. 
 
 "Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all is 
 Vanity." 
 
 Whose was that voice in serious monotone ? 
 
 Is it the nurse ? No, Mamie has no nurse. 
 
 27
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 . . . She is well and strong. . . . But time 
 goes on, and now Mamie has a baby. A little, 
 dear, soft baby who cuddles up to her and 
 croons, with blue eyes and fluffy, golden hair 
 like the angels. Oh ! how Mamie loves the 
 baby. She clutches it tightly, she holds it to 
 her breast, she opens her little frilled night- 
 gown ah, poor little breast, so wasted and 
 thin ! The baby cries ; it is hungry. Ah, 
 take it away, it is heavy, Mamie feels too weak 
 to bear it. 
 
 Some one moves forward and gently lifts a 
 pillow which was weighing on Mamie's arm. 
 . . . Mamie breathes more easily. And looking 
 into the dim distance, she sees another shadow 
 roll slowly up towards her. And Mamie 
 knows it is the Shadow of Suffering. And it 
 leaves two more wrinkles on Mamie's brow. 
 
 But again the time goes by, and now Mamie 
 has grown sedate and serious. She no longer 
 runs and skips and laughs, but she sits all day 
 and knits in a big garden-chair, and the cat sits 
 at her feet. Her hair has grown grey, and the 
 pretty wavy curls have vanished from her head. 
 
 . . . Now Mamie begins to feel old and tired 
 
 28
 
 Shadows 
 
 oh, so very, very tired almost so tired that 
 she does not want to live any longer. And 
 Mamie sees a third shadow draw slowly up out 
 of the void and roll towards her. And the 
 shadow leaves many wrinkles on Mamie's brow 
 and crow's-feet round her eyes. And Mamie 
 knows that it is the Shadow of Old Age. 
 
 " My days are like a shadow that declineth ; 
 and I am withered like grass" 
 
 Still the same insistent voice ! Mamie opens 
 her eyes, and sees the grey-robed Sister by her 
 bedside. Ah ! she has been dreaming. It was 
 the Child in the picture that made her dream 
 . . . she remembers it now. . . . How much 
 better she feels ! She will get up. How 
 pleased the Doctor will be when he comes this 
 evening. Oh yes, and the examination ! 
 Surely the post will bring news to-night. 
 " Mother, has the letter come yet ? " 
 
 But Mamie does not see how a deeper 
 shadow than any creeps up silently out of 
 the gloom. And the Sister reads on : 
 
 " And Behold, a throne was set . . . and One 
 sat on the throne" 
 
 Mamie sees a great white throne, and herself 
 29
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 sitting on it. She seems to be without her 
 body, and yet of it ; she feels suddenly strong 
 and well. A sea of faces surges beneath her ; 
 a roar of voices ascends to her : " Mamie's first ! 
 Mamie's first ! " they all cry. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother," she cries, with a 
 great, glad shout : " I'm first in the examina- 
 tion ! I'm first ! " 
 
 But the shadow comes up silently, surely, 
 and blots out for ever the gay, kind world. 
 Mamie's head falls back ; the little rippling, 
 fair curls on her temples grow damp ; her little 
 hands clutch at the quilt. . . . 
 
 " Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, 
 and the spirit shall return to God who gave /'/." 
 
 The nurse reads. But Mamie does not hear. 
 The fourth shadow, the Shadow of Death, 
 hangs over her. 
 
 " She's going," the nurse says quietly. 
 
 " Mamie, Mamie," cries the poor mother, 
 " speak to me. Listen, listen," (with a sob) 
 
 " the letter has just come, and you have got the 
 
 i " 
 prize ! 
 
 But Mamie has passed away from the World 
 of Shadows to the Land that is very far off. 
 
 30
 
 " TOPSY ! " Miss Ophelia would say, when at 
 the end of all patience, " What does make you 
 act so ? " 
 
 " Dun no, missis 'spects 'cause I'se so 
 wicked ! " 
 
 " I don't know anything what I shall do with 
 you, Topsy ! " 
 
 " Law, missis, you must whip me. ... I 
 'spects it's good for me. . . . I'se so awful 
 wicked there can't nobody do nothin' with me. 
 ... I 'spects I'se the wickedest crittur in the 
 world." 
 
 This familiar illustration of Topsy's elas- 
 ticity of temperament would seem to bear out 
 the poet's remark that "The heart of child- 
 hood is all mirth " ; but Mrs. Beecher Stowe's 
 negro child was probably exceptional, and even
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Keble's facts are not always to be implicitly 
 relied on. Many poets, philosophers, and wise- 
 acres have indeed assured us from time imme- 
 morial that " childhood is the happiest time." 
 But poets tell us also that spring is mild and 
 balmy ; we know it to be a season of east 
 winds and general cheerlessness. Neither is the 
 spring of life necessarily bright. If carefully 
 nurtured, tended, and guarded, childhood may 
 seem the happiest time ; but what of childhood 
 neglected, thwarted, misunderstood ? Who 
 feels small griefs so deeply as a child ? His 
 sorrow may be shortlived, but it is tenfold 
 more agonising than the grown person's, be- 
 cause the child, from his short experience, 
 cannot apply the faculty of reason and argue 
 that, " It will be better to-morrow." To him 
 sorrow seems endless, eternal. Those who 
 speak assuredly of " childhood's happy hour," 
 forget that happiness depends to a large extent 
 on health and on temperament as influenced 
 by surroundings. Temperament, of course, 
 has the greatest share in children's happiness. 
 Topsy made herself at home where Jane Eyre 
 would have been miserable. Compare the 
 
 32
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 scene between Miss Ophelia and Topsy with 
 this where Mr. Brocklehurst (the " black marble 
 clergyman ") catechises Jane. 
 
 " ' No sight so sad as that of a naughty 
 child,' he began, ' especially a naughty little 
 girl. Do you know where the wicked go after 
 death ?' 
 
 " ' They go to hell,' was my ready and 
 orthodox answer. 
 
 " ' And what is hell ? Can you tell me that ? ' 
 
 " ' A pit full of fire ! ' 
 
 " 'And should you like to fall into that pit, 
 and to be burning there for ever ? ' 
 
 " ' No, sir/ 
 
 " * And what must you do to avoid it ? ' 
 
 " I deliberated a moment ; my answer, when it 
 did come, was objectionable : ' I must keep in 
 good health, and not die.' ' 
 
 Jane Eyre, we may hope, was as exceptional 
 in her precocity of misery as Topsy assuredly 
 was in her happy elasticity. Children such as 
 Topsy would be happy under any system of 
 education ; and under any system children such 
 
 33 c 
 
 7
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 as Jane Eyre would be miserable. Systems 
 must be made for the general run, not for 
 exceptional cases. But surely all will agree 
 that the first object of any system of educa- 
 tion for the young should be to nurture the 
 happy animal nature of the child. A young 
 child should be happy, just as a kitten is happy 
 gambolling in the sunshine, after a plentiful 
 breakfast in a well-cared-for home. And in- 
 deed the majority of children resemble the 
 kitten in being mostly animal ; for their bodily 
 needs being satisfied, their minds as a rule do 
 not yearn unduly for food. " What are you 
 thinking of ? " I asked a small child of six 
 the other day ; she was swinging her legs con- 
 tentedly on a gate-post. " I'm thinking of 
 nuffin' at all," she said. "Thinking!" cried 
 her sister (of seven) with great contempt ; 
 " why we never think a bit ! " The greatest 
 mistake in the education of children in a past 
 generation was that the happy animal side of 
 their nature was not sufficiently cultivated ; and 
 that under the influence of the doctrine of 
 original sin, parents and guardians were too 
 prone to encourage the morbid tendencies. 
 
 34
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 "The heart of a child is bound up in 
 iniquity," was Mr. Brocklehurst's theory, and 
 on this comforting assurance the training of 
 the old school was based. To children ap- 
 proximating to the type of Topsy this did 
 little harm. They said, u Tse wicked," and 
 thought no more about it. Hell fire, devil, 
 unregenerate natures and all were shaken off 
 them as water from a duck. But though 
 Jane Eyre herself was, as we have said, an 
 exaggerated type, most children have a germ 
 of Jane Eyre, as we may call it, which is 
 capable of rapid development under certain 
 conditions. The curse of the old system of 
 education lay in this, that it was precisely 
 calculated to develop this morbid taint. 
 There were many little unfortunates who will 
 bear the scars of their early training to the 
 grave with them. To them, as to Jane 
 Eyre, " It gave their nerves a shock, of 
 which they feel the reverberation to this 
 day." Let us take an instance from authentic 
 experience. 
 
 Patty was a London child, born of suffi- 
 ciently prosperous parents about forty years 
 
 35
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 ago. She was small, sensitive, delicate, and 
 her little life was made a penance to her by 
 her fond parents and the old nurse, who 
 idolised her. Griefs of all imaginable kinds 
 were common with Patty. Every night she 
 lay awake confessing to nurse (poor little 
 sinner of six) temptations that would have 
 done credit to John Bunyan. " Nurse," she 
 would say when put to bed, trembling in 
 every limb, " come and sit beside me. The 
 devil is sitting grinning at me in that corner; 
 do you know what he's tempting me to do ? " 
 " No, my lamb what ? " the person addressed 
 would reply sympathetically. " He's tempt- 
 ing me to pray to him." " Oh, shocking," 
 says nurse. Patty might perhaps go to sleep 
 at last with nurse's hand in hers ; but on the 
 next night the same scene would be recom- 
 menced, with a slight variation. " Nurse, I'm 
 tempted again." " Tell me, my pet," returned 
 the Mentor by the bedside. " I'm tempted 
 to pray to the Virgin Mary." " Oh, horrible, 
 frightful ! " says nurse this latter temptation 
 occurring to her as infinitely the more shock- 
 ing of the two. 
 
 36
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 Patty also saw faces in the dark. Many 
 things combined to keep her awake at night : 
 sometimes it was listening for the " last dread 
 trump" (for which nurse had told her she 
 must always be ready) ; sometimes it was the 
 idea of eternity. "A long, long thread, per- 
 haps, but it must have an end," Patty revolved 
 in her dazed little brain. But alas ! though 
 this had been the stumbling-block of many 
 of the wise and prudent, it was not revealed 
 unto her. 
 
 Patty read regularly with nurse every morn- 
 ing. Nurse's favourite book for week-days 
 was a small work entitled Cobwebs to Catch 
 Little Flies, being a series of conversations, 
 in words of three letters, between a certain 
 Mamma, Frank, and Ann. The opening con- 
 versation is adorned by a cheerful little vig- 
 nette of a child's funeral ; and upon Frank's 
 asking, " Mamma, why did the boy die ? " 
 Mamma answers, " It is for sin," and proceeds 
 further soothingly to remark, " The end of 
 sin is woe in the pit." 
 
 But, strange to say, this gloomy little work 
 had a fascination for Patty, just as the 
 
 37
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Bewick, with its quaint woodcuts, had for 
 Jane Eyre. On Saturday night it, as well as 
 the gayer and more mundane picture-books, 
 was systematically put away, not to reappear 
 till the Monday morning. It is sad to reflect 
 that, owing to this and other reasons, Patty 
 perfectly hated Sunday ; it seemed to cast its 
 gloom over at least half the week. She did 
 not like going to church ; her " bad thoughts " 
 (that is, her temptations) beset her there more 
 than ever, having there, so to speak, a free 
 field. Tormented by her morbid fancies poor 
 Patty would absently hold her book upside 
 down, thereby exposing herself to her nurse's 
 or mother's reprimands. "Nurse," Patty would 
 say, after a long morning thus passed in mental 
 agony, " Nurse, supposing a * bad thought ' 
 knocks at the door of my heart, it isn't my fault, 
 is it ? " " Listen to your conscience," said 
 nurse, " your own conscience will tell you 
 when you're in the wrong." 
 
 Poor Patty ! Often and vainly she listened. 
 Nurse had told her it was " a still, small voice," 
 and she expected to hear it speaking inside 
 her. 
 
 38
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 Patty's own particular nursery bookshelf 
 consisted of the following books : Accidents 
 of Childhood (graphically illustrated), Mental 
 Improvement, Cobwebs to Catch Little Flies, 
 Reading without Tears (blotted with many), 
 Little Henry and his Bearer, Stories on the 
 Commandments, Moore's Tales for Young Persons, 
 The Guilty Tongue, The Lady of the Manor (a 
 work for young ladies on the eve of Confir- 
 mation, in seven vols.), The Fairchild Family. 
 Downstairs, in the library, she had occasional 
 access to a lovely illustrated edition of The 
 Arabian Nights, filled with delightful genii 
 over which she spent many a happy hour 
 and Aesop's Fables ; to say nothing of a 
 small Pilgrim s Progress, with quaint wood- 
 cuts, one of which showed Ignorance writhing 
 in the familiar hell-fire. Patty always pitied 
 poor Ignorance his fate seemed so very hard 
 on him. 
 
 Patty wrote poetry and stories, secretively, 
 daringly, on old scraps of paper, hiding them 
 behind the jam-pots in the nursery store-cup- 
 board. It was a dear, a stolen pleasure. 
 Probably no one would have objected, but the 
 
 39
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 child's training encouraged her romantic and 
 secretive bent. And she did not even confess 
 these things to nurse at night ! Her stories were 
 not at all modelled after the style of the books 
 in her library. Even at the tender age of seven, 
 Patty possessed enough knowledge of human 
 nature to know that little girls did not talk 
 like this : " SELINA : ' How happy are we, my 
 dear sister, to have such a fine house, and such 
 kind parents, who train us in the ways of virtue, 
 and care in every way for our well-being.' 
 MARTHA : ' You are right, my dear Selina, and 
 we ought indeed to be grateful, and to do our 
 best to supplement their wise endeavours with 
 regard to us.' ' Patty's father and mother 
 were tenderly anxious about their only child, 
 and they passed for quite devoted parents ; but 
 in those days children only descended in their 
 best frocks, for an hour or so after tea, and 
 Patty's chief confidante was her old nurse. 
 Nurse was kind-hearted, though a strict Cal- 
 vinist and a rigid Sabbatarian. She would 
 never allow Patty to run or jump on Sundays, 
 and once, when the child was playing with two 
 
 sticks, said reprovingly, " Don't cross them ; 
 
 40
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 I never could abear to see anything in the form 
 of a cross." This good woman's favourite text 
 was, "The devil walketh about like a roaring 
 lion, seeking whom he may devour." She would 
 put a terrible emphasis of her own on the word 
 " roaring." 
 
 But, notwithstanding the devil, and nurse's 
 strictness, Patty infinitely preferred her nursery 
 to " downstairs." The drawing - room was 
 always rather alarming to her. There might 
 be visitors, and besides, she hated a clean, 
 starched frock, and the ribbons that tied up 
 her evening sleeves irritated her skin. I re- 
 member two little girls, to whom, though they 
 were the youngest members of a large and 
 happy family, the bare thought of " going into 
 the drawing-room " was terrible. " They will 
 be in there," they said below their breath ; they 
 referring merely to their mother and sisters. 
 
 Patty's gloomy faith made her superstitious. 
 She was a good child, but good and naughty 
 children were alike superstitious in those days 
 of the supremacy of the devil in religious 
 teaching. They looked carefully under their 
 beds every evening, said the Lord's Prayer 
 
 41
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 backwards to keep off evil spirits, and would 
 not have looked in the glass when alone at night 
 for anything that could be offered them. 
 
 Patty's nurse told her that if she looked in 
 the glass too much she might see another face 
 that of Satan himself reflected in the glass 
 behind her. This was quite enough to nip 
 any budding vanity on Patty's part. A little 
 boy of our acquaintance once (a very naughty 
 little boy to be sure) used, when twilight came 
 on, to go in terrible fear of the devil fetching 
 him. At night, when sent to bed, he trembled 
 to climb the dark staircase alone, and as a 
 defence he used to recite the following lines : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 
 
 He said this every night as he walked upstairs, 
 swaying his small body from side to side with 
 a rhythmic motion. Only thus, he thought, 
 was he safely guarded through the powers of 
 darkness. 
 
 People sometimes said to Patty, " What a 
 happy little girl you must be ! Make the most 
 
 of childhood, for you will never be so happy 
 
 42
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 again ! " But the child did not believe a word 
 of this. She longed to grow up, planning many 
 things to do and to be in that happy far-off time, 
 when no daily readings, no Scotch catechism, 
 no everlasting services were to be got through. 
 Patty did not long much for heaven. It did 
 not seem to her to be at all an inviting region ; 
 for nurse's favourite hymn described it as a 
 place, 
 
 " Where congregations ne'er break up, 
 And Sabbaths never end," 
 
 which was decidedly suggestive of cramp in 
 the legs. 
 
 Patty's parents, we repeat, were devoted to 
 her, and nothing was further from their hearts 
 than any unintentional unkindness. But they 
 did not understand " the physical basis of life." 
 They ought to have taken Patty to a doctor 
 for her " temptations," and ordered a course of 
 cod-liver oil for her " dreams." Cod-liver oil, 
 of course, cannot quite cure all our ailments of 
 body and mind ; but it may go a long way in 
 that direction. We ourselves, who are but 
 " children of a larger growth," are we not 
 
 43
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 amenable to the same influences ? " Grown- 
 up people are never naughty," a child once 
 plaintively remarked. Alas ! we are too often 
 very " naughty " ; only we mostly call our 
 naughtiness disease, and treat it accordingly. 
 The pity is that this doctrine of the physical 
 basis of " naughtiness " was not applied in the 
 older generation to the education of children. 
 There was sound science, as well as good sense, 
 in that epigram which Martial addressed to 
 a too strict schoolmaster. " Put away your 
 stick," he said, " and your other implements 
 of punishment. If you teach the children 
 to keep well, you will teach them quite 
 enough." 
 
 And these reflections bring us to the con- 
 trast afforded by the " nerve-system." Of this 
 also let us take an authentic example. With 
 Patty, a child of the past, we will contrast 
 Connie, a child of the present. Connie is a 
 small girl, now just seven years old, and also, 
 like Patty, an only child. Her parents are 
 no less devoted than were Patty's ; her nurse 
 is as faithfully attached. But the difference 
 in training is vast. Connie has the run of the 
 
 44
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 house ; everywhere she is welcome, and knows 
 it. Sweet as she is, she is almost too ubiqui- 
 tous. All her teaching and surroundings are 
 bright ; no wind is allowed to blow in her 
 direction too roughly ; the word u devil," such 
 a bugbear to poor Patty, conveys no meaning 
 to Connie. Nay, she has but a hazy notion 
 even of the good spirits. Under the modern 
 system it is thought better to " leave children's 
 minds more or less of a blank " on these sub- 
 jects. The modern child " does not think a 
 bit." Connie was being shown the other day 
 (her parents, by the way, belong to the ortho- 
 dox church) a book of Dore's illustrations to 
 the Paradiso. "What's that?" she asked, 
 pointing out one of the artist's well-known, 
 cloudy and theatrical forms. " It's an angel." 
 " What is an angel ? " inquired the child, with 
 a puzzled look. " It's a thing that flies." But 
 Connie only caught the last word. " Oh, flies ! " 
 she murmured contentedly, thinking doubtless 
 that the reference was to the insect. So far 
 from lying awake at night with puzzling 
 thoughts of Death and Eternity, Connie is 
 perhaps too comfortably sceptical. She was 
 
 45
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 passing a graveyard the other day, laid out with 
 the flat stones of an older fashion : " Well," she 
 remarked, with an air of pleasant conviction, 
 " I don't see how ever people can get up from 
 under them''' 
 
 But Connie is sheltered in this present world, 
 as well as from all terrors of the future. Even 
 her nursery milk is carefully warmed before 
 she is allowed to drink it. When it becomes 
 necessary to extract one of her small teeth, gas 
 is administered, for it would never do for her 
 to suffer the least pain. She is swathed up to 
 her neck and wrists in lambs'-wool, and would 
 have stared at poor Patty's short sleeves and 
 red, rough arms. No morbid fancies afflict 
 her ; if they did she would promptly be taken 
 to see the family doctor. If she is naughty, it 
 means that she is " below par" and must take 
 a tonic. We will leave for a moment the 
 question whether this more comfortable system 
 of education is at all points advantageous ; but 
 decidedly Connie's would be voted a pleasanter 
 child than Patty. 
 
 The same contrast appears in Connie's 
 
 library. Her nursery bookshelf contains, be- 
 46
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 sides innumerable picture-books, the following 
 volumes, brightly and tastefully bound . 
 Several volumes of Harper's Young People, as 
 many of Little Folks, The Child's Garland of 
 Verses, The Babys Opera, The Comic Sandford 
 and Merton, Mr. Andrew Lang's Red Fairy 
 Book, Prince Prigio, and Leech's pictures from 
 " Punch." If Connie could go back three 
 decades and find herself suddenly confronted 
 with Patty, she would not in the least under- 
 stand her. Repression on the one hand, 
 freedom on the other, work out to such a 
 different result. Connie would think Patty 
 prim, tiresome, and stupid ; Patty would 
 look down upon Connie as merely a silly 
 baby. 
 
 For the child of the past the world was a 
 universal class-room ; for that of the present 
 it is an all-prevading nursery. We once taught 
 our children to live up to us ; now we do our 
 best to live down to them. A century ago 
 John Wesley showed the prevailing idea of the 
 education of children in the boarding-school 
 which he established at Kingswood, where he 
 ordained that "There was to be no play, for 
 
 47
 
 From a Woman's Note- Book 
 
 he who plays when he is a child will play when 
 he becomes a man. Every child was to rise at 
 4 A.M. and spend an hour in private reading, 
 meditation, singing, and prayer. Every Friday, 
 as the fast-day of the Church, all the children, 
 whose health would bear it, were to fast till 
 3 P.M., and there were to be no holidays no, 
 not a day." Patty, though not educated in 
 the Kingswood school, yet owed many of her 
 sufferings in after-life to her early Calvinistic 
 training. She has long ago " grown up," but 
 her morbid taint is ineradicable. It more or 
 less embitters her life. But Connie has not 
 grown up yet, and she must remain therefore, 
 so to speak, an " undetermined quantity." 
 Decidedly there were grave errors in the pre- 
 vailing methods of bringing up children in the 
 past. But it will only be in the next genera- 
 tion that we shall be able to tell whether we 
 have escaped the opposite error in bringing up 
 the children of the present. 
 
 The results of the ideal education, avoiding 
 the extreme on either side, are those laid 
 down by Wordsworth as " the education of 
 
 Nature : " 
 
 48
 
 On the Education of Girls 
 
 " Myself will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulse ; and with me 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things." 
 
 There was little chance for Patty to be 
 " sportive as the fawn," when the burden of her 
 education was that "the world is very evil." 
 She grew too much " in shower," too little " in 
 sun." But can we be quite sure "that petted 
 Connie, reared as it were in a domestic hot- 
 house, will acquire either " the vital feelings of 
 delight " or " the breathing balm," 
 
 " . . . the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things ? " 
 
 49 D
 
 IV 
 
 THE NEW CHILD 
 
 A CERTAIN story-book has recently been com- 
 mended to public notice, on the ground that 
 it has been " read and much liked by Dorothy 
 Drew." 
 
 Now, with all due respect to the ex-Premier's 
 little grand-daughter, and waiving the question 
 as to whether or no children should under- 
 take the office of reviewers, we submit that 
 the world * is not only in danger of being 
 governed by the New Woman, but by a still 
 later and yet more tyrannical product the 
 New Child. 
 
 Yes, " the old order changeth, giving place 
 to new," and the child has changed with all 
 else. It has, for one thing, grown up with 
 alarming rapidity or else is equally alarm- 
 ingly precocious. The Apostle stands cor- 
 rected, for children do not need nowadays 
 
 50
 
 The New Child 
 
 to be told to "put away childish things." 
 What contented their grandfathers nay, aunts 
 and uncles will no longer content them. 
 They love what we, in our youth, hated ; 
 what we regarded as penances are by them 
 esteemed as delights. We loathed notice, 
 they love it ; we escaped anywhere even 
 under the bed to avoid publicity ; they court 
 it. We were shy ; they are self-satisfied. 
 
 All this change of feeling is, naturally, more 
 brought about by the elders than by the chil- 
 dren themselves. Yes, it is the elders who are 
 mainly responsible for the New Child. They 
 have produced, like Frankenstein, this " mysti- 
 cal monster," which neither belongs to youth 
 nor to age. The New Child deceives the un- 
 initiated ; it would have deceived even Herod 
 himself; for it is, as the Scotch say, "neither 
 fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." 
 
 We have wandered far from the ways of 
 the " child quellers " of old times, such as the 
 immortal Mrs. Pipchin. Peace be with their 
 ashes ! The child-spoiling tendencies of late 
 years have had their natural result. There is, 
 at the present day, a love of immaturity qua 
 
 51
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 immaturity. Hence our craze over " infant 
 prodigies " of both sexes. The people, who 
 crowd to hear little Konrad Kozzunski play a 
 polonaise of Chopin's at eight years old, would 
 not go to hear him play the same piece much 
 more perfectly a few years later ; all his glory 
 would have departed. Corney Grain's witty 
 allusions to this craze, and his suggestion that 
 he should himself don a white frock and pink 
 sash, were not without cause. And then the 
 " recitations " that the Modern Child indulges 
 in ! Even in the theatre little squeaky voices 
 and midget children are quite the rage while 
 on private stages ! How far away are the 
 times when perhaps to celebrate some Christ- 
 mas gathering the trembling little boy or girl 
 would be forcibly " stood up " to recite " My 
 name is Norval," or " Oh call my brother 
 back to me," quaking and perspiring the while 
 with fear. Nowadays our degenerate offspring 
 rather like this sort of thing ; but then, they 
 would not recite " My name is Norval." No, 
 they would soar to the highest flights, and 
 probably give us, say, " The Flight of the 
 Duchess," or " Sister Helen." The New Child 
 
 5 2
 
 The New Child 
 
 is always before the public ; like the poor, he 
 (or she) is always with us. " Coming out " 
 into society can hardly be any novelty to the 
 modern maiden ; the difference is only one of 
 degree, for children's dances every year grow 
 in splendour. When we remember the days 
 of our youth, and recall the victimised feeling 
 with which we went to a party the stodgy 
 little boys, with faces of abject misery, who 
 asked equally unhappy little girls to dance, 
 and then generally came " a cropper " we mar- 
 vel at the change. Dancing lessons, too, that 
 were once a penance, are now a pleasure and 
 why ? Is it merely that the dancing-mistresses 
 do not stamp on the juvenile toes as much as 
 formerly, or force them, tottering, into the 
 ungainly attitudes called respectively, if we 
 remember rightly, first and fifth position ; or 
 is it simply that the New Child feels with the 
 quick intuition of childhood, that his audience 
 is now in sympathy with him, whatever it may 
 have been in the past ? and it is thus, that 
 
 " with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part." 
 
 53
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 No one is so quick to hear and see as children. 
 Their receptivity is wonderful. They receive 
 impressions as a slate on which nothing has 
 yet been written. Therefore it is we ourselves, 
 we see more and more, who are to blame for 
 the New Child. For the sad thing is that 
 the New Child has learned evil as well as 
 good. Emboldened by well-meant praise, the 
 modern infant now holds nothing sacred. It 
 is like the Eclectic painters of the Renaissance ; 
 it becomes, as Leonardo da Vinci says, one of 
 nature's grandchildren, not one of her children. 
 It rushes at conclusions before it has mastered 
 the reasoning, or gone through the preliminary 
 discipline. And the penance the New Child 
 pays for this haste is that it loses its own 
 natural grace of expression, and gains nothing 
 in return but the ill-fitting graces of its elders 
 which suit it as well as fashionable clothing 
 suits the untutored savage. It is really start- 
 ling nowadays to hear a child state some pro- 
 found truth, the perception of which has 
 perhaps cost us years of bitter experience. We 
 are not here objecting to children of genius 
 far from it ; what we do object to is their new 
 
 54
 
 The New Child 
 
 and ill-fitting sense of responsibility. Lilies of 
 the field they ought to be uncaring for the 
 morrow. Undue seriousness in a child is un- 
 canny, and ought to be treated with a dose of 
 medicine. Our new educational theories make 
 children priggish. And a priggish child is 
 worse than a grown-up prig, for it is a contradic- 
 tion in terms. But the seriousness is the worst 
 evil, for it is the most widespread. A modern 
 schoolboy of thirteen, having missed a prize 
 for which he was working, lamented to his 
 sister that " his life had been a failure ! " Talk 
 of the joy of childhood ! Why, children play 
 nowadays at being grown-up men and women. 
 An even worse case was that of a school-girl 
 of twelve, who thought darkly of suicide 
 because her life was " of no use to anybody." 
 If this happen in the green tree, what will it 
 be in the dry ? 
 
 The priggishness of the New Child, though 
 often irritating, is a less serious thing. Most 
 children have had it more or less, and they 
 outgrow it in time : in the New Child it is 
 rampant. It is unduly fostered and encou- 
 raged, we regret to say, by the everlasting 
 
 55
 
 From a Woman's Note-Boole 
 
 u children's pages " and " children's competi- 
 tions" that every journal now pours forth. 
 Life, from the New Child's point of view, 
 seems to be one long competition. All this 
 fosters their vanity, their love of praise, their 
 ambition. Their letters are published week by 
 week, their pictured presentments are given 
 to an admiring public. What, from the 
 New Child's point of view, can be more de- 
 lightful ? 
 
 Dr. Johnson would have said of this, with 
 his accustomed sterness : " Sir," or " Madam, 
 you lay the foundations of endless mischief; 
 you make boys and girls hate each other." 
 
 But the competitions go on lustily ; every 
 week there are more of them. When we read 
 the terribly stilted and dull effusions poured 
 out in the " children's pages " by the New 
 Child, one is, indeed, tempted to ask, " What 
 becomes of all the clever little children ? " 
 Cleverness is here conspicuous by its absence. 
 How disagreeable and how dull the childish 
 letter can become when stilted with arrogance 
 and bounded by conventionality, may be seen 
 from the following, extracted at random (and
 
 The New Child 
 
 published as prize letters) by one of the many 
 " thildren's pages " of the day. They are 
 written, as the reader will perceive, to a cer- 
 tain " Minerva " Minerva being the pet name 
 of the lady who sits at the receipt of custom 
 in these Child's Head-Turning Societies. 
 
 From BIRDIE Q., aged eleven. 
 
 (Very well spelt throughout.) 
 
 "DEAR MINERVA, I feel I must write and 
 tell you all about our School Prize-giving. It 
 was quite an important affair, for the vicar 
 
 officiated, and the Countess of gave away 
 
 the prizes. I am quite a little maiden, only 
 eleven last May ; and dear mother had warned 
 me not to expect anything. But I had worked 
 hard, and I received the first-form prize 
 which was pretty good, dear Minerva, was it 
 not ? The girl who expected the prize has, 
 alas ! not forgiven me for carrying it away 
 from her ; which surely, dear Minerva, shows 
 a jealous spirit ; for in this world's battle we 
 must all give and take, must we not? Your 
 little friend, BIRDIE Q." 
 
 57
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 We do not know what " Minerva " may 
 have felt, but we ourselves have no hesitation 
 in prophesying that " Birdie Q." will come to 
 no good. But now for the next : 
 
 From ETHEL S., aged thirteen. 
 
 " DEAR MINERVA, I am writing to tell 
 you and your little readers what a happy day I 
 spent at C Castle last summer. To com- 
 mence with, there were my father, mother, and 
 I (my dear parents say they are never happy 
 unless I am with them). Well, dear Minerva, 
 we lunched at the inn, explored the storied 
 glades, conjured up the dramatic scenes that 
 had taken place within those ancient walls. 
 Oh ! too, too lovely were the green lawns, and 
 vistas seen through ancient avenues ! The 
 glorious sun sank through billowy purple 
 clouds, and can it have been fancy, dear 
 Minerva, that I seemed to hear the angels' 
 choir behind them ? 
 
 " I hope, dear Minerva, that you will esteem 
 this little letter worthy of a place in your 
 Children's Page. I have tried so hard and 
 58
 
 The New Child 
 
 this is the third time, too. Mother says if you 
 don't, she won't let me subscribe to your 
 ' page ' any more, for it's not fair to put every- 
 body else's letters in, and not mine. I enclose 
 you my photograph for publication ; but my 
 friends say that it does not do me justice. 
 Your little subscriber. 
 
 " ETHEL S. (aged thirteen)." 
 
 History does not relate how the amiable 
 Minerva bore this jibe ; at any rate she showed 
 most Christian forbearance in inserting the 
 letter. Here is another letter from a decidedly 
 older " child " this time a child, certainly, 
 " in understanding " still : 
 
 " SLOCUM-CUM-TEMENS, WESSEX. 
 " DEAR MINERVA, I should like to become 
 a subscriber to your Page, and enclose twenty- 
 four stamps and my photograph. I hope you 
 do not consider thirty-nine too old ; but I have 
 always wished to join the ' Children's League,' 
 only my parents would never, till now, give 
 their consent. I have constantly longed to see 
 myself in print, and I will try not to be much 
 
 59
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 more stupid than the clever children of to-day. 
 I could send you a nice chatty letter every week 
 about our parish teas and mothers' meetings. 
 I have a friend of fifty, who says she is one of 
 your members, so I hope you will also admit 
 me. Your depressed friend, 
 
 " VICAR'S DAUGHTER." 
 
 Here we see the New Child distinctly invad- 
 ing the province of the elderly and unoccupied 
 spinster. But can any one suppose that either 
 " Birdie Q." or " Ethel S." were inspired by 
 any other feeling than a morbid and unhealthy 
 craving for notoriety, when they wrote those 
 unpleasant letters to Minerva ? What good 
 did the outpouring do them or rather, what 
 harm ? Both Birdie and Ethel would be the 
 better of a good dose of the old regime, ad- 
 ministered daily in other words, they both 
 stand in need of what was expressively, if 
 vulgarly, termed, in nursery parlance, " a good 
 smack ; " or at any rate, they require to be 
 " shown their places." 
 
 " Birdie Q." and " Ethel S." will, perhaps, 
 
 when a little older, assail that much-enduring 
 
 60
 
 The New Child 
 
 tribe, the editors of magazines, with effusions 
 such as the following, which was sent the 
 other day to an editor by a little girl of 
 fifteen : 
 
 " DEAR MR. EDITOR, I have written a 
 novel in three volumes, and if you will take 
 great care of it and not let it get dirty, you 
 may read it. As it is a sycological (sic) novel, 
 and I have taken great pains with it, I think 
 you ought to pay me something large for it 
 perhaps five pounds. I want a new frock, 
 and the money would be nice. I have tried 
 before to write ; but the world is dreadfully 
 unkind to me, and indeed I have sometimes 
 suspected that there is a conspiracy against 
 me. But I thought, Mr. Editor, that you would 
 be fair. My life has been of no use up to 
 now, and I am fifteen ; so, dear Mr. Editor, 
 please write soon to your little friend." 
 
 We will now turn our attention from these 
 cultured children to a quite, ordinary child's 
 letter of the old regime. It is from a country 
 niece of eleven to an elderly aunt in town :
 
 From a Woman's Note-Boole 
 
 " DEAR AUNTIE, I am sending you some 
 Anemones for your birthday. I want so much 
 to come to London and stay with you and 
 when I am lonely I think of you, spending 
 your afternoons at the Crystal Palace or at 
 Madame Tussaud's. If you want a companion 
 I recommend you to have dormice ; they do 
 not smell a bit, and they are such dears. I am 
 sorry you have not been well, but dormice 
 would cheer you up. We call ours Teeny and 
 Weeny, and we always tell one from the other 
 because Weeny has got a rash on its nose. 
 The dormice come out every night and sharpen 
 their teeth and make a frightful noise. I have 
 been rather ill ; I made myself ill with eat- 
 ing toffee, Mother says so. Oh ! how I hate 
 it now ! I shall never eat it again. Your 
 loving KITTY." 
 
 This is a perfectly unstudied, and therefore 
 charming, epistle ; but it is not the " New 
 Child " at all. The New Child would know 
 better than to recommend dormice to a middle- 
 aged aunt, or to her imagine her spending her 
 " afternoons at Madame Tussaud's." No ; 
 62
 
 The New Child 
 
 the New Child's letter under the same circum- 
 stances, would be something like this : 
 
 " MY SWEETEST AUNTIE, I do hope your 
 poor head has left off aching. Have you tried 
 bromide ? It does mine so much good always. 
 It is a pity that you cannot come to our 
 theatricals, as we might have managed to cheer 
 you up a little ! I am to be the Good Fairy ; 
 it is the best part, and my dress will be simply 
 lovely. I am sorry you sent me Shakespeare, 
 for I have got quite beyond him ; our school 
 form finished him long ago. And the Shelley 
 I can hardly be allowed to read yet; he is 
 not orthodox enough. But we can, perhaps, 
 get the books changed. Your affectionate 
 niece GWENDOLINE.' 
 
 The New Child, as we have seen, has already 
 been a reviewer ; it has also become editor 
 
 witness : a certain little Lady , who has 
 
 been dubbed admiringly " the youngest editor 
 in the world." We do not know why extreme 
 youth should be so attractive in an editor ; 
 time was when he was reverenced for his grey 
 
 63
 
 From a Woma'ns Note-Book 
 
 hairs ; but fashions change, and we shall soon, 
 doubtless, have our opinions " formed " for us 
 by editors of eight or nine ! Children are cer- 
 tainly qualifying for the post, for they correct 
 us terribly. They are nothing if not instruc- 
 tive. " A is not an article," remarked a child 
 the other day to its mother, who was helping 
 her with her school lesson : " Fancy your not 
 knowing that it's a distinguishing adjective ! " 
 We asked a small school-girl the other day 
 if she learned astronomy : "Astronomy ! of course 
 not ! that's an infant's subject," she answered 
 with great contempt. " Have you read Pope's 
 Essay on Man ? " we inquired lately of a girl 
 of thirteen : " Pope ! why, nobody thinks any- 
 thing of him nowadays," she replied. " Do 
 you know Milton's Paradise Lost?" " Oh, 
 we got beyond that long ago." The worst of 
 a childish dictum of this sort is that you feel 
 yourself so absolutely quenched. There is no 
 getting any further in the argument, for no 
 pig-headedness equals the pig-headedness of the 
 very Young Person, in fact, of the New Child. 
 And then he or she is never amused with 
 
 the simple games that used to delight us. 
 
 64
 
 The New Child 
 
 Modern children are willing to play, if only 
 to please their elders; but they are mildly 
 and politely bored. They are bored with 
 most things. They have twenty picture-books 
 where we had one ; none of your garish, 
 crude illustrations, but aesthetic designs ; and 
 yet they don't seem to care about them. There 
 is a good story of how an old gentleman, with 
 much toil and trouble, manufactured a large 
 kite for his small grandson. He and another 
 old friend, with the boy, went out to fly the 
 kite. The two old men were deeply engrossed, 
 but the grandson got so bored that he quietly 
 absented himself, and after some time the two 
 old fogies found to their disgust that they had 
 been larking about all alone with a kite, much 
 to the amusement of the passers-by. And 
 another story is of a little girl of eight who said 
 to her mother (an authoress), "Oh, mumsey, 
 why not call your new book ' The Rod of 
 Love ' ; does it not ring quite pleasantly ? " 
 Ah ! there is something terribly unchildish 
 about the "New Child." Little Marjorie 
 Fleming, that sweet child whose untimely death 
 
 Scott mourned, has left more talent behind her 
 
 65 E
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 in those unstudied scraps of letters than is 
 shown by all the " new school " of childhood 
 put together. But then her charm was that 
 she was so unstudied. 
 
 " I am now going to tell you the horible and 
 wretched plaege that my multiplication gives 
 me you can't conceive it the most Devilish 
 thing is 8 times 8 and 7 times 7 it is what 
 nature itself can't endure. ... I am very glad 
 that Satan has not given me boils and many 
 other misfortunes. . . . This is Saturday and 
 I am very glad of it, because I have play half 
 the Day and I get money too but alas I owe 
 Isabella 4 pence for I am finned 2 pence when- 
 ever I bite my nails. Isabella is teaching me 
 to make simme colings and nofs of interri- 
 gations peorids commos &c. ... As this is 
 Sunday I will meditate upon Sencable and 
 Religious subjects. First I should be very 
 thankful I am not a beggar." 
 
 This is sweet ; and Louis Stevenson also has 
 hit off the true childish spirit in his delightful 
 book, A Child's Garden of Verses^ especially in 
 
 this stanza : 
 
 66
 
 The New Child 
 
 * When I am grown to man's estate 
 I will be very proud and great, 
 And tell the other girls and boys 
 Not to meddle with my toys." 
 
 Neither is this at all like the "New Child," 
 but it is altogether charming, if a little narrow 
 in its views. And indeed, whatever the vices 
 of children may be, we prefer them to the vices 
 of older people, which the New Child has been 
 accused of having. For our part we prefer a 
 child to be a child, and not a weak copy of a 
 grown-up person. 
 
 To sum up, the Child of bygone days had 
 to be seen and not heard ; the New Child has 
 to be heard as well as seen. Heard in essays, 
 recitations, society speeches; seen in endless 
 photographs, posturing in shop windows, smirk- 
 ing at us from out the pages of periodicals. 
 Yes, it is the Children's Age in more senses 
 than one. In some cases the children are used to 
 reflect the father's glory, as in a certain maga- 
 zine we lately saw, which was devoted exclu- 
 sively to articles by the " Daughters of Great 
 Men." The " daughters of great men " had at 
 
 any rate the excuse of their early recollections 
 
 67
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 for appearing in print ; but a later and more 
 " up-to-date " periodical goes so far as to give 
 us, we see, the portraits of the " Children of 
 Notable People." Truly, we are, as Thackeray 
 has called us, a nation of snobs ; but what have 
 our innocent children done that we should make 
 them participators in our national weakness ? 
 
 What has poor little " Hesper A " been 
 
 guilty of that she should be portrayed to us 
 
 in a big sunbonnet, or little " Fergus B " 
 
 that he should be exhibited to us in his best 
 lace collar ? These baby portraits ought to be 
 sacred to the domestic hearth, and not shown 
 to a cold and unsympathetic outer world. We 
 hope, however, that if this kind of thing con- 
 tinues the children may themselves get too much 
 of it and rebel. In this connection we are glad 
 to note a protest from a little American girl, 
 Miss Clara Clemens (Mark Twain's daughter) : 
 " Papa's books," she confesses, bore her. " I 
 haven't read half he's written," she confided to 
 a friend, " and what I have read didn't interest 
 me in the least. I am so tired, too, of being 
 noticed and asked to be introduced and so forth, 
 
 just because I am the daughter of the great 
 
 68
 
 The New Child 
 
 American humorist. Papa is the nicest thing 
 in the world as papa ; but, oh dear I I do wish 
 he wasn't famous." 
 
 When the New Children grow to be Old 
 Children, what a disillusion there will be ! 
 They will have left nothing for the end. All 
 the currants in their cake will have long ago 
 been picked out, and only the sodden dough 
 of an unkind world left. How much 
 better if, instead of writing to editors, figur- 
 ing in " prize competitions " and doing, gener- 
 ally very indifferently, the work of older and 
 sadder people they have romped, frisked, 
 and generally made the most of the 
 
 " Sweet childish days, that are as long 
 As twenty days are now." 
 
 The Boy-child, indeed, may yet enjoy the 
 "sweet long childish days;" of him we have 
 hopes ; his school-life partly redeems him. 
 The Girl-child is a worse offender, for she is 
 more hopelessly imbued with the spirit of the 
 age. As the boy is father of the Man so 
 is the Girl as New Child the mother of the
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 " New Woman." It is long since Miss Ingelow 
 wrote : 
 
 " I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 
 
 While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
 The child is a woman, the book may close over, 
 For all the lessons are said. 
 
 I wait for my story the birds cannot sing it, 
 
 Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
 The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it ! 
 
 Such as I wish it to be." 
 
 But the New Child has no idea of waiting. 
 
 70
 
 THE TYRANNY OF THE MOTHERS 
 
 WHILE so much talk is heard about " Revolt- 
 ing Daughters," there is another side of the 
 question that is seldom touched upon. The 
 younger daughters are having it all their own 
 way ; they have revolted successfully against a 
 tyranny that they have never felt, while the 
 older generation the true prisoners will yet 
 continue to bear their chains. 
 
 If the modern young woman had needed an 
 argument to turn the scale in her favour, she 
 might have found it in the existence, if re- 
 membered, the quiet, uncomplaining existence 
 of hundreds, nay, thousands of middle-aged 
 and elderly spinsters who are daily suffering a 
 very purgatory of discipline and self-denial at 
 the hands of those who might be supposed to 
 love them best. They will not rise in their 
 own defence ; but it is necessary that some one 
 should hold a brief for them. " Children of a
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 larger growth," indeed ! but still treated as 
 " children in understanding," faded old maids, 
 who may neither share the joy of the young 
 and happy, nor the dignity of the responsible 
 and self-reliant ; poor wavering souls, for ever 
 tossed backwards and forwards in a kind of 
 Limbo between two worlds ; pariahs and out- 
 casts, yet ever compelled to wear the mask of 
 smiling happiness. 
 
 It is these old-maid daughters of elderly 
 mothers who should obtain the world's fullest 
 sympathy. No one gives it them, for who 
 remembers or troubles over the trials of the 
 middle-aged middle-age, which as Keble says 
 somewhere : 
 
 " By no fond wile 
 Or saying grace is blest." 
 
 Our sympathies are all with the young. Yet 
 the young girl, especially the modern young 
 girl, is usually very well qualified to fight for 
 herself, and does not need help so much as 
 her elderly cousins and aunts. She can re- 
 volt without any assistance ; they need all 
 
 our encouragement to do so. Her childhood 
 
 72
 
 The Tyranny of the Mothers 
 
 has not been repressed ; theirs has. She has 
 always been taught to regard herself as the 
 pivot on which the world at any rate her 
 immediate world moves ; their one lesson 
 has generally been to efface themselves. 
 The sacrifice of Iphigenia was nothing to 
 theirs. The Hebrew maiden, too, was only 
 sacrificed once ; these sacrifice themselves anew 
 every day. 
 
 Why should the elderly mother lay claim 
 to the very soul of her elderly daughter? 
 Even Frankenstein had no power over the soul 
 of the Being he had created ; and the mere 
 fact of having brought a soul into the world is 
 no reason that we should torment it. Rather, 
 one thinks, should we make amends. No 
 person, not even a mother, can be responsible 
 for another's conscience. When the Book is 
 opened, the Soul itself, and none other, will 
 have to make reply, and answer for its lost 
 opportunities. 
 
 These elderly daughters, then, are precisely 
 those who should revolt. Here, if in any case, 
 rebellion would be good and salutary. But do 
 they revolt ? No, indeed ; they patiently bear 
 
 73
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 their burden, and leave revolution to the 
 younger generation, who have rarely anything 
 to revolt from. It is a sad, indeed, a pitiable 
 spectacle, to see these gentle ladies, year by 
 year, giving up their lives, their very souls to 
 this Juggernaut of Duty. No one has a right 
 to give up his soul. Nora Helmer said so, 
 but she was born too late. And, besides, her 
 case was not so hard ; for her husband was a 
 brute, while the old-fashioned mother is in her 
 way affectionate. And, as everybody knows, 
 the most cruel tyranny of all is that which goes 
 by the name of affection. 
 
 But it may be said, " This may be true, but 
 if so, what fools the daughters must be to put 
 up with it ! Certainly no modern young girl 
 would submit to it for a moment." Quite so ; 
 she would not ; but then the whole bringing-up 
 of the past generation tended to foster this 
 submission. It is difficult to change the habits 
 of a life-time, and to learn to be self-reliant in 
 advanced years. The plant that has always 
 clung to the fence would find it impossible to 
 grow alone ; and things are not more easy to 
 learn as one grows older. 
 
 74
 
 The Tyranny of the Mothers 
 
 It is, very often, precisely those mothers who 
 have succeeded best in the embryonic or 
 Mellin's Food stage of their offspring, who 
 fail most in their respect in after years just 
 as there are birds who succeed very well with 
 their egg-laying, but are no good at all when 
 it comes to hatching. We can picture this 
 type of mother in all her stages. She was 
 usually exemplary in her children's infancy ; 
 she was always perfectly self-satisfied she did 
 everything by rule and she had " principles " 
 on the most trivial subjects. As her children 
 grew older, she lost touch with them ; when 
 finally they attain years of discretion, she is 
 completely out of sympathy with them. She 
 has kept her self-satisfaction, her narrow con- 
 servatism, and has not troubled herself to come 
 out of her groove, or to move with the times. 
 So far from giving her daughters opportunities 
 of marrying, she has often stood in the way 
 of a love affair, from sheer lack of sympathy 
 and intuition. She is so supremely unconscious 
 that mothers owe any duty of this kind to their 
 grown-up daughters, that she has occasion- 
 ally even snubbed a suitable aspirant, and has, 
 
 75
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 indeed, felt quite offended at the idea of one of 
 her children wishing to leave her. She thinks 
 herself a pattern of devotion to her daughters, 
 but in reality she is wrapped round with the 
 most consummate selfishness. In old age, this 
 type of mother is usually sternly disapproving 
 of any fresh departure ; " such and such a 
 thing was not done in my day." She will give 
 way to her daughters about minor points such 
 as riding on the top of omnibuses but she is 
 adamant itself on other points. For instance, 
 she will on no account permit her daughter (of 
 forty or forty-five) to go out to dinner without 
 the escort say of a little maid of nineteen or 
 twenty to protect her. If the daughter happen 
 to go out to tea, or for a day's shopping, the 
 mother will insist on her being in by dusk, and 
 if her command be not obeyed to the letter, 
 she will visit the dire offence upon the un- 
 fortunate woman as if she were a disobedient 
 little girl of nine. (We have ourselves known 
 a mother one, by the way, who supposed her- 
 self to be a thorough "Christian" who made 
 the whole house unbearable for two days be- 
 cause her middle-aged daughter had been a 
 
 76
 
 The Tyranny of the Mothers 
 
 quarter of an hour late for dinner). If the 
 daughter presume on any occasion to ask a 
 friend to dinner, she will be sternly rebuked, 
 and be told that " no house can have two 
 mistresses." For her own part she has every 
 material comfort ; but then, one may live in 
 luxury, and yet one's mind and soul may be 
 starved. She is not allowed to take part in the 
 house-keeping, except by occasional favour; 
 she is expected to have no hobby or occupation 
 in life, save that of being bullied ; she has 
 nothing to grind, she must perforce grind her- 
 self; and yet people seem surprised when she 
 becomes in time " a mental case." Small 
 wonder it seems to us ; for the poor woman, 
 who has reached a time of life when she might 
 very well expect a little peace, has to endure 
 daily frictions and mortifications such as would 
 wear the heart out of the most youthfully 
 sanguine. A slight often hurts more, the 
 smaller it is. There may be a whole tragedy 
 often in a tea-cup ; indeed the tragedies of life 
 occur mostly over comparative trifles, such as 
 would make the outer world smile. Petty 
 tyrannies, indeed, are those we have mentioned ; 
 
 77
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 but none the less tyrannies for all that. The 
 daughters of such tyrants look with envy on 
 the house-servants who are able to leave, and 
 who do so ; they know, alas ! that such release 
 is next to impossible for them. The iron has 
 eaten into their souls ; but (from their point 
 of view) there is no escape possible, till Death 
 remove either the sufferer or the petty tyrant. 
 One daughter, indeed, we recall to mind, who 
 did contrive to escape, at fifty years old, from 
 an almost unendurable bondage ; but even 
 with her, custom and convention were so 
 strong, that all her friends had to be brought 
 in to aid and abet the plot, before she could 
 be induced to run away from home. 
 
 Of course it is easy to say that in cases like 
 these the daughter must have " spoiled " her 
 mother, or at any rate, "brought her up" very 
 badly. Well, we will own that a daughter 
 especially in these later days is more or less 
 responsible for her mother's bringing up ; but 
 " spoiling " in this sense may after all arise 
 from an exaggerated idea of filial affection. 
 Then "Why," the world will ask, "should a 
 daughter stay with such a tyrant of a mother ? 
 78
 
 The Tyranny of the Mothers 
 
 Why not rather seek her own living, and be 
 free ? " But one is apt in these cases to forget 
 the great factor of unselfish women's lives. 
 This is " Duty" ; and a daughter of forty-five, 
 who has not married, feels it to be her plain 
 duty to stay with her parent at whatever costs. 
 How can she leave a mother of seventy or 
 more to be tended by strangers ? An old- 
 fashioned idea of Duty, maybe, and at any 
 rate one that will not much affect the com- 
 ing generation, but assuredly a pardonable 
 weakness. And it is, therefore, precisely the 
 best women who submit. Also we must re- 
 member people who lead sad lives, and even 
 people who do not, get sadder as they get 
 older ; their love for the " war-path " dies out ; 
 there is less fire, less " divine rage " against 
 injustice, in them than in the young. 
 
 Then, lastly, it may be said that the sufferers 
 are sometimes content with their narrowed 
 lives ; that they do not yearn to break their 
 bonds ; that they do not, indeed, always know 
 that they suffer. This, it seems to us, is the 
 most pathetic case of all. 
 
 Mothers like these are not of the majority. 
 79
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 No, they form but a comparatively small class, 
 still, they do exist ; you can probably recall 
 several such out of your own acquaintance. 
 That the majority of even old-fashioned 
 mothers are self-sacrificing and devoted, no 
 one can doubt, still this fact does not make us 
 pity less the unselfish daughters of those who 
 are not so. But the worst of unselfishness is, 
 that it always makes somebody selfish. An 
 unselfish mother makes an exacting daughter ; 
 an unselfish daughter, a tyrannous mother. 
 It might almost be said that unselfishness is 
 a vice, for it certainly makes vices in others. 
 We remember once that a mother of four 
 middle - aged daughters wept for days and 
 would not be comforted, because the young- 
 est, aged thirty-five at least, was shortly going 
 to be married. The old lady was perpetually 
 sobbing and spreading out her handkerchief 
 to dry, when she ought to have been rejoic- 
 ing at her daughter's happiness. Apropos of 
 marrying ; if the daughters marry and, in the 
 natural course of things, start a family of their 
 own, their mothers perforce cease to tyrannise 
 over them ; why not therefore cease as it is, 
 
 80
 
 The Tyranny of the Mothers 
 
 without their marrying? An old maid of 
 our acquaintance once promulgated the theory 
 that a certain period should be named by all 
 spinsters for definitely abjuring thoughts of 
 marriage, and for receiving the presents from 
 friends which, had they married, would have 
 naturally arrived as wedding presents. It were 
 well also, it seems to us, to fix a day likewise 
 for the cessation of supreme parental authority. 
 Why should a woman of forty be expected to 
 obey like a child ? 
 
 Naturally, it is only in the well-to-do and 
 moneyed classes that these tyrant mothers 
 exist, as any one can see who notes the sad 
 submission of the old women of the work- 
 ing class, who are " kept " by their children. 
 They seem as if they could hardly be grate- 
 ful enough for such charity. Some well-to-do 
 mothers, on the other hand, seem to think 
 that their children owe them a perpetual debt 
 of gratitude for being allowed to exist at all. 
 Sir Anthony Absolute's well-known speech to 
 his wilful son was not an unusual one. " I 
 this my reward," we lately heard a mother ask 
 her daughter (a minx of seventeen, who had 
 
 81 F
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 been guilty of some trivial disobedience), " is 
 this my reward for having had you ? " 
 
 " Well, mother," was the obvious retort, 
 " I'm sure I never wanted you to have me ! " 
 
 But this was from a " modern daughter " ; 
 and the young girl of the present day is, as 
 we said, generally able to fight for herself. 
 She will here say, in self-defence, that she is 
 only revolting " in time " from the possibility 
 of such tyranny as beset the former generation, 
 and this explanation of the question is cer- 
 tainly a plausible one, though, for our part, 
 as long as the tendencies of the nation are 
 what they are, we see very little danger for 
 the liberty of the daughter in the near future. 
 Public opinion sways now this way, now that, 
 on other questions besides politics ; and this is 
 distinctly the Day of the Young Person. Per- 
 haps it is too late to free the slaves of a past 
 generation ; but if it contribute in any way 
 to brighten the lives of some of these, then 
 the " Revolt of the Daughters " will not have 
 been without its uses. 
 
 82
 
 VI 
 
 STAGE-STRUCK 
 
 " Miss Morleena de Millefleurs 
 
 Undertakes Business, 
 Comedy Old Women, Heavies. 
 The Delight of the Intelligent Pit. 
 On Tour till September." 
 
 " Dainty Little Dora, 
 Principal Boy. Disengaged for Panto. 
 
 * She wears a Sporting Tie.' 
 All Business for Dora must be addressed 
 103 Rosemary Lane, Brixton." 
 
 " The Up-to-Date Girl, 
 
 Molly O'Brien. 
 
 The Margate ' Hoop-La ' Dancer. 
 The Finest High-Kicker Ever Seen. 
 
 Going Immense. 
 
 She Will Show 'Em a Little Life. 
 
 Resting 40 Portobello Road, East, 
 
 With Mother." 
 
 I WAS beguiling the way in an omnibus one 
 Christmas by reading the above and kindred 
 advertisements in the Era (I always take in the 
 
 83
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Era for old associations' sake), when, at the 
 corner of Bow Street, a young woman jumped 
 in ; a young woman, one would have said, of 
 the respectable dressmaker type, habited sedately, 
 almost to primness, in a neat ulster (it was rain- 
 ing) and a close bonnet and veil. Presently she 
 recognised a friend opposite her, a woman with 
 a baby and a plush mantle. " I've got it, dearie ! " 
 she cried, her face beaming with joy. 
 
 " What have you got, sweetie ? " asked the 
 friend. 
 
 " I've got what I wanted. He's made me a 
 thief ! " Everybody in the omnibus started ; 
 but the young woman went on : "I told 'im I'd 
 give 'im no peace, and as I'd made up my mind 
 to come back an' back till he give me some- 
 thin'. And so 'e's give in, dearie, and I'm one 
 of the Forty Thieves at thirty shillin' a week ! " 
 
 A light broke in upon us ; it was the Christ- 
 mas pantomime. But any one less like one of 
 the Forty Thieves than the neat young woman 
 beside me could hardly be imagined. 
 
 But how stupid it was of me not to have 
 guessed who my friends were before ! The 
 "dearie"and the "sweetie "ought to have told me 
 
 84
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 at once. Ladies of the profession invariably use 
 these endearments, and very little they some- 
 times mean. I speak from experience, for it 
 was once my privilege, for the space of a year, 
 to join a company of strolling players. For a 
 time it was advisable that I should earn my 
 living, and the stage seemed to be the most 
 attractive means of earning it. My expectations 
 on this point were, I may now say, not entirely 
 realised ; but at the time I assuredly intended 
 that they should. I had recited and acted at 
 school, and the girls had always applauded my 
 efforts. Being a successfully revolted daughter 
 I had not much difficulty in getting my own 
 way. I did not change my name, and I put no 
 advertisement into the theatrical papers. I got, 
 somehow, an introduction to a provincial mana- 
 ger, who, after some demur, agreed to take me 
 at a nominal salary at first. Then I had to 
 provide a wardrobe. To this end a friend who 
 was in the profession took me in hand, and 
 together we visited many cheap sales, and all 
 sorts of curious haunts and bye-ways off the 
 Strand. The first thing we did was to buy 
 large quantities of sham jewellery and beads in
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Bow Street : I had no idea before that sham 
 jewellery was so indispensable an adjunct of the 
 actor's art. One of my parts, I remember, was 
 to be a Rebel Queen, a queen with little to do 
 or say, but still a queen. To denote sove- 
 reignty my friend persisted in adorning me 
 with brass curtain-fasteners, "bosses," and mock 
 pearls, till I must have resembled Mrs. Merdle's 
 shop-window. For another dress she insisted 
 on decorating me with stiff white satin rosettes. 
 " It will give the dress character," she said 
 approvingly ; and certainly if character in cos- 
 tume depends on rosettes, my dress, when 
 finished, must have been a part in itself. Then 
 we laid in many pounds of coloured glass bugles, 
 and a conservatory full of the very cheapest 
 kind of artificial flowers, which were to fill any 
 blanks that might occur in the bugles and the 
 rosettes. Next we bought several wigs of divers 
 colours, and made a visit to a select and mys- 
 terious female pawnbroker who lived up many 
 winding stairs, somewhere, I think, among " the 
 dusty purlieus of the law." This lady appeared 
 to buy wholesale from the aristocracy, or, rather, 
 
 from their maids, and retail at half-price. She 
 
 86
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 seemed to do an uncommonly good business. 
 Her room was lined with closely-filled chests ; 
 some of the dresses were hardly worn, and all 
 extremely elaborate. 
 
 " You're just exactly the build of the Coun- 
 tess of X.," said this lady to me, with a per- 
 suasive smile. " 'Ere's a box full of her 
 dresses. I think she's per'aps too fond of 
 trimmin' to suit you altogether, but we can 
 alter that a bit." 
 
 I was exactly " the build " of the Countess 
 of X., and we soon arranged matters. Just 
 as I was going, the lady turned to me, and 
 said amiably : " Been in the perfession long ? 
 No ? I thought not. Well, I've got a son 
 in it ; he does comic songs and dances, the 
 variety line, y'know. I thought per'aps you 
 might come across him ; you'd be sure to git 
 on together if you did 'appen to meet ! " 
 
 If bugles and rosettes and " character" could 
 have made me succeed, I ought to have made 
 a great actress ; and yet I must confess at once, 
 to my shame, that I never rose to any emi- 
 nence in the profession ; my name was never 
 " starred " in the bills. However, in spite of this 
 
 8?
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 (or perhaps I may say for that very reason, 
 such is human nature), I was beloved by all. 
 
 Our first tour was to last four months, 
 from August till Christmas. Our company, 
 to whom I was introduced on the road, were 
 very friendly. All the ladies travelled to- 
 gether, and all the men by themselves ; and 
 our train was duly labelled " The Happy 
 Family Company," which I thought very grand 
 indeed, until I met many other trains similarly 
 labelled. We carried scenery and all with us, 
 for ours was a " Repertoire " company ; that is 
 to say, we played different pieces every night. 
 Our leading lady was Agneta Delaval, an ex- 
 perienced provincial actress, of some personal 
 attractions, capable but feline. Then there 
 wasAurelia deVere (Mrs. Brooks) whose husband 
 was in the company, and who did " second 
 lead " and ingtnue parts, and was always 
 a little treacherously sweet ; and Natalie 
 Brydges, a girl of some ability and of an 
 amiable disposition, but sleepy and with a 
 bad habit of being late for everything ; Alice 
 Browne, who did attendants, maids, and any- 
 thing in that line ; and Lilian Evans, a girl 
 
 88
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 of twenty, like myself a novice, very pretty and 
 very ambitious poor girl, there were many 
 troubles in store for her before her ambition 
 was to be satisfied. Then there was Nancy 
 Davis (or " Hop o' my Thumb," as we called 
 her, because she was so small), a versatile and 
 clever little person, who did any and every 
 part that might happen to be called for, from 
 a fairy to a page-boy ; and there was Miss 
 de Montmorency, who, on the other hand, 
 couldn't act at all, but stood about gracefully 
 in Greek attitudes, and was generally trouble- 
 some and emancipated. Dick Wilder was our 
 manager; we always called him Dick among 
 ourselves, and were generally, except when 
 things upset him very much and he was driven 
 to bad language, on the best of terms with 
 him. The jeune premier was Mr. Evelyn de 
 Lisle, a gentleman who has now risen high in 
 the profession. Mr. de Lisle had the good 
 fortune to be beloved by all the ladies of the 
 company, from Miss Delaval to the dresser, 
 nay, even by the very charwomen who cleaned 
 the theatres. Natalie Brydges did indeed pre- 
 tend indifference, but she was known to be 
 
 89
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 eccentric, and besides, nobody believed her. 
 Mr. de Lisle had, it was said, great charm of 
 manner ; the charm consisted in his absolute 
 want of manner. Like Mr. Rochester, he was 
 entirely forgetful of other existences but his 
 own, and, figuratively, was much given to 
 wiping his boots on his adorers' dresses. Every 
 one of us quarrelled as to who should arrange 
 his Greek drapery; and he used to come as 
 naturally to us to have his arms powdered for 
 Coriolanus as a child to its mother. He was 
 certainly attractive ; there was distinction about 
 his very brusquerie. Tony Blenkins, on the 
 other hand, was not so much adored. He 
 meant well, but was one of the sort who can 
 never speak to a girl without taking her hand, 
 or putting an arm round her waist. I my- 
 self always preferred Tony when he was made 
 up for a villain say, for Shylock. Then there 
 was Scroggins and Martin, who were middle- 
 aged and oppressed by the cares, or at any 
 rate by the consciousness of large and ex- 
 pensive families at home ; and there was Willie 
 Fleming, who did weak-kneed Roman soldiers, 
 gaolers, and " the third son of old Sir 
 
 90
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 Roland." I have always wondered, by the 
 way, why that member of Sir Roland's house- 
 hold should bear so little resemblance to the 
 rest of the family, being generally feeble in 
 the legs, and husky. Willie Fleming always 
 gave me the impression of having been sent 
 on to the stage by a well-directed kick from 
 the wings. Finally, there was Billy Barlow, a 
 boy of eighteen, who did " third murderers," 
 footmen, and " the mob," and who, like the 
 celebrated Mrs. Grudden, appeared in the play- 
 bills under any and every name that occurred 
 to the manager as looking well in print. I 
 have myself seen Billy act under six different 
 aliases. 
 
 I lived, on tour, conjointly with Lilian Evans 
 and Natalie Brydges, and our board and lodg- 
 ing came to about fifteen shillings a week. 
 It is almost impossible to live cheaper than 
 that. Our salaries only ran to about thirty 
 shillings each ; so that, though our travelling 
 expenses were of course paid by the manage- 
 ment, we did not save much. Mr. Evelyn 
 -de Lisle, it was well known, lived always at 
 .smart hotels ; but we could not all be so grand, 
 
 9 1
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 and most of the company, ourselves included, 
 frequented dingy lodgings down suicidal streets, 
 lodgings that were let to professionals all the 
 year round, with furniture that shed its stuff- 
 ing, chimneys that smoked, and other draw- 
 backs. 
 
 Landladies, that is to say, theatrical land- 
 ladies, are a study in themselves. The worst 
 type of them may be perhaps dilapidated and 
 addicted to drink ; but the best are delightful 
 and original people, with a great turn for dra- 
 matic narrative. Their parlours are generally 
 decorated with photographs in costume of the 
 Margate High-Kicker, the Ten Little Niggers, 
 and other ornaments of the profession. They 
 live, indeed, in rather melancholy streets : in 
 one town we were just under a railway arch, in 
 another over a mews, and in a third next door 
 to a public-house, whose wooden spirit cases, 
 piled in a vast heap, nearly blocked up our 
 entrance ; but they are always ready to enliven 
 you by their conversation, and two attentions, at 
 least, they never omit : one is to bring a cup 
 of tea to your bedside in the morning, the 
 other to fetch the beer from the public-house 
 
 92
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 at night. So well have they become inured 
 to the wants of the profession ! Then the 
 visitors' book, a black, commercial-looking 
 volume, filled with large sprawling entries, is 
 a constant joy. On one page you read that 
 "Long Harry, bright Gracie, and little Vick 
 found this house a home." Who was little 
 Vick the poodle or the baby ? Perhaps a 
 second Infant Phenomenon. Then " The Three 
 Slashers found Mrs. G.'s grub excellent." Again, 
 "The Rowdy-Dowdy Swells found this house 
 a Home from Home, and count the landlady 
 and her family among the dearest of their 
 friends." "Which I can't return, axin' their 
 parding," said the landlady on my inquiries ; 
 " for the Rowdy-Dowdy Swells you've come 
 across 'em, perhaps? Well, they're in the 
 nigger line, and of all the dirtiest, noisiest 
 fellers as ever I see, but there, I always 
 say, I don't 'old with taking niggers in, for it 
 takes pretty nigh all they pay to wash after 
 'em, a-dirtyin' all the sheets and a-muckin' 
 everything up with their 'ornd blacking. " 
 
 " Found this house a Home from Home " ; 
 this was the entry that occurred most fre- 
 
 93
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 quently, and aroused my curiosity. " What 
 does it mean ? " I asked Natalie, who was well 
 versed in theatrical ways. " Oh, it means that 
 the landlady and her children come and sit with 
 you all day, and treat you as one of themselves." 
 It need hardly be added that after this infor- 
 mation I carefully abstained from finding any 
 lodging " a Home from Home." Once, indeed, 
 when lodging alone, I had gently but firmly to 
 decline the landlady's suggestion that I should 
 share the parlour with a theatrical gentleman 
 in the music-hall line, just to make it homelier- 
 like for us both. But I was generally on very 
 good terms with my landladies ; indeed, one of 
 them in a burst of confidence told me that I was 
 a " real nice sort, with none of that 'orrid side 
 on, like some of 'em, and no aggravatin' ways " ; 
 and then she proceeded to tell me how Tony 
 Blenkins had once lodged with her, and how 
 he objected " on principle " to pay twopence a 
 week for " cruets," though he ate whole jars of 
 salt and whole bottles of vinegar with his friends 
 of a night. " They were that fond of salads, 
 'im and 'is friends ; and princerple or no prin- 
 cerple, I ain't a-goin' to be done outer my 
 
 94
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 money, and me that 'as two daughters and a 
 son in the perfession ! " 
 
 It was curious, by tHe way, how many of 
 these ladies had, according to their own account, 
 " come down in the world," and were the de- 
 frauded heirs to some great property, or had 
 once driven their " carriage and pair." One, a 
 dear old lady, was much afflicted at the idea of 
 such young girls as Lilian and myself going on 
 the stage. " Do'ee leave that temptatious per- 
 fession," she would say; "there's dears; now 
 do'ee. You'd far better marry ; now ain't there 
 any one as you might fix your minds on?" 
 
 The first regular rehearsal awed me mightily. 
 It took me some time to get accustomed to 
 the dim, religious light that only half dis- 
 closed the dirty theatre, with the company 
 sitting or standing about, in costumes of vary- 
 ing dinginess, nibbling macaroons or sand- 
 wiches. The auditorium was shrouded in 
 darkness ; in front of the stage, near the foot- 
 lights (only no footlights were lit), sat Dick 
 Wilder, prompt-book in hand, and a kind 
 of seven-branched candlestick flaming behind 
 him, vaguely suggesting an altar. The whole 
 
 95
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 impression was so church-like that I quite 
 expected to hear the organ strike up. Near 
 Wilder stood his secretary, a beardless youth 
 but armed with stern authority, who repeated 
 everything Wilder said in stentorian tones, just 
 as the man with the wooden leg did for Mr. 
 Creakle. How alarming it all was at first ! 
 We poor trembling wretches who were novices 
 had to act our parts each time, while our more 
 experienced companions simply raced through 
 their speeches. After a while I learned that 
 provincial rehearsals are much more hap- 
 hazard affairs than London ones, to which 
 they bear much the same relation that a sketch 
 does to a finished picture. In the provinces 
 a play is rehearsed perhaps for a week where 
 six weeks would be required in town. Some- 
 times, indeed, when pressed for time, Wilder 
 would give us only one day for rehearsal ; one 
 long day, sustained only by, perhaps, if we 
 were lucky, a stale Bath bun ! And the 
 Provinces have a quite different taste in acting 
 from the Town. They like both their senti- 
 ments and their style to be somewhat exuber- 
 ant. " Keep it up ! " Wilder used to cry. 
 
 96
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 " Give it out ; let 'em have it ! " His great 
 horror was always lest a scene should be " let 
 down." Sheer physical force, indeed, was 
 often needed to keep up a scene properly. 
 I remember being cast in one play for the 
 messenger who announces bad news, and my 
 entrance was to bring down the curtain. Mr. 
 de Lisle was playing the hero, and on one 
 occasion, when my voice gave out slightly, 
 he declared bitterly that I had "let the scene 
 down," and lost him " three rounds at least." 
 Actors and actresses are extremely sensitive on 
 the subject of these " rounds." It might be 
 supposed by the uninitiated that one "call" 
 after the scene would be enough ; but no, they 
 count eagerly the number of times the curtain 
 is raised, and sometimes as many as six or even 
 eight calls hardly content them. 
 
 My first important part was Jessica in 
 The Merchant of Venice. I was deadly ner- 
 vous ; my hands seemed swelled to twice their 
 usual size with the heat and excitement, 
 the paint would hardly stay on my face, and 
 my throat grew curiously dry and husky. 
 Waiting for your cue at the wings, when you 
 
 97 G
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 are still a novice, is not unlike the uncomfort- 
 able feeling you experience when your bath- 
 ing-machine is being slowly dragged over the 
 grating shingle to the sea, and you sit shiver- 
 ing in very inadequate garments inside. " I 
 can't do it ! " I groaned to my Lorenzo, who 
 happened on this occasion to be Tony. " Rub- 
 bish," he cried angrily ; " buck up ! " Tony 
 was usually polite almost to unctuousness, 
 but I never loved him so much as at this 
 moment. He restored my sinking courage, 
 and I actually got a " round." 
 
 Our Company was a perfect School for 
 Scandal in the way of gossip. If under the 
 strictest vows of secrecy I breathed a word to 
 Natalie or to Lilian, I was sure to hear of it 
 again next day from Wilder, or from Hoppy, 
 as we abbreviated Hop-o'-my-Thumb. There 
 were occasional spars and jealousies ; but, 
 whatever might be said in private, we were 
 usually to outward view most polite and 
 affectionate. There is said to be much in- 
 sincerity about the stage, but it is so pleasant 
 to be insincere. 
 
 " I never myself believe in a woman who calls 
 98
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 you ' dear heart ' in the first week," said Hoppy, 
 and I think she was right. Agneta Delaval and 
 Aurelia de Vere (otherwise Mrs. Brooks) made 
 themselves very sweet to Lilian and me at first ; 
 but as we began to get on, when Mr. de Lisle 
 asked Lilian to pin on his Greek drapery, above 
 all when Wilder set her to understudy Aurelia's 
 parts, they changed their tone. Lilian was really 
 made quite miserable. Aurelia and Agneta used 
 to bully her terribly ; they did not so much 
 speak to her as at her (and she had to dress with 
 them too, poor thing !), till I've often seen the 
 tears making pathways down the rouge on her 
 cheeks between the acts. Men are never so 
 odious to one another as women are ; they have 
 not such petty ways of bullying; if they quarrel, 
 they give one another a black eye and have done 
 with it. Of course Mrs. Brooks must have 
 known she couldn't play Juvenile Leads for 
 ever. Now, I believe, she plays the Nurse in 
 Romeo and Juliet^ the landladies in farces, or 
 anything else that comes handy ; but she used 
 to give Lilian a very bad time of it then. Mr. 
 de Lisle said it was a shame ; but he didn't 
 know how bad it was. When you're dressing 
 
 99
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 in the same room with other girls, you can't 
 get away from their tongues. 
 
 But we had our little moments of pleasure. 
 There were, for one thing, delightful supper 
 parties, where we used to forget our differences 
 and enjoy ourselves like a lot of children. Mr. 
 Scroggins, or Tony, or Evelyn, whoever was 
 the host of the night, you would meet him in 
 the morning down the town in all the import- 
 ance of shopping ; and at supper-time the table 
 would groan with the most curious assortment 
 of viands conceivable, each of the guests contri- 
 buting their share. What fun it used to be ! 
 It was like nothing so much as the gay under- 
 graduate parties of an Oxford Commemoration. 
 Nobody talked " shop" on these occasions ; you 
 would have never so much as dreamed that we 
 had any connection with the theatre. 
 
 We were very proud of our Company, which 
 we justly considered very superior to any other, 
 certainly to those we met with on the road. 
 Terrible caravans they were of painted and 
 touzled females with festoons of yellow hair 
 hanging down their backs ; depressing trainfuls 
 of frowsy humanity, labelled, as the case might 
 100
 
 Stage- Struck 
 
 be, "The Scarlet Sin Company," "The Blood- 
 Trail Company," or " The Human Vampire 
 Company," with dirty children yelling out of 
 the carriage windows. You could, by the way, 
 always gather the social status of a Company 
 by the number of children it carried in its van. 
 Wilder would never allow a lot of children ; 
 he said it made a Company look squalid. We 
 only had one infant in ours, the property of 
 Agneta Delaval, whose husband was touring in 
 another Company, and whose real name was 
 Kate Smith ; it was only seen on Sunday jour- 
 neys with a nurse girl and a dirty white pelisse, 
 and was carefully kept out of Wilder's way. 
 But it was, I remember, once brought on as 
 the infant in a modern comedy. This struck 
 Wilder as a good opportunity for realism ; but 
 the baby infuriated Mr. de Lisle, who was its 
 stage parent, by yelling at a pathetic moment 
 and making the gallery laugh. Indeed, so 
 angry was Mr. Evelyn that he completely for- 
 got his part (" dried up," as they say in the 
 profession) ; and this was therefore little Miss 
 Smith's first and only appearance. "Why didn't 
 
 you pick up the brat and stop its crying?" said 
 
 101
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Wilder angrily to Evelyn. "You engaged me 
 to act ; you didn't engage me as nurse," re- 
 torted Evelyn. "Turn on the moon!" bawled 
 the stage-manager to end the discussion ; for a 
 moonlight scene came next, and the quarrel 
 was delaying the play. 
 
 Hop-o'-my-Thumb was at first very friendly 
 with Lilian and myself; but she gradually 
 espoused the side of Aurelia and Agneta, the 
 side of superior strength. Hoppy had a great 
 sense of what was fair, and it hurt her feelings 
 that a mere novice should get parts denied to 
 a professional of long standing ; she had begun 
 her theatrical career at eight weeks old, as 
 stage-infant in very superior melodrama. She 
 had been born and lived in the profession, 
 which perhaps accounted for her diminutive 
 size. So Hoppy changed sides, and came to 
 regard us with more or less embittered feelings. 
 What nursed the spark almost into a blaze was 
 the fact that at one town Lilian Evans's name 
 had by some oversight been what is called 
 " starred " in the bills. Now, starring is 
 almost invisible to any but professionally 
 jealous eyes, as it only means that the name 
 
 102
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 of the actor or actress is printed in infinitesi- 
 mally larger print at the end of all the others. 
 The starring was doubtless some mistake, pro- 
 vincial programmes being often badly printed ; 
 and the catastrophe only occurred when we 
 were playing in a miserable make-shift theatre (a 
 " fit-up " in professional slang) at some wretched 
 little seaside town ; but it served its turn. 
 We were sitting in the green-room during a 
 wait, when Hoppy observed quite irrelevantly : 
 " I saw Dick Wilder just now. He said to 
 me, ' Why are you looking so sick, Hoppy ? * 
 And I said, ' Isn't it just enough to make me 
 sad to see people who can't act a bit raised, 
 and people who have been " Pro's " for fifteen 
 years shunted ? ' " It's quite sickening," 
 said Mrs. Brooks, applying the powder-puff 
 viciously ; " but money does more than talent 
 nowadays, and some people of course pay 
 hundreds to Wilder just to see their names 
 on the bills." This was an evident hit at us, 
 but as we had paid Wilder nothing we declined 
 to apply it to ourselves. "Such a pity, dear," 
 said Agneta Delaval sweetly to Lilian, "that 
 
 Wilder should give you parts that suit you 
 
 103
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 so badly. The idea of your playing tragedy ! 
 With your face and figure you were made for 
 low comedy ! " Here the call-boy intervened 
 to rescue us with a summons to Agneta. " I 
 wish Miss Delaval wouldn't trouble herself on 
 our account," I said angrily, for Lilian had 
 tears in her eyes that were very unbefitting the 
 Amazon whose war-paint she bore. " She's got 
 a wonderful sweet manner, any how," said the 
 faithful Hoppy ; " and my ! she does know how 
 to put on her clothes ! " " Miss Nancy Ellis," 
 said the call-boy. " Oh, my boots aren't but- 
 toned," cried Hoppy, jumping up (she was 
 playing a page-boy that night) " and, hang it, 
 I've left the button-hook upstairs ! " 
 
 But one could not seriously be angry with 
 Hoppy. She was so funny, and then she was 
 the same to everybody : " Wilder can't act for 
 nuts," she would say, and she did not think 
 much even of our lion, De Lisle. Hoppy per- 
 fectly hated Shakespeare's plays: "I'm sick of 
 them," she groaned, " don't understand a word 
 of them." She certainly entertained views of 
 her own about Shakespearian pronunciation ; 
 but then so did many of the others. It is 
 104
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 my private belief that they didn't understand 
 half their own speeches. I have myself heard 
 Scroggins call a nuncio a unicorn ; and not one 
 of the company, except Mr. de Lisle, could 
 ever pronounce the word nuptial, all invariably 
 making it nuptual. " When I've finished this 
 tour," Hoppy would say, " I've done with old 
 Shakespeare. I'll go back to melodrama, and 
 have a regular old bean-o ! Won't I paint my 
 next comp'ny red, that's all ! " 
 
 The shopping in provincial towns, which 
 generally fell to my lot, was rather amusing. 
 The tradesmen were so pleasant ; and so in- 
 terested in us. Directly they found that I was 
 theatrical (and they did not take long about 
 it) their manner changed, and they adopted a 
 curious but not unpleasant familiarity ; in fact, 
 they treated me as one of themselves. They 
 would discuss the plays with us, and make re- 
 marks and criticisms on the actors. Indeed, 
 once, when I had made myself particularly 
 affable over the purchase of two mutton-chops, 
 the butcher's assistant leaned smilingly over 
 the counter, and asked insinuatingly if I were 
 
 a sister of Miss Tottie Tomkins ? I was "jest 
 
 105
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 'er stoyle, such a nice easy way with me." After 
 this I thought it prudent to adopt a more 
 frigid demeanour. We used to become very 
 greedy over our small incomes ; it was like 
 living on board-wages. I have known Hoppy 
 bully the poultry-shop man one whole morn- 
 ing in order to reduce a ptarmigan from eigh- 
 teenpence to tenpence. Hoppy was an old 
 hand at bargaining, and the man gave in at last 
 from sheer despair. In my shopping excur- 
 sions I was always meeting Alice Browne and 
 Miss de Montmorency, arm-in-arm, staring 
 into the windows. They hardly ever seemed 
 to do anything else, unless it were reading 
 penny novels. They rose late, they never 
 studied their parts, and yet when Lilian Evans 
 and I got on, they assured us it was all our 
 wonderful luck. Natalie, on the other hand, 
 deserved better luck than she got ; she was the 
 most picturesque girl I have ever seen, with 
 wonderful black hair that fell about her ears 
 something in the style of Rossetti's Venus 
 Verticordia. Mr. de Lisle, I have heard, 
 called her a slut ; but then it was well known 
 
 that he liked people to be very neat ; and 
 1 06
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 besides (as I have said), Natalie did not wor- 
 ship at his shrine ; she was too sleepy for adora- 
 tion. Miss de Montmorency was of a different 
 type ; she was emancipated, and talked about 
 free love ; for, though her conduct was as ex- 
 emplary as the rest of the company's, she liked 
 to be considered a New Woman. She kept a 
 bicycle, and a temper too, I know, for I saw her 
 once reduce our red-nosed laundress to tears 
 because some part of her wardrobe was not 
 forthcoming in time. 
 
 Sometimes on off-nights we would visit any 
 rival show that might be going on in the same 
 town. Of course they were always, or we 
 thought so, vastly inferior to our own ; but 
 still they amused us, and, besides, they never 
 cost us anything. At one seaside town, I re- 
 member some of us visited a wretched little 
 show in a fit-up (about the size of the cabin 
 on the top of Mont Blanc), with an audience 
 of about thirteen, mostly boys and babies. It 
 was a town where, as the local agent informed 
 Wilder, " nothing paid but leg-shows," and 
 where even our show failed to attract much 
 
 notice. The play reminded one of nothing so 
 107
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 much as the third-rate amateur performance of 
 bygone days, where the heroine's only idea of 
 emotion was to revolve her arms continually, 
 after the manner of an animated pump ; where 
 the villain's only notion of villainy was to 
 make the standard stage-exit, crying " Foiled ! " 
 with his cloak over his head ; and where the 
 good young man's only way of showing his 
 general benevolence was to claw perpetually 
 at vacancy. The theatre was, besides, so small 
 that the unfortunate actors nearly fell into the 
 footlights ; and when they went off at the 
 sides, you could see the wings bulge where 
 they were standing. The prices charged were 
 modest enough, in all conscience, though I did 
 see one wily small boy waiting half the even- 
 ing at the door in order to smuggle himself in 
 for half-price (threepence). The poor players ! 
 But the play gained great applause, for the 
 righteous were duly rewarded and the wicked 
 punished. 
 
 " It gets on my nerves," said Miss de Mont- 
 morency, at the end of an hour, and we left. 
 This, by the way, is a common expression with 
 
 theatrical companies ; it is wonderful how soon 
 
 108
 
 Stage- Struck 
 
 you learn it. Besides getting things on their 
 nerves, actors have various other little weak- 
 nesses ; one is an affection for borrowing, and, 
 indeed, in that respect a company might al- 
 most be a Mutual Loan Association. Often 
 have Natalie and Hoppy come to me, almost 
 in tears, to borrow ten shillings, being tied fast 
 to their lodging, imprisoned, in fact, till they 
 could pay the bill which should release them. 
 Another professional weakness is a tendency to 
 superstition. Even a sensible actress, if she 
 happen to break a looking-glass, trembles with 
 fear ; should she inadvertently drop the soap 
 in the dressing-room she cries with joy " Work 
 is coming my way ! " If she should put on a 
 garment wrong side out, not for worlds will 
 she rectify the blunder, for fear of bringing on 
 herself bad luck. 
 
 But, after dropping the soap perseveringly 
 every night for a week, good luck did come to 
 Agneta Delaval. She got a London engage- 
 ment, and promptly threw over Wilder with- 
 out further parley. Managers are an ill-used 
 race ; they have a bad name which they do not 
 
 always deserve. Considering all things, it is 
 109
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 small wonder that their tempers are occasion- 
 ally short : the wonder rather is that they are 
 as good fellows as they are. I remember, in 
 my salad days, asking an actress of some ex- 
 perience what sort of folk managers were to 
 deal with : " My dear," she said impressively, 
 " they're angels if you're making money for 
 them, and they're the very devil if you aren't." 
 However this may be, they certainly are not, as 
 is so often represented, impervious to or jealous 
 of rising talent ; like the equally maligned 
 race of publishers and editors, they are quite 
 awake to the value of a good thing when they 
 find it. So many people dabble with the stage 
 nowadays with no intention of taking it up 
 seriously, that no wonder managers are apt to 
 be sceptical of genius in the bud. 
 
 " I'm sorry for Wilder," said Lilian, un- 
 consciously drawing Mr. de Lisle's classic 
 profile on a letter she was writing. " I think 
 it's a shame to treat him so." " I'm glad ; 1 
 can't stand him at all," said Natalie Brydges. 
 She had been called an " old geyser " by Dick 
 that very morning when late for rehearsal, and 
 
 was still feeling sore about it. " He's had a bad 
 no
 
 Stage-Struck 
 
 notice in this week's Stage" said Hoppy sagely; 
 " that's what made him mad with you, Natalie. 
 He thinks there is a conspiracy against him in 
 the Press." This, I may observe, is a favourite 
 delusion among members of the theatrical pro- 
 fession, and not unknown, I fancy, among 
 artists of other denominations. 
 
 Well, I have left the boards, but the pro- 
 fession has left its indelible mark upon me. I 
 am still as stage-struck as Charles Lamb's or 
 Hans Andersen's old ladies Whenever a tra- 
 velling company comes within twenty miles of 
 my residence, I immediately set off to see their 
 show. Only last year at Orvieto, a third-rate 
 Italian company was playing in the town, and I 
 inquired duly of the hotel-porter about the 
 performance. He immediately proposed that 
 the head -waiter (who could speak a little 
 English) should accompany me to explain the 
 jokes. Fancy the jokes in Gentleman Joe 
 elaborately explained to the foreigner ! But 
 had not my plans been suddenly changed, not 
 even this suggestion would have deterred me. 
 
 Of my companions on tour all have long 
 vanished from my ken. Some, like Mr. de 
 
 in
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Lisle and Lilian Evans, have risen high above 
 it ; but the other day I chanced in an omnibus 
 (again a Bow Street one) to come upon Hop- 
 o'-my-Thumb and Miss de Montmorency, the 
 former in bright green sleeves and an enormous 
 feathery hat, the latter with her hair as usual 
 emancipated, and both with their dogs-eared 
 prompt-books. "Have you heard," I could 
 not resist saying, " of Lilian Evans's good 
 fortune ? She is playing lead at a London 
 theatre ! " Both their faces darkened, and 
 Hoppy stopped half-way in the macaroon she 
 was nibbling. "I call it the devil's own 
 luck ! " cried Miss de Montmorency. 
 
 " D d cheek, I call it ! " said Hop-o'-my- 
 
 Thumb. 
 
 112
 
 VII 
 
 LITERARY LADIES 
 
 WHY has the literary lady always been so badly 
 treated in literature ? Novelists, poets, and 
 essayists, from the times of Swift, Pope, and 
 Addison, have conspired to hold her up to 
 obloquy. Even Chaucer, to go back to re- 
 moter times, did not dare to make his " Lady 
 Prioresse " seem too learned ; her French was 
 only 
 
 " After the school of Stratford atte Bowe 
 For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe." 
 
 Shakespeare, it is true, somewhat redeemed 
 the character of the middle ages in this respect 
 for has he not given us, among others, the 
 charming Rosalind and Portia? Richardson, 
 too, tried hard to make the literary lady 
 popular. Clarissa's journal testifies to this, 
 as does also the fact that this charmer could, 
 when making a drawing, remember not to 
 
 113 H
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 draw "the sun, moon, and stars all in one 
 piece ! " But all Clarissa's, and even all 
 Harriet Byron's accomplishments, did not 
 greatly change the fashion. Fielding, who 
 did not care in the least whether or not his 
 heroine were learned, as long as she was for- 
 giving, has remained to this day more popu- 
 lar ; for the world in general, like Mrs. 
 Malaprop, thought and thinks it " a shame 
 for a young woman to be a progeny of learn- 
 ing." Not so long ago, indeed, Dickens and 
 his contemporaries ran riot in unpleasant 
 literary females, from Mrs. Jellyby to the 
 " Mother of the Modern Gracchi ; " and 
 Leech's caricatures of about the same period 
 Leech, the most amiable and daring of 
 draughtsmen show the contemporary state 
 of public opinion regarding a " blue-stocking." 
 Surely the unfortunate lady author must have 
 pleaded guilty to other crimes than mere 
 learning, to justify such cruel usage ? 
 
 But now is the Era of Emancipation begun. 
 
 Nemesis, slow to move but terrible in her 
 
 vengeance, has at last overtaken the erring 
 
 male and dearly will he be made to pay for 
 
 114
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 his past arrogance. Let him no longer imagine 
 that he is to hold the field against the Yellow 
 Asters, the Keynotes of the New Literature. 
 Dickens' "L.L.'s" were not to be mentioned 
 in the same breath with the Literary Ladies of 
 To-day, the Pioneers in the Vanguard of the 
 Battle. (Where women especially literary 
 women are concerned, everything must be 
 made to begin with a Capital Letter.) Woman 
 is rebelling from centuries of ill-usage, and 
 deadly will be her aim. The worst of it is, 
 she may over-shoot her mark : 
 
 "... We may outrun 
 By violent swiftness that which we run at, 
 And lose by over-running . . ." 
 
 The Wandering Jew, if his wanderings lead 
 him in the neighbourhood of literary circles, 
 will be amused to find after all women really 
 so much the same as they were. Character is 
 not altered by conditions not even by the 
 New Era itself. In Dickens' time the " L.L." 
 interlarded her novels with French words, for 
 this procedure was then thought distingut ; 
 the George Eliots of to-day prefer German. 
 At some future date, perhaps, it will be 
 
 "5
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Hottentot or Chinese. It is all a matter of 
 fashion. We must use some foreign language 
 to express our most inexpressible feelings a 
 foreign language is so much less hackneyed. 
 It also has this advantage, that many people 
 do not understand it, and it is a great thing 
 not to be understood. Thus, no woman who 
 respects herself at any rate, no woman with 
 a mind can get on in literature without the 
 help of such words as Aufkldrung or Wesen, for 
 instance. Why not, in the name of heaven, 
 " Enlightening " or " Being ? " The modern 
 literary lady knows her public, and knows also 
 that mere enlightening and being would not 
 do half her business. George Eliot began it 
 and have we not greater than George Eliots 
 here ? Does it not strike a chord within us, 
 that immortal sentence from the Sibyl's diary : 
 "Walked with George over Primrose Hill, 
 and talked of Plato and Aristotle ? " 
 
 In these days we are nothing if not serious. 
 " We will not tolerate mediocrity," as the 
 secretary of a small Scottish lecturing society 
 lately warned the " bright particular stars " of 
 
 London literary circles, in writing to demand 
 116
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 their services as lecturers. Not only medio- 
 crity but aimless writing, we will no longer 
 tolerate ; yellowbacks we despise ; every novel 
 must have a deep underlying meaning ; every 
 book must be a crusade. If we cannot crusade 
 against Man, our natural enemy, we must e'en 
 be content with smaller game ; but Man is our 
 legal and recognised prey. It is curious to 
 note, by the way, that while she despises man, 
 the advanced literary woman should so often 
 imitate his attitudes, cigarettes, and dress ; 
 and, in dress, not the Byronic collars and 
 general deshabille of the literary aspirant, but 
 the smart young masher's get-up. This, how- 
 ever, also signifies Revolt ; for in bygone days 
 the L.L. had the reputation of being dowdy. 
 We have only to turn to the pages of Dickens 
 to find her description : 
 
 " One of the L.L.'s wore a brown wig of 
 uncommon size. Sticking on the forehead of 
 the other, by invisible means, was a massive 
 cameo, in size and shape like the raspberry 
 tart which is ordinarily sold for a penny, 
 representing on its front the capitol at 
 
 Washington." 
 
 117
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 The L.L.'s speech was even more aston- 
 ishing 
 
 " Mind and matter," said the lady in the 
 wig, " glide swift into the vortex of immensity. 
 Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm 
 Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagina- 
 tion. To hear it, sweet it is. But then out- 
 laughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the 
 Grotesque, ' What ho ! arrest for me that 
 Agency. Go bring it here ! * And so the 
 vision fadeth." 
 
 The time, indeed, has gone by for this sort 
 of thing. We are now nothing if not realistic. 
 But if Literary Ladies never reach these flights 
 nowadays, we will not maintain that they 
 never wear cameo brooches or are never dowdy 
 still less, that they are never capable of having 
 their heads turned. Some time ago we hap- 
 pened to find ourselves in a gathering of lite- 
 rary ladies. About thirty were present, several 
 being of high renown. One man indeed we 
 noticed, but he was alone in his glory, or 
 rather misery ; he was evidently alarmed and 
 agitated, and got no further than the door 
 
 which indeed he watched darkly, as though 
 
 118
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 with a furtive desire to escape. The Literary 
 Lady of greatest repute in the assembly the 
 newest, most realistic Literary Lady sat on 
 a high-backed chair of state in the middle 
 of the room, looking, like Horatio Sparkins, 
 as if she " thought of nothing earthly." Every 
 one in turn had the honour of an introduc- 
 tion to her ; every one in turn said gravely this 
 or something like it : " We owe you a debt of 
 gratitude for daring to say what we only think." 
 It was enough to dazzle the strongest brain. 
 When thirty people had administered their 
 portion of flattery, the celebrity on view looked 
 more sphynx-like than before, and her answers 
 became even more monosyllabic. She might 
 have been the Delphic Sibyl herself. 
 
 The talk all over the room was not less 
 alarming : " What is your work ? " we heard 
 one lady say to another kindly. " I cultivate 
 the Ego," replied the female addressed, with 
 promptitude. Fearful of being asked the same 
 question, and not being provided with an 
 equally crushing answer, we fled from the 
 scene of such dissipation. 
 
 Is it a wonder, we thought, that literary 
 119
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 ladies' heads get turned ? Even a short course 
 of such treatment would lead us, we felt, to 
 imagine that we too were Rulers of the Uni- 
 verse. And to do women authors justice, 
 it is not only they who are conceited, for 
 literary mens' heads get turned also. The 
 thing is by no means rare. But the re- 
 deeming point in men is generally that they 
 are able occasionally to interest themselves in 
 other things besides their work. They bear 
 their learning more lightly ; they are less one- 
 idead. Among the minor poets, indeed, there 
 is not so very much to choose between men and 
 women, which fact is easily accounted for when 
 one reflects that the poetic nature is essentially 
 a sensitive nature, and therefore more or less 
 feminine. As a rule, we should say whether 
 the woman whose writings you admire be poet 
 or author do not seek to know her ; best 
 leave the " gem of purest ray serene " unsought 
 and unsolicited. Ideals are, like chemists' 
 coloured vases, not meant for too close 
 inspection. 
 
 We once knew a bright and pretty girl 
 who entertained a terrible recollection of a 
 
 1 20
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 dinner with George Eliot ; and we ourselves feel 
 that if that authoress's conversation was at all 
 like her diary it must have been an alarming 
 ordeal. "I went to the Museum," the lady 
 records of a visit to Oxford, "and had an 
 interesting morning with Dr. Rolleston, who 
 dissected a brain for me." " I like," she 
 observes in another place, " a dose of mathe- 
 matics every day to prevent my brain from 
 becoming quite soft." Oysters become in her 
 hands " well-flavoured molluscs." We feel, 
 while reading the pages of her diary, what 
 literature must have been in the palmy days 
 of Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Carter, and Miss 
 Seward, and we sympathise a little even with 
 Dr. Johnson's unkind sayings. Acquaintance 
 with too many learned ladies may have led 
 Talleyrand to answer, when asked why he 
 had married such a stupid woman : " Sir, be- 
 cause I could not find a stupider." Extremes 
 meet, and intellect fatigues when it insists on 
 keeping itself continually on the stretch. 
 
 But, after all, there is a great deal to be said 
 for literary ladies. To pioneers of any kind 
 
 much may be forgiven ; and the pioneers of 
 121
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 the woman's movement have, notwithstanding 
 their vagaries, distinctly improved the position 
 of their sisters. The Sarah Grands and George 
 Egertons of to-day are not without their uses. 
 There is sometimes good to be gained even from 
 tilting at windmills. " Yet I know," wrote the 
 delightful author of Phantasies, " that good is 
 coming that good is always coming ; though 
 few have at all times the simplicity and the 
 courage to believe it." What though the 
 literary woman fix. her eyes on vacancy, and 
 seems to be gazing, like Mrs. Jellyby, on 
 " nothing nearer than Borrioboola Gha ? " Has 
 she not hastened the close of the period when 
 women were called " little darlings," and ex- 
 pected to know nothing but the recipe for 
 making treacle posset, or for trimming a hat ? 
 What if she now -and then don a masculine 
 shirt and loll about on chairs ; has she not 
 now more claim to man's respect than in the 
 days when her only interest -in life was sup- 
 posed to be the bonnet-shop, and when, like 
 Dora, she could not write without making 
 curly tails to her " g's " ? It is so long ago 
 since Pope, after writing that women " had no 
 122
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 characters at all," thus described the typical 
 woman of his age : 
 
 " Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark, 
 Sighs for the shades ; how charming were a park ! 
 A park is purchased ; but the fair he sees 
 All bathed in tears : " Oh, odious, odious trees ! " 
 
 The Papillia of to-day is too busy to be 
 capricious and whimsical ; she takes refuge in 
 practicalities and she writes novels terribly full 
 of soul, struggling with an idea that is many 
 sizes too big for her, like a hen trying vainly 
 to lay an overgrown egg. But still it is an 
 idea, and that is always something, for 
 
 " Who aimeth at the sky 
 Shoots higher yet than he who means a tree." 
 
 Better to walk with George over Primrose 
 Hill and talk of Plato and Aristotle than to 
 have the megrims, or suffer, like poor Dorothy 
 Osborne, from "the spleen." Dorothy Osborne, 
 had she lived in these days, would most 
 probably have written an " epoch-making " 
 novel, and not merely those charming letters 
 to Sir William Temple ; many of the little 
 
 humorous touches in which would have been 
 
 123
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 lost to the world, if, indeed, the letters would 
 have existed at all. The world would have 
 lost, but Dorothy Osborne's life would have 
 been fuller for the exchange. 
 
 Some people say, by the way, that women 
 have no sense of humour, but is this not a 
 libel ? It is only that the grim earnestness 
 of the literary or political woman causes the 
 ungodly to blaspheme. Their earnestness and 
 undue seriousness come in a great measure 
 from their newness. Many of womens' 
 supposed disabilities arise, after all, from the 
 early period of the movement. Women are 
 just emerging from the egg of suppression ; 
 it is natural, that, like newly-hatched chickens, 
 they should chirp a little just at first. " There 
 are so few of us who have distinguished our- 
 selves ; why should we not give ourselves 
 serious and responsible airs ? " Women are 
 terribly self-conscious ; directly one of them 
 attains to celebrity she feels the eyes of all 
 the world upon her, and she at once ceases 
 to be natural. She thinks that the small 
 applause of her coterie " is the great wave that 
 
 rushes round the world," and forthwith she 
 124
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 must needs wish to found a society, or a 
 religion, or at any rate talk of her Work as 
 if it began with a capital letter. Hence arise 
 all the cruel jokes and unchivalrous gibes that 
 have been levelled at her, and which we only 
 have to look at the pages of the Punch of 
 thirty years back to appreciate the full force 
 of. Fully to understand woman's arrogance 
 now, we must recall the injustices from which 
 she has suffered. 
 
 Only little more than a century ago, Dr. 
 Johnson, in allusion to women and public- 
 speaking, delivered himself of a scathing 
 invective. No doubt he would have said 
 equally : " Sir, a woman's writing is like a dog's 
 walking on his hind legs. It is not done well ; 
 but you are surprised to find it done at all." 
 Edward Fitzgerald, nearly a century later, 
 though he goes so far as to allow " Taste to be 
 the feminine of Genius," says of a literary lady, 
 " She and her sex had better mind the kitchen 
 and their children, and perhaps the poor ; 
 except in such things as little novels, they only 
 devote themselves to what men do much better, 
 
 leaving that which men do worse or not at all." 
 
 125
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Could Philistinism go further than this ? And 
 the sting is one would have expected something 
 better from Omar Khayyam or did his Persian 
 studies demoralise him ? 
 
 It is true, on the other hand, that we could 
 not expect much from the old Spectator, and are 
 not surprised, therefore, to find Steele begging 
 Mr. Spectator to " turn one Speculation to the 
 due Regulation of female Literature . . . and 
 to tell us the difference between a Gentleman 
 that should make Cheese-cakes and raise Paste, 
 and a Lady that reads Locke and understands 
 the Mathematicks." True, Johnson was an 
 old heretic, as far as regarded literary women ; 
 Fitzgerald, a confirmed and solitary old mis- 
 ogynist ; Steele lived in the " dark ages " of the 
 movement ; but the injustice is the same. 
 When the "Literary Ladies" of our time 
 have risen superior to these recollections 
 when they no longer think it necessary to 
 continually assert their superiority to the en- 
 croaching Man when they have learned to 
 approach their grievances their Quixotic wind- 
 mills with a " sweet reasonableness ; " when, in 
 
 fine, they have acquired the art of bearing their 
 
 126
 
 Literary Ladies 
 
 learning more lightly they will attain to that 
 true power of sovereignty in public matters, 
 which, as Mr. Ruskin has pointed out, may 
 always be theirs at home in their " Queen's 
 Garden," that sweet hortus inclusus which no 
 woman, literary lady though she be, can alto- 
 gether despise. 
 
 127
 
 VIII 
 THE MODERN NOVEL 1 
 
 THE other day, during the afternoon crush and 
 consequent wait at one of the large lending 
 libraries, we happened to notice the ways and 
 manners of the different subscribers. One, a 
 plaintive old lady, nearly crowded out of her 
 turn by her more pushing neighbours, said 
 deprecatingly, to the polite young man on 
 duty : 
 
 " Can you tell me what is being read now ? " 
 
 The young man not only knew what was 
 ''being read," but he knew exactly what would 
 suit his customer. 
 
 " Besant's latest novel," he said kindly but 
 firmly, "you will be sure to like." 
 
 The old lady wavered. 
 
 " Hadn't I better read a yellow something 
 or other ? " she said seriously, evidently anxious 
 to be up-to-date. 
 
 The young man shook his head. 
 
 1 June 1895. 
 
 128
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 " Not at all the thing for you, I assure you, 
 madam," he murmured in a discreet undertone. 
 " Believe me, the Besant is best. Two books ? 
 Here is one on gardening that will just suit 
 you. There is your parcel, madam." 
 
 We watched that young man with respect 
 bordering on admiration as he sent off his grate- 
 ful and pleased customer. Unfailing judges of 
 character, indeed, are Mr. Mudie's young men. 
 
 Next in turn came a bouncing young woman, 
 who held a little lap-dog by a chain. But her 
 question was the same. 
 
 " What's being read now ? " she cried gaily. 
 "Oh!" picking up a stray novel on the counter, 
 reading its title, " The Fat's in the Fire is that 
 being read ? " 
 
 The attendant hastened to assure her that 
 The Fafs in the Fire was being very much read, 
 and the young woman hastened away with 
 her prize, followed by muttered blessings from 
 every one around her, her dog having kindly 
 condescended to entangle its chain around all 
 their legs. 
 
 After her came a middle-aged and fuzzy- 
 headed lady. 
 
 129 i
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 " I want," said she, boldly pushing her way 
 to the front, " I want the Kreutzer Sonata, and 
 Zola's Germinal" 
 
 The young man looked at her with cold 
 disapproval. 
 
 " We do not keep either of those works," 
 he said frigidly. 
 
 We cannot tell whether the fuzzy lady felt 
 this snub, or what she condescended to take 
 instead, for at this precise moment our at- 
 tention was diverted by a fashionably-dressed 
 damsel, followed by a small footman with a 
 large strap of books. 
 
 " Please to give me," she said, in a loud 
 and authoritative tone, " False Notes, Sharps 
 and Flats, The Superlative Woman, The Yellow 
 Plaister, The Sinful Heart, and the last two 
 volumes of The Yellow Shocker" 
 
 " I am extremely sorry, madam," said the 
 young man very civilly, " that I can only let 
 you have the first four of these ; 'for they are 
 such exceedingly popular works as to be in 
 constant demand." 
 
 These incidents led us to philosophise 
 
 firstly, on the curious distinctions drawn by 
 130
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 library authorities as to what their public 
 shall or shall not read ; and secondly, on the 
 profound influence consequently exercised on 
 literature by the censors of such establish- 
 ments. Well-meaning these censors may be, 
 but certainly they are neither vigilant nor 
 entirely consistent for they banish from their 
 shelves many books which will live in spite 
 of them, and welcome all that flood of un- 
 pleasant modern fiction which will assuredly 
 pass away, leaving only an ill odour be- 
 hind it. 
 
 But, for the moment, society upholds this 
 style of modern novel ; the circulating library 
 encourages it ; the novelists multiply it, and it 
 is now in the zenith of its glory. It flourishes 
 like the green bay tree, and is altogether 
 unashamed. Every week it becomes more 
 astonishing ; each new novel that is put forth 
 surpasses all its predecessors in effrontery 
 or, as its author would call it, in <( realism." 
 Society, however, is hardly much to blame for 
 this. It patronises the school in question, 
 not so much from any evil intent, as from a 
 nervous wish, like the old lady at Mudie's,
 
 From, a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 to appear " up-to-date " and in vogue. What 
 people read is not so much what they want 
 to read, as what is " being read." 
 
 At a party the other day, during the post- 
 prandial half-hour sacred to the ladies, modern 
 novels happened to be discussed ; several staid 
 and excellent matrons were present, a com- 
 pany proper and respectable to a fault ; and 
 yet their main anxiety seemed to be to 
 find out which was the most " daring " 
 recent novel published, and to get it as 
 soon as possible from the circulating 
 library. 
 
 " One really must know what people are 
 reading," said Mrs. A., adding, " Of course 
 I should not dream of keeping the thing 
 longer than a day ! Fancy, if any of the 
 servants should get hold of it ! " 
 
 "But it's right to read these things, isn't 
 it ? " said Mrs. B. nervously ; " these questions 
 are all in the air, they tell me." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Miss C. timidly she 
 was a plaintive little spinster of forty, " and 
 we must not be behind the times. I have been 
 
 wondering whether I have not reached a time 
 132
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 of life at which it is my bounden duty to read 
 Tom Jones. Now tell me really, do you think 
 I ought ? " 
 
 The poor little lady spoke of the dreaded 
 plunge into Tom Jones as one would speak of 
 a visit to the surgeon a disagreeable duty, 
 but still a duty. 
 
 We will not deny that the average English- 
 woman occasionally nourishes a secret hanker- 
 ing after the forbidden fruit of her youth, 
 but, mainly, as we said, she is in this matter 
 following a fashion, just as she would adopt 
 a crinoline if the mode obliged her to do so. 
 She considers it fashionable to be what she 
 calls fin-de-siecle, a vulgar catch-phrase by-the- 
 bye which means nothing. But, among many 
 novel writers themselves and their "sets," 
 there is a kind of disease spreading the 
 bacillus of so-called " realism," just as there 
 was a bacillus of Theosophy a few years back. 
 Then, all our female literary friends, even 
 those we had previously considered most 
 sane, declared themselves " esoteric Buddhists." 
 Now, they all become " new women," craving 
 to write a modern novel ; a novel that shall 
 
 133
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 mark an epoch, a novel that shall show more 
 and more how, 
 
 " Scattering the past about, 
 Comes the New Age." 
 
 For women are mainly, if not altogether, 
 the authors of the new fiction. The reason 
 is not far to seek. They are newly emanci- 
 pated, and to the newly emancipated nothing 
 is sacred. They are so full of divine rage 
 against injustice, that they ignore all the charm 
 and all the power of reticence. Reticence ! 
 they will have none of it ; they will call a 
 spade a spade with more than the freedom of 
 their forefathers : 
 
 " See the wild Maenads 
 
 Break from the wood, 
 Youth and Bacchus 
 
 Maddening their blood." 
 
 (We apologise to the shade of Matthew 
 Arnold but he must surely have imaged 
 forth the " New Woman " when he wrote 
 that poem.) 
 
 A few male authors try to follow in the 
 steps of the lady novelist in their style, but 
 
 134
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 they fall far behind her. Men in old days 
 wrote novels that used to be considered rather 
 " strong meat," but Tom Jones is bold and 
 open, not suggestive and morbid. You did 
 not feel as if you would like to wash your 
 face after reading Tom Jones, and works of 
 that school ; but you feel distinctly unclean 
 after an evening's study of certain recent lady 
 novelists. 
 
 The extremes of fashion are always mon- 
 strosities, and as monstrosities they are short- 
 lived. Who remembers the " silly novels " 
 of the fifties, or the " mind-and-millinery " 
 romances of George Eliot's sarcasms ? Times 
 change, and the pathos of one half-century 
 merges imperceptibly into the bathos of an- 
 other. The Yellow Plaisters and their tribe 
 will either not be remembered at all a score 
 of years hence, or will be only remembered to 
 laugh at. As Professor Max Nordau's amusing 
 book puts it, their authors are " degenerates," 
 and their fate will be oblivion. They will 
 be "hurled," as George Eliot wrote, "into 
 the Domdaniel, where I wish all futile writers 
 to sink." 
 
 '35
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Ancient and modern novels by lady writers 
 show of course many contrasts when com- 
 pared ; for instance, the heroine of the old 
 school is always young and innocent, though 
 she had a tendency to be pedantic, and could 
 generally " read the Bible in the original 
 tongues" while the heroine of the modern 
 school, so far from being innocent, has usually 
 so much of a " past " that she has to be thirty 
 at least in order to have had enough of it. 
 The old heroines, whatever else they might 
 be, were always deeply religious ; the new are 
 always " free-thinking," or at any rate " passing 
 through a phase." The old heroines talked 
 a great deal about Nature, so that if they did 
 not succeed in being natural, it was hardly 
 their fault ; the new are mainly artificial. The 
 old heroine was prudish ; the new is nasty. 
 In two points, however, the ancient and the 
 modern agree and the first of these is, that 
 the heroines of both are always terribly oracular. 
 Here is what George Eliot said of them in 
 1856: 
 
 "The most pitiable of all silly novels by 
 
 lady novelists are what we may call the oracular 
 136
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 species novels intended to express the writer's 
 religious, philosophical or moral theories." 
 
 Change the latter words to " irreligious " and 
 " immoral " theories, and who will not recognise 
 a description of more than one new novel of 
 the day? 
 
 The second point of resemblance between 
 ancient and modern is the appalling want of 
 humour in their authors. Many women writers, 
 we know not why, are terribly deficient in this 
 saving grace ; perhaps it may be because they 
 are inclined to take themselves too seriously. 
 In their stories there is no gleam of light, no 
 relief to the prevailing gloom or horror. No 
 one could tell a terrible story with more pathos 
 and power than Bret Harte, but he put in 
 the necessary light touches that made the rest 
 stand out artistically. Everything, now, must 
 be all horror ; there is no idea of proportion. 
 We are shown only the seamy side of life ; we 
 are told only the unpleasant things. It is very 
 inartistic ; it is just as bad as beginning at 
 the darker end of the colour scale in painting. 
 The idea and usages of society become dis- 
 torted and out of focus. Thus we are led to 
 
 137
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 believe that the ordinary husband says in every- 
 day life to his wife : " D n you ! you're 
 
 late for dinner again." 
 
 In the story from which we quote it is sug- 
 gested further that the legs of ballet-dancers 
 form the usual topic of conversation in mixed 
 dinner-parties of ladies and gentlemen. Such 
 a view of life is morbid and unhealthy; it 
 strikes upon one as quite precociously depraved, 
 like a very young person trying to show how 
 much he or she knows of this wicked world. 
 "Let us all wallow in infamy," they cry with 
 the New Woman of the play ; but it is a very 
 make-believe wallowing after all, and you can 
 catch a glimpse of the footlights. 
 
 Apart, however, from the necessary " wal- 
 lowing," it is also needful that the "up-to- 
 date" novel should yearn after something 
 unattainable. It does not so much matter 
 what, but something must be yearned for, and 
 hinted at through some four hundred weary 
 pages. " If they've got anything to say," we 
 feel inclined to cry impatiently " why in the 
 world don't they say it and have done with it, 
 instead of making such an infernal clacking ? " 
 138
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 But they don't know what they want nor 
 does anybody else though it is certain they 
 are making a great noise about something ; and 
 in this world, if you can only bluster sufficiently, 
 you are always sure of a following. So the 
 lady novelists in question cry continually for 
 what they don't in the least want to get, and 
 what if they did get would do them no earthly 
 good : they are 
 
 " Like infants crying in the night, fc 
 
 And with no language but a cry." 
 
 > 
 And while, like the inimitable damsels in 
 
 Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey^ they abuse 
 men, they must needs copy them, plagiarise 
 their style, adopt masculine noms-de-plume, as 
 well as their shirts and hats. 
 
 The novels which we are discussing may 
 perhaps be divided roughly into two classes : 
 
 i. The Brutal, which is the most popular at 
 the present day. This style suppresses all the 
 pleasanter facts of life, and exaggerates all the 
 unpleasant ones. It is akin to the " brandy- 
 and-soda " style so much in vogue recently ; 
 and its heroes usually get drunk while its 
 
 139
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 heroines are absolutely irrepressible, and gener- 
 ally " feel as if they want to scream." 
 
 2. The Novel with a Purpose. This has been 
 common to all ages ; but the peculiarity of it 
 at the present day is, as we said, that the reader 
 is often left in the dark as to what the 
 particular purpose is. That it is very serious, 
 however, there can be no doubt, and we can 
 generally guess that it is something to do with 
 the Emancipation of Women, for the peccant 
 male gets as severely handled in these novels 
 as he does in Ibsen's dramas. There is one 
 peculiarity, however, common to them all. 
 This is, that the characters talk " sex " and 
 nothing else, as if in the whole wide world of 
 art, music, and literature there were nothing 
 else worth our attention. People are always 
 talked of as if they were animals ; indeed, one 
 involuntarily thinks of them as feline, for their 
 movements are described with no suggestion 
 whatever of clothing. This reminds us of the 
 remark made lately by a small child of our 
 acquaintance. This child has a great talent 
 for drawing ; her parents are artistic, and 
 possess a great many pictures and statues, 
 140
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 which the little girl doubtless admires, for she 
 is continually scrawling undraped figures. She 
 insisted one day on showing these early at- 
 tempts to her mother's visitors. "These," 
 she said, pointing to some of her scantily- 
 clothed scrawls, " are Arts, and those," she 
 contined, turning to some feeble attempt at 
 the nude, " are Fine Arts." Continuing the 
 analogy, we should say that the modern novel 
 is essentially "Fine Art." 
 
 Here is the new style of suitor, describing 
 the girl he adores. He says ; "As she sat 
 down, I thought that I had never seen such 
 splendid shoulders combined with so slight a 
 hip before." Indeed, she might be a panther 
 at the Zoo ! 
 
 And here is a description of a girl's pretty 
 neck: "A delicious, solid, white throat rose 
 from the dull stuff like an almond bursting 
 from its husk." Why, it might be something 
 to eat ! 
 
 The heroine's lips are always "scarlet." 
 Now, no lips are ever scarlet that is, unless 
 they are part of a " get-up " and a very bad 
 
 " get-up " at that. But the artificial is what 
 141
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 we now worship : as the hero of The Green 
 Carnation remarks, " We shrink from the cold 
 and freezing touch of nature. One touch of 
 nature makes the whole world commonplace." 
 Thus, the heroine of the present day must 
 have her eyes " darkened " ; she must boast 
 of " a dash of virility, a hint of dissipation, a 
 suggestion of a certain decorous looseness of 
 morals and fastness of manners." 
 
 The modern novel must, we are told, before 
 all things "palpitate with life." Well, be it 
 so, but we can surely have life without 
 brutality, or even without mere photographic 
 reproduction, which is not in the least like 
 art. Nothing nowadays must be left out ; we 
 will have none of your " hearsays," but must 
 needs study the pathology of cancer from the 
 cancer hospitals, lunacy from Bedlam or Colney 
 Hatch, and crime from Portland Prison. The 
 days of little Charlotte Bronte, who invented 
 grand people's ways from her solitude on the 
 Haworth Moors, and made her great lady say 
 to her footman, " Cease that chatter, block- 
 head ! and do my bidding," are gone for ever, 
 
 more's the pity. No, nowadays everything 
 142
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 must be exactly true, and the more revolting 
 the truth is, the better. When a murder is 
 committed, stress is laid on the very unpleasant 
 fact that the blood "trickles slowly from the 
 pool at the bedside out under the door, making 
 a second ghastly pool on the top step of the 
 stairs a thick sorghum red blackening as it 
 thickens, with a sickly serous border." 
 
 Blood clots, we know ; but why draw atten- 
 tion to the fact ? If it is to heighten the 
 horror, we can only say that Dickens' murder 
 scene of the same kind in Bleak House (the 
 carved Roman on the ceiling pointing silently 
 to the dark stain on the floor) was about a 
 hundred times as effective, without any de- 
 scending to loathsome realism. And again, in 
 grief, the heroine's eyes are described as " heavy 
 with bistre stains " ; while in another place a 
 woman is not described as looking pale and ill, 
 but as having a skin like " dead, cooked flesh." 
 And of a girl who hears bad news, we read : 
 
 " Her face changes ; the blood rushes to it, 
 until a triangular vein stands out on her fore- 
 head like a purple whipcord. Her throat 
 looks as if it would burst ; a pulse beats in 
 
 '43
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 her neck ; her upper lip is completely sucked 
 in by the set line of her under one, and her 
 eyes positively squint." 
 
 Imagine the author of this passage making a 
 cold and critical study of how a person looks 
 when suffering the first pangs of profound 
 grief. It is brutal ; it is like the dissector's 
 knife ; and besides, it is unnecessary, except to 
 show what the writer means, which is, " See 
 how clever and how realistic I am ! " 
 
 But enough of this. We need only add 
 that, for the benefit of the uninitiated, it might 
 be as well to append a glossary of the words 
 used in modern novels, which are distinctly 
 not those in everyday use. We cannot par- 
 ticularise them all ; they crop up in every new 
 volume that is issued ; but here are a few of 
 them. (We suggest that they should be 
 printed at the end of each volume, with their 
 explanations, thus :) 
 
 "Trottie" Pretty, sweet, charming. 
 
 Ex. "Did you ever see anything so 
 trottie as my new frock ? " 
 
 " Nighty " A nocturnal garment worn by 
 women. 
 
 144
 
 The Modern Novel 
 
 "Little Devil" Pretty young woman. 
 
 Note. Used usually by itself as an 
 
 expression of tenderness. 
 " Beastie " Woman or dog, or anything 
 that strikes the fancy at the moment. 
 Ex. (To a woman) : " Tired, poor 
 
 little beastie ? " etc. etc. etc. 
 Will these words, we wonder, be included in 
 our next new English dictionary ? 
 
 The plots of modern novels are, as a rule, 
 very fragmentary. Any weakness of con- 
 struction is, however, glozed over by means 
 of frequent stars and dashes (nothing tells a 
 story so easily as stars and dashes) ; and then 
 the characters are never extricated from 
 difficult positions, they are just left there 
 without further parley. Indeed, it may be 
 said that the modern novel begins nowhere 
 and ends nowhere. It is so simple and so 
 easy to be vaguely " impressionist " in literature. 
 The " new novel " has produced a new style 
 of advertising. Extracts from reviews such 
 as the following are paraded, and doubtless 
 serve their purpose : 
 
 " A book as loathsome as this makes a 
 145 K.
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 record in all the nasty literature which has 
 been produced on the sex question." Daily 
 Paper (actual quotation). 
 
 " Uneducated and unwholesome." Evening 
 Paper. 
 
 Authors have discovered that the more 
 revolting they are, the better is their chance 
 of success. Max Nordau calls them "Epilep- 
 toid cripples " ; but they have a very good 
 idea of business nevertheless. So everybody 
 insists on " going one better " than his or her 
 generally her predecessor. Gaul follows 
 Gaul, and Amurath to Amurath succeeds. 
 What, we ask, must be the feelings of the 
 woman who has successfully launched a " re- 
 cord-breaking " sex-novel, and who looks for 
 a well-merited success, when, in the course of 
 perhaps less than a week, it is succeeded by 
 another yet more audacious ? 
 
 146
 
 IX 
 IBSEN AND THE MORBID TAINT 
 
 MANKIND is by nature full of contradictions. 
 We are everlastingly striving, not perhaps for 
 the moon, but, at any rate, for what is placed 
 farthest from ' our reach. Educate a boy or 
 girl in the strictest Tory principles, he or she 
 straightway becomes a Radical ; educate them 
 as Radicals, and they forthwith become Tories. 
 If your daughter or your son happen to set 
 their young affections on undesirable people, 
 they are only rendered the firmer by your 
 opposing them ; withdraw your opposition, 
 and in nine cases out of ten they will with- 
 draw their affections also. By following the 
 same analogy, we begin dimly to see the 
 reason why the present generation yearns after 
 the morbid in literature. " Children of a 
 larger growth," we long still for what is most 
 unattainable. In older times our education 
 itself had a morbid bent, our young lives were
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 gloomy ; hence we loved, in fiction, sturdy 
 ruffians like Tom Jones at the theatre, robust 
 plays like Sheridan's. Now that a new day 
 has dawned, and the whole tendency of 
 modern education is to fill us with "the joy 
 of life," we must needs seek darkness, not, it 
 is to be hoped, because our deeds are evil, 
 but because the morbid taint will out. It 
 is a curious and a pregnant fact, that a child- 
 hood fed on Bunyan's devils and Mrs. Sher- 
 wood's hell should revel, on emerging, in 
 robust authors like Fielding or Lever, while 
 one nourished on nothing darker than Lewis 
 Carroll's nonsense or dainty fairy-tales should 
 delight in Henrik Ibsen. 
 
 Ibsen is the great master of the morbid 
 school, and for his " boom " we have for years 
 been preparing ourselves. The great Nor- 
 wegian dramatist satisfies that inward craving 
 which the doctrine of the "joy of life" had 
 repressed in us in our youth. Directly we are 
 not allowed to read story-books, that instant 
 do they become of supreme and engrossing 
 interest. Most of us are now constrained to 
 be so matter-of-fact and business-like in real 
 148
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 life, that the morbid in fiction we will have 
 at any price. Dramas such as Rosmersholm, 
 The Master-Builder, Hedda Gabler are, with 
 all their unadulterated gloom, altogether in 
 the spirit of the time. 
 
 Curiously enough, it may be said, and in- 
 deed it seems to follow out the theory of 
 contradictions, that it is not the morbid among 
 us who love Ibsen, but exactly their opposites. 
 Les extremes se touchent. The matter-of-fact, 
 reasonable, distinctly sane people, it is they 
 who worship the master. To the naturally 
 morbid and weaker vessels, and notwithstand- 
 ing our altered times, there are a few such 
 yet among us, such dramas as The Master- 
 Builder are intensely painful. There is too 
 much of the real thing too much of the 
 dissecting scalpel, cruelly probing the secrets of 
 the disordered brain. But with the eminently 
 sane it is mainly the extreme cleverness of 
 the artist, his knowledge of some phases of 
 human nature, his wonderful psychological 
 studies, that appeal to them. 
 
 To the man who has never yearned for the 
 
 unattainable, never felt within him a striving 
 
 149
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 towards an impossible goal, never been torn 
 by disappointed ambition, who has retained 
 through all troubles and trials of life the 
 priceless gift of a "robust conscience," the 
 wavering, brilliant, unstable Halvard is an 
 attractive figure. To a woman of a practical 
 turn of mind, to whom " the daily round, the 
 common task " are all-sufficient, who has 
 never, in fact, even as a child, " cried for the 
 moon," or wanted what she had not got, to 
 her the master-builder's wife is simply an 
 interesting study in eccentricity. 
 
 It is surprising how interesting a medical 
 diagnosis may be when we ourselves are not 
 the persons immediately concerned ; or how 
 little the extraction of a tough molar affects 
 us when we are not sitting in the dentist's 
 chair. 
 
 The Ibsen plays are so much like real life 
 we say and yet the most morbid and brain- 
 sick among us must feel that we could not, 
 with any vestige of self-respect, talk as the 
 Master's characters do. But after all, if the 
 stage were exactly to represent real life, it 
 
 would be dull indeed ; the whole effect must 
 150
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 be heightened, broadened ; hence, Ibsen's heroes 
 and heroines, without exception, say things 
 that their prototypes among us would only 
 think. How narrow always is the border-line 
 that divides us from insanity comes out here 
 with alarming clearness : 
 
 " What can minister to a mind diseased ? " 
 
 And then, to make the whole effect of the 
 Ibsenian drama gloomier, the blackness is totally 
 unrelieved by a single gleam of humour. In- 
 voluntary humour indeed there may be, to the 
 more turbulent and irreverent spirits among the 
 audience, as when Mrs. Solness laments her 
 " nine lovely dolls," when Hedda Gabler, hand- 
 ing the pistol to LGvborg, bids him shoot him- 
 self "gracefully," or when Rosmer, the man 
 who, like Henry III., never smiled, feels it to 
 be his particular mission to " go about spreading 
 joy and happiness among countless multitudes." 
 But real, genuine humour there is none. The 
 very servants and supers are so affected by the 
 prevailing gloom, that when they have to an- 
 nounce tea or a visitor they do it in sepulchral 
 tones, very much as if they were announcing a
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 a funeral cortege. The whole thing is so un- 
 alleviated that to those weaker spirits to whom 
 we have alluded, we can quite imagine that a 
 compulsory course of Ibsen would, in a very 
 short time, overset their mental balance, and 
 make them " see through a glass darkly " for 
 the rest of their natural lives. For the Nor- 
 wegian holds a dark mirror up to nature, and 
 omits all her lighter tones. Like Rembrandt, 
 he paints from the lower end of the scale. It 
 is true, he talks much of the "joy of life," but 
 there is little enough of it in his works. 
 
 The traveller who penetrates into the less 
 frequented parts of Norway may there trace 
 the evolution of the Ibsenian drama. Here are 
 desolate, lonely houses, like Pastor Rosmer's, 
 and narrow-minded, self-centred people, hold- 
 ing frantically on to their old conservatism. 
 Their solitary life is reflected in the character 
 of the people ; the Norwegians, notably those 
 of the less populous districts, are a solemn 
 people, and, like Rosmer, are rarely known to 
 laugh. Only in such a narrow, shut-in society 
 could one imagine a scene taking place, like 
 that in the first act of Rosmersho/m, where the 
 152
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 hero makes up his mind to a momentous con- 
 fession to his friend and Rector. The confes- 
 sion se fait attendre, and the audience is long 
 kept on the tenterhooks of expectation. Is he 
 going to confess a murder, or a forgery ? It 
 must be one of these at least ? Nothing of the 
 sort ! It is only that he has become a Radical. 
 
 All contrasts are charming, and to us, who 
 live in the midst of hurry and change, such 
 scenes are refreshing enough. The morbid 
 craving is satisfied at the smallest possible per- 
 sonal trouble. We ourselves do not disturb 
 our households for so little. If in our mental 
 journeyings we have travelled far from the old 
 paths, we do not proclaim the fact from the 
 house-tops. Ibsen, on the other hand, is a 
 kind of moral Don Quixote ; it is against 
 hypocrisy like this that he tilts incessantly ; in 
 his plays, The Enemy of the People, The Pillars of 
 Society, this is his theme. We whether we 
 possess the morbid taint or not have not the 
 courage of our opinions ; but we are not yet 
 without admiration for those who have. 
 
 In such a centre as a dull, shut in, stagnant 
 Norwegian town if being a Radical is counted 
 
 153
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 a capital crime, one can readily imagine how 
 black the blacker shades must be. Self-intro- 
 spection may here become a veritable disease. 
 In the Master-Builder the hero longs for a fire 
 to burn down his house, and give him a chance 
 of distinguishing himself in its rebuilding. 
 Vaguely thinking of this, he omits to mend a 
 crack in the chimney perhaps the fire may 
 come that way. The fire does not come that 
 way ; we find out after half-an-hour's talking, 
 that it came from some quite other cause ; but 
 nevertheless, the Builder blames himself for all 
 the misfortunes brought by the fire, just as if 
 the neglected crack had really caused it. That 
 " crack in the chimney " was almost too much 
 for the sympathising Hilda, as it certainly was 
 for most of the audience. But how many 
 among us have not experienced something like 
 it ? The crack in the chimney certainly struck 
 a chord in the hearts of a good many, a chord 
 that vibrated with absolute pain. Precisely the 
 people who understand this kind of thing best 
 are those to whom it is most harmful. 
 
 Ibsen is above all things a moral censor. His 
 Nemesis is as unfailing as the most rigid
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 moralist could desire nay, there is even a 
 Nemesis when we hardly see the need for one 
 else why is poor Mrs. Solness punished for a 
 crack in the chimney which was never so much 
 as imagined by her ? But better the right- 
 eously-minded will say a Nemesis when un- 
 deserved than none when deserved and, there- 
 fore, Ibsen's plays should be most desirable for 
 the young, to whom reproof, surely, need hardly 
 ever come amiss. We can, moreover, more 
 or less comprehend the Nemesis ; but what 
 can we say of the many other riddles to be 
 solved ? 
 
 The Ibsen cult is as yet only in its beginning. 
 Apart from his genius, the Master is obscure. 
 This is the very element of popularity. The 
 first desideratum in the modern race for fame 
 is to write so that no one can understand you. 
 Hans Andersen's fable of The Emperor s New 
 Clothes was not written without deep insight 
 into human nature. What Ibsen clearly means 
 by such plays as the Master- Builder as yet 
 remains a mystery. The oracle of Delphi was 
 wise in its generation. Ibsen, no less wise, will 
 doubtless keep silence, or restrain himself to 
 
 '55
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 oracular utterances. What he has written he 
 has written we can interpret as we will. To 
 the healthy-minded, as we said, it means one 
 thing ; to the morbid, another. Practical- 
 minded people have suggested many meanings. 
 The Master-Builder is, according to some, but 
 one vast allegory. The " tall spires " that Hal- 
 vard Solness talks all through the play of build- 
 ing over his " homes for the people," they are 
 to symbolise the Master's own works, which are 
 too high above the average mind to be properly 
 appreciated. Like Solness, Ibsen yearned at 
 first to do greater things, to build up, not 
 churches, but great classical works ; now, he 
 has to content himself with quiet domestic 
 dramas, fit, if not exactly for " father, mother, 
 and a troop of children," at any rate for " the 
 people" in a general sense. Others, again, 
 maintain that the much-discussed scene in 
 which Mrs. Solness mourns the destruction of 
 her " nine lovely dolls " is another piece of 
 autobiography. The " nine dolls " are sup- 
 posed to refer to the nine early works of the 
 author. The answer to this and other conun- 
 drums we will leave to a future Ibsen Society. 
 
 156
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 With Ibsen one cannot separate the morbid 
 from the beautiful. How brightly, for instance, 
 amid the prevailing blackness of Ghosts, does 
 the creation of Mrs. Alving stand out ; Mrs. 
 Alving, the widow of the depraved drunkard, 
 who, in mistaken zeal, after her husband's 
 death raises him to a saint, in order to keep his 
 memory pure in the heart of his only son ! 
 How touching is the faith and unselfishness of 
 Thea to her idol, the erratic genius Eilert 
 LOvborg ! how inspiring, amid all her wicked- 
 ness, is the personality of Rebecca West ! It is 
 a curious trait of Ibsen, that his women, as a 
 rule, are, even in their bad phases, so much 
 stronger and more sympathetic than his men. 
 The mysterious witch Hilda, with her entranc- 
 ing vitality well, she is wonderful all through, 
 but then she is hardly a good test, as we can 
 scarcely dissociate her from Miss Elizabeth 
 Robins' wonderful creation. And then, as re- 
 gards the dialogue of the plays, how pretty 
 some of the thoughts are, as they flash up ever 
 and again from the gloom of their context ! 
 Oswald Alving, with his brimming sense of 
 " the joy of life " ; Eilert Lovborg with " the
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 vine-leaves in his hair ; " Halvard Solness, in 
 the craving of his warped genius : " Have you 
 never noticed, Hilda, how it draws us after it 
 the Impossible ? " or in his cry of pity for his 
 wife : " She, too, had a talent for building 
 for building up the souls of little children ; " 
 Hilda, with her thrilling intensity of egoism, 
 " You promised me a kingdom," and more 
 beautiful than all, when the Master-Builder 
 climbs the giddy vane at her bidding : " Do 
 you see one wrestling with him on the 
 tower ? " 
 
 These are only a few instances out of many. 
 When one has shuddered or scoffed, as the case 
 may be, there still remains so much that sticks 
 in one's mind. Irreverent spirits may mutter 
 at the news of the Master-Builder's death, 
 " Well, that's a good job, any'ow ! " and they 
 may jeer at the " nine lovely dolls" ; and Mrs. 
 Solness, the Master-Builder's wife, whose chil- 
 dren have perished in the fire, may seem to us, 
 as she aimlessly wanders about, watering pol- 
 ished console-tables from a big watering-can, 
 to be a very feeble, half-witted creature, with 
 
 no talent at all for building up anything, much 
 
 158
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 less children's souls ; yet the Idea is patent 
 enough through it all we cannot scoff at that. 
 Ibsen is in deadly earnest ; and to any 
 one who is in deadly earnest we must listen, 
 even though he does not "prophesy smooth 
 things." Like Coleridge's wedding - guest, 
 "we cannot choose but hear." And that he 
 is heard specially now proves the serious and 
 almost morbid tendency of the time. Some of 
 us dislike humbug so much that we prefer 
 to see things through black spectacles than 
 through unduly rose-coloured ones. And then 
 and this is a less innocent explanation of 
 "the Master's popularity" to tell the truth, 
 both novels and plays must have a slight tinge 
 of impropriety or crankiness to succeed now- 
 adays. In default of impropriety, crankiness 
 will do. Not very evident, perhaps deli- 
 cately enough suggested but none the less 
 it must be there. It is better when it is there, 
 as it is in Ibsen, with a serious motive. Our 
 sturdier ancestors said things straight out, they 
 did not mince matters any more than Zola 
 himself; but still there are some of us who 
 find Zola less corrupt than many a work 
 '59
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 allowed in middle-class drawing-rooms and in 
 respectable circulating libraries. 
 
 There will always be a large class who like 
 risque books and plays, quite apart from their 
 motive. But this, though doubtless it is one 
 reason, is not the principal reason why so many 
 people like Ibsen. This comes mainly from 
 the study in contrasts before alluded to. 
 Brought up in the Puritan household, we 
 sought for gaiety ; brought up in the latter- 
 day nursery, we seek for gloom. For gloom 
 of some kind or other is a need of our natures. 
 Take away our hell fires and our lost spirits, 
 and lo we must have an Ibsen. 
 
 But, indeed, the " morbid taint " is only too 
 real with some of us. Like the poor, it is 
 " always with us." It is " a thing to dream 
 of, not to tell," and, the less dreamt of in 
 some cases the better. We do not all need 
 Ibsen dramas to make it more patent to us. 
 However, to the large majority of compara- 
 tively healthy-minded people, Ibsen can only 
 do unmixed good, by opening to them a new 
 world of profound psychological lore hitherto 
 
 undreamt of. 
 
 1 60
 
 Ibsen and the Morbid Taint 
 
 To old-fashioned Christians it was a relief 
 once a year to say the Commination Service, 
 and to curse heartily without sin ; it gave their 
 feelings " a went." The Commination Service 
 is " going out " eternal punishment is out of 
 date but we can still study the tortures of 
 the damned with the help of a play of Ibsen's, 
 and thereby appease the unsuspected, yet re- 
 lentless, " morbid taint." 
 
 161
 
 CHARACTER IN DRESS 
 
 " Ladies, like variegated tulips, show ; 
 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe." 
 
 POPE. 
 
 " MRS. L is a charming woman, isn't 
 
 she ? " I lately overheard one lady say to an- 
 other, in the would-be genial manner so com- 
 mon at society crushes, "and so clever." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! Charming ! in that awful 
 beaded mantle, and with her clothes pitch- 
 forked on like that ! They none of them 
 agree. One would think she had got them 
 at a ' rummage sale ! ' She may be learned I 
 don't say she isn't but no woman with a 
 feather stuck into her bonnet at that angle 
 could be clever or, if it comes to that, even 
 really good?"* 
 
 Which true anecdote I hereby take for my 
 text. People talk of the hand - shake, the 
 voice, the shape of the head and eyes, as an 
 162
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 index to character, but what about that most 
 important of all the clothes ? " Man is, em- 
 phatically, a clothed animal," said Carlyle in 
 Sartor Resartus, and, indeed, it is so. It is 
 difficult, even for the philosopher, entirely to 
 dissociate the one from the other. Clothes 
 confer not only character, but also reverence, 
 adulation, social status ; they are, so to speak, 
 the hall-mark that, fairly or not, distin- 
 guishes the wearer from his kind. 
 
 Which of us, more especially which woman 
 of us, can altogether rise superior to her 
 clothes ? Even a modern Sappho must, if she 
 wishes to succeed, know that poetry cannot 
 properly be associated with an ill-fitting back ; 
 even a twentieth-century George Eliot is con- 
 scious that Philosophy, whatever it was in the 
 times of Pope and Lady Mary, cannot now 
 afford to be untidy or ill-clad. No ; the clothes 
 make the Man or Woman in more senses than 
 one. Is there not, in this connection, a charm- 
 ing story told of Sir Richard Wallace the 
 millionaire and collector of the riches of Hert- 
 ford House now bequeathed to the public ? 
 Before his death he determined to present 
 
 163
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 a little picture by Terburg, of unique and 
 fabulous value, to the nation. With this ob- 
 ject in view, he called on the then director 
 of the National Gallery, Sir William Boxall. 
 Being, however as is not uncommon even 
 with millionaires unattended and somewhat 
 shabby, he was very nearly sent away unheard 
 his gift rejected. On realising the mistake, 
 " I nearly fainted," said the Director ; " I had 
 all but refused ' The Peace of Milnster ' one 
 of the wonders of the world ! " 
 
 In the olden days the days of Chaucer 
 character in dress was better understood. 
 People, it is true, had not much choice ; every- 
 body had to " dress up " to his or her part ; 
 there were special costumes for citizens of all 
 classes, for apprentices, for the many grades of 
 the priesthood, even for the public execu- 
 tioner ; every one formed part of a vast 
 pageant ; and poor Mary Queen of Scots, when 
 she appeared before the black-draped block 
 clothed all in blood-red, was but closing her 
 " act drop " in character, with something of 
 the same spirit that Dickens's " Mrs. Skew- 
 ton " showed when she ordered with her 
 164
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 failing breath " rose - coloured curtains for 
 the doctors." 
 
 But, after all, the " Character in Dress " 
 of mediaeval days was national rather than 
 personal ; and in our own times, when all 
 persons can dress exactly as they please, are 
 bound by no rules, dispensations, restrictions, 
 or pedantries, the field for the showing of 
 individual character is, of course, larger ; less 
 picturesque, perhaps, but certainly larger. In 
 women for in this matter of dress ladies 
 naturally have precedence character in dress 
 shows itself, primarily, in three very distinct 
 types ; types whence all the innumerable sub- 
 divisions take their beginning. These are : 
 
 1. The Tailor-Made. 
 
 2. The Artistic (so-called). 
 
 3. The Merely Clothed. 
 
 To the first class, that of the tailor-made, 
 belongs the clique called " Smart Society," 
 and also all the women who are by nature 
 neat, methodical, and generally exemplary. 
 This class usually does its hair like a fashion 
 
 plate, follows like the sheep in any prevailing 
 
 165
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 fashion, and alters its natural shape to kan- 
 garoo-like pouches and twisted or elongated 
 waists, whenever the prevailing mode will have 
 it so. This class can generally contrive to 
 cross the Channel on a blowy day without 
 having so much as a hair out of place ; it is 
 careful not to discompose itself by any undue 
 emotions or fatigues ; it manicures, massages, 
 peroxides, and laces, at discretion. It can 
 wear collars of several inches in height ; it 
 could even, I believe, wear a hair shirt with- 
 out a murmur, did fashion so require it. 
 This kind will discuss massage and dress 
 unceasingly at a morning call ; it regards 
 appearance as a matter of absolutely primary 
 and vital importance ; and far be it from me 
 to say that it is not in the main right. 
 
 The artistic type differs from the fore- 
 going principally in that it wears either soft 
 lace collars, or, indeed, no collars at all. The 
 collar, be it noted, is of absolutely unique 
 importance in the study of character. See a 
 man's collar, you might almost say, and you 
 will see the man ! Even a tie can be eloquent. 
 " A made tie that hooks on," says the author 
 166
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 of the Diary of a Nobody, belongs to a soft 
 man, with a soft heart, with a soft head. And 
 an abnormally high collar argues, in either sex, 
 small brain power ; just as one of medium 
 height will tell of firmness, neatness, order, 
 and common sense. A woman's neat, trim 
 lace collar will, in the same way, show an 
 amiable, easy-going nature, impulsiveness, affec- 
 tion ; a floppy one, artistic feeling, uncon- 
 ventionality, originality, and sometimes even 
 genius. There are rare occasions, and rare 
 people, too, with whom " a sweet disorder in 
 its dress" is not without a charm. The 
 artistic type of woman, when not degenerated 
 into mere untidiness, is really more interested 
 in dress than any ; she brings to the all- 
 important subject all the intelligence that in 
 other women would rule the kingdom, the 
 world of fashion, or the home ; she may even 
 design her own costumes, and sometimes (if 
 not rich) make them or pin them on herself. 
 She is, perhaps, fonder of pinning than of 
 sewing ; but she pins so well that you would 
 imagine that her clothes came from Worth at 
 least. She is, moreover, the slave of no passing
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 mode; but can afford in this matter to be "a 
 law unto herself." 
 
 The merely clothed is a very common type, 
 and is difficult to class definitely. Very often 
 it is the result, not so much of character as of 
 want of time, money, or ability. To it belong, 
 in turn, many varying types : 
 
 1. That of the woman who never troubles 
 to think about her clothes at all, till she is 
 obliged suddenly to rush into the nearest shop 
 to buy what is called a " reach-me-down " ; 
 
 2. That of the professional woman, who 
 regards her dress either as a necessary evil or 
 as a matter of secondary importance ; and 
 
 3. That of the large class of women whose 
 slender dress allowance has to be eked out 
 carefully, and whose " contriving " is generally 
 all directed towards the painful task of making 
 old look like new. 
 
 Of course, even to this last and saddest 
 class, some people (though mainly, it must 
 be confessed, in novels), have lent distinction. 
 Beautiful Milly, for instance, the curate's 
 wife in Amos Barton^ whose "turned black 
 silk" only made her look lovelier; Bret 
 168
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 Harte's charming " Miggles," whose " wet 
 gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the 
 beauty of the feminine curves to which it 
 clung " ; King Cophetua's " beggar maid," 
 &c., &c. It is difficult, however, outside a 
 novel, as most women will agree, to lend much 
 grace to an old or demoded gown. Is not 
 the possession of a skirt of last year's cut in 
 itself now regarded as a social disgrace ? Yes, 
 on the whole, the merely clothed is a depress- 
 ing, if worthy, class ; and it forms the vast 
 majority. One might, perhaps, go so far as 
 to generalise with Professor Teufelsdrockh, 
 and say, broadly, that one-eighth of the world 
 is a dressed world, and the other seven-eighths 
 merely clothed. 
 
 Between these three general classes there is 
 room enough and to spare for all sorts and con- 
 ditions of women all variations of character. 
 The strictly tailor-made is, perhaps, the most 
 narrow sect of all ; you seem to know in- 
 stinctively the sort of woman who will be 
 tailor-made. Like Mrs. Wilfer, she is usually 
 constitutionally unable to " loll." She laces 
 
 tightly ; she wears an invisible net over her 
 
 169
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 neatly braided "coiffure," and it is only by 
 evening that she even indulges herself with such 
 vanities as frilled silk petticoats. 
 
 The literary lady of modern life may be 
 said to occupy a position half-way between the 
 artistic and the merely clothed. Too often 
 she belongs, it must be confessed, to the latter. 
 On rare occasions she, too, may be " tailor- 
 made " ; but her effort in that line lack 
 smartness ; and what is tailoring worth if not 
 " smart " ? A special type of literary woman 
 wears, whatever the weather, a billycock hat 
 and an ulster ; and what is known as the 
 " bachelor girl " is addicted to somewhat mas- 
 culine shirts and ties aggressive shades to 
 colour and the too ubiquitous sailor hat. 
 The " bachelor girl " smokes cigarettes, and 
 usually, the better to show her untrammelled 
 nature, drops her ashes on the floor ; she is 
 given to " lolling," and therefore generally 
 wears neat shoes, a virtue not common to the 
 ordinary English woman. Though the literary 
 lady has vastly improved since the ghoul-like 
 cameo-wearing caricatures of Dickens's day, 
 there is still further room for improvement in 
 170
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 her. When smart, too often her smartness has 
 an air of shabby finery, as if, like the " Dowd " 
 of Mr. Kipling's story, she had " had her 
 clothes thrown at her," and had " rubbed her 
 bonnet in the flue under the bed." Sad, indeed, 
 is it that the possession of brains in a woman 
 should make for such unreasonableness, for it 
 gives occasion for the ungodly to blaspheme. 
 It is so, however ; by their dress ye shall know 
 them. " It is better to be good than pretty," 
 was a depressing but familiar nursery adage, 
 implying a sad dissociation between the two 
 qualities ; and even in middle life it must be 
 confessed that the very good are generally not 
 pretty. When a lady calls on you with her 
 hair in early Victorian loops and a dowdy 
 mantle, be sure that she is either a crank or 
 a philanthropist ; if her bonnet be very much 
 on one side, or her skirt awry, you may suspect 
 her to be political ; if she have big shoes, you 
 may take it for granted that she also has deep 
 interests. 
 
 Some people so well understand the effect 
 of dress on character, that they have been 
 known to keep special dresses for varying 
 
 171
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 moods, or, indeed, to induce any special frame 
 of mind that may be desirable. This feeling, 
 or superstition, I myself sympathise with 
 thoroughly, and it is, no doubt, a fact that 
 some gowns have a distinct influence on one's 
 thoughts and even on one's actions. " When 
 I want to feel really good," a lady said to me 
 the other day, " I just go and put on a tussore 
 silk made quite plainly ; you've no idea what 
 a difference it makes." Another friend has 
 told me that, on the other hand, nothing calms 
 her so much as black Spanish lace. And yet a 
 third will maintain that a " Harris tweed," 
 perfectly fitting, keeps her in that " compact 
 and pious frame of mind " that is so desirable. 
 Every one to his taste. I myself feel that 
 blue serge is distinctly soothing, and that 
 nothing suits a headache so well as Liberty 
 silk. In any case, the effect of dress on the 
 average feminine mind is remarkable. Would 
 any woman, I ask, who feels, on some red- 
 letter evening, an agreeable " inner conscious- 
 ness" of being well dressed, know herself 
 again for the same person who, only a few hours 
 
 earlier, sadly wore a faded and ill-cut gown ? 
 172
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 But the matter goes much further than this. 
 In the whole art of love in the psychology 
 of the wavering proposal the effect of dress 
 is very marked ; the part played by it most 
 important. " My love in her attire doth show 
 her wit," said Herrick ; and, indeed, under 
 this charming fantasy is veiled a deep truth. 
 Great things depend ever from slight causes ; 
 and the early comprehension of the effect of 
 dress on character cannot be too well incul- 
 cated on the demoiselle a marier. Young lives 
 have been spoilt ere now by the inappropriate 
 colours of a moment ; just as marriages have 
 been too hastily made by a temporary pic- 
 turesqueness of effect for which the dress- 
 maker or coiffeur was alone responsible. Of 
 course, when once the psychological moment 
 is passed, these things matter little ; the 
 spark from Heaven has fallen, and the loved 
 one might be dressed in an old sack for 
 all that the lover would know ; but, up to 
 that one moment, the merest trifle is of 
 paramount importance. How impossible to 
 associate cream-coloured chiffon and a twenty- 
 inch waist with future extravagance, incom- 
 
 173
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 patibility, or " nagging " ! or on the other 
 hand, an ill-fitting blouse and an unbecom- 
 ing hat with all the domestic virtues ! And 
 that man, knowing all this, should even yet 
 be found to wonder why women " think so 
 much about clothes " ! But perhaps they do 
 not know? 
 
 Dress, indeed, changes much. A very 
 demon incarnate would seem to become a saint 
 if clothed in the dress of an hospital nurse 
 or a sister of charity ; and surely even an angel 
 of light would be unrecognisable if attired, 
 say, in the unutterable " crape hat " and muddy 
 three flounce draggled skirt of the slums. In 
 this connection a true story occurs to me. 
 A certain eminent journalist had constituted 
 himself the defender of a murderer, and, on 
 the eve of the poor wretch's execution, pub- 
 lished his portrait as an innocent martyr, in 
 a saint-like attitude and garb ! It was all 
 most effective. But, on the scaffold, the un- 
 grateful criminal confessed his crime ; and, 
 accordingly, on the following day another 
 portrait was published, the same, yet how 
 different ! The block had been " touched up,"
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 and dress, expression, ragged beard, all now 
 suggested the murderer. Yes, indeed, as 
 Carlyle said, "what benefits unspeakable all 
 ages and sexes derive from clothes." 
 
 Hair-dressing, as regards suggestion of 
 character, has, of course, tremendous effect ; 
 though here, indeed, it may be that phrenology 
 has also something to do with the question. 
 The beautiful styles of modern hair-dressing, 
 so like those of the lovely Greek figurines in 
 the Tanagra collection of the British Museum, 
 what grace, sympathy, intellect even, do they 
 not lend to their wearers ! Any shade of 
 character, almost, can be imparted by judicious 
 hair-dressing. A charming woman, whose hair 
 happens to grow a little too high on the 
 forehead, may, in one moment (as Miss Marie 
 Tempest does so cleverly in The Marriage of 
 Kitty], make herself ugly, unsympathetic, 
 severe, merely by brushing her hair straight 
 back. To another, whose forehead is narrow, 
 even a slight " fringe " gives a lowering, almost 
 Mongolian look. And per contra, if she have 
 taste, she may, by artistic coiffure, beautify 
 herself ad libitum. Much character, indeed, 
 '75
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 may be divined from a woman's "doing" of 
 her hair. Hair dragged back from the 
 temples suggests a dull, tenacious, prosaic 
 nature ; parted in the middle, it gives, in 
 youth, an idea of engaging simplicity ; in 
 age, of calm stateliness ; drawn high over a 
 cushion, it indicates pride, obstinacy, prejudice, 
 determination ; pulled or dropped forward in 
 "early Victorian" loops over the ears, it 
 suggests, in youth, coquetry and slatternli- 
 ness; in age, conservatism, mingled with pure 
 philosophy. 
 
 At the theatre the strange effect of dress 
 on character is, of course, fully recognised. 
 The heroine who begins the first act in spot- 
 less innocence and white muslin, deteriorating 
 alike in mind and millinery, changes with 
 chameleon-like rapidity through all the colours 
 of the rainbow, till at last, steeped in crime, 
 she becomes successively yellow, green, and 
 black. No one, surely, could ever be allowed 
 to be wicked in white muslin. If mad, 
 the heroine dons white satin, a venerable 
 tradition, respected even in the days of 
 
 Sheridan : 
 
 176
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 Puff. " Enter Tilburina . . . stark mad 
 in white satin." 
 
 Sneer. " Why in white satin ? " 
 
 Puff. " O Lord, Sir, when a heroine goes 
 mad, she always goes into white satin 
 . . . it's the rule." 
 
 In the same way, the villain in melodrama 
 always dresses well up to his part. It is 
 considerate of him ; he does it that the public 
 may be under no possible misconceptions. 
 His eyebrows are carefully blackened in a 
 slanting line, either his beard is forked or 
 his moustache is waxed and raised ; his shoes 
 (there would appear to be much character in 
 shoes) are pointed and upturned, so as faintly 
 to suggest the cloven hoof, after the manner 
 of Mephistopheles. Similarly, the noble friend 
 of the family, who is universally beneficent, 
 who meddles in everybody's affairs and is 
 everybody's confidant, always ready to listen 
 to the hero's or heroine's long stories when 
 they want to get on with the plot and there 
 is nobody else to tell them to, this friend, to 
 show his boundless philanthropy, always wears 
 a long frock-coat several sizes too big for him. 
 
 177 M
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Such an article of dress cannot help suggesting 
 the saintliness that is ever next to dowdiness. 
 
 Indeed, the knowledge of the effect of 
 dress on character even male character is 
 not confined to the stage ; it is so well and 
 so generally understood that some great men 
 of real life, of our own day, have sometimes 
 not been above " dressing up " to their part. 
 Often, it is true, the "dressing up" is in- 
 voluntary ; it may then be called rather the 
 result of character on dress. Thus, Mr. 
 Ruskin's dress, the well-worn, unstarched, 
 floppy wrist -bands of the old school, the 
 rough, north-country frieze, the perennial blue 
 tie, how characteristic they were of the man ! 
 And Mr. Chamberlain's dress and carefully 
 adjusted orchid " button-hole " ; does it not 
 proclaim the dapper neatness and methodi- 
 calness of the wearer ? Lord Tennyson, on 
 the other hand, with his dark, Byronic cloak, 
 loose collar, and shaggy black locks, was he 
 never at all conscious of dressing up to his 
 part ? Instances of the effect of character on 
 dress, or of dress on character, might be 
 multiplied for ever. So true is it (to quote
 
 Character in Dress 
 
 again Sartor Resartus) that " Clothes, so des- 
 picable as we think them, are so unspeakably 
 significant." "For Society," adds Professor 
 Teufelsdrockh, "is founded on cloth." And 
 in a Society so founded, who will maintain that 
 dress, for women especially, is not all-important 
 as an index of character ? 
 
 179
 
 XI 
 
 CLORINDA AT HOME 
 i. A VIRTUE ASSUMED 
 
 MY young friend Clorinda is a great theorist 
 on domestic lore. She lets her light shine 
 before her friends and acquaintances, illumi- 
 nating their daily round of duties. To hear 
 her talk you would imagine that her lamp, 
 like those of the Wise Virgins, was ever 
 kept trimmed and ready, that her house- 
 hold arrangements were flawless, her system, 
 perfection. 
 
 " I train my servants myself," Clorinda 
 remarks gaily ; " it is the only sensible way. 
 At 8.30 we breakfast (Marmaduke is a very 
 punctual man) ; at nine, the cook * clears 
 away,' and I give orders, and go out with a 
 basket to do the day's marketing. I allow 
 no such extravagance as tradesmen's books. 
 
 At eleven, I do the flowers and write notes. 
 180
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 At one oh, it's all neatly written down on 
 paper my duties, and the cook's, and all 
 no hour of the day is left out." 
 
 All Clorinda's married friends were loud in 
 their admiration. " It is really extraordinary," 
 said these wise matrons, " how such a pretty 
 young woman should have such a wonderful 
 head for management the work her servants 
 do ! and the dinners she contrives ! and all on 
 so little ! " " Wonderful ! " echoed a lady 
 journalist, who had imbibed Clorinda's gospel 
 with avidity ; "I must go home and write an 
 article for Society Snippets, ' On the Wholesome 
 Re-awakening of Domesticity. " "I haven't 
 been to see her," they would all usually add ; 
 " she lives up so many stairs, and she tells 
 me her ' day at home ' is not settled yet ; it 
 will be wise to wait till then." 
 
 But I was wiser I went to see Clorinda in 
 her own home. 
 
 Clorinda has been married a year, and 
 the roseate lines of her honeymoon have only 
 just begun to " orb into the perfect star " of 
 distance. She lives in a " flat," otherwise, 
 
 in three rooms ; a suicidal dark cell, where 
 181
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 an innocent cook does daily penance, and a 
 cupboard that is apt to hit you on the head, 
 unless you are careful. 
 
 I knocked for some minutes at Clorinda's 
 door without obtaining any answer, and at 
 length, to my surprise, a dirty-faced looking 
 girl, with her hair done in early Victorian 
 loops a sort of columbine or coryphee caught 
 in the garish light of day opened to me. 
 She had evidently been black-leading the stove 
 as well as her face, and it had not agreed with 
 her temper. I wondered why any one should 
 " black-lead " stoves at three o'clock, and more 
 especially when I remembered Clorinda's neatly- 
 tabulated day of servants' duties. After 
 traversing a dirty passage-way, which I thought 
 showed signs of recent scrimmage, I was shown 
 into a dining-room, where a lady, redolent of 
 whisky, whose bearing betrayed her as of the 
 " charing " class, was snorting over " doing 
 up" the grate. She incontinently fled at my 
 presence, and presently Clorinda came in. 
 Clorinda looked decidedly ruffled, and, like her 
 coryphee-domestic, a trifle warlike. Through 
 
 the pink-and-white distress of her mirror-like 
 182
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 face, I could trace the conflicting emotions 
 with which she assured me, in as good a 
 " company voice " as she could feign, of her 
 intense joy at seeing me. 
 
 " How good of you to come!" she cried, 
 wringing my hands in agonised joy. And we 
 talked disinterestedly of many things, but with 
 one accord we ignored the subject of household 
 management. 
 
 Tea came in. The cups were inefficiently 
 wiped, and with the slipshod servant entered 
 a strong smell of whisky a fact I again saw 
 with pain reflected in the flickering shadows of 
 Clorinda's face. Sounds of a muffled skirmish, 
 as of some one dancing a hornpipe outside, 
 came presently to us through the thin walls. 
 
 "Do you hear anything?" Clorinda in- 
 quired nervously. 
 
 "The street noises are rather loud just 
 now," I said, as I stoically munched my 
 muffin. 
 
 Then a sudden, awful crash resounded. 
 
 Clorinda turned deadly pale ; in her emotion 
 
 she almost dropped the tea she was handing 
 
 me : "I must go," she said faintly ; " do 
 
 183
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 excuse me ! " and she fled into the hall, where 
 I presently heard the tramp of the hall porter, 
 and the shrill whistle for the police. 
 
 An hour later, Clorinda was still sobbing on 
 the sofa, in dishevelled woe, and I was still 
 vainly attempting to console. The drunken 
 charwoman was in the care of the law, and the 
 coryphee was recovering from "the screamin' 
 sterrics " somewhere in the back regions. " I 
 must tell Marmaduke to dine at the club again 
 to-night," Clorinda was groaning. " Evan- 
 geline" (the coryphee] "can't cook. I took 
 her because her mother was such a nice woman, 
 and because she had never been in service 
 before. . . . She reads the Family Herald all 
 day in the back - kitchen, and curls her 
 hair." 
 
 I thought of the " little dinners," with the 
 glowing account of which Clorinda used to 
 regale her envying friends, and marvelled. 
 Yet, after all, I need not have been surprised. 
 The lady had really protested too much. 
 Would one not naturally suspect a man who 
 
 habitually caressed his wife and child in 
 184
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 public of being a bad husband a Mrs. 
 Beeton to be an ill provider ? 
 
 "You saw my plan of household duties," 
 sobbed Clorinda ; " could anything be more 
 complete or more well-arranged?" 
 
 " Yes, it all looks very nice on paper," I 
 said. 
 
 "To-day," Clorinda said dramatically, "at 
 half-past eleven there was no hot water for 
 Marmaduke's bath." 
 
 " I thought you said the household break- 
 fasted at 8.30," I murmured. 
 
 " Well," Clorinda confessed, ' to-day I over- 
 slept myself, and Marmaduke was late, and, 
 somehow everything went wrong. These catas- 
 trophies will happen sometimes. There was 
 nobody to do the work, and the charwoman 
 got drunk, and Evangeline did not rise to the 
 occasion, and " 
 
 "And the plan was but a paper one after 
 all," I reflected sadly, but I wisely abstained 
 from comment. " I'll get you that stop-gap 
 I told you of," I said, as I took my leave ; 
 " now cheer up, and do your hair." 
 
 Clorinda showed me to the door the coryphee, 
 185
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 red-eyed and still dirty, filling up the back- 
 ground. "You'll not tell the Smiths and the 
 Joneses," Clorinda said huskily at parting. I 
 promised silence. Yet she still had something 
 to say : " I've had twenty-six servants in a 
 year," she whispered sadly ; " this one, when she 
 came, said she felt she could love me as a 
 sister, and she's been worse than any ! " 
 
 It doesn't seem as if Clorinda's training had 
 been of much good. People vary, and per- 
 haps I am myself of a suspicious nature, for 
 I should myself not trust any servant who 
 wore her hair in early Victoria loops and vowed 
 she would " love me as a sister." 
 
 "All is Vanity," said the Preacher, and I 
 really think that I agree with him. 
 
 But I have not given Clorinda away She 
 still shines, a beacon -light on household 
 management to the trusting matrons of 
 Suburbia. And in Society Snippets a flam- 
 ing article on the " Revival of the Domestic 
 Art," or " What the Young Wife can do for 
 the Home," sings, only last week, her praises. 
 
 186
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 2. THE REGISTRY OFFICE 
 
 " It's all right," said Clorinda to me, as we 
 journeyed to her special registry office, in a 
 green-and-yellow 'bus. " I've done it ! I've 
 given cook notice ! " 
 
 There was indeed a warlike gleam in 
 Clorinda's eye, and the plumes of the pretty 
 black chiffon hat that surmounted her wavy 
 curls nodded themselves with something of a 
 militant air. (I wish Clorinda did not always 
 when she is angry make me think of a kitten 
 attempting to look stern, or a baby trying to 
 swear.) 
 
 " I felt quite faint after it," Clorinda went 
 on, rubbing a soft and suspiciously pink nose 
 with a diminutive pocket-handkerchief ; " but 
 Zoe was very kind ; she gave me some sal 
 volatile. . . . Zoe is a perfect treasure of a 
 maid ; she brushes my hair every evening for 
 an hour, and tells me all the dreadful things 
 the servants have been doing ; you can't think 
 how soothing it is " 
 
 " The servants' misdeeds, or the hair-brush- 
 ing ? " I inquired. 
 
 187
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 " It is such a comfort," said Clorinda im- 
 pressively, ignoring my interruption, " to know 
 exactly what goes on in one's house ... to 
 be quite sure one knows the worst. That is 
 just why I am getting rid of cook. I should 
 never have dreamed of such duplicity as hers, if 
 it had not been for Zoe. She told me that 
 cook said openly downstairs that I was ' no 
 kind of a manager,' that 'anybody could get 
 round me,' and what do you think besides ? 
 ' that she had a policeman in to tea, and gave 
 him the remains of my hot muffins and crum- 
 pets ! ' So I determined to give her notice at 
 once." 
 
 " And you did ? " 
 
 " I planned it all beforehand ... it kept 
 me awake most of last night. ' Cook,' I said, 
 ' I give you notice to leave this day month.' ' 
 
 The remarkable originality of this nearly 
 took my breath away. " Was that all ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh! I just added, 'You know WHY'" (a 
 dramatic pause). "And she said NOTHING 
 nothing at all ! Of course that told every- 
 thing ! " 
 
 188
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 But I did not see that it did. " It seems 
 hardly to have been an occasion for sal vola- 
 tile," I said ungratefully. 
 
 " Oh ! I felt as if I had no legs, you know ; 
 just as if my voice sounded miles away," said 
 Clorinda. " It costs something to get up a 
 manner such as mine was. Now I'm deter- 
 mined to get a cook who has no taste for 
 policeman, and who will clear away the break- 
 fast. Some one in the ' general servant ' line 
 who gives herself no airs. But supposing she 
 wears creaking shoes ! General servants, I've 
 noticed, are so often creaky. . . . Marmaduke 
 can't endure creaking shoes ; they give him 
 nervous breakdown. He was never well do 
 you remember ? as long as Amelia Moggs 
 lived with us. ... But I've suffered so from 
 * superior * servants that I thought I must try a 
 humble registry office. . . . Oh ! here we are. 
 Quick ! jump out ! " 
 
 The registry office was so very diminutive that 
 one might well have been excused for passing 
 it by. It was situated apparently somewhere 
 in the dim recesses of a greengrocer's shop, 
 
 and as Clorinda and I traversed the rows of 
 189
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 succulent vegetables we were aware as of a 
 solemn tribunal awaiting us in the dim parlour 
 beyond. 
 
 " You see," Clorinda explained to me as we 
 proceeded, " you pay your fee, and if you 
 don't get a servant to suit you take it out in 
 vegetables. It's their system." 
 
 I assented cheerfully, although to load one- 
 self with cauliflowers and savoys seemed but 
 an unsatisfactory substitute for a cook or 
 housemaid. " I dislike your high-class re- 
 gistry offices," I remarked amiably and tact- 
 fully. " The last time I went to one of them, 
 the hall-porter said crushingly, ' Servants this 
 way ! ' I had on a shabby waterproof, it's 
 true, for it was raining, but all the same I 
 felt snubbed." 
 
 " I wish you would remember to put on 
 your gloves," Clorinda here muttered in an 
 irritated parenthesis ; " it's so important to 
 make a good impression." And she let her 
 silk skirts trail in the dust with an aristocratic 
 " swish." 
 
 It seemed to me that the ordeal promised 
 to be far more trying to us than to the 
 190
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 servants. As Clorinda and I advanced between 
 a double row of them we felt distinctly ner- 
 vous. But were they really servants ? Some 
 of them seemed aged and infirm ; they sat 
 like avenging Parcse, or like the dread ladies 
 of Madame la Guillotine, each one with her 
 knitting. Could it be that any one in her 
 senses would engage these decrepit old ladies ? 
 It seemed extraordinary. Were they relatives 
 of the mysterious greengrocer, or were they 
 merely decoy-ducks, stage supers paid to sit 
 here for the day and pose as servants or 
 mistresses as occasion required ? Or it might 
 even be that they were going through a " green- 
 grocery cure," and found the pervading aroma 
 of the surrounding vegetables beneficial. 
 
 Anyway, they all took great interest in 
 Clorinda. A bland lady, who sat at a desk 
 just beyond the knitting tribunal, begged to 
 know her requirements. A kettle hummed 
 pleasantly on the fire, and the aroma of hot 
 toast was wafted in from some adjoining room. 
 Clorinda played with her sables, and explained 
 her wants at some length, with a little un- 
 necessary detail, and perhaps a few trifling 
 191
 
 From a Woman s Note-Book 
 
 divergencies with respect to " cook," creaking 
 shoes, the policeman, and the crumpets. 
 
 The bland lady intervened. There was, it 
 appeared, a sudden and most regrettable dearth 
 of " cook generals " that day. Only yesterday 
 they had come in shoals ; but to-day the in- 
 fluenza had played havoc with their ranks. 
 ... So unfortunate ! There was thus, it 
 seemed, only one possible cook, or one damsel 
 who passed as such, among the waiting phalanx 
 of elderly ladies. Of this person there was 
 very little, and that little was more aggressive 
 than loquacious. She looked at Clorinda and 
 me with suspicion latent in her eye. 
 
 " Business 'ouse ? " she inquired mechani- 
 cally, somewhat as if the question was jerked 
 out of her. 
 
 No, we disowned the " business 'ouse." 
 
 " Boardin'-'ouse? " was the damsel's next 
 .query. 
 
 " Certainly not," said Clorinda with dignity. 
 " I board no one but my own immediate 
 family. Not even policemen," she added, with 
 spasmodic recollection. " You are not fond 
 
 of policemen ? " (this with sudden doubt). 
 192
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 " Policemen ! " said the cook-applicant with 
 some hauteur ; " why, I'm walking out with a 
 young man in the 'airdressin' line, an' 'e don't 
 want me to go too far from 'is custom. . . . 
 No, I ain't fond of policemen, nor yet of open 
 ranges. Did I 'ear you say a open range ? " 
 
 Here, seeing that it was to be a long busi- 
 ness, I discreetly turned away and admired the 
 cabbages. By the time I returned Clorinda's 
 applicant had taken a " back seat," and she 
 herself was the centre of an admiring audi- 
 ence an audience, in fact, of the " Parcas," 
 who, dropping their knitting, were freely offer- 
 ing disinterested advice. 
 
 " What I says is, as I says to all young 'ouse- 
 keepers," one was remarking, "begin as you 
 mean to go on ; 'ave clear rules ; then you 
 won't 'ave to stand no nonsense." 
 
 " I always write out a neatly tabulated list 
 of the cook's daily duties," said Clorinda, " and 
 I hang it up in her bedroom." 
 
 " Quite right. I like to see a young 
 merried 'ooman so pertikler," commented 
 another approving member of the tribunal. 
 
 But during this conversation the cook- 
 193 N
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 applicant had walked away. The cabbages hid 
 her retreat. Was she horrible thought 
 herself a " perennial " servant, a mere decoy- 
 duck ? And was the " 'airdressin' young man " 
 himself a fabrication of thin air ? 
 
 " I wonder why she did that ? " said Clor- 
 inda puzzled. " She seemed so promising, she 
 agreed to everything ; even to clearing the 
 breakfast things. And I don't think that even 
 Marmaduke could object to such a very slight 
 squint. But " (hopefully) " she knows where 
 I live. She probably had to catch her train." 
 
 " It may be the hairdresser's ' day out.' Or 
 perhaps her shoes creak," I suggested. 
 
 " She will doubtless call on you to-morrow," 
 said the Head of the Tribunal. Then (as I 
 waited to adjust my veil) in a " quick change " 
 and undertone : " Don't you think o' stirrin' 
 yet, Mrs. Jones. I thought we was never 
 goin' to git rid of 'er ; some of 'em do worrit 
 so. ... The tea's on the 'ob, and it's drawed 
 somethink beautiful . . . and M'ria, she's 
 nipped out to git a pat o' the best fresh an' 
 some s'rimps." 
 
 " Thenk you kindly, Mrs. Moss. I do like 
 194
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 the 'omeliness of these 'ere little parties. They 
 'elp to pass the time away somethink wonder- 
 ful, an' we all says the same. I've turned the 
 'eel of my stockin' a fair treat. She was a 
 pretty young thing, too ! but lor' ! she don't 
 know much." 
 
 The " pretty young thing " was meanwhile 
 waiting for me by a pile of blushing beet. 
 " Come along ! what are you waiting for ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " I gave her my address," Clorinda repeated 
 doubtfully, as we left the shop. " But," she 
 added more cheerfully, " I can always take her 
 out in cabbages. It's their system." 
 
 " It's not a bad way of selling vegetables," 
 said I. 
 
 " How suspicious you always are ! " cried 
 Clorinda. 
 
 In a few days I again visited Clorinda. I 
 knew that she was "at home," for I found 
 her in one of her periodical fevers of domestic 
 zeal, hanging out of a dining-room window 
 cleaning the sill, while the invaluable Zoe 
 hung out of the other engaged in a similar 
 occupation. 
 
 195
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 " Has she come ? " I cried. 
 " Does it look like it ? " retorted Clorinda. 
 I foresee that Clorinda will be enabled to 
 live on vegetables for some time to come. 
 
 3. THE USEFUL MAID 
 
 " I really must have a Useful Maid," said 
 Clorinda. She was paying a morning call, 
 and looked prettier and more appealing than 
 ever. 
 
 " What is a Useful Maid ? " I asked. 
 
 "A Useful Maid," said Clorinda, "is a 
 maid who will do housework and maid's work 
 too, who is in a way a lady, who considers 
 nothing beneath her, who is equally ready to 
 do your hair, pack for you, clean your silver, 
 wash your handkerchiefs and laces ; who runs 
 up dresses for you on the slightest provoca- 
 tion ; who has an insatiable passion for using 
 up remnants into blouses ; who wants less 
 salary than a real maid ; and who gives her- 
 self no airs ; who " 
 
 Clorinda stopped almost as much out of 
 breath as that Mr. Gregsbury, M.P., who once 
 196
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 sought to engage the incessant services of 
 Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 " I see," I said gravely, " I am indeed glad 
 that I now know what a Useful Maid is. She 
 is certainly a most merciful dispensation. And 
 is she ever to be found ? " 
 
 "She must be pretty," continued Clorinda, 
 ignoring my question ; " that's indispensable. 
 Marmaduke can't endure any but good-looking 
 people round him." 
 
 " She won't be ' round ' Marmaduke much, 
 I hope ? " I murmured. 
 
 "Oh, good looks and charm are in the 
 very atmosphere," said Clorinda lightly; "it's 
 wonderful how they seem to pervade a house. 
 They make every one feel so much more 
 cheerful, somehow don't you think so ? " 
 
 " What other attributes must the Useful 
 Maid possess besides beauty ? " I inquired. 
 
 " * Charm ' includes nearly everything, you 
 see," Clorinda meditated. " Oh yes, she must 
 be perfectly amiable and smiling always. I 
 feel a distinct malaise all day if I meet a 
 frowning face, say, at breakfast. As to her 
 
 duties, they will, of course, be many, but all 
 197
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 pleasant ones. I had tabulated a list of them ; 
 here it is. To begin with, she must always 
 ask after my health every morning." 
 
 "Are you ill, then? " I inquired sympatheti- 
 cally, although a trifle incredulously, of my 
 blooming visitor. 
 
 "Oh no; but I couldn't possibly keep a 
 maid who neglected to ask me daily how I 
 felt. It makes such a vast difference ; if 
 you've never tried it, you've no idea how 
 much good it does. Why, I parted with 
 Eliza who was so well recommended and so 
 industrious only because I couldn't ever train 
 her to do it. Can you magine ? Why, I said 
 to her once, ' Eliza, I've cut my finger to the 
 bone ' (and so I had), and what do you think 
 she answered ? Just ' Yes'm,' and in such an 
 indifferent tone, too exactly as if I had said 
 that I wanted hot water or a letter posted. 
 Of course, I had to give her notice." 
 
 " And after the Useful Maid has duly in- 
 quired after your health," I observed, "what 
 other duties has. the day in store for her ? " 
 
 " Oh, then she must dust rooms," said 
 Clorinda. "Then at eleven she must appear, 
 198
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 faultlessly neat, and say, ' Please, ma'am, do you 
 wish any shopping done ? ' She must keep my 
 accounts (I lost two pounds last week) tell 
 me when lunch is ready, press me to eat, and 
 always notice if I lose my appetite, or don't 
 fancy the dishes ; she must fill up all my 
 social hiatuses (only last week Marmaduke and 
 I forgot to go to a dinner-party) ; she must 
 write my letters, and docket my correspon- 
 dence." (I doubt if Clorinda knew the exact 
 meaning of " docket," but possibly she thought 
 it sounded well.) 
 
 "Then, she must confide in me," Clorinda 
 went on. " That is a most important point ; 
 I could never keep a servant who didn't tell 
 me all about her love affairs, and generally 
 make a friend of me. . . . How can you live 
 in the house with some one so near to you as 
 a Useful Maid, if you don't mutually feel you 
 can love and trust each other? It's so un- 
 natural otherwise. . . . Why, I thought that 
 you, being in a way a Social Democrat, 
 would have had something to say on that 
 head ! " 
 
 (I thought to myself that the Useful Maid 
 199
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 very possibly might have something to say on 
 it too but I abstained from comment.) 
 
 Clorinda was now in full swing. She seemed, 
 indeed, for the moment quite oblivious of the 
 fact that her " Treasure " was merely a hypo- 
 thetical one. "She must be musical, too," 
 she went on, " for Marmaduke loves playing 
 the violin ; and she must have views about 
 Ibsen and things ; but perhaps not too many 
 views, for Marmaduke likes to do most of the 
 talking himself." 
 
 "All this seemed terribly suggestive of 
 future complications, but I forbore to disturb 
 Clorinda's innocence. 
 
 " And she must be interested, not only in 
 Marmaduke and me, but in all our friends 
 too." 
 
 " Dear Clorinda, I do not want to be critical," 
 I said ; " but you seem to me to ignore one 
 side of the question. Presumably this Useful 
 Maid, this jewel hid in the near future, this 
 pearl beyond price that awaits your finding, 
 will still, even when basking in the sunshine 
 of your smile, have her own life to lead. She 
 will not, like a Siamese twin or, rather, a 
 
 200
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 triplet found her human counterpart in you 
 and Marmaduke, and she will still have her 
 own friends." 
 
 " But I shall interest myself in them, too ! " 
 cried Clorinda benevolently. " Oh, I know 
 the sort of thing you are going to say ; but 
 she will be a girl of taste and discernment, or 
 else I shall not engage her. I see, besides, no 
 reason why she should not love Marmaduke 
 and me. . . . Are we not nice people ? It 
 will all be very pleasant. . . . She will be 
 always ready to sympathise and console ; she 
 must have that ' calm, continual control ' that 
 Austin Dobson talks about, and that Marma- 
 duke so admires." 
 
 " But Marmaduke mustn't admire it too 
 much," I murmured. 
 
 " Oh, Marmaduke never interests himself in 
 other women. He is so wrapt up in himself 
 and his genius he knows, you see, how won- 
 derfully clever he is ... how could he help 
 knowing it ? It isn't as if he were at all like 
 other men." 
 
 I didn't want Clorinda to climb Marma- 
 duke's pedestal and offer sacrifice to his shrine 
 
 2OI
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 just then, so I drew her back to the prevailing 
 topic. " I see," I said, " what you want is a 
 reverent, busy, and capable acolyte to fan the 
 domestic flame. And have you had any 
 maids as yet that at all answer to this 
 description ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, I've never tried a Useful 
 Maid before. . . . There's a great deal in what 
 you call yourself and people tell me they are 
 perfect treasures. I've had several, of course, 
 of the ordinary kind, but never a real Treasure. 
 It's true, they all seem Treasures at first. 
 And they were all fond of me. There was 
 Rosina, for instance, who was so wonderful 
 at finding my things when I'd dropped them 
 anywhere, and who, I thought, was so particular 
 about mending my clothes till I discovered 
 that she had appropriated most of them. Then 
 there was Maggie, who had such tact, and 
 who cried for a week when she thought that I 
 had said ' Good-night ' to her in a chilly voice. 
 So much affection was really almost embarrass- 
 ing. . . . There was Wilkins, who was so 
 much fonder of me than she was of her ' young 
 
 man,' that she would keep him waiting for 
 202
 
 Clorinda at Home 
 
 hours at the area railings while she got me 
 ready for a party. It's true that the young 
 man afterwards was had up for stealing our 
 silver, but that was nothing to do with Wilkins, 
 and she took it so much to heart that she 
 took to drink and had to leave. There was 
 Mary Ann, who said she had never thought 
 it possible to love a lady as she did me, and 
 who brought her friends in to supper when we 
 were ' out ' ; there was Selina who " 
 
 " I wonder," I remarked at this breathing-- 
 space, " that all these dispossessed paragons, 
 these soon-fading ' phantoms of delight,' 
 have not in their time taught you wisdom. 
 But you are a child of nature still, who, like 
 the immortal Mrs. Gamp, ' takes no trust her- 
 self, and puts a deal o' trust elsewheres.' ' 
 
 " On the contrary, I am extremely practical," 
 said Clorinda sharply ; looking, in her offended 
 dignity, so charming that I said no more. 
 The Clorindas of this world must ever buy 
 their own experience. 
 
 "Well," I said, as we parted, "I have at 
 any rate learned something to-day. I know 
 
 now what a Useful Maid is when you catch 
 203
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 her. Clorinda," I added gravely, " it seems to 
 me that you want a fabulous animal a fairy 
 out of the Countess d'Aulnoy's pages a kind 
 of monster not a real, live young woman at 
 all. A person neither fish, flesh, nor good red 
 herring. You should advertise not for a woman, 
 but for an angel ; and I have myself always 
 felt that even angels, as housemates, would 
 have their drawbacks. Seek, however, for your 
 Useful Maid ; I only wish you may get her 
 but when you do get her, notify the Museum 
 authorities." 
 
 Clorinda is still seeking. 
 
 204
 
 XII 
 
 CHILD STUDIES 
 i. THE MUMMY-ROOM 
 
 " IF you are a ' good boy,' " I said to Maurice, 
 who seemed just at that moment to be taking 
 a somewhat depressed view of life and its re- 
 sponsibilities, " I'll take you to the British 
 Museum, and show you the Mummy-Room." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Maurice, taking a 
 finger out of his mouth doubtfully, and raising 
 towards me his heavenly eyes and a counten- 
 ance besmeared equally with ink and tears. 
 
 But I had no moral intent of either the 
 Fairchild or Mrs. Sherwood kind. My offer 
 was made entirely " without prejudice." " It's 
 just a lot of people," I said, "very, very old, 
 who were once great kings and queens, lying, 
 dried up, in glass cases." 
 
 (A rainbow-like smile began to irradiate the 
 
 clouds of Maurice's gloom.) 
 205
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 " And all dressed in lovely clothes, in gold 
 and silver, and with crowns on their heads." 
 
 Maurice was so pleased at this that he im- 
 mediately stood on his head ; and presently, 
 washed, clothed, and in our right minds, we 
 sallied forth. 
 
 The Mummy-Room was more or less de- 
 serted ; and glinting rays of the April sunlight 
 fell across the long cases of the forgotten 
 Pharaohs and their once brilliant court. 
 
 "Are they all DEAD?" asked Maurice in a 
 ghastly whisper, clutching my hand. " Not 
 alive people at all ? I mean, can they hear 
 what we say?" 
 
 " Quite, quite dead," I assured him ; while a 
 small and untutored Cockney youth who stood 
 near grinned sympathetically, and assured him 
 that they were indeed " stiff 'uns." Maurice 
 edged away and eyed him with extreme dis- 
 favour ; he always shows good taste. 
 
 " They're very black, I know," he said to 
 me in a whisper ; " but still I thought they 
 might, perhaps, you know, be only pretending." 
 
 As in the loneliness of the Mummy-room 
 
 Maurice fixed his dark eyes upon me, I own 
 
 206
 
 Child Studies 
 
 that I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. 
 Whence did the child get his rapt look ? An 
 infant still trailing his clouds of glory did he 
 know the secrets of the tomb ? 
 
 But Maurice relieved me by suddenly com- 
 ing down to earth again. " Do they mummy 
 everybody ? " he asked ; " will they mummy 
 you an' me, and put us here ? " 
 
 I attempted to explain that only great 
 people, kings and queens and suchlike, were 
 given in old days these honours. 
 
 " Have they mummied the old Queen yet ? " 
 asked Maurice. 
 
 Reassured on this important point, he allowed 
 himself to be taken round the long gallery. 
 We duly gazed on that disagreeable " Pre- 
 historic Man," whose neolithic remains in their 
 stone coffins are yet so unpleasantly suggestive ; 
 we looked feelingly at that little hand, still 
 wearing on its wizened finger the loose signet- 
 ring that belonged once to a " Lady of the 
 Third Dynasty." The April sunlight waned, 
 the last small street arab yawned and left the 
 sacred precincts, and Maurice put on his most 
 
 serious and heavenly look. 
 207
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 "They ought to come out of their cases," 
 he remarked severely. " It must be so dull 
 for them in there. And why are they so very 
 black and wound round so ? " 
 
 "When people are dead they don't think 
 about being dull," I said, and instantly felt all 
 the inanity of my remark. 
 
 " Aunt Bessie, why do people DIE ? " Mau- 
 rice suddenly asked. 
 
 Poor Maurice ! had he all the wisdom and 
 the years too of the ages, he would be no 
 more able to solve this riddle than now at 
 five years old. 
 
 " People die " I had my doubts as to 
 whether the subject should be brought home 
 to a mere child " people die because " I 
 thought hard " because their bodies, you 
 know, can't last for ever ; they wear out, like 
 our suits and frocks. . . . And, when they 
 die part of them, you know, goes to sleep 
 and dreams " 
 
 " What part ? " asked Maurice. 
 
 I was not floored. " The part of you that 
 thinks. . . . It's nice dreaming. . . . Did you 
 
 never dream ? " 
 
 208
 
 Child Studies 
 
 " I had a lovely dream once," said Maurice, 
 putting on again the " trailing clouds of glory " 
 that make this child so bewitching. " I dreamed 
 that I was flying, you know ; that I flew one 
 night out of my crib and left nurse asleep in 
 the room, and came out over the porch with 
 gauzy wings, like a pantomime. . . . And I 
 floated over the Square, and saw the houses 
 and churches and steeples down there below 
 like a picshur. . . . An' when I was tired I 
 jes' seemed to sit an' rest on pink an' yellow 
 clouds, like cotton-wool. . . . D'you mean 
 that kind of dreaming ? " 
 
 "When you die," I said, "you go, if you 
 are a good boy" (I felt as though I were 
 in a manner reverting to the school of Mrs. 
 Sherwood), " you go to beautiful countries 
 where the sun always shines to a land where 
 you are never sick, or ill, or naughty, or cross, 
 or anything. . . . And if you are a bad boy 
 you you " 
 
 Here I stopped. Mere force of habit was 
 
 carrying me into confusion and among the 
 
 Calvinistic bogies of my early youth. But 
 
 I need not have troubled. Maurice was not 
 
 209 o
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 listening ; he was inventing a theory of his 
 own. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with a deep sigh. " If we 
 met some dead people, THEY would tell us." 
 
 But I did not want to meet dead people 
 just then ; indeed, Maurice's conversation was 
 far from reassuring, at least to one nervously 
 inclined. " We know where they go," I said, 
 almost crossly. 
 
 "Yes, I know, too. They become mum- 
 mies ; not, I mean, my sort of Mummy, 
 my Mummy at home, but these old black 
 things." 
 
 " No ! that's the part that dies," I reiterated, 
 feeling myself once more, to my infinite relief, 
 on firm ground. "It's only that part of you 
 that thinks, you know, that goes on living 
 when all the rest of you is dead." 
 
 Here Maurice fixed his heavenly eyes in 
 their inscrutable depth and seriousness full 
 upon me. " I don't believe it," he said simply, 
 with all the crushing superiority of five years old. 
 
 I quailed before the illumined spirit of the 
 Child of the Twentieth Century. " You don't 
 believe it ! " I gasped. 
 
 2IO
 
 Child Studies 
 
 " There's no sense in it at all," he said. 
 " When your thinking part " (here he touched 
 the top of his curly head) " dies, you all dies 
 too : your arms, your legs, your body like that 
 mummy there. I know, 'cause when my 
 Bunny was dead I digged him up an' looked. 
 Tell me something I can understand, not 
 that silly old stuff; you make me feel all 
 mixy." 
 
 I felt utterly crushed. "But you believe 
 fairy-tales ? " I said reproachfully ; " what 
 about the * Water-Babies ' ? " We had been 
 reading that epic just before. " Why not 
 believe this ? " 
 
 " Is this a fairy-tale ? " asked Maurice as 
 who should say he might then reconsider the 
 question. 
 
 But I had had enough of argument, and 
 took refuge in a tried formula: "When you 
 are older," I said, with some attempt at 
 supreme dignity, " you will be wiser and 
 understand better." And we left the dan- 
 gerous vicinity of the mummies. 
 
 But Maurice had floored me utterly ; and, 
 
 what was worse, he knew it. 
 211
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Alas ! for the vanishing clouds of glory, and 
 for the shadows of the prison-house ! 
 
 Maurice is a determined materialist. 
 
 But I am glad to record that he yet holds 
 to certain rites. He still says his prayers every 
 night. And still he wears his rapt look while 
 saying them. 
 
 2. CLOUDS OF GLORY 
 
 "You must be the Chief Cannibal," said 
 Maurice. 
 
 But, as it happened, I didn't want to be 
 Chief Cannibal. Being Chief Cannibal, or 
 chief anything, for that matter, entailed a con- 
 siderably greater amount of energy than I felt 
 ready, at the moment, to expend. 
 
 "I would rather be the Englishman and be 
 eaten up, if I may lie down and have the 
 British flag unfurled over me," I said, tem- 
 porising. 
 
 But no such respite was allowed me. For, 
 naturally, when it came to the question of 
 unfurling the British flag, Maurice felt that 
 the part could be safely entrusted to no one 
 but himself. 
 
 212
 
 Child Studies 
 
 So I threw imaginary assegais, and ate 
 Maurice up several times, each time, perhaps, 
 with a somewhat impaired appetite. The 
 Chief Cannibal, I felt, was hardly living up to 
 his part. He was, as Huck Finn would say, 
 " no shucks of a cannibal." . . . But we had 
 played unintermittedly since lunch-time ; and 
 for pure exhaustion of mind and body com- 
 mend me to playing " pretence games " alone 
 with a child for several hours. Maurice, who 
 is just six, does not like any games but " pre- 
 tence games " ; he eschews toys pure and 
 simple, and prefers inventing as he goes on. 
 To me, such inventions seem as hard almost as 
 poor Mr. Casaubon's " eating of thistles." 
 
 A welcome ring at the bell now arresting 
 my tyrant's attention, I stopped midway in his 
 demolition, and seized the opportunity to mop 
 my exhausted brow. 
 
 " Is it a caller ? " asked Maurice, in a stage 
 whisper, his large eyes waxing larger in his 
 dismay to him a caller was indeed something 
 worse than a cannibal "Say you're not at 
 home ! " 
 
 I suggested to Maurice that the best way of 
 213
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 assuring any dread "caller" that we were 
 " not at home " was not, perhaps, to dance a 
 war-whoop in the passage. He was not con- 
 vinced more especially, as the bell proved 
 only to be the man with the gas-rate. 
 
 " They go away all the quicker if I make a 
 noise," he said ; " they'd think we were real 
 cannibals, or perhaps Red Indians." 
 
 The simile was a just one. I felt that my 
 attire was not unlike that of a Red Indian. I 
 had been half-an-hour under the dining-room 
 table, playing the game known as " Bears " ; 
 and a quarter of an hour inside a doubtful 
 sheepskin rug, as a " cannibal " ; I had also 
 adopted, successively between whiles the trying 
 parts of a shark, a stoker, a ship's steward, and 
 a Boer prisoner ; and had been, besides, all the 
 time, in constant and dishevelling exercise. 
 
 Maurice, nevertheless, did not seem either 
 heated or disturbed. This, of course, may 
 have been owing to the fact that, like the 
 manager of a theatre, he invariably appro- 
 priated to his own use all the best parts, and 
 used me more or less as his slave. He was, so 
 
 to speak, always Tilburina, and I was equally 
 214
 
 Child Studies 
 
 always the Confidante. I was not allowed to 
 unduly assert my individuality ; if I did, I got 
 immediately snubbed. But I must always, like 
 the chorus of a Greek play, be alert and in- 
 terested. In this he differs from the child of 
 Miss Edgeworth's theory : " What do you do," 
 some one is said to have inquired of that lady, 
 " to make children so fond of you ? " " Oh," 
 said the moral story-teller amiably, " I just sit 
 down on the floor and let them roll over me." 
 But Maurice is more exacting than that. 
 
 Now, we started on an altogether new play 
 the fifteenth, I computed, since lunch ; a 
 mystic play called " Desert Islands." The 
 desert island in chief was the big sofa, fenced 
 in appropriately by dining-room chairs, which 
 represented rocks. We climbed from the 
 carpet, which was the vast ocean Maurice 
 meanwhile enacting the part of a drowning 
 sailor, and shrieking wildly for help, menaced 
 by sharks and German navies indiscriminately. 
 I do not know why Maurice seems to regard 
 the Germans as our natural enemies ; possibly 
 it is merely popular sentiment imbibed from 
 the nursemaid, or from his firm friend the 
 215
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 policeman at the corner. I felt that I was 
 really distinguishing myself at this game ; but, 
 alas ! just as I had got used to my role, and 
 was putting my whole heart and soul into it, 
 it was changed with the rapidity of a transfor- 
 mation scene, and without any warning at all, 
 to another. The " little actor was already 
 conning another part." (I gather that time, 
 to the mind of the average child, must seem 
 really interminable. I verily believe that 
 Maurice goes through aeons and abysses of 
 time, while I am only counting fifteen.) 
 
 "Now," said Maurice, "I'll be the red- 
 cross knight fastened to the dragon's cave, 
 and you must be the dragon coming to eat 
 me." 
 
 This seemed a strange variant on the story 
 of Perseus and Andromeda, nevertheless I 
 prepared to obey. So on I came as the 
 dragon (it was extremely fatiguing) on all 
 fours, and uttering terrible sounds. 
 
 " You're a silly ! " said Maurice. " Dragons 
 don't come like that. They come quite softly 
 and all hissing. And you must have a rug 
 
 tied on for a tail, and then, when you get 
 216
 
 Child Studies 
 
 quite near, you must begin to spit out blue 
 fire." 
 
 As Maurice seemed so well acquainted with 
 the habits of dragons, I stopped half-way in 
 my howl, and waited for further information. 
 It is always interesting to know how to emit 
 blue fire. But I need not have troubled ; 
 Maurice was already, as usual, several subjects 
 ahead of me. 
 
 "This is a boat," he suddenly announced, 
 " a boat on the river. Don't you see the 
 rushes growing on the banks ? " (looking in- 
 tently towards the quondam dragon's cave.) 
 " I can see the water-babies and the wicked 
 otter . . . and all the little trouts, too, under 
 the stones. ... Be quick ! Hook in some 
 for dinner ! . . Now, do get in ! we must 
 row directly to South Africa and fight the 
 Boers, and wave the Union Jack. Tou must 
 play too ! " (This suddenly to me, who was tak- 
 ing a five minutes' welcome respite.) " I'm the 
 ship's captain, and I always turn out all lazy 
 people ! You must be the mate, looking out 
 with a telescope for the bad German ships. 
 Thafs not the way to look through a telescope." 
 217
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 (this with profound contempt). "Tommy 
 Jones does it much better ! " 
 
 (Tommy Jones, I may remark, was the char- 
 woman's little boy, a youth with a terrible 
 squint and a perfectly vacant expression.) 
 
 " That's right ; now you're really playing 
 quite nicely," said Maurice considerately. " It's 
 a lovely game, isn't it ? I hope it's a long time 
 off bedtime yet ? " 
 
 At this I felt somewhat conscience-stricken, 
 for I had been just mentally engaged comput- 
 ing the few minutes that remained to my 
 tyrant. (This it was that had made me so 
 remiss with the telescope.) I gave Maurice a 
 compunctious hug ; but it so happens that he 
 hates being hugged, and he immediately put 
 on a fiendish scowl. He is always a strange 
 mixture of angel and devil, as are so often 
 those who still trail the remnant of their 
 " clouds of glory." 
 
 "Isn't it lovely on the sea?" said Maurice. 
 " It has got dark (turn the light out !) and I 
 can see the stars all looking down on me, and 
 saying, ' Good-night, Mr. Captain.' I mean to 
 
 be a captain when I grow up, or else, perhaps, 
 218
 
 Child Studies 
 
 an engine-driver. Which do you think would 
 be grandest ? But what I should like to 
 be grown up for most is, that nobody could 
 punish me any more, and I could punish 
 everybody else. Wouldn't I punish them too ! 
 I don't mean just to sit at home and write 
 tiresome old books. Oh, nurse, is that you ? 
 I really can't come now " (with dignity) " for 
 I'm half-way to South Africa in my ship, 
 and if I get out all my passengers will be 
 drowned." 
 
 But Nurse has, so to speak, " been there " 
 before, and she is even with her young charge. 
 He is gently but firmly extracted from his 
 imaginary island, boat, or ship. He goes off, 
 as usual, protesting. 
 
 " I'm not at all sleepy," he says, " and we 
 could have gone on playing for hours, couldn't 
 we ? But," as an afterthought and a kind of 
 solatium, "you can go on playing, if you like ; 
 don't, please, stop ! " (For Maurice, I have 
 noticed, always likes to think that he is keeping 
 me hard at it.) 
 
 Now, did he really think that I was going 
 
 to go on sitting in that " desert island " all the 
 219
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 evening ? If so, I must be a better actor than 
 I had ever imagined. 
 
 I sit there, nevertheless, for some minutes 
 motionless, after Maurice's departure think- 
 ing of the strange and mysterious mind of the 
 child. Compared with the lethargic minds of 
 " grown-ups " the mind of a child is con- 
 stantly imagining, ever on the stretch. Is it, 
 as Wordsworth suggests, the echo of vanished 
 existences that still resounds faintly through 
 " the sleep and the forgetting " ? To Maurice 
 the thing imagined is so much greater than the 
 thing that is. His mind, to him, is very liter- 
 ally " a kingdom " ; it can make " the desert 
 blossom like the rose." The child finds the 
 purest joy ever in the make - believe ; the 
 magic carpet that of old transported the fairy 
 prince whither he would is his in all reality. 
 His wings have not grown heavy with the 
 prose of life ; he can soar where he will ; his 
 are still the clouds of glory. Wonderful 
 childhood that, not content with a present 
 and real world, imagines and revels in 
 another ! 
 
 I went upstairs. Maurice, now in yet a 
 
 220
 
 Child Studies 
 
 third world the world of dreams lay serenely 
 smiling in his crib. Were the angels whis- 
 pering to him ? or did I hear him murmur 
 the words " cannibals " and " dragons " softly 
 in his sleep ? , 
 
 221
 
 XIII 
 
 MRS. CARLYLE AND HER SERVANTS' 
 
 " MY maid, you know, that began so well, 
 and was such an angel at first," a charming 
 young married woman said to me the other 
 day, "has disappointed me dreadfully. I 
 used to think her so nice, and now I can't 
 bear her near me at all. I can't think why 
 I thought her so refined, and attractive, and 
 intelligent ; she has become quite pudding- 
 facedr 
 
 One is irresistibly reminded of this not un- 
 usual type of mistress in reading the new 
 batch of the Carlyle Letters y just published. 
 The old controversy is again awaked ; the 
 old enthralling interest in the Cheyne Row 
 manage has revived. Alas, for the base uses 
 to which even the very elect may descend ! 
 Extremes meet ; on this familiar ground the 
 woman of brilliant intellect and the mediocre, 
 
 1 June 1903. 
 222
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 overburdened housewife find a common attrac- 
 tion ; nay, the spark of genius positively revels 
 amid the res angusta domi of life. On this topic 
 we often " suffer fools gladly ; " it is no wonder 
 that a Mrs. Carlyle should interest the average 
 person. 
 
 There is a strong humanity about Mrs. 
 Carlyle that attracts even the simple reader 
 who knows and understands nothing of her 
 famous husband's works. Even the devotees 
 of Home Gush and Sketchy Pars can revel 
 in the thrilling stories of the domestic strug- 
 gles in the Cheyne Row household. They 
 feel, perhaps, that they may surround them- 
 selves in a manner with a classic halo, while 
 yet basking in the sunshine of their favourite 
 topic : "I really must try to read one of 
 Carlyle's books now," said a lady to me lately, 
 taking down from the shelves a dusty Sartor 
 Resartus ; " his wife's letters are so interesting." 
 After a short wrestle she returned that revered 
 classic to its since undisturbed repose, wonder- 
 ing " why such a clever woman should have 
 been thrown away on such a husband." 
 
 The long row of " general " servants at 
 223
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Cheyne Row what of them ? Does one not 
 feel a little sorry despite, or rather because 
 of, their mistress's tirades for these poor 
 creatures ? The dark kitchen of Cheyne Row 
 looks dreary enough now in its semi-museum- 
 like dignity of state ; it looked, probably, but 
 little brighter under the careful regime of 
 Mrs. Carlyle, when the " Peesweep " Sereetha, 1 
 "dottle" Helen, Ann the "Button," or 
 Elizabeth the " Mooncalf" severally " dreed 
 their weird " within its shades. Mrs. Car- 
 lyle, accustomed to Scottish thrift, was pos- 
 sibly a little exacting. And that she had 
 what is called " a stormy soul " can easily 
 be imagined by the diligent student of the 
 Letters. Her stories one feels instinctively 
 lose nothing in the telling. She is a true 
 literary alchemist ; under her magic hand the 
 poor, trivial, little shortcomings of Helen, 
 Ann, or " Little Charlotte " gain, in their 
 turn, almost the dignity of a classic. To be 
 
 1 " Peesweep," explains Carlyle gravely, " is a peewit, 
 lapwing ; with which swift but ineffectual bird Sereetha 
 seemed to have similarity." Letters and Memorials of Jane 
 Welsh Carlyle, i. 23. 
 
 224
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 scolded by Mrs. Carlyle was if these unfor- 
 tunates had only known it to gain a place 
 in history. 
 
 It was not an easy time as compared by 
 the standard of modern ideas that these 
 successive servants had in the Carlyle household. 
 Times have altered, wages have risen, and the 
 position of the servant, even of the " general," 
 has vastly improved. Even during the Carlyle 
 days the change began to make itself felt, as 
 the lady records, somewhere about 1864, in a 
 domestic " Budget " addressed to her lord ; and 
 the last days of the Cheyne Row housekeeping 
 were, of necessity, more luxurious than the first. 
 But, for most of the period, the servants had 
 but 12 a year; they did their own washing, 
 which was hung out to dry in the garden ; 
 they baked all the bread ; they slept in the 
 dark, damp, back kitchen, half-sunk, like so 
 many London kitchens, into the ground ; not 
 exactly, one thinks, healthful or cheering con- 
 ditions of life. Besides, the house, as any 
 one can see, was a large one for one servant 
 to keep in order ; and Mrs. Carlyle, by her 
 own showing, was often ailing, and incapable, 
 225 p
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 therefore, of giving much methodical help. 
 One of the servants, indeed (I think it was 
 a girl from the Free Kirk, who had found 
 grace), said : " It is impossible for one woman 
 to do all your work ; " and the later servants 
 stipulated often for a rise in wages. History 
 does not say that they bargained for "every 
 Wednesday evening out." Their meals were 
 more or less erratic; "for the most part," 
 as Mrs. Carlyle candidly confesses, " they 
 scrambled for their living out of ours." The 
 wonder, surely, is not that they were so bad, 
 but that they were so good. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle lived some thirty odd years 
 in Chelsea, and had during that time some 
 thirty-five odd servants. This, perhaps, to 
 some who nowadays change their servants 
 every six weeks, may not seem an overpower- 
 ing number. But it must be remembered that 
 those days were the days when servants stayed 
 long in one place ; far longer, certainly, than 
 they do now. There was not the same rest- 
 less spirit of change in the world. So that 
 thirty-five servants allowing for the fact that 
 
 one of the thirty-five stayed eleven and an- 
 226
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 other five and a half years seem a fair num- 
 ber for the thirty years. Here (so far as I 
 have been able to ascertain from various 
 sources) is the record : 
 
 June 1834 . . . Bessy Barnet ("Our romantic maid." 
 Brought to Chelsea by the Carlyles 
 on their arrival). 
 
 1835 Woman sent by Mrs. Austin (sister- 
 in-law). 
 
 1835 Irish Roman Catholic (name unknown.) 
 
 Rebellious, mutinous. 
 
 Autumn 1835 . . Sereetha, the " Peesweep " (small girl 
 from Chelsea). 
 
 Autumn 1835 . . Anne Cook (brought by Carlyle from 
 Scotland ; sent for by dying mother 
 a few months later). 
 (Hiatus of a year or so, filled by Unknown.) 
 
 Autumn 1837 . . Helen Mitchell ("Kirkcaldy Helen)." 
 
 August 1840 . . gets drunk, but re- 
 
 forms and stays ; dusts Carlyle's 
 
 July 1843 . . . books, and goes into raptures about 
 " the Maister's " Sartor Resartus. 
 
 September 1846 . Helen Mitchell leaves to "better" 
 herself. 
 
 End of 1846. . . A Girl from the Free Kirk (who 
 stayed six days). Called, " Pes- 
 sima " (the Worst). (" Go in the 
 Devil's Name," said Carlyle to her.) 
 
 1 846 An Old Woman nicknamed " Slow- 
 coach." ("An old, half-dead, 
 grumbling soul.") 
 227
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 1846 "Postie" (the Postman's Wife; 
 
 temporary help. 
 
 January i, 1847 Ann No. i. (A "Little Button," 
 with a Basis of Reason.) 
 
 October 1847 . . (Offers kindly to "air" the 
 absent Carlyle's bed by sleeping 
 in it.) 
 
 Autumn 1 848 . . Leaves to get Married. 
 
 Autumn 1848 . . Helen Mitchell returns. 
 
 February 1 849 . . gets very drunk again. 
 
 1849 Elizabeth Sprague. ("A pretty, sweet- 
 looking creature, with innocent, 
 winning ways."). 
 
 December 1849. . is lectured for 
 
 sulking. 
 
 August 1850 . . Eliza (a Young Person a stop-gap). 
 
 September 1850. . Emma (Distinguished and soft- 
 voiced). 
 
 May 1851 . . . Ann No. 2. (A punctual, trustworthy 
 woman ; it was hoped she " would 
 stay for ever," but she left, appa- 
 rently from illness.) 
 
 July 1852 . . . A new " Beautiful " Servant other- 
 wise nameless. (Read the Let- 
 ters : an " Austrian Spy ; " and a 
 " helpless, ill-trained, low-minded 
 Goose "). 
 
 July 1852 . . . " Little Martha." 
 
 August 27, 1852 . "Irish Fanny." (The heroine of a 
 burglar episode, and the brave dis- 
 coverer of some zoo bugs. " Ran 
 away into matrimony of a kind.") 
 228
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 December 1853. . Ann, No. 3. (Hard, practical, un- 
 sympathising.) 
 
 March 1857. . . cuts her finger with a bath 
 
 brick. 
 
 August 1857 . ,, is prescribed camomile tea 
 
 by Miss Jewsbury. 
 
 November 1857. . A black beetle runs into her 
 
 ear. 
 
 March 29, 1858 . Her face becomes " diabolic," 
 and she leaves. 
 
 March 29, 1858 . * Miss Cameron." (Lady-help ; soi- 
 disant daughter of half-pay lieu- 
 tenant ; Irish impostor ; convicted 
 of lying and theft.) 
 
 June 1858 . . . "Little Charlotte." (At first "a 
 good, biddable, clever, little crea- 
 ture.") 
 
 February 1859 . is described as "the Good 
 
 Girl of a Fairy-tale." 
 
 February 1860 . . ,, cries her eyes out at the dog 
 
 Nero's death. 
 
 August 1860 . . is discharged for "general 
 
 muddle." 
 
 August 1860 . . "Old Jane." (Was seventy-one years 
 old ; couldn't cook, and stole the 
 beer ; besides " requiring to be 
 supplied with a pair of young 
 
 /<*'") 
 
 (Change to TWO servants now effected, with groans thereat.) 
 September i860. . " Tall Charlotte " (housemaid). 
 
 . Sarah (cook). 
 
 November 1860. . " Little Charlotte " returns. 
 229
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 1 86 1 Matilda (cook). Was sent soon to 
 
 the hospital for an operation. 
 
 July 1861 . . . Margaret (a Welsh or Irish girl). 
 
 September 1862. . Maria (housemaid). Goes into joyful 
 hysterics at Mrs. Carlyle's recovery 
 and return. 
 
 October 1862 . . Is discharged for domineering imper- 
 tinence. (A " Bubbly Jock.") 
 
 1 86 1 (?) or 1862 (?) Elizabeth (cook). 
 
 November 1862. . "Horse, Cow, Mooncalf, 
 
 and Brute-Beast." 
 
 1862 " Little Flo." (" An honest, truth- 
 ful, industrious little girl. An 
 incomparable small housemaid.") 
 
 January 1863 . . ("An incomparable small 
 
 demon ; an imp ; a poisonous 
 viper.") 
 
 End of 1 862 . . Mary (cook). Traduced by Flo," 
 but stays on after her traducer had 
 left. (" The worst of girls." ) 
 
 1863 Lizzy (housemaid). 
 
 1864 . . . . . Helen (housemaid). " Big, beautiful 
 Blockhead," and " Incorrigible 
 Goose." 
 
 1864 Fanny (housemaid). 
 
 1864 Mrs. Warren (cook-housekeeper). 
 
 1865 Jessie Hiddlestone (Hereditary house- 
 maid and lady's-maid). (The last- 
 named two were in the house at 
 Mrs. Carlyle's death). 
 
 There are evidences, indeed, that Jessie 
 230
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 Hiddlestone, although a hereditary housemaid, 
 (i.e. the daughter of a former servant), would 
 had Mrs. Carlyle lived not for Jong have 
 continued in the angel stage : her disillusion 
 had already begun. The fact is, that Mrs. 
 Carlyle's " Method " seems to have been just 
 a trifle demoralising. That " clever lady, a 
 little too much given to insecticide" as the 
 late Lord Bowen called her must be pro- 
 nounced to be more than a little variable. 
 She expected unlimited devotion from her 
 servants, and not unfrequently, strange to say, 
 got it. That she could exercise great personal 
 charm is nowhere more evident than here. 
 Her servants wept over her, they fondled her, 
 they occasionally adored her. But it is difficult, 
 especially in every-day, prosaic, domestic re- 
 lations, to live for ever on the heights; and, 
 when these same servants became delinquents, 
 their previous affection did but aggravate their 
 misdeeds. Thus Mary, the cook, who, after 
 crying over her mistress ill upstairs, has in 
 stray followers to tea in the kitchen, gets sum- 
 mary and contumelious dismissal ; Maria, the 
 
 housemaid, goes into raptures of joy over 
 231
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's restoration to health she meets 
 her fate none the less. " I have foreseen 
 for long," writes the lady, "even when she 
 was capering about me, and kissing my hands 
 and shawl, that this " emotional young lady 
 would not wear well ; and that some fine day 
 her self-conceit and arrogance would find the 
 limits of my patience." Alas, genius has its 
 limitations and the fool often " sees to the 
 ways of her household " better than the learned 
 lady. Less wise in her generation than many 
 other less clever people, Mrs. Carlyle seems to 
 have made the mistake of alternating petting 
 with scolding; or rather, she canonised her maids 
 and subsequently dethroned them. Nay, 
 when annoyed her feelings were something of 
 the nature of those of Mrs. Proudie over her 
 arch-enemy, the curate Slope ; she was not 
 content with merely slaying her enemy, she 
 could have eaten her afterwards with pleasure. 
 She had the faults, too, of the " artistic tem- 
 perament " ; her servants once dethroned, she 
 appears to have listened to any gossip or tittle- 
 tattle about their failings from stray " helps " 
 
 and charwomen who u dropped in casual," and 
 232
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 accepted it, like Othello, as Gospel truth. No 
 one can deny that when she was angry she was 
 very angry ; she gave way to what, in a less 
 charming lady, might perhaps have been called 
 " temper." Her emotions are real thunder 
 and lightning of the gods ; pity it is that it 
 should bear a touching likeness to the breaking 
 of a butterfly on a wheel. It is such talent 
 thrown away ; she spends rhetoric that would 
 have amazed and stimulated the present-day 
 ladies' political circles, either on the stupid 
 ignorance of " general servants," or on the reduc- 
 ing of a plumber's bill some few shillings. In 
 this latter transaction, indeed, she gives herself 
 a bad headache into the bargain, and " shakes 
 all day," she tells a correspondent, " as if 
 with St. Vitus' dance." The servants cheap 
 and taken from a low class, as they mostly 
 were cannot all have been bad ; human nature 
 is human nature everywhere, even in Chelsea 
 in the 'fifties; and people there no more 
 than anywhere else were alternately angel 
 and devil. The changes, it will be noticed, 
 were often rapid ; thus Elizabeth, " far the 
 most loveable servant I have had," speedily 
 233
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 degenerates into " caprices and sullen temper ; " 
 "Little Charlotte," after posing as "the good 
 girl of a fairy-tale," is soon discarded as heed- 
 less and a " muddler " ; Jessie Hiddlestone, 
 " the most promising-looking servant we have 
 had," " so quick, so willing, so intelligent, so 
 warmly human," presently degenerates not 
 merely into " pudding-facedness," but into a 
 " vixen " and a " humbug." This lady, now 
 Mrs. Broadfoot, of Thornhill, has recently 
 given testimony to Carlyle's merits as a master ; 
 it would be interesting to know her opinion of 
 her former mistress. Mrs. Carlyle frankly 
 confesses in another case her own caprice, as 
 thus : " Little Flo, my incomparable small 
 housemaid, has turned out an incomparable 
 small demon." 
 
 Yes, it must be owned that there was a great 
 deal of the "Eternal Feminine" about Mrs. 
 Carlyle. She was quick, impulsive, eager ; in 
 at least a dozen moods a day; "everything 
 by turns, and nothing long." With a strange 
 inconsistency, however, she neither expected 
 nor tolerated " moods " in her domestics. She 
 might, one thinks, have shown a trifle more 
 234
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 recognition of the stray merits of these poor 
 creatures, who toiled in an ungrateful world 
 for a penurious wage. There are still, no doubt, 
 a good many people who expect their servants 
 to be incarnations of all the virtues at so many 
 pounds a-year ; but Mrs. Carlyle's brilliant 
 intellect should have saved her from such a 
 fallacy. Genius, however, so far as I have 
 observed, is seldom brought to bear on the 
 simpler problems of life. Mrs. Carlyle's en- 
 thusiasm for housekeeping and domestic man- 
 agement would probably have been more 
 effective if it had been less comet-like, and 
 more of a slow and steady radiance. Some- 
 times, no doubt, illness made the poor lady 
 hard to please ; she was, latterly, a neurotic. 
 Thus, in July 1864, her worst time, she quarrels 
 even with Dr. John Carlyle, her devoted brother- 
 in-law, and writes home her directions about 
 "those idiot servants." 
 
 But Mrs. Carlyle, it is plain, did not judge 
 her servants by her own standard. She appears 
 almost, in theory, to regard them as white 
 slaves whose own interests in life are to count 
 as nil. Thus, the first Ann, a " nice, cleanly, 
 235
 
 From a Woman's Note-Book 
 
 orderly, quiet little woman," with, moreover, 
 a " basis of pure reason," makes up her mind 
 to get married. " People must get married 
 before all," her mistress comments coldly. Or 
 " Matilda " is taken ill with a serious complaint, 
 and has to go to the hospital ; " what she 
 could mean in going into a new service with 
 such a complaint, I am at a loss to conceive." 
 " Kirkcaldy Helen," after some eleven years' 
 patient service and devotion to her mistress, 
 goes off into drink, and Mrs. Carlyle, for the 
 dog Nero's ailments all tenderness and solici- 
 tude, is almost cruel in her references to the 
 unhappy girl. 
 
 No, Mrs. Carlyle, it must be confessed, did 
 not go far towards a satisfactory solution of 
 the "Servant Question." A stupider woman 
 after such a forty years' experience would 
 probably have gone much nearer to solving it. 
 But there is an irresistible charm about the 
 whole story, the whole entourage. It is not 
 only genius ; it is the touch of nature that does 
 it ; yes, the eternal touch of nature that is said 
 to make the whole world kin. How many 
 
 more Carlyle Letters will still appear, it is 
 236
 
 Mrs. Carlyle and her Servants 
 
 impossible to say ; one thing is certain, there 
 can never be too many for the public. I can 
 even find it in my heart to regret that Geraldine 
 Jewsbury Mrs. Carlyle's life-long friend 
 should, when dying, have as a matter of con- 
 science burnt all hers. The many attacks on 
 Mr. Froude seem to me to be out of place ; 
 for the life-story, which he disclosed, requires, 
 surely, no violent partisanship. The Letters 
 of husband and wife, read together, tell their 
 own story clearly enough ; and they will always 
 attract, for they have the stamp of genius, the 
 distinction of pathos, and the irresistible charm 
 of a human document. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON &- Co. 
 Edinburgh &> London 
 
 237
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 Bound in Vellum, Gilt Lettering, 6s. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S BOOK 
 
 CONTENTS 
 PROLOGUE : The Bride's Counsellors. 
 
 PART I. ROMANTIC : Ch. i, Proposals Ch. 2, Rejections Ch. 3, 
 Flirtations Ch. 4, Engagements Ch. 5, First Love Ch. 6, The 
 Anti-Matrimonial League Ch. 7, The Wedding Day. 
 
 PART II. IDYLLIC : Ch. 8, The Year of Honey Ch. 9, How a Bride 
 should Spend the Long Day Ch. IO, Marriage as a Mutual Ad- 
 miration Society Ch. n, The Dual Selfishness of Young Couples 
 Ch. 12, Contrasts in Marriage Ch. 13, Pre-Nuptial Friendships 
 Ch. 14, Discords. 
 
 PART III. DOMESTIC : Ch. 15, The Working of the House Ch. 16, 
 The Domestic Servant Problem Ch. 17, Calls and Social Duties 
 Ch. 18, Early Housekeeping Ch. 19, New Experiences Ch. 20, 
 Should Wives have Professions ? 
 
 EPILOGUE : The Higher Life. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 The Times says : "To those in doubt about wedding presents of an 
 inexpensive kind, we can recommend Mrs. E. T. Cook's collection of 
 entertaining papers which are gathered together in "The Bride's Book." 
 Daintily bound in while vellum, and tied with ribbons as blue as a 
 honeymoon sky should be, this volume offers useful instruction to the 
 engaged and the newly married in a light and exhilarating form. Even 
 if the wholesome and skilfully concealed powders have no effect, the 
 flavour of the jam will be found pleasant. Those to whom the pages 
 are especially dedicated can laugh at Mrs. Cook for imagining that they 
 could need her warnings and advice, while the rest of the world chuckles 
 and thinks to itself that it is all very true." 
 
 The Spectator : "There are plenty of good stories, and now and 
 then, all the more eriective because it is sparingly employed, there is 
 some serious reflection or wise counsel which raises the discussion to a 
 higher level. It is not often that we find so delightful a volume as 
 ' The Bride's Book.' " 
 
 I
 
 The Westminster Gazette : "lEvery phase of the absorbing estate is 
 discussed, always smilingly, as it were, and as somewhat of a joke, but 
 with an undercurrent of thoroughly sound good sense running through 
 every one of the articles. That Mrs. Cook has been able to write a 
 book of twenty chapters on this subject without a single lapse from 
 what is in entire good taste is in itself a creditable performance.' 1 
 
 The Globe : " Lively in thought, Mrs. Cook is likewise lively in style, 
 and her wealth of apposite and entertaining quotations is worth study- 
 ing in itself." 
 
 The Lady : ' ' Written in charming style, wise, witty, grave on 
 occasion, but for the most part irradiated with sparkling humour and 
 informed with practical commonsense a book which one can read 
 over and over again, and regard with affection as a pleasant and profit- 
 able companion." 
 
 The Athenatim : " Mrs. E. T. Cook's hints for girls who are 
 married or intending to marry are full of point and finesse, and pre- 
 sented in a delightfully easy style which does not often accompany 
 practical wisdom. The book is charmingly produced too in fact, 
 desirable in every way. . . . Her humour ought to commend the 
 advice here given, if brides ever take any. The typical ladies are all 
 pleasing, but Lollia we long to meet." 
 
 The Daily Chronicle: " It would have seemed almost impossible to 
 write a six-shilling book all about love and marriage without being 
 either maudlin or depressing. But Mrs. Cook has done it. Humour 
 alone does not save from sentimentality, but perhaps wit may ; and 
 having wit as well as humour, Mrs. Cook is saved from exaggerating 
 sentiment till it becomes false. Her wit is shown by the very form of 
 the book, in which the authoress cunningly represents her own serious- 
 ness and rather lofty tendencies as continually kept in check by the 
 presence or recollection of her friends. Of these Miranda is chief, and 
 if mere males may judge, we should say the most loveable though 
 Eustacia is delightful, and so is Lollia ; in fact, being mere males, we 
 love them all, except the one who put her friends into novels." 
 
 Daily Graphic : " One of the most charming little volumes we have 
 seen for a long time." 
 
 London Quarterly Review : " Much wisdom served up with graceful 
 persiflage." 
 
 Academy and Literature: "Full of sense salted with humour." 
 Queen: " Witty and clever." 
 
 Vanity Fair: "To quote from this volume is an irresistible 
 diversion." 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON : 27 PATERNOSTER Row. 
 
 2
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Fourth Edition, with 60 Illustrations and 
 24 Maps and Plans. 55. 
 
 LONDON AND ITS ENVIRONS 
 
 With Chapters on the British Museum and National Gallery 
 by E. T. COOK. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 The Times : "One does not expect a guide-book to be interesting 
 or readable. Yet in ' London and its Environs ' Mrs. E. T. Cook has 
 compiled one that has both qualities one that would have obliged 
 Lamb to alter his verdict, or, at any rate, to admit it as a brilliant 
 exception to his dictum. Open this neat and compact handbook at 
 any page and it will be seen at once that here is no ordinary guide. 
 Mrs. Cook's knowledge of London is, like Sam Weller's, extensive and 
 peculiar, and out of the fulness of her varied reading she supplements her 
 information at every step with apt quotations and anecdotes, with odd 
 bits of historical or antiquarian lore, and with interesting facts and 
 details that lend colour and life to what would otherwise be dry 
 narration and uninteresting detail." 
 
 The Westminster Gazette : " The guides to London are legion, but 
 we shall be very much mistaken if Mrs. Cook's admirable little book 
 does not immediately secure a very honoured place among them. It is 
 at once suitable for the visitor and the resident, is very comprehensive 
 in its scope, and is evidently the work of one who is not only thoroughly 
 familiar with the great city, but who has something of Charles Lamb's 
 affection for it." 
 
 The Saturday Review : " It is one of the best handbooks we have 
 come across, for it really has a literary style, and it gives an admirable 
 impression of London in all its varied aspects. Not only the American, 
 but also the English tourist will be glad to possess so comprehensive 
 and so adequate a guide-book as this. The practical information it 
 gives is accurate and abundant." 
 
 The Spectator : " It is difficult to look at a familiar object with the 
 eyes of a stranger, but Mrs. E. T. Cook has succeeded with wonderful 
 sympathy in entering into the feelings of a traveller arriving for the first 
 time in London. . . . Mrs. Cook will certainly help any old inhabitant 
 of London who likes to see the streets with the interest of a stranger, 
 for she has something new and pleasant to tell about the most grimy 
 and tiresome of familiar objects." 
 
 LLANGOLLEN : DARLINGTON & CO. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD. 
 
 3 Q
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Extra Crown 8vo, Gilt Top, 6s. 
 
 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 
 IN LONDON 
 
 With Illustrations by HUGH THOMSON and F. L. GRIGGS. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 The Times: "It was a happy inspiration to include London in 
 the ' Highways and Byways ' series, and to entrust the volume to 
 Mrs. E. T. Cook, the joint-author of that famous guide which goes by 
 the name of ' Darlington.' To write at large about London is almost as 
 perilous as to write about life, yet if the privilege were only extended to 
 those who held a special licence there are few writers, we feel sure, to 
 whose claims the County Council would listen with greater indulgence 
 than to those of Mrs. E. T. Cook. She writes always with evident 
 enjoyment, with first-hand knowledge, and with a most happy gift 
 of illustration from the stupendous literature of the subject." 
 
 The Standard : " Whatever dry bones there may be in many of the 
 books about London, there are none here. Mrs. Cook's volume is 
 a judicious blend of history and observation. We step, in her pages, 
 from the dim storied past to the restless life of the streets, the crowded 
 gloom of the Underground Railway, the stolid suffering of the omnibus 
 rider, the bowling gaiety of the smart hansom, the anxieties of the 
 feminine bargain-hunter, the calm seclusion of some almost monastic 
 nook, around which the world clings, but into which it never enters." 
 
 The Daily Telegraph: "This book is excellently planned, and 
 contains in its bright and gossipy chapters practically all that the 
 average reader will care to read about London, presented in a most 
 attractive form, without gush and without sentimentality. It is written 
 by one who knows her subject, and loves it well. " 
 
 The Pall Mall Gazette: "The reader cannot help reading on 
 when once he dips into the book. London of to-day finds at Mrs. 
 Cook's hands a faithful exposition. The dry bones of history are 
 clothed by her for us ; the living, restless crowds, the incessant round 
 of daily occupations, and the onward march of London's unceasing 
 expansion are all brought vividly to the eye." 
 
 4
 
 The Literary World : " With the seamy side and the ideal side of 
 London, Mrs. Cook seems equally at home. Her volume is sprightly 
 and vivacious throughout, and is crammed with archaeological in- 
 formation and literary lore. A better, truer, fairer book of London has 
 not been issued." 
 
 The Sketch: "Everywhere her exquisite sympathy with the 
 toiling poor and their children strikes a cord that Dickens would have 
 postulated for such an account of London." 
 
 The Speaker : " Something of the flavour and a good deal of the 
 charm of London has crept into Mrs. Cook's pages. With admirable 
 zeal she has explored the length and breadth of the city and cast 
 on each of its peculiar beauties a loving and perceiving eye. To her is 
 vouchsafed the special grace of finding tongues in trams, sermons 
 in shops, poetry in public-houses, and the picturesque in everything." 
 
 The Pilot: "This is a volume certain to be popular. It is a 
 veritable ' Microcosm of London ' in its 472 pages, and we shall be 
 very much surprised if any American visitor leaves the monster town 
 and its myriad associations without it." 
 
 The World: "In undertaking to contribute to the 'Highways 
 and Byways ' series a volume dealing with the greatest city in the 
 world, Mrs. E. T. Cook set herself a task of formidable magnitude, and 
 she has accomplished it with an ability, an originality of method, and 
 a literary skill which entitle her to unqualified praise. Her work 
 takes the form of a bright, unconventional, and pleasantly discursive 
 causerie, which is alternately topographical, architectural, historical, 
 descriptive, and ' impressionist,' and which conveys an immense 
 amount of information for Mrs. Cook's knowledge of London is as 
 ' extensive and peculiar ' as that of the elder Weller himself through 
 the acceptable medium of the lightest and most informal gossip. 
 Considering the moderate and handy size of the volume, its variety 
 and comprehensiveness are really astonishing." 
 
 New York Tribune:" A delightful book." 
 
 Studio : " Simply teems with interest from cover to cover." 
 
 Spectator : " Very entertaining and informing." 
 
 Manchester Guardian: " Extremely readable and agreeable." 
 
 Globe: "Of all the books which have been written about the 
 metropolis, this, we should think, is about the brightest and most 
 readable." 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. : LONDON. 
 
 5
 
 STUDIES IN RUSKIN 
 
 By E. T. COOK. 
 
 Illustrated with 8 full-page and 5 half-page Woodcuts. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 Part I. Principles of Art ; Applications to Life. Part II. 
 Some Aspects of Mr. Ruskin's Work. Notes on Oxford 
 Lectures, &c. 
 
 Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2s. 6d ; Roan, Gilt Edges, 53. 
 Also a Special Large Edition ', Crown 4/0, Cloth I2s. 6d. 
 
 Containing in addition 13 full-page Autotypes of Drawings 
 by Mr. RUSKIN, with explanatory text. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 Spectator: "Mr. Cook's volume is certainly the most important 
 utterance on the Ruskin philosophy that has yet been given to the 
 world." 
 
 Guardian: "Mr. Cook has succeeded in bringing together a con- 
 siderable amount of information about Mr. Ruskin and his works, 
 which, while of real and legitimate interest, has hitherto been very 
 difficult to obtain." 
 
 Academy : " It is a first-rate guide-book, well designed to help the 
 inquiring student through the devious ways of Ruskin life and writings." 
 
 Graphic : " Those who desire to understand the life and work of 
 Mr. Ruskin cannot do better than read Mr. Cook's book." 
 
 Daily Chronicle: "Mr. Cook has conferred on us a very real 
 benefit by his ' Studies in Ruskin.' " 
 
 Pall Mall Budget : "A very readable summary of Mr. Ruskin's 
 creed is presented to us. ... Mr. Cook's volume has so many virtues 
 that a definite success may be predicted for it." 
 
 Scotsman : As an intelligent and readable account of the teaching 
 and life of Mr. Ruskin, the book deserves to find favour with a larger 
 circle." 
 
 Yorkshire Post : " Mr. Cook knows his subject thoroughly, and 
 writes thereon not merely with intelligence, but with vivacity and 
 grace. " 
 
 LONDON : GEORGE ALLEN. 
 6
 
 The Works of John Ruskin 
 
 "LIBRARY EDITION" 
 
 EDITED, WITH ADDITIONS, FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS, 
 
 BY E. T. COOK AND ALEXANDER WEDDERBURN 
 
 In about 32 Volumes, Issued in Chronological Order. 
 
 Not sold separately. Large medium 8vo Holllstoa cloth 21s. each, net. 
 
 The Edition for Sale is limited to 2000 Copies. 
 All Mr. Buskin's Published Works will be Reprinted. 
 
 Each Volume contains a Preface giving a Biographical and Biblio- 
 graphical Account of the several Works together with Selections from the 
 Author's Diaries and Correspondence relating to them. 
 
 Athcnttum: "We have here excei lent paper, a generous page, adorned by the 
 best of type and the annotations of accomplished Ruskinians who have shown 
 wonderful zeal and care." 
 
 Westminster Gazette : [The Editors] " bring to their work the most laborious 
 research and conscientious scholarship." 
 
 NOW READY 
 
 VOL. I. EARLY PROSE WRITINGS, 1834 to 1843. 
 
 612 pages, Frontispiece in Colour, 20 Plates, and 78 Woodcuts, 
 and Facsimile of MS. 
 
 VOL. II. POEMS* 590 pages, with 25 Plates and 6 
 Facsimilies of MS. 
 
 VOL. III. MODERN PAINTERS. Vol. I. 1843. 
 
 752 pages, 15 Illustrations, and a Facsimile of MS. 
 
 VOL. IV. MODERN PAINTERS, Vol. II. 1846. 458 
 
 pages, with One Unpublished Steel Engraving, 12 Photogravure 
 Plates, and a Facsimile of MS. 
 VOLS. V. to VII. will be published after Vol. XI. 
 
 MODERN PAINTERS. Vol. III. 1856; Vol. IV. 
 
 1856 ; Vol. 1860. 
 
 VOL. VIII. THE SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHI- 
 
 TECTURE. 352 pages, with the 14 Engraved Plates in addition 
 to I Unpublished Engraving etched by Mr. Ruskin, and 2 
 Facsimiles. 
 
 VOLS. IX. to XI. In Preparation. THE STONES 
 OF VENICE. Vol. I. 1851 ; Vol. II. 1853 ; Vol. III. 1853. 
 
 Remaining Volumes at intervals of about one month. 
 
 LONDON : GEORGE ALLEN. 
 
 7
 
 Crown 8vo, Bound in Leather, pp. 794, los. net. 
 
 IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM 
 BY E. T. COOK. 
 
 Being a Companion Volume to the same author's " Popular 
 Handbook to the National Gallery." 
 
 s 
 
 PXESS OPINION. 
 
 The Athenaum : " We do not doubt that th$ Handbook, which is 
 produced in excellent style, will be as successful as his two volumes on 
 the National Gallery. He is fully alive to the human interest of the 
 monuments." 
 
 The Daily Chronicle: " It may be said at oncfc that Mr. Cook's 
 handbook to the classical department of the British^ Museum is even 
 more valuable than that whose comradeship most of us have enjoyed in 
 the National Gallery." 
 
 The Spectator: "This handy volume, containing close upon Soo 
 pages, but not too bulky or heavy for the pocket, isj simply a treasury 
 of valuable information. A fortnight, not to say more, might be most 
 profitably spent in the Museum Galleries, with this for a companion." 
 
 The Guardian : " This book is popular in the best sense it 
 describes the antiquities in such a way as to make them comprehensible 
 to those who are not archaeological experts, but without any of the 
 slipshod inaccuracies which are too often seen in books called popular." 
 
 The Oxford Magazine : " A master wishing to introduce his boys to 
 the realien of his subject will find in this sketch just what he wants to 
 begin with. The chapters on coins and on Roman Britain may be 
 especially instanced as admirable introductions to the subjects of which 
 they treat. For the upper forms it would be hard lo suggest a more 
 useful and attractive prize." 
 
 The Classical Review : " Both as a vode mecum and as a work of 
 reference it should prove indispensable. . . . We congratulate Mr. 
 Cook heartily on his exhaustive and interesting description of the 
 treasures ; his taste is hardly, if ever, at fault, and though so copious in 
 detail, his writing is never dull." 
 
 The Journal of Education : "The book will be found very useful 
 in the Museum itself; but also, to judge from our own experience, it 
 will prove to be very interesting to read at home. . . . Every classical 
 master and mistress should possess the book." 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. : LONDON. 
 8
 
 '*
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 ies9482