The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 354, October 9, 1886

Raspberry vinegar is made by placing three pounds of the picked fruit into a glass vessel and pouring over them a pint and a half of white wine vinegar. It should stand for a fortnight and then be strained without pressure.

Buttermilk is as good for a drink in summer as it is for the complexion. Whey is also an excellent drink in summer, and I cannot refrain from suggesting as a summer dish curds and cream.

Ripe fruit may be eaten during hot weather with great benefit, only it must be ripe and not over ripe.

To conclude, I shall give a prescription for a summer drink which is worth making a note of. Take the thin peel and the juice of a good-sized lemon and add a small teaspoonful of citric acid and a wine-glassful of fruit syrup, then pour on of boiling water one quart. Let it stand till cold, and then strain.

GIRLS' FRIENDSHIPS

By the Author of "Flowering Thorns."

CHAPTER I.
IDEAL FRIENDSHIPS

Idon't suppose there are many girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three who have not a great friend—a particular friend; and if there are, it is my opinion they cannot be the best kind of girls, because unnatural.

Some one—I think it is the author of "John Halifax, Gentleman"—has called friendship a "Foreshadowing of love"; and if it is natural for a woman to have a lover, it is no less natural for a girl to have a great friend among her girl associates.

How do girls make friends? and why do their friendships last very often but a short time? or, again, how is it they ever endure a long time? are questions which people who have forgotten their own early friendships, or, perhaps, never gave much thought to them, puzzle over in vain. And they may have puzzled you too, my thoughtful girl-readers, who want the ideal friend you have read of or dreamed of in day-dreams, but neither possess nor know how to acquire.

To begin with—What is friendship? and I am inclined to define it as a bond of mutual affection, sympathy, and help. If it is lacking in any one of these particulars, just so far does it fall short of ideal friendship.

Test your present so-called friendship by these tests, and I think you will find that any dissatisfaction you may feel in them can be accounted for by a failure to pass one or other.

There is, perhaps, not much difficulty about the first of these. Young people feel quickly and strongly, and if girls did not honestly love one another, or imagine—also honestly—that they did, the friendship, if, indeed, it could exist at all, would be shorn of half its charm. But love must be fed, and will only starve on a diet of respect and admiration, without a very large admixture of sympathy. Sympathy, fellow-feeling, mutual sensibility—call it how we will—is a simple necessity to our ideal friendship, and by no means compels the two friends to unvarying likeness either in character or tastes. But our ideal friends—let us call them Alice and Maud—must be united so wholly by this subtle bond that the pleasure, pain, or interest of the one touches, through her, the other, who shares in what I may call this reflective way the emotion originating with her friend.

Alice, who does not personally care for music in the least, yet thoroughly enjoys a concert, because she is feeling (reflectively) all the time the keen delight with which Maud is listening to every note; and Maud, for the same reason, has true pleasure in reading that rather dry volume of essays, because that scattered throughout are sentiments and expressions which she knows very well Alice will greatly appreciate.

Mutual sympathy between friends is, of course, the outcome of love; and yet it is surprising how little sympathy sometimes exists between girls who to all appearance are really fond of one another.

This may arise from selfishness, unselfishness, or unintelligence—that density of mental vision which has never been educated to perceive the subtle bonds which bind soul to soul.

Now let us take Edith and Amy as examples of an imperfect friendship, in contrary distinction to the ideal or perfect. They are fond of one another, but there is a lack of mutual sympathy. Amy is full of ideas and projects, which she sows broadcast during their long confidentials, and which spring up in great beauty (to her mind, at least) in the fertile soil of Edith's admiration. But all the giving is on one side. Edith listens and wonders, applauds or condoles, as her stronger-minded friend may give her the cue, too unselfish, and perhaps, also, too timid, to intrude her own less thrilling interests and hopes upon Amy's self-absorption; so that when the latter comes to an end of her confidences, and has leisure and recollection enough to say, "And now, Edith, what have you been doing?" she hastily replies, "Oh, nothing particular," glad to be able to shield her insignificance in silence.

Amy does not miss the return confidence which makes friendship so sweet; she is too full of her own affairs to be a listener. Edith is her overflow, whom she leaves saying mentally, "What a dear little sympathetic thing she is! What should I do without her?"

But what is Edith to do? Where is her overflow? This is a very one-sided friendship: the companionship of giant and dwarf, which sooner or later must come to an end or be very uncomfortable for the dwarf. The friends, as I said, need not be alike, need not even be of equal capacity, intellectually or practically, but the sympathy, rooted in affection, must be mutual; it must be equal give and take, or the friendship is miserably stunted and incomplete.

And this brings me to speak of the third ingredient in what I have defined as a perfect friendship—mutual help, which, of course, supposes the two friends to be somewhat different, whether in character, tastes, or surroundings, so that one can supply what the other lacks.

If two countries in friendly relations both produce one article abundantly, and are both lacking in some other article, there can be no commerce—which is the symbol of friendly relations—between them. Both must apply to a third country for that in which both are deficient. And if Edith cannot get help from Amy when she is in need of it, not necessarily advice, but some new view of the situation occasioned by Amy's different character or life, and which would enable Edith to face the trouble or difficulty with more courage or intelligence—if, I say, Edith cannot get this help from Amy, before long she will find Clara, and the friendship will be dissolved or cooled; while undiscerning people will say, "How fickle these girls are!"

Not at all. They obey a subtle, spiritual law, which makes it impossible for friendship long to exist on insufficient food, and when it is said that women are unreasoning and exacting in their friendships, it is simply because people don't see that it is the nature which is in them crying out to be fed with that without which it must die.

But if after, it may be, years of affectionate intercourse, you still find that your friend gives you absolutely nothing which you have not already got—that she communicates no thought or experience to you that will stimulate your mind or aid you in the practical work of life—do you not begin to lose interest in her, strive as you will against the consciousness of it? Does not the friend quit her hold on you and slide down to the level of those of whom an hour or a letter every few weeks gives you enough? You may feel affectionately towards such, but not friendship.

Our ideal friends, Alice and Maud, are very different. Alice is studious and thoughtful, leading a quiet, uneventful life; Maud is high-spirited, devoted to art and music, and sees considerably more of "the world," as it is called. But they are a constant source of interest and assistance to each other. Alice's thoughtful mind finds the meaning to the puzzles of Maud's more superficial existence, who in turn puts the light touches to Alice's grave conclusions, which often give them reality. These two, as it were, sketch life's island from different points. One takes the outline of cliff or shore, dashing in what I may call the aggregated tints of forest and hill; the other paints by turns each special crag or ravine, with their colours in detail; yet both are correct, and we want both if we are to understand the island.

I can imagine Maud in difficulty thinking, "I must go and see Alice, she will help me out of my perplexity; she takes such different views of things from those I do, and I have really come to an end of my ideas."

Or Alice, also in difficulty, though probably of a very different character, exclaiming, "I only wish Maud were here. She would know just how to arrange this; and I cannot imagine what to do."

Emerson tells us that as soon as we come up with a man's (or woman's) limitations it is all over with us. Before that he might have been infinitely alluring and attractive—"a great hope—a sea to swim in"; but you discover that he has a shore—that the sea is, in fact, a pond—and you cease to care for it.

There is something in this to explain the languidness or cessation of many girl friendships. There is nothing more to be learned—nothing more to teach. They have come to an end of their resources; there is no more help to be got, and the interest dwindles. A long walk or talk with one another becomes stale, each prefers her own society, and by degrees the unfed affection cools, and they find themselves unconsciously groping about for souls whose limitations they have not yet reached.

This is not fickleness; it is Nature; and there is a natural remedy—progress. If day by day your shores—to use Emerson's simile—widen, if you will not allow your mind to remain at a standstill, like the stagnant pond, but are constantly receiving and constantly using varied stores of knowledge and experience, you need not fear to crush your friend by the discovery of your limitations. She will have to progress too, if she is to come up with that; and as there is no reasonable probability that you will advance in precisely the same direction, you will each find increasing interest and help in the other's society.

One thing more the ideal friendship needs, but it is one most girls' friendships, whether ideal or not, possess. I mean confidence. It is not till the twenties are well into that reserve and reticence take their place in a woman's friendship; it is not till then that she questions with herself how far she will trust her friend with her hopes, fears, and troubles. The younger we are, the more generous, trusting, and unsuspicious we are; which is, I suppose, the great reason why we never make such particular friends when the period of trust is past. If your friend is worthy of the name, trust her wholly. How can you sympathise with or help one another if you only tell half your troubles and difficulties? I do not mean that all should wear their hearts upon their sleeves. Every girl has, and should have, her private sanctuary of thought, where none may enter; but in the matters which are discussed between friends let there be no half-confidences.

I have tried to sketch what I call an ideal friendship. If they are rare, they are possible—most possible if you only study their construction.

I think all thoughtful and imaginative girls long for this ideal friendship; but I wonder if they all reflect that the ideality does not all depend on the friend, but on themselves. If it takes two most emphatically to make a quarrel, it needs two to make a friendship. Do your best to make it ideal.

I have known such a friendship; I know that it is possible; and I know that it is one of the most perfect experiences our life can give us.

You do not need to live exceptional lives in order to love, sympathise, and help. Experience is the best teacher, and gives lessons to all. Use that intelligently as a means of moral, mental, spiritual progress, remembering that it does not come to you by chance, but rather as the work of

 
                                                                    "The hands
Which reach through Nature, moulding men."
 

(To be continued.)

MERLE'S CRUSADE

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc

CHAPTER II.
AN UNPREACHED SERMON

Such an odd thing happened a few minutes afterwards. I was sitting quite quietly in my corner, turning over in my mind all the arguments with which I had assailed Aunt Agatha that Sunday afternoon, and watching the pink glow of the firelight in contrast to the whiteness of the snow outside, when the door bell rang, and almost the next moment Uncle Keith came into the room.

I suppose he must have overlooked me entirely, for he went up to Aunt Agatha and sat down beside her.

"Sweetheart," he said, taking her hand, and I should hardly have recognised his voice, "I have been thinking about you all the way home, and what a pleasant sight my wife's face would be after my long walk through the snow and–" But here Aunt Agatha must have given him a warning look, for he stopped rather abruptly, and said, "Hir-rumph" twice over, and Aunt Agatha blushed just as though she were a girl.

I could not help laughing a little to myself as I went out of the room to tell Patience to bring in the tea, and yet that sentence of Uncle Keith touched me somehow. Were middle-aged people capable of that sort of love? Did youth linger so long in them? I had imagined those two such a staid, matter-of-fact couple; they had come together so late in life, that one never dreamt of any possible romance in such a courtship, and yet he could call Aunt Agatha "Sweetheart" in a voice that was not the least drawling. At that moment one would not have called him so plain and insignificant with that kind look on his face. I suppose he keeps that look for Aunt Agatha, for I remember she once told me that she had never seen such a good face as Uncle Keith's "not handsome, Merle, but so thoroughly good."

Patience was toasting the muffins in her bright little kitchen, so I sat down and watched her. I was rather partial to Patience; she was a pretty, neat-looking creature, and I always thought it a great pity that she was engaged to a journeyman bootmaker, who aspired to be a preacher. I never could approve of Reuben Locke, though Aunt Agatha spoke well of him; he was such a weak, pale-faced young man; and I think a man, to be one, ought to have some spirit in him, and not possess only the womanish virtues.

"How is Reuben, Patience?" I asked, somewhat amiably, just for the pleasure of seeing our little handmaid's dimples come into view.

"Reuben's but poorly, miss," replied Patience, as she buttered another smoking muffin, the last of the pile. "He was preaching at Whitechapel the other night and caught a cold and sore throat; his mother says he will not be at chapel to-night."

"I do not approve of street preaching myself," I remarked, a little severely.

"Indeed, miss," replied Patience, innocently, as she prepared to carry in the tea-tray, "Reuben always tells me that the Apostles were street preachers, and Reuben is as clear as Gospel in what he says." But here the drawing-room bell broke off Patience's argument, and left me somewhat worsted. I went to church by myself that evening, and I am ashamed to say I heard very little of the sermon. I knew Aunt Agatha would be taking advantage of my long absence to retail what she termed my preposterous scheme to Uncle Keith, and that I should have the benefit of his opinion on my return, and this thought made me restless.

I was not wrong in my surmise. Aunt Agatha looked a little pale and subdued, as though she had been shedding a few tears over my delinquencies, but Uncle Keith was simply inscrutable; when he chose, his face could present a perfect blank.

"Hir-rumph, my dear, what is this your aunt tells me, that you are going to Prince's Gate to-morrow morning to offer your services as nurse in a gentleman's family?"

"Yes, Uncle Keith."

"Do you mean to tell me seriously that you have really made up your mind to take this step?"

"Oh, I am quite serious, I assure you."

"Your aunt's objections and mine do not count for much, then?"

"I should be sorry to go against your wishes or Aunt Agatha's," I returned, trying to keep cool; but his manner, as usual, aggravated me; it said so plainly, "What a silly child you are, and yet you think yourself a woman," "but I must do as I think right in this matter. I hope to prove to you and everyone else that there is nothing derogatory in the work I mean to undertake. It is not what I would choose, perhaps, but everything else is closed to me," thinking sorrowfully of my life-long misfortune, as I always called it, and my repressed longings for hospital training.

"Perhaps if you waited something else might turn up." But I shook my head at this.

"I have waited too long already, Uncle Keith; idleness soon becomes a habit."

"Then if you have made up your mind, it is useless to try and alter it," returned Uncle Keith, in a slightly ironical tone, and he actually took up the volume he was reading in a way that showed he had dismissed the subject. I was never more astonished in my life; never had Uncle Keith so completely baffled me.

I had spent the whole time during which I ought to have been listening to the sermon, in recapitulating the heads of my arguments in favour of this very scheme; I would show Uncle Keith how clearly and logically I could work out the subject.

I had thought out quite an admirable little essay on feminine work in the nineteenth century by the time Mr. Wright had finished his discourse. I meant to have cited the Challoners as an example. Aunt Agatha had stayed in their neighbourhood of Oldfield just before her marriage, and had often paid visits at Longmead and Glen Cottage.

The eldest Miss Challoner—Nan, I think they called her—was just preparing for her own wedding, and Aunt Agatha often told me what a beautiful girl she was, and what a fine, intelligent creature the second sister Phillis seemed. She was engaged to a young clergyman at Hadleigh, and there had been some talk of a double wedding, only Nan's father-in-law, Mr. Mayne, of Longmead, had been rather cross at the notion, so Phillis's was to be postponed until the autumn.

All the neighbourhood of Oldfield had been ringing with the strange exploits of these young ladies. One little fact had leaked out after another; it was said their own cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, of Gilsbank, had betrayed the secret, though he always vowed his wife had a hand, or rather a tongue, in the business; but anyhow, there was a fine nine days' gossip over the matter.

It seemed that some time previously Mrs. Challoner and her three daughters had sustained severe losses, and the three girls, instead of losing courage, had put their shoulders to the wheel, and had actually set up as dressmakers at Hadleigh, carrying on their business in a most masterly fashion, until the unexpected return of their relative, Sir Harry Challoner, from Australia, with plenty of money at his disposal, broke up the dressmaking business, and reinstated them at Glen Cottage.

A few of their friends had been much offended with them, but as it was understood that Lady Fitzroy had spoken warmly of their moral courage and perseverance, it had become the fashion to praise them. Aunt Agatha had often quoted them to me, saying she had never met more charming girls, and adding more than once how thoroughly she respected their independence, and of course in recalling the Challoners I thought I should have added my crowning argument.

There was so much, too, that I longed to say in favour of my theory. The love of little children was very strong with me. I had often been pained as I walked through the streets at seeing tired children dragged along or shaken angrily by some coarse, uneducated nurse. It had always seemed rather a pitiful idea to me that children from their infancy should be in hourly contact with rough, menial natures. "Surely," I would say to myself, "the mother's place must be in her nursery; she can find no higher duty than this, to watch over her little ones; even if her position or rank hinder her constant supervision, why need she relegate her maternal duties to uneducated women? Are there no poor gentlewomen in the world who would gladly undertake such a work from very love, and who would refuse to believe for one moment they were losing caste in discharging one of the holiest and purest duties in life?

"What an advantage to the children," I imagined myself saying in answer to some objection on Uncle Keith's part, never dreaming that all this eloquence would be silenced by masculine cunning.

"What an advantage to these little creatures to hear English pure and undefiled from their cradles, and to be trained to habits of refinement and good manners by merely instinctively following the example before their eyes. Children are such copyists, one shudders to think of these impressionable little beings being permitted by their natural guardians to take their earliest lessons from some uneducated person.

"Women are crying out for work, Uncle Keith," I continued, carrying my warfare into a fresh quarter; but, alas! this, with the rest of my eloquence, died a natural death on my way home. "There are too many of the poor things in this world, and the female market is overstocked. They are invading telegraph offices, and treading on the heels of business men, but sheer pride and stupidity prevent them from trying to open nursery doors."

"Unladylike to be a servant," another imaginary objection on Uncle Keith's part. "Oh, fie, Uncle Keith! this from you, who read your Bible and go to church; and yet I remember a certain passage, 'Whosoever will be chief among you let him be your servant,' which has hallowed the very idea of service ever since.

"To serve others seems the very meaning of womanhood; in some sense, a woman serves all the days of her life. No, I am not farfetched and unpractical." Another supposed masculine tirade. "I have thought over the whole thing most carefully. I am not only working for myself, but for others. I want to open the eyes of my generation, and, like the Challoners, to lead a new crusade against the mighty sham of conventionality. Understand me, Uncle Keith, I do not say to these young gentlewomen, put your pride in your pocket and wheel your perambulator with the twins, or carry the baby into the park before the eyes of your aristocratic acquaintance; that would be unnecessary and foolish; you may leave that part to the under-nurse, who brings your meals and scours your nurseries; I simply say to them, if you have no capacity for teaching, if nature has unfitted you for other work, and you are too proud and conscientious to live a dragging, dependent life under the roof of some overburthened relative, take the charge of some aristocratic nursery. Do not think it beneath your womanhood to feed and wash and clothe an infant, or to watch over weak, toddling creatures. Your work may be humble, but you will grow to love it, and if no one else will put the theory to the test, I, Merle Fenton, will do so, though I must take the plunge unaided, and alone."