I offer this little book (which aims at a reconstruction as faithful and accurate as careful research could achieve, of the real school-life and education of real little girls in many ages, and in many lands) to all those interested in the education of the Irish Girls of To-day—the women of a great and splendid To-morrow. If it be true, as Cardinal Logue reminds us, that “A Nation is what its Women make its Men,” at no time was the question of the Education of her Girls of more importance to Ire

Across the plain, in the twilight, rode Flann with his noble guest-friends by his side, and his hunting train behind him. They had hunted all day in the woods to the south of the plain—on foot, as the old Irish custom was, while their horses grazed free in the forest glades, and the gillies guarded their masters’ trappings. Now, weary of limb themselves, they were astride their fresh steeds, and the miles that lay between them and the banqueting hall within the white Dún above the Liffey were mi

Has not Herr Walther, [6] good-humouredly turning the laugh against himself, advised all those who suffer from earache to stay away from the Court of Thuringia? For my part I can never read his “Spruch”:—“Swer in den ôren siech von ungesûhte sî,” without feeling a most realistic discomfort at the din, made even in the poetry (and at 700 years’ distance!) by the alternating trains of “coming and parting guests,” for whom Landgraf Hermann’s undiscriminating hospitality had equal “welcome and speed

It was ever the custom of that most excellent Lord, Gianfrancesco Gonzaga, when he was home from his wars, to spend the hour before supper with his wife, and their children, in a fair loggia on a garden terrace overlooking the Mincio. Here, while the evening breeze came, cool from the lakes, and perfumed from the gardens, he tasted the delights of family life, and rested from the cares of War and State in the gentle atmosphere, which surrounded his pious and cultured Lady, Madonna Paola Malatest

At the foot of the river-stairs nearest the Westminster Law Courts, you might have seen (in the days when the sixteenth century was yet in its teens, King Henry the Eighth, a slim young Prince—the very flower of knighthood—and the Thames, a silver highway of romance,) a private barge, with a couple of blue-coated serving men, waiting for their master. And presently down the steps would come a man with brown hair a little tumbled, and dress a little awry, after a long, hard day’s work in the Cour

The little “new” girl had sobbed herself to sleep at last, and in all the long, white dormitory there was no sound but that of the regular breathing of healthy, sleeping children. Very gently, Madame de Fontaine withdrew her hand from the lock of the little fingers which had held it so long. Then, as she stooped to kiss the small face on the tear-stained pillow, she heard a murmur of “Maman!” and saw that the child was smiling in her sleep. “She is dreaming of home,” said Madame de Fontaine to h

( Paris 1771—1778 ) In the rather demure little company of girls—Irish, German, Italian, English, and French—whom it has been my pleasant task to gather together, what on earth has naughty Hélène Massalski to do? And what good purpose could one hope to serve by reviving, for twentieth century Irish girls, and their mothers and teachers, the mischievous pranks and schoolgirl frolics of a little Polish maiden in her eighteenth century French convent? All I can say now is that Hélène Massalski will

“Pale, pretty Pamela!” So charming a picture she makes, in her husband’s letters to his mother, as she sits in the window by the garden of Kildare Lodge, daintily stitching for her baby; or out in the garden (while he sits in the window) “busy in her little American jacket planting sweet pea and mignonette”; or in stately Leinster House, making for him a point of light in its gloom, of comfort in its loneliness, with her baby in her arms, “her sweet, pale, delicate face bending over it, and the

Room now in our “rosebud garden of girls” for the dear little Scottish lassie, Marjorie Fleming. For more than a hundred years she has been sleeping under the plain white marble cross in the graveyard of Abbotshall. Above her is the record of her life in length of years—of which the ninth was not complete: Marjorie Fleming. Born 1803; died 1811. Then, on the plinth, the name by which Sir Walter’s love has made her famous: Pet Marjorie. And yet none of the little girls whose stories I have told y