CONSULE PLANCO
Dear Youth. By Barbara Wilson. (Macmillan. I2S. 6d.) " alio," born Sophie Biihler in Stuttgart, was one of those quiet unobtrusive people whose influence is more powerful than that of many who make a noise in the world. A simple Swabian governess, she was the friend and teacher in a well-known English family for forty years. After working in Paris and in Belgium for some time, she came in 1885 to the household of Lady Ribblesdale, the elder sister of Lady Oxford and "Laura "—Alfred Lyttelton's first wife. She had thus "two little heads to furnish, vacant possession to be obtained at once " ; these belonged to " Tommy " and " Barbara " Lister ; and it is the latter who tells the tale. In her pages the past takes on a fairy-like glamour ; "youth inexpressibly fair, wakes like a wondering rose." Zellie loved children, and children loved her.
The first part of the book is an imaginative sketch of Zellie's life before she came to the Listers' home. Imaginative or not, I think there is a good deal of truth in it. One can almost overhear the governess telling the story, and watch the eager eyes of the child Barbara as she drinks it in. It can hardly be entirely invented—this narrative of " Sophie's " Parisian life, and of the curious way in which it ended ; nor can I easily believe that Mrs. Hamilton is altogether a phantom, with her Victorian kindliness, and her more than Victorian conception of the " lady-like " and the " gentlemanly " ; a widow who, like the "good Queen," wore her weeds for years, and kept a tight hand over her daughters, to the ruin of the happiness of at least one of them. Nor can I believe it a mere invention when Sophie is said to have remarked that she liked the Litany, especially the prayer for all women labouring with child—" I know that is a prayer for governesses : but I can't understand why God hates nothing but the house- maid."
Zellie, who had great Sprachtalent, soon learnt enough English to correct these errors and she had enough power of accommodation to fall in with the changes from the Mrs. Hamiltons to the Lady Oxfords—changes well summed up by Lord Ribblesciale when he was asked by a chaperon, "How will your girl get home ? " "0, half a crown and a latchkey, I suppose." All these, and many others, we see through her eyes ; for, hardly altering herself, she watched others alter, and marked the stages in her diary. Little Tom grew up into a stalwart warrior ; and Zellie had to give up her Barbara cherie to Henry Wilson serving in India. More important than all this, she saw the slow change in the feeling of England towards Germany, and had her own troubles in consequence.
The family she served was in close contact with some of the most distinguished people in the country ; and these pages give us glimpses of older men who were great and of young men who certainly—but Dis aliter visum—would have become so. We see Mr. Gladstone cutting down a tree, the famous Lord Hartington, Arthur Balfour, Lord Haldane, Who seemed' like the matt in the moon the children, Asquith, Lard Curzon, and we see also, for a moment, the two ything Grenfells, Patrick Shaw-Stewart, Edward Homer, all of them" inheritors of unfulfilled renown.
Generations passed, but there were always. children,' and with' children she was always at home: Thrbugh 'Yfiekinlink•cl young,' and, till the last few months, she was ableth hire in' the present. "The busy day, the peaceful „flight; Unfelt; . uncounted, glided by." A' child once asked bet," Whit war Called? The Wars of the 'Roses is such a pietty " The Great War," she answered. "If' war be measured sacrifice, it is well named." For a similar reason, one -Might call Zellie a 'great woman. • . .
She had been nicknamed " Hasenfuss " (Timid One) in her early days. At the end there Was no timidity : she fated the pain of illness and tile, prospect of dying with perfect courage. Shortly'. after her eightieth birthday in the presenc:e of " Barbara " she passed quietly away.
"Veber ellen Gipfen Ist Ruh' : Wane nur, balde
Ruhest Du auch." .
There is but one thing I miss—a portrait. E. E. KELLETT.
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