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The New International Encyclopædia/Johnson, Rossiter

JOHNSON, (1840—). An American editor and author, born at Rochester, N. Y. He graduated at the University of Rochester in 1863, from 1864 to 1869 was assistant editor of the Rochester Democrat, a Republican journal, and in 1869-72 edited the Concord (N. H.) Statesman. In 1873-77 he was an associate editor in the revision of the American Cyclopædia, in 1878 edited the authorized Life of Farragut, and in 1879-80 aided S. H. Gay in the preparation of the final two volumes of the latter's History of the United States (4 vols., 1876-80). He also became editor of the Annual Cyclopædia in 1883, and from 1886 to 1888 was managing editor of the Cyclopædia of American Biography. In 1891-94 he was on the editorial staff of the Standard Dictionary. Among other compilations edited by him are The British Poets (3 vols., 1876); Famous Single and Fugitive Poems (1877; revised and enlarged ed. 1891); Play-day Poems (1878), an anthology of humorous verse in English; with C. A. Dana, Fifty Perfect Poems (1882); the well-known Little Classics series of prose selections (16 vols., 1874-75: two additional vols., 1880; 30th ed. 1892); and The World's Great Books (1898-1901). His original publications include in fiction, Phaeton Rogers (1881); in verse, Idler and Poet (1883), containing “O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers;” and in history, A History of the French War (1882); A History of the War Between the United States and Great Britain (1882); and A History of the War of Secession (1888). He also contributed “The Whispering Gallery” department to the Overland Monthly, and edited “The Literary Querist” of the Lamp (formerly the Book-Buyer). For six years he was secretary of the New York Authors Club, whose sumptuous and unique Liber Scriptorum (1893) he prepared with J. D. Champlin and G. C. Eggleston. He received the degrees of Ph.D. and LL.D. from the University of Rochester.


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Rh afterwards the men in the next room gave over snoring for good, and began to rustle over their toilettes. The sound of their voices as they talked was low and moaning, like that of people watching by the sick. Jones, who had at last begun to doze, tumbled and murmured, and every now and then opened unconscious eyes upon me where I lay. I found myself growing eerier and eerier, for I dare say I was a little fevered by my restless night, and hurried to dress and get down-stairs.

You had to pass through the rain, which still fell thick and resonant, to reach a lavatory on the other side of the court. There were three basin-stands, and a few crumpled towels and pieces of wet soap, white and slippery like fish; nor should I forget a looking-glass and a pair of questionable combs. Another Scots lad was here, scrubbing his face with a good will. He had been three months in New York and had not yet found a single job nor earned a single halfpenny. Up to the present, he also was exactly out of pocket by the amount of the fare. I began to grow sick at heart for my fellow-emigrants. Of my nightmare wanderings in New York I spare to tell. I had a thousand and one things to do; only the day to do them in, and a journey across the continent before me in the evening. It rained with patient fury; every now and then I

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114 had to get under cover for awhile in order, so to speak, to give my mackintosh a rest; for under this continued drenching it began to grow damp on the inside. I went to banks, post-offices, railway-offices, restaurants, publishers, book-sellers, money-changers, and wherever I went a pool would gather about my feet, and those who were careful of their floors would look on with an unfriendly eye. Wherever I went, too, the same traits struck me: the people were all surprisingly rude and surprisingly kind. The money-changer cross-questioned me like a French commissary, asking my age, my business, my average income, and my destination, beating down my attempts at evasion, and receiving my answers in silence; and yet when all was over, he shook hands with me up to the elbows, and sent his lad nearly a quarter of a mile in the rain to get me books at a reduction. Again, in a very large publishing and bookselling establishment, a man, who seemed to be the manager, received me as I had certainly never before been received in any human shop, indicated squarely that he put no faith in my honesty, and refused to look up the names of books or give me the slightest help or information, on the ground, like the steward, that it was none of his business. I lost my temper at last, said I was a stranger in America and not learned in their etiquette; but I would assure him, if he went to any


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The New International Encyclopædia/Johnson, Samuel (lexicographer)

JOHNSON, (1709-84). An English lexicographer, essayist, and critic. He was born at Lichfield, September 18, 1709, the son of Michael Johnson, a bookseller. He was sent to

a dame-school, from which he passed to the Lichfield grammar school, where he learned Latin, and then attended for a few months a school at Stourbridge. The years 1727-29 he spent at home in ‘lounging.’ Though indolent and desultory, he read widely and wrote some verse. In 1728 he entered Pembroke College, Oxford, where he became known for his various knowledge and a Latin translation of Pope's Messiah. At Oxford he learned Greek and read metaphysics. Melancholy by nature, he became a hypochondriac under the pressure of poverty. In October, 1731, he left O.xford without a degree, and two months later his father died, leaving him only £20. In 1732 he was usher in a school at Market Bosworth, a position for which he was particularly unsuited, owing to his extreme nervousness, which manifested itself in facial contortions. Aware of his failure and detesting the employment, he gave up school-teaching, and went to live with a school friend in Birmingham. He probably contributed to the Birmingliam Journal, for the publisher of which he made an abridged translation (1735) of Lobo's Voyage to Abyssinia. On July 9, 1735, he married the widow of a Birmingham mercer, his senior by twenty years. His wife's small fortune, about £800, enabled him to open a boarding school for young gentlemen at Edial Hall, near Lichfield. Few pupils attended, but among them was David Garrick. .Johnson had for some time been thinking of London, as may be inferred from a letter he sent in 1734 to Edward Cave, proprietor of the Gentleman's Magazine, proposing to become a contributor. On March 3, 1737, he and Garrick, eacli having a few pence in his pocket, went to London. Later in the same year Johnson returned to Birmingham and brought his wife to London. Poor as Johnson had been hitherto, he had now to pass through a severe ordeal. For a period he went about ill clothed and ill fed, and, it is said, sometimes walked the streets with his friend Savage ‘for want of a lodging.’ In 1738 he became a regular contributor to the Gentleman's Magazine. At first he was employed to edit for Cave the Parliamentary debates reported by William Guthrie, and then from November, 1740, to February, 1743, he wrote them himself, sometimes from notes furnished him and at other times from only the names of the speakers, always taking care that the ‘Whig dogs should not have the best of it.’ In the meantime he had published London (1738), an adaptation to London life of Juvenal's third satire. It was immediately successful and placed Johnson among the best followers of Pope. In 1744 appeared his Life of Richard Savage, which, in depicting the terrible career of this unfortunate poet, throws indirectly much light on Johnson's own hardships. In 1749 he published another adaptation of Juvenal, The Vanity of Human Wishes, the finest of his poems. Johnson had long before written a tragedy called Irene. In February, 1749, Garrick brought it out at Drury Lane. Though Johnson received from the author's three nights and the copyright nearly £300, it was only a moderate success. The next year he began — writing most of the essays himself — the Rambler, a semi-weekly in imitation of the Spectator, which ran for two years (March 20, 1750, to March 14, 1752). To Johnson, already known as a poet, this periodical gave rank as an impressive moralist. Three days after the last issue of the Rambler Johnson's wife died. At this time Johnson was

in the midst of his labors on a new Dictionary of the English Language. The Plan for it, published in 1747, was inscribed to Lord Chesterfield, evidently with a view to that nobleman's patronage. Chesterfield, however, approved of the work in no public manner until December, 1754, when it was near completion. In a memorable letter, Johnson then spurned the overtures of the noble lord (February 7, 1775). In the following April the Dictionary appeared. For this undertaking Johnson was not fully equipped. He had no knowledge of the English language and literature in its earlier periods; consequently the dictionary was untrustworthy in its etymologies. On the other hand, he had read widely in the seventeenth century, and was thus able to illustrate the use of words by admirable quotations. He at once became known as the great lexicographer. His splendid struggle with adversity, however, was not quite over. The next year he was arrested for debt. In 1758 he began a series of essays called the Idler, not so good as the Rambler, which he carried on for two years. Now occurred one of the most touching episodes in his heroic life, the writing of Rasselas (1759), ‘in the evenings of a week,’ to pay the expenses of his mother's funeral. It is hardly a novel, but rather a magnificent moral tract, into which is compressed The Vanity of Human Wishes and the best of the Rambler. In 1762 he accepted, after some hesitancy, a Government pension of £300. Hereafter his life was passed in comparative ease. He was one of the original members of the Literary Club (1764), which included Burke, Goldsmith, and Reynolds. The year before he had made the acquaintance of James Boswell, his future biographer; and in 1765 he began his intimacy with the Thrales, who received him into their home at Southwark and took him with them to Streatham for the summer months. For sixteen years they ministered to his comfort. Composition now becoming very onerous for him, he found an outlet for his thoughts in brilliant conversation. To this period, however, belongs some notable work. In 1765 he brought out an edition of Shakespeare, proposals for which had been issued eight years before. The record of a visit to Scotland and the Hebrides with Boswell in 1773 he published under the title A Journey to the Western Isles of Scotland (1775). His literary career closed with the Lives of the Poets (1779-81), the most admirable of his essays both in thought and in style. He died in London December 13, 1784, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The degree of LL.D. he had received both from Dublin (1765) and from Oxford (1775), but he himself rarely used the title. Johnson was the central figure in English literature for a quarter of a century. Time, however, has taken away much of his prestige. As a critic he is narrow; and his style is ponderous. On the other hand, his opinions show independent and robust thinking; and his style, even in the Rambler, has at times a delightful rhythm. Of the charm of his conversations there can never be any question. Of him as a man the record is complete. Though Boswell noted his sayings and doings in a great variety of situations, nothing was ever said or done to lessen one's respect for Johnson's noble qualities of mind and heart. Consult his Works, ed. by Walesby (11 vols., Oxford, 1825); Lives of the Poets, with notes and introduction by Waugh (6 vols., London, 1896); Johnson Club Papers (London,

1899); Hill, Boswell's Life of Johnson (6 vols., Oxford, 1887); id., Dr. Johnson, Bis Friends and His Critics (London, 1878); Letters (London, 1892); and Johnsonian Miscellanies (New York, 1897); the lives of Johnson by Stephen, in “English Men of Letters Series” (London, 1878); and Grant, in “Great Writers Series” (London, 1887), which contains a bibliography; and the famous essays by Macaulay and Carlyle. See also, ; and ../Piozzi, Hester Lynch.


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Rh bookseller in England, of more handsome usage. The boast was perhaps exaggerated; but like many a long shot, it struck the gold. The manager passed at once from one extreme to the other; I may say that from that moment he loaded me with kindness; he gave me all sorts of good advice, wrote me down addresses, and came bareheaded into the rain to point me out a restaurant, where I might lunch, nor even then did he seem to think that he had done enough. These are (it is as well to be bold in statement) the manners of America. It is this same opposition that has most struck me in people of almost all classes and from east to west. By the time a man had about strung me up to be the death of him by his insulting behaviour, he himself would be just upon the point of melting into confidence and serviceable attentions. Yet I suspect, although I have met with the like in so many parts, that this must be the character of some particular State or group of States; for in America, and this again in all classes, you will find some of the softest-mannered gentlemen in the world.

I was so wet when I got back to Mitchell's toward the evening, that I had simply to divest myself of my shoes, socks, and trousers, and leave them behind for the benefit of New York city. No fire could have dried them ere I had to start; and to pack them in their present condition was to


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this, as you may fancy, I left this disgusting establishment, and lived for some time along with pa and mamma at home. My education was finished, at least mamma and I agreed that it was: and from boyhood until hobbadyhoyhood (which I take to be about the sixteenth year of the life of a young man, and may be likened to the month of April when spring begins to bloom) from fourteen until seventeen, I say, I remained at home, doing nothing, for which I have ever since had a great taste, the idol of my mamma, who took part in all my quarrels with father, and used regularly to rob the weekly expenses in order to find me in pocket money. Poor soul! many and many is


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34 ! Oh, Thomas, Thomas! would you murder me and your boy?" There was a regular scene.—however it ended—as it always did—in mother's getting the better, and it was settled that I should go into the militia. And why not? The uniform is just as handsome, and the danger not half so great. I don't think in the course of my whole military experience I ever fought anything, except an old woman, who had the impudence to hallo out, "Heads up, lobster!"—Well, I joined the North Bungays, and was fairly launched into the world.

I was not a handsome man, I know; but there was something about me—that's very evident—for the girls always laughed when they talked to me, and the men, though they affected to call me a poor little creature, squint-eyes, knock-knees, red-head, and so on, were evidently annoyed by my success, for they hated me so confoundedly. Even at the present time they go on, though I have given up gallivanting, as I call it. But in the April of my existence,—that is, in Anno Domini 1791, or so—it was a different case; and


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116 spread ruin among my other possessions. With a heavy heart I said farewell to them as they lay a pulp in the middle of a pool upon the floor of Mitchell's kitchen. I wonder if they are dry by now. Mitchell hired a man to carry my baggage to the station, which was hard by, accompanied me thither himself, and recommended me to the particular attention of the officials. No one could have been kinder. Those who are out of pocket may go safely to Reunion House, where they will get decent meals and find an honest and obliging landlord. I owed him this word of thanks, before I enter fairly on the second and far less agreeable chapter of my emigrant experience.


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36 fond of Bates, and Bates so fond of little Mary, that both, at first, were almost always in our house; and I used to call her my little wife as soon as I could speak, and before she could walk almost. It was beautiful to see us, the neighbors said.

Well, when her brother, the lieutenant of an India ship, came to be captain, and actually gave Mary five thousand pounds, when she was about ten years old, and promised her five thousand more, there was a great talking, and bobbing, and smiling between the Doctor and my parents, and Mary and I were left together more than ever, and she was told to call me her little husband. And she did; and it was considered a settled thing from that day. She was really amazingly fond of me.

Can any one call me mercenary after that? Though Miss Crutty had twelve thousand, and Mary only ten (five in hand, and five in the bush), I stuck faithfully to Mary. As a matter of course, Miss Crutty hated Miss Waters. The fact was, Mary had all the country dangling after her, and not a soul


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Rh way of life not only exaggerates to a man the importance of material conditions, but indirectly, by denying him the necessary books and leisure, keeps his mind ignorant of larger thoughts; and that hence springs this overwhelming concern about diet, and hence the bald view of existence professed by Mackay. Had this been an English peasant the conclusion would be tenable. But Mackay had most of the elements of a liberal education. He had skirted metaphysical and mathematical studies. He had a thoughtful hold of what he knew, which would be exceptional among bankers. He had been brought up in the midst of hot-house piety, and told, with incongruous pride, the story of his own brother's deathbed esctasies. Yet he had somehow failed to fulfil himself, and was adrift like a dead thing among external circumstances, without hope or lively preference or shaping aim. And further, there seemed a tendency among many of his fellows to fall into the same blank and unlovely opinions. One thing, indeed, is not to be learned in Scotland, and that is the way to be happy. Yet that is the whole of culture, and perhaps two-thirds of morality. Can it be that the Puritan school, by divorcing a man from nature, by thinning out his instincts, and setting a stamp of its disapproval on whole fields of human activity and interest, leads at last directly to material greed?


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40 upon her cheek, "I can't refuse you; but I fear you are a sad naughty man."

Absorbed in the delicious reverie which was caused by the dear creature's confusion, we were both silent for a while, and should have remained so for hours perhaps, so lost were we in happiness, had I not been suddenly roused by a voice exclaiming from behind us,

"Don't cry, Mary; he is a swindling, sneaking scoundrel, and you are well rid of him!"

I turned round! O heaven! there stood Mary, weeping on Doctor Bates's arm, while that miserable apothecary was looking at me with the utmost scorn. The gardener who had let me in had told them of my arrival, and now stood grinning behind them. "Imperence!" was my Magdalen's only exclamation, as she flounced by with the utmost self-possession, while I, glancing daggers at the spies, followed her. We retired to the parlor, where she repeated to me the strongest assurances of her love.

I thought I was a made man. Alas! I was only an APRIL FOOL!


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The New International Encyclopædia/Johnson, Samuel (clergyman)

JOHNSON, (1822-82). An American clergyman and reformer. He was born at North Andover, Mass., and graduated at Harvard in 1842, and at the Harvard Divinity School in 1846. He preached for some time at Dorchester, but displeased his congregation there by his opposition to slavery. In 1851 he became pastor of a ‘free church’ in Lynn, Mass., being independent in his religious opinions, though agreeing generally with the Unitarians. He edited, jointly with Samuel Lougfellow, a collection of sacred poetry entitled Hymns of the Spirit; and was author of The Worship of Jesus (1868) and of Oriental Religions — India (1872), China (1877), Persia (1885). Consult Longfellow, Memoir of Samuel Johnson (Boston, 1883).


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52 Nature is a good guide through life, and the love of simple pleasures next, if not superior, to virtue; and we had on board an Irishman who based his claim to the widest and most affectionate popularity precisely upon these two qualities, that he was natural and happy. He boasted a fresh colour, a tight little figure, unquenchable gaiety, and indefatigable good-will. His clothes puzzled the diagnostic mind, until you heard he had been once a private coachman, when they became eloquent and seemed a part of his biography. His face contained the rest, and, I fear, a prophecy of the future; the hawk's nose above accorded so ill with the pink baby's mouth below. His spirit and his pride belonged, you might say, to the nose; while it was the general shiftlessness expressed by the other that had thrown him from situation to situation, and at length on board the emigrant ship. Barney ate, so to speak, nothing from the galley; his own tea, butter and eggs supported him throughout the voyage; and about mealtime you might often find him up to the elbows in amateur cookery. His was the first voice heard singing among all the passengers; he was the first who fell to dancing. From Loch Foyle to Sandy Hook, there was not a piece of fun undertaken but there was Barney in the midst. You ought to have seen him when he stood up


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Rh "Betsy," says he, "open the yard door." But the poor girls screamed, and flung on their knees, and begged, and wept, and did their very best to prevent him. "OPEN THE YARD DOOR," says he, with a thundering loud voice; and the great bull-dog, hearing it, started up and uttered a yell which sent me flying to the other end of the court.—Dobble couldn't move; he was sitting on the block, blubbering like a baby.

The door opened, and out Mr. Brisket came.

"To him, Jowler," says he. "keep him, Jowler,"—and the horrid dog flew at me, and I flew back into the corner, and drew my sword, determining to sell my life dearly.

"That's it," says Brisket, "keep him there,—good dog,—good dog! And now, sir," says he, turning round to Dobble, "is this your hat?"

"Yes," says Dobble, fit to choke with fright.

"Well, then," says Brisket, "it's my—(hick)—my painful duty to—(hick)—to tell you, that as I've got your hat, I must have your head;—it's painful, but it must be done. You'd better—(hick)—settle yourself


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56 com—comfumarably against that—(hick)—that block, and I'll chop it off before you can say Jack—(hick)—no, I mean Jack Robinson."

Dobble went down on his knees and shrieked out, "I'm an only son, Mr. Brisket! I'll marry her, sir; I will, upon my honor, sir.—Consider my mother, sir; consider my mother."

"That's it, sir," says Brisket,— "that's a good—(hick)—a good boy;—just put your head down quietly—and I'll have it off—yes, off—as if you were Louis the Six—the Sixtix—the Siktickleteenth.—I'll chop the other chap afterwards."

When I heard this, I made a sudden bound back, and gave such a cry as any man might who was in such a way. The ferocious Jowler, thinking I was going to escape, flew at my throat; screaming furious, I flung out my arms in a kind of desperation,—and, to my wonder, down fell the dog, dead, and run through the body!

At this moment a posse of people rushed in upon


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Johnson, Robert Underwood

JOHNSON, Robert Underwood, American editor and author: b. Washington, D. C., 12 Jan. 1853. He was educated at Earlham College, Indiana, and joined the staff of the Century Magazine in 1873, he was associate editor from 1881 to 1909, and in the latter year, on the death of Richard Watson Gilder, succeeded to the editorial chair, which he occupied until May 1913. He early became noted for his services in behalf of international copyright, as secretary of the American Copyright League doing much to secure the passage of the law of 1891, for which he was decorated by the French and Italian governments. With Clarence Clough Buel he had charge of editing the ‘Century War Series,’ afterward published as ‘Battles and Leaders of the Civil War’ (1887-88). He induced General Grant to write his

‘Memoirs,’ and, with John Muir, set on foot the movement resulting in the creation of the Yosemite National Park. He was the originator of the Memorial to Keats and Shelley in Rome, and has been active in many national movements, notably the forest conservation movement. He became permanent secretary of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His writings include ‘The Winter Hour and Other Poems’ (1891), and ‘Songs of Liberty and Other Poems’ (1897); ‘Poems’ (1902); ‘Poems,’ enlarged (1908); ‘Saint Gaudens: An Ode’ (1910; 4th ed., 1913); ‘Italian Rhapsody and other Poems of Italy’ (1917).


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Author:Reynold Alleyne Nicholson

Books

 * A Literary History of the Arabs (1907)
 * The Mystics of Islam (1914)
 * Studies in Islamic Mysticism (1921)
 * Studies in Islamic Poetry (1921)
 * (tr.) Mathnawi of Jalaluʼddin Rumi (1925–40)

title: Author:Reynold Alleyne Nicholson


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Rh to sing at our concerts—his tight little figure stepping to and fro, and his feet shuffling to the air, his eyes seeking and bestowing encouragement—and to have enjoyed the bow, so nicely calculated between jest and earnest, between grace and clumsiness, with which he brought each song to a conclusion. He was not only a great favourite among ourselves, but his songs attracted the lords of the saloon, who often leaned to hear him over the rails of the hurricane-deck. He was somewhat pleased, but not at all abashed by this attention; and one night, in the midst of his famous performance of "Billy Keogh," I saw him spin half round in a pirouette and throw an audacious wink to an old gentleman above. This was the more characteristic, as, for all his daffing, he was a modest and very polite little fellow among ourselves. He would not have hurt the feelings of a fly, nor throughout the passage did he give a shadow of offence; yet he was always, by his innocent freedoms and love of fun, brought upon that narrow margin where politeness must be natural to walk without a fall. He was once seriously angry, and that in a grave, quiet manner, because they supplied no fish on Friday; for Barney was a conscientious Catholic. He had likewise strict notions of refinement; and when, late one evening, after


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 534 MOUTH MURDER MOUTH

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = One murder made a villain, Millions a hero.—Princes were privileg'd To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah! why will kings forget that they are men, And men that they are brethren? Bishop Porteus—Death. L. 154. | seealso = (See also {{sc|Young}})

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural. Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 5. L. 27. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 534 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. Hamlet. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 622. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 534 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 3. L. 80. | note = | topic = | page = 534 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize. Hamlet. Act IV. Sc. 7. L. 128. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 534 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood Over thy wounds now do I prophesy. Julius Cæsar. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 254. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 534 }}


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54 the women had retired, a young Scotsman struck up an indecent song, Barney's drab clothes were immediately missing from the group. His taste was for the society of gentlemen, of whom, with the reader's permission, there was no lack in our five steerages and second cabin; and he avoided the rough and positive with a girlish shrinking. Mackay, partly from his superior powers of mind, which rendered him incomprehensible, partly from his extreme opinions, was especially distasteful to the Irishman. I have seen him slink off with backward looks of terror and offended delicacy, while the other, in his witty, ugly way, had been professing hostility to God, and an extreme theatrical readiness to be shipwrecked on the spot. These utterances hurt the little coachman's modesty like a bad word.


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NE night Jones, the young O'Reilly, and myself were walking arm-in-arm and briskly up and down the deck. Six bells had rung; a head-wind blew chill and fitful, the fog was closing in with a sprinkle of rain, and the fog-whistle had been turned on, and now divided time with its unwelcome outcries, loud like a bull, thrilling and intense like a mosquito. Even the watch lay somewhere snugly out of sight. For some time we observed something lying black and huddled in the scuppers, which at last heaved a little and moaned aloud. We ran to the rails. An elderly man, but whether passenger or seaman it was impossible in the darkness to determine, lay grovelling on his belly in the wet scuppers, and kicking feebly with his outspread toes. We asked him what was amiss, and he replied incoherently, with a strange accent and in a voice unmanned by terror, that he had cramp in the stomach, that he had been ailing all day, had seen the doctor twice, and had walked the deck against fatigue till he was overmastered and had fallen where we found him.


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56 Jones remained by his side, while O'Reilly and I hurried off to seek the doctor. We knocked in vain at the doctors cabin; there came no reply; nor could we find any one to guide us. It was no time for delicacy; so we ran once more forward; and I, whipping up a ladder and touching my hat to the officer of the watch, addressed him as politely as I could:

"I beg your pardon, sir; but there is a man lying bad with cramp in the lee scuppers; and I can't find the doctor." He looked at me peeringly in the darkness; and then, somewhat harshly, "Well, I can't leave the bridge, my man," said he. "No, sir; but you can tell me what to do," I returned.

"Is it one of the crew?" he asked.

"I believe him to be a fireman," I replied.

I dare say officers are much annoyed by complaints and alarmist information from their freight of human creatures; but certainly, whether it was the idea that the sick man was one of the crew, or from something conciliatory in my address, the officer in question was immediately relieved and mollified; and speaking in a voice much freer from constraint, advised me to find a steward and despatch him in quest of the doctor, who would now be in the smoking-room over his pipe.


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Rh One of the stewards was often enough to be found about this hour down our companion, Steerage No. 2 and 3; that was his smoking-room of a night. Let me call him Blackwood. O'Reilly and I rattled down the companion, breathing hurry; and in his shirt-sleeves and perched across the carpenter's bench upon one thigh, found Blackwood; a neat, bright, dapper, Glasgow-looking man, with a bead of an eye and a rank twang in his speech. I forget who was with him, but the pair were enjoying a deliberate talk over their pipe's. I dare say he was tired with his day's work, and eminently comfortable at that moment; and the truth is, I did not stop to consider his feelings, but told my story in a breath. "Steward," said I, "there's a man lying bad with cramp, and I can't find the doctor."

He turned upon me as pert as a sparrow, but with a black look that is the prerogative of man; and taking his pipe out of his mouth "That's none of my business," said he. "I don't care."

I could have strangled the little ruffian where he sat. The thought of his cabin civility and cabin tips filled me with indignation. I glanced at O'Reilly; he was pale and quivering, and looked like assault and battery, every inch of him. But we had a better card than violence.


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58 "You will have to make it your business," said I, "for I am sent to you by the officer on the bridge." Blackwood was fairly tripped. He made no answer, but put out his pipe, gave me one murderous look, and set off upon his errand strolling. From that day forward, I should say, he improved to me in courtesy, as though he had repented his evil speech and were anxious to leave a better impression. When we got on deck again, Jones was still beside the sick man; and two or three late stragglers had gathered round and were offering suggestions. One proposed to give the patient water, which was promptly negatived. Another bade us hold him up; he himself prayed to be let lie; but as it was at least as well to keep him off the streaming decks, O'Reilly and I supported him between us. It was only by main force that we did so, and neither an easy nor an agreeable duty; for he fought in his paroxysms like a frightened child, and moaned miserably when he resigned himself to our control.

"O let me lie!" he pleaded. "I'll no' get better anyway." And then, with a moan that went to my heart, "O why did I come upon this miserable journey?" I was reminded of the song which I had heard


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Rh a little while before in the close, tossing steerage: "O why left I my hame?" Meantime Jones, relieved of his immediate charge, had gone off to the galley, where we could see a light. There he found a belated cook scouring pans by the radiance of two lanterns, and one of these he sought to borrow. The scullion was backward. "Was it one of the crew?" he asked. And when Jones, smitten with my theory, had assured that it was a fireman, he reluctantly left his scouring and came towards us at an easy pace, with one of the lanterns swinging from his finger. The light, as it reached the spot, showed us an elderly man, thick-set, and grizzled with years; but the shifting and coarse shadows concealed from us the expression and even the design of his face. So soon as the cook set eyes on him he gave a sort of whistle. "It's only a passenger!" said he; and turning about, made, lantern and all, for the galley. "He's a man anyway," cried Jones in indignation. "Nobody said he was a woman," said a gruff voice, which I recognised for that of the bo's'un. All this while there was no word of Blackwood or the doctor; and now the officer came to our side of the ship and asked, over the hurricane-deck


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Johnson, Rossiter

JOHNSON, Rossiter, American author and editor: b. Rochester, N. Y., 27 Jan. 1840. He was graduated at the University of Rochester in 1863 and was associate editor of the Rochester Democrat 1864-68. From 1869 to 1872 he edited the Concord (N. H.) Statesman; and in 1873-77 was associated with George Ripley and Charles A. Dana in editing the American Cyclopædia, while in 1879-80 he aided Sydney Howard Gay in his ‘History of the United States.’ In 1883-1902 he was editor of the Annual Cyclopædia, and since 1900 has been editor of the ‘Universal Cyclopædia.’ He edited the series of ‘Little Classics’ (18 vols., 1874-80); ‘Liber Scriptorum’ (1893), and was editor-in-chief of the ‘World's Great Books’ (50 vols., 1898-1901); ‘Great Events by Famous Historians’ (20 vols., 1904), and of ‘The Authors' Digest’ (1909). In 1906, in collaboration with Dora Knowlton Ranous, he edited ‘The Literature of Italy’ (16 vols., 1906). His original works include ‘Phaeton Rogers,’ a novel of boy life (1881); ‘A History of the French War ending in the Conquest of Canada’ (1882); ‘History of the War of 1812’ (1882); ‘Idler and Poet,’ verse (1883); ‘History of the War of Secession’ (1888); ‘The End of a Rainbow,’ a story (1892); ‘The Hero of Manila’ (1899); ‘Short History of the War with Spain’ (1899); ‘Morning Lights and Evening Shadows,’ poems (1902); ‘The Alphabet of Rhetoric’ (1903); ‘The Clash of Nations’ (1914); ‘Captain John Smith’ (1915), and ‘Episodes of the Civil War’ (1916); ‘Biography of Helen Kendricks Johnson’ (1917).


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Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/King Victor and King Charles/1731/I

SECOND YEAR 1731.—KING CHARLES. Part I.

Enter and .—A pause.

Polyxena. And now, sir, what have you to say?

D'Ormea. Count Tende. ..

Polyxena. Affirm not I betrayed you; you resolve On uttering this strange intelligence —Nay, post yourself to find me ere I reach The capital, because you know King Charles Tarries a day or two at Evian baths Behind me:—but take warning,—here and thus [Seating herself in the royal seat.] I listen, if I listen—not your friend. Explicitly the statement, if you still Persist to urge it on me, must proceed: I am not made for aught else.

D'Ormea. Good! Count Tende. ..

Polyxena. I, who mistrust you, shall acquaint King Charles, Who even more mistrusts you.

D'Ormea. Does he so?

Polyxena. Why should he not?

D'Ormea. Ay, why not? Motives, seek You virtuous people, motives! Say, I serve God at the devil's bidding—will that do? I'm proud: our People have been pacified (Really I know not how)—

Polyxena. By truthfulness.

D'Ormea. Exactly ; that shows I had nought to do With pacifying them: our foreign perils Also exceed my means to stay: but here 'Tis otherwise, and my pride's piqued. Count Tende Completes a full year's absence: would you, madam, Have the old monarch back, his mistress back, His measures back? I pray you, act upon My counsel, or they will be.

Polyxena. When?

D'Ormea. Let's think. Home-matters settled—Victor's coming now; Let foreign matters settle—Victor's here: Unless I stop him; as I will, this way.

Polyxena. [Reading the papers he presents.] If this should prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor? You seek annoyances to give him pretext For what you say you fear!

D'Ormea. Oh, possibly! I go for nothing. Only show King Charles That thus Count Tende purposes return, And style me his inviter, if you please.

Polyxena. Half of your tale is true; most like, the Count Seeks to return: but why stay you with us? To aid in such emergencies.

D'Ormea. Keep safe Those papers: or, to serve me, leave no proof I thus have counselled: when the Count returns, And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little To have thus counselled.

Polyxena. The King abdicate!

D'Ormea. He's good, we knew long since—wise, we discover— Firm, let us hope:—but I'd have gone to work With him away. Well!

[Charles without.] In the Council Chamber?

D'Ormea. All's lost!

Polyxena. Oh, surely, not King Charles! He's changed— That's not this year's care-burdened voice and step: 'Tis last year's step—the Prince's voice!

D'Ormea. I know!

[Enter Charles:—D'Ormea retiring a little.]

Charles. Now wish me joy, Polyxena! Wish it me The old way! [She embraces him.] There was too much cause for that! But I have found myself again! What's news At Turin? Oh, if you but felt the load I'm free of—free! I said this year would end Or it, or me—but I am free, thank God!

Polyxena. How, Charles?

Charles. You do not guess? The day I found Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad, And how my father was involved in it,— Of course, I vowed to rest or smile no more Until I freed his name from obloquy. We did the people right—'twas much to gain That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too— But that took place here, was no crying shame: All must be done abroad,—if I abroad Appeased the justly angered Powers, destroyed The scandal, took down Victor's name at last From a bad eminence, I then might breathe And rest! No moment was to lose. Behold The proud result—a Treaty, Austria, Spain Agree to—

D'Ormea. [Aside.] I shall merely stipulate For an experienced headsman.

Charles. Not a soul Is compromised: the blotted Past's a blank: Even D'Ormea will escape unquestioned. See! It reached me from Vienna; I remained At Evian to despatch the Count his news; 'Tis gone to Chambery a week ago— And here am I: do I deserve to feel Your warm white arms around me?

D'Ormea. [coming forward.]          He knows that?

Charles. What, in Heaven's name, means this?

D'Ormea. He knows that matters Are settled at Vienna? Not too late!

D'Ormea. Plainly, unless you post this very hour Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambery, And take precautions I'll acquaint you with, Your father will return here.

Charles. Is he crazed, This D'Ormea? Here? For what? As well return To take his crown!

D'Ormea. He will return for that.

Charles. [to Polyxena.] You have not listened to this man?

Polyxena. He spoke About your safety—and I listened.

[He disengages himself from her arm.]

Charles. [to D'Ormea.]                What Apprised you of the Count's intentions?

D'Ormea. Me? His heart, Sire; you may not be used to read Such evidence, however; therefore read [Pointing to Polyxena's papers.] My evidence.

Charles. [to Polyxena.] Oh, worthy this of you! And of your speech I never have forgotten, Tho' I professed forgetfulness; which haunts me As if I did not know how false it was; Which made me toil unconsciously thus long That there might be no least occasion left For aught of its prediction coming true! And now, when there is left no least occasion To instigate my father to such crime; When I might venture to forget (I hoped) That speech and recognize Polyxena— Oh, worthy, to revive, and tenfold worse, That plague now! D'Ormea at your ear, his slanders Still in your hand! Silent?

Polyxena. As the wronged are.

Charles. And, D'Ormea, pray, since when have you presumed To spy upon my father? (I conceive What that wise paper shows, and easily.) Since when?

D'Ormea. The when, and where, and how, belong To me. 'Tis sad work, but I deal in such. You ofttimes serve yourself—I'd serve you here: Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word, Since the first hour he went to Chambery, Of his seven servants, five have I suborned.

Charles. You hate my father?

D'Ormea. Oh, just as you will! [Looking at Polyxena.] A minute since, I loved him—hate him, now! What matters?—If you'll ponder just one thing: Has he that Treaty?—He is setting forward Already. Are your guards here?

Charles. Well for you They are not! [To Polyxena.] Him I knew of old, but you— To hear that pickthank, further his designs! [To D'Ormea.] Guards?—were they here, I'd bid them, for your trouble, Arrest you.

D'Ormea. Guards you shall not want. I lived The servant of your choice, not of your need. You never greatly needed me till now That you discard me. This is my arrest. Again I tender you my charge—its duty Would bid me press you read those documents. Here, Sire! [Offering his badge of office.]

Charles. [taking it.] The papers also! Do you think I dare not read them?

Polyxena. Read them, sir!

Charles. They prove, My father, still a month within the year Since he so solemnly consigned it me, Means to resume his crown? They shall prove that, Or my best dungeon. ..

D'Ormea. Even say, Chambery! 'Tis vacant, I surmise, by this.

Charles. You prove Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there! Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil Thickening and blackening 'twixt us two! Do say, You'll see the falsehood of the charges proved! Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved False charges—my heart's love of other times!

Polyxena. Ah, Charles!

Charles. [to D'Ormea.] Precede me, sir!

D'Ormea. And I'm at length A martyr for the truth! No end, they say, Of miracles. My conscious innocence!

[As they go out, enter—by the middle door, at which he pauses—Victor.]

Victor. Sure I heard voices? No! Well, I do best To make at once for this, the heart o' the place. The old room! Nothing changed!—So near my seat, D'Ormea? [Pushing away the stool which is by the King's chair.] I want that meeting over first, I know not why. Tush, D'Ormea won't be slow To hearten me, the supple knave! That burst Of spite so eased him! He'll inform me. . .                                         What? Why come I hither? All's in rough—let all Remain rough; there's full time to draw back—nay, There's nought to draw back from, as yet; whereas, If reason should be, to arrest a course Of error—reason good, to interpose And save, as I have saved so many times, Our House, admonish my son's giddy youth, Relieve him of a weight that proves too much— Now is the time,—or now, or never. 'Faith, This kind of step is pitiful—not due To Charles, this stealing back—hither, because He's from his Capital! Oh, Victor! Victor! But thus it is: the age of crafty men Is loathsome; youth contrives to carry off Dissimulation; we may intersperse Extenuating passages of strength, Ardour, vivacity, and wit—may turn E'en guile into a voluntary grace,— But one's old age, when graces drop away And leave guile the pure staple of our lives— Ah, loathsome! Not so—or why pause I? Turin Is mine to have, were I so minded, for The asking ; all the Army's mine—I've witnessed Each private fight beneath me; all the Court's Mine too; and, best of all, my D'Ormea's still His D'Ormea; no! There's some grace clinging yet. Had I decided on this step, ere midnight I'd take the crown. No! Just this step to rise Exhausts me! Here am I arrived: the rest Must be done for me.. Would I could sit here And let things right themselves, the masque unmasque —Of the King, crownless, gray hairs and hot blood,— The young King, crowned, but calm before his time, They say,—the eager woman with her taunts,— And the sad earnest wife who motions me Away—ay, there she knelt to me! E'en yet I can return and sleep at Chambery A dream out. Rather shake it off at Turin, King Victor! Is't to Turin—yes, or no? 'Tis this relentless noonday-lighted chamber, Lighted like life, but silent as the grave, That disconcerts me! There must be the change— No silence last year: some one flung doors wide (Those two great doors which scrutinize me now) And out I went 'mid crowds of men—men talking, Men watching if my lip fell or brow changed; Men saw me safe forth—put me on my road: That makes the misery of this return! Oh, had a battle done it! Had I dropped —Haling some battle, three entire days old, Hither and thither by the forehead—dropped In Spain, in Austria, best of all, in France— Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves, When the spent monster goes upon its knees To pad and pash the prostrate wretch—I, Victor, Sole to have stood up against France—beat down By inches, brayed to pieces finally By some vast unimaginable charge, A flying hell of horse and foot and guns Over me, and all's lost, forever lost, There's no more Victor when the world wakes up! Then silence, as of a raw battle-field, Throughout the world. Then after (as whole days After, you catch at intervals faint noise Thro' the stiff crust of frozen blood)—there creeps A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all, That a strange old man, with face outworn for wounds, Is stumbling on from frontier town to town, Begging a pittance that may help him find His Turin out; what scorn and laughter follow The coin you fling into his cap: and last, Some bright morn, how men crowd about the midst Of the market-place, where takes the old king breath Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate Wide ope! To Turin, yes or no—or no?

[Re-enter Charles with papers.]

Charles. Just as I thought! A miserable falsehood Of hirelings discontented with their pay And longing for enfranchisement! A few Testy expressions of old age that thinks To keep alive its dignity o'er slaves By means that suit their natures! [Tearing them.]              Thus they shake My faith in Victor!

[Turning, he discovers Victor.]

Victor. [after a pause.] Not at Evian, Charles? What's this? Why do you run to close the doors? No welcome for your father?

Charles. [Aside.] Not his voice! What would I give for one imperious tone Of the old sort! That's gone forever.

Victor. Must I ask once more. ..

Charles. No—I concede it, sir! You are returned for. . . true, your health declines True, Chambery's a bleak unkindly spot; You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge— Veneria—or Moncaglier—ay, that's close, And I concede it.

Victor. I received advices Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter Dated from Evian baths. ..

Charles. And you forbore To visit me at Evian, satisfied The work I had to do would fully task The little wit I have, and that your presence Would only disconcert me—

Victor. Charles?

Charles. —Me—set Forever in a foreign course to yours, And. . .          Sir, this way of wile were good to catch, But I have not the sleight of it. The truth! Though I sink under it! What brings you here?

Victor. Not hope of this reception, certainly, From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode Of speech, did I return to bring about Some awfulest calamity!

Charles. —You mean, Did you require your crown again! Oh yes, I should speak otherwise! But turn not that To jesting! Sir, the truth! Your health declines? Is aught deficient in your equipage? Wisely you seek myself to make complaint, And foil the malice of the world which laughs At petty discontents; but I shall care That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak!

Victor. [Aside.] Here is the grateful, much-professing son Who was to worship me, and for whose sake I think to waive my plans of public good! [Aloud.] Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more My crown, were so disposed to plague myself— What would be warrant for this bitterness? I gave it—grant, I would resume it—well?

Charles. I should say simply—leaving out the why And how—you made me swear to keep that crown: And as you then intended. ..

Victor. Fool! What way Could I intend or not intend? As man, With a man's life, when I say "I intend," I can intend up to a certain point, No further. I intended to preserve The Crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole: And if events arise demonstrating The way I took to keep it. rather's like To lose it. ..

Charles. Keep within your sphere and mine! It is God's province we usurp on, else. Here, blindfold thro' the maze of things we walk By a slight thread of false, true, right and wrong; All else is rambling and presumption. I Have sworn to keep this kingdom: there's my truth.

Victor. Truth, boy, is here—within my breast; and in Your recognition of it, truth is, too ; And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing With falsehood, used to carry out the truth, —In its success, this falsehood turns, again, Truth for the world! But you are right: these themes Are over-subtle. I should rather say In such a case, frankly,—it fails, my scheme: I hoped to see you bring about, yourself, What I must bring about: I interpose On your behalf—with my son's good in sight— To hold what he is nearly letting go— Confirm his title—add a grace, perhaps— There's Sicily, for instance,—granted me And taken back, some years since—till I give That island with the rest, my work's half done. For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules. ..

Charles. Our sakes are one—and that, you could not say, Because my answer would present itself Forthwith ;—a year has wrought an age's change: This people's not the people now, you once Could benefit; nor is my policy Your policy.

Victor. [with an outburst.'] I know it! You undo All I have done—my life of toil and care! I left you this the absolutest rule In Europe—do you think I will sit still And see. you throw all power off to the people— See my Sardinia, that has stood apart, Join in the mad and democratic whirl, Whereto I see all Europe haste full-tide? England casts off her kings—France mimics England— This realm I hoped was safe! Yet here I talk, When I can save it, not by force alone, But bidding plagues, which follow sons like you, Fasten upon my disobedient. . . [Recollecting himself.] Surely I could say this—if minded so—my son?

Charles. You could not! Bitterer curses than your curse Have I long since denounced upon myself If I misused my power. In fear of these I entered on those measures—will abide By them: so, I should say, Count Tende. ..

Victor. No! But no! But if, my Charles, your—more than old— Half-foolish father urged these arguments, And then confessed them futile, but said plainly That he forgot his promise, found his strength Fail him, had thought at savage Chambery Too much of brilliant Turin, Rivoli here, And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga— Pined for the pleasant places he had built When he was fortunate and young—

Charles. My father!

Victor. Stay yet—and if he said he could not die Deprived of baubles he had put aside, He deemed, forever—of the Crown that binds Your brain up, whole, sound, and impregnable, Creating kingliness—the Sceptre, too, Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would beat Invaders—and the golden Ball which throbs As if you grasped the palpitating heart Indeed o' the realm, to mould as you may choose! —If I must totter up and down the.streets My sires built, where myself have introduced And fostered laws and letters, sciences, The civil and the military arts— Stay, Charles—I see you letting me pretend To live my former self once more—King Victor, The venturous yet politic—they style me Again, the Father of the Prince—friends wink Good-humouredly at the delusion you So sedulously guard from all rough truths That else would break upon the dotage!—You— Whom now I see preventing my old shame— I tell not, point by cruel point, my tale— For is't not in your breast my brow is hid? Is not your hand extended? Say you not. ..

[Enter D'Ormea, leading in Polyxena.]

Polyxena. [advancing and withdrawing Charles—to Victor.] In this conjuncture, even, he would say— (Tho' with a moistened eye and quivering lip) The suppliant is my father—I must save A great man from himself, nor see him fling His well-earned fame away: there must not follow Ruin so utter, a break-down of worth So absolute: no enemy shall learn, He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself, And, when that child somehow stood danger out, Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles —Body, that's much,—and soul, that's more—and realm, That's most of all! No enemy shall say. ..

D'Ormea. Do you repent, sir?

Victor. [resuming himself.] D'Ormea? This is well! Worthily done, King Charles, craftily done! Judiciously you post these, to o'erhear The little your importunate father thrusts Himself on you to say! Ay, they'll correct The amiable blind facility You showed in answering his peevish suit: What can he need to sue for? Bravely, D'Ormea, Have you fulfilled your office: but for you, The old Count might have drawn some few more livres To swell his income! Had you, Lady, missed The moment, a permission had been granted To build afresh my ruinous old pile— But you remembered properly the list Of wise precautions I took when I gave Nearly as much away—to reap the fruits I should have looked for!

Charles. Thanks, sir: degrade me, So you remain yourself. Adieu!

Victor. I'll not Forget it for the future, nor presume Next time to slight such potent mediators! Had I first moved them both to intercede, I might have had a chamber in Moncaglier —Who knows?

Charles. Adieu!

Victor. You bid me this adieu With the old spirit?

Charles. Adieu!

Victor. Charles—Charles—

Charles. Adieu!

[Victor goes.]

Charles. You were mistaken, Marquis, as you hear! 'Twas for another purpose the Count came. The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order!

D'Ormea. [leisurely.] Your minister has lost your confidence, Asserting late, for his own purposes, Count Tende would. ..

Charles. [flinging his badge back.] Be still our minister! And give a loose to your insulting joy— It irks me more thus stifled than expressed. Loose it!

D'Ormea. There's none to loose, alas!—I see I never am to die a martyr!

Polyxena. Charles!

Charles. No praise, at least, Polyxena—no praise!


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60 rails, if the doctor were not yet come. We told him not. "No?" he repeated with a breathing of anger; and we saw him hurry aft in person.

Ten minutes after the doctor made his appearance deliberately enough and examined our patient with the lantern. He made little of the case, had the man brought aft to the dispensary, dosed him, and sent him forward to his bunk. Two of his neighbours in the steerage had now come to our assistance, expressing loud sorrow that such "a fine cheery body" should be sick; and these, claiming a sort of possession, took him entirely under their own care. The drug had probably relieved him, for he struggled no more, and was led along plaintive and patient, but protesting. His heart recoiled at the thought of the steerage. "O let me lie down upon the bieldy side," he cried; "O dinna take me down!" And again: "O why did ever I come upon this miserable voyage?" And yet once more, with a gasp and a wailing prolongation of the fourth word: "I had no call to come." But there he was; and by the doctor's orders and the kind force of his two shipmates disappeared down the companion of Steerage No. 1 into the den allotted him.

At the foot of our own companion, just where I found Blackwood, Jones and the bo's'un were


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Gudwal


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Guerin, Thomas


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Rh now engaged in talk. This last was a gruff, cruel-looking seaman, who must have passed near half a century upon the seas; square-headed, goat-bearded, with heavy blond eyebrows, and an eye without radiance, but inflexibly steady and hard. I had not forgotten his rough speech; but I remembered also that he had helped us about the lantern; and now seeing him in conversation with Jones, and being choked with indignation, I proceeded to blow off my steam. "Well," said I, "I make you my compliments upon your steward," and furiously narrated what had happened.

"I've nothing to do with him," replied the bo's'un. "They're all alike. They wouldn't mind if they saw you all lying dead one upon the top of another." This was enough. A very little humanity went a long way with me after the experience of the evening. A sympathy grew up at once between the bo's'un and myself; and that night, and during the next few days, I learned to appreciate him better. He was a remarkable type, and not at all the kind of man you find in books. He had been at Sebastopol under English colours; and again in a States ship, "after the Alabama, and praying God we shouldn't find her." He was a high Tory and a high Englishman. No manufacturer could have


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62 held opinions more hostile to the working man and his strikes. "The workmen," he said, "think nothing of their country. They think of nothing but themselves. They're damned greedy, selfish fellows." He would not hear of the decadence of England. "They say they send us beef from America," he argued; "but who pays for it? All the money in the world's in England." The Royal Navy was the best of possible services, according to him. "Anyway the officers are gentlemen," said he; "and you can't get hazed to death by a damned non-commissioned as you can in the army." Among nations, England was the first; then came France. He respected the French navy and liked the French people; and if he were forced to make a new choice in life, "by God, he would try Frenchmen!" For all his looks and rough, cold manners, I observed that children were never frightened by him; they divined him at once to be a friend; and one night when he had chalked his hand and went about stealthily setting his mark on people's clothes, it was incongruous to hear this formidable old salt chuckling over his boyish monkey trick. In the morning my first thought was of the sick man. I was afraid I should not recognise him, so baffling had been the light of the lantern; and found myself unable to decide if he were Scots, English, or Irish. He had certainly employed


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Rh north-country words and elisions; but the accent and the pronunciation seemed unfamiliar and incongruous in my ear. To descend on an empty stomach into Steerage No. 1, was an adventure that required some nerve. The stench was atrocious; each respiration tasted in the throat like some horrible kind of cheese; and the squalid aspect of the place was aggravated by so many people worming themselves into their clothes in the twilight of the bunks. You may guess if I was pleased, not only for him, but for myself also, when I heard that the sick man was better and had gone on deck.

The morning was raw and foggy, though the sun suffused the fog with pink and amber; the fog-horn still blew, stertorous and intermittent; and to add to the discomfort, the seamen were just beginning to wash down the decks. But for a sick man this was heaven compared to the steerage. I found him standing on the hot-water pipe, just forward of the saloon deck house. He was smaller than I had fancied, and plain-looking; but his face was distinguished by strange and fascinating eyes, limpid grey from a distance, but, when looked into, full of changing colours and grains of gold. His manners were mild and uncompromisingly plain; and I soon saw that, when once started, he delighted to talk. His accent and language had been formed in


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64 the most natural way, since he was born in Ireland, had lived a quarter of a century on the banks of Tyne, and was married to a Scots wife. A fisherman in the season, he had fished the east coast from Fisherrow to Whitby. When the season was over, and the great boats, which required extra hands, were once drawn up on shore till the next spring, he worked as a labourer about chemical furnaces, or along the wharves unloading vessels. In this comparatively humble way of life he had gathered a competence, and could speak of his comfortable house, his hayfield, and his garden. On this ship, where so many accomplished artisans were fleeing from starvation, he was present on a pleasure trip to visit a brother in New York. Ere he started, he informed me, he had been warned against the steerage and the steerage fare, and recommended to bring with him a ham and tea and a spice loaf. But he laughed to scorn such counsels. "I'm not afraid," he had told his adviser; "I'll get on for ten days. I've not been a fisherman for nothing." For it is no light matter, as he reminded me, to be in an open boat, perhaps waist-deep with herrings, day breaking with a scowl, and for miles on every hand lee-shores, unbroken, iron-bound, surf-beat, with only here and there an anchorage where you dare not lie, or a harbour impossible to enter with the wind that


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 Rh blows. The life of a North Sea fisher is one long chapter of exposure and hard work and insufficient fare; and even if he makes land at some bleak fisher port, perhaps the season is bad or his boat has been unlucky, and after fifty hours' unsleeping vigilance and toil, not a shop will give him credit for a loaf of bread. Yet the steerage of the emigrant ship had been too vile for the endurance of a man thus rudely trained. He had scarce eaten since he came on board, until the day before, when his appetite was tempted by some excellent pea-soup. We were all much of the same mind on board, and beginning with myself, had dined upon pea-soup not wisely but too well; only with him the excess had been punished, perhaps because he was weakened by former abstinence, and his first meal had resulted in a cramp. He had determined to live henceforth on biscuit; and when, two months later, he should return to England, to make the passage by saloon. The second cabin, after due inquiry, he scouted as another edition of the steerage.

He spoke apologetically of his emotion when ill. "Ye see, I had no call to be here," said he; "and I thought it was by with me last night. I’ve a good house at home, and plenty to nurse me, and I had no real call to leave them." Speaking of the attentions he had received from his shipmates generally,


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66 "they were all so kind," he said, "that there's none to mention." And except in so far as I might share in this, he troubled me with no reference to my services. But what affected me in the most lively manner was the wealth of this day-labourer, paying a two months' pleasure visit to the States, and preparing to return in the saloon, and the new testimony rendered by his story, not so much to the horrors of the steerage as to the habitual comfort of the working classes. One foggy, frosty December evening, I encountered on Liberton Hill, near Edinburgh, an Irish labourer trudging homeward from the fields. Our roads lay together, and it was natural that we should fall into talk. He was covered with mud; an inoffensive, ignorant creature, who thought the Atlantic Cable was a secret contrivance of the masters the better to oppress labouring mankind; and I confess I was astonished to learn that he had nearly three hundred pounds in the bank. But this man had travelled over most of the world, and enjoyed wonderful opportunities on some American railroad, with two dollars a shift and double pay on Sunday and at night; whereas my fellow-passenger had never quitted Tyneside, and had made all that he possessed in that same accursed, down-falling England, whence skilled mechanics, engineers, millwrights, and carpenters


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 Rh were fleeing as from the native country of starvation. Fitly enough, we slid off on the subject of strikes and wages and hard times. Being from the Tyne, and a man who had gained and lost in his own pocket by these fluctuations, he had much to say, and held strong opinions on the subject. He spoke sharply of the masters, and, when I led him on, of the men also. The masters had been selfish and obstructive; the men selfish, silly, and light-headed. He rehearsed to me the course of a meeting at which he had been present, and the somewhat long discourse which he had there pronounced, calling into question the wisdom and even the good faith of the Union delegates; and although he had escaped himself through flush times and starvation times with a handsomely provided purse, he had so little faith in either man or master, and so profound a terror for the unerring Nemesis of mercantile affairs, that he could think of no hope for our country outside of a sudden and complete political subversion. Down must go Lords and Church and Army; and capital, by some happy direction, must change hands from worse to better, or England stood condemned. Such principles, he said, were growing "like a seed."

From this mild, soft, domestic man, these words sounded unusually ominous and grave. I had


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68 heard enough revolutionary talk among my workmen fellow-passengers; but most of it was hot and turgid, and fell discredited from the lips of unsuccessful men. This man was calm; he had attained prosperity and ease; he disapproved the policy which had been pursued by labour in the past; and yet this was his panacea,—to rend the old country from end to end, and from top to bottom, and in clamour and civil discord remodel it with the hand of violence.


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 N the Sunday, among a party of men who were talking in our companion, Steerage Nos. 2 and 3, we remarked a new figure. He wore tweed clothes, well enough made if not very fresh, and a plain smoking-cap. His face was pale, with pale eyes, and spiritedly enough designed; but though not yet thirty, a sort of black-guardly degeneration had already overtaken his features. The fine nose had grown fleshy towards the point, the pale eyes were sunk in fat. His hands were strong and elegant; his experience of life evidently varied; his speech full of pith and nerve; his manners forward, but perfectly presentable. The lad who helped in the second cabin told me, in answer to a question, that he did not know who he was, but thought, "by his way of speaking, and because he was so polite, that he was some one from the saloon."

I was not so sure, for to me there was something equivocal in his air and bearing. He might have been, I thought, the son of some good family who had fallen early into dissipation and run from home.


text: Author:Adolf Gotthard Noreen

title: Author:Adolf Gotthard Noreen


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70 But, making every allowance, how admirable was his talk! I wish you could have heard him tell his own stories. They were so swingingly set forth, in such dramatic language, and illustrated here and there by such luminous bits of acting, that they could only lose in any reproduction. There were tales of the P. and O. Company, where he had been an officer; of the East Indies, where in former years he had lived lavishly; of the Royal Engineers, where he had served for a period; and of a dozen other sides of life, each introducing some vigorous thumb-nail portrait. He had the talk to himself that night, we were all so glad to listen. The best talkers usually address themselves to some particular society; there they are kings, elsewhere camp-followers, as a man may know Russian and yet be ignorant of Spanish; but this fellow had a frank, headlong power of style, and a broad, human choice of subject, that would have turned any circle in the world into a circle of hearers. He was a Homeric talker, plain, strong, and cheerful; and the things and the people of which he spoke became readily and clearly present to the minds of those who heard him. This, with a certain added colouring of rhetoric and, must have been the style of Burns, who equally charmed the ears of duchesses and hostlers. Yet freely and personally as he spoke, many


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Rh points remained obscure in his narration. The Engineers, for instance, was a service which he praised highly; it is true there would be trouble with the sergeants; but then the officers were gentlemen, and his own, in particular, one among ten thousand. It sounded so far exactly like an episode in the rakish, topsy-turvy life of such an one as I had imagined. But then there came incidents more doubtful, which showed an almost impudent greed after gratuities, and a truly impudent disregard for truth. And then there was the tale of his departure. He had wearied, it seems, of Woolwich, and one fine day, with a companion, slipped up to London for a spree. I have a suspicion that spree was meant to be a long one; but God disposes all things; and one morning, near Westminister Bridge, whom should he come across but the very sergeant who had recruited him at first! What followed? He himself indicated cavalierly that he had then resigned. Let us put it so. But these resignations are sometimes very trying. At length, after having delighted us for hours, he took himself away from the companion; and I could ask Mackay who and what he was. "That?" said Mackay. "Why, that's one of the stowaways." "No man," said the same authority, "who has had anything to do with the sea, would ever think


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72 of paying for a passage." I give the statement as Mackay's, without endorsement; yet I am tempted to believe that it contains a grain of truth; and if you add that the man shall be impudent and thievish, or else dead-broke, it may even pass for a fair representation of the facts. We gentlemen of England who live at home at ease have, I suspect, very insufficient ideas on the subject. All the world over, people are stowing away in coal-holes and dark corners, and when ships are once out to sea, appearing again, begrimed and bashful, upon deck. The career of these sea-tramps partakes largely of the adventurous. They may be poisoned by coal-gas, or die by starvation in their place of concealment; or when found they may be clapped at once and ignominiously into irons, thus to be carried to their promised land, the port of destination, and alas! brought back in the same way to that from which they started, and there delivered over to the magistrates and the seclusion of a county jail. Since I crossed the Atlantic, one miserable stowaway was found in a dying state among the fuel, uttered but a word or two, and departed for a farther country than America. When the stowaway appears on deck, he has but one thing to pray for: that he be set to work, which is the price and sign of his forgiveness. After half an hour with a swab or a bucket, he


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Rh feels himself as secure as if he had paid for his passage. It is not altogether a bad thing for the company, who get more or less efficient hands for nothing but a few plates of junk and duff; and every now and again find themselves better paid than by a whole family of cabin passengers. Not long ago, for instance, a packet was saved from nearly certain loss by the skill and courage of a stowaway engineer. As was no more than just, a handsome subscription rewarded him for his success; but even without such exceptional good-fortune, as things stand in England and America, the stowaway will often make a good profit out of his adventure. Four engineers stowed away last summer on the same ship, the Circassia; and before two days after their arrival each of the four had found a comfortable berth. This was the most hopeful tale of emigration that I heard from first to last; and as you see, the luck was for stowaways. My curiosity was much inflamed by what I heard; and the next morning, as I was making the round of the ship, I was delighted to find the ex-Royal Engineer engaged in washing down the white paint of a deck-house. There was another fellow at work beside him, a lad not more than twenty, in the most miraculous tatters, his handsome face sown with grains of beauty and lighted up by expressive eyes. Four stowaways had been found aboard our ship


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Guersye, Balthasar


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74 before she left the Clyde, but these two had alone escaped the ignominy of being put ashore. Alick, my acquaintance of last night, was Scots by birth, and by trade a practical engineer; the other was from Devonshire, and had been to sea before the mast. Two people more unlike by training, character, and habits, it would be hard to imagine; yet here they were together, scrubbing paint.

Alick had held all sorts of good situations, and wasted many opportunities in life. I have heard him end a story with these words: "That was in my golden days, when I used finger-glasses." Situation after situation failed him; then followed the depression of trade, and for months he had hung round with other idlers, playing marbles all day in the West Park, and going home at night to tell his landlady how he had been seeking for a job. I believe this kind of existence was not unpleasant to Alick himself, and he might have long continued to enjoy idleness and a life on tick; but he had a comrade, let us call him Brown, who grew restive. This fellow was continually threatening to slip his cable for the States, and at last, one Wednesday, Glasgow was left widowed of her Brown. Some months afterwards, Alick met another old chum in Sauchiehall Street. "By-the-bye, Alick," said he, "I met a gentleman in New York who was asking for you."


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230, 487, 499, pt. ii. 46, 195, 540, 549, &c.; Strype's Life of Parker (ed. 1824), i. 114, 127, 173, 240, 257, ii. 21, 80, 282, 297, 459, iii. 98, 135, &c.; Strype's Life of Grindal (ed. 1821), pp. 7, 146; Strype's Memorials (ed. 1822), vol. ii. pt. ii. p. 260; Peck's Desiderata Curiosa, p. 262; Burnet's Hist. of Reformation, ii. pt. ii. 220, 473, 509, 776, 806, iii. pt. ii. 356, 399, 564; Ames's Typogr. Antiq. (Dibdin), iii. 567.]  GUEST, EDWIN (1800–1880), historical writer, belonged to an old family long settled at Row Heath, in the parish of King's Norton, Worcestershire, and of which [q. v.], bishop of Salisbury, who died in 1578, was a member. His father was a merchant, who retired from business with a considerable fortune at the close of the Napoleonic wars. His mother, who died when he was a child, belonged to the Scotch family of Rio. He received his early education at King Edward VI's grammar school, Birmingham, under Dr. Cook, then head-master. In deference to his father's wishes he gave up an early desire to enter the army, although to his latest years he took a great interest in military matters. He matriculated at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, in 1819, was eleventh wrangler and B.A. 1824, M.A. 1827, LL.D. 1853, ad eundem D.C.L. Oxford 1853. He was elected fellow of Caius in 1824, and afterwards travelled on the continent, and remained for a year at Weimar, where he made the acquaintance of Goethe. Goethe paid him considerable attention, having been much gratified by receiving from Guest Shelley's translations from 'Faust,' previously unknown to him. Returning to England, where he had been entered at Lincoln's Inn in 1822, he became a pupil in the chambers of Mr. (afterwards Lord) Campbell, and was called to the bar in 1828. He joined the midland circuit, and practised his profession for some years, finally abandoning it to follow literary pursuits. His first published work was the 'History of English Rhythms,' in 1838, a book the compilation of which entailed immense labour, many of the poems having to be consulted in manuscript. Guest was practically the founder of the Philological Society, and was secretary at the inaugural meeting in 1842. Among his coadjutors in this work were Bishop Thirlwall, Professor Key, Mr. Wedgwood, and Dr. Arnold. From time to time he read papers before this society, which his genuine enthusiasm for his subject as well as the severely conscientious accuracy of his work rendered noticeable. He was indefatigable in his study of ancient remains in England, and in tracing the course of historical geography; and for this purpose he was in the habit of walking for miles across country. Before writing his paper on Julius Cæsar's invasion of Britain he carefully surveyed the coast on both sides of the Channel. This brought him under the notice of Napoleon III, at that time engaged upon his 'Life of Cæsar,' who consulted him on several points through M. Alfred Maury. Guest explained his views and opinions very carefully, but Maury received his remarks with the observation, 'It won't suit the emperor.' He was elected F.R.S. in 1839, honorary member of the Society of Antiquaries 1852, and master of Caius College, Cambridge, 1852. He was vice-chancellor 1854-5, during which time Lord John Russell's university commission was sitting. He bought an estate in the parish of Sandford St. Martin, Oxfordshire, and his principal recreation from literary and academic pursuits was found in the careful improvement of his estate, and in the provision of suitable dwelling-houses for his tenants. At Cambridge he was always anxious to promote in every way the interests of his college. Guest was a man of great kindness of heart, unaffected piety, benevolence, and urbanity. At the same time he had considerable firmness and readiness in defending any position he took up. He was an unvacillating conservative and an evangelical churchman. He resigned the mastership of Caius College shortly before his death, which took place at Sandford Park, 23 Nov. 1880. He married, in 1859, Anne, daughter of Mr. Joseph Ferguson, at one time M.P. for Carlisle, and widow of Major Banner, of the 93rd highlanders.

Guest's writings are of exceptional value in the study of Roman-British history, which he may almost be said to have created. Besides 'A History of English Rhythms,' published in 2 vols. in 1838 (2nd edition, 1882, ed. Professor Skeat), he wrote the following papers:—In the 'Transactions of the Philological Society,' vol. i.: 'On Certain Welsh Names of Places preserved in English Compounds;' 'On certain Inflexions of the Old English Adjective;' 'On English Gentile Nouns, and more particularly on their Secondary Uses as Names of Districts;' 'On English Pronouns Indeterminate;' 'On the Ellipsis and on the Pleonastic Use of the Pronoun Personal in English Syntax;' 'On English Pronouns Personal;' vol. ii.: 'On the Ellipsis of the Verb in English Syntax:' 'On the Anomalous Verbs of the English Language;' 'On the Anomalies of the English Verb arising from the Letter Changes;' 'On the English Verb Substantive;' 'On the Ordinary Inflexions of the English Verb;' vol. iii.:' On Orthographical Expedients;' 'On the Elements of Language, their


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Rh "Who was that?" asked Alick. "The new second engineer on board the So-and-so," was the reply.

"Well, and who is he?" "Brown, to be sure."

For Brown had been one of the fortunate quartette aboard the Circassia. If that was the way of it in the States, Alick thought it was high time to follow Brown's example. He spent his last day, as he put it, "reviewing the yeomanry," and the next morning says he to his landlady, "Mrs. X., I'll not take porridge to-day, please; I'll take some eggs." "Why, have you found a job?" she asked, delighted. "Well, yes," returned the perfidious Alick; "I think I'll start to-day."

And so, well lined with eggs, start he did, but for America. I am afraid that landlady has seen the last of him. It was easy enough to get on board in the confusion that attends a vessel's departure; and in one of the dark corners of Steerage No. I, flat in a bunk and with an empty stomach, Alick made the voyage from the Broomielaw to Greenock. That night, the ship's yeoman pulled him out by the heels and had him before the mate. Two other stowaways had already been found and sent ashore;


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76 but by this time darkness had fallen, they were out in the middle of the estuary, and the last steamer had left them till the morning. "Take him to the forecastle and give him a meal," said the mate, "and see and pack him off the first thing to-morrow." In the forecastle he had supper, a good night's rest, and breakfast; and was sitting placidly with a pipe, fancying all was over and the game up for good with that ship, when one of the sailors grumbled out an oath at him, with a "What are you doing there?" and "Do you call that hiding, anyway?" There was need of no more; Alick was in another bunk before the day was older. Shortly before the passengers arrived, the ship was cursorily inspected. He heard the round come down the companion and look into one pen after another, until they came within two of the one in which he lay concealed. Into these last two they did not enter, but merely glanced from without; and Alick had no doubt that he was personally favoured in this escape. It was the character of the man to attribute nothing to luck and but little to kindness; whatever happened to him he had earned in his own right amply; favours came to him from his singular attraction and adroitness, and misfortunes he had always accepted with his eyes open. Half an hour after the searchers had departed, the


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was engraved in his lifetime, and is inserted in Shaw's 'Staffordshire,' i. 308. A token still exists of him, and is described in 'Notes and Queries,' 1st ser. i. 167, 1850. On one side is represented his bust, with the words 'Richard Greene, collector of the Lichfield Museum, died 4 June 1793, aged 77;' on the other appears a Gothic window, lettered 'west porch of Lichfield Cathedral,' 1800.

The Thrale family and Dr. Johnson visited and admired Greene's museum in July 1774. Two years later Johnson and Boswell viewed it together. Boswell admired the 'wonderful collection' with the neat labels, printed at Greene's own press, and the board with the 'names of contributors marked in gold letters.' Boswell took 'a hasty glance' at the addition in 1779. There was printed at Lichfield in 1773 'a descriptive catalogue of the rarities in Mr. Greene's museum at Lichfield,' with a dedication to Ashton Lever,' from whose noble repository some of the most curious of the rarities had been drawn.' In the five-paged list of benefactors to the collection occur the names of Boulton of Soho Works, Birmingham, Doctor Darwin, Charles Darwin, Peter Garrick, Dr. Johnson, Pennant, Pegge, Dr. Taylor of Ashbourne, and Dr. Withering. A 'general syllabus of its contents' and a second edition of the catalogue were published in 1782. The third edition was issued in 1786. In 1773 the collection was rich in coins, crucifixes, watches, and specimens of natural history; by 1786 it had been augmented by additions of minerals, orreries, deeds and manuscripts, missals, muskets, and specimens of armour. It also contained numerous curiosities from the South Sea Islands, which had been given by David Samwell, surgeon of the Discovery, to Miss Seward, who transferred them to Greene, and thus enabled him to obtain a medal struck off by the Royal Society in honour of Captain Cook. A few years after Greene's death the collection was broken up. In 1799 his son sold the fossils and minerals to Sir John St. Aubyn for 100l. Next year Bullock bought for a hundred and fifty guineas the arms and armour which were first exhibited at his museum in the Egyptian Hall, and were afterwards added to the collections of Sir Samuel Meyrick and in the Tower of London. Nearly the whole of the remaining curiosities were sold for 600l. to Walter Honeywood Yates of Bromsberrow Place, near Gloucester, who made many additions, and in 1801 printed a catalogue of the whole. Most of these afterwards became the property of Richard Wright, surgeon at Lichfield (who was Greene's grandson, being the fifth son of the daughter who married William Wright), and at his death in 1821 the complete contents of his house were again scattered. Greene was a frequent contributor to the pages of the 'Gentleman's Magazine.' A woodcut from his sketch of a tombstone found in 1746 among the ruins of the friary at Lichfield appeared in its number for September 1746, p. 465; and so late in his life as 1790 he communicated to it a notice of a manual of devotion, written on vellum, and formerly belonging to Catherine Parr, the last wife of Henry VIII. A list of many of these articles, and several of his letters on antiquarian topics are printed by Nichols. Stebbing Shaw was favoured by Greene's son with the loan of some valuable manuscripts and plates from the museum for use in his ‘History of Staffordshire,’ and he embodied in his account of Lichfield a description of the collection. When Johnson was desirous of placing an epitaph for his father, mother, and brother on the spot in the middle aisle in St. Michael's Church at Lichfield, where their bones rested, he sent the lines to Greene. Greene contributed some anecdotes of Johnson to 'Johnsoniana' (, 1835, ed. ix. 248).

[Nichols's Illustrations of Lit. vi. 313-26; Boswell (Napier's ed.), ii. 280, (Hill's ed.) ii. 465, iii. 412, iv. 393; Gent. Mag. 1793, pt. i. 579, pt. ii. 772, 859; Shaw's Staffordshire, i. pp. x, 254-6, 308, 330-2, App. ii. 9; Harwood's Lichfield, pp. 434, 436; Art Journal (by Ll. Jewitt), 1872, pp. 306-8.]  GREENE, ROBERT (1560?–1592), pamphleteer and dramatist, was born in Norwich about 1560 (not 1550 as Dyce supposed). In his 'Repentance' he states that his parents were respected for their gravity and honest life. He was matriculated as a sizar of St. John's College, Cambridge, on 26 Nov. 1575, proceeded B.A. 1578-9, migrated to Clare Hall, where he took the degree of M.A. in 1583, and was incorporated at Oxford in July 1588. From his 'Repentance' we learn that after proceeding B.A. he travelled in Italy and Spain; and from 'A Notable Discouery of Coosnage' it may be gathered that he visited Denmark and Poland. He acknowledges that he led a dissolute life abroad. 'At my return into England,' he writes, 'I ruffeled out in my silks in the habit of Malecontent, and seemed so discontent that no place would please me to abide in, nor no vocation cause mee to stay myselfe in' (Repentance). He probably returned in 1580, for the first part of 'Mamillia: A Mirrour or Looking-glasse for the Ladies of Englande,' 4to, was entered in the 'Stationers' Register' (, Transcript, ii. 378) on 3 Oct. of that year, though the earliest extant edition (Bodleian) is dated 1583. The


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Rh steerage began to fill with legitimate passengers, and the worst of Alick's troubles was at an end. He was soon making himself popular, smoking other people's tobacco, and politely sharing their private stock of delicacies, and when night came he retired to his bunk beside the others with composure. Next day by afternoon, Lough Foyle being already far behind, and only the rough north-western hills of Ireland within view, Alick appeared on deck to court inquiry and decide his fate. As a matter of fact, he was known to several on board, and even intimate with one of the engineers; but it was plainly not the etiquette of such occasions for the authorities to avow their information. Every one professed surprise and anger on his appearance, and he was led prisoner before the captain.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" inquired the captain. "Not much," said Alick; "but when a man has been a long time out of a job, he will do things he would not under other circumstances." "Are you willing to work?"

Alick swore he was burning to be useful. "And what can you do?" asked the captain. He replied composedly that he was a brass-fitter by trade.


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78 "I think you will be better at engineering?" suggested the officer, with a shrewd look. "No, sir," says Alick simply.—"There's few can beat me at a lie," was his engaging commentary to me as he recounted the affair.

"Have you been to sea?" again asked the captain.

"I've had a trip on a Clyde steamboat, sir, but no more," replied the unabashed Alick. "Well, we must try and find some work for you," concluded the officer. And hence we behold Alick, clear of the hot engine-room, lazily scraping paint and now and then taking a pull upon a sheet. "You leave me alone," was his deduction. "When I get talking to a man, I can get round him." The other stowaway, whom I will call the Devonian—it was noticeable that neither of them told his name—had both been brought up and seen the world in a much smaller way. His father, a confectioner, died and was closely followed by his mother. His sisters had taken, I think, to dress-making. He himself had returned from sea about a year ago and gone to live with his brother, who kept the "George Hotel"—"it was not quite a real hotel," added the candid fellow—"and had a hired man to mind the horses." At first the Devonian was very welcome; but as time went on


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greene, Maurice


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Johnson, Samuel (college president)

JOHNSON, Samuel, American college president, first president of King's College (now Columbia University): b. Guilford, Conn, 14 Oct. 1696;  d. Stratford, Conn., 6 June 1772. He was graduated at Yale College in 1714, and two years later appointed tutor there. In 1718 he resigned to receive ordination as a Congregational minister, and settled at West Haven. He relinquished his charge in 1722 and soon after sailed for England; where he received Episcopal ordination in 1723. Shortly after he returned to America, bearing a commission as missionary of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, and settled in Stratford, Conn., as rector of an Episcopal church there. In 1743 he received the degree of D.D. from the University of Oxford. In 1746 he published ‘A System of Morality,’ and in 1752 a compend of logic and metaphysics, and another of ethics; the two latter were printed in Philadelphia by Franklin as textbooks for the University of Pennsylvania. In 1755 he was offered the presidency of that university, but declined it. In 1753 he was invited to accept the presidency of the newly founded King's College in New York, in all the plans for which he had been consulted. He did so, but in 1763 resigned and returned to Stratford, where he resumed his parochial duties, revised his previous works and published an ‘English and a Hebrew Grammar’ (1767). Johnson carried on long controversies upholding apostolic succession and divine sovereignty. Consult Beardsley, ‘Life of Samuel Johnson, D.D.’ (New York 1876), and Chandler, ‘Life of Samuel Johnson’ (London 1824).


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Greene, Robert (1678?-1730)74 Greene, Thomas (d. 1780) See under Green, Thomas, D.D. (1658-1738). Greenfield, John. See Groenveldt. Greenfield, William of (d. 1315)74 Greenfield, William (1799-1831)76 Greenhalgh, John (d. 1651)77 Greenham or Grenham, Richard (1535?- 1594?)77 Greenhill, Henry (1646-1708). See under Greenhill, John. Greenhill, John (1644?-1676)78 Greenhill, Joseph (1704-1788)79 Greenhill, Thomas (1681-1740?)80 Greenhill, William (1591-1671)80 Greenhow, Edward Headlam (1814-1888)81 Greenough, George Bellas (1778-1855)81 Greenway, Oswald (1565-1635). See Tesi- mond. Greenwell, Dora (1821-1882)82 Greenwell, Sir Leonard (1781-1844)83 Greenwich, Duke of. See Campbell, John, second Duke of Argyll (1678-1743). Greenwood, James (d. 1737)83 Greenwood, John (d. 1593)84 Greenwood, John (d. 1609)85 Greenwood, John (1727-1792)85 Greer, Samuel MacCurdy (1810-1880)86 Greeting, Thomas (fl. 1675)86 Greg, Percy (1836-1889)86 Greg, Robert Hyde (1795-1875)87 Greg, Samuel (1804-1876)87 Greg, William Rathbone (1809-1881)88 Gregan, John Edgar (1813-1855)89 Gregg, John, D.D. (1798-1878)89 Gregor, William (1761-1817)89 Gregor, cacique of Poyais (d. 1886). See Macgregor, Sir Gregor, bart. Gregory the Great (d. 889)90 Gregory of Caergwent or Winchester (fl. 1270)91 Gregory of Huntingdon (fl. 1290)91 Gregory, Mrs. (d. 1790?). See Mrs. Fitz- henry. Gregory, Barnard (1796-1852)92 Gregory, David (1661-1708)93 Gregory, David (1627-1720)94 Gregory, David (1696-1767)95 Gregory, Donald (d. 1836)95 Gregory, Duncan Farquharson (1813-1844)96 Gregory, Edmund (fl. 1646)96 Gregory, Francis, D.D. (1625?-1707)96 Gregory, George, D.D. (1754-1808)97 Gregory, George (1790-1853)97 Gregory, James (1638-1675)98 Gregory, James (1753-1821)99 Gregory, John (1607-1646)101 Gregory, John (1724-1773)102 Gregory, Olinthus Gilbert, LL.D. (1774- 1841)103 Gregory, William (d. 1467)103 Gregory, William (fl. 1520)104 Gregory, William (d. 1663)104 Gregory, Sir William (1624-1696)104 Gregory, William (1803-1858)105 Gregson, Matthew (1749-1824)105 Greig, Alexis Samuilovich (1775-1845)106 Greig, John (1759-1819)106 Greig, Sir Samuel (1735-1788)106 Greisley, Henry (1615?-1678)107 Greisley, Sir Roger (1801-1837). See Gresley. Grellan, Saint (fl. 500)108 Grene, Christopher (1629-1697)108 Grene, Martin (1616-1667)109 Grenfell, John Pascoe (1800-1869)109 Grenfell, Pascoe (1761-1838)110 Grenville. See also Granville. Grenville, Sir Bevil (1596-1643)110 Grenville, Denis (1637-1703)112 Grenville, George (1712-1770)113 Grenville, George Nugent-Temple-, first Mar- quis of Buckingham (1753-1813)117 Grenville, George Nugent, Baron Nugent of Carlanstown, co. Westmeath (1788-1850)119 Grenville, John, Earl of Bath (1628-1701)120 Grenville or Greynvile, Sir Richard (1541?- 1591)122 Grenville, Sir Richard (1600-1658)124 Grenville, Richard Temple, afterwards Gren- ville-Temple, Richard, Earl Temple (1711- 1779)127 Grenville, Richard Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos, fir-t Duke of Buckingham and Chandos (1776-1839)129 Grenville, Richard Plantagenet Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos, second Duke of Buckingham and Chandos (1797-1861)130 Grenville, Richard Plantagenet Campbell Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos, third Duke of Buckingham and Chandos (1823- 1889)131 Grenville, Thomas (1719-1747)132 Grenville, Thomas (1755-1846)132 Grenville, William Wyndham, Baron Gren- ville (1759-1834)133 Gresham, James (fl. 1626)138 Gresham, Sir John (d. 1556). See under Gresham, Sir Richard. Gresham, Sir Richard (1485?-1549)139 Gresham, Sir Thomas (1519?-1579)142 Gresley or Greisley. Sir Roger (1799-1837)153 Gresley, William (1801-1876)153 Gresse, John Alexander (1741-1794)155 Gresswell, Dan (1819-1883)155 Greswell, Edward (1797-1869)156 Greswell, Richard (1800-1881)156 Greswell, William Parr (1765-1854)157 Gretton, William (1736-1813)157 Greville, Algernon Frederick (1798-1864)157 Greville, Charles Cavendish Fulke (1794- 1865)158 Greville, Sir Fulke, first Lord Brooke (1554- 1628)159 Greville, Henry William (1801-1872)163 Greville, Robert, second Lord Brooke (1608- 1643)163 Greville, Robert Kaye, LL.D. (1794-1866)164 Grew, Jonathan (1626-1711). See under Grew, Obadiah, D.D. Grew, Nehemiah (1641-1712)166 Grew, Obadiah, D.D. (1607-1689)168 Grey. See also Gray. Grey, Anchitell (d. 1702)169 Grey, Arthur, fourteenth Lord Grey de Wil- ton (1536-1593)169 Grey, Lady Catherine. See Seymour. Grey, Charles, first Earl Grey (1729-1807)172 Grey, Charles, second Earl Grey, Viscount Howick, and Baron Grey (1764-1845)173 Grey, Charles (1804-1870)179 Grey, Sir Charles Edward (1785-1865)180 Grey, Edmund. first Earl of Kent (1420?-1489)180 Grey, Elizabeth, Countess of Kent (1581- 1651)181