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BARTOLOZZI,, engraver. Son of the foregoing, and of some reputation in the same profession, but was indolent—an enthusiast for music rather than engraving. He was the father of Madame Vestris, of stage celebrity. He engraved a portrait of Madame Becamier, after Conway. R.A., and of Mrs. Rudd. who was tried for forgery 1775. He died August 25, 1821, aged 64.

BARTON, ——, portrait painter. An artist of this name painted a portrait of George I., of which Bromley catalogues an engraving.

BASEVI,, architect. He was educated at the well-known school kept by Dr. Burney at Greenwich and then entering Sir John Soane's office in 1810, was for six years his pupil. At the end of this time he travelled, and studied during three years, in Italy and Greece; on his return he soon gained notice, and Belgrave Square, the great building speculation of the day, was erected after his designs in 1825. His principal work is the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge, in the florid Italian style, designed in competition in 1835. He built a small church at Twickenham, St. Mary's Church at Greenwich, and also a church at Brompton and at Hove. The Elizabethan Hall at Brighton is by him, and he was the joint architect, with Mr. Sydney Smirke, of the Conservative Club in Pall Mall. His death was accidental. He was engaged to inspect the Bell Tower of Ely Cathedral, then undergoing repair, and while lost in the consideration of its fine construction, he stepped from a beam on which he was standing, and falling to the floor, was killed on the spot, October 16, 1845. aged 51.

BASIRE,, engraver. Born 1704. He lived near St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell, and has been styled a map engraver. He engraved the frontispiece to an edition of Bailey's 'Dictionary,' published 1755. Died August 24, 1768.

BASIRE,, engraver. Son of the foregoing. Born October 6, 1730. Brought up to his father's profession, he was assisted in his studies by Richard Dalton; went with him to Italy, and made drawings in Rome after Raphael. He was appointed engraver to the Society of Antiquaries about 1760, and to the Royal Society about 1770. He was member of the Free Society of Artists, and acted as their secretary. The best specimens of his works are the beautiful plates in the 'Vetusta Monumenta' published by the Antiquarian Society, and the royal portraits and other plates in the 'Sepulchral Monuments.' He also engraved 'Pylades and Orestes' after West; a large plate from 'The Field of the Golden Cloth,' after the painting at Hampton Court; many plates for Stuart's 'Athens;' and some fine portraits of distinguished men. He died in his house in Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, September 6, 1802, and was buried in a vault under Pentonville ChapeL He was noted for the correctness of his drawing and the fidelity of his burin.

BASIRE,, engraver. Son and grandson of the foregoing, and succeeded his father in his art Born November 12, 1769. He was engraver to the Royal Society and the Society of Antiquaries, and inherited the abilities of his father. His best works are 'The Cathedrals' from Mr. John Carter's drawings. He died at Chigwell Wells, May 13, 1822.

BASIRE,, engraver. Son of the above, and fourth in succession following the same profession. He was born in 1796, and early acquired excellence as a draftsman and engraver. He was much employed by the Society of Antiquaries, and engraved many of the plates for Gough's 'English Cathedrals.' He died in London, May 17, 1869.

BASSETT,, architect.- Student of the Royal Academy. Gained the gold medal in 1825 for his design for a National Gallery. He was from that time an occasional exhibitor at the Academy, and about 1839 was professionally employed on the Southampton estate. In 1844 he exhibited his last contribution, a 'Model of Italian Villas,' then erecting after his designs.

BASTON,, marine painter. Attained some eminence. Several of his representations of ships-of-war and shipping have been engraved. He etched some of ms own designs, and published in 1721 nine plates of sea views.

BATEMAN,, animal painter. He was born in London in 1814, and in 1841 was, for the first time, an exhibitor at the Royal Academy, and continued a contributor till his death. His subjects were the humorous treatment of animals, and were very cleverly chosen, as well as the titles he gave to them. He died at Holloway, March 24, 1848.

BATEMAN,, engraver. Born at Chester. Drew and engraved with much spirit many of the ancient buildings in that city. He died at Shrewsbury, April 27, 1833, aged 27.

BATLEY, ——, engraver. He practised in mezzotint about 1770, and was chiefly employed upon portraits.

BATLEY,, architect. He is


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Rienzi, der Letzte der Tribunen

RIENZI,. An opera in five acts, text and music by Richard Wagner, first produced at Dresden, October 20, 1842. The libretto is founded upon Bulwer's novel of the same title, whose story it follows in the essential particulars. It is the last of Wagner's works in the purely operatic style, for thereafter, in the Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, and the Ring, Wagner adhered more and more rigidly to his music-drama principles. The music is characterized by melody, and a series of dramatic climaxes whose treatment is reminiscent of the Meyerbeer school.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Riepenhausen, Franz and Johannes

RIEPENHAUSEN, rē'pen-hou'zen, (1786-1831) and (1789-1860). German painters and engravers, born at Göttingen, sons and pupils of Ernst Ludwig Riepenhausen (1765-1840, favorably known through his engravings after Hogarth). In 1804 they studied under Tischbein at the Academy in Cassel, then in Dresden, and in 1807 went in Tieck's company to Rome, where they settled permanently and devoted themselves chiefly to the study of Raphael's works. Besides many religious paintings they produced conjointly the “Glorification of Raphael,” and for the Guelph Hall at Hanover “Henry the Lion Protecting Frederick Barbarossa Against the Romans.” They also collaborated in drawings to Goethe's Faust, in episodes from the life of Charlemagne, in 14 etchings, illustrating the “Life and Death of Saint Genevieve” (1806), a Geschichte der Malerei in Italien, with 24 outline drawings after Italian masters before Perugino (1810), and a series of drawings after the paintings of Polygnotus at Delphi, according to Pausanias. After the death of Franz, Johannes published a “Vita di Raffaello” in 14 plates, for which they had composed the drawings together, and also executed several large paintings such as “Raphael's Death” (1836), “Destruction of the Cenei Family” (1839), and others. Consult Andresen, Die deutschen Maler-Radirer des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts (Leipzig, 1872).


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter IX

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter IX


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter X

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter X


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RS. BRIAN started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes.

“What’s he done?” she inquired. “What’s he done? Tom’s not done anything!”

“Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak to him.”

Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr. Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.

Then Mrs. Brian’s voice mingled with that of her husband, and both became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room. His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room. Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry overlay this home.

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 “What’s up?” inquired the new arrival.

The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly.

“Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No”—as Mrs. Brian sought to enter behind her husband—“I wish to speak with you, privately.”

“Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder—and Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.

“Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the depot, to-day?”

“No.”

“But you have heard that there’s an inquiry?”

“I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been in bed.”

“We won’t argue about that. I’ll simply put a question to you: Where did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions at twelve o’clock last night?”

“Palace Mansions!” muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. “What d’you mean? What Palace Mansions?”

“Don’t quibble!” warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him. “This is not a matter of a loss of license; it’s a life job!”

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 “Life job!” whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed, so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new, vulgar veneer.

“Answer my questions straight and square and I’ll take your word that you have not seen the inquiry!” said Dunbar.

“Dick Hamper’s done this for me!” muttered Brian. “He’s a dirty, low swine! Somebody’ll do for him one night!”

“Leave Hamper out of the question,” snapped Dunbar. “You put down a fare at Palace Mansions at twelve o’clock last night?”

For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in him, or the evil—a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution pending—respect for the law, or fear of its might—decided his course.

“I did.”

“It was a man?”

Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar’s eyes upon his face, he chose not to lie.

“It was a woman.”

“How was she dressed?”

“In a fur motor-coat—civet fur.”

The man of culture spoke in those two words, “civet fur”; and Dunbar nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the evidence.

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 “Was she alone?”

“She was.”

“What fare did she pay you?”

“The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-crown.”

“Did she appear to be ill?”

“Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening dress. She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to get into the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind her all the time.”

Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.

“She told you to wait!” he asserted, positively.

Brian looked to right and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, and taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck. Then:—

“She did—yes,” he admitted.

“But you were bribed to drive away? Don’t deny it! Don’t dare to trifle with me, or by God! you’ll spend the night in Brixton Jail!”

“It was made worth my while,” muttered Brian, his voice beginning to break, “to hop it.”

“Who paid you to do it?”

“A man who had followed all the way in a big car.”

“That’s it! Describe him!”

“I can’t! No, no! you can threaten as much

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 as you like, but I can’t describe him. I never saw his face. He stood behind me on the near side of the cab, and just reached forward and pushed a fiver under my nose.”

Inspector Dunbar searched the speaker’s face closely—and concluded that he was respecting the verity.

“How was he dressed?”

“In black, and that’s all I can tell you about him.”

“You took the money?”

“I took the money, yes”…

“What did he say to you?”

“Simply: ‘Drive off.’”

“Did you take him to be an Englishman from his speech?”

“No; he was not an Englishman. He had a foreign accent.”

“French? German?”

“No,” said Brian, looking up and meeting the glance of the fierce eyes. “Asiatic!”

Inspector Dunbar, closely as he held himself in hand, started slightly.

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly. Before I—when I was younger—I traveled in the East, and I know the voice and intonation of the cultured Oriental.”

“Can you place him any closer than that?”

“No, I can’t venture to do so.” Brian’s

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 was becoming, momentarily, more nearly that of a gentleman. “I might be leading you astray if I ventured a guess, but if you asked me to do so, I should say he was a Chinaman.”

“A Chinaman?” Dunbar’s voice rose excitedly.

“I think so.”

“What occurred next?”

“I turned my cab and drove off out of the Square.”

“Did you see where the man went?”

“I didn’t. I saw nothing of him beyond his hand.”

“And his hand?”

“He wore a glove.”

“And now,” said Dunbar, speaking very slowly, “where did you pick up your fare?”

“In Gillingham Street, near Victoria Station.”

“From a house?”

“Yes, from Nurse Proctor’s.”

“Nurse Proctor’s! Who is Nurse Proctor?”

Brian shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner, which obviously belonged to an earlier phase of existence.

“She keeps a nursing home,” he said—“for ladies.”

“Do you mean a maternity home?”

“Not exactly; at least I don’t think so. Most of her clients are society ladies, who stay there periodically.”

“What are you driving at?” demanded Dunbar.

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 “I have asked you if it is a maternity home.”

“And I have replied that it isn’t. I am only giving you facts; you don’t want my surmises.”

“Who hailed you?”

“The woman did—the woman in the fur coat. I was just passing the door very slowly when it was flung open with a bang, and she rushed out as though hell were after her. Before I had time to pull up, she threw herself into my cab and screamed: ‘Palace Mansions! Westminster!’ I reached back and shut the door, and drove right away.”

“When did you see that you were followed?”

“We were held up just outside the music hall, and looking back, I saw that my fare was dreadfully excited. It didn’t take me long to find out that the cause of her excitement was a big limousine, three or four back in the block of traffic. The driver was some kind of an Oriental, too, although I couldn’t make him out very clearly.”

“Good!” snapped Dunbar; “that’s important! But you saw nothing more of this car?”…

“I saw it follow me into the Square.”

“Then where did it wait?”

“I don’t know; I didn’t see it again.”

Inspector Dunbar nodded rapidly.

“Have you ever driven women to or from this Nurse Proctor’s before?”

“On two other occasions, I have driven ladies who came from there. I knew they came from there, because it got about amongst us that the tall

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 woman in nurse’s uniform who accompanied them was Nurse Proctor.”

“You mean that you didn’t take these women actually from the door of the house in Gillingham Street, but from somewhere adjacent?”

“Yes; they never take a cab from the door. They always walk to the corner of the street with a nurse, and a porter belonging to the house brings their luggage along.”

“The idea is secrecy?”

“No doubt. But as I have said, the word was passed round.”

“Did you know either of these other women?”

“No; but they were obviously members of good society.”

“And you drove them?”

“One to St. Pancras, and one to Waterloo,” said Brian, dropping back somewhat into his coarser style, and permitting a slow grin to overspread his countenance.

“To catch trains, no doubt?”

“Not a bit of it! To meet trains!”

“You mean?”

“I mean that their own private cars were waiting for them at the arrival platform as I drove ’em up to the departure platform, and that they simply marched through the station and pretended to have arrived by train!”

Inspector Dunbar took out his notebook and

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, and began to tap his teeth with the latter, nodding his head at the same time.

“You are sure of the accuracy of your last statement?” he said, raising his eyes to the other.

“I followed one of them,” was the reply, “and saw her footman gravely take charge of the luggage which I had just brought from Victoria; and a pal of mine followed the other—the Waterloo one, that was.”

Inspector Dunbar scribbled busily. Then:—

“You have done well to make a clean breast of it,” he said. “Take a straight tip from me. Keep off the drink!”

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T was in the afternoon of this same day—a day so momentous in the lives of more than one of London’s millions—that two travelers might have been seen to descend from a first-class compartment of the Dover boat-train at Charing Cross.

They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite the wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their countenances, seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon mutual amiability and worldly common sense. The traveler first to descend and gallantly to offer his hand to his companion in order to assist her to the platform, was the one whom a casual observer would first have noted.

He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his youth, and somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was nothing unwieldy, and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or carriage. He wore a French traveling-coat, conceived in a style violently Parisian, and composed of a wonderful check calculated to have blinded any cutter in Savile Row. From beneath its gorgeous folds protruded

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 the extremities of severely creased cashmere trousers, turned up over white spats which nestled coyly about a pair of glossy black boots. The traveler’s hat was of velour, silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its silken band. One glimpse of the outfit must have brought the entire staff of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.

But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy lines, clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about the jaw and lips helped to accentuate the virile strength of the long, flexible mouth, which could be humorous, which could be sorrowful, which could be grim. In the dark eyes of the man lay a wealth of experience, acquired in a lifelong pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands. His dark brows were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed with gray.

Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and who sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.

She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine vigor, redeemed and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the kindliest imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never married, who despised, or affected to despise, members of the other sex, but who had never learned to hate them; who had never grown soured, but who found the world a garden of heedless children—of

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 who called for mothering. Her athletic figure was clothed in a “sensible” tweed traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat pressed well on to her head, and brown boots with the flattest heels conceivable. Add to this a Scotch woolen muffler, and a pair of woolen gloves, and you have a mental picture of the second traveler—a truly incongruous companion for the first.

Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the two chatted together animatedly, both speaking English, and the man employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words which nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He spoke with an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in one who has learned his English in Paris.

The irritating formalities which beset the returning traveler—and the lady distinctly was of the readily irritated type—were smoothed away by the magic personality of her companion. Porters came at the beck of his gloved hand; guards, catching his eye, saluted and were completely his servants; ticket inspectors yielded to him the deference ordinarily reserved for directors of the line.

Outside the station, then, her luggage having been stacked upon a cab, the lady parted from her companion with assurances, which were returned, that she should hope to improve the acquaintance.

The address to which the French gentleman

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 requested the cabman to drive, was that of a sound and old-established hotel in the neighborhood of the Strand, and at no great distance from the station.

Then, having stood bareheaded until the cab turned out into the traffic stream of that busy thoroughfare, the first traveler, whose baggage consisted of a large suitcase, hailed a second cab and drove to the Hotel Astoria—the usual objective of Americans.

Taking leave of him for the moment, let us follow the lady.

Her arrangements were very soon made at the hotel, and having removed some of the travel-stains from her person and partaken of one cup of China tea, respecting the quality whereof she delivered herself of some caustic comments, she walked down into the Strand and mounted to the top of a Victoria bound ’bus.

That she was not intimately acquainted with London, was a fact readily observable by her fellow passengers; for as the ’bus went rolling westward, from the large pocket of her Norfolk jacket she took out a guide-book provided with numerous maps, and began composedly to consult its complexities.

When the conductor came to collect her fare, she had made up her mind, and was replacing the guidebook in her pocket.

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 “Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor,” she directed, and handed him a penny—the correct fare.

It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the American lady’s leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy work-room, Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She stood up, mechanically rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.

She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat upon a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which consisted at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which disfigured the green carpet of the lawn.

Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled, quivering, upon the girl’s lashes. Almost unconsciously, for it was an established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the tea-tray beside her upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two more appeared in turn upon her lashes.

The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two talkative companions. As the last fragments dropped from the girl’s white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly—very slowly—her head sank down, pillowed upon her arms.

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 For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square. Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.

She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her pretty nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with the powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry Leroux’s flat.

In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore her hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.

“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen—“are you leaving?”

“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.

“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”

“He’ll have to do the best he can. Cook’s goin’ too!”

“What! cook is going?”

“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.

And the cook appeared beside the maid.

“But whatever—” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve no good end by such an attitude: “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”

Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the landing, to inquire in an abysmal

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 tone, if “them boxes was ready to be took.” Helen Cumberly forestalled an insolent refusal which the cook, by furtive wink, counseled to the housemaid.

“Don’t trouble,” she said, with an easy dignity reminiscent of her father. “I will announce myself.”

She passed the servants, crossed the lobby, and rapped upon the study door.

“Come in,” said the voice of Henry Leroux.

Helen opened the door. The place was in semi-darkness, objects being but dimly discernible. Leroux sat in his usual seat at the writing-table. The room was in the utmost disorder, evidently having received no attention since its overhauling by the police. Helen pressed the switch, lighting the two lamps.

Leroux, at last, seemed in his proper element: he exhibited an unhealthy pallor, and it was obvious that no razor had touched his chin for at least three days. His dark blue eyes—the eyes of a dreamer—were heavy and dull, with shadows pooled below them. A biscuit-jar, a decanter and a syphon stood half buried in papers on the table.

“Why, Mr. Leroux!” said Helen, with a deep note of sympathy in her voice—“you don’t mean to say”…

Leroux rose, forcing a smile to his haggard face.

“You see—much too good,” he said. “Altogether—too good.”…

“I thought I should find you here,” continued the

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Rh a curve, divided from it by columns and arches, the former with carved capitals of the end of the twelfth century, but with one or two of an earlier date. The entrance is a superb specimen of Byzantine-Romanesque work. The carving in tufa is delicate, and every portion of surface not sculptured is inlaid with mosaic. The chancel is the oldest part of the church, and may possibly belong to the original structure consecrated in 980; but all the rest is two centuries later, and the tower is a copy in small of that of the cathedral.

How did the builders of those days construct churches and donjons on the tops of these obelisks? The Rabbis say that an angel can pirouette on the point of a needle, but the work done here is more wonderful than that of balancing for a few minutes on an acute point, for the masons had to fill in all the rifts of the rock so as to form a terrace on which to build. They must have been let down in cradles. As to the tower, it was probably built up from within, as is done nowadays with a factory chimney. On a lower level than the doorway are the ruins of the habitation of the chaplain who served the church. He could obtain plenty of fresh air there to fill his lungs, but could not get exercise to circulate his blood, save by running up and down the stair in the face of the rock.

On the way up to the chapel may be noticed recesses cut out of the cliff. These formerly contained statues of saintly helpers in all kinds of difficult and unpleasant situations. Among these was S. Wilgefortis, a young lady with beard and moustache, much invoked by women with vexatious husbands, who wanted to be rid of them. A fine statue of her is in Henry VII.'s Chapel at Westminster. The Huguenots destroyed all these


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 girl, firmly; “but I did not anticipate—” she indicated the chaos about—“this! The insolence, the disgraceful, ungrateful insolence, of those women!”

“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Leroux, waving his hand vaguely; “never mind—never mind! They—er—they…I don’t want them to stop…and, believe me, I am—er—perfectly comfortable!”

“You should not be in—this room, at all. In fact, you should go right away.”…

“I cannot…my wife may—return—at any moment.” His voice shook. “I—am expecting her return—hourly.”…

His gaze sought the table-clock; and he drew his lips very tightly together when the pitiless hands forced upon his mind the fact that the day was marching to its end.

Helen turned her head aside, inhaling deeply, and striving for composure.

“Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you,” she said, quietly; “and you must dine with us.”

The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.

“You are much too good,” whispered Leroux, again; and the weary eyes glistened with a sudden moisture. “Thank you! Thank you! But—er—I could not dream of disturbing”…

“Mr. Leroux,” said Helen, with all her old firmness—“Garnham is coming down immediately to put the place in order! And, whilst he is doing so,

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 you are going to prepare yourself for a decent, Christian dinner!”

Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he lacked something; that his success—a wholly inartistic one—had yielded him little gratification; that the comfort of his home was a purely monetary product and not in any sense atmospheric. He had schooled himself to believe that he liked loneliness—loneliness physical and mental, and that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-loving girl, he had insured an ideal ménage. Furthermore, he honestly believed that he worshiped his wife; and with his present grief at her unaccountable silence was mingled no atom of reproach.

But latterly he had begun to wonder—in his peculiarly indefinite way he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a product of thwarted ambition?—for, whilst he slaved, scrupulously, upon “Martin Zeda,” he loathed every deed and every word of that Old Man of the Sea. Or could it be that his own being—his nature of Adam—lacked something which wealth, social position, and Mira, his wife, could not yield to him?

Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly—a tone different from that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew—a tone which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon

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 the state of the room—set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a lute. He felt a hot flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He feared to raise his eyes.

“Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.

Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy head and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She smiled a bit unnaturally; then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and Henry Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a vice-like grip, looked hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic whilst into his own came the light of a great and sorrowful understanding.

“God bless you,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”

Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until she was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:—

“Garnham shall come down immediately. Don’t be late for dinner!” she called—and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice, of the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious womanhood.

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OT venturing to turn on the light, not daring to look upon her own face in the mirror, Helen Cumberly sat before her dressing-table, trembling wildly. She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry; but the daughter of Seton Cumberly knew what those symptoms meant and knew how to deal with them. At the end of an interval of some four or five minutes, she rang.

The maid opened the door.

“Don’t light up, Merton,” she said, composedly. “I want you to tell Garnham to go down to Mr. Leroux’s and put the place in order. Mr. Leroux is dining with us.”

The girl withdrew; and Helen, as the door closed, pressed the electric switch. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as if it were the face of an enemy, then, turning her head aside, sat deep in reflection, biting her lip and toying with the edge of the white doily.

“You little traitor!” she whispered, through clenched teeth. “You little traitor—and hypocrite”—sobs began to rise in her throat—“and fool!”

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44 figures in the niches. They were restored and again broken up at the Revolution, but have not been reinstated.

In the same hamlet of l'Aiguilhe is a circular Romanesque chapel, called the Temple of Diana, but which is actually a structure of the twelfth century. It is now undergoing repair.

The church of St. Laurent has been given a modern gable with pinnacles to the west front out of keeping with the character of the original architecture. The western doorway was once rich, and had on it two ranges of angels, twelve in each. The Huguenots broke the figures in their hatred of everything beautiful, and mutilated the delicate foliage as well.

The church has a broad nave with narrow side aisles. It contains a carved stone organ gallery once rich with statuary, but the niches are now empty. On the north side in the aisle is the tomb of Du Guesclin, who did more than any other, except the Maid of Orléans, to drive the English out of France. Even this monument did not escape the iconoclastic rage of the Calvinists; but it has been judiciously restored.

Guyenne, Poitou, Saintonge, Perigord, Brittany had been in turn the theatre of his victories; but the war continued in Languedoc. Bands of the Free Companies desolated the Gevaudan, Auvergne, and Le Velay. The nobles and towns unassisted could not expel them, and appealed to Charles V. to send them an experienced captain who would aid them against these brigands, and he despatched thither Du Guesclin. In August, 1380, the Constable entered Le Puy, and in a few days had assembled an army. He then departed for the Gevaudan to lay siege to Châteauneuf Randon,


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50 Le Puy saw the formation of a remarkable confederacy that promised at first to achieve the liberation of the country from the scourge of the routiers.

These bands of lawless men, under captains of their own selection, overran the country, levying blackmail, and pretending that they were in the service of the English King; or, if it suited them better, in that of the King of France. They passed from one allegiance to the other indifferently. Actually they served neither one side nor the other, but themselves. The merchants were robbed, the farmers despoiled, towns plundered. Existence became intolerable. Castles were erected on the top of rocks accessible only by a goat-path, or by steps cut in the stone, and there nests were built by the robbers for themselves. In these strongholds the captains and their companies lived riotously with bold women, sometimes nuns, whom they had carried off. The routiers held churches in special aversion, and plundered them without scruple. At their orgies they drank out of chalices, and vested their harlots in the silks and velvets of ecclesiastical wardrobes.

Such was the condition of affairs when, in 1182, a carpenter of Le Puy, named Pierre Durand, announced that a paper had fluttered down to him from heaven bearing on it a likeness of the Blessed Virgin, and that he had been commanded to found a society to combat and extinguish the routiers. At first the Bishop of Le Puy looked coldly on the carpenter. But the man obtained adherents. The need of combination to rid the country of a general nuisance was so largely felt, that Durand readily obtained a hearing and enrolled followers. According to the Laon Chronicle, the carpenter was a tool in the hands of one of the canons,


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Rh the head-quarters of the English routiers. The Constable besieged the place, attempted to take it by assault, but failed; and he vowed that he would not withdraw till it was captured. The garrison defended themselves valiantly, but at length agreed to capitulate. Du Guesclin was suffering at the time from a mortal sickness, and he lay on his deathbed when the terms of capitulation were agreed upon.

He died on the 13th of July according to history, on the 14th as stated on his monument; and upon the day fixed for the surrender the Governor laid the keys on the coffin of the deceased Constable. Charles V. ordered the body to be transported to S. Denys; but it was first taken to the Dominican church of Saint Laurent, there to be embalmed. The intestines of the great warrior that were removed alone occupy the tomb there erected.

The recumbent statue well answers to the description he gave of himself: "Les épaules larges, le col court, la tête monstreuse; je suis fort laid, jamais je ne serai bienvenu des dames, mais saurais me faire craindre des ennemis de mon roi."

The cathedral library of Le Puy contains a copy of the Bible written by Theodulf, Bishop of Orléans (788-821), a friend of Alcuin of York. This MS. was written by his own hand whilst in prison at Angers for having been involved in the conspiracy of Bernard, King of Italy, against Louis "le Debonaire," a son of Charlemagne. On Palm Sunday the King was at Angers and rode through the streets. As he passed under the prison, Theodulf thrust his head out of the window, and at the top of his voice chanted a poem he had composed in honour of Louis. The prince drew


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46 rein and listened. Flattery, however fulsome, goes a long way. He was pleased with it, though "laid on with a trowel," and ordered the release of the Bishop. It is said that, when in captivity, Theodulf had vowed to give to the church of Le Puy the Bible he had transcribed in his dungeon.

The MS. is written partly on white vellum and partly on vellum stained purple. On the white sheets the letters are in black, with the capitals in vermilion; but on the purple pages are in silver, and the capitals in goldleaf. The cover was repaired in the reign of Francis I., the velvet of the ninth century being overlaid with velvet of the sixteenth. At the Revolution this precious relic would have been flung into the flames that consumed the Black Virgin had it not been for the richness of the cover, with its ornaments of silver-gilt and the precious stones with which it was encrusted. The text is not divided into verses, and there is no punctuation, for the use of punctuation did not become general till the tenth century. The text is that of the Vulgate as corrected by Alcuin. Several of the passages in the Vulgate as now used differ from those in the version employed by Theodulf; and the Psalter is not that of the Vulgate. The preservation of the writing is due to pieces of fine tissue having been placed between the leaves, and of these fifty-three remain, and are interesting specimens of the textures of the time of Charles the Great. The Bible has poems composed by Theodulf prefixed to and following the sacred text.

Five of the early bishops of Le Puy are accounted saints, though almost nothing is known about them. They must have monopolised the stock of sanctity


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The New International Encyclopædia/Ries, Ferdinand

RIES,, (1784-1838). A German composer, born at Bonn. He was the eldest son of Franz Ries (1755-1846), a musical director at Bonn. He studied piano with Beethoven, his father's friend, from 1801 to 1805 at Vienna, and became prominent by

his compositions and by his Biographische Notizen über L. Beethoven (1838). As a pianist he was most successful in his many concert tours through England, France, Russia, and Scandinavia. He was town musical director at Aix-la-Chapelle from 1834 to 1836. He wrote three operas: Die Räuberbraut (1828), Liska (1831), and Eine Nacht auf dem Libanon; two oratorios, Der Sieg des Glaubens and Die Könige Israels; overtures, symphonies, string quartets, violin sonatas, and a trio for two pianos and a harp.


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Rh allotted to that Church, for of their successors none could lay claim to much holiness, and many were a disgrace to their order. But Le Puy was one of the richest sees in France, as the bishop was count as well as prelate. The volcanic soil was extraordinarily fertile, and the Black Virgin acted as a magnet, attracting to it an inexhaustible stream of gold; and this made the see to be coveted by ambitious and appropriated by unscrupulous prelates. Add to this that the bishop was under the jurisdiction of no archbishop, and was responsible to the Pope alone, who was too far off and too busy with affairs of greater importance to trouble himself about the misdeeds of the prelate princes of Le Puy.

It is open to debate which does most harm to the Church, the occasional torrential rush through the ranks of the episcopate of some wild blood, whose life is conspicuously at variance with his profession, or a continuous and unabating flood invading every see of smug, smooth, and colourless nonentities, who dilute the quality, abate the force, and lower the temperature of the Church to insipidity, lukewarmness, and inertia.

Some instances will suffice to show what manner of men they were who now and then were bishops of Le Puy.

Adhelmar (1087-98), who died at Antioch as a Crusader, was succeeded by Ponce de Tournon, who was an assassin. Bertrand de Chalençon's hands were also stained by blood; he exasperated his flock to madness by his exactions, heavily fining widows who remarried, and levying exorbitant fees on burials. When Innocent III. proclaimed a holy war against the Albigenses, and promised pardon for all sins to such


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The New International Encyclopædia/Riesa

RIESA, rē'zȧ. A town and railway centre in Saxony, on the Elbe, 33 miles by rail northwest of Dresden. A large bridge of iron and stone here spans the river (Map: Germany, E 3). The town has a public library and a municipal hospital, and various special schools. The harbor is good and possesses ample shipping facilities, and Riesa is consequently the centre of important shipbuilding interests and of a large trade, including fish, oil, coal, lumber, grain, iron ore, etc. Sandstone, which is quarried extensively, is also shipped. There are rolling mills and many other manufactories. Population, in 1900, 13,477.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Riese, Alexander

RIESE, rē'ze, (1840—). A German classical scholar, born and educated at Frankfort-on-the-Main. Besides his excellent editions of Varro's Satiræ Menippeæ (1865), of the Anthologia Latina (1869-70; 2d ed, 1894), of Ovid (1871-77), of the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri (1871, 2d ed, 1893), of Catullus (1884, with commentary), and of Phædrus (1885), he published a suggestive essay, Idealisierung der Naturvölker des Nordens in den griechischen und römischen Litteraturen (1875), and two monographs on early German history, Das Rheinland in der Römerzeit (1889) and Das Rheinische Germanien in der antiken Litteratur (1892).


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadden, James Murray


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Haddenston, James


text:
Frye v. United States

Appeal from the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia.

[p1013] Before SMYTH, Chief Justice, VAN ORSDEL, Associate Justice, and MARTIN, Presiding Judge of the United States Court of Customs Appeals.

title: Frye v. United States


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 120 storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain: like the moon in the silence of night: calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown, why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead,—low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice,—no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou has left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee—they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who


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48 as should outrage, rob, and murder these heretics, Bertrand headed an army of Crusaders, composed of the riff-raff of Velay, Auvergne, and the Gevaudan, and marched south. The citizens of one town at his approach, terrified at the prospect presented to them, fired their city and fled to the dens and caves of the earth. They were premature. Bertrand was more greedy of gold than of blood, and he made the towns as he passed buy exemption from destruction, and pocketed the money himself, to the rage and resentment of his followers. But they had full scope for their brutal instincts at Béziers on June 22nd, 1209, when, at the most moderate calculation, 20,000 persons, men, women, and children, indiscriminately Catholics and heretics, were butchered, and the papal legate looking on, is reported to have said, smiling, "Kill all; God will know His own!"

Bernard de Montaigu (1237-48), to enforce recognition of his seigneurial rights, subjected the city to an interdict, and excommunicated the flock he was set to feed.

William de la Roue (1263-82) had appointed De Rochebaron as his bailiff. This man fell in love with the beautiful wife of a butcher in the town, lured her within the precincts of the ecclesiastical fortifications, and outraged her. The guild of the butchers complained to the prelate, who scoffed at the deputation, and refused to reprimand his bailiff. The city was in commotion. When a party of the prelate's men-at-arms returned from an expedition, after harrying the peasantry in the country, and were laden with the spoils, the people rose. The tocsin sounded. The butchers came down with their cleavers. There was


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Frye v. United States/Opinion of the Court

VAN ORSDEL, Associate Justice.

Appellant, defendant below, was convicted of the crime of murder in the second degree, and from the judgment prosecutes this appeal.

A single assignment of error is presented for our consideration. In the course of the trial counsel for defendant offered an expert witness to testify to the result of a deception test made upon defendant. The test is described as the systolic blood pressure deception test. It is asserted that blood pressure is influenced by change in the emotions of the witness, and that the systolic blood pressure rises are brought about by nervous impulses sent to the sympathetic branch of the autonomic nervous system. Scientific experiments, it is claimed, have demonstrated that fear, rage, and pain always produce a rise of systolic blood pressure, and that conscious deception or falsehood, concealment of facts, or guilt of crime, accompanied by fear of detection when the person is under examination, raises the systolic blood pressure in a curve, which corresponds exactly to the struggle going on in the subject's mind, between fear and attempted control of that fear, as the examination [p1014]  touches the vital points in respect of which he is attempting to deceive the examiner.

In other words, the theory seems to be that truth is spontaneous, and comes without conscious effort, while the utterance of a falsehood requires a conscious effort, which is reflected in the blood pressure. The rise thus produced is easily detected and distinguished from the rise produced by mere fear of the examination itself. In the former instance, the pressure rises higher than in the latter, and is more pronounced as the examination proceeds, while in the latter case, if the subject is telling the truth, the pressure registers highest at the beginning of the examination, and gradually diminishes as the examination proceeds.

Prior to the trial defendant was subjected to this deception test, and counsel offered the scientist who conducted the test as an expert to testify to the results obtained. The offer was objected to by counsel for the government, and the court sustained the objection. Counsel for defendant then offered to have the proffered witness conduct a test in the presence of the jury. This also was denied.

Counsel for defendant, in their able presentation of the novel question involved, correctly state in their brief that no cases directly in point have been found. The broad ground, however, upon which they plant their case, is succinctly stated in their brief as follows:

"The rule is that the opinions of experts or skilled witnesses are admissible in evidence in those cases in which the matter of inquiry is such that inexperienced persons are unlikely to prove capable of forming a correct judgment upon it, for the reason that the subject-matter so far partakes of a science, art, or trade as to require a previous habit or experience or study in it, in order to acquire a knowledge of it. When the question involved does not lie within the range of common experience or common knowledge, but requires special experience or special knowledge, then the opinions of witnesses skilled in that particular science, art, or trade to which the question relates are admissible in evidence."

Numerous cases are cited in support of this rule. Just when a scientific principle or discovery crosses the line between the experimental and demonstrable stages is difficult to define. Somewhere in this twilight zone the evidential force of the principle must be recognized, and while courts will go a long way in admitting expert testimony deduced from a well-recognized scientific principle or discovery, the thing from which the deduction is made must be sufficiently established to have gained general acceptance in the particular field in which it belongs.

We think the systolic blood pressure deception test has not yet gained such standing and scientific recognition among physiological and psychological authorities as would justify the courts in admitting expert testimony deduced from the discovery, development, and experiments thus far made.

The judgment is affirmed.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Riesener, Johann Heinrich

RIESENER, rē'ze-nẽr, (1734-1806). A German cabinet-maker, born at Gladbach, Rhenish Prussia, Early in life he went to Paris and entered the workshop of Johann Franz Oeben (died 1766, a pupil of Boulle and protégé of Madame de Pompadour), after whose death he married his widow, carried on his business and was received as master into the Paris guild in 1768. Specimens of Riesener's work, in the style of Louis XV., executed for the royal palaces, may be seen at Fontainebleau, Trianon, Compiègne, and in the Musée du Mobilier National, Paris, while the majority of it was sold abroad, particularly into England, in consequence of the Revolution.


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 Rh fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs?—with all thy voice of music?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along the heath. Streams of the mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals; bring to my mind the night when all my children fell, when Arindal the mighty fell—when Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a storm! Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope of their friends.

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the wave, white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Haddington, Viscount


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 122 love! she went—she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice—she called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you, Daura.

"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the chase.

His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood. The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves; he sank, and he rose no more.

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain; frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock.


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 Rh "Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half viewless they walk in mournful conference together."

A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes and gave relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte leaned upon her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief: the agitation of both was excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the misfortunes of Ossian's heroes,—they felt this together, and their tears redoubled. Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she trembled, she wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her,—implored him with the utmost earnestness to comply with her request. He trembled; his heart was ready to burst: then, taking up the book again, he recommenced reading, in a voice broken by sobs.

"Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is approaching, the storm is nigh that shall wither my leaves. To-morrow the traveller shall come,—he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."

The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther. Full of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of his fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were bewildered: she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom; and, leaning toward him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their eyes. He clasped her


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Rh fighting in the streets. The troopers were despoiled of their plunder, and were obliged to take refuge within the walls of the bishop's fortress. William de la Roue was furious. He sent down the obnoxious bailiff with all the force he could muster to chastise the citizens. But they were surrounded by the enraged populace, and driven to take refuge in the Franciscan convent. The butchers with their choppers hewed down the door and slew the provost and six sergeants. De Rochebaron fled up the tower. The butchers pursued, caught him hiding among the bells, flung him down, and his mangled body was hewn to pieces.

Eventually the bishop reduced the city to subjection. He had its consuls hung in chains, and put to death all the butchers on whom he could lay his hands. The old town, built about a volcanic dyke, was ill provided with water. The wells tapped no springs, and were filled with surface-water only, and the soil was impregnated with sewage soaking down from every street and yard and lane through the joints in the rock. As a natural result typhoid fever—or the Pestilence, as the people called it—broke out, and became endemic. Frantic at this, the citizens looked about for a cause, and looked in the wrong direction. It did not occur to them that they poisoned their own wells. They assumed that the sickness was due to a league among the lepers, jealous of the health and happiness of sound men, and that they insidiously poured poison into the pits. In 1321, after a great outbreak of the plague, the citizens complained to the bishop, Durand de S. Pourcain. Perhaps he shared their conviction, perhaps he sought only to gratify the people. He swept together all the lepers in the county and burned them alive.


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 124 in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried with a faint voice, turning herself away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble hand, she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted not, but, tearing himself from her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and, with disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther! You shall never see me any more!" Then, casting one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked the door. Werther held out his arms, but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He then walked up and down the room; and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte, Charlotte! but one word more, one last adieu!" She returned no answer. He stopped, and listened and entreated; but all was silent. At length he tore himself from the place, crying, "Adieu, Charlotte, adieu for ever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy,—it rained and snowed. He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and, as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat was afterward found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.

He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his servant, upon being called to bring


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 Rh his coffee, found him writing. He was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.

"For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold the sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature! put on mourning: your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel; and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when I repeat—this is my last day! The last! Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last! To-day I stand erect in all my strength—to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the ground. To die! What is death? We do but dream in our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die; but, so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own—or rather I am thine, thine, my adored!—and the next we are parted, severed—perhaps for ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, be annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once who was everything to me in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse; I stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered; and when I heard the creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely covered over, I threw myself on the ground; my heart was smitten, grieved, shattered, rent—but I neither knew what had happened, nor what was to happen to me. Death! the grave! I understand not the words.—Forgive, oh, forgive me! Yesterday—ah,


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Haddock, Nicholas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Haddock, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Haddon, James


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The New International Encyclopædia/Riesengebirge

RIESENGEBIRGE, rē'zen-ge-bḗr'ge (Ger., giant mountains). The highest range of the ../Sudetic Mountains/ (q.v.).


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 126 that day should have been the last of my life! Thou angel!—for the first—first time in my existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves, she loves me! Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh, forgive!

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was absent from you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at that crowded assembly, you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the night I was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the pledges of your love; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at length effaced.

"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist, these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you are mine for ever!

"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may be so for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish to tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I suffer the punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to my Father and to your Father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me comfort till you arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you, and remain in your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave my perceptions become clearer. We


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 Rh shall exist; we shall see each other again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to her my inmost heart. Your mother—your image!"

About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned. He answered, "Yes;" for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon which Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:

" Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu."

Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions were realised in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther's passionate embraces that she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence, tranquillity, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband, and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a silence toward each other—and should she be the first to break it by so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of Werther's visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened by her perfect candour. She wished that he could see her in her true light, and judge her without prejudice; but was she anxious that he should read her inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a being to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been concealed? These reflections made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on Werther, who was now lost to her, but


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 128 whom she could not bring herself to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she should be lost to him for ever.

A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the prudent and the good have before now hesitated to explain their mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled, that in that critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all parties, an understanding was impossible. And thus if domestic confidence had been earlier established between them, if love and kind forbearance had mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even yet have been too late to save our friend.

But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe from the character of Werther's correspondence, that he had never affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often discussed the subject with Albert; and, between the latter and Charlotte, it had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so opposed to the very idea of such an action, that, with a degree of irritation unusual in him, he had more than once given Werther to understand that he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt disposed to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she never communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes experienced.

Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed embarrassment. He was himself


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The New International Encyclopædia/Riesi

RIESI, rḗ-ā'zḗ. A town in the Province of Caltanissetta, Sicily, situated near the Salso, 14½ miles south of Caltanissetta (Map: Italy, J 10), There are sulphur mines and a trade in wine and olive oil. Population (commune), in 1901, 14,944.


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 Rh out of humour; his business was unfinished; and he had just discovered that the neighbouring official, with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage. Many things had occurred to irritate him.

He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the evening previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired, leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness, and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse prompted her to follow him; she took her work and went to his study, as was often her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters. It seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some questions: he gave short answers, and sat down to write.

Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings became more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her heart; and her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as she endeavoured to hide her grief, and to conceal her tears.

The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the greatest embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give him the pistols. I wish him a pleasant journey," he added, turning to the servant. These words fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke: she rose from her seat half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically toward the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand,


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 130 slowly wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word. As soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehensions; then she saw that such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind friend whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:

"They have been in your hands—you wiped the dust from them. I kiss them a thousand times—you have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my design—and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am—not one farewell! How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you mine for ever? O Charlotte, ages cannot


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The New International Encyclopædia/Rieti

RIETI, rḗ-ā'tḗ. A town in the Province of Perugia, Italy, situated on the Velino, 45 miles northeast of Rome (Map: Italy, G 5). It is well built and surrounded by walls. The fifteenth-century cathedral has a monument by Thorvaldsen. There are an old castle, a bishop's seminary, a gymnasium, a lyceum, a technical

school, and a public library of 30,000 volumes. The chief trade is in wine, oil, and fruit. Rieti, the ancient Reate, was a noted city of the Sabines. Population (commune), in 1901, 17,977.


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 Rh efface the impression—I feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you!"

After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling debts. He soon returned home, then went out again, notwithstanding the rain, walked for some time in the count's garden, and afterward proceeded farther into the country. Toward evening he came back once more, and resumed his writing.

"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests, and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my affairs! Farewell! We shall meet again, and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albert; but you will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust between you. Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And oh, that my death may render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers: he tore and burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm. They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose room, as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing, that he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six o'clock.


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Rh who got a young man to dress up and pose as an apparition of the Virgin and so influence Durand. Be that as it may, the movement grew with rapidity. Durand gave to his adherents a white hood, with a medal to be worn on the breast, bearing a representation of N. D. du Puy, and the invocation, "Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us Thy peace." Bishop Peter IV., now that the movement promised to be a success, thought well to assume a lead in it. He had a platform erected, on which he took his stand along with the carpenter; he flourished the heaven-sent daub, asserted its genuineness, and exhorted his hearers to assume the white hood. The growth of the confraternity was now rapid. Clergy, monks, merchants, farmers, artisans, nobles joined it. Great armies of these Brethren of Peace marched against the routiers, defeated them in pitched battles, stormed their castles and burnt them. After a victory, no quarter was accorded. For the nonce the freebooters were quelled, and quailed before the people risen in a body to lynch their tormenters. But the victories they had won, the applause they had drawn on themselves, made the White Hoods headstrong and presumptuous. They knew well enough that the routiers only existed because the princes and nobles were at strife with one another; and now they pressed on the feudal lords, to insist on the abolition of private war, and to threaten such as would not submit, with the same treatment as that dealt out to the routiers. At the same time they adopted communistic notions, and refused submission to all authorities save those of their own election. They swarmed over the country and devoured the produce of the land. They had lost all


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 132 "Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the Almighty supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon the constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my felicity! and even still—But what object is there, Charlotte, which fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which you have consecrated by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and returning to my home.

"I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner of the churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two lime-trees—there I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will, do thus much for his friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not choose that their bodies should be buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some remote valley, or near the highway, where the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.

"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold


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 Rh and fatal cup, from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock at the brazen portals of Death.

"Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte! And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for their friends, and by their death to augment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom they are beloved.

"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the first time I saw you, surrounded by the children—Oh, kiss them a thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend! I think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly have I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you, how impossible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be buried with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road. But peace! I pray you, peace!

"They are loaded—the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte! farewell, farewell!"

A neighbour saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but, as everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it.

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 134 Werther's room with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seized her. She wakened her husband, and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears, faltered forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.

When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet, entering the forehead, over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his right arm: the blood came, and he still continued to breathe.

From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was in full-dress costume.

The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole town were immediately in commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed: his head was bound up, and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs were motionless; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then weaker—his death was momently expected.

He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon his bureau.

I shall say nothing of Albert's distress, or of Charlotte's grief.

The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing the news: he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed his


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 Rh hands and face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him till he expired; and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Werther breathed his last. The presence of the steward, and the precautions he had adopted, prevented a disturbance; and that night, at the hour of eleven, he caused the body to be interred in the place which Werther had selected for himself. The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The body was carried by labourers. No priest attended.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Rietschel, Ernst

RIETSCHEL, rēch ' el, (1804-01). An eminent German sculptor, founder of the Dresden school of plastic art. Born at Pulsnitz. Saxon Lusatia, December 15, 1804, he underwent the severest privations in his youth, and began his artistic training at the Dresden Academy, in 1820, still contending with extreme poverty, until he won prizes for his drawings, which were, moreover, bought for the academy as models to be copied. In 1826 he became the pupil of Rauch, in Berlin, and in 1827 was granted a stipend by the Saxon Government, of which, however, he did not avail himself for the purpose of visiting Italy until 1830, after having assisted his master in the completion of various works, notably of the monument to King Max I. at Munich, in 1829. From Italy he returned to Berlin in 1831, and in 1832 was appointed professor at the academy in Dresden, where he resided until his death, February 21, 1861.

Rietschel's first work of importance was the “Monument of King Frederick Augustus I.” (1829-39), in the Zwinger at Dresden, but simultaneously he worked on the twelve great reliefs, illustrative of the “Main Epochs of Civilization” (1835-38), in the Aula of Leipzig University. Next came the admirable group in high relief, in the pediment of the Opera House in Berlin (1844), with the “Muse of Music” in the centre, and from about the same time dates “The Christ Angel,” a beautiful relief, widely known through reproductions, and presented by the master to the Art Union of Dresden. The first work to give evidence of Rietschel's accomplished mastership, and to demonstrate his peculiar tendency in art, was the famous “Pietà” (c.1847), constituting the finest ornament of the Friedenskirche at Potsdam. Among his best creations are to be numbered the statues of “Thaer,” the agriculturist (1850), at Leipzig, and of “Lessing” (1853), at Brunswick, a truly classical example of realistic portrait sculpture. In 1852 he began the “Emblematic Sculptures” on the exterior of the Dresden Museum, the cornice of which he also adorned with statues of “Pericles,” “Phidias,” “Giotto,” “Dürer,” “Holbein,” and “Goethe.” In the meanwhile he also modeled the heroic-size “Goethe-Schiller Monument” (erected 1857) for Weimar, and in 1857 fashioned his celebrated bust of “Rauch,” unsurpassed probably by any portrait bust of the century. This was followed by the “Quadriga” (1860), with the magnificent figure of “Brunonia,” for the ducal palace at Brunswick, executed in copper by Howaldt. In the same year was unveiled the masterly statue of “Weber” at Dresden. For the Walhalla, Regensburg, he executed the busts of “Luther,” “Elector Augustus II.,” besides other busts and relief portraits. Of his last and most elaborate production, the “Luther Monument” at Worms, he was only able to finish the figures of Luther and Wiclif, while the completion of his design was intrusted to his pupils Donndorf and Kietz (1868). A collection of casts and models of all his works is preserved in the Rietschel Museum at Dresden. Consult his Autobiography, edited and supplemented by Oppermann (Leipzig, 1873); Pecht, Deutsche Künstler, i. (Nördlingen,

1877); and Briefwechsel zwischen Rauch und Rietschel (Berlin, 1890-91).


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The New International Encyclopædia/Rietz, Julius

RIETZ, rēts, (1812-77). A German conductor and composer, born in Berlin. He studied the 'cello under Schmidt, Bernhard Romberg, and Gans; and when sixteen years old, joined the orchestra of the Königstädter Theater, for which he wrote the music to Holtei's play Lorbeerbaum und Bettelstab. In 1834 he was appointed assistant conductor at the Düsseldorf Opera under Mendelssohn, whom he succeeded the following year. In 1847 he was called to Leipzig as theatre kapellmeister and conductor of the Singakademie. In 1848 he succeeded Mendelssohn as conductor of the Gewandhaus concerts and as teacher of composition at the Conservatory. He was called to Dresden in 1860 to succeed Reissiger as Court kapellmeister. Here he conducted the opera and afterwards undertook the direction of the Royal Conservatory. As a composer he belongs to the younger classic school and was strongly opposed to the Neo-German movement. Among his works are the operas, Das Mädchen aus der Fremde (1833) and Jery und Bätely (c.1840); three symphonies, several overtures to plays, flute sonatas, violin sonatas, motets, masses, psalms, and a quantity of other church music. He died at Dresden.


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 distempers affecting the sensations and motions, it is usual to find some great disorder in the brain, from preternatural tumours, from blood, matter, or serum, lying upon the brain, or in its ventricles, &c. This may suffice as general evidence for the present. The particular reasons of some of these phænomena, with more definite evidences, will offer themselves in the course of these observations.

evidence for this proposition is also to be taken from the writings of physicians and anatomists; but especially from those parts of these writings which treat of the faculties of memory, attention, imagination, &c. and of mental disorders. It is sufficiently manifest from hence, that the perfection of our mental faculties depends upon the perfection of this substance; that all injuries done to it affect the trains of ideas proportionably; and that these cannot be restored to their natural course till such injuries be repaired. Poisons, spirituous liquors, opiates, fevers, blows upon the head, &c. all plainly affect the mind, by first disordering the medullary substance. And evacuations, rest, medicines, time, &c. as plainly restore the mind to its former state, by reversing the foregoing steps. But there will be more and more definite evidence offered in the course of these observations.

is very evident in the sensations impressed on the eye. Thus, to use Sir Isaac Newton’s words, “If a burning coal be nimbly moved round in a circle, with gyrations continually repeated, the whole circle will appear like fire; the reason of which is, that the sensation of the coal, in the several places of that circle, remains impressed on the sensorium until the coal return again to the same place. And so in a quick consecution of the colours,” (viz. red, yellow, green, blue, and purple, mentioned in the experiment, whence this passage is taken,) “the impression of every colour remains on the sensorium until a revolution of all the colours be completed, and that first colour return again. The impressions therefore of all the successive colours are at once in the sensorium—and beget a sensation of white.” Opt. b. I. p. 2. Experiment 10.

Thus also, when a person has had a candle, a window, or any other lucid and well-defined object, before his eyes for a

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 time, he may perceive a very clear and precise image thereof to be left in the sensorium, fancy, or mind (for these I consider as equivalent expressions in our entrance upon these disquisitions,) for some time after he has closed his eyes. At least this will happen frequently to persons who are attentive to these things in a gentle way; for, as this appearance escapes the notice of those who are entirely inattentive, so too earnest a desire and attention prevents it, by introducing another state of mind or fancy.

To these may be referred the appearance mentioned by Sir Isaac Newton, Opt. Qu. 16. viz. “When a man in the dark presses either corner of his eye with his finger, and turns his eye away from his finger, he will see a circle of colours like those in the feather of a peacock’s tail. And this appearance continues about a second of time after the eye and finger have remained quiet.” The sensation continues therefore in the mind about a second of time after its cause ceases to act.

The same continuance of the sensations is also evident in the ear. For the sounds which we hear are reflected by the neighbouring bodies, and therefore consist of a variety of sounds, succeeding each other at different distances of time, according to the distances of the several reflecting bodies; which yet causes no confusion or apparent complexity of sound, unless the distance of the reflecting bodies be very considerable, as in spacious buildings. Much less are we able to distinguish the successive pulses of the air, even in the gravest sounds.

As to the senses of taste and smell, there seems to be no clear direct evidence for the continuance of their sensations after the proper objects are removed. But analogy would incline one to believe, that they must resemble the senses of sight and hearing in this particular, though the continuance cannot be perceived distinctly, on account of the shortness of it, or other circumstances. For the sensations must be supposed to bear such an analogy to each other, and so to depend in common upon the brain, that all evidences for the continuance of sensations in any one sense, will extend themselves to the rest. Thus all the senses may be considered as so many kinds of feeling; the taste is nearly allied to the feeling, the smell to the taste, and the sight and hearing to each other. All which analogies will offer themselves to view when we come to examine each of these senses in particular.

In the sense of feeling, the continuance of heat, after the heating body is removed, and that of the smart of a wound, after the instant of infliction, seem to be of the same kind with the appearances taken notice of in the eye and ear.

But the greatest part of the sensations of this sense resemble those of taste and smell, and vanish to appearance as soon as the objects are removed.

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vibrations are motions backwards and forwards of the small particles; of the same kind with the oscillations of pendulums, and the tremblings of the particles of sounding bodies. They must be conceived to be exceedingly short and small, so as not to have the least efficacy to disturb or move the whole bodies of the nerves or brain. For that the nerves themselves should vibrate like musical strings, is highly absurd; nor was it ever asserted by Sir Isaac Newton, or any of those who have embraced his notion of the performance of sensation and motion, by means of vibrations.

In like manner we are to suppose the particles which vibrate, to be of the inferior orders, and not those biggest particles, on which the operations in chemistry, and the colours of natural bodies, depend, according to the opinion of Sir Isaac Newton. Hence, in the proposition, I term the medullary particles, which vibrate, infinitesimal.

Now that external objects impress vibratory motions upon the medullary substance of the nerves and brain (which is the immediate instrument of sensation, according to the first proposition) appears from the continuance of the sensations mentioned in the third; since no motion, besides a vibratory one, can reside in any part for the least moment of time. External objects, being corporeal, can act upon the nerves and brain, which are also corporeal, by nothing but impressing motion on them. A vibrating motion may continue for a short time in the small medullary particles of the nerves and brain, without disturbing them, and after a short time would cease; and so would correspond to the above-mentioned short continuance of the sensations; and there seems to be no other species of motion that can correspond thereto.

. As this proposition is deduced from the foregoing, so if it could be established upon independent principles, (of which I shall treat under the next,) the foregoing might be deduced from it. And on this supposition there would be an argument for the continuance of the sensations, after the removal of their objects; which would extend to the senses of feeling, taste, and smell, in the same manner as to those of sight and hearing.

proposition is chiefly an evidence and explanation of the foregoing; and accordingly might have been included in it.

title: Page:Observations on Man 1834.djvu/42