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168 forces came in here and there. Incursions and conquests of German tribes brought an element of Germanic speech into the tongues alike of Spain, France, and Italy. Centuries of Saracen domination engrafted upon the Spanish language a notable store of words of Arabic derivation. When, at length, the dark ages of European history were over, and knowledge and culture were to be taken out of the exclusive custody of the few, and made the wealth and blessing of the many, the Latin was a dead language, much too far removed from popular wants and sympathies to be able to serve the needs of the new nations. Hence the rise in each separate country, at not far from the same time, of a new national tongue, to be the instrument and expression of the national culture. All Romanized Europe was in the condition already described as that of Germany prior to the advancement of the modern German to its present position; a chaos of varying dialects was there; and, in every case, external historical circumstances determined which of them should attain a higher value, and should subject and absorb the rest.

In all this alternate and repeated divergence and convergence of dialects there is evidently nothing which needs to be looked upon as mysterious, or even puzzling. Such has been the history of language from the beginning, and in all parts of the earth. We need only the tendency of individual language to vary, and the effect of community to check, limit, and even reverse this tendency, in order to explain every case that arises: the peculiar conditions of each case must decide whether their joint action shall, on the whole, make for homogeneity or for diversity of speech; and the result, in kind and in degree, will vary according to the sum of the causes which produced it; as the resultant motion, in rate and direction, combines and represents all the forces, however various and conflicting, of whose united action it is the effect.

Thus, as has been already pointed out, when there takes place a fusion of two communities, larger or smaller, of varying speech, no general law can determine what shall be the resulting dialect. When the Romans conquered Gaul, although forming only a minority of the population, they


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IV.] almost totally obliterated the Gaulish speech, putting the Latin in its place, for they brought with them culture and polity, art and science, learning and letters: they made it better worth while for the Celts to learn Latin than to adhere to their own ancient idiom. When, however, the Germanic Franks, a few centuries later, conquered in their turn the now Latinized Gaul, and turned it into a kingdom of France, they adopted the language of their more numerous and more cultivated subjects, only adding a small percentage of Germanic words to its vocabulary, and perhaps contributing an appreciable influence toward hastening the decay, already well in progress, of the Latin grammatical system. The same thing happened once more, when the Scandinavian Northmen, representing another branch of the Germanic family, after extorting from the beaten and trembling monarchs of France the cession of one of her fairest provinces, became the not less formidable and dreaded Normans. Although placed in seemingly favourable circumstances for conserving their linguistic independence, crowded together as they were within comparatively narrow bounds, and making on their own ground, of which they were absolute masters, the majority of the population, they yet could not resist the powerful assimilating influences which pressed them, a horde of uncouth and unlearned barbarians, on every side. Within a wonderfully short time, their Norse tongue had altogether gone out of use, leaving traces only in a few geographical names: along with French manners, French learning, and French polity, they had implicitly adopted also French speech. Hardly was this conversion accomplished, when they set forth to propagate their new linguistic faith in a country occupied by dialects akin with that which they had recently forsworn. The Angles and Saxons, Germanic tribes, had meantime finished the task, only begun by the Romans, of extirpating upon the largest and best part of British ground the old Celtic speech. They had done it in a somewhat different way, by sheer brute force, by destroying, enslaving, or driving out the native population, and filling all but the most inaccessible regions of the island with their own ferocious tribesmen. Hence

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Rh man's honorable moder (mamma smiled and made a curtsey), and dis his fader! Sare and madam, you should be broud of soch a sonn. And you, my niece, if you have him for a husband you vil be locky, dat is all. Vat dink you, brodder Crotty, and Madame Stobbs, I ave made your sonn's boots, ha! ha!"

My mamma laughed, and said, "I did not know it, but I am sure, sir, he has as pretty a leg for a boot as any in the whole country."

Old Stiffelkind roared louder. "A very nice leg ma'am, and a very sheap boot too! Vat, you did not know I make his boots! Perhaps you did not know someting else too—p'raps you did not know (and here the monster clapped his hand on the table, and made the punch-ladle tremble in the bowl) p'raps you did not know as dat yong man, dat Stobbs, dat sneaking, baltry, squinting fellow, is as vicked as he is ogly. He bot a pair of boots from me and never paid for dem. Dat is noting, nobody never pays, but be bought a pair of boots, and called himself Lord Cornvallis. And I was fool enough to believe him vonce. But look


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the month of May is considered, by poets and other philosophers, to be devoted by Nature to the great purpose of love-making, I may as well take advantage of that season and acquaint you with the result of my amours.

Young, gay, fascinating, and an ensign—I had completely won the heart of my Magdalen; and as for Miss Waters and her nasty uncle the Doctor, there was a complete split between us, as you may fancy; Miss, pretending, forsooth, that she was glad I had broken off the match, though she would have given her eyes, the little minx, to have had it on again. But this was out of the question. My father, who had all


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42 sorts of queer notions, said I had acted like a rascal in the business; my mother took my part, in course, and declared I acted rightly, as I always did: and I got leave of absence from the regiment in order to press my beloved Magdalen to marry me out of hand—knowing, from reading and experience, the extraordinary mutability of human affairs.

Besides, as the dear girl was seventeen years older than myself, and as bad in health as she was in temper, how was I to know that the grim king of terrors might not carry her off before she became mine? With the tenderest warmth, then, and most delicate ardor, I continued to press my suit. The happy day was fixed, the ever memorable 10th of May, 1792; the wedding clothes were ordered; and, to make things secure, I penned a little paragraph for the county paper to this effect:—"Marriage in High Life. We understand that Ensign Stubbs, of the North Bungay Fencibles, and son of Thomas Stubbs, of Sloffemsquiggle, Esquire, is about to lead to the hymeneal altar the lovely and accomplished daughter of Solomon Crutty,


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44 "she must have been an angel who gave birth to you."

"She was a shoemaker’s daughter."

A German shoemaker! hang 'em, thought I, I have had enough of them, and so I broke up this conversation, which did not somehow please me.

Well, the day was drawing near: the clothes were ordered; the banns were read. My dear mamma had built a cake about the size of a washing-tub: and I was only waiting for a week to pass to put me in possession of twelve thousand pounds in the five per cents., as they were in those days, Heaven bless 'em! Little did I know the storm that was brewing, and the disappointment which was to fall upon a young man who really did his best to get a fortune.

"O Robert!" said my Magdalen to me, two days before the match was to come off, "I have such a kind letter from uncle Sam, in London. I wrote to him as you wished. He says that he is coming down


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 Rh was well alive in the firm when, in 1838, Smith first enlisted in its service. That year saw the issue of the first portion of the great collected edition of Sir Humphry Davy's ‘Works,’ which was completed in nine volumes next year. In 1838, too, the firm inaugurated a series of elaborate reports of recent expeditions which the government had sent out for purposes of scientific exploration. The earliest of these great scientific publications was Sir Andrew Smith's ‘Illustrations of the Zoology of South Africa,’ of which the first volume was issued in 1838, and four others followed between that date and 1847, all embellished with drawings of exceptional beauty by George Henry Ford. The government made a grant of 1,500l. in aid of the publication, and the five volumes were sold at the high price of 18l. Of like character were the reports of the scientific results of Admiral Sir Edward Belcher's voyage to the Pacific in the Sulphur : a volume on the zoology, prepared by Richard Brinsley Hinds, came out under Smith, Elder, & Co.'s auspices in 1843, a second volume (on the botany) appeared in the next year, and a third volume (completing the zoology) in 1845. That was Smith, Elder, & Co.'s third endeavour in this special class of publication. To the second a more lasting interest attaches. It was ‘The Zoological Report of the Expedition of H.M.S. Beagle,’ in which Darwin sailed as naturalist. 1,000l. was advanced by the government to the firm for the publication of this important work. The first volume appeared in large quarto in 1840. Four more volumes completed the undertaking by 1848, the price of the whole being 8l. 15s. Smith, Elder, & Co. were thus brought into personal relations with Darwin, the earliest of their authors who acquired worldwide fame. Independently of his official reports they published for him, in more popular form, extracts from them in volumes bearing the titles ‘The Structure and Distribution of Coral Reefs’ in 1842, ‘Geological Observations on Volcanic Islands’ in 1844, and ‘Geological Observations on South America’ in 1846.

The widening range of the firm's dealings with distant lands in its capacity of Indian agents rendered records of travel peculiarly appropriate to its publishing department, and Smith, Elder, & Co. boldly contemplated the equipment on their own account of explorers whose reports should serve them as literature. About 1840 Austen Henry Layard set out, at their suggestion, in the company of Edward Mitford, on an overland journey to Asia ; but the two men quarrelled on the road, and the work that the firm contemplated was never written. Another project which was defeated by a like cause was an expedition to the south of France, on which Leitch Ritchie and James Augustus St. John started in behalf of Smith, Elder, & Co.'s publishing department. But the firm was never dependent on any single class of publication. It is noteworthy that no sooner had it opened relations with Darwin, the writer who was to prove the greatest English naturalist of the century, than


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Rh Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if this weather lasted, they should strike the Azores about the 21st of June, after which it would save time to fly.

Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in favour of keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they dared not express their wishes to him even in a round robin. Instant obedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a dozen for looking perplexed when told to take soundings. The general feeling was that Peter was honest just now to lull Wendy's suspicions, but that there might be a change when the new suit was ready, which, against her will, she was making for him out of some of Hook's wickedest garments. It was afterwards whispered among them that on the first night he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin with Hook's cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but the forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook.

Instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that desolate home from which three of our characters had taken heartless flight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected No. 14 all this time; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If we had returned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at her, she would probably have cried, "Don't be Rh

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Rh silly, what do I matter? Do go back and keep an eye on the children." So long as mothers are like this their children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to that.

Even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its lawful occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance of them to see that their beds are properly aired and that Mr. and Mrs. Darling do not go out for the evening. We are no more than servants. Why on earth should their beds be properly aired, seeing that they left them in such a thankless hurry? Would it not serve them jolly well right if they came back and found that their parents were spending the week-end in the country? It would be the moral lesson they have been in need of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in this way Mrs. Darling would never forgive us.

One thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in the way authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed they will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so completely the surprise to which Wendy and John and Michael are looking forward. They have been planning it out on the ship: mother's rapture, father's shout of joy, Nana's leap through the air to embrace them first, when what they ought to be preparing for is a good hiding. How delicious to spoil it all by breaking the news in advance; so Rh

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Rh that when they enter grandly Mrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr. Darling may exclaim pettishly, "Dash it all, here are those boys again." However, we should get no thanks even for this. We are beginning to know Mrs. Darling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for depriving the children of their little pleasure.

"But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by telling you what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness."

"Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of delight."

"Oh, if you look at it in that way!"

"What other way is there in which to look at it?"

You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say extraordinarily nice things about her; but I despise her, and not one of them will I say now. She does not really need to be told to have things ready, for they are ready. All the beds are aired, and she never leaves the house, and observe, the window is open. For all the use we are to her, we might go back to the ship. However, as we are here we may as well stay and look on. That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.

The only change to be seen in the night-nursery Rh

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Rh is that between nine and six the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away, Mr. Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for having chained Nana up, and that from first to last she had been wiser than he. Of course, as we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed he might have passed for a boy again if he had been able to take his baldness off; but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion courage to do what seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with anxious care after the flight of the children, he went down on all fours and crawled into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling's dear invitations to him to come out he replied sadly but firmly:

"No, my own one, this is the place for me."

In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never leave the kennel until his children came back. Of course this was a pity; but whatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise he soon gave up doing it. And there never was a more humble man than the once proud George Darling, as he sat in the kennel of an evening talking with his wife of their children and all their pretty ways.

Very touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her come into the kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes implicitly.

Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Rh

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Rh Darling in it to a cab, which conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same way at six. Something of the strength of character of the man will be seen if we remember how sensitive he was to the opinion of neighbours: this man whose every movement now attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he must have suffered torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when the young criticised his little home, and he always lifted his hat courteously to any lady who looked inside.

It may have been quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward meaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was touched. Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; charming girls scaled it to get his autograph; interviews appeared in the better class of papers, and society invited him to dinner and added, "Do come in the kennel."

On that eventful Thursday week Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery awaiting George's return home: a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone now just because she has lost her babes, I find I won't be able to say nasty things about her after all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy children she couldn't help it. Look at her in her chair, where she has fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is Rh

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Rh almost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if she had a pain there. Some like Peter best and some like Wendy best, but I like her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her in her sleep that the brats are coming back. They are really within two miles of the window now, and flying strong, but all we need whisper is that they are on the way. Let's.

It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names; and there is no one in the room but Nana.

"O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back."

Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was to put her paw gently on her mistress's lap, and they were sitting together thus when the kennel was brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out at it to kiss his wife, we see that his face is more worn than of yore, but has a softer expression.

He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no imagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of such a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.

"Listen to them," he said; "it is very gratifying."

"Lot of little boys," sneered Liza. Rh

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Rh "There were several adults to-day," he assured her with a faint flush; but when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her. Social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter. For some time he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with Mrs. Darling of this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when she said she hoped his head would not be turned by it.

"But if I had been a weak man," he said. "Good heavens, if I had been a weak man!"

"And, George," she said timidly, "you are as full of remorse as ever, aren't you?"

"Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a kennel."

"But it is punishment, isn't it, George? You are sure you are not enjoying it?"

"My love!"

You may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he curled round in the kennel.

"Won't you play me to sleep," he asked, "on the nursery piano?" and as she was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, "and shut that window. I feel a draught."

"O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be left open for them, always, always."

Now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she Rh

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Rh went into the day-nursery and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept, Wendy and John and Michael flew into the room.

Oh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming arrangement planned by them before we left the ship; but something must have happened since then, for it is not they who have flown in, it is Peter and Tinker Bell.

Peter's first words tell all.

"Quick, Tink," he whispered, "close the window; bar it! That's right. Now you and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes she will think her mother has barred her out, and she will have to go back with me."

Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave Tink to escort the children to the mainland. This trick had been in his head all the time.

Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then he peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He whispered to Tink, "It's Wendy's mother! She is a pretty lady, but not so pretty as my mother. Her mouth is full of thimbles, but not so full as my mother's was."

Of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes bragged about her.

He did not know the tune, which was "Home, Rh

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Rh Sweet Home," but he knew it was saying, "Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy"; and he cried exultantly, "You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the window is barred!"

He peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw that Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears were sitting on her eyes.

"She wants me to unbar the window," thought Peter, "but I won't, not I!"

He peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two had taken their place.

"She's awfully fond of Wendy," he said to himself. He was angry with her now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.

The reason was so simple: "I'm fond of her too. We can't both have her, lady."

But the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He ceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as if she were inside him, knocking.

"Oh, all right," he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the window. "Come on, Tink," he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of nature; "we don't want any silly mothers"; and he flew away.

Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the Rh

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Rh window open for them after all, which of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already forgotten his home.

"John," he said, looking around him doubtfully, "I think I have been here before."

"Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed."

"So it is," Michael said, but not with much conviction.

"I say," cried John, "the kennel!" and he dashed across to look into it.

"Perhaps Nana is inside it," Wendy said.

But John whistled. "Hullo," he said, "there's a man inside it."

"It's father!" exclaimed Wendy.

"Let me see father," Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look. "He is not so big as the pirate I killed," he said with such frank disappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it would have been sad if those had been the first words he heard his little Michael say.

Wendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in the kennel.

"Surely," said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory, "he used not to sleep in the kennel?"

"John," Wendy said falteringly, "perhaps we Rh

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Rh don't remember the old life as well as we thought we did."

A chill fell upon them; and serve them right.

"It is very careless of mother," said that young scoundrel John, "not to be here when we come back."

It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.

"It's mother!" cried Wendy, peeping.

"So it is!" said John.

"Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?" asked Michael, who was surely sleepy.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse, "it was quite time we came back."

"Let us creep in," John suggested, "and put our hands over her eyes."

But Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently, had a better plan.

"Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as if we had never been away."

And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children waited for her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but she did not believe they were there. You see, she saw them in their beds so often in her dreams that she thought this was just the dream hanging around her still. Rh

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Rh She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had nursed them.

They could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three of them.

"Mother!" Wendy cried.

"That's Wendy," she said, but still she was sure it was the dream.

"Mother!"

"That's John," she said.

"Mother!" cried Michael. He knew her now.

"That's Michael," she said, and she stretched out her arms for the three little selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes, they did, they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who had slipped out of bed and run to her.

"George, George!" she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling woke to share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred. Rh

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 CHAPTER XVII

WHEN WENDY GREW UP

you want to know what became of the other boys. They were waiting below to give Wendy time to explain about them, and when they had counted five hundred they went up. They went up by the stair, because they thought this would make a better impression. They stood in a row in front of Mrs. Darling, with their hats off, and wishing they were not wearing their pirate clothes. They said nothing, but their eyes asked her to have them. They ought to have looked at Mr. Darling also, but they forgot about him.

Of course Mrs. Darling said at once that she would have them; but Mr. Darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered six a rather large number.

"I must say," he said to Wendy, "that you don't do things by halves," a grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.

The first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing, "Do you think we should be too much of a handful, sir? Because if so we can go away." Rh

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Rh "Father!" Wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He knew he was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.

"We could lie doubled up," said Nibs.

"I always cut their hair myself," said Wendy.

"George!" Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing himself in such an unfavourable light.

Then he burst into tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad to have them as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked his consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a cypher in his own house.

"I don't think he is a cypher," Tootles cried instantly. "Do you think he is a cypher, Curly?"

"No I don't. Do you think he is a cypher, Slightly?"

"Rather not. Twin, what do you think?"

It turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was absurdly gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the drawing-room if they fitted in.

"We'll fit in, sir," they assured him.

"Then follow the leader," he cried gaily. "Mind you, I am not sure that we have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all the same. Hoop la!"

He went off dancing through the house, and they all cried "Hoop la!" and danced after him, Rh

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Rh searching for the drawing-room; and I forget whether they found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they all fitted in.

As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing, so that she could open it if she liked and call to him. That was what she did.

"Hullo, Wendy, good-bye," he said.

"Oh dear, are you going away?"

"Yes."

"You don't feel, Peter," she said falteringly, "that you would like to say anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?"

"No."

"About me, Peter?"

"No."

Mrs. Darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp eye on Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the other boys, and would like to adopt him also.

"Would you send me to school?" he inquired craftily.

"Yes."

"And then to an office?"

"I suppose so."

"Soon I should be a man?"

"Very soon."

"I don't want to go to school and learn solemn Rh

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Rh things," he told her passionately. "I don't want to be a man. O Wendy's mother, if I was to wake up and feel there was a beard!"

"Peter," said Wendy the comforter, "I should love you in a beard;" and Mrs. Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.

"Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man."

"But where are you going to live?"

"With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put it high up among the tree tops where they sleep at nights."

"How lovely," cried Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened her grip.

"I thought all the fairies were dead," Mrs. Darling said.

"There are always a lot of young ones," explained Wendy, who was now quite an authority, "because you see when a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies. They live in nests on the tops of trees; and the mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue ones are just little sillies who are not sure what they are."

"I shall have such fun," said Peter, with one eye on Wendy.

"It will be rather lonely in the evening," she said, "sitting by the fire." Rh

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Rh "I shall have Tink."

"Tink can't go a twentieth part of the way round," she reminded him a little tartly.

"Sneaky tell-tale!" Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.

"It doesn't matter," Peter said.

"O Peter, you know it matters."

"Well, then, come with me to the little house."

"May I, mummy?"

"Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you."

"But he does so need a mother."

"So do you, my love."

"Oh, all right," Peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness merely; but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this handsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every year and do his spring cleaning. Wendy would have preferred a more permanent arrangement, and it seemed to her that spring would be long in coming, but this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He had no sense of time, and was so full of adventures that all I have told you about him is only a halfpenny worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:

"You won't forget me, Peter, will you, before spring-cleaning time comes?"

Of course Peter promised, and then he flew Rh

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Rh away. He took Mrs. Darling's kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else Peter took quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.

Of course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into Class ., but Slightly was put first into Class. and then into Class. Class. is the top class. Before they had attended school a week they saw what goats they had been not to remain on the island; but it was too late now, and soon they settled down to being as ordinary as you or me or Jenkins minor. It is sad to have to say that the power to fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their feet to the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night; and one of their diversions by day was to pretend to fall off buses; but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds in bed, and found that they hurt themselves when they let go of the bus. In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.

Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him; so he was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had become, but he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself. Rh

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Rh She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.

"Who is Captain Hook?" he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch enemy.

"Don't you remember," she asked, amazed, "how you killed him and saved all our lives?"

"I forget them after I kill them," he replied carelessly.

When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her he said, "Who is Tinker Bell?"

"O Peter!" she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.

"There are such a lot of them," he said. "I expect she is no more."

I expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them.

Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.

Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old one simply would not meet, but he never came.

"Perhaps he is ill," Michael said. Rh

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Rh "You know he is never ill."

Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, "Perhaps there is no such person, Wendy!" and then Wendy would have cried if Michael had not been crying.

Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never knew he had missed a year.

That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.

All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worth while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver. Slightly married a lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door? Rh

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Rh That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who doesn't know any story to tell his children was once John.

Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns.

Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.

She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions. When she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember in the very nursery from which the famous flight had taken place. It was Jane's nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per cents, from Wendy's father, who was no longer fond of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.

There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane's and her nurse's; and there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of old age, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on with, being very firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after children except herself.

Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off, Rh

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Rh and then it was Wendy's part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:—

"What do we see now?"

"I don't think I see anything to-night," says Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further conversation.

"Yes, you do," says Jane, "you see when you were a little girl."

"That is a long time ago, sweetheart," says Wendy. "Ah me, how time flies!"

"Does it fly," asks the artful child, "the way you flew when you were a little girl?"

"The way I flew! Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did really fly."

"Yes, you did."

"The dear old days when I could fly!"

"Why can't you fly now, mother?"

"Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way."

"Why do they forget the way?"

"Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly."

"What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and innocent and heartless."

Or perhaps Wendy admits she does see Rh

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Rh thing. "I do believe," she says, "that it is this nursery!"

"I do believe it is!" says Jane. "Go on."

They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter flew in looking for his shadow.

"The foolish fellow," says Wendy, "tried to stick it on with soap, and when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for him."

"You have missed a bit," interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better than her mother. "When you saw him sitting on the floor crying what did you say?"

"I sat up in bed and I said, 'Boy, why are you crying?'"

"Yes, that was it," says Jane, with a big breath.

"And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home under the ground, and the little house."

"Yes! which did you like best of all?"

"I think I liked the home under the ground best of all."

"Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you?"

"The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.'" Rh

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Rh "Yes!"

"But, alas, he forgot all about me." Wendy said it with a smile. She was as grown up as that.

"What did his crow sound like?" Jane asked one evening.

"It was like this," Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter's crow.

"No, it wasn't," Jane said gravely, "it was like this"; and she did it ever so much better than her mother.

Wendy was a little startled. "My darling, how can you know?"

"I often hear it when I am sleeping," Jane said.

"Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only one who heard it awake."

"Lucky you!" said Jane.

And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped on the floor.

He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth.

He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman. Rh

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 {|style="float: right;"
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 * PETER AND JANE
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Rh "Hullo, Wendy," he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.

"Hullo, Peter," she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. Something inside her was crying "Woman, woman, let go of me."

"Hullo, where is John?" he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.

"John is not here now," she gasped.

"Is Michael asleep?" he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.

"Yes," she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as to Peter.

"That is not Michael," she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on her.

Peter looked. "Hullo, is it a new one?"

"Yes."

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl."

Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.

"Peter," she said, faltering, "are you expecting me to fly away with you?"

"Of course; that is why I have come." He added a little sternly, "Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?"

She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring-cleaning times pass. Rh

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Rh "I can't come," she said apologetically, "I have forgotten how to fly."

"I'll soon teach you again."

"O, Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me."

She had risen, and now at last a fear assailed him. "What is it?" he cried, shrinking.

"I will turn up the light," she said, "and then you can see for yourself."

For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. "Don't turn up the light," he cried.

She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet smiles.

Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.

"What is it?" he cried again.

She had to tell him.

"I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago."

"You promised not to!"

"I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby."

"No, she's not." Rh

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Rh But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his fist upraised. Of course he did not strike her. He sat down on the floor and sobbed, and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try to think.

Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and was interested at once.

"Boy," she said, "why are you crying?"

Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.

"Hullo," he said.

"Hullo," said Jane.

"My name is Peter Pan," he told her.

"Yes, I know."

"I came back for my mother," he explained, "to take her to the Neverland."

"Yes, I know," Jane said, "I been waiting for you."

When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy.

"She is my mother," Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his side, with the look on her face that he liked to see on ladies when they gazed at him. Rh

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Rh "He does so need a mother," Jane said.

"Yes, I know," Wendy admitted, rather forlornly; "no one knows it so well as I."

"Good-bye," said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about.

Wendy rushed to the window.

"No, no!" she cried.

"It is just for spring-cleaning time," Jane said; "he wants me always to do his spring cleaning."

"If only I could go with you!" Wendy sighed.

"You see you can't fly," said Jane.

Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.

As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring-cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and so it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.

THE END Rh

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Page:Peter and Wendy.djvu/249

 MARGARET OGILVY

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Peter and Wendy

 * Peter and Wendy, (1911) by J. M. Barrie
 * Peter and Wendy - Margaret Ogilvy, (1912) by J. M. Barrie

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User talk:98.151.210.19

Welcome

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title: User talk:98.151.210.19


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Page:The Harvard Classics Vol. 51; Lectures.djvu/246

 poet, Monti, whom he venerated. In 1805 his mother took him to Paris, where he frequented salons, the atmosphere of which was wholly rationalistic and Voltairean, and in which he imbibed doctrines of skepticism. These, however, were not to last with him. At this time there was formed his friendship with the French scholar and man of letters, Claude Fauriel, who now and for many years later helped to mold his mind. Back in Milan in 1808, he married there in that year the Protestant lady, Enrichetta Blondel. Two years later, she became a Catholic, and Manzoni, impelled by her example and by a deep-rooted love, hitherto latent, for the ancestral religion, followed her into the Church, to remain thereafter a sincere and devout communicant. Abiding in the Milanese region, he wrote there in 1821 his remarkable ode, the "Cinque Maggio," commemorating the death of Napoleon, and at about this same time he commenced the composition of "I Promessi Sposi." When it was fully published in 1827, he removed with his family to Florence, and for a while enjoyed the favor of the grand duke,—who decorated the walls of his palace with scenes from "I Promessi Sposi,"—and the society of leading statesmen and writers, such as Giusti, Capponi, Niccolini, and Leopardi. Returning ere long to Milan, he had the misfortune to lose (1833) his wife, as well as his daughter, Giulia, who was married to the novelist Massimo d'Azeglio. In the sorrow of this period he derived no little comfort from his friendship with the brilliant although impetuous philosopher Rosmini and the novelist Tommaso Grossi. He remarried in 1837. During the stirring days of 1848, he showed himself a sterling Italian patriot, and urged his three sons to fight valiantly against the Austrian arms then engaged in subjugating his native region of Lombardy. With the success of the Austrians he retired voluntarily to a villa on Lake Maggiore, but the liberation of Lombardy again in 1859 brought him prominently to notice. King Vittorio Emmanuele bestowed honors upon him and assigned him a pension, which to one in his straitened circumstances was very grateful. He was made a senator in 1860, and played a part in the Assembly which proclaimed the Kingdom of Italy. Shortly after, in 1864, he was one of the National Assembly that voted for the transference of the capital from Turin to Rome. The Holy City he never visited, but in 1872 he was


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User talk:118.210.71.28

--Zyephyrus (talk) 08:05, 4 January 2011 (UTC)

title: User talk:118.210.71.28


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Zoonomia/II.I.I.I

CLASS I.

DISEASES OF IRRITATION.

ORDO I.

Increased Irritation.

GENUS I.

With increased Actions of the Sanguiferous System.

The irritability of the whole, or of part, of our system is perpetually changing; these vicissitudes of irritability and of inirritability are believed to depend on the accumulation or exhaustion of the sensorial power, as their proximate cause; and on the difference of the present stimulus, and of that which we had previously been accustomed to, as their remote cause. Thus a smaller degree of heat produces pain and inflammation in our hands, after they have been for a time immersed in snow; which is owing to the accumulation of sensorial power in the moving fibres of the cutaneous vessels during their previous quiescence, when they were benumbed with cold. And we feel ourselves cold in the usual temperature of the atmosphere on coming out of a warm room; which is owing to the exhaustion of sensorial power in the moving fibres of the vessels of the skin by their previous increased activity, into which they were excited by unusual heat.

Hence the cold fits of fever are the occasion of the succeeding hot ones; and the hot fits contribute to occasion in their turn the succeeding cold ones. And though the increase of stimulus, as of heat, exercise, or distention, will produce an increased action of the stimulated fibres; in the same manner as it is produced by the increased irritability which was occasioned by a previous defect of stimulus; yet as the excesses of irritation from the stimulus of external things are more easily avoided than the deficiencies of it; the diseases of this country, except those which are the consequences of drunkenness, or of immoderate exercise, more frequently begin with torpor than with orgasm; that is, with inactivity of some parts, or of the whole of the system, and consequent coldness, than with increased activity, and consequent heat.

If the hot fit be the consequence of the cold one, it may be asked if they are proportionate to each other: it is probable that they are, where no part is destroyed by the cold fit, as in mortification or death. But we have no measure to distinguish this, except the time of their duration; whereas the extent of the torpor over a greater or less part of the system, which occasions the cold fit; or of the exertion which occasions the hot one; as well as the degree of such torpor or exertion, are perhaps more material than the time of their duration. Besides this some muscles are less liable to accumulate sensorial power during their torpor, than others, as the locomotive muscles compared with the capillary arteries; on all which accounts a long cold fit may often be followed by a short hot one.

 *  Take here Addition VI

SPECIES.

1. Febris irritativa. Irritative fever. This is the synocha of some writers, it is attended with strong pulse without inflammation; and in this circumstance differs from the febris inirritativa of Class I. 2. 1. 1. which is attended with weak pulse without inflammation. The increased frequency of the pulsation of the heart and arteries constitutes fever; during the cold fit these pulsations are always weak, as the energy of action is then decreased throughout the whole system; and therefore the general arterial strength cannot be determined by the touch, till the cold part of the paroxysm ceases. This determination is sometimes attended with difficulty; as strong and weak are only comparative degrees of the greater or less resistance of the pulsation of the artery to the compression of the finger. But the greater or less frequency of the pulsations affords a collateral evidence in those cases, where the degree of strength is not very distinguishable, which may assist our judgment concerning it. Since a moderately strong pulse, when the patient is in a recumbent posture, and not hurried in mind, seldom exceeds 120 strokes in a minute; whereas a weak one often exceeds 130 in a recumbent posture, and 150 in an erect one, in those fevers, which are termed nervous or putrid. See Sect. XII. 1. 4.

The increased frequency of the pulsation of the heart and arteries, as it is occasioned either by excess or defect of stimulus, or of sensorial power, exists both in the cold and hot fits of fever; but when the cold fit ceases, and the pulse becomes strong and full as well as quick, in consequence of the increased irritability of the heart and arteries, it constitutes the irritative fever, or synocha. It is attended with considerable heat during the paroxysm, and generally terminates in a quarter of a lunation, without any disturbance of the faculties of the mind. See Class IV. 1. 1. 8.

M. M. Venesection. Emetics. Cathartics. Cool the patient in the hot fit, and warm him in the cold one. Rest. Torpentia.

2. Ebrietas. Drunkenness. By the stimulus of wine or opium the whole arterial system, as well as every other part of the moving system, is excited into increased action. All the secretions, and with them the production of sensorial power itself in the brain, seem to be for a time increased, with an additional quantity of heat, and of pleasureable sensation. See Sect. XXI. on this subject. This explains, why at the commencement of the warm paroxysm of some fevers the patient is in greater spirits, or vivacity; because, as in drunkenness, the irritative motions are all increased, and a greater production of sensation is the consequence, which when in a certain degree, is pleasureable, as in the diurnal fever of weak people. Sect. XXXVI. 3. 1.

3. Hæmorrhagia arteriosa. Arterial hæmorrhage. Bleeding with a quick, strong, and full pulse. The hæmorrhages from the lungs, and from the nose, are the most frequent of these; but it sometimes happens, that a small artery but half divided, or the puncture of a leech, will continue to bleed pertinaciously.

M. M. Venesection. Cathartic with calomel. Divide the wounded artery. Bind sponge on the puncture. If coffee or charcoal internally? If air with less oxygen?

4. Hæmoptoe arteriosa. Spitting of arterial blood. Blood spit up from the lungs is florid, because it has just been exposed to the influence of the air in its passage through the extremities of the pulmonary artery; it is frothy, from the admixture of air with it in the bronchia. The patients frequently vomit at the same time from the disagreeable titillation of blood about the fauces; and are thence liable to believe, that the blood is rejected from the stomach.

Sometimes an hæmoptoe for several successive days returns in gouty persons without danger, and seems to supply the place of the gouty paroxysms. Is not the liver always diseased previous to the hæmoptoe, as in several other hæmorrhages? See Class I. 2. 1. 9.

M. M. Venesection, a purge, a blister, diluents, torpentia; and afterwards sorbentia, as the bark, the acid of vitriol, and opium. An emetic is said to stop a pulmonary hæmorrhage, which it may effect, as sickness decreases the circulation, as is very evident in the great sickness sometimes produced by too large a dose of digitalis purpurea.

Dr. Rush says, a table spoonful or two of common salt is successful in hæmoptoe; this may be owing to its stimulating the absorbent systems, both the lymphatic, and the venous. Should the patient respire air with less oxygen? or be made sick by whirling round in a chair suspended by a rope? One immersion in cold water, or a sudden sprinkling all over with cold water, would probably stop a pulmonary hæmorrhage. See Sect. XXVII. 1.

5. Hæmorrhagia narium. Epistaxis. Bleeding at the nose in elderly subjects most frequently attends those, whose livers are enlarged or inflamed by the too frequent use of fermented liquors.

In boys it occurs perhaps simply from redundancy of blood; and in young girls sometimes precedes the approach of the catamenia; and then it shews a disposition contrary to chlorosis; which arises from a deficiency of red blood.

M. M. It is stopped by plunging the head into cold water, with powdered salt hastily dissolved in it; or sometimes by lint strewed over with wheat flour put up the nostrils; or by a solution of steel in brandy applied to the vessel by means of lint. The cure in other respects as in hæmoptoe; when the bleeding recurs at certain periods, after venesection, and evacuation by calomel, and a blister, the bark and steel must be given, as in intermittent fevers. See Section XXVII. 1.

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110 was betrayed by his seminarist air, and was chased with cries of "Le calotin à la lanterne!" or rather "No priest;" but seeing a marketwoman at the head of the troop, he dashed down a narrow alley with posts in the middle inconvenient for the passage of petticoats, and thus baffled his pursuers. This is a French version of Lingard's experiences, but his biographer Tierney gives an altogether different account, more entitled to credence. In June 1790, according to Tierney, he was walking about Douai when the mob were dragging a man whom he knew, Derbaix, to execution. Stopping to ask the reason, his seminarist dress attracted notice, and there was a cry of "Le calotin à la lanterne!" This roused him to a sense of his danger, and he hastily took to flight, but remained at Douai till February 1793. Derbaix was a printer, and commanded the National Guard. He had rescued from the mob, and was taking to prison for security, a corn merchant, Nicolon, accused of exporting wheat, when a ringleader at the prison doors snatched Nicolon from him and gave him up to the mob. Derbaix, indignant, drew his sword on the ringleader, whereupon the mob fell on him,


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Rh hung him to a lamp-post, and then dragged his body through the streets till ten at night. His widow, prematurely confined, died from the shock. Although Tierney gives a wrong date, June instead of March 1790, he cannot have been mistaken as to Lingard's attempt to rescue Derbaix. It is just possible, however, that Lingard did go to Paris on leaving Douai, and was mobbed there. He revisited Paris in 1802 to make researches for his History.

Young Henry Swinburne, son of the Mrs. Swinburne just mentioned, had no such escape. He was a page to Louis XVI., and was at the Vaudeville Theatre in 1792, when there was a play ridiculing the Jacobins. The Royalists expelled the interrupters, but were waylaid outside the theatre by a mob who pelted them with mud and snow, forced them to shout "Vive la nation!" and made them, ladies included, wade through the mire to their carriages. Swinburne was dragged in the gutter and severely injured in the head. His aunt, Anne Swinburne, was one of thirty-five nuns who, in the following autumn, had to quit Montargis and seek refuge in England; yet the Montargis municipality, about that time, in token of international amity, burnt the flag taken from the English in 1427, and destroyed the cross commemorating the battle, such memorials being "a leaven of hatred and discord between two generous peoples." Henry was lost at sea in 1801, at twenty-nine years of age, on his way


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 FORTY-FIRST ANNUAL REPORT OF THE COUNCIL.

the increasing difficulties caused by the long duration of the war, the Society has continued to hold its meetings during the past year, and generally they have been well attended.

Sixteen new members have been enrolled during the year, and three libraries have been added to the list of subscribers. On the other side of the account there have been nine deaths and twenty resignations, so that the members of the Society are diminished by ten, and there are now only 394 members and subscribers on the roll as against 404 a year ago.

Among the members who have died are Dr. Walker, Miss S. Morison, and Mr. Thurstan Peter, who was one of the very few representatives of the Society in the west country, where it is to be hoped that it may be more fully represented in the future than at present.

Considering the many and various calls the war has made on the energies of the country, the Council think the Society is to be congratulated on having kept its numbers at so high a level: and now that peace is well in sight, they hope that before they issue their next Annual Report the Society will be as flourishing as it was in its palmiest days.

The amount received in subscriptions during the year was £386 8s. 0d., which was £13 more than in 1917; and of this amount a larger proportion even than a year ago represented arrears.

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Rh Meetings of the Society have been held as follows, viz.:—

Miss Blackman’s paper was profusely illustrated by lantern slides, and elicited an interesting discussion. Mr. A. R. Wright at the same meeting exhibited a collection of rosaries, and Miss Burne a rosary picked up by a soldier on the battlefield of Tel-el-Kebir.

The Council regret that so few objects of folklore interest have been exhibited during the year, and they venture to express the hope that members and friends will not hesitate to bring with them to the meetings any objects illustrative of the papers announced to be read.

Several additions have been made to the Society’s library during the year, particulars of which have been duly noted in Folk-Lore. Members are reminded that they may borrow books from the library, which is housed at University College, subject to the regulations laid down by the Council, particulars of which may be obtained on application to Dr. R. W. Chambers, the Hon. Librarian at the College.

The twenty-ninth volume of Folk-Lore has been issued during the year. The cost of paper and labour has again considerably increased, and the Council have in consequence found it necessary further to reduce the size of the volume, and to dispense with illustrations. Even so, the cost of the volume is more than double what it was in pre-war days. In these circumstances the Council have been reluctantly compelled to defer the issue of any additional volume for

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Bromley, Thomas (1530-1587)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Bromyarde, John de


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6 the present. A year hence they will be in a position to take stock of the financial position of the Society, and should the cost of paper and printing be sensibly diminished it is possible that they may be able to issue an additional volume in 1920. They fear, however, that they may by that time have lost the opportunity of publishing several MSS. which have been offered to them.

Owing to the regrettable illness of Miss Burne, who has succeeded Dr. Wheatley as Editor-in-Chief of the material in course of collection for a new edition of Brand’s calendar customs of Brand’s Popular Antiquities, there is no report to hand from the Brand Committee. The Council, however, are pleased to announce that they have received a generous contribution of £20 from an anonymous donor for the work of the Committee, and they have reason to know that a considerable amount of spade-work has been done during the year. It is feared that Miss Burne’s illness will prevent her resuming the direction of the work, but the Committee are making arrangements for carrying it on with as little dislocation as possible. The Council wish to place on record their profound appreciation of Miss Burne’s services, and their most sincere regret that she feels at present unable to complete the task into which she had thrown such unstinted energy and enthusiasm.

The sales of the Society’s publications for the year 1917 amounted to £25 15s. 7d. only. In view of the disorganisation caused by the war, no larger return could reasonably have been expected. Both Mr. Sidgwick and Mr. Jackson have been on active service throughout the year, and no account of the sales of the Society’s publications in 1918 is yet available. There is no reason, however, to expect that they will fall short of those in the previous year.

A sum of £30 has been received on account of the sales of salvage stock. A large number of volumes, however, still remain unsold, and may be inspected by intending purchasers at Messrs. H. F. Payers & Co.’s warehouse,

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Rh Bishop’s Court, Old Bailey, E.C., where they are stored. Mr. C. J. Tabor, of the White House, Knotts Green, Essex, has kindly undertaken to be responsible for their sale. The price is 4s. per volume, with all faults, carriage paid.

In order to effect further economies the Council omitted the meeting in December, and decided not to provide tea before the meetings. But after the end of the present session it is hoped that the old order of things may be restored.

The Cash Account and Balance Sheet for the year are submitted herewith.

A. C. HADDON, President.

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 elected an honorary citizen of Rome, and in the letter in which he thanked the mayor for the courtesy shown him he expressed his joy at the consummation of Italian unity. He died on May 22, 1873.

MANZONI AS A POET AND CRITIC

Among modern Italian poets Manzoni takes high rank. Besides some minor lyrics and other poems of an occasional nature he wrote the "Inni Sacri," hymns in which he gives poetical form to the noblest and highest manifestations of the Christian religion, emphasizing especially the principles of charity, hope, and eventual comfort for all human ills; the ode "Cinque Maggio," already mentioned; the ode "Marzo, 1821," dealing with the aspirations and endeavors of the liberal party in Piedmont; and the two-verse dramas, the "Conte di Carmagnola" and the "Adelchi." These tragedies figure among the best productions of the Romantic movement in Italy, and they are the first examples of the historical play in Italian. The "Conte di Carmagnola" is concerned with the story of the famous captain of free lances, Francesco Bussone, called Carmagnola, who in the fifteenth century was undeservedly done to death by his employers, the Venetians; the "Adelchi" turns upon events in Lombardy back in the time of its king Desiderius and his foe and conqueror, Charlemagne.

Noteworthy among the minor prose works of Manzoni are the documents in which he discusses the validity of the French system of unities as applied to dramatic composition ("Lettre a M. Chauvet") and the purposes of the Italian Romantic school ("Lettera al Marchese Cesare d'Azeglio sul Romanticismo"). In various writings he discusses the often-mooted question as to what is the true form of speech for Italian literary expression, and he ranges himself on the side of sanity by advocating the use of the Florentine vocabulary on the part of Italian authors from all parts of the peninsula.

I PROMESSI SPOSI

His masterpiece is, of course, "I Promessi Sposi," which, begun as we have seen in 1821, occupied Manzoni for some six years with its composition and its printing; yet, hardly had it appeared when, faithful to his belief that the Florentine speech was the correct


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 of cultured Italians, he set to work to eliminate the dialectisms and Gallicisms in it, and the result was that in pure Tuscan the novel appeared, after seventy-five reprints of the first edition had been made, in the perfected form of 1842. Its main plot is simple; for the central story is that of the long-deferred marriage of two peasants, Lorenzo and his beloved Lucia. A tyrannical local potentate, aided by the proverbial Italian bravos, forbids their nuptials, because his own evil fancy has fallen upon the girl, and her parish priest, whose duty it is to perform the marriage ceremony irrespective of all exterior influences, avoids doing so through terror of the tyrant, Don Rodrigo, and his bloodthirsty satellites. Eventually a pest carries away Don Rodrigo, and the union of the lovers is effected. They are married by their own timid parish priest, Don Abbondio, who has, in the meantime, been taught his duty by his noble superior, the saintly Cardinal Carlo Borromeo.

Following Sir Walter Scott, whom he expressly acknowledges as his model for his methods, Manzoni gave to his novel an historical setting, adapting it to the Romantic sentiments then dominating the literary world. He chose for the period of action the three years between 1628 and 1631, during the Spanish supremacy at Milan, when a terrible famine and pestilence made desolate that part of Italy, and he confined operations between Lake Como, which he knew so well, and the city of Milan. Before undertaking the writing of his great work he made a serious study of works dealing with the pestilence and with administrative affairs of the time in which it occurred. Then, with the intuition of the true artist, having the historical and social conditions well in mind, and possessing the power to analyze the most delicate of human feelings, he assembled a number of characters of divers sorts, through the play of which he presents us with a vivid picture of Lombardy in the early seventeenth century.

Next to Dante and Ariosto, Manzoni is, perhaps, the greatest of Italian authors, the most universal in appeal. His worth was quickly acknowledged abroad, by Goethe in Germany, by Chateaubriand in France, by Scott in the British Empire, and the last named was proud to have provoked imitation on the part of a genius of so high an order.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brooke, Frances


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Author:James Robinson Planché

Works

 * History of British Costumes
 * The Pursuivant of Arms (1852)
 * The Conqueror and his Companions (1874)
 * Recollections (1872)

Translations

 *  (1856)
 *  (1858)

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brooke, Gustavus Vaughan


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Rh courage to attempt this almost impossible task; and in this important book we find—what he has taught us to expect from him—literary grace, erudition, and wealth of illustrative matter.

When I had the pleasure of joining this Society about the end of 1889, English folklorists were interested in the general problems of folklore, and also, as they always are, in its details. This interest in general problems gave rise to repeated discussions, which after a time ran their course and have not been resuscitated by folklorists, though the theories then discussed have in recent years occupied the attention of students in other departments of ethnology. I propose to dwell for a short time on these discussions, as they illustrate an episode in the history of science that is constantly recurring. In the following account I give as fairly and succinctly as I can the views of certain well-known students; whether they represent the views subsequently held by them does not concern us, as we are now dealing with a definite historical phase.

Ten years previously Sir Laurence Gomme stated that “The Folk-Lore survivals of civilisation, and the Folk-Lore status of savage tribes, both belong to the primitive history of mankind.” His main work, from our point of view, was the historical, sociological, and ethnological interpretation of folklore, and especially did he recognise the great importance of method, and he did his best to raise folklore to a scientific status. At the time at which we are now concerned he told us, “It is a gain to science that it has at last been recognised that we cannot penetrate far back into man’s history without appealing to more than one element in that history. Some day it will be recognised that we must appeal to all elements in that history.” Thirty years later he wrote, “Not only is it necessary to ascertain the proper position of each item of folklore in the

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DNBer?
I saw that you edited one of our pages of the DNB, thanks for that. In case you are interested, we have a project to transcribe the DNB and you can find out more about what we are doing at WikiProject DNB — billinghurst  sDrewth  11:58, 4 January 2011 (UTC)

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12 culture area in which it is found, but it is also necessary to ascertain its scientific relationship to other items found in the same area; and I have protested against the too easy attempt to proceed upon the comparative method. Before we can compare we must be certain that we are comparing like quantities.”

The memorable Second International Folk-Lore Congress, which was held in London in 1891, afforded a great opportunity for discussion.

In his address as chairman of the Folk-tale Section, Dr. Hartland said, “Literary men have contended that the true origin of folk-tales was to be found in India, that they were Buddhist parables, and that the Buddhist propaganda sowed them broadcast. This, at least as I understand it, is the old orthodox opinion of scholars who dispute the anthropological hypothesis. . . . As the area of research widens, we doubt more and more that folk-tales found in the remotest corners of the earth have all sprung from one centre within a measurable historical period. It has, therefore, been practically abandoned by most of its defenders in this country. But the anthropological hypothesis is not left in possession of the field. That hypothesis attributes the origin of folk-tales, as of every other species of tradition, to the constitution of the human mind. A similar environment acting upon the mind will everywhere produce similar results. The birthplace of any story is, therefore, impossible to determine; for no story has any one birthplace.” Dr. Hartland then stated a counter-theory, which “accepts the results of the controversies over the theories of the Aryan philologists and the Buddhist scholars. It admits that the foundation of the absurd and impossible tales current all round the globe must be sought in the beliefs of savage tribes. . . but it denies that the mere fact that a given story is found

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User talk:Ryanborg5

A contribution from this account or ip address, which appeared to be a test edit, was removed or reverted. Please use the sandbox for this purpose. The community portal has information on contributing to this library. — billinghurst  sDrewth  12:01, 4 January 2011 (UTC)

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A interesting and amusing book, entitled 'The Recollections and Reflections of J. R. Planché (Somerset Herald),' has recently been given to the world.

Mr. Planche's grandfather was a French refugee, but his parents, both of French stock, were born in London. The author of the 'Recollections' made his first appearance on life's stage in Old Burlington-street, on the 27th of February 1796. He is therefore seventy-six years of age, and is as active in the prosecution of his literary pursuits as ever he was. Besides publishing this year the book above mentioned, he has furnished the stage with the lyrical parts of 'Babil and Bijou,' Mr. Boucicault's great show at Covent-garden. Mr. Planché's father was an eminent watchmaker, and attracted the notice of George III., who often chatted with him in the most familiar manner. He tells this characteristic anecdote of that monarch:

One day, going to St. James's with the king's watch, which had been mended, he told the page that the ribbon was rather dirty.

The king overheard this, and coming to the door, said:

'What is that, Planché? what is that?'

Mr. Planché repeated his remark about the state of the royal ribbon, and suggested a new one.

'New ribbon, Planché!' said the king. 'What for? Can't it be washed?'

This excellent gentleman, having known what it was to be very poor, determined that his son should learn some useful profession or trade. At first, the subject of our notice tried artistic pursuits, but having a very strong development of the cacoëthes scribendi, he chose to be articled to a bookseller. Soon after, he turned his attention to play writing, and became distinguished as an amateur actor of his own characters. His early recollections date back to the destruction by fire of both the great national theatres; the Old-Prices row at new Covent-garden; the Young-Roscius mania; the


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Rh domesticated among any people is of itself evidence of the beliefs or practices of that people, present or past. Stories, we are told, especially some stories, must have been invented once, and once only. It would be too great a draught on our credulity to ask us to believe that a complicated plot, or a long series of incidents, or even a single incident of a remarkable character, was invented in a dozen different places, however similar may be the working of men’s minds. But it may have been handed on from man to man, from tribe to tribe, until it had made the circuit of the world.” With regard to this “dissemination theory,” as Dr. Hartland called it, he pointed out that “to track any story to its place of origin must be a matter of extreme difficulty, as in a very large number of cases the diffusion must have taken place in times so remote that no trustworthy record of the transmission was possible. Also, if it be admitted that folk-tales enshrine relics of archaic thought and archaic practice, which are usually the very structure and essence of the tale, and if such tales would be unintelligible to the people who were strangers to the modes of thought which had produced them, then “we may be reasonably sure that all such tales must, even if borrowed, have embodied ideas and contained allusions to practices familiar to the borrowing peoples, or they would not have been received into their traditions. Tales may thus in general be safely used as evidence of archaic thought and custom once, if not still, rife among the folk who relate them” (p. 20). After asserting that the anthropological theory of folk-tales does not exclude the possibility of multitudes of instances of dissemination, he goes on to point out some of the difficulties of transmission from a foreign source, but admits that, “the conditions for transmission, even of recondite and carefully guarded traditions, must have been fulfilled again and again in the world’s history. . . but if the difficulties of transmission from a foreign source be great, the difficulty of testing such a transmission is equally great” (pp. 31, 32).

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 retirement of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons; and the appearance of Edmund Kean and Miss O'Neil.

In 1818 'Amoroso,' a piece of his own, was produced at Drury-lane, and for fifty-four years Mr. Planché has been writing for the stage. In 1820 the 'Vampire' was brought out at the Lyceum.

It was three years after this that Mr. Planché began his reform of the costume of the stage: he designed the dresses for 'King John,' in accordance with the true dresses of the period, gratuitously for John Kemble. On the subject of costume, Mr. Planché is the greatest authority we have. It is a matter to which he has devoted many years of earnest study; and he may be regarded as the originator of correct dressing on the stage. This rehabilitation of the characters in 'King John' was thoroughly successful, and, he says, ' a complete reformation of dramatic costume became from that moment inevitable on the English stage.'

On the subject of old armour, too, Mr. Planché is a great authority; and he more than once arranged the splendid collection of the late Sir Samuel Meyrick for public exhibition.

While his own story of his life is by no means overburdened by reflections, it contains a fund of most interesting recollections. Without following the autobiographer year by year, we may say, in a few words, that it has been the fortune of the amiable and accomplished playwriter and antiquary to know intimately almost all the notabilities of the stage who have flourished from his youth to the present day; whilst in society he has been everywhere welcome, and has seen and known nearly everybody of social distinction; his office of Herald has brought him into immediate contact with kings and courts; and his descriptions of courtly scenes, at home and abroad, are not the least interesting portion of his memoirs.


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14 Mr. J. Jacobs advocated two methods for the study of folk-tales, the one was to analyse it into its elements, which are the incidents of history—a practice which has been largely followed since then. The other was the mapping of folk-tales, which, so far as I am aware, has very rarely been done, although in other branches of ethnology the method of putting data on maps has yielded very valuable results, Mr. Jacobs asks what are we to study in a folk-tale? and replies, “In the first place, the folk-tale itself and for itself.”

Mr. J. S. Stuart-Glennie also laid emphasis on maps of distribution of all branches of ethnology, and went on to say, “First, then, grant Differences of Races, Migrations of Races, and the Origin of Civilisation in the Conflict of Races, must we not exceedingly question current theories of Primitive Man, and of his being even approximately represented by contemporary Savages? What Savage Race can we point to which, considering the facts I have indicated of Migrations, etc., may not possibly, and even probably have, in some indirect or distorted way, derived its Mythology from the great centres of Civilisation?

“If all the Civilisations of which we have any knowledge originated in the very complex conditions of a Conflict of Higher and Lower Races, then we must, I think, very seriously question the current assumption that different peoples necessarily pass through similar ‘stages.’. . . We have no proof whatever that any Savage People has passed independently into new ‘stages,’ and developed its Mythology in accordance therewith.” Unfortunately these views of Mr. Stuart-Glennie’s, like others he advocated, appear to have been very largely overlooked. There is no need to indicate reasons for the general neglect of Mr. Stuart-Glennie’s adumbrations, but I do wish to draw

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Rh attention to the fact that he did appreciate certain essential features of the problem before us.

The publication by our Society in 1893 of the variants of the tale of Cinderella collected by Miss M. E. Roalfe Cox, gave occasion for the discussion to break out anew. In his Introduction to that work, Mr. Andrew Lang maintained that similar institutions and a similar imaginative condition may give rise to similarities in tales, and even to some combinations of incidents; at a certain point, where the incidents are numerous and the sequence exact, he disbelieved in independent invention. He writes: “I have disclaimed any theory about the original Home, or the diffusion of the tales. I have frequently shown the many ways in which a tale, once conceived, might be diffused or transmitted. It might be carried by women, compelled, by the law of exogamy, to marry into an alien group. It might be carried by slaves all across Africa, and, in old times, to America. A slave of Javan might tell a Greek tale among Phoenicians or Assyrians. Soldiers of Alexander might carry them to Egypt. . . . Tales might come and go, north and south, with the amber on the Sacred Way. How tales known in the Old World could be carried to the Huarochiris, subjects of the Incas, or to Samoa, and there get incrusted in the sacred national myths, entirely puzzles me, nor can I very readily see how a whole mass of our tales came to be diffused among Zulus and Bushmen, Red Indians and Eskimo. But ‘anything might happen in the great backward time,’ as Aristotle says. I do not deny that such diffusion and transmission is possible. . . . In fact, I am obliged to say that I know not how the stories are so similar, for transmission to the Western Pacific coast from India, Africa, or Europe is difficult to accept. But the backward of time and the possibilities of migration are infinite.” In referring to the tale of Cupid and Psyche, he adds, “Incidents were either universally human, like Psyche’s jealous sisters, or were suggested by nuptial taboos

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112 to Jamaica, where his father, a well-known traveller, had settled. Mr. Algernon Swinburne is of the same family. There is a singular contrast between the treatment of two young men destined to be admirals. Christopher Nesham, a youth of eighteen, was living at Vernon, in Normandy, in October 1789, when a furious mob fell on Planter, a corn merchant who had been charitable to the poor, but who, having sent flour to Paris, was accused of wishing to starve Vernon. The town-hall, where he had taken refuge, was stormed, and Planter was dragged down the stairs towards the lamp-post at the corner of the building. Attempts were made to fasten the rope round his neck. Renoult, a barrister who had vainly tried to defend Planter inside the hall, pressed forward, along with the octogenarian priest Courotte and young Nesham. The latter placed himself in front of Planter, snatched a pistol from one of the mob, and with it warded off the blows aimed at himself. Knocked down, he sprang up again and vigorously resisted the mob. Planter was at last got away from the lamp-post into an adjoining street, and a door being thrown open for the priest, he was pushed in and saved. One of the first acts of the municipality, on the restoration of order, was to confer citizenship on Nesham (November 17th, 1789). The Paris municipality in the following January presented him with a civic wreath and sword. The


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Rh president bade him tell his countrymen that he had found on the banks of the Seine a brave, susceptible, and generous people, formerly frivolous, but now enjoying liberty, especially as it gave them opportunities of rewarding virtue. Nesham must have reflected that if he had received the first civic wreath ever awarded in France, he would scarcely in any other country have had to defend an innocent man against a bloodthirsty mob. He may have worn the sword at Camperdown.

The other future admiral, Henry (afterwards Sir Henry) Blackwood, whose mother became Lady Dufferin, had gone to Angoulême, when just of age, at the end of 1791, in order to learn French. In December 1792 he went to Paris, and agreed to take a bag, which he was assured contained no letters, but merely domestic articles for an émigré at Brussels. At Paris, however, the bag was searched, and letters were found in it. Blackwood was taken before the municipality; but as the letters did not touch on politics, he was released on bail, a Paris merchant with whom he stayed being surety for him. On January 13th, 1793, the Committee of Public Safety reported to the Convention that the letters had been


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114 entrusted to him by aristocratic ladies, and that he had earned 300 or 400 louis by journeys to and from émigrés (Blackwood, however, insisted that most of the money was the result of a bet with a fellow-Englishman, that he would get from Brussels to Angoulême in forty-four hours.) They held that he had dealings with the enemies of the Revolution, but "to set Europe an example of the virtue of hospitality," they recommended the Convention to release him, which was accordingly done. Though authorised to remain and travel in France, we may be sure the young midshipman lost no time in returning home. He was more fortunate than Eraser Frisell, who, taught at Glasgow University to admire the ancient republics, went over to France at sixteen, in 1792, to live under a modern one. He spent fifteen months in prison at Dijon, and there formed some lifelong friendships. He became, indeed, so attached to France, that save a short visit to Scotland in 1802, he spent the rest of his life there. At the rupture of the peace of Amiens he was again arrested, but in consideration of his literary pursuits and his previous imprisonment, was released, with permission to remain in Paris or to travel about France, for travelling, coupled with shooting and Greek, was his passion. Chateaubriand styled him the "Greco-Anglais," and while in prison in 1832 for supposed complicity with the Duchesse de Berri,


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Rh wrote an elegy on his daughter Louisa, who died at the age of seventeen. Joubert was another of Frisell's friends. Frisell published an essay on the English constitution, to correct French misconceptions. He married a Frenchwoman, a daughter by whom is still living, and expired in 1846, at the age of seventy. Lord Sheffield, on his way to Lausanne in the summer of 1791, was horrified at the Revolution, and he found his friend Gibbon so reactionary as actually to deprecate the abolition of the Spanish Inquisition. Clarkson, on the other hand, thought, or rather Wilberforce thought for him, that the revolutionary zeal for the suppression of abuses might be directed against the slave trade. Clarkson accordingly went over in August 1789, and remained six months. Lafayette, as we might have expected, was ardent, and Clarkson was agreeably surprised to meet at his dinner-table two Dominican mulattoes in the uniform of National Guards. Necker was friendly, and Mirabeau not only showed him the outline of a speech he intended to deliver, but asked for further data. Clarkson accordingly, for more than a month, sent him every other day a letter of sixteen or twenty pages, but the speech was never delivered. The Abbé Sieyes and Brissot warmly supported him, and the leading members of the Assembly listened to him with respect; but the Creoles in Paris denounced him as a spy, and


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116 addressed him threatening letters. Recalled to England to prepare evidence for a parliamentary committee, he enjoined moderation and prudence on the coloured deputation which had arrived from St. Domingo. He was disappointed with his want of success, due partly to the political turmoil, partly to the counter efforts of the colonists, who saw no inconsistency in excluding negroes from the rights of man. Neither, indeed, did some English sympathisers with the Revolution, as for example Colonel (afterwards Sir) Banastre Tarleton, M.P. for Liverpool, who was in Paris in 1791. He was a zealous defender of the slave trade, though he regretted having fought against American independence. A closer view of the Revolution sobered or saddened some who from this side of the Channel had been enchanted with it. Mr. (afterwards Sir) John Stanley of Alderley, after a month at Paris in 1790, when he accompanied Huskisson, Windham, and Pelham (afterwards Lord Chichester) to the Jacobins, informed Lord Auckland that his enthusiasm had been dispelled; but he had not turned round the other way, for the violence, unfairness, and ignorance of both sides equally disgusted him. David Williams, the Unitarian minister, whose creed was ironically said to be, "I believe in God: amen," had been invited over to assist in framing the constitution. This was done at the suggestion of Brissot, who had translated his "Letters


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 AN

BEFORE THE SENIOR CLASS

DIVINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,

SUNDAY EVENING, 15 JULY, 1838.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

BOSTON: JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 1838.


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 of some of those classes of facts in which this element is conspicuous.

The intuition of the moral sentiment is an insight of the perfection of the laws of the soul. These laws execute themselves. They are out of time, out of space, and not subject to circumstance. Thus; in the soul of man there is a justice whose retributions are instant and entire. He who does a good deed, is instantly ennobled himself. He who does a mean deed, is by the action itself contracted. He who puts off impurity, thereby puts on purity. If a man is at heart just, then in so far is he God; the safety of God, the immortality of God, the majesty of God do enter into that man with justice. If a man dissemble, deceive, he deceives himself, and goes out of acquaintance with his own being. A man in the view of absolute goodness, adores, with total humility. Every step so downward, is a step upward. The man who renounces himself, comes to himself by so doing.

See how this rapid intrinsic energy worketh everywhere, righting wrongs, correcting appearances, and bringing up facts to a harmony with thoughts. Its operation in life, though slow to the senses, is, at last, as sure as in the soul. By it, a man is made the Providence to himself, dispensing good to his goodness, and evil to his sin. Character is always known. Thefts never enrich; alms never impoverish; murder will speak out of stone