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HE river police seemed to be floating, suspended in the fog, which now was so dense that the water beneath was invisible. Inspector Rogers, who was in charge, fastened up his coat collar about his neck and turned to Stringer, the Scotland Yard man, who sat beside him in the stern of the cutter gloomily silent.

“Time’s wearing on,” said Rogers, and his voice was muffled by the fog as though he were speaking from inside a box. “There must be some hitch.”

“Work it out for yourself,” said the C. I. D. man gruffly. “We know that the office in Globe Road belongs to Gianapolis, and according to the Eastern Exchange he was constantly ringing up East 39951; that’s the warehouse of Kan-Suh Concessions. He garages his car next door to the said warehouse, and to-night our scouts follow Gianapolis and Max from Piccadilly Circus to Waterloo Station, where they discharge the taxi and pick up Gianapolis’ limousine. Still followed, they drive—where? Straight to the garage at the back of that wharf yonder! Neither Gianapolis, Max, nor the chauffeur come out of the garage. I said, and I

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 still say, that we should have broken in at once, but Dunbar was always pigheaded, and he thinks Max is a tin god.”…

“Well, there’s no sign from Max,” said Rogers; “and as we aren’t ten yards above the wharf, we cannot fail to hear the signal. For my part I never noticed anything suspicious, and never had anything reported, about this ginger firm, and where the swell dope-shop I’ve heard about can be situated, beats me. It can’t very well be under the place, or it would be below the level of the blessed river!”

“This waiting makes me sick!” growled Stringer. “If I understand aright—and I’m not sure that I do—there are two women tucked away there somewhere in that place”—he jerked his thumb aimlessly into the fog; “and here we are hanging about with enough men in yards, in doorways, behind walls, and freezing on the river, to raid the Houses of Parliament!”

“It’s a pity we didn’t get the word from the hospitals before Max was actually inside,” said Rogers. “For three wealthy ladies to be driven to three public hospitals in a sort of semi-conscious condition, with symptoms of opium, on the same evening isn’t natural. It points to the fact that the boss of the den has unloaded! He’s been thoughtful where his lady clients were concerned, but probably the men have simply been kicked out and left to shift for themselves. If we only knew one of them it might be confirmed.”

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

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 “It’s not worth worrying about, now,” growled Stringer. “Let’s have a look at the time.”

He fumbled inside his overcoat and tugged out his watch.

“Here’s a light,” said Rogers, and shone the ray of an electric torch upon the watch-face.

“A quarter-to-three,” grumbled Stringer. “There may be murder going on, and here we are.”…

A sudden clamor arose upon the shore, near by; a sound as of sledge-hammers at work. But above this pierced shrilly the call of a police whistle.

“What’s that?” snapped Rogers, leaping up. “Stand by there!”

The sound of the whistle grew near and nearer; then came a voice—that of Sergeant Sowerby—hailing them through the fog.

“Dunbar’s in! But the gang have escaped! They’ve got to a motor launch twenty yards down, on the end of the creek”…

But already the police boat was away.

“Let her go!” shouted Rogers—“close inshore! Keep a sharp lookout for a cutter, boys!”

Stringer, aroused now to excitement, went blundering forward through the fog, joining the men in the bows. Four pairs of eyes were peering through the mist, the damnable, yellow mist that veiled all things.

“Curse the fog!” said Stringer; “it’s just our damn luck!”

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 “Cutter ’hoy!” bawled a man at his side suddenly, one of the river police more used to the mists of the Thames. “Cutter on the port bow, sir!”

“Keep her in sight,” shouted Rogers from the stern; “don’t lose her for your lives!”

Stringer, at imminent peril of precipitating himself into the water, was craning out over the bows and staring until his eyes smarted.

“Don’t you see her?” said one of the men on the lookout. “She carries no lights, of course, but you can just make out the streak of her wake.”

Harder, harder stared Stringer, and now a faint, lighter smudge in the blackness, ahead and below, proclaimed itself the wake of some rapidly traveling craft.

“I can hear her motor!” said another voice.

Stringer began, now, also to listen.

Muffled sirens were hooting dismally all about Limehouse Reach, and he knew that this random dash through the night was fraught with extreme danger, since this was a narrow and congested part of the great highway. But, listen as he might, he could not detect the sounds referred to.

The brazen roar of a big steamer’s siren rose up before them. Rogers turned the head of the cutter sharply to starboard but did not slacken speed. The continuous roar grew deeper, grew louder.

“Sharp lookout there!” cried the inspector from the stern.

Suddenly over their bows uprose a black mass.

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 “My God!” cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if hoping to fend off that giant menace.

He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its course, and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming liner, had not one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and jerked him sharply back into the boat.

A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting voices raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even above the beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky water, arose that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer.

“Where the flaming hell are you going?” inquired this stentorian voice; “haven’t you got any blasted eyes and ears”…

High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again—swimming it seemed upon frothing milk.

The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote, astern.

“Damn close shave!” cried Rogers. “It must be clear ahead; they’ve just run into it.”

One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion, now reported:

“Cutter crossing our bow, sir! Getting back to her course.”

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 “Keep her in view,” roared Rogers.

“Port, sir!”

“How’s that?”

“Starboard, easy!”

“Keep her in view!”

“As she is, sir!”

Again they settled down to the pursuit, and it began to dawn upon Stringer’s mind that the boat ahead must be engined identically with that of the police; for whilst they certainly gained nothing upon her, neither did they lose.

“Try a hail,” cried Rogers from the stern. “We may be chasing the wrong boat!”

“Cutter ’hoy!” bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in lieu of a megaphone—“heave to!”

“Give ’em ‘in the King’s name!’” directed Rogers again.

“Cutter ’hoy,” roared the man through his trumpeted hands,—“heave to—in the King’s name!”

Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the shouter almost convulsively.

“Take no notice, sir,” reported the man.

“Then it’s the gang!” cried Rogers from the stern; “and we haven’t made a mistake. Where the blazes are we?”

“Well on the way to Blackwall Reach, sir,” answered someone. “Fog lifting ahead.”

“It’s the rain that’s doing it,” said the man beside Stringer.

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 Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer’s hand. This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down came the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the atmosphere, as a painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from his canvas. Long tails of yellow vapor, twining—twining—but always coiling downward, floated like snakes about them; and the oily waters of the Thames became pock-marked in the growing light.

Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry—a very rakish-looking motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of them. He quivered with excitement.

“Do you know the boat?” cried Rogers, addressing his crew in general.

“No, sir,” reported his second-in-command; “she’s a stranger to me. They must have kept her hidden somewhere.” He turned and looked back into the group of faces, all directed toward the strange craft. “Do any of you know her?” he demanded.

A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.

“But she can shift,” said one of the men. “They must have been going slow through the fog; she’s creeping up to ten or twelve knots now, I should reckon.”

“Your reckoning’s a trifle out!” snapped Rogers, irritably, from the stern; “but she’s certainly

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 showing us her heels. Can’t we put somebody ashore and have her cut off lower down?”

“While we’re doing that,” cried Stringer, excitedly, “she would land somewhere and we should lose the gang!”

“That’s right,” reluctantly agreed Rogers. “Can you see any of her people?”

Through the sheets of rain all peered eagerly.

“She seems to be pretty well loaded,” reported the man beside Stringer, “but I can’t make her out very well.”

“Are we doing our damnedest?” inquired Rogers.

“We are, sir,” reported the engineer; “she hasn’t got another oat in her!”

Rogers muttered something beneath his breath, and sat there glaring ahead at the boat ever gaining upon her pursuer.

“So long as we keep her in sight,” said Stringer, “our purpose is served. She can’t land anybody.”

“At her present rate,” replied the man upon whose shoulders he was leaning, “she’ll be out of sight by the time we get to Tilbury or she’ll have hit a barge and gone to the bottom!”

“I’ll eat my hat if I lose her!” declared Rogers angrily. “How the blazes they slipped away from the wharf beats me!”

“They didn’t slip away from the wharf,” cried Stringer over his shoulder. “You heard what Sowerby said; they lay in the creek below the wharf, and there was some passageway underneath.”

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 “But damn it all, man!” cried Rogers, “it’s high tide; they must be a gang of bally mermaids. Why, we were almost level with the wharf when we left, and if they came from below that, as you say, they must have been below water!”

“There they are, anyway,” growled Stringer.

Mile after mile that singular chase continued through the night. With every revolution of the screw, the banks to right and left seemed to recede, as the Thames grew wider and wider. A faint saltiness was perceptible in the air; and Stringer, moistening his dry lips, noted the saline taste.

The shipping grew more scattered. Whereas, at first, when the fog had begun to lift, they had passed wondering faces peering at them from lighters and small steamers, tow boats and larger anchored craft, now they raced, pigmy and remote, upon open waters, and through the raindrift gray hulls showed, distant, and the banks were a faint blur. It seemed absurd that, with all those vessels about, they nevertheless could take no steps to seek assistance in cutting off the boat which they were pursuing, but must drive on through the rain, ever losing, ever dropping behind that black speck ahead.

A faint swell began to be perceptible. Stringer, who throughout the whole pursuit thus far had retained his hold upon the man in the bows, discovered that his fingers were cramped. He had much difficulty in releasing that convulsive grip.

“Thank you!” said the man, smiling, when at

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 last the detective released his grip. “I’ll admit I’d scarcely noticed it myself, but now I come to think of it, you’ve been fastened onto me like a vise for over two hours!”

“Two hours!” cried Stringer; and, crouching down to steady himself, for the cutter was beginning to roll heavily, he pulled out his watch, and in the gray light inspected the dial.

It was true! They had been racing seaward for some hours!

“Good God!” he muttered.

He stood up again, unsteadily, feet wide apart, and peered ahead through the grayness.

The banks he could not see. Far away on the port bow a long gray shape lay—a moored vessel. To starboard were faint blurs, indistinguishable, insignificant; ahead, a black dot with a faint comet-like tail—the pursued cutter—and ahead of that, again, a streak across the blackness, with another dot slightly to the left of the quarry…

He turned and looked along the police boat, noting that whereas, upon the former occasion of his looking, forms and faces had been but dimly visible, now he could distinguish them all quite clearly. The dawn was breaking.

“Where are we?” he inquired hoarsely.

“We’re about one mile northeast of Sheerness and two miles southwest of the Nore Light!” announced Rogers—and he laughed, but not in a particularly mirthful manner.

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 Stringer temporarily found himself without words.

“Cutter heading for the open sea, sir,” announced a man in the bows, unnecessarily.

“Quite so,” snapped Rogers. “So are you!”

“We have got them beaten,” said Stringer, a faint note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve given them no chance to land.”

“If this breeze freshens much,” replied Rogers, with sardonic humor, “they’ll be giving us a fine chance to sink!”

Indeed, although Stringer’s excitement had prevented him from heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind, which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a manner very disconcerting to the landsman.

“It’ll be rather fresh outside, sir,” said one of the men, doubtfully. “We’re miles and miles below our proper patrol”…

“Once we’re clear of the bank it’ll be more than fresh,” replied Rogers; “but if they’re bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark, that’s our destination, too!”…

On—and on—and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they were drenched with spray.

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 Now green water began to spout over the nose of the laboring craft.

“I’ve only enough juice to run us back to Tilbury, sir, if we put about now!” came the shouted report.

“It’s easy to talk!” roared Rogers. “If one of these big ’uns gets us broadside on, our number’s up!”…

“Cutter putting over for Sheppey coast, sir!” bellowed the man in the bows.

Stringer raised himself, weakly, and sought to peer through the driving spray and rain-mist.

“By God! They’ve turned—turtle!”…

“Stand by with belts!” bellowed Rogers.

Rapidly life belts were unlashed; and, ahead, to port, to starboard, brine-stung eyes glared out from the reeling craft. Gray in the nascent dawn stretched the tossing sea about them; and lonely they rode upon its billows.

“''Port! port! hard a-port!''” screamed the lookout.

But Rogers, grimly watching the oncoming billows, knew that to essay the maneuver at that moment meant swamping the cutter. Straight ahead they drove. A wave, higher than any they yet had had to ride, came boiling down upon them…and twisting, writhing, upcasting imploring arms to the elements—the implacable elements—a girl, a dark girl, entwined, imprisoned in silken garments, swept upon its crest!

Out shot a cork belt into the boiling sea…and

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 fell beyond her reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled from the stern…

The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove to grasp it…

Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping—seeking—clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her floating hair…

“Here goes!” roared Rogers.

They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and round…

Down swept the eager wave…down—down—down…It lapped over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused, tremulous—dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune—then leaped on—away—headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.

“God’s mercy!” whispered Stringer—“that was touch-and-go!”

No living thing moved upon the waters.

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ETECTIVE-SERGEANT SOWERBY reported himself in Inspector Dunbar’s room at New Scotland Yard.

“I have completed my inquiries in Wharf-end Lane,” he said; and pulling out his bulging pocketbook, he consulted it gravely.

Inspector Dunbar looked up.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“We cannot trace the makers of the sanitary fittings, and so forth, but they are all of American pattern. There’s nothing in the nature of a trademark to be found from end to end of the place; even the iron sluice-gate at the bottom of the brick tunnel has had the makers’ name chipped off, apparently with a cold chisel. So you see they were prepared for all emergencies!”

“Evidently,” said Dunbar, resting his chin on the palms of his hands and his elbows upon the table.

“The office and warehouse staff of the ginger importing concern are innocent enough, as you know already. Kan-Suh Concessions was conducted merely as a blind, of course, but it enabled the Chinaman, Ho-Pin, to appear in Wharf-end Lane

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 at all times of the day and night without exciting suspicion. He was supposed to be the manager, of course. The presence of the wharf is sufficient to explain how they managed to build the place without exciting suspicion. They probably had all the material landed there labeled as preserved ginger, and they would take it down below at night, long after the office and warehouse Staff of Concessions had gone home. The workmen probably came and went by way of the river, also, commencing work after nightfall and going away before business commenced in the morning.”

“It beats me,” said Dunbar, reflectively, “how masons, plumbers, decorators, and all the other artisans necessary for a job of that description, could have been kept quiet.”

“Foreigners!” said Sowerby triumphantly. “I’ll undertake to say there wasn’t an Englishman on the job. The whole of the gang was probably imported from abroad somewhere, boarded and lodged during the day-time in the neighborhood of Limehouse, and watched by Mr. Ho-Pin or somebody else until the job was finished; then shipped back home again. It’s easily done if money is no object.”

“That’s right enough,” agreed Dunbar; “I have no doubt you’ve hit upon the truth. But now that the place has been dismantled, what does it look like? I haven’t had time to come down myself, but I intend to do so before it’s closed up.”

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 “Well,” said Sowerby, turning over a page of his notebook, “it looks like a series of vaults, and the Rev. Mr. Firmingham, a local vicar whom I got to inspect it this morning, assures me, positively, that it’s a crypt.”

“A crypt!” exclaimed Dunbar, fixing his eyes upon his subordinate.

“A crypt—exactly. A firm dealing in grease occupied the warehouse before Kan-Suh Concessions rented it, and they never seem to have suspected that the place possessed any cellars. The actual owner of the property, Sir James Crozel, an ex-Lord Mayor, who is also ground landlord of the big works on the other side of the lane, had no more idea than the man in the moon that there were any cellars beneath the place. You see the vaults are below the present level of the Thames at high tide; that’s why nobody ever suspected their existence. Also, an examination of the bare walls—now stripped—shows that they were pretty well filled up to the top with ancient débris, to within a few years ago, at any rate.”

“You mean that our Chinese friends excavated them?”

“No doubt about it. They were every bit of twenty feet below the present street level, and, being right on the bank of the Thames, nobody would have thought of looking for them unless he knew they were there.”

“What do you mean exactly, Sowerby?” said

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 Dunbar, taking out his fountain-pen and tapping his teeth with it.

“I mean,” said Sowerby, “that someone connected with the gang must have located the site of these vaults from some very old map or book.”

“I think you said that the Reverend Somebody-or-Other avers that they were a crypt?”

“He does; and when he pointed out to me the way the pillars were placed, as if to support the nave of a church, I felt disposed to agree with him. The place where the golden dragon used to stand (it isn’t really gold, by the way!) would be under the central aisle, as it were; then there’s a kind of side aisle on the right and left and a large space at top and bottom. The pillars are stone and of very early Norman pattern, and the last three or four steps leading down to the place appear to belong to the original structure. I tell you it’s the crypt of some old forgotten Norman church or monastery chapel.”

“Most extraordinary!” muttered Dunbar. “But I suppose it is possible enough. Probably the church was burnt or destroyed in some other way; deposits of river mud would gradually cover up the remaining ruins; then in later times, when the banks of the Thames were properly attended to, the site of the place would be entirely forgotten, of course. Most extraordinary!”

“That’s the reverend gentleman’s view, at any rate,” said Sowerby, “and he’s written three books on the subject of early Norman churches! He even

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 goes so far as to say that he has heard—as a sort of legend—of the existence of a very large Carmelite monastery, accommodating over two hundred brothers, which stood somewhere adjoining the Thames within the area now covered by Limehouse Causeway and Pennyfields. There is a little turning not far from the wharf, known locally—it does not appear upon any map—as Prickler’s Lane; and my friend, the vicar, tells me that he has held the theory for a long time”—Sowerby referred to his notebook with great solemnity—“that this is a corruption of Pré-aux-Clerce Lane.”

“H’m!” said Dunbar; “very ingenious, at any rate. Anything else?”

“Nothing much,” said Sowerby, scanning his notes, “that you don’t know already. There was some very good stuff in the place—Oriental ware and so on, a library of books which I’m told is unique, and a tremendous stock of opium and hashish. It’s a perfect maze of doors and observation-traps. There’s a small kitchen at the end, near the head of the tunnel—which, by the way, could be used as a means of entrance and exit at low tide. All the electric power came through the meter of Kan-Suh Concessions.”

“I see,” said Dunbar, reflectively, glancing at his watch; “in a word, we know everything except”…

“What’s that?” said Sowerby, looking up.

“The identity of Mr. King!” replied the

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, reaching for his hat which lay upon the table.

Sowerby replaced his book in his pocket.

“I wonder if any of the bodies will ever come ashore?” he said.

“God knows!” rapped Dunbar; “we can’t even guess how many were aboard. You might as well come along, Sowerby, I’ve just heard from Dr. Cumberly. Mrs. Leroux”…

“Dead?”

“Dying,” replied the inspector; “expected to go at any moment. But the doctor tells me that she may—it’s just possible—recover consciousness before the end; and there’s a bare chance”…

“I see,” said Sowerby eagerly; “of course she must know!”

The two hastened to Palace Mansions. Despite the lateness of the hour, Whitehall was thronged with vehicles, and all the glitter and noise of midnight London surrounded them.

“It only seems like yesterday evening,” said Dunbar, as they mounted the stair of Palace Mansions, “that I came here to take charge of the case. Damme! it’s been the most exciting I’ve ever handled, and it’s certainly the most disappointing.”

“It is indeed,” said Sowerby, gloomily, pressing the bell-button at the side of Henry Leroux’s door.

The door was opened by Garnham; and these two, fresh from the noise and bustle of London’s

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 were shipped for Lima during 1814, three of his friends, a cousin Henry Vivian, a former partner Bull, and Thomas Trevarthen, going with them as engineers. The inauguration of the engines was marked by complete success, and in October 1816 Trevithick gave up all his prospects in England and embarked for Peru. He sailed from Penzance on 20 Oct. in the South Sea whaler Asp, Captain Kenny, to superintend the great silver mines on the Cerro de Pasco, near Lima. He arrived at Lima in February 1817, was received with extravagant honours, and remained abroad for over ten years (see Cornwall Geolog. Soc. Trans. i. 212). After he had surmounted many difficulties and made and lost several fortunes, the war of independence broke out. The patriots threw a quantity of his machinery down the shafts, the country became thoroughly unsettled, and, after some extraordinary vicissitudes, Trevithick had to leave Peru and virtually to sacrifice his property in mines and ores. In 1826–7 he was prospecting in Costa Rica, having a design of connecting the Atlantic and the Pacific by a railroad. After having been rescued from drowning at the mouth of the Magdalena river, by means of a lasso thrown by a friendly Venezuelan officer, he made his way, penniless and half starved, into Carthagena. There, in August 1827, he was, as ‘the inventor of the locomotive,’ introduced to Robert Stephenson [q. v.] ‘Is that Bobby?’ was Trevithick's exclamation; ‘I've nursed him many a time’ (presumably during a visit to Wylam in 1805). Stephenson generously advanced him 50l., with which, having travelled in company to New York, Trevithick took a passage to England, arriving at Falmouth with empty pockets on 9 Oct. 1827. A petition presented to the government on behalf of the inventor in February 1828 was disregarded. In the following year he went over to Holland to report upon some Dutch pumping-engines. He had to borrow 2l. as passage money, and it is recorded that he gave five shillings out of this sum to a poor neighbour who had the misfortune to lose a pig.

Among his later schemes were a project for an improvement in the propulsion of steamboats by means of a spiral wheel at the stern, an improved marine boiler, a new recoil gun-carriage, an apparatus for heating apartments (dated 21 Feb. 1831), and a proposal for a cast-iron column one thousand feet in height to commemorate the Reform movement. Unfortunately his opportunities of carrying his plans to maturity became more and more restricted. The year following his last patent (that for the employment of superheated steam, dated 22 Sept. 1832) he was living at Dartford, Kent, and employed upon some of his inventions in the workshop of John Hall, when he was seized by the illness of which he died on 22 April 1833. He was lodging at the time at the Bull Inn, but at his death it was found that he had not only outlived all his earnings, but was in debt to the innkeeper. He would therefore have been buried at the expense of the parish had not the workmen at Hall's factory clubbed together to give the ‘great inventor’ a decent funeral. These same men, on 26 April, followed Trevithick's remains to the grave in Dartford churchyard. No stone marks his resting-place. ‘Such was the end of one of the greatest mechanical benefactors of our country’ (cf., Dartford, 1844, p. 405). In June 1888 a Trevithick memorial window was erected in the north aisle of the nave of Westminster Abbey (next the Brunel window), and at the same time were endowed a Trevithick engineering scholarship at Owens College, Manchester, and a triennial medal at the Institution of Civil Engineers.

Trevithick married at St. Erth, on 7 Nov. 1797, Jane, daughter of John Harvey of Hayle foundry, settling upon his marriage at Moreton House, near Redruth. His wife, who was born at Carnhell, Gwinear, on 25 June 1772, survived until 1868, when she died at Pencliff, Hayle, on 21 March. They had six children: Richard (1798–1872); John Harvey (1806–1877); Francis (1812–1877), his father's biographer and an engineer, who in 1847 designed for the London and North-Western railway a locomotive of a new and advanced type, with an 8-feet 6-inch driving wheel (this engine, the Cornwall, achieved remarkable success as a champion of the narrow-gauge principle); Frederick Henry, who constructed the steam floating bridge between Gosport and Portsmouth in 1864, and accomplished much engineering work in Russia, Germany, Portugal, Canada, and South America; Anne; and Elizabeth (see, Collect. Cornub. 1890, pp. 1091, 1092).

As an inventor, it is probably no exaggeration to say that Trevithick was ‘one of the greatest that ever lived’. In the establishment of the locomotive, in the development of the powers of the Cornish engine, and in increasing the capabilities of the marine engine, ‘there can be no doubt that Trevithick's exertions have given a far wider range to the dominion of the steam engine than even the great and masterly improvement of James Watt effected in his day’ (, On the High-pressure


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 streets, stepped into the hushed atmosphere of the flat where already a Visitant, unseen but potent, was arrived, and now was beckoning, shadowlike, to Mira Leroux.

“Will you please sit down and wait,” said Garnham, placing chairs for the two Scotland Yard men in the dining-room.

“Who’s inside?” whispered Dunbar, with that note of awe in his voice which such a scene always produces; and he nodded in the direction of the lobby.

“Mr. Leroux, sir,” replied the man, “the nurse, Miss Cumberly, Dr. Cumberly and Miss Ryland”…

“No one else?” asked the detective sharply.

“And Mr. Gaston Max,” added the man. “You’ll find whisky and cigars upon the table there, sir.”

He left the room. Dunbar glanced across at Sowerby, his tufted brows raised, and a wry smile upon his face.

“In at the death, Sowerby!” he said grimly, and lifted the stopper from the cut-glass decanter.

In the room where Mira Leroux lay, so near to the Borderland that her always ethereal appearance was now positively appalling, a hushed group stood about the bed.

“I think she is awake, doctor,” whispered the nurse softly, peering into the emaciated face of the patient.

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 Mira Leroux opened her eyes and smiled at Dr. Cumberly, who was bending over her. The poor faded eyes turned from the face of the physician to that of Denise Ryland, then to M. Max, wonderingly; next to Helen, whereupon an indescribable expression crept into them; and finally to Henry Leroux, who, with bowed head, sat in the chair beside her. She feebly extended her thin hand and laid it upon his hair. He looked up, taking the hand in his own. The eyes of the dying woman filled with tears as she turned them from the face of Leroux to Helen Cumberly—who was weeping silently.

“Look after…him,” whispered Mira Leroux.

Her hand dropped and she closed her eyes again. Cumberly bent forward suddenly, glancing back at M. Max who stood in a remote corner of the room watching this scene.

Big Ben commenced to chime the hour of midnight. That frightful coincidence so startled Leroux that he looked up and almost rose from his chair in his agitation. Indeed it startled Cumberly, also, but did not divert him from his purpose.

“It is now or never!” he whispered.

He took the seemingly lifeless hand in his own, and bending over Mira Leroux, spoke softly in her ear:

“Mrs. Leroux,” he said, “there is something which we all would ask you to tell us; we ask it for a reason—believe me.”

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 Throughout the latter part of this scene the big clock had been chiming the hour, and now was beating out the twelve strokes of midnight; had struck six of them and was about to strike the seventh.

Seven! boomed the clock.

Mira Leroux opened her eyes and looked up into the face of the physician.

Eight!…

“Who,” whispered Dr. Cumberly, “is he?”

Nine!

In the silence following the clock-stroke, Mira Leroux spoke almost inaudibly.

“You mean…Mr. King?”

Ten!

“Yes, yes! Did you ever see him?”…

Every head in the room was craned forward; every spectator tensed up to the highest ultimate point.

“Yes,” said Mira Leroux quite clearly; “I saw him, Dr. Cumberly…He is”…

Eleven!

Mira Leroux moved her head and smiled at Helen Cumberly; then seemed to sink deeper into the downy billows of the bed. Dr. Cumberly stood up very slowly, and turned, looking from face to face.

“It is finished,” he said—“we shall never know!”

But Henry Leroux and Helen Cumberly, their

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 glances meeting across the bed of the dead Mira, knew that for them it was not finished, but that Mr. King, the invisible, invisibly had linked them.

Twelve!…

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 Engine and Trevithick). Trevithick represents with startling distinctness one type of inventor, the Promethean type, which has to expiate by common misfortune its uncommon fertility of brain. Notwithstanding his courage and his ingenuity, his impatience and impetuosity and a certain lack of persistence proved disastrous to his fame and fortune. ‘Many lessons which experience had taught him had to be relearned by subsequent inventors, who bore off the laurels which he might have earned’ (, Steam Engine, p. 208).

Fierce but tender-hearted, buoyant yet easily depressed and recklessly imprudent, Trevithick was in many respects a typical Cornishman. In person he was 6 feet 2 inches in height, broad-shouldered, with a massive head and bright blue eyes. His bust was presented to the Royal Institution of Cornwall by W. J. Henwood, and his portrait by Linnell (1816) is in the South Kensington Museum. A portrait is also included in the engraved group prefixed to Walker's ‘Memoirs of Distinguished Men of Science,’ 1862.

[Trevithick's achievements, somewhat obscured by the eulogists of Watt and of Stephenson, were first brought into a just prominence in the Life of Richard Trevithick, with an Account of his Inventions, London, 1872, 2 vols. 8vo, by Francis Trevithick (with numerous plates and drawings)—a partial and confused but conscientious monument of biographical research. See also Polwhele's Hist. of Cornwall, iv. 137; Gilbert's Cornwall, ii. 394; Edmonds's Lands End District, p. 254; Tregellas's Cornish Worthies, ii. 307 sq.; Boase and Courtney's Bibl. Cornub.; Lysons's Environs, i. 355; Smiles's Lives of the Engineers, iii. 80–5; Devey's Joseph Locke, pp. 67–74; Rennie's Autobiogr. p. 230; Walker's Mem. of Dist. Men of Science, 1864, pp. 126–32; Stuart's Descriptive Hist. of Steam Engine, p. 162; Stuart's Anecdotes of Steam Engine, 1829, p. 455; Lardner's Lectures on the Steam Engine, 1828, and The Steam Engine Explained, 1851; Tredgold's Steam Engine, 1838, p. 41; Alban's High-pressure Steam Engine; Pole's Cornish Pumping Engine; Ritchie's Railways, 1846; Thurston's Hist. of Steam Engine, 1870, p. 174; Reynolds's Locomotive Engineer, 1879, pp. 37–48; Gordon's Hist. Treatise of Steam Carriages on Common Roads, 1832; Young's Steam Power on Common Roads, 1860, p. 175; Fletcher's Steam Locomotion on Roads, 1891; Stretton's Locomotive and its Development, 1895, pp. 5–6; Deghilage's Origine de la Locomotive, Paris, 1886, planche i.; Jeaffreson's Robert Stephenson, i. 24, 105; South Kensington Museum Catalogue of Machinery, 1886; Engineer, 1867, xxiii. 91, 177 (16 Feb. and 28 Sept. 1883); Journal Roy. Instit. of Cornwall, 1883, viii. 9, 1895, xiii. 17; Railway Register, vol. v.; Hedley's Who invented the Locomotive? 1858; Edinburgh New Philos. Journal, October 1859; All the Year Round, 4 Aug. 1860; Mining Almanack, 1849, p. 303; Practical Mag. 1873, i. 90; Hebert's Register of Arts, vi. 243; Railway Times, 16 June 1888; Devon County Standard, 23 June 1888; Graphic, 13 Oct. 1888.]  TREVOR, ARTHUR HILL-, third of the second creation in the peerage of Ireland (1798–1862), born in Berkeley Square, London, on 9 Nov. 1798, was the only surviving son of Arthur Hill-Trevor, second viscount (1763–1837), by Charlotte, third daughter of Charles Fitzroy, first baron Southampton.

His great-grandfather, Arthur Hill-Trevor (d. 1771) of Belvoir, co. Down, and Brynkinalt, Denbighshire, was the second son of Michael Hill of Hillsborough, by Anne, daughter and heir of Sir John Trevor (1637–1717) [q. v.] He inherited the Trevor property from his father's half-brother, Marcus Hill (d. 1751), who was son of William Hill and Mary, daughter of Marcus Trevor, first viscount Dungannon of the first creation [q. v.] He was chancellor of the Irish exchequer in 1754–5. On 17 Feb. 1766 he was created Viscount Dungannon and Baron Hill of Olderfleet. He died in Dublin on 30 Jan. 1771, and was buried at Belvoir. His second wife, whom he married in January 1737, was Anne, daughter and heir of Edmund Francis Stafford of Brownstown, Meath, and Portglenone, Antrim. She died on 13 Jan. 1799. Their daughter, Anne, married in February 1759 the Earl of Mornington, by whom she became mother of the great Duke of Wellington and of the Marquis Wellesley. There were two other daughters and a son Arthur, who was father by Letitia, eldest daughter of Hervey, first viscount Mountmorres, of Arthur Hill-Trevor, second lord Dungannon; he succeeded his grandfather in the title, and died at Brynkinalt on 14 Dec. 1837.

His son, Arthur Hill-Trevor, was educated at Harrow, and matriculated from Christ Church, Oxford, on 17 Oct. 1817, graduating B.A. in 1820 and M.A. in 1825. In 1830 he was elected to the House of Commons for New Romney, and in the following year for the city of Durham. He was a vigorous opponent of the reform bills of 1831–2, both in the house and outside it. On 30 Aug. 1831 he moved an amendment to the effect that the existing non-resident freemen should keep their votes during their lives. In the course of the year Trevor issued an anti-reform pamphlet in the guise of a ‘Letter to the Duke of Rutland.’ When the


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 bill was reintroduced he again combated it, and sent forth another pamphlet exhorting the peers to stand firm. At the dissolution he lost his seat, but was re-elected at Durham in the election of 1835. He offered a vigorous opposition to corporation reform, regarding it as an attempt to extend the parliamentary franchise indirectly, and constituted himself the defender of the freemen, moving to omit the clause disfranchising them (23 June 1835). He was defeated by a majority of forty-six. In February 1837 he obtained the rejection of the motion of Sir [q. v.] for the repeal of the property qualification for members of parliament. He seconded the motion of [q. v.] for the revival of convocation (3 May), and also his proposal for the establishment of a system of national education in connection with the church (2 June). During this parliament he several times introduced a measure for the control of beershops, but met with little support. He forbade any of his tenants to set one up. In the session of 1839 he opposed the Irish municipal corporation bill as an attempt to put down protestantism. In 1841 he joined Sir [q. v.] in opposing the further restriction of capital punishment, which he thought should still be inflicted in cases of arson, midnight burglary, and some other offences. While a member of the commons he always singled out for attack the radical section of his opponents. He was more than once denounced by O'Connell, who on one occasion referred to him ironically as ‘the meek and modest representative of the clergy of Durham.’

Hill-Trevor, who had succeeded his father as third viscount Dungannon in 1837, was not returned at the ensuing general election, and, though elected at a by-election in April 1843 for his former constituency, was immediately afterwards unseated on petition. In September 1855 he was elected a representative peer for Ireland, and henceforth took an active part in the proceedings of the House of Lords. His strongest efforts were directed against legislation dealing with the marriage laws. He himself led the opposition to the divorce bill of 1857, and two years later (22 March 1859) moved the rejection of Lord Wodehouse's marriage law amendment (deceased wife's sister) bill. His speech on the latter bill was printed the same year. On 27 May 1862 he led the opposition to Lord Ebury's motion for the abolition of clerical subscription.

Dungannon died at 3 Grafton Street, London, on 11 Aug. 1862. He married, in 1821, at Leghorn, Sophia, fourth daughter of Colonel Gorges Marcus Irvine of Castle Irvine, Fermanagh. She died on 21 March 1880. There being no male issue, the peerage again became extinct.

Lord Arthur Edwin Hill inherited the estates and took the additional name of Trevor. In 1880 he was created Baron Trevor of Brynkinalt. He died in 1894.

Dungannon was a member of several learned societies, and published, besides several pamphlets, ‘The Life and Times of William III,’ 1835–6, 2 vols. 8vo. It is dedicated to [q. v.], regius professor of modern history at Oxford. The author had the assistance of [q. v.], archdeacon of Cleveland, and was given access to the documents at Stowe; but the book is of slight historical value.

TREVOR, GEORGE (1809–1888), divine, born at Bridgwater, Somerset, on 30 Jan. 1809, was the sixth son of Charles Trevor, an officer in the customs at Bridgwater, and afterwards at Belfast. His paternal grandmother, Harriet, was the sister of Horatio and James Smith, the authors of ‘Rejected Addresses.’ He was educated at a day school at Bridgwater, and on 25 May 1825 entered the India House, London, as a clerk. He was contemporary with John Stuart Mill, who entered on 21 May 1823. In London he made the acquaintance of the D'Israelis, and with Benjamin attended political meetings. On 6 Feb. 1832 he matriculated from Magdalen Hall (now Hertford College), Oxford, and contrived to keep his terms while discharging his duties as clerk. He graduated B.A. in 1846 and M.A. in 1847, and was a prominent speaker at the Oxford Union (, Life of Lord Sherbrooke, i. 82–3; W. G. Ward and the Oxford Movement, p. 425). In September 1833 he contributed to ‘Blackwood's Magazine’ an English verse translation of the ‘Nautilus’ of Callimachus, which the editor, Christopher North, praised warmly. It was the first of several similar essays. In 1835, after he had resigned his clerkship at the East India House, he was ordained deacon, and received priest's orders in the year following. From 1836 to 1845 he was chaplain to the East India Company in the Madras establishment, ministering at Madras for a year, and then at Bangalore. His labours were not confined


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 to the European population, and he founded a flourishing Tamil mission.

Trevor was an enthusiastic champion of high-church opinions when in 1845 he returned to England. Soon afterwards he was appointed resident deputy of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in the province of York. In 1847 he was instituted rector of All Saints, Pavement, York, and at the same time received a non-residentiary canonry in York Cathedral, with the prebendal stall of Apesthorp. In 1850 he was appointed chaplain of Sheffield parish church, and took up his residence in the town. He was, however, prevented from preaching in the church by the successive vicars, Dr. Thomas Sutton and Dr. Thomas Sale, on account of his sacramentarian views. To rebut the suspicion of Roman catholic sympathies, he gave a series of lectures on the Reformation, which drew large crowds. His right to the office and endowments was established by proceedings in chancery and the queen's bench, but the pulpit remained closed to him, and he eventually returned to York in 1855, leaving a curate in charge at Sheffield. In the spring of 1858 he made a temporary removal to London, engaging himself for two years as preacher at St. Philip's, Regent Street.

In 1860, on the accession of [q. v.] to the archbishopric of York, the powers of the northern convocation were restored, after they had long lain dormant. This revival was largely due to Trevor's strenuous efforts. In 1847 he had been returned proctor for the chapter of York, and had moved to elect a prolocutor, with a view to proceeding to business. Convocation was, however, according to custom, immediately adjourned, and nothing further was done towards re-establishing its active functions during the life of the archbishop, Thomas Musgrave (1788–1860) [q. v.] In 1852 Trevor published ‘The Convocations of the two Provinces, their origin, constitution, and forms of proceeding’ (London, 8vo), a work which had considerable influence on clerical opinion, and in the same year he was returned proctor for the archdeaconry of York.

On the union of the two houses of convocation, after the accession of (1819–1890) [q. v.] in 1862, Trevor was appointed synodal secretary, and in that capacity greatly extended the representative character of convocation. In 1868, quitting York, he retired to the living of Burton Pidsea in Holderness, and in 1871 he was translated by the archbishop to the rectory of Beeford with Lisset and Dunnington. In 1874 he received by diploma from the episcopal college of Holy Trinity, Hartford, Connecticut, the degree of D.D., in recognition of his great work, ‘The Catholic Doctrine of the Holy Eucharist,’ London, 1869, 8vo. A new enlarged edition appeared in 1875, with an appendix of authorities in the original Greek and Latin, bearing a dedication to [q. v.], dean of Chichester, to whose school of thought Trevor belonged. In this treatise he vindicated the Anglican doctrine of the eucharist against the Roman, Lutheran, and Zwinglian conceptions. It was considered by Hook the standard work on the subject. In 1880 Trevor received the honorary degree of M.A. from the university of Durham, and in 1886 that of D.D. He died on 18 June 1888 in the rectory of his son, George Wilberforce Trevor, at Marton, near Middlesbrough, in Yorkshire, and was buried at Beeford. A memorial tablet was erected to his memory in the north aisle of the choir of York minster. On 12 July 1836 he married Elizabeth, daughter of Christopher Philip Garrick of Richmond, Surrey, the grandson of George Garrick, David Garrick's brother. By her he left several children. Trevor was well known both as an orator and an author. At the Oxford Union he was regarded as Gladstone's successor, and in later life he was famous for his eloquence. His chief works, besides those mentioned above, were: He edited the ‘Parochial Mission Magazine,’ London, 8vo, published between 1849 and 1851, and continued by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel as the ‘Gospel Magazine.’ He was also a well-known contributor to the ‘Times,’ ‘Guardian,’ and ‘John Bull.’ [Biograph, 1881, vi. 195–8; Times, 20 June 1888; Guardian, 27 June 1888; Yorkshire Post, 20 June 1888; Church Portrait Journal, January 1881 (with portrait); Foster's Alumni Oxon. 1715–1886; Kitchin's Memoir of Bishop
 * 1) ‘Sermons preached in the Vepery Mission Church,’ Madras, 1839, 8vo.
 * 2) ‘Sermons,’ Calcutta, 1844, 8vo.
 * 3) ‘Christ in his Passion,’ London, 1847, 16mo.
 * 4) ‘A Letter on Secular Education,’ Sheffield, 1850, 8vo.
 * 5) ‘Sermons on the Doctrines and Means of Grace,’ London, 1851, 8vo.
 * 6) ‘The Company's Raj,’ London, 1858, 8vo.
 * 7) ‘India: an Historical Sketch,’ London, 1858, 12mo.
 * 8) ‘India: its Natives and Missions,’ London, 1859, 12mo.
 * 9) ‘Russia, Ancient and Modern,’ London, 1862, 12mo.
 * 10) ‘Ancient Egypt: its Antiquities, Religion, and History,’ London, 1863, 8vo.
 * 11) ‘Egypt from the Conquest of Alexander to Napoleon,’ London, 1866, 8vo.
 * 12) ‘Rome, from the Fall of the Western Empire,’ London, 1869, 8vo.
 * 13) ‘The History of our Parish [Beeford],’ Beverley [1888?], 8vo.


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  Harold Browne, pp. 427–8; Allibone's Dict. of Engl. Lit; Funeral Sermon by A. P. Purey-Cust, dean of York; private information.]  TREVOR or TREVAUR, JOHN (d. 1410), bishop of St. Asaph, was a native of Powys (, p. 32). Appointed precentor of Bath and Wells in 1386, he seems to have held that office until April 1393 (, i. 170). In the meantime, on a vacancy occurring (December 1389) in the see of St. Asaph, Trevor was elected by the chapter, and obtained a royal license (2 March 1390) to go to Rome to secure the pope's confirmation of their choice (Rot. Parl. iii. 274). But Urban VI had, as he feared, already appointed another. Settling at Rome as auditor of the palace (, ii. 10), he was more fortunate when St. Asaph again fell vacant in August 1394; the chapter once more elected him, and Boniface IX issued a provision in his favour. Receiving the king's license to accept this on 9 April 1395, he obtained the temporalities on 6 July and the spiritualities on 15 Oct. following (Fœdera, vii. 797;, i. 69). He was consecrated at Rome (Reg. Sacrum).

Richard II employed Trevor in negotiation with Scotland in 1397, but the bishop was one of the first to desert him, thus obtaining from his rival the post of chamberlain of Chester, Flint, and North Wales (16 Aug. 1399) even before Richard was actually a prisoner (Rot. Scot. ii. 142;, Letters, 2nd ser. i. 6; , ii. 10). The captive king handed him the seals at Lichfield on 24 Aug. ‘in the presence of Henry, duke of Lancaster,’ who, after his accession, confirmed him (1 Nov. 1399) in the post, which he retained till 1404.

Trevor was a member of the parliamentary commission which pronounced sentence of deposition on Richard in September, and he read the sentence in full parliament before Henry took his seat on the vacant throne (Rot. Parl. iii. 424;, p. 32). In the same session he angrily rebuked the commons for praying the king not to make grants unreservedly, and specially of such things as belonged to the crown. ‘The king ought not to be fettered in his inborn goodness by his subjects. He who sought unjustly or unworthily should be punished’ (ib. p. 38). After a mission to Spain to announce Henry's accession to his brother-in-law of Castile, Trevor accompanied the English army into Scotland in August 1400 (Ann. Henrici IV, p. 320;, ii. 10). In February 1401 he warned parliament of the danger of driving Glendower and the Welsh to extremities, but all he got for his answer was ‘se de scurris nudipedibus non curare’ (Eulogium, iii. 388). His protest was no doubt sharpened by the exposed position of his diocese. His impaired revenues had to be made up a few months later by a license to hold in commendam the church of Meifod with the chapels of Welshpool and Guilsfield (Fœdera, viii. 222). In April he appears as chancellor of Cheshire, Flint, and Carnarvon, unless this is a mistake for chamberlain (, u.s.). He acted as the Prince of Wales's deputy in North Wales in the early months of 1402, and on 22 April 1403 the prince made him his lieutenant for Chester and Flint (ib.) He came to the prince's muster before Shrewsbury at the head of ten esquires and forty archers, and probably fought on the winning side in that battle on 23 July 1403 (ib.) But his loyalty was shaken when the Welsh burnt his cathedral, and left not a stick standing of his palace and three of his manor-houses (, p. 67). Reduced to poverty, he was aggrieved that the king did nothing for him directly, and, refusing to be dependent on the bounty of the archbishop of Canterbury, he stole away in the summer of 1404 and joined Glendower (Ann. Henrici IV, p. 396). His goods were seized, the chamberlainship was granted to another, and his see was declared vacant, though a successor was not appointed until his death. In July 1405 Glendower sent him to concert action with Northumberland, with whom he fled to Scotland on the failure of his rising (Scotichronicon, ii. 441; Liber Pluscardensis, i. 348). As late as May 1409 the ‘episcopus prætensus’ is still referred to as a leader of the rebels in Wales (Fœdera, viii. 588). Being shortly afterwards sent by Glendower on a mission to France, he appears to have died in Paris on 10 or 11 April 1410. There can be practically no doubt that he is the ‘John, bishop of Hereford in Wales,’ of the epitaph in the infirmary chapel of the abbey of St. Victor, to which Browne-Willis first called attention (, i. 70), though the suspicion that he was there confused with John Trefnant, bishop of Hereford, who had been dead six years, is not unnatural. That 1410 was the year of Trevor's death is confirmed from other sources. He built the bridge at Llangollen (, ii. 11). There is a list of books belonging to him in the British Museum Additional MS. 25459, f. 291 (ib.)

[Rotuli Parliamentorum; Rymer's Fœdera, orig. edit.; Rotuli Scotiæ, ed. Record Comm.; Annales Ricardi II et Henrici IV (with Trokelowe) in Rolls Ser.; Adam of Usk, ed. Maunde Thompson; Scotichronicon, ed. 1775; Liber Pluscardensis in Historians of Scotland; Le


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E steamed out of the Clyde on Thursday night, and early on the Friday forenoon we took in our last batch of emigrants at Lough Foyle, in Ireland, and said farewell to Europe. The company was now complete, and began to draw together, by inscrutable magnetisms, upon the decks. There were Scots and Irish in plenty, a few English, a few Americans, a good handful of Scandinavians, a German or two, and one Russian; all now belonging for ten days to one small iron country on the deep. As I walked the deck and looked round upon my fellow-passengers, thus curiously assorted from all northern Europe, I began for the first time to understand the nature of emigration. Day by day throughout the passage, and thenceforward across all the States, and on to the shores of the Pacific, this knowledge grew more clear and melancholy. Emigration, from a word of the most cheerful import, came to sound most dismally in my ear. There is nothing more agreeable to picture and nothing more pathetic to behold. The abstract


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Rh idea, as conceived at home, is hopeful and adventurous. A young man, you fancy, scorning restraints and helpers, issues forth into life, that great battle, to fight for his own hand. The most pleasant stories of ambition, of difficulties overcome, and of ultimate success, are but as episodes to this great epic of self-help. The epic is composed of individual heroisms; it stands to them as the victorious war which subdued an empire stands to the personal act of bravery which spiked a single cannon and was adequately rewarded with a medal. For in emigration the young men enter direct and by the shipload on their heritage of work; empty continents swarm, as at the bo'sun's whistle, with industrious hands, and whole new empires are domesticated to the service of man. This is the closet picture, and is found, on trial, to consist mostly of embellishments. The more I saw of my fellow-passengers, the less I was tempted to the lyric note. Comparatively few of the men were below thirty; many were married, and encumbered with families; not a few were already up in years; and this itself was out of tune with my imaginations, for the ideal emigrant should certainly be young. Again, I thought he should offer to the eye some bold type of humanity, with bluff or hawk-like features, and the stamp of an eager and pushing disposition. Now those around me


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16 were for the most part quiet, orderly, obedient citizens, family men broken by adversity, elderly youths who had failed to place themselves in life, and people who had seen better days. Mildness was the prevailing character; mild mirth and mild endurance. In a word, I was not taking part in an impetuous and conquering sally, such as swept over Mexico or Siberia, but found myself, like Marmion, "in the lost battle, borne down by the flying."

Labouring mankind had in the last years, and throughout Great Britain, sustained a prolonged and crushing series of defeats. I had heard vaguely of these reverses; of whole streets of houses standing deserted by the Tyne, the cellar-doors broken and removed for firewood; of homeless men loitering at the street-corners of Glasgow with their chests beside them; of closed factories, useless strikes, and starving girls. But I had never taken them home to me or represented these distresses livingly to my imagination. A turn of the market may be a calamity as disastrous as the French retreat from Moscow; but it hardly lends itself to lively treatment, and makes a trifling figure in the morning papers. We may struggle as we please, we are not born economists. The individual is more affecting than the mass. It is by the scenic accidents, and the appeal to the carnal eye, that for


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Rh the most part we grasp the significance of tragedies. Thus it was only now, when I found myself involved in the rout, that I began to appreciate how sharp had been the battle. We were a company of the rejected; the drunken, the incompetent, the weak, the prodigal, all who had been unable to prevail against circumstances in the one land, were now fleeting pitifully to another; and though one or two might still succeed, all had already failed. We were a shipful of failures, the broken men of England. Yet it must not be supposed that these people exhibited depression. The scene, on the contrary, was cheerful. Not a tear was shed on board the vessel. All were full of hope for the future, and showed an inclination to innocent gaiety. Some were heard to sing, and all began to scrape acquaintance with small jests and ready laughter.

The children found each other out like dogs, and ran about the decks scraping acquaintance after their fashion also. "What do you call your mither?" I heard one ask. "Mawmaw," was the reply, indicating, I fancy, a shade of difference in the social scale. When people pass each other on the high seas of life at so early an age, the contact is but slight, and the relation more like what we may imagine to be the friendship of flies than that of men; it is so quickly joined, so easily dissolved,


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18 so open in its communications and so devoid of deeper human qualities. The children, I observed, were all in a band, and as thick as thieves at a fair, while their elders were still ceremoniously manœuvring on the outskirts of acquaintance. The sea, the ship, and the seamen were soon as familiar as home to these half-conscious little ones. It was odd to hear them, throughout the voyage, employ shore words to designate portions of the vessel. "Go' 'way doon to yon dyke," I heard one say, probably meaning the bulwark. I often had my heart in my mouth, watching them climb into the shrouds or on the rails, while the ship went swinging through the waves; and I admired and envied the courage of their mothers, who sat by in the sun and looked on with composure at these perilous feats. "He'll maybe be a sailor," I heard one remark; "now's the time to learn." I had been on the point of running forward to interfere, but stood back at that, reproved. Very few in the more delicate classes have the nerve to look upon the peril of one dear to them; but the life of poorer folk, where necessity is so much more immediate and imperious, braces even a mother to this extreme of endurance. And perhaps, after all, it is better that the lad should break his neck than that you should break his spirit. And since I am here on the chapter of the


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Rh children, I must mention one little fellow, whose family belonged to Steerage No. 4 and 5, and who, wherever he went, was like a strain of music round the ship. He was an ugly, merry, unbreeched child of three, his lint-white hair in a tangle, his face smeared with suet and treacle; but he ran to and fro with so natural a step, and fell and picked himself up again with such grace and good-humour, that he might fairly be called beautiful when he was in motion. To meet him, crowing with laughter and beating an accompaniment to his own mirth with a tin spoon upon a tin cup, was to meet a little triumph of the human species. Even when his mother and the rest of his family lay sick and prostrate around him, he sat upright in their midst and sang aloud in the pleasant heartlessness of infancy. Throughout the Friday, intimacy among us men made but a few advances. We discussed the probable duration of the voyage, we exchanged pieces of information, naming our trades, what we hoped to find in the new world, or what we were fleeing from in the old; and, above all, we condoled together over the food and the vileness of the steerage. One or two had been so near famine that you may say they had run into the ship with the devil at their heels; and to these all seemed for the best in the best of possible steamers.


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20 But the majority were hugely discontented. Coming as they did from a country in so low a state as Great Britain, many of them from Glasgow, which commercially speaking was as good as dead, and many having long been out of work, I was surprised to find them so dainty in their notions. I myself lived almost exclusively on bread, porridge, and soup, precisely as it was supplied to them, and found it, if not luxurious, at least sufficient. But these working men were loud in their outcries. It was not "food for human beings," it was "only fit for pigs," it was "a disgrace." Many of them lived almost entirely upon biscuit, others on their own private supplies, and some paid extra for better rations from the ship. This marvellously changed my notion of the degree of luxury habitual to the artisan. I was prepared to hear him grumble, for grumbling is the traveller's pastime; but I was not prepared to find him turn away from a diet which was palatable to myself. Words I should have disregarded, or taken with a liberal allowance; but when a man prefers dry biscuit there can be no question of the sincerity of his disgust.

With one of their complaints I could most heartily sympathise. A single night of the steerage had filled them with horror. I had myself suffered, even in my decent second-cabin berth,


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Rh from the lack of air; and as the night promised to be fine and quiet, I determined to sleep on deck, and advised all who complained of their quarters to follow my example. I dare say a dozen of others agreed to do so, and I thought we should have been quite a party. Yet, when I brought up my rug about seven bells, there was no one to be seen but the watch. That chimerical terror of good night-air, which makes men close their windows, list their doors, and seal themselves up with their own poisonous exhalations, had sent all these healthy workmen down below. One would think we had been brought up in a fever country; yet in England the most malarious districts are in the bedchambers. I felt saddened at this defection, and yet half pleased to have the night so quietly to myself. The wind had hauled a little ahead on the starboard bow, and was dry but chilly. I found a shelter near the fire-hole, and made myself snug for the night. The ship moved over the uneven sea with a gentle and cradling movement. The ponderous, organic labours of the engine in her bowels occupied the mind, and prepared it for slumber. From time to time a heavier lurch would disturb me as I lay, and recall me to the obscure borders of consciousness; or I heard, as it were through a veil, the clear note of the clapper on the brass and the


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22 beautiful sea-cry, "All's well!" I know nothing, whether for poetry or music, that can surpass the effect of these two syllables in the darkness of a night at sea.

The day dawned fairly enough, and during the early part we had some pleasant hours to improve acquaintance in the open air; but towards nightfall the wind freshened, the rain began to fall, and the sea rose so high that it was difficult to keep one's footing on the deck. I have spoken of our concerts. We were indeed a musical ship's company, and cheered our way into exile with the fiddle, the accordion, and the songs of all nations. Good, bad, or indifferent—Scottish, English, Irish, Russian, German, or Norse,—the songs were received with generous applause. Once or twice, a recitation, very spiritedly rendered in a powerful Scottish accent, varied the proceedings; and once we sought in vain to dance a quadrille, eight men of us together, to the music of the violin. The performers were all humourous, frisky fellows, who loved to cut capers in private life; but as soon as they were arranged for the dance, they conducted themselves like so many mutes at a funeral. I have never seen decorum pushed so far; and as this was not expected, the quadrille was soon whistled down, and the dancers departed under a cloud. Eight Frenchmen, even eight Englishmen


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Rh from another rank of society, would have dared to make some fun for themselves and the spectators; but the working man, when sober, takes an extreme and even melancholy view of personal deportment. A fifth-form schoolboy is not more careful of dignity. He dares not be comical; his fun must escape from him unprepared, and above all, it must be unaccompanied by any physical demonstration. I like his society under most circumstances, but let me never again join with him in public gambols.

But the impulse to sing was strong, and triumphed over modesty and even the inclemencies of sea and sky. On this rough Saturday night, we got together by the main deck-house, in a place sheltered from the wind and rain. Some clinging to a ladder which led to the hurricane-deck, and the rest knitting arms or taking hands, we made a ring to support the women in the violent lurching of the ship; and when we were thus disposed, sang to our hearts' content. Some of the songs were appropriate to the scene; others strikingly the reverse. Bastard doggrel of the music-hall, such as, "Around her splendid form, I weaved the magic circle," sounded bald, bleak, and pitifully silly. "We don't want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do," was in some measure saved by the vigour and unanimity with which the chorus was thrown


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24 forth into the night. I observed a Platt-Deutsch mason, entirely innocent of English, adding heartily to the general effect. And perhaps the German mason is but a fair example of the sincerity with which the song was rendered; for nearly all with whom I conversed upon the subject were bitterly opposed to war, and attributed their own misfortunes, and frequently their own taste for whisky, to the campaigns in Zululand and Afghanistan. Every now and again, however, some song that touched the pathos of our situation was given forth; and you could hear by the voices that took up the burden how the sentiment came home to each. "The Anchor's Weighed" was true for us. We were indeed "Rocked on the bosom of the stormy deep." How many of us could say with the singer, "I'm lonely to-night, love, without you," or "Go, some one, and tell them from me, to write me a letter from home!" And when was there a more appropriate moment for "Auld Lang Syne" than now, when the land, the friends, and the affections of that mingled but beloved time were fading and fleeing behind us in the vessel's wake? It pointed forward to the hour when these labours should be overpast, to the return voyage, and to many a meeting in the sanded inn, when those who had parted in the spring of youth should again


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Rh drink a cup of kindness in their age. Had not Burns contemplated emigration, I scarce believe he would have found that note. All Sunday the weather remained wild and cloudy; many were prostrated by sickness; only five sat down to tea in the second cabin, and two of these departed abruptly ere the meal was at an end. The Sabbath was observed strictly by the majority of the emigrants. I heard an old woman express her surprise that "the ship didna gae doon," as she saw some one pass her with a chess-board on the holy day. Some sang Scottish psalms. Many went to service, and in true Scottish fashion came back ill pleased with their divine. "I didna think he was an experienced preacher," said one girl to me.

It was a bleak, uncomfortable day; but at night, by six bells, although the wind had not yet moderated, the clouds were all wrecked and blown away behind the rim of the horizon, and the stars came out thickly overhead. I saw Venus burning as steadily and sweetly across this hurly-burly of the winds and waters as ever at home upon the summer woods. The engine pounded, the screw tossed out of the water with a roar, and shook the ship from end to end; the bows battled with loud reports against the billows: and as I stood in the lee-scuppers and looked up to where the funnel


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26 leaned out, over my head, vomiting smoke, and the black and monstrous topsails blotted, at each lurch, a different crop of stars, it seemed as if all this trouble were a thing of small account, and that just above the mast reigned peace unbroken and eternal.


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UR companion (Steerage No. 2 and 3) was a favourite resort. Down one flight of stairs there was a comparatively large open space, the centre occupied by a hatchway, which made a convenient seat for about twenty persons, while barrels, coils of rope, and the carpenter's bench afforded perches for perhaps as many more. The canteen, or steerage bar, was on one side of the stair; on the other, a no less attractive spot, the cabin of the indefatigable interpreter. I have seen people packed into this space like herrings in a barrel, and, many merry evenings prolonged there until five bells, when the lights were ruthlessly extinguished and all must go to roost.

It had been rumoured since Friday that there was a fiddler aboard, who lay sick and unmelodious in Steerage No. 1; and on the Monday forenoon, as I came down the companion, I was saluted by something in Strathspey time. A white-faced Orpheus was cheerily playing to an audience of white-faced women. It was as much as he could


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28 do to play, and some of his hearers were scarce able to sit; yet they had crawled from their bunks at the first experimental flourish, and found better than medicine in the music. Some of the heaviest heads began to nod in time, and a degree of animation looked from some of the palest eyes. Humanly speaking, it is a more important matter to play the fiddle, even badly, than to write huge works upon recondite subjects. What could Mr. Darwin have done for these sick women? But this fellow scraped away; and the world was positively a better place for all who heard him. We have yet to understand the economical value of these mere accomplishments. I told the fiddler he was a happy man, carrying happiness about with him in his fiddle-case, and he seemed alive to the fact. "It is a privilege," I said. He thought awhile upon the word, turning it over in his Scots head, and then answered with conviction, "Yes, a privilege." That night I was summoned by "Merrily danced the Quaker's wife" into the companion of Steerage No. 4 and 5. This was, properly speaking, but a strip across a deck-house, lit by a sickly lantern which swung to and fro with the motion of the ship. Through the open slide-door we had a glimpse of a grey night sea, with patches of phosphorescent foam flying, swift as birds, into the wake, and the


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Rh horizon rising and falling as the vessel rolled to the wind. In the centre the companion ladder plunged down sheerly like an open pit. Below, on the first landing, and lighted by another lamp, lads and lasses danced, not more than three at a time for lack of space, in jigs and reels and hornpipes. Above, on either side, there was a recess railed with iron, perhaps two feet wide and four long, which stood for orchestra and seats of honour. In the one balcony, five slatternly Irish lasses sat woven in a comely group. In the other was posted Orpheus, his body, which was convulsively in motion, forming an odd contrast to his somnolent, imperturbable Scots face. His brother, a dark man with a vehement, interested countenance, who made a god of the fiddler, sat by with open mouth, drinking in the general admiration and throwing out remarks to kindle it. "That's a bonny hornpipe now," he would say, "it's a great favourite with performers; they dance the sand dance to it." And he expounded the sand dance. Then suddenly, it would be a long "Hush!" with uplifted finger and glowing, supplicating eyes; "he's going to play ’Auld Robin Gray' on one string!" And throughout this excruciating movement,—"On one string, that's on one string!" he kept crying. I would have


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30 given something myself that it had been on none; but the hearers were much awed. I called for a tune or two, and thus introduced myself to the notice of the brother, who directed his talk to me for some little while, keeping, I need hardly mention, true to his topic, like the seamen to the star. "He's grand of it," he said confidentially. "His master was a music-hall man." Indeed the music-hall man had left his mark, for our fiddler was ignorant of many of our best old airs; "Logic o' Buchan," for instance, he only knew as a quick, jigging figure in a set of quadrilles, and had never heard it called by name. Perhaps, after all, the brother was the more interesting performer of the two. I have spoken with him afterwards repeatedly, and found him always the same quick, fiery bit of a man, not without brains; but he never showed to such advantage as when he was thus squiring the fiddler into public note. There is nothing more becoming than a genuine admiration; and it shares this with love, that it does not become contemptible although misplaced.

The dancing was but feebly carried on. The space was almost impracticably small; and the Irish wenches combined the extreme of bashfulness about this innocent display with a surprising impudence and roughness of address. Most often, either


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 , J., concurring the Sony Court observed that the “sale of an article … adapted to [a patent] infringing use” does not suffice “to make the seller a contributory infringer” if the article “is also adapted to other and lawful uses.” Id., at 441 (quoting Henry v. A. B. Dick Co., 224 U.S. 1, 48 (1912), overruled on other grounds, Motion Picture Patents Co. v. Universal Film Mfg. Co., 243 U.S. 502, 517 (1917)).

“The staple article of commerce doctrine” applied to copyright, the Court stated, “must strike a balance between a copyright holder’s legitimate demand for effective—not merely symbolic—protection of the statutory monopoly, and the rights of others freely to engage in substantially unrelated areas of commerce.” Sony, 464 U.S., at 442. “Accordingly,” the Court held, “the sale of copying equipment, like the sale of other articles of commerce, does not constitute contributory infringement if the product is widely used for legitimate, unobjectionable purposes. Indeed, it need merely be capable of substantial noninfringing uses.” Ibid. Thus, to resolve the Sony case, the Court explained, it had to determine “whether the Betamax is capable of commercially significant noninfringing uses.” Ibid.

To answer that question, the Court considered whether “a significant number of [potential uses of the Betamax were] noninfringing.” Ibid. The Court homed in on one potential use–private, noncommercial time-shifting of television programs in the home (i.e., recording a broadcast TV program for later personal viewing). Time-shifting was noninfringing, the Court concluded, because in some cases trial testimony showed it was authorized by the copyright holder, id., at 443–447, and in others it qualified as legitimate fair use, id., at 447–455. Most purchasers used the Betamax principally to engage in time-shifting, id., at 421, 423, a use that “plainly satisfie[d]” the Court’s standard, id., at 442. Thus, there was no need in Sony to “give precise content to the question of how much [actual or potential] use is


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Rh the fiddle lifted up its voice unheeded, or only a couple of lads would be footing it and snapping fingers on the landing. And such was the eagerness of the brother to display all the acquirements of his idol, and such the sleepy indifference of the performer, that the tune would as often as not be changed, and the hornpipe expire into a ballad before the dancers had cut half-a-dozen shuffles.

In the meantime, however, the audience had been growing more and more numerous every moment; there was hardly standing-room round the top of the companion; and the strange instinct of the race moved some of the new-comers to close both the doors, so that the atmosphere grew insupportable. It was a good place, as the saying is, to leave.

The wind hauled ahead with a head sea. By ten at night heavy sprays were flying and drumming over the forecastle; the companion of Steerage No. 1 had to be closed, and the door of communication through the second cabin thrown open. Either from the convenience of the opportunity, or because we had already a number of acquaintances in that part of the ship, Mr. Jones and I paid it a late visit. Steerage No. 1 is shaped like an isosceles triangle, the sides opposite the equal angles bulging outward with the contour of the ship. It is


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32 lined with eight pens of sixteen bunks apiece, four bunks below and four above on either side. At night the place is lit with two lanterns, one to each table. As the steamer beat on her way among the rough billows, the light passed through violent phases of change, and was thrown to and fro and up and down with startling swiftness. You were tempted to wonder, as you looked, how so thin a glimmer could control and disperse such solid blackness. When Jones and I entered we found a little company of our acquaintances seated together at the triangular foremost table. A more forlorn party, in more dismal circumstances, it would be hard to imagine. The motion here in the ship's nose was very violent; the uproar of the sea often overpoweringly loud. The yellow flicker of the lantern spun round and round and tossed the shadows in masses. The air was hot, but it struck a chill from its fœtor. From all round in the dark bunks, the scarcely human noises of the sick joined into a kind of farmyard chorus. In the midst, these five friends of mine were keeping up what heart they could in company. Singing was their refuge from discomfortable thoughts and sensations. One piped, in feeble tones, "Oh why left I my hame?" which seemed a pertinent question in the circumstances. Another, from the invisible horrors of a pen where he lay


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Rh dog-sick upon the upper shelf, found courage, in a blink of his sufferings, to give us several verses of the "Death of Nelson"; and it was odd and eerie to hear the chorus breathe feebly from all sorts of dark corners, and "this day has done his dooty" rise and fall and be taken up again in this dim inferno, to an accompaniment of plunging, hollow-sounding bows and the rattling spray-showers overhead.

All seemed unfit for conversation; a certain dizziness had interrupted the activity of their minds; and except to sing they were tongue-tied. There was present, however, one tall, powerful fellow of doubtful nationality, being neither quite Scotsman nor altogether Irish, but of surprising clearness of conviction on the highest problems. He had gone nearly beside himself on the Sunday, because of a general backwardness to indorse his definition of mind as "a living, thinking substance which cannot be felt, heard, or seen"—nor, I presume, although he failed to mention it, smelt. Now he came forward in a cause with another contribution to our culture.

"Just by way of change," said he, "I'll ask you a Scripture riddle. There's profit in them too," he added ungrammatically. This was the riddle—


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34 Harsh are the words of Mercury after the songs of Apollo! We were a long while over the problem, shaking our heads and gloomily wondering how a man could be such a fool; but at length he put us out of suspense and divulged the fact that C and P stood for Caiaphas and Pontius Pilate. I think it must have been the riddle that settled us; but the motion and the close air likewise hurried our departure. We had not been gone long, we heard next morning, ere two or even three out of the five fell sick. We thought it little wonder on the whole, for the sea kept contrary all night. I now made my bed upon the second cabin floor, where, although I ran the risk of being stepped upon, I had a free current of air, more or less vitiated indeed, and running only from steerage to steerage, but at least not stagnant; and from this couch, as well as the usual sounds of a rough


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 The policy of protecting authors from their own mistakes reached the point of reductio ad absurdum on March 1, 1989, the effective date of the Berne Convention Implementation Act (“BCIA”). In the name of bringing the United States into compliance with the Berne Convention’s “no formalities” mandate, Congress made compliance with formalities not only nonessential, but irrelevant. The language of the key statutory provision on notice of copyright was changed from the mandatory “shall” to the permissive “may,” and the provision allowing authors to cure defective formalities was amended to have purely retrospective application. Thus, although defects in formalities for works published before March 1, 1989 can still result in forfeiture of copyright if not cured, later-published works are at no risk of forfeiting copyright protection due to noncompliance with statutory formalities. The conditional protections given to authors under the Copyright Act of 1976 against unintentional, inadvertent losses of their rights had become absolute.

As a result, there is a colorable argument that copyright legislation in the United States has gradually converted copyright from a selectable privilege to an indefeasible entitlement. That argument, and the presumption of strong rights for authors upon which it rests, may influence courts’ willingness to entertain arguments that an open-content licensor should be disempowered to terminate her grant of rights under a license and recapture ownership of copyright in the work. To complete the picture, however, it

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Rh night at sea, the hateful coughing and retching of the sick and the sobs of children, I heard a man run wild with terror beseeching his friend for encouragement. "The ship's going down!" he cried with a thrill of agony. "The ship's going down!" he repeated, now in a blank whisper, now with his voice rising towards a sob; and his friend might reassure him, reason with him, joke at him—all was in vain, and the old cry came back, "The ship's going down!" There was something panicky and catching in the emotion of his tones; and I saw in a clear flash what an involved and hideous tragedy was a disaster to an emigrant ship. If this whole parishful of people came no more to land, into how many houses would the newspaper carry woe, and what a great part of the web of our corporate human life would be rent across for ever!

The next morning when I came on deck I found a new world indeed. The wind was fair; the sun mounted into a cloudless heaven; through great dark blue seas the ship cut a swath of curded foam. The horizon was dotted all day with companionable sails, and the sun shone pleasantly on the long, heaving deck.

We had many fine-weather diversions to beguile the time. There was a single chess-board and a single pack of cards. Sometimes as many as


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36 twenty of us would be playing dominoes for love. Feats of dexterity, puzzles for the intelligence, some arithmetical, some of the same order as the old problem of the fox and goose and cabbage, were always welcome; and the latter, I observed, more popular as well as more conspicuously well done than the former. We had a regular daily competition to guess the vessel's progress; and twelve o'clock, when the result was published in the wheel-house, came to be a moment of considerable interest. But the interest was unmixed. Not a bet was laid upon our guesses. From the Clyde to Sandy Hook I never heard a wager offered or taken. We had, besides, romps in plenty. Puss in the Corner, which we had rebaptised, in more manly style, Devil and four Corners, was my own favourite game; but there were many who preferred another, the humour of which was to box a person's ears until he found out who had cuffed him. This Tuesday morning we were all delighted with the change of weather, and in the highest possible spirits. We got in a cluster like bees, sitting between each other's feet under lee of the deck-houses. Stories and laughter went around. The children climbed about the shrouds. White faces appeared for the first time, and began to Lake on colour from the wind. I was kept hard


text: United States Statutes at Large/Volume 1/3rd Congress/1st Session/Chapter 59


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Rh at work making cigarettes for one amateur after another, and my less than moderate skill was heartily admired. Lastly, down sat the fiddler in our midst and began to discourse his reels, and jigs, and ballads, with now and then a voice or two to take up the air and throw in the interest of human speech. Through this merry and good-hearted scene there came three cabin passengers, a gentleman and two young ladies, picking their way with little gracious titters of indulgence, and a Lady-Bountiful air about nothing, which galled me to the quick. I have little of the radical in social questions, and have always nourished an idea that one person was as good as another. But I began to be troubled by this episode. It was astonishing what insults these people managed to convey by their presence. They seemed to throw their clothes in our faces. Their eyes searched us all over for tatters and incongruities. A laugh was ready at their lips; but they were too well-mannered to indulge it in our hearing. Wait a bit, till they were all back in the saloon, and then hear how wittily they would depict the manners of the steerage. We were in truth very innocently, cheerfully, and sensibly engaged, and there was no shadow of excuse for the swaying elegant superiority with which these damsels passed among us, or for the stiff and waggish


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38 glances of their squire. Not a word was said; only when they were gone Mackay sullenly damned their impudence under his breath; but we were all conscious of an icy influence and a dead break in the course of our enjoyment.


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

Note
So far as I know, this Tragedy is the first artistic consequence of what Voltaire termed "a terrible event without consequences;" and although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particularizing: since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career—nor quite ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce (tolerable accounts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abbé Roman's Récit, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery's Letters from Italy)—I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so, in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of the time. From these only may be obtained a knowledge of the fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dissimulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor—the extreme and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good purpose and vacillating will, of Charles—the noble and right woman's manliness of his wife—and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent better-advised rectitude of D'Ormea. When I say, therefore, that I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily.

R.B.

London, 1842

Persons

 * Victor Amadeus, first King of Sardinia.
 * Charles Emmanuel, his son, Prince of Piedmont.
 * Polyxena, wife of Charles.
 * D'Ormea, minister.

Scene
The Council Chambers of Rivoli Palace, near Turin, communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the left, and another to the right of the stage.

Contents

 * First Year, 1730.—King Victor.
 * Part I
 * Part II
 * Second Year, 1731.—King Charles.
 * Part I
 * Part II