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Christmas Eve and Easter Day/Christmas Eve

I

Out of the little chapel I burst Into the fresh night-air again. Five minutes full, I waited first In the doorway, to escape the rain That drove in gusts down the common's centre At the edge of which the chapel stands, Before I plucked up heart to enter. Heaven knows how many sorts of hands Reached past me, groping for the latch Of the inner door that hung on catch More obstinate the more they fumbled, Till, giving way at last with a scold Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled One sheep more to the rest in fold, And left me irresolute, standing sentry In the sheepfold's lath-and-plaster entry, Six feet long by three feet wide, Partitioned off from the vast inside— I blocked up half of it at least. No remedy; the rain kept driving. They eyed me much as some wild beast, That congregation, still arriving, Some of them by the main road, white A long way past me into the night, Skirting the common, then diverging; Not a few suddenly emerging From the common's self thro' the paling-gaps —They house in the gravel-pits perhaps, Where the road stops short with its safeguard border Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;— But the most turned in yet more abruptly From a certain squalid knot of alleys, Where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly, Which now the little chapel rallies And leads into day again,—its priestliness Lending itself to hide their beastliness So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason), And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on Those neophytes too much in lack of it, That, where you cross the common as I did, And meet the party thus presided, "Mount Zion" with Love-lane at the back of it, They front you as little disconcerted As, bound for the hills, her fate averted, And her wicked people made to mind him, Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.

II

Well, from the road, the lanes or the common, In came the flock: the fat weary woman, Panting and bewildered, down-clapping Her umbrella with a mighty report, Grounded it by me, wry and flapping, A wreck of whalebones; then, with snort, Like a startled horse, at the interloper (Who humbly knew himself improper, But could not shrink up small enough) —Round to the door, and in,—the gruff Hinge's invariable scold Making my very blood run cold. Prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered On broken clogs, the many-tattered Little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother Of the sickly babe she tried to smother Somehow up, with its spotted face, From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place; She too must stop, wring the poor ends dry Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping Already from my own clothes' dropping, Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on: Then, stooping down to take off her pattens, She bore them defiantly, in each hand one, Planted together before her breast And its babe, as good as a lance in rest. Close on her heels, the dingy satins Of a female something, past me flitted, With lips as much too white, as a streak Lay far too red on each hollow cheek; And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied All that was left of a woman once, Holding at least its tongue for the nonce. Then a tall yellow man, like the Penitent Thief, With his jaw bound up in a handkerchief, And eyelids screwed together tight, Led himself in by some inner light. And, except from him, from each that entered, I got the same interrogation— "What, you the alien, you have ventured "To take with us, the elect, your station? "A carer for none of it, a Gallio!"— Thus, plain as print, I read the glance At a common prey, in each countenance As of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho. And, when the door's cry drowned their wonder, The draught, it always sent in shutting, Made the flame of the single tallow candle In the cracked square lantern I stood under, Shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting As it were, the luckless cause of scandal: I verily fancied the zealous light (In the chapel's secret, too!) for spite Would shudder itself clean off the wick, With the airs of a Saint John's Candlestick. There was no standing it much longer. "Good folks," thought I, as resolve grew stronger, "This way you perform the Grand-Inquisitor "When the weather sends you a chance visitor? "You are the men, and wisdom shall die with you, "And none of the old Seven Churches vie with you! "But still, despite the pretty perfection "To which you carry your trick of exclusiveness, "And, taking God's word under wise protection, "Correct its tendency to diffusiveness, "And bid one reach it over hot ploughshares,— "Still, as I say, though you've found salvation, "If I should choose to cry, as now, 'Shares!'— "See if the best of you bars me my ration! "I prefer, if you please, for my expounder "Of the laws of the feast, the feast's own Founder; "Mine's the same right with your poorest and sickliest "Supposing I don the marriage vestiment: "So shut your mouth and open your Testament, "And carve me my portion at your quickliest!" Accordingly, as a shoemaker's lad With wizened face in want of soap,  And wet apron wound round his waist like a rope, (After stopping outside, for his cough was bad, To get the fit over, poor gentle creature, And so avoid disturbing the preacher) —Passed in, I sent my elbow spikewise At the shutting door, and entered likewise,  Received the hinge's accustomed greeting,  And crossed the threshold's magic pentacle,  And found myself in full conventicle, —To wit, in Zion Chapel Meeting, On the Christmas-Eve of 'Forty-nine,  Which, calling its flock to their special clover,  Found all assembled and one sheep over, Whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine.

III

I very soon had enough of it. The hot smell and the human noises, And my neighbour's coat, the greasy cuff of it, Were a pebble-stone that a child's hand poises, Compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure Of the preaching man's immense stupidity, As he poured his doctrine forth, full measure, To meet his audience's avidity. You needed not the wit of the Sibyl To guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling: No sooner our friend had got an inkling Of treasure hid in the Holy Bible, (Whene'er 'twas the thought first struck him, How death, at unawares, might duck him Deeper than the grave, and quench The gin-shop's light in hell's grim drench) Than he handled it so, in fine irreverence, As to hug the book of books to pieces: And, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance, Not improved by the private dog's-ears and creases, Having clothed his own soul with, he'd fain see equipt yours,— So tossed you again your Holy Scriptures. And you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt: Nay, had but a single face of my neighbours Appeared to suspect that the preacher's labours Were help which the world could be saved without, 'Tis odds but I might have borne in quiet A qualm or two at my spiritual diet, Or (who can tell?) perchance even mustered Somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon: But the flock sat on, divinely flustered, Sniffing, methought, its dew of Hermon With such content in every snuffle, As the devil inside us loves to ruffle. My old fat woman purred with pleasure, And thumb round thumb went twirling faster, While she, to his periods keeping measure, Maternally devoured the pastor. The man with the handkerchief untied it, Showed us a horrible wen inside it, Gave his eyelids yet another screwing, And rocked himself as the woman was doing. The shoemaker's lad, discreetly choking, Kept down his cough. 'Twas too provoking! My gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it; So, saying like Eve when she plucked the apple, "I wanted a taste, and now there's enough of it," I flung out of the little chapel.

IV

There was a lull in the rain, a lull In the wind too; the moon was risen, And would have shone out pure and full, But for the ramparted cloud-prison, Block on block built up in the West, For what purpose the wind knows best, Who changes his mind continually. And the empty other half of the sky Seemed in its silence as if it knew What, any moment, might look through A chance gap in that fortress massy:— Through its fissures you got hints Of the flying moon, by the shifting tints, Now, a dull lion-colour, now, brassy Burning to yellow, and whitest yellow, Like furnace-smoke just ere flames bellow, All a-simmer with intense strain To let her through,—then blank again, At the hope of her appearance failing. Just by the chapel, a break in the railing Shows a narrow path directly across; 'Tis ever dry walking there, on the moss— Besides, you go gently all the way uphill. I stooped under and soon felt better; My head grew lighter, my limbs more supple, As I walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter. My mind was full of the scene I had left, That placid flock, that pastor vociferant, —How this outside was pure and different! The sermon, now—what a mingled weft Of good and ill! Were either less, Its fellow had coloured the whole distinctly; But alas for the excellent earnestness, And the truths, quite true if stated succinctly, But as surely false, in their quaint presentment, However to pastor and flock's contentment! Say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes, With his provings and parallels twisted and twined, Till how could you know them, grown double their size In the natural fog of the good man's mind, Like yonder spots of our roadside lamps, Haloed about with the common's damps? Truth remains true, the fault's in the prover; The zeal was good, and the aspiration; And yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over, Pharaoh received no demonstration, By his Baker's dream of Basket Three, Of the doctrine of the Trinity,— Although, as our preacher thus embellished it, Apparently his hearers relished it With so unfeigned a gust—who knows if They did not prefer our friend to Joseph? But so it is everywhere, one way with all of them! These people have really felt, no doubt, A something, the motion they style the Call of them; And this is their method of bringing about, By a mechanism of words and tones, (So many texts in so many groans) A sort of reviving and reproducing, More or less perfectly, (who can tell?) The mood itself, which strengthens by using; And how that happens, I understand well. A tune was born in my head last week, Out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek Of the train, as I came by it, up from Manchester; And when, next week, I take it back again, My head will sing to the engine's clack again, While it only makes my neighbour's haunches stir, —Finding no dormant musical sprout In him, as in me, to be jolted out. 'Tis the taught already that profits by teaching; He gets no more from the railway's preaching Than, from this preacher who does the rail's office, I: Whom therefore the flock cast a jealous eye on. Still, why paint over their door "Mount Zion," To which all flesh shall come, saith the prophecy?

V

But wherefore be harsh on a single case? After how many modes, this Christmas Eve, Does the self-same weary thing take place? The same endeavour to make you believe, And with much the same effect, no more: Each method abundantly convincing, As I say, to those convinced before, But scarce to be swallowed without wincing By the not-as-yet-convinced. For me, I have my own church equally: And in this church my faith sprang first! (I said, as I reached the rising ground, And the wind began again, with a burst Of rain in my face, and a glad rebound From the heart beneath, as if, God speeding me, I entered his church-door, nature leading me) —In youth I look to these very skies, And probing their immensities, I found God there, his visible power; Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense Of the power, an equal evidence That his love, there too, was the nobler dower. For the loving worm within its clod, Were diviner than a loveless god Amid his worlds, I will dare to say. You know what I mean: God's all, man's nought: But also, God, whose pleasure brought Man into being, stands away As it were a handbreadth off, to give Room for the newly-made to live, And look at him from a place apart, And use his gifts of brain and heart, Given, indeed, but to keep for ever. Who speaks of man, then, must not sever Man's very elements from man, Saying, "But all is God's"—whose plan Was to create man and then leave him Able, his own word saith, to grieve him But able to glorify him too, As a mere machine could never do, That prayed or praised, all unaware Of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer, Made perfect as a thing of course. Man, therefore, stands on his own stock Of love and power as a pin-point rock: And, looking to God who ordained divorce Of the rock from his boundless continent, Sees, in his power made evident, Only excess by a million-fold O'er the power God gave man in the mould. For, note: man's hand, first formed to carry A few pounds' weight, when taught to marry Its strength with an engine's, lifts a mountain, —Advancing in power by one degree; And why count steps through eternity? But love is the ever-springing fountain: Man may enlarge or narrow his bed For the water's play, but the water-head— How can he multiply or reduce it? As easy create it, as cause it to cease; He may profit by it, or abuse it, But 'tis not a thing to bear increase As power does: be love less or more In the heart of man, he keeps it shut Or opes it wide, as he pleases, but Love's sum remains what it was before. So, gazing up, in my youth, at love As seen through power, ever above All modes which make it manifest, My soul brought all to a single test— That he, the Eternal First and Last, Who, in his power, had so surpassed All man conceives of what is might,— Whose wisdom, too, showed infinite, —Would prove as infinitely good; Would never, (my soul understood,) With power to work all love desires, Bestow e'en less than man requires; That he who endlessly was teaching, Above my spirit's utmost reaching, What love can do in the leaf or stone, (So that to master this alone, This done in the stone or leaf for me, I must go on learning endlessly) Would never need that I, in turn, Should point him out defect unheeded, And show that God had yet to learn What the meanest human creature needed, —Not life, to wit, for a few short years, Tracking his way through doubts and fears, While the stupid earth on which I stay Suffers no change, but passive adds Its myriad years to myriads, Though I, he gave it to, decay, Seeing death come and choose about me, And my dearest ones depart without me. No: love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it, Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it, The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it. Shall arise, made perfect, from death's repose of it, And I shall behold thee, face to face, O God, and in thy light retrace How in all I loved here, still wast thou! Whom pressing to, then, as I fain would now, I shall find as able to satiate The love, thy gift, as my spirit's wonder Thou art able to quicken and sublimate, With this sky of thine, that I now walk under, And glory in thee for, as I gaze Thus, thus! Oh, let men keep their ways Of seeking thee in a narrow shrine— Be this my way! And this is mine!

VI

For lo, what think you? suddenly The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky Received at once the full fruition Of the moon's consummate apparition. The black cloud-barricade was riven, Ruined beneath her feet, and driven Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless, North and South and East lay ready For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless, Sprang across them and stood steady. 'Twas a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect, From heaven to heaven extending, perfect As the mother-moon's self, full in face. It rose, distinctly at the base With its seven proper colours chorded, Which still, in the rising, were compressed, Until at last they coalesced, And supreme the spectral creature lorded In a triumph of whitest white,— Above which intervened the night. But above night too, like only the next, The second of a wondrous sequence, Reaching in rare and rarer frequence, Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed, Another rainbow rose, a mightier, Fainter, flushier and flightier,— Rapture dying along its verge. Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge, Whose, from the straining topmost dark, On to the keystone of that arc?

VII

This sight was shown me, there and then,— Me, out of a world of men, Singled forth, as the chance might hap To another if, in a thunderclap Where I heard noise and you saw flame, Some one man knew God called his name. For me, I think I said, "Appear! "Good were it to be ever here. "If thou wilt, let me build to thee "Service-tabernacles three, "Where, forever in thy presence, "In ecstatic acquiescence, "Far alike from thriftless learning "And ignorance's undiscerning, "I may worship and remain!" Thus at the show above me, gazing With upturned eyes, I felt my brain Glutted with the glory, blazing Throughout its whole mass, over and under Until at length it burst asunder And out of it bodily there streamed, The too-much glory, as it seemed, Passing from out me to the ground, Then palely serpentining round Into the dark with mazy error.

VIII

All at once I looked up with terror. He was there. He himself with his human air. On the narrow pathway, just before. I saw the back of him, no more— He had left the chapel, then, as I. I forgot all about the sky. No face: only the sight Of a sweepy garment, vast and white, With a hem that I could recognize. I felt terror, no surprise; My mind filled with the cataract, At one bound of the mighty fact. "I remember, he did say "Doubtless that, to this world's end, "Where two or three should meet and pray, "He would be in their midst, their friend; "Certainly he was there with them!" And my pulses leaped for joy Of the golden thought without alloy, Then I saw his very vesture's hem. Then rushed the blood back, cold and clear, With a fresh enhancing shiver of fear; And I hastened, cried out while I pressed To the salvation of the vest, "But not so, Lord! It cannot be "That thou, indeed, art leaving me— "Me, that have despised thy friends! "Did my heart make no amends? "Thou art the love of God—above "His power, didst hear me place his love, "And that was leaving the world for thee. "Therefore thou must not turn from me "As I had chosen the other part! "Folly and pride o'ercame my heart. "Our best is bad, nor bears thy test; "Still, it should be our very best. "I thought it best that thou, the spirit, "Be worshipped in spirit and in truth, "And in beauty, as even we require it— "Not in the forms burlesque, uncouth, "I left but now, as scarcely fitted "For thee: I knew not what I pitied. "But, all I felt there, right or wrong, "What is it to thee, who curest sinning? "Am I not weak as thou art strong? "I have looked to thee from the beginning, "Straight up to thee through all the world "Which, like an idle scroll, lay furled "To nothingness on either side: "And since the time thou wast descried, "Spite of the weak heart, so have I "Lived ever, and so fain would die, "Living and dying, thee before! "But if thou leavest me——"

IX

Less or more, I suppose that I spoke thus. When,—have mercy, Lord, on us! The whole face turned upon me full. And I spread myself beneath it, As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it In the cleansing sun, his wool,— Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness Some denied, discoloured web— So lay I, saturate with brightness. And when the flood appeared to ebb, Lo, I was walking, light and swift, With my senses settling fast and steadying, But my body caught up in the whirl and drift Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying On, just before me, still to be followed, As it carried me after with its motion: What shall I say?—as a path were hollowed And a man went weltering through the ocean, Sucked along in the flying wake Of the luminous water-snake. Darkness and cold were cloven, as through I passed, upborne yet walking too. And I turned to myself at intervals,— "So he said, so it befalls. "God who registers the cup "Of mere cold water, for his sake "To a disciple rendered up, "Disdains not his own thirst to slake "At the poorest love was ever offered: "And because my heart I proffered, "With true love trembling at the brim, "He suffers me to follow him "For ever, my own way,—dispensed "From seeking to be influenced "By all the less immediate ways "That earth, in worships manifold, "Adopts to reach, by prayer and praise, "The garment's hem, which, lo, I hold!"

X

And so we crossed the world and stopped. For where am I, in city or plain, Since I am 'ware of the world again? And what is this that rises propped With pillars of prodigious girth? Is it really on the earth, This miraculous Dome of God? Has the angel's measuring-rod Which numbered cubits, gem from gem, 'Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem, Meted it out,—and what he meted, Have the sons of men completed? —Binding, ever as he bade, Columns in the colonnade With arms wide open to embrace The entry of the human race To the breast of... what is it, yon building, Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, With marble for brick, and stones of price For garniture of the edifice? Now I see; it is no dream; It stands there and it does not seem; For ever, in pictures, thus it looks, And thus I have read of it in books Often in England, leagues away, And wondered how these fountains play, Growing up eternally Each to a musical water-tree, Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, Before my eyes, in the light of the moon, To the granite layers underneath. Liar and dreamer in your teeth! I, the sinner that speak to you, Was in Rome this night, and stood, and knew Both this and more. For see, for see, The dark is rent, mine eye is free To pierce the crust of the outer wall, And I view inside, and all there, all, As the swarming hollow of a hive, The whole Basilica alive! Men in the chancel, body and nave, Men on the pillars' architrave, Men on the statues, men on the tombs With popes and kings in their porphyry wombs, All famishing in expectation Of the main-altar's consummation. For see, for see, the rapturous moment Approaches, and earth's best endowment Blends with heaven's; the taper-fires Pant up, the winding brazen spires Heave loftier yet the baldachin; The incense-gaspings, long kept in, Suspire in clouds; the organ blatant Holds his breath and grovels latent, As if God's hushing finger grazed him, (Like Behemoth when he praised him) At the silver bell's shrill tinkling, Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling On the sudden pavement strewed With faces of the multitude. Earth breaks up, time drops away, In flows heaven, with its new day Of endless life, when He who trod, Very man and very God, This earth in weakness, shame and pain, Dying the death whose signs remain Up yonder on the accursed tree,— Shall come again, no more to be Of captivity the thrall, But the one God, All in all, King of kings, Lord of lords, As His servant John received the words, "I died, and live for evermore!"

XI

Yet I was left outside the door. "Why sit I here on the threshold-stone "Left till He return, alone "Save for the garment's extreme fold "Abandoned still to bless my hold?" My reason, to my doubt, replied, As if a book were opened wide, And at a certain page I traced Every record undefaced, Added by successive years,— The harvestings of truth's stray ears Singly gleaned, and in one sheaf Bound together for belief. Yes, I said—that he will go And sit with these in turn, I know.  Their faith's heart beats, though her head swims Too giddily to guide her limbs, Disabled by their palsy-stroke From propping mine. Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies: And he, whose eye detects a spark Even where, to man's, the whole seems dark,  May well see flame where each beholder Acknowledges the embers smoulder. But I, a mere man, fear to quit The clue God gave me as most fit To guide my footsteps through life's maze, Because himself discerns all ways Open to reach him: I, a man Able to mark where faith began To swerve aside, till from its summit Judgment drops her damning plummet, Pronouncing such a fatal space Departed from the founder's base: He will not bid me enter too, But rather sit, as now I do, Awaiting his return outside. —'Twas thus my reason straight replied And joyously I turned, and pressed The garment's skirt upon my breast, Until, afresh its light suffusing me, My heart cried—What has been abusing me That I should wait here lonely and coldly, Instead of rising, entering boldly, Baring truth's face, and letting drift Her veils of lies as they choose to shift? Do these men praise him? I will raise My voice up to their point of praise! I see the error; but above The scope of error, see the love.— Oh, love of those first Christian days! —Fanned so soon into a blaze, From the spark preserved by the trampled sect, That the antique sovereign Intellect Which then sat ruling in the world, Like a change in dreams, was hurled From the throne he reigned upon: You looked up and he was gone. Gone, his glory of the pen! —Love, with Greece and Rome in ken, Bade her scribes abhor the trick Of poetry and rhetoric, And exult with hearts set free, In blessed imbecility Scrawled, perchance, on some torn sheet Leaving Sallust incomplete Gone, his pride of sculptor, painter! —Love, while able to acquaint her While the thousand statues yet Fresh from chisel, pictures wet From brush, she saw on every side, Chose rather with an infant's pride To frame those portents which impart Such unction to true Christian Art. Gone, music too! The air was stirred By happy wings: Terpander's bird (That, when the cold came, fled away) Would tarry not the wintry day,— As more-enduring sculpture must, Till filthy saints rebuked the gust With which they chanced to get a sight Of some dear naked Aphrodite They glanced a thought above the toes of, By breaking zealously her nose off. Love, surely, from that music's lingering, Might have filched her organ-fingering, Nor chosen rather to set prayings To hog-grunts, praises to horse-neighings. Love was the startling thing, the new: Love was the all-sufficient too; And seeing that, you see the rest: As a babe can find its mother's breast As well in darkness as in light, Love shut our eyes, and all seemed right. True, the world's eyes are open now: —Less need for me to disallow Some few that keep Love's zone unbuckled, Peevish as ever to be suckled, Lulled by the same old baby-prattle With intermixture of the rattle, When she would have them creep, stand steady Upon their feet, or walk already, Not to speak of trying to climb. I will be wise another time, And not desire a wall between us, When next I see a church-roof cover So many species of one genus, All with foreheads bearing lover Written above the earnest eyes of them; All with breasts that beat for beauty, Whether sublimed, to the surprise of them, In noble daring, steadfast duty, The heroic in passion, or in action,— Or, lowered for sense's satisfaction, To the mere outside of human creatures, Mere perfect form and faultless features. What? with all Rome here, whence to levy Such contributions to their appetite, With women and men in a gorgeous bevy, They take, as it were, a padlock, clap it tight On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding On the glories of their ancient reading, On the beauties of their modern singing, On the wonders of the builder's bringing, On the majesties of Art around them,— And, all these loves, late struggling incessant, When faith has at last united and bound them, They offer up to God for a present? Why, I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,— And, only taking the act in reference To the other recipients who might have allowed it, I will rejoice that God had the preference.

XII

So I summed up my new resolves: Too much love there can never be. And where the intellect devolves Its function on love exclusively, I, a man who possesses both, Will accept the provision, nothing loth, —Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere, That my intellect may find its share. And ponder, O soul, the while thou departest, And see them applaud the great heart of the artist, Who, examining the capabilities Of the block of marble he has to fashion Into a type of thought or passion,— Not always, using obvious facilities, Shapes it, as any artist can, Into a perfect symmetrical man, Complete from head to foot of the life-size, Such as old Adam stood in his wife's eyes,— But, now and then, bravely aspires to consummate A Colossus by no means so easy to come at, And uses the whole of his block for the bust, Leaving the mind of the public to finish it, Since cut it ruefully short he must: On the face alone he expends his devotion, He rather would mar than resolve to diminish it, —Saying, "Applaud me for this grand notion "Of what a face may be! As for completing it "In breast and body and limbs, do that, you!" All hail! I fancy how, happily meeting it, A trunk and legs would perfect the statue, Could man carve so as to answer volition. And how much nobler than petty cavils, Were a hope to find, in my spirit-travels, Some artist of another ambition, Who, having a block to carve, no bigger, Has spent his power on the opposite quest, And believed to begin at the feet was best— For so may I see, ere I die, the whole figure!

XIII

No sooner said than out in the night! My heart lighter and more light: And still, as before, I was walking swift, With my senses settling fast and steadying, But my body caught up in the whirl and drift Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying On just before me, still to be followed, As it carried me after with its motion, —What shall I say?—as a path, were hollowed, And a man went weltering through the ocean, Sucked along in the flying wake Of the luminous water-snake.

XIV

Alone! I am left alone once more— (Save for the garment's extreme fold Abandoned still to bless my hold) Alone, beside the entrance-door Of a sort of temple,-perhaps a college, —Like nothing I ever saw before At home in England, to my knowledge. The tall old quaint irregular town! It may be... though which, I can't affirm... any Of the famous middle-age towns of Germany: And this flight of stairs where I sit down, Is it Halle, Weimar, Cassel, Frankfort Or Göttingen, I have to thank for't? It may be Göttingen,—most likely. Through the open door I catch obliquely Glimpses of a lecture-hall; And not a bad assembly neither, Ranged decent and symmetrical On benches, waiting what's to see there: Which, holding still by the vesture's hem, I also resolve to see with them, Cautious this time how I suffer to slip The chance of joining in fellowship With any that call themselves his friends; As these folk do, I have a notion. But hist—a buzzing and emotion! All settle themselves, the while ascends By the creaking rail to the lecture-desk, Step by step, deliberate Because of his cranium's over-freight, Three parts sublime to one grotesque, If I have proved an accurate guesser, The hawk-nosed high-cheek-boned Professor. I felt at once as if there ran A shoot of love from my heart to the man— That sallow virgin-minded studious Martyr to mild enthusiasm, As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious That woke my sympathetic spasm, (Beside some spitting that made me sorry) And stood, surveying his auditory With a wan pure look, well-nigh celestial,— Those blue eyes had survived so much! While, under the foot they could not smutch, Lay all the fleshly and the bestial. Over he bowed, and arranged his notes, Till the auditory's clearing of throats Was done with, died into a silence; And, when each glance was upward sent, Each bearded mouth composed intent, And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence,— He pushed back higher his spectacles, Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells, And giving his head of hair—a hake Of undressed tow, for colour and quantity— One rapid and impatient shake, (As our own Young England adjusts a jaunty tie When about to impart, on mature digestion, Some thrilling view of the surplice-question) —The Professor's grave voice, sweet though hoarse, Broke into his Christmas-Eve discourse.

XV

And he began it by observing How reason dictated that men Should rectify the natural swerving, By a reversion, now and then, To the well-heads of knowledge, few And far away, whence rolling grew The life-stream wide whereat we drink, Commingled, as we needs must think, With waters alien to the source; To do which, aimed this eve's discourse; Since, where could be a fitter time For tracing backward to its prime This Christianity, this lake, This reservoir, whereat we slake, From one or other bank, our thirst? So, he proposed inquiring first Into the various sources whence This Myth of Christ is derivable; Demanding from the evidence, (Since plainly no such life was livable) How these phenomena should class? Whether 'twere best opine Christ was, Or never was at all, or whether He was and was not, both together— It matters little for the name, So the idea be left the same. Only, for practical purpose' sake, 'Twas obviously as well to take The popular story,—understanding How the ineptitude of the time, And the penman's prejudice, expanding Fact into fable fit for the clime, Had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it Into this myth, this Individuum,— Which, when reason had strained and abated it Of foreign matter, left, for residuum, A Man!—a right true man, however, Whose work was worthy a man's endeavour: Work, that gave warrant almost sufficient To his disciples, for rather believing He was just omnipotent and omniscient, As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving His word, their tradition,—which, though it meant Something entirely different From all that those who only heard it, In their simplicity thought and averred it, Had yet a meaning quite as respectable: For, among other doctrines delectable, Was he not surely the first to insist on   The natural sovereignty of our race?— Here the lecturer came to a pausing-place. And while his cough, like a drouthy piston, Tried to dislodge the husk that grew to him, I seized the occasion of bidding adieu to him, The vesture still within my hand.

XVI

I could interpret its command. This time he would not bid me enter The exhausted air-bell of the Critic. Truth's atmosphere may grow mephitic When Papist struggles with Dissenter, Impregnating its pristine clarity, —One, by his daily fare's vulgarity, Its gust of broken meat and garlic; —One, by his soul's too-much presuming To turn the frankincense's fuming And vapours of the candle starlike Into the cloud her wings she buoys on. Each, that thus sets the pure air seething, May poison it for healthy breathing— But the Critic leaves no air to poison; Pumps out with ruthless ingenuity Atom by atom, and leaves you—vacuity. Thus much of Christ does he reject? And what retain? His intellect? What is it I must reverence duly? Poor intellect for worship, truly, Which tells me simply what was told (If mere morality, bereft Of the God in Christ, be all that's left) Elsewhere by voices manifold; With this advantage, that the stater Made nowise the important stumble Of adding, he, the sage and humble, Was also one with the Creator. You urge Christ's followers' simplicity: But how does shifting blame, evade it? Have wisdom's words no more felicity? The stumbling-block, his speech—who laid it? How comes it that for one found able To sift the truth of it from fable, Millions believe it to the letter? Christ's goodness, then—does that fare better? Strange goodness, which upon the score Of being goodness, the mere due Of man to fellow-man, much more To God,—should take another view Of its possessor's privilege, And bid him rule his race! You pledge Your fealty to such rule? What, all— From heavenly John and Attic Paul, And that brave weather-battered Peter, Whose stout faith only stood completer For buffets, sinning to be pardoned, As, more his hands hauled nets, they hardened,— All, down to you, the man of men, Professing here at Göttingen, Compose Christ's flock! They, you and I, Are sheep of a good man! And why? The goodness,—how did he acquire it? Was it self-gained, did God inspire it? Choose which; then tell me, on what ground Should its possessor dare propound His claim to rise o'er us an inch? Were goodness all some man's invention, Who arbitrarily made mention What we should follow, and whence flinch,— What qualities might take the style Of right and wrong,—and had such guessing Met with as general acquiescing As graced the alphabet erewhile, When A got leave an Ox to be, No Camel (quoth the Jews) like G,— For thus inventing thing and title Worship were that man's fit requital. But if the common conscience must Be ultimately judge, adjust Its apt name to each quality Already known,—I would decree Worship for such mere demonstration And simple work of nomenclature, Only the day I praised, not nature, But Harvey, for the circulation. I would praise such a Christ, with pride And joy, that he, as none beside, Had taught us how to keep the mind God gave him, as God gave his kind, Freer than they from fleshly taint: I would call such a Christ our Saint, As I declare our Poet, him Whose insight makes all others dim: A thousand poets pried at life, And only one amid the strife Rose to be Shakespeare: each shall take His crown, I'd say, for the world's sake— Though some objected—"Had we seen "The heart and head of each, what screen "Was broken there to give them light, "While in ourselves it shuts the sight, "We should no more admire, perchance, "That these found truth out at a glance, "Than marvel how the bat discerns "Some pitch-dark cavern's fifty turns, "Led by a finer tact, a gift "He boasts, which other birds must shift "Without, and grope as best they can." No, freely I would praise the man,— Nor one whit more, if he contended That gift of his, from God descended. Ah friend, what gift of man's does not? No nearer something, by a jot, Rise an infinity of nothings Than one: take Euclid for your teacher: Distinguish kinds: do crownings, clothings, Make that creator which was creature? Multiply gifts upon man's head, And what, when all's done, shall be said But—the more gifted he, I ween! That one's made Christ, this other, Pilate, And this might be all that has been,— So what is there to frown or smile at? What is left for us, save, in growth Of soul, to rise up, far past both, From the gift looking to the giver, And from the cistern to the river, And from the finite to infinity, And from man's dust to God's divinity?

XVII

Take all in a word: the truth in God's breast Lies trace for trace upon curs impressed: Though he is so bright and we so dim, We are made in his image to witness him: And were no eye in us to tell, Instructed by no inner sense, The light of heaven from the dark of hell, That light would want its evidence,— Though justice, good and truth were still Divine, if, by some demon's will, Hatred and wrong had been proclaimed Law through the worlds, and right misnamed. No mere exposition of morality Made or in part or in totality, Should win you to give it worship, therefore: And, if no better proof you will care for, —Whom do you count the worst man upon earth? Be sure, he knows, in his conscience, more Of what right is, than arrives at birth In the best man's acts that we bow before: This last knows better—true, but my fact is, 'Tis one thing to know, and another to practise. And thence I conclude that the real God-function Is to furnish a motive and injunction For practising what we know already. And such an injunction and such a motive As the God in Christ, do you waive, and "heady, "High-minded," hang your tablet-votive Outside the fane on a finger-post? Morality to the uttermost, Supreme in Christ as we all confess, Why need we prove would avail no jot To make him God, if God he were not? What is the point where himself lays stress? Does the precept run "Believe in good, "In justice, truth, now understood "For the first time?"—or, "Believe in me, "Who lived and died, yet essentially "Am Lord of Life?" Whoever can take The same to his heart and for mere love's sake Conceive of the love,—that man obtains A new truth; no conviction gains Of an old one only, made intense By a fresh appeal to his faded sense.

XVIII

Can it be that he stays inside? Is the vesture left me to commune with? Could my soul find aught to sing in tune with Even at this lecture, if she tried? Oh, let me at lowest sympathize With the lurking drop of blood that lies In the desiccated brain's white roots Without throb for Christ's attributes, As the lecturer makes his special boast! If love's dead there, it has left a ghost. Admire we, how from heart to brain (Though to say so strike the doctors dumb) One instinct rises and falls again, Restoring the equilibrium. And how when the Critic had done his best, And the pearl of price, at reason's test, Lay dust and ashes levigable On the Professor's lecture-table,— When we looked for the inference and monition That our faith, reduced to such condition, Be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,— He bids us, when we least expect it, Take back our faith,—if it be not just whole, Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it, Which fact pays damage done rewardingly, So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly! "Go home and venerate the myth "I thus have experimented with— "This man, continue to adore him "Rather than all who went before him, "And all who ever followed after!"— Surely for this I may praise you, my brother! Will you take the praise in tears or laughter? That's one point gained: can I compass another? Unlearned love was safe from spurning— Can't we respect your loveless learning? Let us at least give learning honour! What laurels had we showered upon her, Girding her loins up to perturb Our theory of the Middle Verb; Or Turk-like brandishing a scimitar O'er anapasts in comic-trimeter; Or curing the halt and maimed "Iketides," While we lounged on at our indebted ease: Instead of which, a tricksy demon Sets her at Titus or Philemon! When ignorance wags his ears of leather And hates God's word, 'tis altogether; Nor leaves he his congenial thistles To go and browse on Paul's Epistles. —And you, the audience, who might ravage The world wide, enviably savage, Nor heed the cry of the retriever, More than Herr Heine (before his fever),— I do not tell a lie so arrant As say my passion's wings are furled up, And, without plainest heavenly warrant, I were ready and glad to give the world up— But still, when you rub brow meticulous, And ponder the profit of turning holy If not for God's, for your own sake solely, —God forbid I should find you ridiculous! Deduce from this lecture all that eases you, Nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you, "Christians,"—abhor the deist's pravity,— Go on, you shall no more move my gravity Than, when I see boys ride a-cockhorse, I find it in my heart to embarrass them By hinting that their stick's a mock horse, And they really carry what they say carries them.

XIX

So sat I talking with my mind. I did not long to leave the door And find a new church, as before, But rather was quiet and inclined To prolong and enjoy the gentle resting From further tracking and trying and testing. "This tolerance is a genial mood!" (Said I, and a little pause ensued). "One trims the bark 'twixt shoal and shelf,   "And sees, each side, the good effects of it, "A value for religion's self, "A carelessness about the sects of it. "Let me enjoy my own conviction, "Not watch my neighbour's faith with fretfulness, "Still spying there some dereliction "Of truth, perversity, forgetfulness!" Better a mild indifferentism,  "Teaching that both our faiths (though duller "His shine through a dull spirit's prism)    "Originally had one colour! "Better pursue a pilgrimage "Through ancient and through modern times "To many peoples, various climes, "Where I may see saint, savage, sage "Fuse their respective creeds in one "Before the general Father's throne!"

XX

—'Twas the horrible storm began afresh! The black night caught me in his mesh, Whirled me up, and flung me prone. I was left on the college-step alone. I looked, and far there, ever fleeting Far, far away, the receding gesture, And looming of the lessening vesture!— Swept forward from my stupid hand, While I watched my foolish heart expand In the lazy glow of benevolence, O'er the various modes of man's belief. I sprang up with fear's vehemence. Needs must there be one way, our chief Best way of worship: let me strive To find it, and when found, contrive My fellows also take their share! This constitutes my earthly care: God's is above it and distinct. For I, a man, with men am linked But not a brute with brutes; no gain That I experience, must remain Unshared: but should my best endeavour To share it, fail—subsisteth ever God's care above, and I exult That God, by God's own ways occult, May—doth, I will believe—bring back All wanderers to a single track. Meantime, I can but testify God's care for me—no more, can I— It is but for myself I know; The world rolls witnessing around me Only to leave me as it found me; Men cry there, but my ear is slow: There races flourish or decay —What boots it, while yon lucid way Loaded with stars divides the vault? But soon my soul repairs its fault When, sharpening sense's hebetude, She turns on my own life! So viewed, No mere mote's-breadth but teems immense With witnessings of providence: And woe to me if when I look Upon that record, the sole book Unsealed to me, I take no heed Of any warning that I read! Have I been sure, this Christmas-Eve, God's own hand did the rainbow weave, Whereby the truth from heaven slid Into my soul?—I cannot bid The world admit he stooped to heal My soul, as if in a thunder-peal Where one heard noise, and one saw flame, I only knew he named my name: But what is the world to me, for sorrow Or joy in its censure, when to-morrow It drops the remark, with just-turned head Then, on again, 'That man is dead'? Yes, but for me—my name called,—drawn As a conscript's lot from the lap's black yawn, He has dipt into on a battle-dawn: Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,— Stumbling, mute-mazed, at nature's chance, With a rapid finger circled round, Fixed to the first poor inch of ground To fight from, where his foot was found; Whose ear but a minute since lay free To the wide camp's buzz and gossipry— Summoned, a solitary man To end his life where his life began, From the safe glad rear, to the dreadful van! Soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held By the hem of the vesture!—

XXI

And I caught At the flying robe, and unrepelled Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught With warmth and wonder and delight, God's mercy being infinite. For scarce had the words escaped my tongue, When, at a passionate bound, I sprung, Out of the wandering world of rain, Into the little chapel again.

XXII

How else was I found there, bolt upright On my bench, as if I had never left it? —Never flung out on the common at night, Nor met the storm and wedge-like cleft it, Seen the raree-show of Peter's successor, Or the laboratory of the Professor! For the Vision, that was true, I wist, True as that heaven and earth exist. There sat my friend, the yellow and tall, With his neck and its wen in the selfsame place; Yet my nearest neighbour's cheek showed gall. She had slid away a contemptuous space: And the old fat woman, late so placable, Eyed me with symptoms hardly mistakable, Of her milk of kindness turning rancid. In short, a spectator might have fancied That I had nodded, betrayed by slumber. Yet kept my scat, a warning ghastly, Through the heads of the sermon, nine in number, And woke up now at the tenth and lastly. But again, could such disgrace have happened? Each friend at my elbow had surely nudged it; And, as for the sermon, where did my nap end? Unless I heard it, could I have judged it? Could I report as I do at the close, First, the preacher speaks through his nose: Second, his gesture is too emphatic: Thirdly, to waive what's pedagogic, The subject-matter itself lacks logic: Fourthly, the English is ungrammatic. Great news! the preacher is found no Pascal, Whom, if I pleased, I might to the task call Of making square to a finite eye The circle of infinity, And find so all-but-just-succeeding! Great news! the sermon proves no reading Where bee-like in the flowers I bury me, Like Taylor's the immortal Jeremy! And now that I know the very worst of him, What was it I thought to obtain at first of him? Ha! Is God mocked, as he asks, Shall I take on me to change his tasks, And dare, despatched to a river-head For a simple draught of the element, Neglect the thing for which he sent, And return with another thing instead?— Saying, "Because the water found "Welling up from the underground, "Is mingled with the taints of earth, "While thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth, "And couldst, at wink or word, convulse "The world with the leap of a river-pulse,— "Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy,   "And bring thee a chalice I found, instead; "See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy! "One would suppose that the marble bled. "What matters the water? A hope I have nursed: "The waterless cup will quench my thirst." —Better have knelt at the poorest stream That trickles in pain from the straitest rift! For the less or the more is all God's gift, Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam. And here, is there water or not, to drink?  I then, in ignorance and weakness, Taking God's help, have attained to think My heart does best to receive in meekness That mode of worship, as most to his mind, Where earthly aids being cast behind, His All in All appears serene With the thinnest human veil between, Letting the mystic lamps, the seven, The many motions of his spirit, Pass, as they list, to earth from heaven.  For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure Which lies as safe in a golden ewer;  But the main thing is, does it hold good measure? Heaven soon sets right all other matters!— Ask, else, these ruins of humanity, This flesh worn out to rags and tatters, This soul at struggle with insanity, Who thence take comfort—can I doubt?— Which an empire gained were a loss without. May it be mine! And let us hope That no worse blessing befall the Pope, Turned sick at last of to-day's buffoonery, Of posturings and petticoatings, Beside his Bourbon bully's gloatings In the bloody orgies of drunk poltroonery! Nor may the Professor forego its peace At Göttingen presently, when, in the dusk Of his life, if his cough, as I fear, should increase, Prophesied of by that horrible husk— When thicker and thicker the darkness fills The world through his misty spectacles, And he gropes for something more substantial Than a fable, myth or personification,— May Christ do for him what no mere man shall, And stand confessed as the God of salvation! Meantime, in the still recurring fear Lest myself, at unawares, be found, While attacking the choice of my neighbours round, With none of my own made—I choose here! The giving out of the hymn reclaims me; I have done: and if any blames me, Thinking that merely to touch in brevity The topics I dwell on, were unlawful,— Or worse, that I trench, with undue levity, On the bounds of the holy and the awful,— I praise the heart, and pity the head of him, And refer myself to, instead of him, Who head and heart alike discernest Looking below light speech we utter, When frothy spume and frequent sputter Prove that the soul's depths boil in earnest! May truth shine out, stand ever before us! I put up pencil and join chorus To Hepzibah Tune, without further apology, The last five verses of the third section Of the seventeenth hymn of Whitfield's Collection, To conclude with the doxology.


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 Massareene found no obstacle to his leaving France, and on reaching Dover he jumped out of the boat, fell on his knees, and kissed the ground, exclaiming, "God bless this land of liberty!" The spectators thought him mad till they learnt who he was. He was present in August 1789, with "a French lady and her son," at Astley's representation of the capture of the Bastille. He was formally remarried to Marie Anne Barcier, on whose death in 1800 he made a second marriage, and he died in 1805, aged sixty-three, leaving no issue. His two brothers, who are said never to have written to him in captivity, succeeded him in turn, and on the decease of the second in 1826 the earldom became extinct, the viscounty passing to a daughter. Let us hope that if the steward had, as alleged, kept back half his £8000 a year, Massareene brought him to book.

The day after this liberation another veteran prisoner recovered his liberty, but not, alas! his reason. Whyte, or Whyte de Malleville, one of the seven captives in the Bastille, is described by

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Rh some as a Scotchman, by others as an Irishman, but there is no proof that he was ever on this side of the Channel. He may have been the son of a Captain Whyte of Clare's Irish-French Regiment, whose two daughters were on the pension list. He entered the Bastille in 1784, but had previously, probably for a quarter of a century, been at Vincennes, and at the time of this transfer was insane. In August 1788 he had refused to listen to two lawyers who called on him with papers to sign, and in the following February the governor, to whom papers in his writing had been handed, interrogated him and found him still insane. He is said when released to have styled himself "majeur de l'immensité," and to have inquired for Louis XV. The Duke of Dorset styles him Major Whyte, adding that he had been confined for more than thirty years, and that when released he was questioned by some English gentlemen who happened to be near, but the unhappy man seemed to have nearly lost the use of his intellect, and could express himself but very ill:— "His beard was at least a yard long. What is very extraordinary, he did not know that the Bastille was the place of his confinement, but thought he had been shut up at St. Lazare; nor did he appear to be sensible of his good fortune in being released. He


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10 expressed, however, a strong desire of being taken to a lawyer." What became of him is uncertain. One account is that a benevolent person sheltered him, but that on his beginning a few days afterwards to plunder the house, he was forced to send him to Charenton lunatic asylum. Dorset, however, could not ascertain his fate. The capture of the Bastille, or the procession which followed it, was witnessed by several Englishmen. Some were active participants, others simple spectators. Among the former was William Playfair, whose opinions, like his fortunes, underwent singular vicissitudes. A brother of John Playfair, the Edinburgh mathematician and geologist, he was a civil engineer, and had settled in Paris. He had patented a new rolling-machine, and in 1789 joined Joel Barlow in launching the Scioto Company, which in two months disposed of 50,000 acres in Ohio to two convoys of French emigrants. When Barlow was called back to America, Playfair acted as sole agent. He must have assisted in the capture of the Bastille, for he was one of the eleven or twelve hundred inhabitants of the St. Antoine quarter who on the previous day had formed themselves into a militia, and who, with the exception of a few detained by patrol duty, headed the attack on the


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Rh fortress. It is significant, but scarcely excusable, that in his "History of Jacobinism" he makes light of the capture of the Bastille, and does not hint that he was concerned in it. Indeed, the only reference to his having been in Paris at all is the remark, "I do not consider virtue to consist in the simple manners and republican phrases of a Brissot, and I have told him so to his face." A French pamphlet of 1790 on paper-money is attributed to him. It was he (not Pétion, as Carlyle represents) who courageously rescued D'Espréménil, an old acquaintance, when half killed by a mob in the Palais Royal gardens in February 1791. Pétion simply called on and condoled with the poor man after the rescue, in which Playfair was assisted by a brave National Guardsman, a horse-dealer, who afterwards pawned his uniform to give Playfair a dinner, and was with difficulty persuaded to accept a few louis. Playfair speaking out too plainly on the excesses of the Revolution, Barère is said to have procured an order for his arrest, but he escaped to Holland, and thence to England. By 1793 he was back in London, publishing pamphlets. One of these recommended that France, with the Bourbons restored, should be made permanently harmless by Savoy being given to Geneva, Dauphiny and Provence to Sardinia, a long strip drawn from Belfort to Abbeville to Austria and


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12 Prussia, and another strip from Bordeaux to Narbonne to Spain, England taking the colonies. A second pamphlet advocated a wholesale manufacture of forged assignats, as the surest and most merciful method of crushing the Revolution. He urged that this would save many lives; that American notes were forged in General Howe's camp without its being deemed dishonourable; and that there could be no fear of retaliation, seeing that Bank of England notes were payable at sight. Names, says the old song, go by contraries. Only on the lucus à non principle can we explain the sanguinary temper of a Rossignol, a Saint-Just, or a Lebon, and the forged assignat proposal of a Playfair. Unfortunately his suggestion did not fall on deaf ears. The British Government is alleged to have connived at the manufacture by the émigrés of forged assignats at Howden, near Newcastle. The local tradition is that this paper-mill on the Tyne never prospered afterwards. Some of the exiled bishops and clergy reprobated the act, but the Bourbon princes apparently reconciled themselves to it on the casuistical plea that the counterfeit notes had a secret mark by which, in the event of the restoration of the monarchy, they could be distinguished and cashed.

The Committee of Public Safety set a better example by imprisoning an English refugee named Hathway, who proposed an issue of forged Bank of England notes.


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 A FRIEND OF. JOHNSON AND SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS name of Philip Metcalfe is associated with the lives of the leading man of letters and the chief artist during the early years of the third George's reign. He gladdened Dr. Johnson's declining days with his society at Brighton and in London. He accompanied sir Joshua Reynolds on his travels abroad and was a welcome guest at his social entertainments in Leicester Square. His name flits across many a memoir of the personages of that period but these were his two especial friends and no man could desire better.

The family was for many generations connected with Yorkshire and remained in obedience to the Church of Rome. Their means enabled them to acquire from Sir Richard Le Scrope about 1416 the estate of Nappa in Wensleydale. The ancient house, a hall facing south between two embattled towers, was built by them about 1459. A view of it "half a century ago" is in Speight's volume on "romantic Richmondshire" (1897).

The more immediate ancestors of Philip Metcalfe settled at the hamlet of Tanton in the large parish of Stokesley-in-Cleveland. His grandfather, Gilbert Metcalfe of that place, had two sons, the younger one, Roger Metcalfe [born 1680, died 5 Jany 1744-5] settling as a surgeon in Brownlow Street, now Betterton Street, Drury Lane, London. He is supposed to have been educated at St. Omer, then and for many years later one of the chief training places of the English members of the Roman Church. He was apprenticed to his uncle a member of the company of Barber surgeons in May 1698 but


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Rh One ill deed begets another, and though the royalist issue had long ceased, Napoleon in 1803 organised a forgery of English, Austrian, and Russian notes, the plates of which were claimed by and given up to the respective ambassadors on his fall.

Playfair, who is more honourably known as an editor of Adam Smith's works, was constantly unsuccessful, despite his inventive genius. He returned to Paris after Waterloo to edit Galignani's Messenger; but in 1818 an article on a duel brought on him a sentence of three months' imprisonment, to escape which he fled to London, where he died five years afterwards, at the age of sixty-four. His brother, the professor, remained a staunch Whig; and a Dundee minister, James Playfair, D.D., historiographer to the Prince of Wales, who in 1790 signed an address of congratulation to the French Assembly, was probably a cousin. Thomas Blackwell, who had been educated at the Irish College, and was studying medicine at Paris, joined in the attack on the Bastille, and was intimate with Danton. He was naturalised in France, served in the army, and in 1798 accompanied Napper Tandy to Donegal. Both escaped; but being sent on a mission to Norway, on returning to France they were given up at Hamburg to the British consul. Blackwell was imprisoned till 1801, and then went back to France.

Mrs. Schimmelpenninck, in her interesting


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14, speaks of Harry Priestley, a lad of sixteen, bursting into her parents' drawing-room at Manchester and exclaiming, "France is free! the Bastille is taken! William was there, and helping. I have just got a letter from him. He has put up a pictorial of the Bastille and two stones from its ruins for you." Two years later William found mob-law a two-edged weapon, for he witnessed—had he been recognised he would have been in peril—the sacking of his father's house and chapel.

Dr. Priestley, who himself had the good sense to decline a seat in the Convention, offered him by two departments, bade his son William, in June 1792, "go and live among that brave and hospitable people, and learn from them to detest tyranny and love liberty." He accordingly waited on the Assembly to apply for naturalisation, and was received with plaudits. His voice being weak, his speech, which declared French citizenship a higher honour than the crown of any arbitrary state, was read for him by the President, François of Nantes. The reply of the latter compared Burke's attacks on Dr. Priestley to those of Aristophanes on Socrates, and suggested that the Birmingham rioters were the descendants of Danish pirates. The youth's gravity must have been sorely tried by this burlesque oration; but did not M. de Lesseps, in the French Academy of Sciences, once gravely hint that the English promoters of a rival Suez Canal were the descendants


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Rh of Carthaginian traders? The sky soon darkened, and Dr. Priestley, his father, wrote after the September massacres to Roland, urging that unless such outrages on justice and humanity were stopped, and order and obedience to law enforced, liberty both in France and throughout Europe must be despaired of. William intended to be a merchant in France, but the war with England frustrating this purpose, he went to America, where his two brothers joined him. They contemplated buying half a million acres near the head of the Susquehanna, in Pennsylvania, to found an English colony; and their father also went over, settling at the nearest town, Northumberland, till the scheme was realised. It fell through, but Priestley remained at Northumberland, declining, however, to be naturalised. Harry died young, but William married, and had a large farm.

A young man of about the same age, the future Earl of Liverpool, then Mr. Jenkinson, also witnessed the fall of the Bastille, but merely as a looker-on. "The whole sight has been such," he wrote, "that nothing would have tempted me to miss it;" but he either gave no description of it, or his father, in forwarding a copy of the letter to the Foreign Office, omitted a portion of it. We merely learn that "the consternation that has prevailed in Paris for the last two days is beyond all power of description. Few people have gone out of their doors, and all public amusements for the first time have been


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  of the presidency of the board of trade. The prime minister (Lord Rosebery) requested him to withdraw it, but later on he insisted upon it, and his resignation took effect on 12 May 1894. He gave his reasons for it in the House of Commons on the 24th. As for the bearing of these proceedings upon his character, the opinion of a stout political opponent intimately acquainted with the facts can here be given. In a letter, not at the time intended for publication, Lord James of Hereford (then Sir Henry James) wrote: 'It seems strange to me that, after having had an intimate acquaintance with Mundella for nearly thirty years, I should now be writing in regard to him a letter which may be regarded as of an exculpatory character. I say it is strange, because during all our intimacy I have had full reason to know by what a high standard of rectitude his conduct has been controlled. My object, however, in writing to you is to say that I have had an opportunity of obtaining some insight into the affairs of the New Zealand Loan Company and Mr. Mundella's connection therewith. I can discover nothing in all these proceedings, so far as I know them, which ought to disentitle Mr. Mundella to the confidence of any man.'

Nevertheless a suffering, poignant in proportion to his keen sense of honour, shook the health of his robust frame. In the succeeding general election of 1895, which proved so disastrous to his party, his constituents returned him unopposed, and his former colleagues invited him to take his place again upon the front opposition bench. His energy in and out of parliament returned; in particular he took a prominent part in debate on the education bills of 1896 and 1897. But on the night of 18 June 1897 he was struck with paralysis, and he died on 21 July at his house, 16 Elvaston Place, Queen's Gate. A memorial service was held at St. Margaret's on the 26th, and he was buried at Nottingham on the 27th.

His life was one of unresting public activity, characterised throughout by a certain eager and warm-hearted combativeness, but characterised too by a modest estimate of the range of his own capacities, and by unselfish desire that good work should be done, whether he or another got the praise. Few strenuous partisans have counted in their circle of friends so many of their foremost opponents. To those friends he left the recollection of a man full of fire and fight; shrewd, but none the less simple-minded and tender of heart. In parliament he seldom spoke except to put the house in possession of his own experience. Voice, manner, presence, temperament, and intense but genial conviction lent him oratorical resources which he used with powerful effect in popular meetings. His relation to Gladstone was that of enduring trust and personal loyalty. His history is in part merged in that of the political cause of which he was a champion; but he is to be remembered as one of the two or three who established the British state system of popular education, and as a great and successful labourer for industrial peace.

The bust of Mundella, by Boehm, passed to his daughter, Mrs. Roby Thorpe, Stowe House, Lichfield; an oil painting by Cope is in the mayor's parlour, Sheffield; and a replica in the possession of his daughter, Miss Mundella, 18 Elvaston Place, W.—both presented by 'constituents independent of party.'

 MUNK, WILLIAM (1816–1898), physician, eldest son of William Munk, an ironmonger, and his wife Jane Kenward, was born on 24 Sept. 1816 at Battle, Sussex, and after education at University College, London, graduated M.D. at Leyden in 1837. He began practice in London in September 1837, and in 1844 he became a licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians of London, and in 1854 a fellow. In 1857 he was elected the Harveian librarian of the college, and held office till his death. In that year he published 'Memoirs of the Life and Writings of J. A. Paris, M.D.'[see ], and in 1861 'The Roll of the Royal College of Physicians of London,' in two volumes. A second edition of this work appeared in 1878 in three volumes, and it is the best general work of reference on the physicians of England. It is exact in its references to the manuscript records of the College of Physicians, and contains much information from other sources, the origin of which is not always indicated, but which is generally valuable. Its bibliography is imperfect and does not show any profound acquaintance with the contents of English medical books, yet almost every subsequent writer on subjects relating to the history of physicians owes something to Dr. Munk. In 1884 he edited 'The Gold-headed Cane' of Dr. [q.v.], and in 1887 published 'Euthanasia, or Medical Treatment in aid of an Easy Natural Death,' and in 1895 'The Life of Sir Henry Halford, Bart., M.D.' The College of Physicians voted him one hundred guineas in consideration of this work. He also published some 'Notæ Harveianæ'


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 in the 'St. Bartholomew's Hospital Reports' (vol. xxii.); and in 1885 'Marvodia,' a genealogical account of the Marwoods, a Devonshire family; and wrote several essays on medical subjects in the 'Lancet.' He was elected physician to the Smallpox Hospital in February 1853, and held office there for forty years. When Prince Arthur (afterwards duke of Connaught) had smallpox at Greenwich in October 1867 he was called in consultation. He long resided at 40 Finsbury Square, London, enjoyed a considerable practice, and there died on 20 Dec. 1898. He was of short stature. His portrait, by the Hon. John Collier, hangs in the dining-room of the Royal College of Physicians, to which, in the last year of his life, it was presented by the fellows in memory of the great service which he had rendered to the college by the publication of the 'Roll.' He became a Roman catholic in 1842, and from 1857 to 1865 was the medical adviser of Cardinal Wiseman. He had much information, and readily imparted it in aid of the studies of others. He admired the College of Physicians, but late in life was inclined to think that in it, and in the world at large, past times were the best. He was for many years an active member of the committee of the London Library. He married, 30 April 1849, Emma, eighteenth child of John Luke of Exeter, and left two sons and three daughters.

MURPHY, DENIS (1833–1896), historical writer, was born at Newmarket, co. Cork, in 1833. Having been trained in various Jesuit colleges of England, Germany, and Spain, he was admitted to the Society of Jesus as a novitiate in his sixteenth year. He became an active and devoted missionary priest, but soon began to devote his chief attention to teaching and historical research. He was professor of history and literature at the Jesuit colleges of Clongowes Wood, Limerick, and finally at University College, Dublin. His best known work, published at Dublin in 1883, was 'Cromwell in Ireland,' an excellent account of the suppression of the catholic rebellion of 1648-9, which gives evidence of great research, and is destitute of sectarian prejudice. The text is accompanied with good maps, plans, and illustrations. A new edition appeared in 1885. Another important historical work was his edition of O'Clery's 'Life of Hugh Roe O'Donnell,' 1893, 4to, which he was the first to render into English. The parallel bilingual text is preceded by an historical introduction. Murphy also published 'The Annals of Clonmacnoise' (1896) and a 'History of Holy Cross Abbey.' He edited for many years the 'Kildare Archæological Journal,' to which he contributed some valuable papers, and was connected with similar publications in Cork, Waterford, and Belfast. His last published work was 'A School History of Ireland' (in T. A. Findlay's School and College Series), issued in 1894, which is remarkable for containing a eulogy of Charles Stewart Parnell. Just before his death he was at work upon 'The Martyrs of Ireland,' an account of Roman catholics who had been put to death since the time of Henry VIII, a compilation suggested to him by the Irish bishops. Murphy received the honorary degree of LL.D. from the royal university of Ireland in recognition of his historical writings. He was vice-president of the Royal Irish Academy and a member of the council of the Royal Society of Antiquaries in Ireland. He was found dead in his bed, on the morning of 18 May 1896, in his rooms at University College, St. Stephen's Green, Dublin, and was buried in Glasnevin cemetery on 20 May.

MURRAY, CHARLES AUGUSTUS (1806–1895), diplomatist and author, second son of George Murray, fifth earl of Dunmore (1762–1836), and Lady Susan Hamilton, daughter of Archibald, ninth, duke of Hamilton, was born on 22 Nov. 1806. He was educated at Eton and Oriel College, Oxford, where he matriculated on 21 May 1824, and graduated B.A. and was elected to a fellowship of All Souls' in 1827; he proceeded M.A. in 1832. While an undergraduate Murray had [q. v.] as his tutor. 'He never inspired me,' wrote Murray, 'or my fellow-undergraduates with any interest, much less respect; on the contrary, we disliked, or rather distrusted, him. He walked with his head bent, abstracted, but every now and then looking out of the corners of his eyes quickly, as though suspicious. He had no influence then; it was only when he became vicar of St. Mary's that the long dormant power asserted itself, and his sermons attracted hundreds.' Murray's chief undergraduate friend was (afterwards Baron Herbert of Lea) [q. v.], but it was in company with Lord Edward Thynne, son of the second Marquis of Bath, that Murray, who was a


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 , and was appropriately appointed (3 May) vice-president of the committee of council for education, and sworn of the privy council. His administration as vice-president was chiefly marked by the code of 1882. Up to that time the government grant had been assessed almost entirely on the results of individual examination in certain elementary subjects. Hence the attention of teachers and inspectors had in too many cases been directed rather to the number of children who had been prepared to 'pass' the examination than to the skilled methods, the discipline, and general intelligence which should characterise the school as a whole. Mundella's code sought to correct this tendency in three ways: 1. By the recognition for the first time in the infant schools of the manual employments and organised play devised by Fröbel. 2. By the introduction of a 'merit grant' designed to reward other forms of excellence than those which could be tabulated in an examination schedule, and to encourage the inventiveness and independent efforts of good teachers. 3. By giving greater scope and variety to the list of optional or 'specific' subjects for use in the higher classes. In these and other ways the code of 1882 made a substantial advance towards many of the most beneficial educational reforms of later years. An important step was taken at the same time in the reorganisation of the inspectorate by establishing a system of annual conferences to be held by the chief inspectors in their several districts.

The development of the South Kensington (afterwards the Victoria and Albert) Museum was also a most congenial subject of Mundella's official work. Outside his office various labours in connection with societies and institutions for technical instruction, for the higher education of women, for the training of schoolmasters, for teaching the blind and the deaf and dumb, for Sunday schooling, and latterly in raising and administering funds for giving poor school-children meals, occupied most of his time.

Mundella left office with Gladstone's government in June 1885. On 6 Feb. 1886, when Gladstone again returned to power, he became president of the board of trade, and was admitted to the cabinet. He adopted Gladstone's home-rule views, and held his post until the defeat of the government in the following July. The chief mark he left on the board of trade was by virtue of his creation of the labour department. This Mundella started in 1886, when he appointed Mr. Burnett, secretary of the Amalgamated Engineers' Trade Society, as labour correspendent. The department was developed by the next administration. After the general election in July 1892 Mundella became once more president of the board of trade, with a seat in the cabinet. He then further strengthened the labour department, and began making its information more widely useful by the publication of the 'Labour Gazette.' A most characteristic act of his administration in the same office was the appointment of two railway servants as inspectors of accidents on railways. At the same time he was able to render another signal service to industrial peace. The settlement of the great coal strike of 1893 by Lord Rosebery as conciliator took place under Mundella's administration at the board of trade. He attached much importance to making such intervention in industrial disputes one of the regular and authorised functions of the board, and had already in 1892 introduced a bill for this purpose. There was then no time to pass it, but he continued to press the matter, and the subsequent passing of substantially the same measure by Mr. Ritchie, his successor in the board of trade on the return to office of the unionists in 1895, was one of the public events which interested him most in the closing years of his life.

It was in 1894-5 that, as chairman of the departmental committee on poor-law schools, Mundella directly rendered his last most important public service. In this committee his power of diligent and thorough investigation, his fine enthusiasm, and his deep sympathy with the claims and the best aspirations of the poor were conspicuously displayed, and the report of his committee convinced the public of the need of reforms which have since been effected. In particular the report demonstrated the evil of herding pauper children together in institutions cut off from the rest of the world.

Meanwhile, in 1894, Mundella had retired from the government under painful circumstances. He had been a director of the New Zealand Loan Company from 1870 to 1892, when he resigned this position upon again taking office. Among his colleagues in the directorate of the company were Sir James Fergusson, at one time postmaster-general, the late Sir George Russell, and Sir John Gorst, now vice-president of the council. The company, once very prosperous, went into liquidation in 1893, and in the following year a public inquiry was held as to its affairs. Feeling that his previous position of director might cast doubt on the impartiality of his department, Mundella at an early stage of these proceedings offered his


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  with the class from which he had raised himself. In 1866, a time of much exasperation between employers and employed, he succeeded in forming the 'Nottingham board of conciliation in the glove and hosiery trade,' for the termination and prevention of disputes by constant conference between representatives of each side, This was the first permanent and successful institution of the kind in this country. It at once began to be copied in other towns, and to attract the attention of foreign observers. Incidentally it led Mandella into parliament, for he was invited to lecture on this subject at Sheffield, and this lecture and his settlement of a grave labour conflict at Manchester suggested the request that he should stand for the former city against [q. v.], whose bitter tone towards labour movements had caused much irritation. His first contest at Sheffield took place during the emotion which followed the famous trade union outrages there [see, Suppl.] He had a robust faith in the British working classes, and in the essential soundness of trade unionism, which he regarded as the basis of improved relations between masters and men. Defeating Roebuck, he was returned to parliament by Sheffield in 1868, and he represented Sheffield (from 1885, the Brightside division of that city) till his death, nearly thirty years later.

In parliament Mundella mainly devoted his efforts to procuring legislation in favour of labour, and was especially zealous in the cause of popular education. Strongly averse to any toleration of disorder, he was persistent in urging the amendment of certain provisions of the law upon offences arising in labour disputes, as straining the principles of criminal jurisprudence against working men in the mistaken interest of employers. He criticised keenly the Criminal Law Amendment Act, 1871, and his efforts contributed to secure Mr. (afterwards Viscount) Cross's legislation of 1875, which to a great extent gave effect to his views. In 1873 he put a stop, by effective exposure in parliament, to a system of frauds by which the Truck Act had previously been defied.

With this work must be associated his principal, though not his only, contribution to factory legislation. In 1874 he introduced a bill to reduce the hours of labour for children and young persons in textile factories from sixty to fifty-four hours a week, to raise the age at which 'half-time' may begin from eight to ten, and the age for 'full-time' work from thirteen to fourteen, to shorten the duration of half-time work, and otherwise to strengthen the law in question. Although his bill did not become law, he brought about, by his agitation in this matter, the passing in the same year of Mr. (afterwards Viscount) Cross's Factories (Health of Women, &c.) Act, which effected most of his objects. Ten years after, at s great demonstration in Manchester, his wife received a fine bust of him by Sir Edgar Boehm, the gift of 'eighty thousand factory workers, chiefly women and children, in grateful acknowledgment of her husband's services.'

Even more important was Mundella's parliamentary work in connection with education. His early struggles had taught him what want of education meant. As a manufacturer he felt the national need of technical training. His business took him at times to Chemnitz, where his firm had a branch factory; what he there saw led him to study closely the educational systems of Saxony, Prussia, and other states. Thereafter he devoted himself to preaching at public meetings, as Matthew Arnold preached in literature, that this country should not be behind its neighbours in public provision for education. In parliament he made his mark by insistence on the same text. And none rated more highly than Forster his share in procuring the Education Act of 1870.

In the debates upon this measure Mundella stood out as one mainly interested in getting the utmost done for the teaching of children. He consequent]y held a moderate attitude on the vexed religious question. While he was himself a member of the church of England, he was anxious for the protection of religious liberty, and no less anxious in 1870 that the progress of popular education should not be sacrificed to excessive fears in this regard. He gratefully recognised the past work of denominational schools and desired its continuance, but his ideal would have been best satisfied by the presence throughout the country of undenominational schools under public management. The religious difficulty, he said, was made not by but for the people whose children were to be taught. He wished the bible to take the place in the future education of children that it had taken in his own; and twenty-five years later he was enthusiastic in the belief that the religious teaching of good board schools, supplemented as it was by the Sunday schools, gave a more valuable result than anything for which the partisans of denominational schools were striving. He was early a prominent advocate of compulsory education, which, partially applied by the acts of 1870 and 1876, was made universal in England by his own act of 1881.

On the return of the liberals to power in 1880 Mundella entered Gladstone's


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 Sullivan Bay, 24th Jan. 1804. General Orders.

Parole — Fawcett. C. Sign — Ellen. Garrison Orders. Detail for duty only.

Sullivan Bay, 25th Jan. 1804. General Orders.

Parole — Brook. C. Sign — Carr. The Lieut.-Governor proceeding to Van Dieman's Land with the first embarkation, the direction of the remaining part of the Civil and Military Establishment is left with the officer next in command, 1st-Lieut. Wm. Sladden of the Royal Marines, who is to be observed as such. Garrison Orders. Detail for duty only.

Sullivan Bay, 26th Jan. 1804. General Orders.

Parole — Embarkation. C. Sign — Ocean. Garrison Orders. Detail for duty only.

General Orders.

Ship Ocean, Port Phillip, 27th Jan. 1804. The whole number of prisoners embarked in the Ocean (the officers' servants excepted) will be distributed into three divisions, one of which will be upon deck at a time in the same manner as seamen are divided into watches, and for the same period of time. The several overseers who are with the people will see that the watches are regularly relieved; and the watch or division upon deck, during either day or night, must not upon any account go below until relieved. They will at all times give such assistance towards carrying on the duty of the ship as may be required of them by Captain Mertho, or any of his officers. The division which is upon deck during the morning watch will wash and clean themselves upon the forecastle, and as these several regulations are calculated for their health and convenience the Governor expects a due observance of them. The three men who were on board, late belonging to the 25th Foot, will be classed one to each watch, and will perform the same duty which they were entrusted with at Sullivan Bay.


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  to people in all parts of the world knowledge of Müller's work, his faith, and his experiences. As a consequence, gifts of money and goods flowed in without direct appeal.

In 1838 the biography of the great evangelist, George Whitfield, helped to intensify Müller's religious fervour, and, after he had passed his seventieth year, he set out on a world-wide mission, which, with brief intervals at home, covered seventeen years. He travelled over much of Britain and of the continent of Europe, made several journeys to America, and visited India, Australia, China, and other parts to preach the gospel.

In the course of his life Müller received from the pious and charitable no less than 1,500,000l.; he educated and sent out into the world no fewer than 123,000 pupils; he circulated 275,000 bibles in different languages, with nearly as many smaller portions of Scripture; and he aided missions to the extent of 255,000l. He supported 189 missionaries, and he employed 112 assistants. The record of his life seems to associate itself more closely with primitive and puritan periods of history than with modern times.

Müller was found dead in his room on the morning of 10 March 1898.

Müller was twice married. His first wife died in 1870. In 1871 he married Miss Susannah Grace Sangar, who accompanied him in his missionary tours; she died in 1895. From 1832 till his death in 1866 Henry Craig assisted Müller. In 1872 Mr. James Wright, who married Müller's only child, Lydia, became his assistant, and the work is still being carried on under Mr. Wright's superintendence.

MUMMERY, ALBERT FREDERICK (1855–1895), political economist and Alpine climber, born on 10 Sept. 1855 at Maison-Dieu, Dover, was son of William Rigden Mummery of Dover. His business was that of a tanner at Dover and Canterbury in partnership with his brother. Being a man of means he devoted his leisure to economic studies and to mountaineering. In 1889, in conjunction with Mr. J. A. Hobson, he published ‘The Physiology of Industry’ (London, 8vo), a criticism of several current economic theories. He was a well-known climber both in the Alps and in the Caucasus, and in 1895 he published ‘My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus’ (London, 8vo), a work of great merit. In 1895 he was mountaineering in the Nanga Parbat group of the Kashmir Himalayas. He was last seen on 23 Aug., and it is believed that he was overwhelmed by an avalanche while traversing a snow pass.

MUNDELLA, ANTHONY JOHN (1825–1897), statesman, was born at Leicester on 28 March 1825. His father, Antonio Mundella, a native of Monte Olimpino, near Como, had come to England some years before as a political refugee, and after many hardships settled at Leicester, where he married a wife of Welsh descent, Rebecca, daughter of Thomas Allsopp. He remained a Roman catholic, but the children were brought up as protestants. Young Mundella attended the national school of St. Nicholas in Leicester, but his schooling ended at the ago of nine. Its chief feature was the reading aloud of the bible and of English poets, especially Milton. This, with his mother's tales from Shakespeare, was the commencement for him of a thorough knowledge and peculiarly keen enjoyment of the English classics. His first work was in a printing office. At eleven years he was apprenticed to Mr. Kempson, a hosiery manufacturer in Leicester, and at nineteen he was engaged as a manager by Messrs. Harris & Hamel in the same town and trade. Shortly after, in 1845, he married Mary (d. 1890), daughter of William Smith, formerly of Kibworth Beauchamp in Leicestershire. To this union with a woman of rare strength, sweetness, and dignity of character, he and his family attributed much of the success as well as the joyousness of his life.

In 1848 he was taken into partnership by Messrs. Hine & Co., hosiery manufacturers in Nottingham, and continued in this business till he had acquired a sufficient fortune to devote himself to public life. Meanwhile he took an active part in local politics, served as sheriff and town councillor, and was one of the first five volunteers enrolled in the Robin Hood volunteer corps, in which he was for some time a captain. While a lad at Leicester he had declared himself on a chartist platform for ‘the party of the working men.’ When he entered on his political career he was a radical, ardent for the extension of the franchise, hostile to all that savoured of religious inequality, anxious for the pacification of Ireland, a strong free-trader, and, above all, in most complete


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 PAGE Trumbull, Charles (1646-1724). See under Trumbull, Sir William. Trumbull, William (d. 1635) ... 264 Trumbull, Sir William (1639-1716). 265 Truro, Baron. See Wilde, Thomas(1782-1855) Trusler, John (1735-1820) ... 268 Trussell, John (fl.l 620-1642). . 269 Trussell, Thomas (fl. 1610-1625). See under Trussell, John. Trussell or Trussel, William, sometimes styled Baron Trussell ( ft. 1330). . . .270 Trye, Charles Brandon (1757-1811). . 271 Tryon, Sir George (1832-1893). . .272 Tryon, Thomas (1634-1703). . . .274 Tryon, William (1725-1788). . . .276 Tuathal (d. 544) 277 Tuchet. See Touchet. Tucker, Abraham (1705-1774). . .277 Tucker, Benjamin (1762-1829). . . 279 Tucker, Charlotte Maria (1821-1893). . 279 Tucker, Henry St. George (1771-1851). . 280 Tucker, Josiah ( 1712-1 799). . . .282 Tucker, Thomas Tudor (1775-1852). .284 Tucker, William (1558 P-1621). See Tooker. Tucker, William (1589 P-1640?). . .285 Tuckey, James Kingston (1776-1816). . 285 Tuckney, Anthony, D.D. (1599-1670). . 286 Tudor, Edmund, Earl of Richmond, known as Edmund of Hadham (1430 ?-1456). .288 Tudor, Jasper, Earl of Pembroke and Duke of Bedford, known as Jasper of Hatfield (1431 P-1495) 288 Tudor, Margaret (1441-1509). See Beaufort, Margaret. Tudor, Margaret (1489-1541). See Margaret. Tudor, Owen (d. 1461) 290 Tudway, Thomas (d. 1726). . . .291 Tufnell, Henry (1805-1854). . . .293 Tufnell, Thomas Jolliffe (1819-1885). . 293 Tufton, Sackville, ninth Earl of Thanet (1767-1825) 294 Tuke, Sir Brian (<f. 1545). . 295 Tuke, Daniel Hack (1827-1895). . 296 Tuke, Henry (1755-1814). . 297 Tuke, James Hack (1819-1896). . 297 Tuke, Sir Samuel (d. 1674). . 299 Tuke, Samuel (1784-1857). . 301 Tuke, Thomas (d. 1657) 302 Tuke, William (1732-1822). . . .303 Tulk, Charles Augustus (1786-1849). . 303 Tull, Jethro (1674-1741) 304 Tullibardine, Marquis of. See Murray, Wil- liam (d. 1746). Tulloch, Sir Alexander Murray (1803-1864). 306 Tullocb, John (1823-1886). . . .307 Tullyor Tullie, George (1652 P-1695). See under Tully, Thomas. Tully, Thomas (1620-1676). . . .310 Tunstall or Tonstall, Cuthbert (1474-1559). 310 Tunstall, James (1708-1762). . . .315 Tunstall, Marmaduke (1743-1790). . .316 Tunstall or Helmes, Thomas (d. 1616). . 316 Tunsted, Simon (d. 1369). . . .317 Tupper, Martin Farquhar (1810-1 889). .318 Turbe, William de (d. 1175). See William. Turberville, Daubeney (1612-1696). .320 Turberville or Turbervile, Edward (1648?- ) .320 Turberville or Turbervile, George (1540?- ?). . . .... .321 Turberville, Trubbeville, or Trubleville, Henry de (d. 1239). . 323 PAGE Turberville, Henry (d. 1678) .... 324 Turberville or Turbervyle, James (d. 1570 ?). 325 Turbine, Ralph de (d. 1122). See Ralph d'Escures. Turford, Hugh (d. 1713) 325 Turgeon, Pierre Flavien (1787-1867). . 326 Turges or Turgesius (d. 845). See Thurkill. Turgot (d. 1115). . . . . .326 Turle, Henry Frederic (1835-1883). . 327 Turle, James (1802-1882) .... 328 Turmeau, John (1777-1846). . . .329 Turmeau, John Caspar (1809-1834). See under Turmeau, John. Turnbull, George (1562 ?-1633). . .329 Turnbull, John (fl. 1800-1813). . .329 Turnbull, William (d. 1454). . . .330 Turnbull, William (1729 P-1796). . .330 Turnbull, William Barclay David Donald (1811-1863) 330 Turner, Mrs. Anne (1576-1615). See under Turner, George, M.D. Turner, Charles (1774-1857). . . .331 Turner, Charles Tennyson (1808-1879). . 332 Turner, Cyril (1575 P-1626). See Tourneur. Turner, Daniel (1667-1741). . . .332 Turner, Daniel (1710-1798). . . .333 Turner, Dawson (1775-1858). . . .334 Turner, Dawson William (1815-1885). See under Turner, Dawson. Turner, Edward (1798-1 837). . . .335 Turner, Francis, D.D. (1638 P-1700). .336 Turner, George, M.D. (d. 1610). . .337 Turner, Sir George James (1798-1867). . 338 Turner, James (d. 1664). See under Turner, Sir James. Turner, Sir James (1615-1686?). . .338 Turner, Joseph Mallord (or Mallad) William (1775-1851) 341 Turner, Matthew (d. 1788 ?). . . .350 Turner, Peter, M.D. (1542-1614). . .351 Turner, Peter (1586-1652). . . .351 Turner, Richard (d. 1565 V). . . .351 Turner, Richard (1753-1788). . . .352 Turner, Richard (1724 P-1791). . .352 Turner, Robert d. 1599) 353 Turner, Robert fl. 1654-1665). . .354 Turner, Samuel d. 1647 ? ) . . . .354 Turner, Samuel 1749 P-1802). . .354 Turner, Samuel 1765-1810) . . . .355 Turner, Sharon 1768-1847). . . .356 Turner, Sydney (1814-1879). See under d. 1599) fl. 1654-1665) d. 1647 ? ) . 1749 ?-1802) 1765-1810) . 1768-1847) . T ' cu - ( 1814 - 1879 >- Turner, Sharon. Turner, Thomas (1591-1672) . Turner, Thomas (1645-1714) . Turner, Thomas (1749-1809) . Turner, Thomas (1793-1 873) . Turner, Thomas Hudson (1815-1852) 358 359 360 361 Turner, Sir Tomkyns Hilgrove (1766 ?-1843) 361 Tamer, William {d. 1568). . . . 363 Turner, William (1653-1701). . . .366 Turner, William (1651-1740). . . .366 Turner, William (1714-1794). . . .367 Turner, William, tertius (1788-1853). See under Turner, William (1714-1794). Turner, William, secundus (1761-1859). See under Turner, William (1714-1794). Turner, William (1789-1862). . . .368 Turner, William (1792-1867). . . .368 Turnerelli, Edward Tracy (1813-1896). See under Turnerelli, Peter. Turnerelli, Peter (1774-1839). . . .369 Turnham, Robert de (d. 1211). . .370


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Page:Historical records of Port Phillip.djvu/77

 Head-Quarters, Sullivan Cove, Derwent River, 20th Feb. 1804. General Orders.

Parole — Derwent River. C. Sign — Sullivan Cove. The storekeeper will issue the following weekly ration until further orders, viz.:—To civil, military, free settlers, and prisoners, 7 lbs. beef or 4 lbs. pork, 7 lbs. flour, 6 ozs. sugar; to women, two-thirds; children above five years, half; and children under five years one-fourth of the above ration. The issuing days for provisions will be in future Tuesdays and Saturdays. The military will receive half-pint of spirits daily as before.

Garrison Orders. A guard consisting of two corpls. and six privates will mount daily in front of the line of military until further orders. One corporal and three privates will be detached from the guard to the island, for the purpose of furnishing a sentinel for the protection of the store tents. This sentinel will not suffer anyone to approach his post after sunset except the Lieut.-Governor, or any person sent with a written authority from him, and the visiting officer. No boat is to laud at the island after sunset, and any boat approaching the island after that hour is to be kept off until directions are received from the Lieut.-Governor. A picquet of three privates will join the guard every evening at sunset. [The remainder of the Orders relate to Tasmania.]

JOURNAL OF THE REVEREND ROBERT KNOPWOOD, A.M.

[24th April 1803 to 31st December 1804.]

of His Majesty's ship "," olim "," commanded by Dan. Woodriff, Esqr., Capt., between the 24th April 1803 to the arrival in Port Phillip Harbour, New South Wales, Sunday, October the 9th 1803. This log is kept from 1 a.m. to 12 p.m., by the Reverend Robert Knopwood, A.M., Chaplain to the Settlement.

Dan. Woodriff, Esqr., Pst. Capt., Royal Navy.