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Paracelsus (Browning)/V

Part V Paracelsus Attains

Scene.— Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541.

Festus. No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; But they are dead now—very blind and dead: He will drowse into death without a groan.

My Aureole—my forgotten, ruined Aureole! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down— Poor glorious spirit—concerns him even to stay And satisfy himself his little hand Could turn God's image to a livid thing.

Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure Know me, and look on me, and speak to me Once more—but only once! His hollow cheek Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh At his own state were just about to break From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth, They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live, to lose no faculty; Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, Until they bore him to this stifling cell: When straight his features fell, an hour made white The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb, Only the eye remained intense awhile As though it recognized the tomb-like place, And then he lay as here he lies.

Ay, here! Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded— Her bravest champion with his well-won prize— Her best achievement, her sublime amends For countless generations fleeting fast And followed by no trace;—the creature-god She instances when angels would dispute The title of her brood to rank with them. Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, Are human, but not his; those are but men Whom other men press round and kneel before; Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; Higher provision is for him you seek Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!

God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that Even as I watch beside thy tortured child Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him, So doth thy right hand guide us through the world Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? How has he sinned? How else should he have done? Surely he sought thy praise—thy praise, for all He might be busied by the task so much As half forget awhile its proper end. Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer That I should range myself upon his side— How could he stop at every step to set Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him Success, thy honour would have crowned success, A halo round a star. Or, say he erred,— Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him In light and life! Thou art not made like us; We should be wroth in such a case; but thou Forgivest—so, forgive these passionate thoughts Which come unsought and will not pass away! I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow So that it reached me like a solemn joy; It were too strange that I should doubt thy love. But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest How he was fashioned. I could never err That way: the quiet place beside thy feet, Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts: But he—thou shouldst have favoured him as well!

Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! 't is Festus! I cast away all wishes save one wish— Let him but know me, only speak to me! He mutters; louder and louder; any other Than I, with brain less laden, could collect What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast? Misery that he should fix me with his eye, Quick talking to some other all the while! If he would husband this wild vehemence Which frustrates its intent!—I heard, I know I heard my name amid those rapid words. Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert This current, lead it somehow gently back Into the channels of the past!—His eye Brighter than ever! It must recognize me!

I am Erasmus: I am here to pray That Paracelsus use his skill for me. The schools of Paris and of Padua send These questions for your learning to resolve. We are your students, noble master: leave This wretched cell, what business have you here? Our class awaits you; come to us once more! (O agony! the utmost I can do Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) I am commissioned. . . I shall craze like him. Better be mute and see what God shall send.

Paracelsus. Stay, stay with me!

Festus. I will; I am come here To stay with you—Festus, you loved of old; Festus, you know, you must know!

Paracelsus. Festus! Where's Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly The melodies I heard all night? I could not Get to him for a cold hand on my breast, But I made out his music well enough, O well enough! If they have filled him full With magical music, as they freight a star With light, and have remitted all his sin, They will forgive me too, I too shall know!

Festus. Festus, your Festus!

Paracelsus. Ask him if Aprile as he —if I shall and ? I try; but that cold hand, like lead—so cold!

Festus. My hand, see!

Paracelsus. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! We get so near—so very, very near! 'T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down, Not when they set about their mountain-piling But when another rock would crown the work. And Phaeton—doubtless his first radiant plunge Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm, And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales!

Festus. And what are these to you?

Paracelsus. Ay, fiends must laugh So cruelly, so well! most like I never Could tread a single pleasure underfoot, But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling To see me toil and drop away by flakes! Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year, One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now, Who will believe 't was you that held me back? Listen: there's shame and hissing and contempt, And none but laughs who names me, none but spits Measureless scorn upon me, me alone, The quack, the cheat, the liar,—all on me! And thus your famous plan to sink mankind In silence and despair, by teaching them One of their race had probed the inmost truth, Had done all man could do, yet failed no less— Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair? Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric, The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed Madly upon a work beyond his wits; Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves Could bring the matter to triumphant issue. So, pick and choose among them all, accursed! Try now, persuade some other to slave for you, To ruin body and soul to work your ends! No, no; I am the first and last, I think.

Festus. Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done…

Paracelsus. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you, Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew, Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs, And even this poor privilege, it seems, They range themselves, prepared to disallow. Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them! How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect And sneeringly disparage the few truths Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while About my neck, their lies misleading me And their dead names browbeating me! Grey crew, Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell, Is there a reason for your hate? My truths Have shaken a little the palm about each prince? Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect, Galen of Pergamos and hell—nay speak The tale, old man! We met there face to face: I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge?

Festus. Peace, peace; ah, see!

Paracelsus. Oh, emptiness of fame! Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars! —Who said these old renowns, dead long ago, Could make me overlook the living world To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, But stand no longer? What a warm light life After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide The juggles I had else detected. Fire May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! The cave was not so darkened by the smoke But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white, And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! I cared not for your passionate gestures then, But now I have forgotten the charm of charms, The foolish knowledge which I came to seek, While I remember that quaint dance; and thus I am come back, not for those mummeries, But to love you, and to kiss your little feet Soft as an ermine's winter coat!

Festus. A light Will struggle through these thronging words at last. As in the angry and tumultuous West A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. These are the strivings of a spirit which hates So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up The past to stand between it and its fate. Were he at Einsiedeln—or Michal here!

Paracelsus. Cruel! I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek— I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades; And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 'T is only when they spring to heaven that angels Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day Beside you, and lie down at night by you Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep, And all at once they leave you, and you know them! We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now I am not too secure against foul play; The shadows deepen and the walls contract: No doubt some treachery is going on. 'T is very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the hall In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! There is a hand groping amid the blackness To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you, Poet? Hold on me for your life! If once They pull you!—Hold!

'Tis but a dream—no more! I have you still; the sun comes out again; Let us be happy: all will yet go well! Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed, The value of my labours ascertained, Just as some stream foams long among the rocks But after glideth glassy to the sea, So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask How could I still remain on earth, should God Grant me the great approval which I seek? I, you, and God can comprehend each other, But men would murmur, and with cause enough; For when they saw me, stainless of all sin, Preserved and sanctified by inward light, They would complain that comfort, shut from them, I drank thus unespied; that they live on, Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy, For ache and care and doubt and weariness, While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me, And hid from them.—'T were best consider that! You reason well, Aprile; but at least Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? I will learn this, if God so please, and die!

If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning. If at first I sought. . . but wherefore bare my heart to thee? I know thy mercy; and already thoughts Flock fast about my soul to comfort it, And intimate I cannot wholly fail, For love and praise would clasp me willingly Could I resolve to seek them. Thou art good, And I should be content. Yet—yet first show I have done wrong in daring! Rather give The supernatural consciousness of strength Which fed my youth! Only one hour of that With thee to help—O what should bar me then!

Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's creatures, And yet he takes no pride in us!—none, none! Truly there needs another life to come! If this be all—(I must tell Festus that) And other life await us not—for one, I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, A wretched failure. I, for one, protest Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn.

Well, onward though alone! Small time remains, And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body Will hardly serve me through; while I have laboured It has decayed; and now that I demand Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: A sad thought, a sad fate! How very full Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service, The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, When glory dawns and all is at the best, The sacred fire may flicker and grow faint And die for want of a wood-piler's help! Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul Is pulled down in the overthrow. Well, well — Let men catch every word, let them lose nought Of what I say; something may yet be done.

They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now. It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim, The crumbling columns grand against the moon, Could I but rear them up once more—but that May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, Why should you linger here when I have built A far resplendent temple, all your own? Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared With better refuge for them, tongue of mine Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is: I would sit down in silence with the rest.

Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek Contempt into my ear—my ear which drank God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying, They will not let me even die. Spare, spare me, Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me The horrible scorn! You thought I could support it. But now you see what silly fragile creature Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough, Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved From Hate like this. Let me but totter back! Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep Into my very brain, and shut these scorched Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out.

Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: Be not deceived, there is no passion here Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing: I am calm: I will exterminate the race! Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be. And now be merry: safe and sound am I Who broke through their best ranks to get at you. And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile!

Festus. Have you no thought, no memory for me, Aureole? I am so wretched—my pure Michal Is gone, and you alone are left me now, And even you forget me. Take my hand— Lean on me thus. Do you not know me, Aureole?

Paracelsus. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? As you say, 't is an awful enterprise; But you believe I shall go through with it: 'T is like you, and I thank you. Thank him for me, Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them A troop of yellow-vested white-haired Jews Bound for their own land where redemption dawns.

Festus. Not that blest time—not our youth's time, dear God!

Paracelsus. Ha—stay! true, I forget—all is done since, And he is come to judge me. How he speaks, How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; All quackery; all deceit; myself can laugh The first at it, if you desire: but still You know the obstacles which taught me tricks So foreign to my nature—envy and hate, Blind opposition, brutal prejudice, Bald ignorance—what wonder if I sunk To humour men the way they most approved? My cheats were never palmed on such as you, Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, Impart the meagre knowledge I possess, Explain its bounded nature, and avow My insufficiency—whate'er you will: I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God. But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me, When I shall die, within some narrow grave, Not by itself—for that would be too proud— But where such graves are thickest; let it look Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round, So that the peasant at his brother's bed May tread upon my own and know it not; And we shall all be equal at the last, Or classed according to life's natural ranks, Fathers, sons, brothers, friends—not rich, nor wise, Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived "Too much advanced before his brother men; "They kept him still in front: 't was for their good "But yet a dangerous station. It were strange "That he should tell God he had never ranked "With men: so, here at least he is a man."

Festus. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit, Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever. Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what care If lower mountains light their snowy phares At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not The source of day? Their theft shall be their bale: For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, And put aside the crowd of busy ones And worship thee alone—the master-mind, The thinker, the explorer, the creator! Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well The sheet of winding subterraneous fire Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last Huge islands up amid the simmering sea. Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, Seeing I comprehend thee—I so simple, Thou so august. I recognize thee first; I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late, And though no glance reveal thou dost accept My homage—thus no less I proffer it, And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest.

Paracelsus. Festus!

Festus. I am for noble Aureole, God! I am upon his side, come weal or woe. His portion shall be mine. He has done well. I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive Reward! If thou canst find no place for him, He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave for ever. There are two of us.

Paracelsus. Dear Festus!

Festus. Here, dear Aureole! ever by you!

Paracelsus. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! Some story, anything—only your voice. I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so!

Festus. Thus the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth. Sleep's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee.

Paracelsus. More, more; say on!

Festus. And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Nought disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.

Paracelsus. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words; Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch: Like some dark snake that force may not expel, Which glideth out to music sweet and low. What were you doing when your voice broke through A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! Are you alone here?

Festus. All alone: you know me? This cell?

Paracelsus. An unexceptionable vault: Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the rats Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it?

Festus. But wherefore am I here?

Paracelsus. Ah, well remembered! Why, for a purpose—for a purpose, Festus! 'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets, And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return. You are here to be instructed. I will tell God's message; but I have so much to say, I fear to leave half out. All is confused No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. He would not else have brought you here: no doubt I shall see clearer soon.

Festus. Tell me but this— You are not in despair?

Paracelsus. I? and for what?

Festus. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared!

Paracelsus. What is it you would ask me with that earnest Dear searching face?

Festus. How feel you, Aureole?

Paracelsus. Well: Well. 'T is a strange thing: I am dying, Festus, And now that fast the storm of life subsides, I first perceive how great the whirl has been. I was calm then, who am so dizzy now— Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less A partner of its motion and mixed up With its career. The hurricane is spent, And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; But is it earth or sea that heaves below? The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; And now some slet, loosened from the land, Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; And now the air is full of uptorn canes, Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, All high in the wind. Even so my varied life Drifts by me; I am young, old, happy, sad, Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest, And all at once: that is, those past conditions Float back at once on me. If I select Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is but To will, and straight the rest dissolve away, And only that particular state is present With all its long-forgotten circumstance Distinct and vivid as at first—myself A careless looker-on and nothing more, Indifferent and amused, but nothing more. And this is death: I understand it all. New being waits me; new perceptions must Be born in me before I plunge therein; Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak, Minute by minute he is filling me With power; and while my foot is on the threshold Of boundless life—the doors unopened yet, All preparations not complete within— I turn new knowledge upon old events, And the effect is. . . but I must not tell; It is not lawful. Your own turn will come One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me.

Festus. 'T is of that past life that I burn to hear.

Paracelsus. You wonder it engages me just now? In truth, I wonder too. What 's life to me? Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen Music, and where I tend bliss evermore. Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined Delight to view those chances,—one last view. I am so near the perils I escape, That I must play with them and turn them over, To feel how fully they are past and gone. Still, it is like, some further cause exists For this peculiar mood—some hidden purpose; Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt Away from me; it will return anon.

Festus. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice Complete with its old tones: that little laugh Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, As though one stooped above his head to whom He looked for confirmation and approval, Where was it gone so long, so well preserved? Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks, Like one who traces in an open book The matter he declares; 't is many a year Since I remarked it last: and this in him, But now a ghastly wreck!)

And can it be, Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last That worldly things are utter vanity? That man is made for weakness, and should wait In patient ignorance, till God appoint. ..

Paracelsus. Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it! How could I fail to apprehend! You here, I thus! But no more trifling: I see all, I know all: my last mission shall be done If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture Hardly befits one thus about to speak: I will arise.

Festus. Nay, Aureole, are you wild? You cannot leave your couch.

Paracelsus. No help; no help; Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. My gown—the scarlet lined with fur; now put The chain about my neck; my signet-ring Is still upon my hand, I think—even so; Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls Be consecrate, this wretched cell become A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me. Now, Festus, I am ready to begin.

Festus. I am dumb with wonder.

Paracelsus. Listen, therefore, Festus! There will be time enough, but none to spare. I must content myself with telling only The most important points. You doubtless feel That I am happy, Festus; very happy.

Festus. 'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus! Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin?

Paracelsus. Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned?

Festus. 'T is God's praise That man is bound to seek, and you. ..

Paracelsus. Have lived! We have to live alone to set forth well God's praise. 'T is true, I sinned much, as I thought, And in effect need mercy, for I strove To do that very thing; but, do your best Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for ever Pardon from him, because of praise denied— Who calls me to himself to exalt himself? He might laugh as I laugh!

Festus. But all comes To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for mankind To fret themselves with what concerns them not; They are no use that way: they should lie down Content as God has made them, nor go mad In thriveless cares to better what is ill.

Paracelsus. No, no; mistake me not; let me not work More harm than I have worked! This is my case: If I go joyous back to God, yet bring No offering, if I render up my soul Without the fruits it was ordained to bear, If I appear the better to love God For sin, as one who has no claim on him,- Be not deceived! It may be surely thus With me, while higher prizes still await The mortal persevering to the end. Beside I am not all so valueless: I have been something, though too soon I left Following the instincts of that happy time.

Festus. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake, What time was happy? All I hope to know That answer will decide. What happy time?

Paracelsus. When but the time I vowed myself to man?

Festus. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable!

Paracelsus. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it— I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul Might learn from its own motions that some task Like this awaited it about the world; Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours For fit delights to stay its longings vast; And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her To fill the creature full she dared thus frame Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, Grow in demand, still craving more and more, And make each joy conceded prove a pledge Of other joy to follow—bating nought Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung As an extreme, last boon, from destiny, Into occasion for new coyetings, New strifes, new triumphs:—doubtless a strong soul, Alone, unaided might attain to this, So glorious is our nature, so august Man's inborn uninstructed impulses, His naked spirit so majestical! But this was born in me; I was made so; Thus much time saved: the feverish appeties, The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears Were saved me; thus I entered on my course. You may be sure I was not all exempt From human trouble; just so much of doubt As bade me plant a surer foot upon The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid The fierce and flashing splendour, set my heart Trembling so much as warned me I stood there On sufferance—not to idly gaze, but cast Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, I stood at first where all aspire at last To stand: the secret of the world was mine. I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are, What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, When, in the solitary waste, strange groups Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame— God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all, From life's minute beginnings, up at last To man—the consummation of this scheme Of being, the completion of this sphere Of life: whose attributes had here and there Been scattered o'er the visible world before, Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous whole, Imperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make, Some point where all those scattered rays should meet Convergent in the faculties of man. Power—neither put forth blindly, nor controlled Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: Knowledge—not intuition, but the slow Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil, Strengthened by love: love—not serenely pure, But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; Love which endures and doubts and is oppressed And cherished, suffering much and much sustained, And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust:— Hints and previsions of which faculties, Are strewn confusedly everywhere about The inferior natures, and all lead up higher, All shape out dimly the superior race, The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false, And man appears at last. So far the seal Is put on life; one stage of being complete, One scheme wound up: and from the grand result A supplementary reflux of light, Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains Each back step in the circle. Not alone For their possessor dawn those qualities, But the new glory mixes with the heaven And earth; man, once descried, imprints for ever His presence on all lifeless things: the winds Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout, A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh, Never a senseless gust now man is born. The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts A secret they assemble to discuss When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph Swims bearing high above her head: no bird Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above That let light in upon the gloomy woods, A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye. The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour, Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: —And this to fill us with regard for man. With apprehension of his passing worth, Desire to work his proper nature out, And ascertain his rank and final place, For these things tend still upward, progress is The law of life, man is not Man as yet. Nor shall I deem his object served, his end Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth, While only here and there a star dispels The darkness, here and there a towering mind O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host Is out at once to the despair of night, When all mankind alike is perfected, Equal in full-blown powers—then, not till then, I say, begins man's general infancy. For wherefore make account of feverish starts Of restless members of a dormant whole, Impatient nerves which quiver while the body Slumbers as in a grave? Oh long ago The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger, As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast, He shall start up and stand on his own earth, Then shall his long triumphant march begin, Thence shall his being date,—thus wholly roused, What he achieves shall be set down to him. When all the race is perfected alike As man, that is; all tended to mankind, And, man produced, all has its end thus far: But in completed man begins anew A tendency to God. Prognostics told Man's near approach; so in man's self arise August anticipations, symbols, types Of a dim splendour ever on before In that eternal circle life pursues. For men begin to pass their nature's bound, And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too great For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while peace Rises within them ever more and more. Such men are even now upon the earth, Serene amid the half-formed creatures round Who should be saved by them and joined with them. Such was my task, and I was born to it— Free, as I said but now, from much that chains Spirits, high-dowered but limited and vexed By a divided and delusive aim, A shadow mocking a reality Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse The flitting mimic called up by itself, And so remains perplexed and nigh put out By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. I, from the first, was never cheated thus; I never fashioned out a fancied good Distinct from man's; a service to be done, A glory to be ministered unto With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn From labouring in his behalf; a strength Denied that might avail him. I cared not Lest his success ran counter to success Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man, And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb. Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, I failed: I gazed on power till I grew blind. Power; I could not take my eyes from that: That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased At any risk, displayed, struck out at once- The sign and note and character of man. I saw no use in the past: only a scene Of degradation, ugliness and tears, The record of disgraces best forgotten, A sullen page in human chronicles Fit to erase. I saw no cause why man Should not stand all-sufficient even now, Or why his annals should be forced to tell That once the tide of light, about to break Upon the world, was sealed within its spring: I would have had one day, one moment's space, Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim Of mastery o'er the elemental world At once to full maturity, then roll Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from man What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen Beside that past's own shade when, in relief, Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee Shall burst the future, as successive zones Of several wonder open on some spirit Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven: But thou shalt painfully attain to joy, While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man! All this was hid from me: as one by one My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed, As actual good within my reach decreased, While obstacles sprung up this way and that To keep me from effecting half the sum, Small as it proved; as objects, mean within The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least, Itself a match for my concentred strength— What wonder if I saw no way to shun Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's. In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, A strange adventure made me know, one sin Had spotted my career from its uprise; I saw Aprile—my Aprile there! And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, I learned my own deep error; love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power, always much more love; Love still too straitened in his present means, And earnest for new power to set love free. I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: And thus, when men received with stupid wonder My first revealings, would have worshipped me, And I despised and loathed their proffered praise— When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge For past credulity in casting shame On my real knowledge, and I hated them— It was not strange I saw no good in man, To overbalance all the wear and waste Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born To prosper in some better sphere: and why? In my own heart love had not been made wise To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, To know even hate is but a mask of love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak, Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him. All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men Regard me, and the poet dead long ago Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third And better-tempered spirit, warned by both: As from the over-radiant star too mad To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself— And the dark orb which borders the abyss, Ingulfed in icy night,—might have its course A temperate and equidistant world. Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. As yet men cannot do without contempt; 'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, Rather than praise the strong and true, in me: But after, they will know me. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. You understand me? I have said enough?

Festus. Now die, dear Aureole!

Paracelsus. Festus, let my hand— This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend! Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!

Festus. And this was Paracelsus!

title: Paracelsus (Browning)/V


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Marshall, Alfred

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


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 Raphael, Louis Edward, M.A., Trin. Hall, Camb., 1881, matric. London Univ. 1874, a student of Lincoln's Inn 31 Oct., 1877, called to the bar 17 Nov., 1880 (only son of Edward Lewis Raphael, of London, banker); born, 1857.
 * 4, Connaught Place, W.; 3, New Court, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Rashleigh, Evelyn William, B.A., Christ Church, Oxon, 1873, J.P. Cornwall, a member of the Western circuit, a student of the Inner Temple 3 Nov., 1874 (then aged 24), called to the bar 15 May, 1878 (eldest surviving son of Jonathan Rashleigh, Esq., of Menabilly, Cornwall); born 6 Jan., 1850; married 29 April, 1879, Jane Elizabeth, dau. of Onley Savill-Onley, Esq., of Stisted Hall, Essex, and has issue (see Foster's Baronetage).
 * Kilmarth, Par Station, R.S.O., Cornwall.

Rashleigh, George Burvill, B.A., Exeter Coll., Oxon, 1871, (ist class honours in mathematics), from Charterhouse, principal secretary to Sir George Jessel (master of the rolls) 27 June, 1878, till his death 21 March, 1883, and secretary to Sir William Baliol Brett (master of the rolls) since 3 April, 1883, a student of Lincoln's Inn 19 Nov., 1869 (then aged 21), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1873 (eldest son of Rev. Henry Burvill Rashleigh, patron and vicar of Horton Kirby, Kent); born 31 Aug., 1848; married 17 Aug., 1882, Lady Edith Louisa Mary Bligh, eldest dau. of John Stuart, 6th earl of Darnley, and has issue (see Foster's Baronetage).
 * 70, Warwick Square, S.W.; 5, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Rastrick, George, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1847, a student of Lincoln's Inn 9 June, 1843 (then aged 21), called to the bar 6 May, 1847 (youngest son of John Urpeth Rastrick, Esq., of London); born, 1822.
 * Kingston-on-Thames; Woking, Surrey; 15, Walbrook, E.C.

Ratcliff, Charles, hon. col. 4th vounteer batt. the Queen's royal West Surrey regt. since 1877, late lieut.-col. 1st Warwickshire rifle volunteers, F.L.S., F.S.A., J.P., D.L. co. Warwick, J.P. cos. Stafford and Worcester, undergrad. Downing Coll., Camb., a student of Lincoln's Inn 15 Jan., 1855 (aged 33), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1858 (youngest son of John Ratcliff, Esq., late of Edgbaston, co. Warwick, dec.); born, 1822; married 28 April, 1875, Helen, youngest dau. of Sir William Jardine, 7th bart. (see Foster's Baronetage).
 * 26, Lancaster Gate, W.; Athenæum and Conservative Clubs.

Ratcliff, Thomas William, LL.B. London Univ. 1879 and a member of Convocation, from King's Coll. School, a student of Lincoln's Inn 22 April, 1873 (then aged 23), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1876 (2nd son of Thomas Wrake Ratcliff, of London, solicitor); born, 1850.
 * 48, Stanley Gardens, N.W.; 8, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Rate, Lachlan Mackintosh, M.A., Jesus Coll., Camb., 1857, J.P. Surrey, a student of the Inner Temple 20 March, 1850 (then aged 31), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1869 (3rd son of late Rev. Joseph Rate, dec.); born 7 Feb., 1819.
 * Milton Court, Dorking; 9, South Audley Street, W.; Athenæum and United University Clubs.

Rathborne, Anthony Blake, col. Indian army, retired 1856, a member of the South-eastern circuit, a student of the Middle Temple 16 Oct., 1856, called to the bar 6 June, 1861 (only surviving son of late Capt. Wilson Rathborne, R.N., C.B., col. in the Indian army); born,.

Rattigan, William Henry, sometime an assistant commissioner Lahore, Bombay C.S., author of De Jure Personarum, of Select cases in Hindu Law, and of The Hindu Law of Adoption, a student of Lincoln's Inn 3 Nov., 1871 (then aged 29), called to the bar 7 June, 1873 (only surviving son of Bartholomew Rattigan, Esq., of Athy, co. Kildare, and of the Indian army); born, 1842.
 * Lahore, India.

Raven, John Earle Reynolds, M.A., Caius Coll., Camb., 1880, a member of the South-eastern circuit, a student of the Middle Temple 28 May, 1872, called to the bar 7 June, 1875 (eldest son of Rev. John Raven, of St. Leonards-on-Sea); born, ; married 1 Oct., 1884, Alice, 3rd dau. of late Edward Comber, Esq., of Myddleton Hall, co. Lanc.
 * 1, Cloisters, or 4, Plowden Buildings, Temple, E.C.

Raven, Tancred Earle, M.A., Caius Coll., Camb., 1879, B.A., 1st class classical tripos 1876 (scholar 1872), a member of the Western circuit, a student of Lincoln's Inn 20 Nov., 1874, called to the bar 18 April, 1883 (2nd son of Rev. John Raven, of Worthing, Sussex, and Christchurch, Canterbury, New Zealand); born 22 Aug., 1852.
 * 1, Cloisters, Temple, E.C.

Ravenhill, William Waldron, recorder of Andover since 1872, a member of the Western circuit, M.A., S.C.L., Univ. Coll., Oxon, 1861, from Marlborough Coll., a student of the Inner Temple 5 Nov., 1858 (then aged 22), called to the bar 30 April, 1862 (5th son of John Ravenhill, of Ashton Gifford, Wilts, banker); born 27 Feb., 1836; married 6 June, 1866, Anna Louisa, 4th dau. of late Joseph Everett, Esq., of Greenhill House, Sutton Veny, Wilts.
 * Medbourne House, Surbiton Hill, S.W.; 10, King's Bench Walk, Temple, E.C.

Rawlins, William Donaldson, M.A. (late fellow), Trin. Coll., Camb., 1871, from Eton (Newcastle medallist 1864), co-editor with Lord Justice Fry of 2nd edn. Fry on Specific Performance, a student of the Inner Temple 9 June, 1866 (then aged 19), went to Lincoln's Inn 5 Feb., 1872, where he was called to the bar 30 April, 1872 (eldest son of Samuel Rawlins, Esq., of Bevere, co. Worc.); born 20 July, 1846; married 15 Aug., 1878, Margaret, dau. of Charles John King, Esq.
 * 13, Harewood Square, N.W.; 1, New Square, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

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 Plumb, Thomas Street, B.A. Balliol Coll., Oxon, a student of the Inner Temple 23 Nov., 1871 (then aged 21), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1876 (eldest son of Josiah Burr Plumb, of Niagara, Canada, a member of the senate); born, 1850.
 * Niagara, Canada.

Plummer, Charles, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1855, a student of Lincoln's Inn 28 Jan., 1852 (then aged 21), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1854 (youngest son of Stephen Plummer, Esq., of Canterbury); born, 1831; married 13 Aug., 1859, Marion, youngest dau. of J. Francklin Rose, Esq., of London.
 * 41, Victoria Street, S.W.; 21, Old Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Plumptre, Charles John, lecturer on elocution King's Coll., London, evening classes department since 18‒‒, lecturer on professional elocution Oxford Univ. since 186‒, a student of Gray's Inn 23 May, 1838, called to the bar 5 June, 1844 (eldest son of Edward Hallows Plumptre, Esq., of Lamb Buildings, Temple); born 28 March, 1818; married 1st, March, 1844, Caroline, younger dau. and co-heir of late Robert Colmer, Esq., bar.-at-law, of the Rookery, Yoxford, Suffolk; she died, ; he married 2ndly, 24 Jan., 1866, Adelaide, widow of Robert Becher, Esq., of Wynaad, West Indies, dau. of Major James Denton, late R.H.A.
 * King's College, Strand, W.C.; 36, Hamilton Terrace, N.W.

Plumptre, Claude Charles Molyneux, practises in Lord Mayor's Court, author of A Summary of the Law of Simple Contracts, editor of Grant's Law of Bankers, 4th edn., a student of the Middle Temple 17 Nov., 1874 (common law scholar Hilary, 1877), called to the bar 13 June, 1877 (youngest son of Charles John Plumptre, Esq., of London, bar.-at-law); born, ; married 9 Feb., 1882, Kate, youngest dau. of J. Lacey, late of Dawlish.
 * 12, Norfolk Road, N.W.; 5, Hare Court, Temple, E.C.

Plumptre, Reginald Charles Edward, a member of the Oxford circuit, matric. King's Coll., London, from Marlborough Coll., a student of the Middle Temple 11 Jan., 1869, called to the bar 17 Nov., 1871 (eldest son of Charles John Plumptre, Esq., of London, bar.-at-law); born 24 Dec., 1848; married 8 Oct., 1878, Alice Piers, only child of Francis Henry Talman, Esq., D.C.L., late of Chelsea Hospital.
 * The Brooklands, Allbrighton, near Wolverhampton; 82, Darlington Street, Wolverhampton.

Plunkett, Henry Frederick, principal of Dalston Coll., London, matric. Madras Univ., a student of Lincoln's Inn 30 May, 1872 (then aged 33), called to the bar 7 June, 1875 (eldest son of Henry Plunkett, Esq., of Madras); born 7 Nov., 1838; married 1 July, 1864, Esther, eldest dau. of Rev. Alfred Sturge, of Dartford, Kent.
 * 27, Albion, Dalston, N.

Pochin, William John Reynolds, M.A., Sidney Sussex Coll., Camb., 1877, a student of Gray's Inn 11 Nov., 1879, called to the bar 18 April, 1883 (eldest son of Rev. William Henry Pochin, of Wornall, Oxon); born 8 Aug., 1850; unmarried.
 * 5, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.; Junior Oxford and Cambridge Club, S.W.

Pocock, Isaac John Innes, B.A., Merton Coll., Oxon, 1842, J.P. Berks, a student of the Inner Temple 10 Jan., 1842 (then aged 22), called to the bar 19 Nov., 1847 (only son of late Isaac Pocock, Esq., of Ray Lodge, Maidenhead); born 28 July, 1819; married 4 April, 1850, Anna Louisa, 2nd dau. of late Benjamin Currey, Esq.
 * Curtisfield, Maidenhead; Arthur's Club.

Pocock, William Archbutt, a member of the South-eastern circuit, matric. London Univ. 1866, author of Principles of the Law of Costs under the Judicature Acts, a student of the Middle Temple 9 Nov., 1866, called to the bar 26 Jan., 1870 (eldest son of William Willmer Pocock, of Uplands, Guildford, Surrey, architect); born, ; married 24 Aug., 1870, Katharine Mary, dau. of late R. A. Pieil, of Boxgrove, Guildford.
 * 2, King's Bench Walk, Temple, E.C.

Pode, John Duke, M.A., New Coll., Oxon, 1857, from Winchester Coll., J.P. Devon, a student of the Inner Temple 5 May, 1855 (then aged 22), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1858 (eldest son of Thomas Julian Pode, Esq., late of Plympton, Devon, dec.); born 6 Nov., 1832; married 30 Aug., 1860, Augusta Boevey, youngest dau. of late Rev. Charles Crawley, and has issue (see Foster's Baronetage).
 * Slade, Ivybridge.

Pogose, Gregory Joakim, matric. Queen's Coll., Oxon, practises before the High Court at Calcutta, a student of the Inner Temple 13 Jan., 1866 (then aged 19), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1868 (eldest son of Joakim Gregory Nicholas Pogose, of Dacca, Bengal); born, 1847.
 * Calcutta

Pogose, Joakim Nicholas, practises before the High Court at Calcutta, a student of the Inner Temple 25 Oct., 1878 (then aged 23), called to the bar 29 June, 1881 (3rd son of late Nicholas Peter Pogose, of Dacca, Bengal); born, 1855.
 * Calcutta.

Le Poigneur, Ivanoff, a student of the Inner Temple 7 Nov., 1861 (then aged 19), called to the bar 6 June, 1864 (eldest son of Voloy Le Poigneur, of Mauritius, sugar planter); born, 1842.
 * The Mauritius.

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 Penfold, Hugh Charles, M.A., Trin. Hall, Camb., 1860, from Harrow, J.P. Sussex, a student of Lincoln's Inn 17 April, 1856 (then aged 21), called to the bar 30 April, 1860 (eldest son of Edward Greenfield Penfold, Esq., late of Rustington, Sussex, dec.); born 7 Aug., 1834.
 * Rustington, Worthing, Sussex; Oxford and Cambridge Club.

 Pengree, Edward, practises before the High Court of the Punjab and the North-west Provinces, a student of Lincoln's Inn 23 June, 1871 (then aged 21), called to the bar 6 June, 1874 (3rd son of George Pengree, late a capt. in the army); born, 1850.
 * Rawalpindi, Punjab.

 Penn, William, M.A. Christ Church, Oxon, a student of Lincoln's Inn 28 May, 1835 (then aged 24), called to the bar 30 Jan., 1844 (3rd son of Granville Penn, Esq., of Stoke Park, Bucks); born, 1811.
 * Sennowe Hall, Guist, Norfolk; 4, Richmond Terrace, Whitehall, S.W.

 Pennefather, Frederick William, LL.M., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1877, a member of the South-eastern circuit, a student of Lincoln's Inn 17 Dec., 1874, called to the bar there 17 Nov., 1877, called to the bar at King's Inns, Dublin, Trin., 1878 (younger son of Edward Pennefather, of Dublin, Q.C.); born 29 April, 1852.
 * 6, Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin; Rathsalla, Athy, co. Wicklow.

 Pennethorne, Deane Parker, inspector of schools for Northumberland since 1872, M.A., Trin. Hall, Camb., 1862, bracketted ninth senior optime, scholarship and law studentship, chancellor's gold medallist for legal studies 1860, a student of Lincoln's Inn 18 Feb., 1858 (then aged 22), certificate of honour Jan., 1861, called to the bar 26 Jan., 1861 (eldest son of Sir James Pennethorne, late of Highgate, Middlesex, architect, dec.); born 5 Oct., 1835.
 * 25, Victoria Square, Newcastle-on-Tyne.

 Pennyman, James Worsley, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1883, late scholar, a member of the North-eastern circuit, a student of the Inner Temple 28 Oct., 1879 (then aged 23), called to the bar 21 June, 1882 (eldest son of James Stovin Pennyman, of Ormesby Hall, Yorks); born 10 Aug., 1856; married 6 Oct., 1882, Dora Maria, 3rd dau. of Henry Frederick Beaumont, Esq., of Whitley Beaumont, Yorks, and has issue (see Foster's Baronetage, ).
 * Ormesby Hall, Middlesborough; 14, Elm Park Gardens, S.W.; 6, King's Bench Walk, Temple, E.C.; Junior Carlton Club.

 Penruddocke, Charles, F.G.H.S., late capt. royal Wilts yeomanry cavalry and late major 1st batt. Wilts rifle volunteers, matric. Christ Church, Oxon, from Eton, high sheriff Wilts 1861, J.P., D.L., a student of the Inner Temple 15 Nov., 1849 (then aged 21), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1853 (eldest son of late Charles Penruddocke, of Compton Park, near Sahsbury, bar.-at-law); born 30 Sept., 1828; married 26 April, 1853, Flora Henrietta, 2nd dau. of late Walter Long, Esq., of Rood Ashton, Wilts, and has issue.
 * Compton Park, Salisbury; Bratton St. Maur, Wincanton; Wanderers' Club, S.W.

 Penson, George Willis, B.A., Oriel Coll., Oxon, 1862, a member of the Oxford circuit, a student of Lincoln's Inn 22 Jan., 1862 (then aged 22), called to the bar 6 June, 1866 (only son of George Penson, Esq., of London); born, 1840.
 * Care of 6, Connaught Place, W.

Penzance, Lord (Rt. Hon. James Plaisted Wilde), so created 6 April, 1869, dean of arches since 1875, junior counsel to excise and customs 1840, counsel to duchy of Lancaster 1859–60, baron of the exchequer 1860–3, judge of probate court 1863–72, knighted 13 April, 1860, P.C. July, 1864, member of the Legal Digest Commission, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1842, from Winchester, a student of the Inner Temple 15 April, 1836 (then aged 19), called to the bar 22 Nov., 1839, Q.C. 6 July, 1855, bencher 15 Jan., 1856 (2nd son of Edward Archer Wilde, of London, solicitor); born 12 July, 1816; married 20 Feb., 1860. Lady Mary Pleydell-Bouverie, youngest dau. of William, 3rd earl of Radnor (see Foster's Peerage).
 * 64, Brook Street, W.; Brooks' Club, S.W.

Pepys, Hon. George, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1854, capt. Inns of Court volunteers, a student of Lincoln's Inn 6 Nov., 1854 (then aged 20), called to the bar 6 June, 1857 (4th son of Charles, 1st Earl Cottenham, D.C.L., late lord high chancellor of Great Britain); born 21 July, 1832; married 21 July, 1864, Anna Eliza, 2nd dau. of John Forster, Esq., of Malverleys, East Woodhay, Hants, and has issue (see Foster's Peerage).
 * 47, Sussex Gardens, W.; 7, New Square, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.; United University Club.

Pepys, Henry, a student of Lincoln's Inn 16 Jan., 1862 (then aged 21), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1865 (3rd son of Edmund Pepys, Esq., of London); born, 1841.

Pepys, Philip Henry, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1849, a registrar of court of bankruptcy since 1864, chancellor of diocese of Worcester, 1855, secretary of presentations to lord chancellor 1846–51, 1852–62, principal secretary 1862–4, a student of Lincoln's Inn 27 April, 1846 (then aged 21), called to the bar 8 June, 1849 (eldest son of Rt. Rev. Henry Pepys, D.D., bishop of Worcester); born 14 Nov., 1824; married 14 Dec., 1848, Louisa Eleanor Anne, only dau. of Lieut.-Col. Disbrowe (see Foster's Peerage, ).
 * 44, Lowndes Street, S.W.

Pepys, Hon. Walter Courtenay, late lieut. 60th rifles, a student of Lincoln's Inn 24 April, 1874 (then aged 33), called to the bar 25 April, 1877 (6th son of Charles, 1st Earl Cottenham, D.C.L., late lord high chancellor); born 27 Nov., 1840; married 4 Aug., 1874, Amy Harriet, only surviving child of Lieut.-Col. Thompson, of Ballyherin, co. Donegal, late 58th regt., and has issue (see Foster's Peerage).
 * Exeter; Windham Club.

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 Perceval, Charles Spencer, LL.D. (late fellow), Trin. Hall, Camb., 1858, secretary to the commissioners in lunacy since 1872, treasurer Society of Antiquaries since 1874, director 186‒–73, principal secretary to lord chancellor (Lord Cairns) 1866–8, a student of Lincoln's Inn 22 Nov., 1847 (then aged 18), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1853 (only son of Dudley Montagu Perceval, of London); born 11 Feb., 1829; married 2 Jan., 1868, Mary Elinor Vere, eldest dau. of late Hon. Robert O'Brien, of Old Church, co. Limerick (B. ), and has issue (see Foster's Peerage, ).
 * 64, Eccleston Square, S.W.; 19, Whitehall Place, S.W.; 24, Old Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Perceval, Spencer, B.A., Caius Coll., Camb., 1852, a student of Lincoln's Inn 10 Jan., 1851 (then aged 22), called to the bar 9 June, 1854 (eldest son of late Spencer Perceval, Esq., of London, teller of the exchequer, M.P., dec.); born 20 Sept., 1828 (see Foster's Peerage, ).
 * 21, Lowndes Street, S.W.; 20, Old Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Perceval, Westby Brook, matric. London Univ. 1875 from Stonyhurst Coll., a student of the Middle Temple 16 April, 1875, called to the bar 15 May, 1878 (eldest son of Westby H. Perceval, of Rangiora, New Zealand); born,.
 * Rangiora, New Zealand.

Percival, Francis William, F.S.A., M.A. Brasenose Coll., Oxon, junior examiner in education department since 1872, a student of Lincoln's Inn 22 Jan., 1867 (then aged 23), went to the Inner Temple 21 June, 1878, where he was called to the bar 3 July, 1878 (6th son of Samuel Percival, Esq., late of Northampton, dec.); born, 1844; married 23 Oct, 1884, Isabella, younger dau. of late Lt.-Col. Henry Phillipps, of Sproughton Manor, Suffolk, J.P., D.L., and of 3rd King's own light dragoons.
 * 28, Savile Row, W.

Percival, Herbert, LL.B., St. John's Coll., Camb., 1874 a student of the Inner Temple 20 April, 1872 (then aged 19), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1875 (2nd son of Andrew Percival, of Peterborough, solicitor); born 17 Oct., 1852; unmarried.
 * 3, New Court, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.; St. Stephen's Club, S.W.

Perfect, William Hampden, LL.B. (scholar), St. Peter's Coll., Camb., 1854, a student of Lincoln's Inn 21 Nov., 1850 (then aged 23), called to the bar 9 June, 1854 (eldest son of Robert Perfect, of London, M.P.); born Dec., 1826.
 * Brighton.

Perkes, Richard Moon, LL.M., St. John's Coll., Camb., 1877, B.A. 1874, a student of the Inner Temple 29 April, 1872 (then aged 19), called to the bar 7 June, 1875 (2nd son of Whitmore Henry Perkes, gent., of Southport, co. Lanc.); born, 1853.
 * Southport, Lancashire.

Perkins, Henry, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1857, a member of the Midland circuit, J.P., D.L. co. Camb., editor of Dixon's Law of the Farm, a student of the Inner Temple 31 May, 1854 (then aged 21), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1858 (eldest son of Rev. Henry Perkins, Esq., late of Sawston, co. Camb., dec.); born, 1833; married , 1855, Blanche, dau. of Charles Fiddey, Esq., of London, and has issue.
 * Triplow Place, Royston; 2, Temple Gardens, E.C.

Perrin, Louis, B.A., Magdalen Coll., Oxon, 1877, a student of Lincoln's Inn 29 April, 1876 (then aged 21), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1880 (only son of John Perrin, Esq. late of Dublin, dec.); born, 1855.
 * 3, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.

Perring, Albert Glenie, B.A. Queen's Coll., Oxon, a student of Lincoln's Inn 6 Feb., 1860 (then aged 25), called to the bar 30 April, 1863 (eldest son of Jackson Perring, Esq., late of Ceylon, and a barrister of the Inner Temple dec.); born, 1835.
 * 3, Verulam Buildings, Gray's Inn, W.C.

Perring, Charles, B.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1860, a student of Lincoln's Inn 9 Feb., 1860 (then aged 23), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1863 (2nd son of Jackson Perring, Esq., late of Ceylon, and a barrister of the Inner Temple, dec.); born, 1837.

Perry, Harold Arthur, M.A. (fellow), King's Coll., Camb., 1877, a student of the Inner Temple 7 Nov., 1873 (then aged 23), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1878 (3rd son of Walter Copland Perry, of the Middle Temple, bar.-at-law); born, 1850.
 * 9, Delahay Street, Westminster; 13, Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.; United University Club, S.W.

Perry, Walter Copland, a student of the Middle Temple 12 Jan., 1847, called to the bar 31 Jan., 1851 (only son of late Rev. Isaac Perry, of Liverpool, dec.); born,.
 * 7a, Manchester Square, W.

Hormusjee Pestonjee, B.A. Bombay Univ., assistant engineer Ahmednagar, a student of Lincoln's Inn 16 April, 1868 (then aged 20), called to the bar 26 Jan., 1871 (4th son of Pestonjee Sooklajee, of Bombay, merchant); born, 1851.
 * Admedabad, Bombay.

Thomas-Peter, John Franklen, B.A., St John's Coll., Camb., 1874, capt 5th Devon rifle volunteers 1881, a student of the Middle Temple 5 Nov., 1873, called to the bar 13 June, 1877 (eldest son of John Luke Peter, registrar of the Redruth county court, attorney-at-law, and solicitor in chancery); born 16 Jan., 1851; married 1 Aug., 1878, Mary Elizabeth, only surviving dau. of George Nutcombe Oxenham, late of London, bar.-at-law, dec.
 * Paignton, South Devon.

Peters, Arthur, a student of the Inner Temple 14 Nov., 1874 (then aged 21), called to the bar 7 May, 1879 (youngest son of James Horsefield Peters, master of the rolls Prince Edward Island); born, 1853.
 * Prince Edward Island, Canada.

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text: Men-at-the-Bar/Perry, Walter Copland

title: Men-at-the-Bar/Perry, Walter Copland


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Marshall, Thomas Riley

MARSHALL, THOMAS RILEY (1854-      ), American politician, was born at North Manchester, Ind., March 14 1854. He was educated at Wabash College (A.B. 1873; A.M. 1876) and was admitted to the bar in 1875. From 1876 to 1909 he practised law in Columbia City, Ind., and from 1909 to 1913 was governor of Indiana. He was nominated for vice-president on the ticket with Woodrow Wilson at the Democratic National Convention in 1912 and was elected. He was again nominated with President Wilson in 1916 and elected for the term 1917-21. For almost two years after the outbreak of the World War he urged strict neutrality, but in 1918 publicly expressed regret for this attitude. In 1919 he welcomed the King and Queen of Belgium on their visit to Washington during the illness of President Wilson. He was a strong advocate of the League of Nations, but did not favour woman suffrage.


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Nevill, Lady Dorothy Fanny

NEVILL, LADY DOROTHY FANNY (1826-1913), English writer, was born in London March 1826, the daughter of Horatio Walpole, 3rd Earl of Orford. She married in 1847 Mr. Reginald Henry Nevill (d. 1878), a grandson of the 1st Earl of Abergavenny. She travelled widely, and had a very large circle of acquaintances, including Disraeli, of whom she was a great admirer, Richard Cobden and Joseph Chamberlain. She was noted for her amusing conversation and powers as a hostess, was a member of the first committee of the ladies' branch of the Primrose League, and was the author of various volumes of entertaining reminiscences: Recollections (1906); Leaves from the Notebooks of Lady Dorothy Nevill (1907); Under Five Reigns (1910); My Own Times (1912). She died in London March 24 1913.

Her daughter, (1849-1918), was also a devoted and energetic worker for the Primrose League. She was for many years treasurer of the Ladies' Grand Council. She died in London Oct. 26 1918.


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Page, Walter Hines

PAGE, WALTER HINES (1855-1918), American editor and diplomatist, was born at Cary, N.C., Aug. 15 1855. After graduating from Randolph-Macon College, Va., in 1876, he was appointed one of the first 20 fellows of the newly established Johns Hopkins University. He taught for a time in Louisville, Ky., and then accepted the editorship of the St. Joseph, Mo., Daily Gazette. After two years (1881) he resigned to travel through the South, having arranged to contribute letters on southern sociological conditions to the New York World, the Springfield Republican and the Boston Post. These letters were helpful in educating the North and the South to a fuller understanding of their mutual dependence. In 1882 he joined the editorial staff of the New York World and wrote a series of articles on Mormonism, the result of personal investigation in Utah. Later in the same year he went to Raleigh, N.C., where he founded the State Chronicle, but returned to New York in 1883 and for four years was on the staff of the Evening Post. From 1887 to 1895 he was, first, manager and, after 1890, editor of The Forum, a monthly magazine; and from 1895 to 1900 was literary adviser to Houghton, Mifflin & Co., and for most of the same period editor of the Atlantic Monthly (1896-99). When the house of Doubleday, Page & Co. was organized in 1899, his duties were divided between editorial and publishing work, for he was not only a partner in the publishing house but also editor of its magazine, the World's Work. In March 1913 President Wilson appointed him to succeed Whitelaw Reid as ambassador to England.

Mr. Page was hardly known in England when he was appointed, but during his tenure of office he gradually established himself as one of the great line of American ambassadors. None had ever worked more assiduously than he did for Anglo-American solidarity, and his speeches — though he was no orator — were always marked by absolute sincerity and by well-informed appeals to history. His position was a delicate one after the outbreak of the World War, when German and Austrian interests in England were placed in his hands. He was thoroughly loyal to his country in his conduct, although sympathetic with the Allies. Among the problems with which he had to deal were the British claim of the right to stop and search American ships, including examination of mail pouches; the commercial blockade (1915) and the “blacklist,” containing the names of American firms with whom all financial and commercial dealings on the part of the British were forbidden (1916). He had the satisfaction of seeing the United States through its period of neutrality without friction, and then representing it as a partner in the war. In Aug. 1918, finding his strength exhausted, he resigned as ambassador and returned to America in September. He was critically ill on arrival, and after a short rally died at Pinehurst, S.C., Dec. 21 1918. No man ever served his country, or the cause of Anglo-American friendship, more strenuously. While in Great Britain he was honoured with degrees by the universities of Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Sheffield, Cambridge, and Oxford. He was the author of The Rebuilding of Old Commonwealths (1902) and The Southerner, a Novel: Being the Autobiography of Nicholas Worth (1909).


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Parker, Sir Gilbert

PARKER, SIR GILBERT, BART. (1862-      ), English novelist and politician (see 20.827), was created a baronet in 1915 and a privy councillor in 1916. During the first two and a half years of the World War he was engaged on the work of publicity in

British interests in the United States, and he published The World in the Crucible (1915) and The World for Sale (1916). Amongst his later works of fiction are The Judgment House (1913); The Money Master (1915); Wild Youth and Another (1919) and No Defence (1920). He retired from Parliament in 1918 and did not seek reëlection.


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Parker, Horatio William

PARKER, HORATIO WILLIAM (1863–1919), American composer and musician, was born at Auburndale, Mass., Sept. 15 1863. His talent for composition manifested itself early; before he was 15, for example, in less than two days he set to music the verses in Kate Greenaway's Under the Window. He studied first in Boston, but later attended for three years the Royal Conservatory in Munich. After his return to America in 1885 he was for two years professor of music in the Cathedral School of St. Paul in Garden City, Long Island. From 1888 to 1893 he was organist of Trinity church, New York City, and from 1893 to 1901 organist of Trinity church, Boston. In 1894 he was appointed professor of the theory of music at Yale. Cambridge University bestowed on him the degree of Mus. Doc. in 1902. Before leaving New York City he had completed his oratorio, Hora Novissima, which was widely performed in America. It was also given in England in 1899 at Chester and at the “Three Choirs” festival at Worcester, the latter an honour never before paid an American composer. While carrying out the duties of his position at Yale he composed much. His opera Mona (libretto by Brian Hooker) won the Metropolitan Opera Company's $10,000 prize in 1911, and in 1914 his opera Fairyland (also with Hooker) was awarded another prize of the same amount offered by the National Federation of Women's Clubs. His cantata Morven and the Grail was written in 1915 for the centenary celebration of the Handel and Haydn Society of Boston. His other works include the cantatas King Trojan and The Kobolds, the oratorios St. Christopher and A Wanderer's Psalm, besides numerous sacred and secular pieces. He died at Cedarhurst, Long Island, Dec. 18 1919.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Green, Thomas (1658-1738)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Green, Thomas (1722-1794)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Green, Thomas (1769-1825)


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


text: 1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Rachmaninoff, Sergei Vasilievich


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Rasputin, Gregory Efimovitch

RASPUTIN, GREGORY EFIMOVITCH (1871-1916), Russian monk and court favourite, was born in 1871 in the village of Pokrovskoe, near Tyumen, in the province of Tobolsk, Siberia. He was the son of a poor peasant whose disorderly behaviour resulted in his being given the name of Rasputin, meaning “debauchee.” He received no education, and till the end of his life was unable to write properly. He spent the first part of his life till the age of 33 in his native village; he married in 1895 a well-to-do girl, Olga Chanigoff, and they had two daughters and a son. In 1904 Rasputin resolved to change his mode of living. He left his family and devoted himself to religious exercises, declaring to his people that he was inspired by God. His passionate nature, his great physical strength, and the superstitious atmosphere in which he had been brought up, gave an unexpected direction to his religious exaltation. He adopted the views of the sect known under the name of “Khlysty,” the leading idea of whose teaching was that salvation could be achieved only by repentance.

“Sin in order that you may obtain forgiveness” — was the practical rule which he drew from this doctrine. “A particle of the Supreme Being is incarnated in me” he told his hearers. “Only through me you can hope to be saved; and the manner of your salvation is this: you must be united with me in soul and body. The virtue that goes out from me is the source of light, the destruction of sin” (E. J. Dillon, The Eclipse of Russia). This extravagant and dangerous teaching, which resulted in practice in the most wild orgies, not only created for Rasputin immense popularity and the reputation of a holy man among his fellow-peasants, but opened before him the doors of some of the most fashionable Russian houses and even those of the Imperial Palace. Looking for new experiences Rasputin left his native village, and made long pilgrimages to various holy places, and even went to Mount Athos and Jerusalem. He spent some time in

different monasteries and applied himself to the study of holy books, but his lack of elementary education reduced the results of his labours almost to nothing. He only retained by heart some incomprehensible passages, and often used them in his prophecies. He had, however, a strong magnetic power, the influence of which was recognized by his bitterest opponents.

In 1907, during a stay in St. Petersburg, Rasputin was introduced to the Archimandrite Feofan, rector of the Theological Academy and confessor to the Empress, who took an interest in the story of his conversion. The Archimandrite, with the assistance of the Grand Duchesses Militza and Anastasia, presented Rasputin at court, and he produced a deep impression on the Empress and Emperor. The mystic atmosphere which always prevailed at the Russian court, and which was especially strengthened by the disasters of the Japanese War, the internal troubles in 1905, and the constant fear for the health of the Tsarevich, created a convenient background for the appearance of such a man. His disdain for all rules of good behaviour, his dark prophecies, and, above all, the eventual improvement in the health of the Grand Duke Alexis, which more than once seemed to result from his influence when medicine was ineffectual, created an exceptional position for him with the Empress. Disgusted with the Russian intellectual classes and the bureaucracy, she saw in Rasputin the representative of the mass of peasantry, the only sure support of orthodoxy and autocracy, specially sent by God to save the heir to the throne and preserve the dynasty. Rasputin took advantage of this belief, and did his best to persuade the Empress that his fate was closely tied with that of the imperial family. The example of the court was followed by a large section of the upper class, and many doors were opened for the “Saviour,” as the Empress used to call him. For some time Rasputin was satisfied by this side of his social success, and at first he did not interfere in politics. But his activity was felt in church questions. His friendship with the famous monk, Heliodor, and the Bishop of Saratov, Hermogen, which resulted in a complete rupture between them and in a series of scandals, had a painful echo in the country. The appointment of Varnava, an illiterate peasant and a friend of Rasputin, to be Bishop of Tobolsk in 1911, and the extraordinary servility with which the Holy Synod followed the wishes of the favourite, provoked a strong opposition among all classes of society. The most prominent upholders of orthodoxy demanded a complete reorganization of the Russian church, and denounced the servile attitude of the Holy Synod. Guchkov, the Octobrist leader, in a famous speech delivered at the State Duma, made direct allusions to the nefarious influence exercised by Rasputin. But the influence of the “Saviour” was too strong to be checked by any expression of feeling in the country, and Rasputin triumphed over all his enemies.

An unsuccessful attempt to kill him, made by a certain Guseva in 1914, incited by the monk Heliodor, only strengthened his influence, which became especially powerful during the two last years of the imperial regime. No important nomination was made without his approval, and the most unexpected people rose to the highest offices as result of his interference. Rasputin was too ignorant to have any opinion on political questions: he was in most cases an instrument of the reactionaries. Numberless stories of the debauchery practised at the court, in which the name of Rasputin was coupled not only with some of the court ladies but even with that of the Empress herself, became a common topic of conversation in all classes of Russian society. At length a supreme effort to free the Empire and the dynasty from his influence was made by a small group of men of the highest social position, which included the Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich, Prince Yussupoff and M. Purichkevich. Rasputin was invited to a supper at the Yussupoff Palace on Dec. 15 1916, and shot dead, after an attempt at poisoning him with a strong dose of cyanide potassium mixed with wine had not produced the desired effect. His body was thrown under the ice of a canal. The death of Rasputin was a terrible shock to the Empress; she transferred his body to the park of Tsarskoye Selo, where a special chapel was erected, and came every night to

pray on his grave. The Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich was sent to Persia to join a fighting column. Yussupoff was ordered to leave Petrograd, and interned in his estate. Purichkevich, protected by his immense popularity in the army and by his title of member of the Duma, returned to his work on the front.

 * (Author:Paul Vinogradoff)


text: 1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Rathenau, Walter


text: 1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ravel, Maurice


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ravenstein, Ernst Georg

RAVENSTEIN, ERNST GEORG (1834–1913), British geographer, of German origin, was born at Frankfort-on-Main on Dec. 30 1834, and was educated there. In 1852 he became a pupil of August Petermann, and came to England, where he served in the topographical department of the War Office from 1855 to 1872. As a geographer he was less of a traveller than a research student, and his studies led mainly in the direction of the practice and history of cartography. He compiled many original maps and atlases, bringing a fine critical faculty to bear

upon the data where these were not of the first order of scientific accuracy, as in his series of eastern equatorial Africa, scale 1:1,000,000 (1881-3), and of British East Africa, 1:500,000 (1889). One of his earliest writings was The Russians on the Amur (1861), but he was concerned mainly with the history of geography, as exemplified in his Vasco da Gama’s First Voyage (1898) and Martin Behaim, his Life and his Globe (1908), as also in his history of cartography in the E.B. (see 17.633). He was an active member of the Royal Geographical Society and of the British Association, over the geographical section of which he presided in 1890, and in which he served as chairman of a committee which made a valuable enquiry into the climatology of Africa. He had also a particular interest in gymnastics, and published a handbook on them in 1867. He died at Hofheim in the Taunus, Germany, March 13 1913.


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Scarfoglio, Edoardo

SCARFOGLIO, EDOARDO (1860-1917), Italian journalist, was born at Paganico (Aguila) in 1860, and died at Naples Oct. 6 1917. He was one of the most vigorous and ablest journalists of his time and an excellent newspaper manager as well as editor. He founded the Corriere di Roma, the Corriere di Napoli, the Ora of Palermo and the Maltino of Naples. It is with the latter paper, which he owned and edited for many years, that his name is chiefly associated. He was the husband of the novelist Matilde Serao (see 24.661), from whom, however, he had been separated for many years.


text:
Author:George Collins Levey

Works

 * (History)
 * (History)
 * (History)
 * (History)
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title: Author:George Collins Levey


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morphology

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morphology


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Scharlieb, Mary Dacomb

SCHARLIEB, MARY DACOMB (1845-      ), British surgeon, was born in London June 18 1845, the daughter of William Candler Bird. She was educated privately, and married a barrister who was then practising in India. She wished to study medicine, at that time an extremely difficult profession for a woman to adopt, and entered the medical college at Madras, receiving its diploma in 1878. She afterwards went to England and studied at the London School of Medicine for Women, taking her degree as Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery in 1882 with very high honours. In 1883 she returned to India, and became lecturer in midwifery and gynæcology at the Madras Medical College and examiner in the same subjects to the university of Madras. In 1888 she took her London degree of M.D., and from 1887 to 1902 was surgeon at the New Hospital for Women, being senior surgeon from 1889. In 1887 she was appointed lecturer on forensic medicine to the Royal Free Hospital, in 1889 lecturer on midwifery, and in 1902 chief gynæcologist. She retired from these posts in 1909. In 1917 Mrs. Scharlieb was made C.B.E. She was a member of the royal commission on Venereal Diseases (1913-16), and published A Woman's Words to Women (1905); The Mother's Guide (1905); The Seven Ages of Woman (1915); The Hope of the Future (1916); The Welfare of the Expectant Mother (1919).


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morphine

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morphine


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 * http://en.wikisource.org/w/index.php?title=User:Tim_Starling/ScanSet_PNG_demo&vol=18&page=EC8A894


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morpheus

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morpheus


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Talk:1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Morpheus

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 in Guy's Hospital, where he was engaged continuously in the practice of the art which he originated and brought to perfection, though it died with him. He constructed during this period more than a thousand models of anatomical preparations, from dissections made by John Hilton (1804–1878) [q. v.], and of cases of skin disease selected by Thomas Addison [q. v.] Most of these models are preserved in the museum of Guy's Hospital, but many fine specimens of his work are to be seen at Calcutta, Madras, Bombay, New York, as well as in the various towns of Alabama, New South Wales, and Russia. Towne was awarded a prize for his work at the first International Exhibition of London in 1851.

Towne was a sculptor as well as a modeller, and executed the marble busts of Sir Astley Cooper and Dr. Addison which now adorn the museum of Guy's Hospital. In 1827 he made an equestrian statue of the Duke of Kent, the queen's father, which was afterwards deposited in the private apartments of Buckingham Palace, and a little later he made a statuette of the great Duke of Wellington, while an excellent bust of Bishop Otter, first principal of King's College, London, came from his hands, and was placed in Chichester Cathedral in 1844. He died on 25 June 1879. Towne married, 20 Sept. 1832, Mary Butterfield, and by her had several children.

Mr. Bryant says of his work: ‘There can be no question that as models, whether anatomical, pathological, or cutaneous, they are not only lifelike representations of what they are intended to show, but that as works of art they are as remarkable as they are perfect. Not only are they accurate copies of different parts of the body, but they are among the very first attempts which have been made in this country to represent the different parts of the human body by wax models, and they are the more remarkable when it is borne in mind they are the outcome of an entirely self-taught genius.’

In 1858 Towne delivered at Guy's Hospital a short course of lectures on the brain and the organs of the senses and of the intellect. These lectures were elaborated into a series of suggestive papers ‘On the Stereoscopic Theory of Vision, with Observations on the Experiments of Professor Wheatstone,’ which commenced in the Guy's Hospital ‘Reports’ for 1862, and ended with one on ‘Binocular Vision’ in the volume for 1870.

[Obituary notice by Mr. Bryant in the Guy's Hospital Reports, 1883, xli. 1; biographical notice in the History of Guy's Hospital, by Wilks and Bettany, 1892; additional particulars kindly given to the writer by Thomas Bryant, esq.]  TOWNELEY or TOWNLEY, CHARLES (1737–1805), collector of classical antiquities, was the eldest son of William Towneley (1714–1741) of Towneley Hall, by his wife Cecilia, daughter of Ralph Standish of Standish, Lancashire, and granddaughter of Henry, sixth duke of Norfolk. He was born on 1 Oct. 1737 at Towneley, the family seat, near Burnley, in the parish of Whalley, Lancashire. He succeeded to the estate on his father's death in 1742, and about this time was sent to the college of Douay, being afterwards under the care of John Turberville Needham [q. v.] About 1758 he took possession of Towneley Hall (see views in Whalley, ii. 186, 187). He planted and improved the estate, and lived for a time the life of the country gentleman of his day.

A visit to Rome and Florence in 1765 led him to study ancient art. He travelled in southern Italy and Sicily, but made Rome his headquarters till 1772. In 1768 he bought from the Dowager Princess Barberini the marble group of the Astragalizontes, and began to form a collection of antiquities. In spite of the competition of the Vatican Museum he rapidly increased his collection, chiefly by entering into an alliance with Gavin Hamilton (1730–1797) [q. v.], and more cautiously with Thomas Jenkins, the banker at Rome. He shared in their risks and successes in making excavations in Italy.

In 1772 he came to live in London, and after a time purchased No. 7 Park Street, Westminster (now, with Queen Square, renamed Queen Anne's Gate). He complained of his noisy neighbours in the Royal Cockpit, but, having purchased the house as a ‘shell,’ he was able to fit it up suitably for the reception of his statues and library. He still occasionally visited Rome, and continued to receive fresh acquisitions for his collection till about 1780, partly from Italy, through his agents Hamilton and Jenkins, and partly by purchases in England from Lyde Brown and others. In addition to marbles, Townley's collection contained terra-cotta reliefs (many of which were procured by Nollekens), bronze utensils, some fine gems, and a series of Roman ‘large brass’ coins purchased for more than 3,000l. Townley, like his friend, Sir William Hamilton, imbibed with eagerness the fanciful theories of P. F. Hugues (‘D'Hancarville’), most of whose ‘Recherches sur l'Origine des Arts de la Grèce’ was written at Townley's Park Street house. Townley himself published nothing beyond a disserta-


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Page:Book of the Riviera.djvu/333

. Fresh proscriptions and new expulsions follow. Again alliances are made and revolutions are accomplished. All the ancient feuds of the towns are crossed, recrossed, and tangled in a web of madness that defies analysis." Certain prominent and prevailing features pertain to this portion of the Ligurian seaboard. The towns, even the villages, are planted in spots as inaccessible as could be obtained ; they were all walled about in the rocks whereon they stood, and were so crowded within their walls that the "high street" does not attain to a width beyond nine feet, and every lateral street is six feet and even less in width. The houses run to a great height, and hold themselves up mutually by throwing out buttresses, arched beneath, for their stay one against another. The inhabitants of the seaboard were driven to this by fear of the Moorish pirates. These little communities organised themselves as republics, with their consuls, freely elected. But the nobles, living in their castles, looked upon them with jealous eyes. They had their serfs under them, and they saw that these villages and towns were growing in consequence and in wealth. Unhappily every town was at enmity with every other town—each was jealous of the other; and the nobles offered their services, generally to a distant town against that nearest at hand. When they had served against the rival place, they asked for, and were allowed, a town residence. Then the palace of the noble in the walled city, or even village, became a centre of intrigue. Parties were formed in every town, and the nobles and wealthy burghers arrogated to themselves supreme control over the affairs of the place. This led

title: Page:Book of the Riviera.djvu/333


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 tion in the ‘Vetusta Monumenta’ on an ancient helmet found at Ribchester. His delight in his collections remained keen. In 1780, when his house, as that of a Roman catholic, was threatened by the Gordon rioters, he hurriedly secured his cabinet of gems, and conveyed to his carriage the famous bust known as Clytie, which, being an unmarried man, he used to call his wife. He had his favourite busts of Clytie, Pericles, and Homer engraved for an occasional visiting card.

In 1786 Townley became a member of the Society of Dilettanti, and in 1791 a trustee of the British Museum. About 1803 his health began to decline, but he amused himself by designing a statue gallery and library for Towneley Hall. He died at 7 Park Street on 3 Jan. 1805, in his sixty-eighth year, and was buried in the family chapel at Burnley in Lancashire. His estates passed to his surviving brother, Edward Towneley Standish, and afterwards to his uncle, John Towneley of Chiswick (d. 1813). The male line failed on the death of Colonel John Towneley in 1878, when the property was divided among seven coheiresses, the daughters of Colonel John's elder brother Charles (1803–1876) and of himself.

The Towneley marbles and terra-cottas were purchased in 1805 from Townley's executors by the British Museum for 20,000l. Edward Towneley Standish was then appointed the first Towneley trustee, and a new gallery built at the museum for the collection was opened to the public in 1808. Townley's bronzes, coins, gems, and drawings were acquired by the museum in 1814 for 8,200l. Townley's manuscript catalogues are preserved in the department of Greek and Roman antiquities, British Museum, and his collections, as deposited in the museum, are described and illustrated in Ellis's ‘Townley Gallery.’ A portion of Townley's collection of drawings from the antique passed into the hands of Sir A. W. Franks. John Thomas Smith (1766–1833) [q. v.] and many young students of the Royal Academy had been employed by Townley to make drawings for his portfolios.

Townley is described as a man of graceful person and polished address, with a kind of ‘Attic irony’ in his conversation. He was liberal in admitting strangers to view his collections (Picture of London for 1802, p. 216), and on Sunday used to give pleasant dinner parties in his spacious dining-room overlooking St. James's Park. In this room his largest statues were ranged against the walls and columns which were wrought in scagliola in imitation of porphyry, with lamps gracefully interspersed. Sir Joshua Reynolds, Nollekens, Zoffany, and the Abbé Devay, whom Townley called his ‘walking library,’ were among his guests. A picture formerly at Towneley Hall, painted by Zoffany about 1782, and engraved by Cardon, shows Townley in his library, surrounded by books and statues, conversing with his friends D'Hancarville, Charles Greville, and Thomas Astle.

There are the following portraits of Townley: 1. A bust by Nollekens, in the British Museum, from a death-mask; this is considered by J. T. Smith a good likeness, though the lower part of the face is too full. 2. A less successful bust by Nollekens, bequeathed to the British Museum by R. Payne Knight. 3. A bust from life by P. Turnerelli, exhibited at Somerset House in 1805. 4. A stipple print engraved by James Godby from a Tassie medallion, 1780 (, Tassie, p. 152). 5. A profile, as on a Greek coin, prefixed to D'Hancarville's ‘Recherches,’ p. 25.

[Nichols's Literary Illustrations, iii. 721–47; Ellis's Townley Gallery; Michaelis's Ancient Marbles in Great Britain; Whitaker's Whalley; Edwards's Lives of the Founders of the British Museum; Smith's Nollekens, pp. 257–66; Guide to the Exhibition Galleries of the Brit. Museum, Introduction; Burke's Hist. of the Commoners, ii. 265 f.]  TOWNELEY, CHRISTOPHER (1604–1674), antiquary, called ‘the Transscriber,’ son of Richard Towneley of Towneley Hall, Lancashire, was born there on 9 Jan. 1603–1604. He was an attorney, but probably did not long follow his profession (he was indeed disabled by being a recusant), the greater part of his long and leisured life being occupied in scientific and antiquarian pursuits. Among his friends and correspondents were Jeremiah Horrox, William Crabtree, William Gascoyne, Sir Jonas Moore, Jeremiah Shakerley, and Flamsteed, astronomers and mathematicians; Roger Dodsworth, Sir William Dugdale, and Hopkinson, antiquaries, and Sir Edward Sherburne, poet. In conjunction with Dr. Richard Kuerden [q. v.] he projected, but never finished, a history of Lancashire. Many years were spent by him in transcribing ‘in a fair but singular hand’ public records, chartularies, and other evidences relating chiefly to Lancashire and Yorkshire. These transcripts were drawn upon by friends during his lifetime, and have since proved a valuable storehouse of materials for county historians and genealogists. The best description of them is given in the fourth report of the historical manuscripts commission (1874, pp. 406, 613). The collections, after


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266 to revolts and fighting in the streets. On the Ligurian coast, the Republic of Genoa stepped in, took advantage of these civic broils, and, by plausible assurances of good government under her strong hand, managed to get nearly the whole seaboard, with its towns, under her protection. The protection Genoa afforded soon turned to exaction and interference with the liberties of the towns she protected. Thenceforth ensued a series of revolts. Ventimiglia, which was a place under the rule of its count, was taken and sacked by the Genoese in 1140, and its count constrained to make submission. The mouth of the Roya, with its harbour, excited the jealousy and ambition of Genoa, as did in like manner Nice and Villefranche; for Genoa desired to monopolise the whole of the trade of the Mediterranean along the Ligurian coast and Corsica. Allies and friendly towns could traffic freely with Genoa; but the ships of independent states were taxed, and their freights almost crushed by onerous duties, before they could enter the port. The sea-coast towns like Ventimiglia and Villefranche, not under Genoese control, were a hindrance to the control and monopoly of the entire trade by the grasping Republic, consequently the Genoese were persistent in their attempts to force them to submission. In 1196 the count and the Genoese combined against the city of Ventimiglia, and failing, in spite of a siege of two months, to capture the town, they organised a league of the whole of Liguria against the gallant and resolute place. The allies established their camp on the Cape of S. Ampelio and ravaged the country, but could not reduce Ventimiglia. Then the Genoese spread a report that a large Ventimiglian galley which had been cruising off the Spanish coast had been captured, and

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