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 He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years before she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of her warm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower. She came up to his step many times between their phrases and went down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting to go down and then went down. Let be! Let be!

Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her the verses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of eggshells. Folly indeed! Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the page from each other with their strong hard fingers. The suave priest, her uncle, seated in his armchair would hold the page at arm's length, read it smiling and approve of the literary form.

No, no: that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she would not show them to others. No, no: she could not.

He began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her innocence moved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till he had come to the knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she too had not understood while she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her nature had first come upon her. Then first her soul had begun to live as his soul had when he had first sinned: and a tender compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail [261]


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 pallor and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of womanhood.

While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been? Might it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at those same moments had been conscious of his homage? It might be.

A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body. Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm odorous and lavish limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life: and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain. Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn. Are you not weary of ardent ways?

[262]

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 While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim. Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze With languorous look and lavish limb! Are you not weary of ardent ways? Tell no more of enchanted days.

What birds were they? He stood on the steps of the library to look at them, leaning wearily on his ashplant. They flew round and round the jutting shoulder of a house in Molesworth Street. The air of the late March evening made clear their flight, their dark quivering bodies flying clearly against the sky as against a limp hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.

He watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their darting quivering bodies passed: Six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from the upper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round and round in straight and curving lines and ever flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air.

He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice behind the wainscot: a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.

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 The inhuman clamour soothed his ears in which his mother's sobs and reproaches murmured insistently and the dark frail quivering bodies wheeling and fluttering and swerving round an airy temple of the tenuous sky soothed his eyes which still saw the image of his mother's face.

Why was he gazing upwards from the steps of the porch, hearing their shrill twofold cry, watching their flight? For an augury of good or evil? A phrase of Cornelius Agrippa flew through his mind and then there flew hither and thither shapeless thoughts from Swedenborg on the correspondence of birds to things of the intellect and of how the creatures of the air have their knowledge and know their times and seasons because they, unlike man, are in the order of their life and have not perverted that order by reason.

And for ages men had gazed upward as he was gazing at birds in flight. The colonnade above him made him think vaguely of an ancient temple and the ashplant on which he leaned wearily of the curved stick of an augur. A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawklike man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon.

He smiled as he thought of the god's image, for it made him think of a bottle-nosed judge in a wig, putting commas into a document which he held at arm's length, and he knew that he would not have remembered the god's name but that it was like an Irish oath. It was folly. But was it for this folly that he was about to leave for ever the house of prayer and prudence into [264]


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 which he had been born and the order of life out of which he had come?

They came back with shrill cries over the jutting shoulder of the house, flying darkly against the fading air. What birds were they? He thought that they must be swallows who had come back from the south. Then he was to go away? for they were birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting home under the eaves of men's houses and ever leaving the homes they had built to wander.

A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading tenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying through the seadusk over the flowing waters.

A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft long vowels hurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing back and ever shaking the white bells of their waves in mute chime and mute peal and soft low swooning cry; and he felt that the augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds and in the pale space of sky above him had come forth from his heart like a bird from a turret quietly and swiftly.

Symbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in the ear of his memory composed slowly before his remembering eyes the scene of the hall on the night of the opening of the national theatre. He was alone

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 at the side of the balcony, looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin in the stalls and at the tawdry scenecloths and human dolls framed by the garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind him and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall from his scattered fellow students.

—A libel on Ireland!—

—Made in Germany.—

—Blasphemy!—

—We never sold our faith!—

—No Irish woman ever did it!—

—We want no amateur atheists.—

—We want no budding buddhists.—

A sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that the electric lamps had been switched on in the reader's room. He turned into the pillared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and passed in through the clicking turnstile.

Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed his copy of The Tablet with an angry snap and stood up.

Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice:

—Pawn to king's fourth.—

—We had better go, Dixon—said Stephen in warning—He has gone to complain.—

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 Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying:

—Our men retired in good order.—

—With guns and cattle—added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of Cranly's book on which was written Diseases of the Ox.

As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:

—Cranly, I want to speak to you.

Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his well shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated:

—Pawn to king's bloody fourth.—

—Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.—

He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring.

As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey.

—Good evening, gentlemen—said the stubble grown monkeyish face.

—Warm weather for March—said Cranly.—They have the windows open upstairs.—

Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure and its voice purred:

—Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful.—

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 —There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting—Dixon said.

Cranly smiled and said kindly:

—The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so, captain?—

—What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked.—The Bride of Lammermoor?—

—I love old Scott—the flexible lips said—I think he writes something lovely. There is no writer can touch sir Walter Scott.

He moved a thin shrunken brown hand gently in the air in time to his praise and his thin quick eyelids beat often over his sad eyes.

Sadder to Stephen's ear was his speech: a genteel accent, low and moist, marred by error: and, listening to it, he wondered was the story true and was the thin blood that flowed in his shrunken frame noble and come of an incestuous love?

The park trees were heavy with rain and rain fell still and ever in the lake, lying grey like a shield. A game of swans flew there and the water and the shore beneath were fouled with their greenwhite slime. They embraced softly impelled by the grey rainy light, the wet silent trees, the shield like witnessing lake, the swans. They embraced without joy or passion, his arm about his sister's neck. A grey woollen cloak was wrapped athwart her from her shoulder to her waist and her fair head was bent in willing shame. He had loose redbrown hair and tender shapely strong freckled hands. Face? There was no face seen. The brother's face was bent upon her fair rain fragrant hair. The hand freckled and strong and shapely and caressing was Davin's hand.

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 He frowned angrily upon his thought and on the shrivelled mannikin who had called it forth. His father's jibes at the Bantry gang leaped out of his memory. He held them at a distance and brooded uneasily on his own thought again. Why were they not Cranly's hands? Had Davin's simplicity and innocence stung him more secretly?

He walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to take leave elaborately of the dwarf.

Under the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a little group of students. One of them cried:

—Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.—

Temple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.

—You're a hypocrite, O'Keeffe—he said.—And Dixon is a smiler. By hell, I think that's a good literary expression.—

He laughed slily, looking in Stephen's face, repeating:

—By hell, I'm delighted with that name. A smiler.—

A stout student who stood below them on the steps said:

—Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about that.—

—He had, faith—Temple said.—And he was a married man too. And all the priests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.—

—We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter—said Dixon.

—Tell us, Temple—O'Keeffe said—how many quarts of porter have you in you?—

—All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O'Keeffe—said Temple with open scorn.

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 He moved with a shambling gait round the group and spoke to Stephen.

—Did you know that the Forsters are the kings of Belgium?—he asked.

Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care.

—And here's the wiseacre—said Temple.—Do you know that about the Forsters?—

He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a fig seed from his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently.

—The Forster family—Temple said—is descended from Baldwin the First, king of Flanders. He was called the Forester. Forester and Forster, are the same name. A descendant of Baldwin the First, captain Francis Forster, settled in Ireland and married the daughter of the last chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there are the Blake Forsters. That's a different branch.—

—From Baldhead, king of Flanders,—Cranly repeated, rooting again deliberately at his gleaming uncovered teeth.

—Where did you pick up all that history?—O'Keeffe asked.

—I know all the history of your family, too—Temple said, turning to Stephen.—Do you know what Giraldus Cambrensis says about your family?—

—Is he descended from Baldwin too?—asked a tall consumptive student with dark eyes.

—Baldhead—Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth.

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 The stout student who stood below them on the steps farted briefly. Dixon turned towards him saying in a soft voice:

—Did an angel speak?

Cranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger:

—Goggins, you’re the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you know.—

—I had it on my mind to say that—Goggins answered firmly.—It did no one any harm, did it?—

—We hope—Dixon said suavely—that it was not of the kind known to science as a .—

—Didn’t I tell you he was a smiler?—said Temple, turning right and left—Didn’t I give him that name?—

—You did. We’re not deaf—said the tall consumptive.

Cranly still frowned at the stout student below him. Then, with a snort of disgust, he shoved him violently down the steps.

—Go away from here—he said rudely.—Go away, you stinkpot. And you are a stinkpot.—

Goggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned to his place with good humour. Temple turned back to Stephen and asked:

—Do you believe in the law of heredity?—

—Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to say?—asked Cranly, facing round on him with an expression of wonder.

—The most profound sentence ever written—Temple said with enthusiasm—is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is the beginning of death.—

He touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly:


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 —Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?—

Cranly pointed his long forefinger.

—Look at him!—he said with scorn to the others—Look at Ireland’s hope!—

They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely, saying:

—Cranly, you’re always sneering at me. I can seen that. But I am as good as you any day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared with myself?—

—My dear man—said Cranly urbanely—you are incapable, do you know, absolutely incapable of thinking.—

—But do you know—Temple went on—what I think of you and of myself compared together?—

—Out with it, Temple!—the stout student cried from the steps.—Get it out in bits!—

Temple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures as he spoke.

—I’m a —he said, shaking his head in despair—I am and I know am. And I admit it that I am.—

Dixon patted him lightly on the shoulder and said mildly:

—And it does you every credit, Temple.—

—But he—Temple said, pointing to Cranly—he is a ballocks, too, like me. Only he doesn’t know it. And that’s the only difference, I see.—

A burst of laughter covered his words. But he turned again to Stephen and said with a sudden eagerness:

—That word is a most interesting word. That’s the only English dual number. Did you know?—

—Is it?—Stephen said vaguely.


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 He was watching Cranly’s firm featured suffering face, lit up now by a smile of false patience. The gross name had passed over it like foul water poured over an old stone image, patient of injuries: and, as he watched him, he saw him raise his hat in salute and uncover the black hair that stood up stiffly from his forehead like an iron crown.

She passed out from the porch of the library and bowed across Stephen in reply to Cranly’s greeting. He also? Was there not a slight flush on Cranly’s cheek? Or had it come forth at Temple’s words? The light had waned. He could not see.

Did that explain his friend’s listless silence, his harsh comments, the sudden intrusions of rude speech with which he had shattered so often Stephen’s ardent wayward confessions? Stephen had forgiven freely for he had found this rudeness also in himself. And he remembered an evening when he had dismounted from a borrowed creaking bicycle to pray to God in a wood near Malahide. He had lifted up his arms and spoken in ecstasy to the sombre nave of the trees, knowing that he stood on holy ground and in a holy hour. And when two constabulary men had come into sight round a bend in the gloomy road he had broken off his prayer to whistle loudly an air from the last pantomime.

He began to beat the frayed end of his ashplant against the base of a pillar. Had Cranly not heard him? Yet he could wait. The talk about him ceased for a moment: and a soft hiss fell again from a window above. But no other sound was in the air and the swallows whose flight had followed with idle eyes were sleeping.

She had passed through the dusk. And therefore the air was silent save for one soft hiss that fell. And


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 the tongues about him had ceased their babble. Darkness was falling.

A trembling joy, lambent as a faint light, played like a fairy host around him. But why? Her passage through the darkening air or the verse with its black vowels and its opening sound, rich and lutelike?

He walked away slowly towards the deeper shadows at the end of the colonnade, beating the stone softly with his stick to hide his revery from the students whom he had left: and allowed his mind to summon back to itself the age of Dowland and Byrd and Nash.

Eyes, opening from the darkness of desire, eyes that dimmed the breaking east. What was their languid grace but the softness of chambering? And what was their shimmer but the shimmer of the scum that mantled the cesspool of the court of a slobbering Stuart. And he tasted in the language of memory ambered wines, dying fallings of sweet airs, the proud pavan: and saw with the eyes of memory kind gentlewomen in Covent Garden wooing from their balconies with sucking mouths and the pox fouled wenches of the taverns and young wives that, gaily yielding to their ravishers, clipped and clipped again.

The images he had summoned gave him no pleasure. They were secret and enflaming but her image was not entangled by them. That was not the way to think of her. It was not even the way in which he thought of her. Could his mind then not trust itself? Old phrases, sweet only with a disinterred sweetness like the fig seeds Cranly rooted out of his gleaming teeth.


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 It was not thought nor vision, though he knew vaguely that her figure was passing homeward through the city. Vaguely first and then more sharply he smelt her body. A conscious unrest seethed in his blood. Yes, it was her body he smelt: a wild and languid smell: the tepid limbs over which his music had flowed desirously and the secret soft linen upon which her flesh distilled odour and a dew.

A louse crawled over the nape of his neck and, putting his thumb and forefinger deftly beneath his loose collar, he caught it. He rolled its body, tender yet brittle as a grain of rice, between thumb and finger for an instant before he let it fall from him and wondered would it live or die. There came to his mind a curious phrase from Cornelius a Lapide which said that the lice born of human sweat were not created by God with the other animals on the sixth day. But the tickling of the skin of his neck made his mind raw and red. The life of his body, ill clad, ill fed, louse eaten, made him close his eyelids in a sudden spasm of despair: and in the darkness he saw the brittle bright bodies of lice falling from the air and turning often as they fell. Yes; and it was not darkness that fell from the air. It was brightness.

He had not even remembered rightly NashNashe (Thomas Nashe: Summer's Last Will and Testament) [sic]’s line. All the images it had awakened were false. His mind bred vermin. His thoughts were lice born of the sweat of sloth.

He came back quickly along the colonnade towards the group of students. Well then let her go and be damned to her! She could love some clean athlete who


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 washed himself every morning to the waist and had black hair on his chest. Let her.

Cranly had taken another dried fig from the supply in his pocket and was eating it slowly and noisily. Temple sat on the pediment of a pillar, leaning back, his cap pulled down on his sleepy eyes. A squat young man came out of the porch, a leather portfolio tucked under his armpit. He marched towards the group, striking the flags with the heels of his boots and with the ferrule of his heavy umbrella. Then, raising the umbrella in salute, he said to all:

—Good evening, sirs.—

He struck the flags again and tittered while his head trembled with a slight nervous movement. The tall consumptive student and Dixon and O’Keeffe were speaking in Irish and did not answer him. Then, turning to Cranly, he said:

—Good evening, particularly to you.—

He moved the umbrella in indication and tittered again. Cranly, who was still chewing the fig, answered with loud movements of his jaws.

—Good? Yes. It is a good evening.—

The squat student looked at him seriously and shook his umbrella gently and reprovingly.

—I can see—he said—that you are about to make obvious remarks.—

—Um—Cranly answered, holding out what remained of the half chewed fig and jerking it towards the squat student’s mouth in sign that he should eat.

The squat student did not eat it but, indulging his special humour, said gravely, still tittering and prodding his phrase with his umbrella:

—Do you intend that. . .—


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 He broke off, pointed bluntly to the munched pulp of the fig, and said loudly:

—I allude to that.—

—Um—Cranly said as before.

—Do you intend that now—the squat student said—as ipso facto or, let us say, as so to speak?—

Dixon turned aside from his group, saying:

—Goggins was waiting for you, Glynn. He has gone round to the Adelphi to look for you and Moynihan. What have you there?—he asked, tapping the portfolio under Glynn's arm.

—Examination papers—Glynn answered.—I give them monthly examinations to see that they are profiting by my tuition.—

He also tapped the portfolio and coughed gently and smiled.

—Tuition!—said Cranly rudely. I suppose you mean the barefooted children that are taught by a bloody ape like you. God help them!—

He bit off the rest of the fig and flung away the butt.

—I suffer little children to come unto me—Glynn said amiably.

—A bloody ape—Cranly repeated with emphasis—and a blasphemous bloody ape!

Temple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed Glynn:

—That phrase you said now—he said—is from the new testament about suffer the children to come to me.—

—Go to sleep again, Temple—said O'Keeffe.

—Very well, then—Temple continued, still addressing Glynn—and if Jesus suffered the children to come why does the church send them all to hell if they die unbaptised? Why is that?—


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 —Were you baptised yourself, Temple?—the consumptive student asked.

—But why are they sent to hell if Jesus said they were all to come?—Temple said, his eyes searching Glynn's eyes.

Glynn coughed and said gently, holding back with difficulty the nervous titter in his voice and moving his umbrella at every word:

—And, as you remark, if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.—

—Because the church is cruel like all old sinners—Temple said.

—Are you quite orthodox on that point, Temple?—Dixon said suavely.

—Saint Augustine says that about unbaptised children going to hell—Temple answered—because he was a cruel old sinner too.—

—I bow to you—Dixon said—but I had the impression that limbo existed for such cases.—

—Don't argue with him, Dixon—Cranly said brutally.—Don't talk to him or look at him. Lead him home with a sugan the way you'd lead a bleating goat.—

—Limbo!—Temple cried.—That's a fine invention too. Like hell.—

—But with the unpleasantness left out—Dixon said.

He turned smiling to the others and said:

—I think I am voicing the opinions of all present in saying so much.—

—You are—Glynn said in a firm tone.—On that point Ireland is united.—

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 —Hell—Temple said. I can respect that invention of the grey spouse of Satan. Hell is Roman, like the walls of the Romans, strong and ugly. But what is limbo?—

—Put him back into the perambulator, Cranly—O'Keeffe called out.

Cranly made a swift step towards Temple, halted, stamping his foot, crying as if to a fowl:

—Hoosh!—

Temple moved away nimbly.

—Do you know what limbo is?—he cried.—Do you know what we call a notion like that in Roscommon?—

—Hoosh! Blast you!—Cranly cried, clapping his hands.

—Neither my arse nor my elbow!—Temple cried out scornfully—And that's what I call limbo.—

—Give us that stick here—Cranly said.

He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down the steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the dusk like a wild creature, nimble and fleet footed. Cranly's heavy boots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step.

His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick back into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause but, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly:

—Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away.—

Cranly looked at him for a few moments and asked:

—Now?—


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 —Yes, now—Stephen said—We can't speak here. Come away.—

They crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The bird call from Siegfried whistled softly followed them from the steps of the porch. Cranly turned: and Dixon, who had whistled, called out:

—Where are you fellows off to? What about that game, Cranly?—

They parleyed in shouts across the still air about a game of billiards to be played in the Adelphi hotel. Stephen walked on alone and out into the quiet of Kildare Street opposite Maple's hotel he stood to wait, patient again. The name of the hotel, a colourless polished wood, and its colourless front stung him like a glance of polite disdain. He stared angrily back at the softly lit drawingroom of the hotel in which he imagined the sleek lives of the patricians of Ireland housed in calm. They thought of army commissions and land agents: peasants greeted them along the roads in the country: they knew the names of certain French dishes and gave orders to jarvies in highpitched provincial voices which pierced through their skintight accents.

How could he hit their conscience or how cast his shadow over the imaginations of their daughters, before their squires begat upon them, that they might breed a race less ignoble than their own? And under the deepened dusk he felt the thoughts and desires of the race to which he belonged flitting like bats across the dark country lanes, under trees by the edges of streams and near the pool mottled bogs. A woman had waited in the doorway as Davin had passed by at night and, offering him a cup of milk, had all but wooed him to her


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 bed: for Davin had the mild eyes of one who could be secret. But him no woman's eyes had wooed.

His arm was taken in a strong grip and Cranly's voice said:

—Let us eke go.—

They walked southward in silence. Then Cranly said:

—That blithering idiot, Temple! I swear to Moses, do you know, that I'll be the death of that fellow one time.—

But his voice was no longer angry and Stephen wondered was he thinking of her greeting to him under the porch.

They turned to the left and walked on as before. When they had gone on so for some time Stephen said:

—Cranly, I had an unpleasant quarrel this evening.—

—With your people?—Cranly asked.

—With my mother.—

—About religion?—

—Yes—Stephen answered.

After a pause Cranly asked:

—What age is your mother?—

—Not old—Stephen said.—She wishes me to make my easter duty.—

—And will you?—

—I will not—Stephen said.

—Why not?—Cranly said.

—I will not serve—answered Stephen.

—That remark was made before—Cranly said calmly.

—It is made behind now—said Stephen hotly.

Cranly pressed Stephen's arm, saying:

—Go easy, my dear man. You're an excitable bloody man, do you know.—


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 He laughed nervously as he spoke and, looking up into Stephen's face with moved and friendly eyes, said:

—Do you know that you are an excitable man?—

—I daresay I am—said Stephen, laughing also.

Their minds, lately estranged, seemed suddenly to have been drawn closer, one to the other.

—Do you believe in the eucharist?—Cranly asked.

—I do not—Stephen said.

—Do you disbelieve then?—

—I neither believe in it nor disbelieve in it—Stephen answered.

—Many persons have doubts, even religious persons, yet they overcome them or put them aside—Cranly said.—Are your doubts on that point too strong?—

—I do not wish to overcome them—Stephen answered.

Cranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from his pocket and was about to eat it when Stephen said:

—Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your mouth full of chewed fig.—

Cranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which he halted. Then he smelt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece, spat it out and threw the fig rudely into the gutter. Addressing it as it lay, he said:

—Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire!—

Taking Stephen's arms, he went on again and said:

—Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day of Judgement?—

—What is offered me on the other hand?—Stephen asked.—An eternity of bliss in the company of the dean of studies?—


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 —Remember—Cranly said—that he would be glorified.—

—Ay—Stephen said somewhat bitterly—bright, agile, impassible and, above all, subtle.

—It is a curious thing, do you know—Cranly said dispassionately—how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. Did you believe in it when you were at school? I bet you did.—

—I did—Stephen answered.

—And were you happier then?—Cranly asked softly—happier than you are now, for instance?—

—Often happy—Stephen said—and often unhappy. I was someone else then.—

—How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?—

—I mean—said Stephen—that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become.—

—Not as you are now, not as you had to become—Cranly repeated.—Let me ask you a question. Do you love your mother?—

Stephen shook his head slowly.

—I don't know what your words mean—he said simply.

—Have you never loved anyone?—Cranly asked.

—Do you mean women?—

—I am not speaking of that—Cranly said in a colder tone.—I ask you if you ever felt love towards anyone or anything.—

Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath.

—I tried to love God—he said at length.—It seems now I failed. It is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant by instant. In that I


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 did not always fail. I could perhaps do that still …—

Cranly cut him short by asking:

—Has your mother had a happy life?—

—How do I know?—Stephen said.

—How many children had she?—

—Nine or ten—Stephen answered.—Some died.—

—Was your father ….—Cranly interrupted himself for an instant: and then said:—I don't want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father what is called well-to-do? I mean when you were growing up?—

—Yes—Stephen said.

—What was he?—Cranly asked after a pause.

Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes.

—A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a story-teller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a tax-gatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past.—

Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and said:

—The distillery is damn good.—

—Is there anything else you want to know?—Stephen asked.

—Are you in good circumstances at present?—

—Do I look it?—Stephen asked bluntly.

—So then—Cranly went on musingly—you were born in the lap of luxury.—

He used the phrase broadly and loudly as he often used technical expressions, as if he wished his hearer to understand that they were used by him without conviction.


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 —Your mother must have gone through a good deal of suffering—he said then.—Would you not try to save her from suffering more even if…or would you?—

—If I could—Stephen said—that would cost me very little.—

—Then do so—Cranly said.—Do as she wishes you to do. What is it for you? You disbelieve in it. It is a form: nothing else. And you will set her mind at rest.—

He ceased and, as Stephen did not reply, remained silent. Then, as if giving utterance to the process of his own thought, he said:

—Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must be. What are our ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that bloody bleating goat Temple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too. Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.—

Stephen, who had been listening to the unspoken speech behind the words, said with assumed carelessness:

—Pascal, if I remember rightly, would not suffer his mother to kiss him as he feared the contact of her sex.—

—Pascal was a pig—said Cranly.

—Aloysius Gonzaga, I think, was of the same mind—Stephen said.

—And he was another pig then—said Cranly.

—The church calls him a saint—Stephen objected.

—I don't care a flaming damn what anyone calls him


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 —Cranly said rudely and flatly.—I call him a pig.—

Stephen, preparing the words neatly in his mind, continued:

—Jesus, too, seems to have treated his mother with scant courtesy in public but Suarez, a jesuit theologian and Spanish gentleman, has apologized for him.—

—Did the idea ever occur to you—Cranly asked—that Jesus was not what he pretended to be?—

—The first person to whom that idea occurred—Stephen answered—was Jesus himself.—

—I mean—Cranly said—hardening in his speech—did the idea ever occur to you that he was himself a conscious hypocrite, what he called the jews of his time, a white sepulchre? Or, to put it more plainly, that he was a blackguard?—

—That idea never occurred to me—Stephen answered.—But I am curious to know are you trying to make a convert of me or a pervert of yourself?—

He turned towards his friend's face and saw there a raw smile which some force of will strove to make finely significant.—

Cranly asked suddenly in a plain sensible tone:—Tell me the truth. Were you at all shocked by what I said?—

—Somewhat—Stephen said.

—And why were you shocked—Cranly pressed on in the same tone—if you feel sure that our religion is false and that Jesus was not the son of God?—

—I am not at all sure of it—Stephen said.—He is more like a son of God than a son of Mary.—

—And is that why you will not communicate—Cranly asked—because you are not sure of that too, because you feel that the host, too, may be the body and


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 blood of the son of God and not a wafer of bread? And because you fear that it may be?—

—Yes—Stephen said quietly—I feel that and I also fear it.—

—I see.—Cranly said.

Stephen, struck by his tone of closure, reopened the discussion at once by saying:

—I fear many things: dogs, horses, fire-arms, the sea, thunderstorms, machinery, the country roads at night.—

—But why do you fear a bit of bread?—

—I imagine—Stephen said—that there is a malevolent reality behind those things I say I fear.—

—Do you fear then—Cranly asked—that the God of the Roman catholics would strike you dead and damn you if you made a sacrilegious communion?—

—The God of the Roman catholics could do that now—Stephen said.—I fear more than that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration.—

—Would you—Cranly asked—in extreme danger, commit that particular sacrilege? For instance, if you lived in the penal days?—

—I cannot answer for the past—Stephen replied.—Possibly not.—

—Then—said Cranly—you do not intend to become a protestant?—

—I said that I had lost the faith—Stephen answered—but not that I had lost selfrespect. What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?—

They had walked on towards the township of


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 and now, as they went on slowly along the avenues, the trees and the scattered lights in the villas soothed their minds. The air of wealth and repose diffused about them seemed to comfort their neediness. Behind a hedge of laurel a light glimmered in the window of a kitchen and the voice of a servant was heard singing as she sharpened knives. She sang, in short broken bars,

Rosie O'Grady—

Cranly stopped to listen, saying:

—Mulier cantat.—

The soft beauty of the Latin word touched with an enchanting touch the dark of the evening, with a touch fainter and more persuading than the touch of music or of a woman's hand. The strife of their minds was quelled. The figure of a woman as she appears in the liturgy of the church passed silently through the darkness: a white robed figure, small and slender as a boy, and with a falling girdle. Her voice, frail and high as a boy's, was heard intoning from a distant choir the first words of a woman which pierce the gloom and clamour of the first chanting of the passion:

—Et tu cum Jesu Galilæo eras.—

And all hearts were touched and turned to her voice, shining like a young star, shining clearer as the voice intoned the and more faintly as the cadence died.

The singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating in strongly stressed rhythm the end of the refrain:


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 —There's real poetry for you—he said.—There's real love.—

He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said:

—Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the words mean?—

—I want to see Rosie first, said Stephen.

—She's easy to find—Cranly said.

His hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back: and in the shadow of the trees Stephen saw his pale face, framed by the dark, and his large dark eyes. Yes. His face was handsome: and his body was strong and hard. He had spoken of a mother's love. He felt then the sufferings of women, the weaknesses of their bodies and souls: and would shield them with a strong and resolute arm and bow his mind to them.

Away then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen's lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to an end. Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part.

—Probably I shall go away—he said.

—Where?—Cranly asked.

—Where I can—Stephen said.

—Yes—Cranly said.—It might be difficult for you to live here now. But is it that makes you go?—

—I have to go—Stephen answered.

—Because—Cranly continued—you need not look upon yourself as driven away if you do not wish to go or as a heretic or an outlaw. There are many good believers who think as you do. Would that surprise you? The church is not the stone building nor even the clergy and their dogmas. It is the whole mass of those born


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 into it. I don't know what you wish to do in life. Is it what you told me the night we were standing outside Harcourt Street station?—

—Yes—Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cranly's way of remembering thoughts in connexion with places.—The night you spent half an hour wrangling with Doherty about the shortest way from Sallygap to Larras.—

—Pothead!—Cranly said with calm contempt.—What does he know about the way from Sallygap to Larras?—Or what does he know about anything for that matter? And the big slobbering washingpot head of him!—

He broke into a loud long laugh.

—Well?—Stephen said.—Do you remember the rest?—

—What you said, is it?—Cranly asked.—Yes, I remember it. To discover the mode of life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.—

Stephen raised his hat in acknowledgement.

—Freedom!—Cranly repeated.—But you are not free enough yet to commit a sacrilege. Tell me would you rob?—

—I would beg first—Stephen said.

—And if you got nothing, would you rob?—

—You wish me to say—Stephen answered—that the rights of property are provisional, and that in certain circumstances it is not unlawful to rob. Everyone would act in that belief. So I will not make you that answer. Apply to the jesuit theologian, Juan Mariana de Talavera, who will also explain to you in what circumstances you may lawfully Kill your king and whether you had


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 better hand him his poison in a goblet or smear it for him upon his robe or his saddlebow. Ask me rather would I suffer others to rob me or, if they did, would I call down upon them what I believe is called the chastisement of the secular arm?—

—And would you?—

—I think—Stephen said—it would pain me as much to do so as to be robbed.—

—I see—Cranly said.

He produced his match and began to clean the crevice between two teeth. Then he said carelessly:

—Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?—

—Excuse me—Stephen said politely—is that not the ambition of most young gentlemen?—

—What then is your point of view?—Cranly asked.

His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to brood.

—Look here, Cranly—he said.—You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile and cunning.—

Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back towards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm with an elder's affection.

—Cunning indeed!—he said.—Is it you? You poor poet, you!—


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 —And you made me confess to you—Stephen said, thrilled by his touch—as I have confessed to you so many other things, have I not?—

—Yes, my child—Cranly said, still gaily.

—You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too.—

Cranly, now grave again, slowed his pace and said:

—Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even one friend.—

—I will take the risk—said Stephen.

—And not to have any one person—Cranly said—who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.—

His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.

—Of whom are you speaking? Stephen asked at length.—

Cranly did not answer.

March 20. Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my revolt.

He had his grand manner on. I supple and suave.


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 Attacked me on the score of love for one's mother. Tried to imagine his mother: cannot. Told me once, in a moment of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one when he was born. Can see him. Strong farmer type. Pepper and salt suit. Square feet. Unkempt grizzled beard. Probably attends coursing matches. Pays his dues regularly but not plentifully to Father Dwyer of Larras. Sometimes talks to girls after nightfall. But his mother? Very young or very old? Hardly the first. If so, Cranly would not have spoken as he did. Old then. Probably, and neglected. Hence Cranly's despair of soul: the child of exhausted loins.

March 21, morning. Thought this in bed last night but was too lazy and free to add to it. Free, yes. The exhausted loins are those of Elizabeth and Zacchary. Then he is the precursor. Item: he eats chiefly belly bacon and dried figs. Read locusts and wild honey. Also, when thinking of him, saw always a stern severed head or death mask as if outlined on a grey curtain or veronica. Decollation they call it in the gold. Puzzled for the moment by saint John at the Latin gate. What do I see? A decollated percursor trying to pick the lock.

March 21, night. Free. Soul free and fancy free. Let the dead bury the dead. Ay. And let the dead marry the dead.

March 22. In company with Lynch followed a sizeable hospital nurse. Lynch's idea. Dislike it. Two lean hungry greyhounds walking after a heifer.

March 23. Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at the fire perhaps with mamma's shawl on her shoulders. But not peevish. A nice bowl of gruel? Won't you now?


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 March 24. Began with a discussion with my mother. Subject: B.V.M. Handicapped by my sex and youth. To escape held up relations between Jesus and Papa against those between Mary and her son. Said religion was not a lying-in hospital. Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. Then she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind. This means to leave church by backdoor of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance. Cannot repent. Told her so and asked for sixpence. Got threepence.

Then went to college. Other wrangle with little round head rogue's eye Ghezzi. This time about Bruno the Nolan. Began in Italian and ended in pidgin English. He said Bruno was a terrible heretic. I said he was terribly burned. He agreed to this with some sorrow. Then gave me recipe for what he calls ristollo alla bergamasca. When he pronounces a soft o he protrudes his full carnal lips as if he kissed the vowel. Has he? And could he repent? Yes, he could: and cry two round rogue's tears, one from each eye.

Crossing Stephen's, that is, my Green, remembered that his countrymen and not mine had invented what Cranly the other night called our religion. A quartet of them, soldiers of the ninetyseventh infantry regiment, sat at the foot of the cross and tossed up dice for the overcoat of the crucified.

Went to library. Tried to read three reviews. Useless. She is not out yet. Am I alarmed? About what? That she will never be out again.

Blake wrote:


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Alas, poor William!

I was once at a in Rotunda. At the end were pictures of big s. Among them William Ewart Gladstone, just then dead. Orchestra played O Willie, we Have Missed you.

A race of clodhoppers!

March 25, morning. A troubled night of dreams. Want to get them off my chest.

A long curving gallery. From the floor ascend pillars of dark vapours. It is peopled by the images of fabulous kings, set in stone. Their hands are folded upon their knees in token of weariness and their eyes are darkened for the errors of men go up before them for ever as dark vapours.

Strange figures advance as from a cave. They are not as tall as men. One does not seem to stand quite apart from another. Their faces are phosphorescent, with darker streaks. They peer at me and their eyes seem to ask me something. They do not speak.

March 30. This evening Cranly was in the porch of the library, proposing a problem to Dixon and her brother. A mother let her child fall into the Nile. Still harping on the mother. A crocodile seized the child. Mother asked it back. Crocodile said all right if she told him what he was going to do with the child, eat it or not eat it.

This mentality, Lepidus would say, is indeed bred out of your mud by the operation of your sun.

And mine? Is it not too? Then into Nile mud with it! [295]


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 April 1. Disapprove of this last phrase.

April 2. Saw her drinking tea and eating cakes in Johnston's, Mooney and O'Brien's. Rather, lynx eyed Lynch saw her as we passed. He tells me Cranly was invited there by brother. Did he bring his crocodile? Is he the shining light now? Well, I discovered him. I protest I did. Shining quietly behind a bushel of Wicklow bran.

April 3. Met Davin at the cigar shop opposite Findlater's church. He was in a black sweater and had a hurley stick. Asked me was it true I was going away and why. Told him the shortest way to Tara was via Holyhead. Just then my father came up. Introduction. Father, polite and observant. Asked Davin if he might offer him some refreshment. Davin could not, was going to a meeting. When we came away father told me he had a good honest eye. Asked me why I did not join a rowing club. I pretended to think it over. Told me then how he broke Pennyfeather's heart. Wants me to read law. Says I was cut out for that. More mud, more crocodiles.

April 5. Wild spring. Scudding clouds. O life! Dark stream of swirling bogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers. Eyes of girls among the leaves. Girls demure and romping. All fair or auburn: no dark ones. They blush better. Houp-la!

April 6. Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all women do. Then she remembers the time of her childhood—and mine if I was ever a child. The past is consumed in the present and the present is living only because it brings forth the future. Statues of women, if Lynch be right, should always be fully draped, one [296]


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 hand of the woman feeling regretfully her own hinder parts.

April 6, Later. Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

April 10. Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence of the city which has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as a weary lover whom no caresses move, the sound of hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly now as they come near the bridge: and in a moment as they pass the darkened windows the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end—what heart? —bearing what tidings?

April 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also.

April 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it up and find it English and good old blunt English too. Damn the dean of studies and his funnel! What did he come here for to teach us his own language or to learn it from us. Damn him one way or the other!

April 14. John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of Ireland. European and Asiatic papers please copy. He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. [297]


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 Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said:

—Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of the world.—

I fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must struggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till... Till what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean no harm.

April 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street. The crowd brought us together. We both stopped. She asked me why I never came, said she had heard all sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain time. Asked me was I writing poems? About whom? I asked her. This confused her more and I felt sorry and mean. Turned off that valve at once and opened the spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus, invented and patented in all countries by Dante Alighieri. Talked rapidly of myself and my plans. In the midst of it unluckily I made a sudden gesture of a revolutionary nature. I must have looked like a fellow throwing a handful of peas into the air. People began to look at us. She shook hands a moment after and, in going away, said she hoped I would do what I said.

Now I call that friendly, don't you?

Yes, I liked her today. A little or much? Don't know. I liked her and it seems a new feeling to me. Then, in that case, all the rest, all that I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest before now, in fact... O, give it up, old chap! Sleep it off!

April 16. Away! Away!

The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, [298]


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 their promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone—come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth.

April 26. Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in order. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

April 27. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.

THE END

Dublin, 1904. Trieste, 1914. [299]


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 1835, sub-manager of the Varteg ironworks, near Pontypool. On the closing of the Varteg works in 1840 Bowman betook himself to study, graduated M.A. at Glasgow, and attended lectures at Berlin, acquiring several modern languages and mastering various branches of physical science. In 1846 Francis W. Newman resigned the classical chair in the Manchester New College, having been elected to the chair of Latin in University College, London. Bowman was immediately appointed his successor at Manchester as professor of classical literature and history, and he held that post till the removal of the college to Gordon Square, London, as a purely theological institution, in 1853. To this removal he was strongly opposed. Remaining in Manchester, though possessed of a sufficient independence, he gratified his natural taste for teaching by engaging in the education of girls. For the study of astronomy he had built himself an excellent observatory. On optics and acoustics he delivered several courses of lectures at the Manchester Royal Institution and elsewhere. From 1865, when the Owens scholarship was founded in connection with the Unitarian Home Missionary Board, he was one of the examiners. He was a man of undemonstrative disposition, of wise kindness, and of cultured philanthropy. He died, unmarried, at Victoria Park, Manchester, on 10 July 1869. Among his publications are:
 * 1) 'Arguments against the Divine Authority of the Sabbath … considered, and shown to be inconclusive' 1842, 8vo.
 * 2) 'Some Remarks on the proposed Removal of Manchester New College, and its Connection with University College, London,' 1848, 8vo.
 * 3) 'Replies to Articles relating to Manchester New College and University College,' 1848, 8vo.
 * 4) 'On the Roman Governors of Syria at the time of the Birth of Christ' (anonymous, but signed B.), 1855, 8vo (an able and learned monograph, reprinted from the 'Christian Reformer,' October 1855, a magazine to which he was a frequent contributor).

BOWMAN, HENRY (fl. 1677), was a musician, of whose life little is recorded. He was probably a connection of that Franc. Bowman mentioned by Anthony à Wood as a bookseller of St. Mary's parish, Oxford, with whom lodged Thomas Wren, the bishop of Ely's son, an amateur musician of repute in Oxford (, Athenæ Oxon. (Bliss), i. xxv). Henry was organist of Trinity College, Cambridge, and published in 1677 at Oxford a thin folio volume of 'Songs for one, two, and three Voices to Thorow Bass; with some short Simphonies collected out of some of the Select Poems of the incomparable Mr. Cowley and others, and composed by H. B., Philo Musicus.' A second edition was brought out at Oxford in 1679. The Oxford Music School Collection contains some English songs and a set of 'Fifteen Ayres,' which were 'first performed in the schooles 5 Feb. 1673-4.' In the same collection are some Latin motets by Bowman, and the Christ Church Collection contains a manuscript Miserere by him.

 BOWMAN, JOHN EDDOWES, the elder (1785–1841), banker and naturalist, was born 30 Oct. 1785 at Nantwich, where his father, Eddowes Bowman (1758-1844), was a tobacconist. His education was only that of a grammar school, but he was a bookish boy, and got from his father a taste for botany, and from his friend Joseph Hunter (1783-1861), then a lad at Sheffield, a fondness for genealogy. He was at first in his father's shop, and became manager of the manufacturing department, and traveller. He wished to enter the ministry of the Unitarian body to which his family belonged, but his father dissuaded him. In 1813 he joined, as junior partner, a banking business on which his father entered. Its failure in 1816 left him penniless, and he became manager at Welshpool of a branch of the bank of Beck & Co. of Shrewsbury. In 1824 he became managing partner of a bank at Wrexham, and was able to retire from business in 1830. From 1837 he resided in Manchester, where he pursued many branches of physical science. He was a fellow of the Linnean and Geological Societies, and one of the founders of the Manchester Geological Society. His discoveries were chiefly in relation to mosses, fungi, and parasitical plants. A minute fossil, which he detected in Derbyshire, is named from him the 'Endothyra Bowmanni.' In the last years of his life he devoted himself almost entirely to geology. He died on 4 Dec. 1841. He married, 6 July 1809, his cousin, Elizabeth (1788-1859), daughter of W. Eddowes of Shrewsbury. A daughter, married to George S. Kenrick, died in November 1838. Four sons survived him : 1. [q. v.] 2. Henry [see below]. 3. Sir William, born 20 July 1816, the distinguished oculist.


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 how he was put into the Jedburgh tolbooth as a precautionary measure, the officer remarking, 'I ken very weel that you'll preach, by your looks.' In March 1702 he sailed for America, arriving in Potuxant river, Maryland, at the end of May. Preaching here, he soon received a written challenge from George Keith,who had left the quakers in 1692. After leading a sect of his own, Keith had received Anglican orders in May 1700, and was now an ardent (and not unsuccessful) advocate of episcopacy. Bownas wrote declining ' to take any notice of one that hath been so very mutable in his pretences to religion;' but he distributed a tract (whether original or not does not appear) in answer to one by Keith. Keith got him prosecuted for his preaching, and on 30 Sept. 1702 he was put into the county gaol of Queen's County, Long Island, as he would not give bail, ' if as small a sum as three-halfpence would do.' On 28 Dec. the grand jury threw out the indictment, but Bownas was held in prison, where he learned to make shoes, and had a visit from an 'Indian king, as he styled himself,' who discoursed with him about the good Monettay, or God, and the bad Monettay, or Devil. A seventh-day baptist, John Rogers, also came to confer with him. On 3 Sept. 1703 he was set at liberty. After further travels in America he returned home, reaching Portsmouth in October 1706. He was married in the spring of 1707; his wife's name is not given; she died in September 1719. He visited Ireland in 1708, and was put into Bristol gaol for tithes by the Rev. William Ray, of Lymington, in 1712, but was soon let out; after all, the parson outwitted Mrs. Bownas, and got 101. for tithe, a sore subject with the poor woman on her death-bed.

In February 1722 Bownas married his second wife, a widow named Nichols, of Bridport, where he henceforth resided, though he still travelled much. Visiting America again in 1726, he met Elizabeth Hanson, of 'Knoxmarsh, in Kecheachy, in Dover township,' New England, from whom he obtained particulars of her captivity (with her children) among the Indians in 1724. The substance of the story was afterwards printed. The London reprint of this 'Account of the Captivity, &c.,' 1760, 8vo (2nd edition, same year; 3rd edition, 1782; 4th edition, 1787), purports to be 'by Samuel Bownas,' but it is a mere reissue, with a new title, of an American publication, 'God's mercy surmounting Man's Cruelty, &c.,' which Bownas expressly says that he first saw in Dublin. He got home again on 2 Aug. 1728, travelled in the north and in Ireland; lost his second wife on 6 March 1746; and continued to travel at intervals till within a few years of his death, which took place at Bridport on 2 April 1753. He was a tall man, with a great voice, ready in retort, more given to scriptural argument than some of the earlier Friends. He wrote:
 * 1) Preface (dated Lymington, 2 June 1715) prefixed to Daniel Taylor's 'Remains,' 1715, 8vo (edited by Bownas).
 * 2) 'Considerations on a Pamphlet entituled, The Duty of Consulting a Spiritual Guide, &c.,' 1724, 8vo (in reply to a Lincolnshire clergyman named Bowyer).
 * 3) 'A Description of the Qualifications necessary to a Gospel Minister, &c.,'1750, 8vo; 2nd edition, 1767, 8vo (with appendix); 3rd edition, 1853, 16mo (with new appendix).
 * 4) 'Account of the Life, Travels, … of Samuel Bownas,' 1756, 8vo (this is an autobiography to 2 Sept. 1749, with preface by Joseph Besse, and testimony of the Bridport monthly meeting), reprinted 1761, 8vo; 1795, 12mo; Stamford, 1805, 12mo; 1836, 16mo; Philadelphia, 1839: 1846, 8vo.

 BOWNDE or BOUND, NICHOLAS, D.D. (d. 1613), divine, was son of Richard Bound, M.D., physician to the Duke of Norfolk. He received his academical education at Peterhouse, Cambridge, of which college he was elected a fellow in 1570 (Addit. MS. 5843, f. 41 b). He graduated B.A. in 1571 and M.A. in 1575. On 19 July 1577 he was incorporated in the latter degree at Oxford, and on 3 Sept. 1585 he was instituted to the rectory of Norton in Suffolk, a living in the gift of his college. He was created D.D. at Cambridge in 1594.

In 1595 Bownde published the first edition of his famous treatise on the Sabbath. In it he maintained that the seventh part of our time ought to be devoted to the service of God; that Christians are bound to rest on the seventh day of the week as much as the Jews were on the Mosaical sabbath. He contended that the 'sabbath' was profaned by interludes, May-games, morris dances, shooting, bowling, and similar sports; and he would not allow any feasting on that day, though an exception was made in favour of 'noblemen and great personages' (Sabbathvm veteris et novi Testamenti, 211). The observance of the Lord's day immediately became a question between the high-church party and the puritans, and it is worthy of notice that this was the first disagreement between them upon any point of doctrine. The sabbatarian question, as it was henceforth called, soon became the sign by which, above all


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 13. Connecticut to Virginia, May, 1799.

At a General Assembly of the State of Connecticut, holden at Hartford, in the said State, on the second Thursday of May, Anno Domini 1799, his excellency, the Governor, having communicated to this Assembly sundry resolutions of the Legislature of Virginia, adopted in December, 1798, which relate to the measures of the general government, and the said resolutions having been considered, it is

Resolved, That this Assembly views with deep regret, and explicitly disavows, the principles contained in the aforesaid resolutions, and particularly the opposition to the "Alien and Sedition Acts"—acts which the Constitution authorized, which the exigency of the country rendered necessary, which the constituted authorities have enacted, and which merit the entire approbation of this Assembly. They, therefore, decidedly refuse to concur with the legislature of Virginia in promoting any of the objects attempted in the aforesaid resolutions.

And it is further resolved, That his excellency, the Governor, be requested to transmit a copy of the foregoing resolutions to the Governor of Virginia, that it may be communicated to the Legislature of that State.

[Passed both branches unanimously; Elliot's Va. and Ky. Res., 14.] 14. New Hampshire to Virginia and Kentucky, June 15, 1799.

, June 14, 1799.

The committee to take into consideration the resolutions of the General Assembly of Virginia, dated December 21, 1798; also certain resolutions of the Legislature of Kentucky, of the 10th November, 1798, report as follows:

The Legislature of New Hampshire, having taken into consideration certain resolutions of the General Assembly of Virginia, dated December 21, 1798; also certain resolutions of the Legislature of Kentucky, of the 10th of November, 1798:

Resolved, That the Legislature of New Hampshire unequivocally express a firm resolution to maintain and defend the Constitution of the United States, and the Constitution of this State, against


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 others, the two parties were distinguished. The new doctrine made a deep impression on men's minds. The prelates took official cognisance of it, and cited several ministers before the ecclesiastical courts for preaching it. But these extreme measures were unavailing to prevent the rapid spread of the strict sabbatarian doctrine.

In 1611 Bownde became minister of the church of St. Andrew the Apostle at Norwich, and he was buried there on 26 Dec. 1613. He married the widow of John More, the 'apostle of Norwich.' His daughter Anne married John Dod (, Lives, ed. 1677, p. 169); and his widow married Richard Greenham (ib, 13, 169).

Subjoined is a list of his works:
 * 1) 'Three godly and fruitfull Sermons, declaring how we may be saved in the day of Judgement. … Preached and written by M. John More, late Preacher in the Citie of Norwitch. And now first published by M. Nicholas Bound, whereto he hath adjoined of his owne, A Sermon of Comfort for the Afflicted; and a short treatise of a contented mind,' Cambridge, 1594, 4to.
 * 2) 'The Doctrine of the Sabbath, plainely layde forth, and soundly proued by testimonies both of holy Scripture, and also of olde and new ecclesiastical writers. … Together with the sundry abuses of our time in both these kindes, and how they ought to bee reformed,' London, 1595, 4to. Dedicated to Robert Devereux, earl of Essex. Reprinted, with additions, under the title of 'Sabbathvm veteris et novi Testamenti: or the true doctrine of the Sabbath …,' London, 1606, 4to.
 * 3) 'Medicines for the Plagve: that is, Godly and fruitfull Sermons vpon part of the twentieth Psalme … more particularly applied to this late visitation of the Plague,' London, 1604, 4to.
 * 4) 'The Holy Exercise of Fasting. Described largely and plainly out of the word of God. … In certaine Homilies or Sermons …,' Cambridge, 1604, 4to. Dedicated to Dr. Jegon, bishop of Norwich.
 * 5) 'The Vnbeliefe of St. Thomas the Apostle, laid open for the comfort of all that desire to beleeue …,' London, 1608, 8vo; reprinted, London, 1817, 12mo.
 * 6) 'A Treatise ful of Consolation for all that are afflicted in minde or bodie or otherwise …,' Cambridge, 1608, 8vo; reprinted, London, 1817, 12mo. The reprints of this and the preceding work were edited by G. W. Marriot. Bownde has a Latin ode before Peter Baro's 'Prælectiones in Ionam,' 1579; and he edited the Rev. Henry More's 'Table from the Beginning of the World to this Day. Wherein is declared in what yeere of the World everything was done,' Cambridge, 1593.

 BOWNE, PETER (1575–1624?), physician, was a native of Bedfordshire; became at the age of fifteen a scholar of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, in April 1590; and was afterwards elected a fellow of that society. After taking degrees in arts he applied himself to medicine, and proceeded B.M. and D.M. at Oxford on 12 July 1614. He was admitted a candidate of the College of Physicians on 24 Jan. 1616-17, and fellow on 21 April 1620. On 3 March 1623-4 Richard Spicer was admitted a fellow in his place. According to Wood, Bowne practised medicine in London, 'and was much in esteem for it in the latter end of King Jam. I and beginning of Ch. I.' It is probable, nevertheless, that 1624 was the date of his death. He was the author of 'Pseudo-Medicorum Anatomia,' London, 1624, 4to, in which his name appears as Bounæus. A Laurentius Bounæus, probably a son of Peter Bowne, matriculated at Leyden University on 16 Nov. 1602, and is described in the register as 'Anglus-Londinensis' ( Leyden Students (Index Soc.), p. 12).

 BOWNESS, WILLIAM (1809–1867), painter, was born at Kendal. He was self-taught, and after some practice in his native town he, soon after his twentieth year, came to London and achieved moderate success as a portrait and figure painter. In 1836 he exhibited his 'Keepsake' at the Royal Academy, and afterwards sent thither about one picture annually until his death. He also contributed to the exhibitions of the British Institution in Pall Mall, and, in great number, to those


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 every aggression, either foreign or domestic, and that they will support the government of the United States in all measures warranted by the former.

That the State Legislatures are not the proper tribunals to determine the constitutionality of the laws of the general government; that the duty of such decision is properly and exclusively confided to the judicial department.

That, if the Legislature of New Hampshire, for mere speculative purposes, were to express an opinion on the acts of the general government, commonly called "the Alien and Sedition Bills," that opinion would unreservedly be, that those acts are constitutional, and, in the present critical situation of our country, highly expedient.

That the constitutionality and expediency of the acts aforesaid, have been very ably advocated and clearly demonstrated by many citizens of the United States, more especially by the minority of the General Assembly of Virginia. The Legislature of New Hampshire, therefore, deem it unnecessary, by any train of arguments, to attempt further illustration of the propositions, the truth of which, it is confidently believed, at this day, is very generally seen and acknowledged.

Which report, being read and considered, was unanimously received and accepted, one hundred and thirty-seven members being present.

In Senate, same day, read and concurred unanimously.

[Elliot's Va. and Ky. Res., 14, 15.]

15. Vermont to Virginia, October 30, 1799.

, October 30, A. D. 1799.

The House proceeded to take under their consideration the resolutions of the General Assembly of Virginia, relative to certain measures of the general government, transmitted to the Legislature of this State, for their consideration: Whereupon,

Resolved, That the General Assembly of the State of Vermont do highly disapprove of the resolutions of the General Assembly of Virginia, as being unconstitutional in their nature, and


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  in their tendency. It belongs not to State Legislatures to decide on the constitutionality of laws made by the general government; this power being exclusively vested in the judiciary courts of the Union. That his excellency, the governor, be requested to transmit a copy of this resolution to the executive of Virginia, to be communicated to the General Assembly of that State: And that the same be sent to the Governor and Council for their concurrence.

In Council, October 30, 1799. Read and concurred unanimously.

[Elliot's Va. and Ky. Res., 15.]

The General Court of Massachusetts on the Embargo.

1808, 1809.

The embargo act, passed December 22, 1807 (U. S. Stat. at Large, II, 451–453) was at first acquiesced in by the majority of the people in New England, and the Democratic-Republican party being in control of the State government of Massachusetts, the General Court passed a resolution, February 8, 1808, declaring that "we consider the imposing of embargo a wise and highly expedient measure, and from its impartial nature calculated to secure to us the blessings of peace." (Resolves of Mass., 1808, 89, 90.) As the distress resulting from the embargo increased, resistance began to show itself, and gradually political power returned to the party in opposition. The Federalists carried both branches of the legislature by a small majority in the spring of 1808, although the Republican Governor, James Sullivan, was re-elected. The change in the legislature is at once apparent in their "Answers" to the Governor's "Speech," June 9, 1808, in which the embargo is denounced and its constitutionality questioned. (Resolves of Mass., 1808, 164–173; see also Barry's Mass., III, 359, 360, note.) A similar spirit is shown in the November session (Ibid., 207), and on November 18, 1808, the legislature instructed the State's delegation in Congress to procure the repeal of the embargo laws. (Amer. State Papers, Commerce and Navigation, I, 728–729.) But Congress, instead of repealing the obnoxious laws, passed a stringent enforcement act, which became a law January 9, 1809. (U. S. Stat. at Large, II, 506–511.) This called forth the pent-up anger and indignation of the Federalists. The protests and resolutions of the various towns in the State vied with each other in their vehemence, and there were ominous whisperings of secession. (Adams, United States, IV, 408–419.) Such was the situation when the General Court re-assembled, January 26, 1809. The Lieutenant-Governor, Levi Lincoln, an ardent supporter of Jefferson, succeeded to the duties of the


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  carmen gratulatorium,’ London, 1660, fol. 2. ‘Methodi practicæ specimen; an Essay of a Practical Grammar,’ 1660; 8th edit. amended, 1682. 3. ‘English-Latin and Latin-English Dictionary,’ 1661. 4. ‘Latin Version of Sir John Spelman's Life of Alfred,’ 1678, fol. 5. ‘Considerations concerning Free Schools in England,’ Oxford, 1678, 8vo, urging an increase in the number of schools and the claims of scholars on the wealthy. 6. ‘Translation of Cicero's Tusculans,’ 1683. 7. ‘Animadversiones Nonianæ,’ Oxford, 1685, 4to. 8. ‘C. Wasii Senarius, sive de Legibus et Licentia veterum Poetarum,’ Oxford, 1687, 4to.

Wase's son, (1662–1711), matriculated from Magdalen College on 19 Oct. 1677, graduated B.A. from Corpus Christi College in 1681, M.A. on 23 March 1684–5, was proctor in 1691, and graduated B.D. in 1694. He was vicar of Preston in Gloucestershire from 1687 to 1690, and dying on 4 April 1711 was buried in Corpus chapel. He was a great collector of coins (see, Collections, i. 133 et seq. passim), which he left apparently to his college (, pp. 401–2; see also Life and Times, ed. Clark, passim, and , Alumni Oxon. 1500–1714).

[Authorities cited; Wood's Athenæ, vol. i. p. cvii, vol. iii. col. 884; Wood's Life and Times, ed. Clark; Nichols's Lit. Anecd. iii. 469, v. 208; Chalmers's Biogr. Dict.; Cat. of British Museum; Hill's Boswell, v. 445; Register of Tonbridge school.]

 WASEY, WILLIAM (1691–1757), physician, was son of William Wasey, an attorney, who resided at Brunstead in Norfolk, and was born there in 1691. He was educated for five years at Norwich grammar school, and was admitted a pensioner at Caius College, Cambridge, on 2 Nov. 1708. He was a scholar of the college from Michaelmas 1708 to Michaelmas 1715, and graduated B.A. in 1712–13 and M.A. in 1716. He matriculated at Leyden University on 1 Oct. 1716, but, returning to Cambridge, he graduated M.D. in 1723. He was admitted a candidate of the College of Physicians, London, on 23 Dec. 1723, and a fellow on 22 Dec. 1724. He was censor of the college in 1731, 1736, 1739, and 1748; was named an elect on 30 Aug. 1746; and was consiliarius in 1749 and 1754. On the death of James Jurin [q. v.] he was elected president, 2 April 1750, and was reappointed 1750, 1751, 1752, and 1753. He was chosen physician to the Westminster Hospital at its foundation in 1719, but resigned his office there in 1733, having been one of the six physicians appointed to St. George's Hospital at the first general board held on 19 Oct. of that year. He died on 1 April 1757. His library was sold by auction soon after his death.

[Munk's Coll. of Phys.; Records of Caius Coll. Cambridge; Gent. Mag. 1757; Records of St. George's Hospital.]

 WASHBOURN, JOHN (1760?–1829), local historian, son of John Washbourn (d. 1824?), was descended from an ancient Gloucestershire family (, Commoners, iii. 621; cf. art. ), and was born at Gloucester in 1759 or 1760. He entered the business of his father, a printer and bookseller in Westgate Street, Gloucester, and both father and son were long connected with the corporation of that city. Their typography was noted for its accuracy; but Washbourn's chief claim to notice is his ‘Bibliotheca Gloucestrensis: a Collection of scarce and curious Tracts relating to the County and City of Gloucester illustrative of and published during the Civil War,’ Gloucester, 4to. The second part was published first in 1823, the first part, containing an historical introduction by John Webb [q. v.], not appearing till 1825. Washbourn died on 25 April 1829, aged 69, and was buried in the unitarian burial-ground at Gloucester, where also was buried his wife Mary, who died, aged 63, at Newent on 28 June 1833.

[Notes kindly supplied by F. A. Hyett, esq.; Gent. Mag. 1829, ii. 92; pref. to Bibl. Gloucestrensis.]

 WASHBOURNE, THOMAS (1606–1687), canon of Gloucester, born in 1606, was younger son of John Washbourne of Wichenford, Worcestershire, by his second wife, Elenor, daughter of Richard Lygon (d. 1584) of Madresfield, ancestor of the earls Beauchamp. The Washbourne family had been settled in Gloucestershire for several centuries. Thomas entered Balliol College, Oxford, as a commoner in 1622, and graduated B.A. on 13 Feb. 1625–6, M.A. on 25 June 1628, and B.D. on 1 April 1636. In 1639 he was made rector of Loddington, Northamptonshire, and in 1640 of Dumbleton, Gloucestershire. In 1643 he was nominated to a prebend in Gloucestershire Cathedral, and is said to have been installed in the night owing to the civil war. He does not seem to have been ejected from his livings during the Commonwealth (, Sufferings, ii. 33), but at the Restoration he was formally presented to his prebend on 23 July 1660 and admitted 7 Aug.; nine days later he was created D.D. at Oxford. From 1660 to 1668 he was vicar of St. Mary's,


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Talk:History of the United States During the Administrations of Thomas Jefferson

I suggest moving this to History of the United States of America and using these editions from Internet Archive as backing scans. The years (1801-09) do not appear in any of the editions that I've seen on archive.org. Any objections? —Spangineerwp (háblame) 14:28, 14 October 2010 (UTC)


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But although here and there some genius arose from out the working classes, they were as yet no power in the land. At Queen Victoria's accession 40 per cent of the men and 65 per cent of the women could not sign their names. Their wages were deplorable, and their employers could work them just as long as they dared. Any combined attempt at remonstrance was put down by force, until the murmur of discontent grew louder and louder, and the Act forbidding working men to combine was repealed. Nor was this the only step taken to ameliorate the lot of the working classes of England at this time. A more merciful condition prevailed in our prisons. Men were no longer hanged for such trivial offences as heretofore. In 1832, the death sentence for sheep-stealing and forgery was abolished, and executions diminished steadily, until in 1841 capital punishment was enforced for murder only—"a life for a life was all the law could exact." Nevertheless, executions were still performed in public, and


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 whole I think it rather vulgarises the scene too much, and I am glad that it is found not to answer, and is to be dropped next year." Well-known, indeed, is the opposition that had to be overcome with regard to acceleration of speed. Men contended that even if a speed of fifteen miles an hour were attained, the dangers of bursting boilers and broken wheels would be so great that "people would suffer themselves to be fired off upon a rocket, sooner than trust themselves to the mercy of a machine going at such a prodigious rate." While "as to those persons who speculate on making railways general throughout the kingdom, and superseding all the wagons, mail, stage coaches, and post chaises—we deem them and their visionary schemes unworthy of notice."

But nothing could daunt the brave spirit of this son of the people. The Liverpool and Manchester Railway was opened in 1829, and Stephenson triumphantly drove his engine at the hitherto undreamt-of rate of thirty-six miles an hour, a speed which was exactly doubled in 1885. There is no need to dwell on the success of the early railways—


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 of the wealthy and powerful, while they, the workers—those who toiled with their hands, who gave their lives, courage, patience, skill, endurance, obedience; who suffered and died, striving not ignobly—had no share, nor was it possible for them to rise in the social scale. Truly this was impossible, as they had no knowledge and little or no education, while excessive gin-drinking was sapping away their very manhood. Nevertheless, it was from the people that arose the man who, by his own industry and inventive genius, changed the face of England by the railway system, which completely revolutionised the country. Born of parents too poor to pay for his schooling, living one of eight in a single room, Stephenson worked perseveringly at the improvement of the locomotive engine. Since the days of Watt, steam had made great progress. In 1819 the first steamer had crossed the Atlantic, and steamboats were plying on the Thames, but there were many who shared the hopes of one when he said: "This is a new experiment for the temptation of tourists … It was certainly very strange and striking to hear and see it hissing and roaring, foaming and spouting like an angry whale; but on the


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 Clapham, Camberwell, Highgate, &c., for those who could not afford their own carriage or horse. Every one in this set dined in the middle of the day. There were sociable evenings with sit-down tea, cakes, muffins, homemade bread and home-made jam. No pipes were smoked in this community—only workingmen smoked pipes; but tobacco was still taken in the form of snuff by men and women alike. They had not many amusements. They had no lawn tennis, no croquet, no amateur photography. There were a few quiet archery parties, and punctilious calls at stated intervals on neighbours, when decanters of port and sherry, with biscuits, were put on the table. In provincial towns there was the annual interest of the county ball, when folk of the highest rank and fashion danced the newest step in the newest clothes, to the admiration of the local society. But, like "a Hindu caste," each class kept strictly to themselves. But when all is said and done, the most remarkable development of society during the nineteenth century has been in connection with the People. So far they had played no part in the government of the country, which was still wholly in the hands


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 children—the more they show their need of support, the more engaging they are; in everything that women attempt they should show their consciousness of dependence." "Never ask a lady any questions about anything whatever," says the book of etiquette. "Familiarity is the greatest vice of society."

But times were changing every day, and the barrier between class and class was breaking down at every stage. To marry fortune was the dominating idea of every well-born household, and these fortunes were now being acquired by the middle classes of England. Here, too, we find the artistic, literary, and musical circles. From this great class sprang the novelists, the poets, the journalists, the writers that adorned the nineteenth century. Dickens, Thackeray, Keats, Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Maria Edgeworth, Harriet Martineau, Jane Austen, these did not belong to the exclusive circle chosen by the famous Committee of Six. They knew better than to apply. In the provincial towns and in the suburbs of London resided the middle class. Merchants and shopkeepers often lived in the City, but there were short stage carriages to such places as Islington,


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 Gloucester. He died there on 6 May 1687, and was buried in the cathedral. By his wife, a daughter of Dr. [q. v.], he had a large family.

Washbourne published two sermons and ‘Divine Poems,’ London, 1654, 8vo. Prefixed to the latter are ‘Verses to his Friend Thomas Washbourne,’ by [q. v.], Milton's nephew. Specimens from Washbourne's poems are printed in Brydges's ‘British Bibliographer’ (iv. 45), and the whole work was edited, with a biographical introduction, by Dr. A. B. Grosart, in the ‘Fuller Worthies Library,’ 1868.

WASHINGTON, JOHN (1800–1863), rear-admiral and hydrographer, entered the navy in May 1812 on board the Junon, in which he served during the operations in the Chesapeake [see, (1772–1853)]. In October 1813 he was moved into the Sybille, which in 1814 was sent to the coast of Greenland to protect the whalers. In November he joined the Royal Naval College, from which he passed out in May 1816 with the gold medal for proficiency in mathematics. He then served for three years in the Forth on the North American station, and afterwards in the Vengeur and Superb on the South American station, till promoted to the rank of lieutenant on 1 Jan. 1821. He was at this time at Valparaiso, and returned to England by what was then an adventurous journey across the Andes and the pampas to Buenos Ayres. In February 1823 he was appointed to the Parthian sloop in the West Indies, after which he was for two years on half-pay, and travelled in France, Spain, and Italy, improving his knowledge of the languages of these countries. In May 1827 he was appointed to the Weasel in the Mediterranean, and in December was moved to the Dartmouth frigate, returning to England in the following spring. During this time he had obtained leave of absence, and travelled in Morocco in company with (Sir) John Drummond-Hay, and determined several positions by astronomical observations. From 1830 to 1833 he was flag-lieutenant to Sir [q. v.], commander-in-chief at the Nore, and on 14 Aug. 1833 was promoted to the rank of commander.

From 1836 to 1841 he served as secretary of the Royal Geographical Society, of which society (founded in 1830) he was one of the original members. As secretary, with the assistance of one clerk, he did the whole work of the society, the success of which in its early days was largely due to his energy and devotion. In March 1841 he was appointed to the Shearwater, for surveying work on the east coast of England, and in January 1842 was temporarily lent to the Black Eagle yacht, appointed to bring the king of Prussia to England. In compliment to the king of Prussia, Washington was made captain on 16 March. In January 1843 he was moved to the Blazer, in which he continued the survey of the east coast till 1847. In January 1845 he was also appointed a commissioner for inquiring into the state of the rivers, shores, and harbours of the United Kingdom, and in February was elected a fellow of the Royal Society. Afterwards he was employed in the railway and harbour department of the admiralty; and in 1853, having to visit Denmark, Sweden, and Russia to settle some matters as to an establishment of lifeboats, he was directed by Sir James Graham, then first lord of the admiralty, to collect what information he could as to the state of the Russian Baltic fleet and the defences of Cronstadt, Reval, and Sveaborg. This he did, having also the happy chance of seeing a division of the fleet at sea and watching its manœuvres. During these years he had been acting as assistant to Sir [q. v.], the hydrographer; and on Beaufort's resignation in 1855, Washington was appointed as his successor. This office he held till his death, being promoted to the rank of rear-admiral on 12 April 1862.

A man of nervous temperament, the sensibility of which was perhaps increased by his unremitting attention to the work of the office, his health was already much shaken, when it received a further blow by the death of a dearly loved son, and by the accusation made by some of the newspapers that the wreck of the Orpheus on 7 Feb. 1863, on the coast of New Zealand, was owing to the carelessness or culpable ignorance of the hydrographic office. It was easy to show that the accusation was groundless, and that the ship was supplied with the best charts and the latest information; but the injury to Washington proved fatal. After a short visit to Switzerland he was on his way home when he died at Havre on 16 Sept. 1863. On the 19th he was buried in the protestant cemetery at Havre, the funeral being attended by the French officials of the town and representatives from the ministère de la marine in Paris. In September 1833 Washington married Eleonora, youngest daughter


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 executive office, owing to the death of the Governor. In his "Speech" to the legislature, he deprecated the agitation against the laws of the land, condemned the action of the town meetings as seditious and uncalled for, and suggested further restraints upon the licentiousness of the press as desirable. (Resolves of Mass., 1809, 221–229.) Both branches of the legislature "answered" with spirit, as the extracts given below show. They also adopted a Report and Resolutions on the petitions of the town-meetings, extracts from which follow; dispatched a Memorial and Remonstrance to Congress (Amer. State Papers, Commerce, etc., I, 776–778) issued an Address to the People of the Commonwealth, suggesting as "indispensable amendments" to the Federal Constitution, one abolishing the three-fifths representation for slaves, and another "to secure commerce and navigation from a repetition of destructive and insidious theories," and declaring that "nothing less than a perfect union and intelligence among the Eastern States can preserve to them any share of influence in the national government" (Patriotic Proceedings, 126–130; Hildreth, VI, 151–154); denounced the acts of the Lieutenant-Governor in detaching State militia to aid in carrying out the Enforcement Act "as irregular, illegal and inconsistent with the principles of the constitution;" passed a bill "against unreasonable, arbitrary and unconstitutional searches," which was intended to prevent the execution of the Enforcement Act, but which was vetoed by the Governor; and finally, set apart a "Day of Humiliation and Prayer."

The threatening attitude of Massachusetts and several of the other New England States led the federal administration to consent to the repeal of the Embargo, and the substitution of a non-intercourse act. (March 1, 1809, U. S. Stat. at Large, II, 528–533.) The recent experience of the State led Governor Gore to suggest, and the Legislature to propose, June 20, 1809, an amendment to the Constitution, placing a limit on the duration of an embargo to "thirty days from the commencement of the session of Congress next succeeding that session in which said law shall have been enacted." (Resolves of Mass., 1809, 312, 313, 356, 357.) This recommendation appears to have received only the approval of Connecticut, but was disapproved of by the legislatures of at least eight States. (Ames, Proposed Amendments, 264, 329.)

References: In addition to the above, the texts of the important measures are given in The Patriotick Proceeding of the Legislature of Massachusetts, [Boston, 1809]; several are found in The American Register, 1809, Part II, 183–209 [Phila., 1809]; The Memorial to Congress is also given in ''Amer. State Papers, Commerce, etc., I, 776–778; Annals of Congress, 10 Cong., 2 Sess., 444–450; for debate on same and refusal to print in House of Rep., Annals, 538, 539; for history, see Adams, United States, IV, esp. 398–453; Hildreth, VI, esp. 75–79, 108–117, 151–154; McMaster, III, esp. 321–331; Barry, Massachusetts, III, 352–364; Adams, New Eng. Federalism'', esp.


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 advises: "Never permit the sanctity of a drawing-room to be violated by a boot." The women of the period never wore boots, but light high-heeled shoes. Suitability of dress had not occurred to our great-grandmothers. They went out in November fogs and bleak January days clad in light delicate muslins and cambrics. Even the universal pelisse which was necessary for warmth was often made of azure blue sarcenet or flame coloured silk, while large Leghorn straw bonnets with blue ribbon bows and white feathers surmounted all. These bonnets grew steadily in size, till in 1827 they were as large as umbrellas.

The necessity for suitable dress had not yet arrived. No woman in this society was called upon to work, and she had no independence. Marriage was the one and only career open to the lady of the early nineteenth century. "Women regarded themselves and spoke of themselves as inferior to men in understanding as they were in bodily strength." They considered independence unfeminine; they were conscious of their dependence on others and grateful for support. "Women," says a female writer of the period, "are something like