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26 and was for setting out again. But this time I simply collared the mother, who was nearest me, and, apologising for my violence, declared that I could not let them go until they had put me on my road. They were neither of them offended—rather mollified than otherwise; told me I had only to follow them; and then the mother asked me what I wanted by the lake at such an hour. I replied, in the Scotch manner, by inquiring if she had far to go herself. She told me, with another oath, that she had an hour and a half's road before her. And then, without salutation, the pair strode forward again up the hillside in the gathering dusk. I returned for Modestine, pushed her briskly forward, and, after a sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the edge of a plateau. The view, looking back on my day's journey, was both wild and sad. Mount Mézenc and the peaks beyond St. Julien stood out in trenchant gloom against a cold glitter in the east; and the intervening field of hills had fallen together into one broad wash of shadow, except here and there the


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cope, Anthony

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


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Rh outline of a wooded sugar-loaf in black, here and there a white irregular patch to represent a cultivated farm, and here and there a blot where the Loire, the Gazeille, or the Lausonne wandered in a gorge. Soon we were on a highroad, and surprise seized on my mind as I beheld a village of some magnitude close at hand; for I had been told that the neighbourhood of the lake was uninhabited except by trout. The road smoked in the twilight with children driving home cattle from the fields; and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, hat and cap and all, dashed past me at a hammering trot from the canton where they had been to church and market. I asked one of the children where I was. At Bouchet St. Nicolas, he told me. Thither, about a mile south of my destination, and on the other side of a respectable summit, had these confused roads and treacherous peasantry conducted me. My shoulder was cut, so that it hurt sharply; my arm ached like toothache from perpetual beating; I gave up the lake and my design to camp, and asked for the auberge.


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HE auberge of Bouchet St. Nicolas was among the least pretentious I have ever visited; but I saw many more of the like upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical of these French highlands. Imagine a cottage of two stories, with a bench before the door; the stable and kitchen in a suite, so that Modestine and I could hear each other dining; furniture of the plainest, earthen floors, a single bed-chamber for travellers, and that without any convenience but beds. In the kitchen cooking and eating go forward side by side, and the family sleep at night. Any one who has a fancy to wash must do so in public at the common table. The food is sometimes spare; hard fish and omelette have been my portion more than once; the wine is of the smallest, the brandy abominable to man; and the visit of a fat sow, grouting under the table and


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Rh rubbing against your legs, is no impossible accompaniment to dinner. But the people of the inn, in nine cases out of ten, show themselves friendly and considerate. As soon as you cross the doors you cease to be a stranger; and although this peasantry are rude and forbidding on the highway, they show a tincture of kind breeding when you share their hearth. At Bouchet, for instance, I uncorked my bottle of Beaujolais, and asked the host to join me. He would take but little.

"I am an amateur of such wine, do you see?" he said, "and I am capable of leaving you not enough." In these hedge-inns the traveller is expected to eat with his own knife; unless he ask, no other will be supplied: with a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, the table is completely laid. My knife was cordially admired by the landlord of Bouchet, and the spring filled him with wonder. "I should never have guessed that," he said, "I would bet," he added, weighing it in his hand, "that this cost you not less than five francs."


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30 When I told him it had cost me twenty, his jaw dropped.

He was a mild, handsome, sensible, friendly old man, astonishingly ignorant. His wife, who was not so pleasant in her manners, knew how to read, although I do not suppose she ever did so. She had a share of brains and spoke with a cutting emphasis, like one who ruled the roast. "My man knows nothing," she said, with an angry nod; "he is like the beasts." And the old gentleman signified acquiescence with his head. There was no contempt on her part, and no shame on his; the facts were accepted loyally, and no more about the matter.

I was tightly cross-examined about my journey; and the lady understood in a moment, and sketched out what I should put into my book when I got home. "Whether people harvest or not in such or such a place; if there were forests; studies of manners; what, for example, I and the master of the house say to you; the beauties of Nature, and all that." And she interrogated me with a look.


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Rh "It is just that," said I. "You see," she added to her husband, "I understood that." They were both much interested by the story of my misadventures. "In the morning," said the husband, "I will make you something better than your cane. Such a beast as that feels nothing; it is in the proverb—dur comme un âne; you might beat her insensible with a cudgel, and yet you would arrive nowhere." Something better! I little knew what he was offering. The sleeping-room was furnished with two beds. I had one; and I will own I was a little abashed to find a young man and his wife and child in the act of mounting into the other. This was my first experience of the sort; and if I am always to feel equally silly and extraneous, I pray God it be my last as well. I kept my eyes to myself, and know nothing of the woman except that she had beautiful arms, and seemed no whit abashed by my appearance. As a matter of fact, the situation was


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 Rh who went and slaughtered all his kine and calves, and set off on the road to town with their skins and hides. So when he got to the market, and the tanners asked what he wanted for his hides, Big Peter said he must have eight hundred dollars for the small ones, and so on, more and more, for the big ones. But all the folk only laughed and made game of him, and said he oughtn't to come there; he'd better turn into the madhouse for a better bargain, and so he soon found out how things had gone, and that Little Peter had played him a trick. But when he got home again he was not very soft-spoken, and he swore and cursed; so help him, if he wouldn't strike Little Peter dead that very night. All this Little Peter stood and listened to; and so, when he had gone to bed with his mother, and the night had worn on a little, he begged her to change sides with him, for he was well-nigh frozen, he said, and might be 'twas warmer next the wall Yes, she did that, and in a little while came Big Peter with an axe in his hand, and crept up to the bedside, and at one blow chopped off his mother's head.

Next morning, in went Little Peter into Big Peter's sitting-room.

"Heaven better and help you," he said; "you who have chopped our mother's head off. The Sheriff will not be over-pleased to hear that you pay mother's dower in this way."

Then Big Peter got so afraid, he begged Little Peter, for God's sake, to say nothing about what he knew. If he would only do that, he should have eight hundred dollars.

Well, Little Peter swept up the money; set his mother's


text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Olney, Jesse


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32 more trying to me than to the pair. A pair keep each other in countenance; it is the single gentleman who has to blush. But I could not help attributing my sentiments to the husband, and sought to conciliate his tolerance with a cup of brandy from my flask. He told me that he was a cooper of Alais travelling to St. Etienne in search of work, and that in his spare moments he followed the fatal calling of a maker of matches. Me he readily enough divined to be a brandy merchant. I was up first in the morning (Monday, September 23d), and hastened my toilette guiltily, so as to leave a clear field for madam, the cooper's wife. I drank a bowl of milk, and set off to explore the neighbourhood of Bouchet. It was perishing cold, a grey, windy, wintry morning; misty clouds flew fast and low; the wind piped over the naked platform; and the only speck of colour was away behind Mount Mézenc and the eastern hills, where the sky still wore the orange of the dawn.

It was five in the morning, and four thousand feet above the sea; and I had to bury my hands in my pockets and trot. People were trooping out


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 342 head on her body again; put her on a hand-sledge, and so drew her to market. There he set her up with an apple-basket on each arm, and an apple in each hand. By and by came a skipper walking along; he thought she was an apple-woman, and asked if she had apples to sell, and how many he might have for a penny. But the old woman made no answer. So the skipper asked again. No! she hadn't a word to say for herself.

"How many may I have for a penny?" he bawled the third time, but the old dame sat bolt upright, as though she neither saw him nor heard what he said. Then the skipper flew into such a rage that he gave her one under the ear, and so away rolled her head across the marketplace. At that moment, up came Little Peter with a bound; he fell a- weeping and bewailing, and threatened to make the skipper smart for it, for having dealt his old mother her death-blow.

"Dear friend, only hold your tongue about what you know," said the skipper, "and you shall have eight hundred dollars."

And so they made it up.

When Little Peter got home again, he said to Big Peter,—

"Old women fetch a fine price at market to-day; I got eight hundred dollars for mother; just look," and so he showed him the money.

"'Twas well I came to know this," said Big Peter.

Now you must know he had an old stepmother, so he took and killed her out of hand, and strode off to sell her. But when they heard how he went about trying to sell dead bodies, the neighbours were all for handing him over


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Rh to the labours of the field by twos and threes, and all turned round to stare upon the stranger. I had seen them coming back last night, I saw them going afield again; and there was the life of Bouchet in a nutshell. When I came back to the inn for a bit of breakfast, the landlady was in the kitchen combing out her daughter's hair; and I made her my compliments upon its beauty. "O no," said the mother; "it is not so beautiful as it ought to be. Look, it is too fine."

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse physical circumstances, and, by a startling democratic process, the defects of the majority decide the type of beauty. "And where," said I, "is monsieur?"

"The master of the house is up-stairs," she answered, "making you a goad."

Blessed be the man who invented goads! Blessed the innkeeper of Bouchet St. Nicolas, who introduced me to their use! This plain wand, with an eighth of an inch of pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in my hands. Thenceforward Modestine


text:
Author:John Henry Freese

Works

 * Platus : The Captivi.- Adapted for Lower Forms

Encyclopedia Britannica

 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (Leo VI. (Emperor of the East))
 * (Ancient)
 * (Greek and Roman names)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (Leo VI. (Emperor of the East))
 * (Ancient)
 * (Greek and Roman names)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (Ancient)
 * (Greek and Roman names)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (Greek and Roman names)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)
 * (in part)

Translations

 * The Orations of Isocrates by Isocrates (1894)
 * Bibliotheca by Photios I of Constantinople (1920)

title: Author:John Henry Freese


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Rh deeds, and, suddenly thinking otherwise in his green young heart, put about and galloped off as he had come, the bell tinkling in the wind. For a long while afterwards I saw his noble attitude as he drew up, and heard the note of his bell; and when I struck the highroad, the song of the telegraph-wires seemed to continue the same music.

Pradelles stands on a hillside, high above the Allier, surrounded by rich meadows. They were cutting aftermath on all sides, which gave the neighbourhood, this gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. On the opposite bank of the Allier the land kept mounting for miles to the horizon: a tanned and sallow autumn landscape, with black blots of fir-wood and white roads wandering through the hills. Over all this the clouds shed a uniform and purplish shadow, sad and somewhat menacing, exaggerating height and distance, and throwing into still higher relief the twisted ribbons of the highway. It was a cheerless prospect, but one stimulating to a traveller. For I was now upon the limit of Velay, and all that I beheld lay in another county—wild


text:
User talk:Blacklake

— billinghurst  sDrewth  13:38, 9 November 2010 (UTC)

title: User talk:Blacklake


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 Rh to the Sheriff, and it was as much as he could do to get out of the scrape.

When Big Peter got home again, he was so wroth and mad against Little Peter, he threatened to strike him dead there and then; he needn't hope for mercy, die he must.

"Well, well," said Little Peter, "that's the way we must all trudge, and betwixt to-day and to-morrow there's only a night to come. But if I must set off now, I've only one thing to ask; stuff me into that sack that hangs yonder, and take and toss me into the river."

Well, Big Peter had nothing to say against that; he stuffed him into the sack, and set off. But he hadn't gone far on his way before it came into his mind that he had forgotten something which he must go back to fetch; meanwhile, he set the sack down by the road-side. Just then came a man driving a fine fat flock of sheep,

roared out Little Peter, who lay inside the sack, and that he kept bawling and bellowing out.

"Mayn't I get leave to go with you?" asked the man who drove the sheep.

"Of course you may," said Little Peter. "If you'll only untie the sack, and creep into it in my stead, you'll soon get there. As for me, I don't mind biding here till next time, that I don't. But you must keep on calling out the words I bawled out, else you'll not go to the right place."

Then the man untied the sack, and got into it in Little Peter's place: Peter tied the sack up again, and the man began to bawl out,—


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36, mountainous, uncultivated, and but recently disforested from terror of the wolves. Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee the traveller's advance; and you may trudge through all our comfortable Europe, and not meet with an adventure worth the name. But here, if anywhere, a man was on the frontiers of hope. For this was the land of the ever-memorable, the Napoléon Buonaparte of wolves. What a career was his! He lived ten months at free quarters in Gévaudan and Vivarais; he ate women and children and "shepherdesses celebrated for their beauty"; he pursued armed horsemen; he has been seen at broad noonday chasing a post-chaise and outrider along the king's highroad, and chaise and outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. He was placarded like a political offender, and ten thousand francs were offered for his head. And yet, when he was shot and sent to Versailles, behold! a common wolf, and even small for that. "Though I could reach from pole to pole," sang Alexander Pope; the little corporal shook Europe; and if all wolves had been as this wolf, they would


text: Author talk:Hypatia Bradlaugh Bonner

title: Author talk:Hypatia Bradlaugh Bonner


text:
Author:Hypatia Bradlaugh Bonner

Works

 * The Slave Struggle in America (c. 1880)
 * Catalogue of the Library of the Late Charles Bradlaugh (1891)
 * Charles Bradlaugh: A Record of His Life and Work (1894)
 * The Gallows and the Lash (1897)
 * Did Charles Bradlaugh Die an Atheist? (1898)
 * Penalties Upon Opinion (1912)
 * The Christian Hell (1913)
 * Christianity and Conduct (1919)
 * Christianizing the Heathen (1922)

title: Author:Hypatia Bradlaugh Bonner


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 344

and to that text he stuck.

When Peter had got him well into the sack, he wasn't slow; off he went with the flock of sheep, and soon put a good bit of the road behind him. Meantime, back came Big Peter, took the sack on his shoulders, and bore it across the country to the river, and all the while he went, the drover sat inside bawling out,—

"Ay, ay," said Big Peter; "try now to find the way for yourself;" and with that he tossed him out into the stream.

So when Big Peter had done that, and was going back home, whom should he overtake but his brother, who went along driving the flock of sheep before him. Big Peter could scarce believe his eyes, and asked how Little Peter had got out of the river, and whence the fine flock of sheep came.

"Ah!" said Little Peter, "that just was a good brotherly turn you did me when you threw me into the river. I sank right down to the bottom like a stone, and there I just did see flocks of sheep; you'd scarce believe now, that they go about down there by thousands, one flock bigger than the other. And just look here! here are fleeces for you!"

"Well," said Big Peter, "I'm very glad you told me."

So off he ran home to his old dame; made her come with him to the river; crept into a sack, and bade her make haste to tie it up, and toss him over the bridge.


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Rh have changed the history of man. M. Elie Berthet has made him the hero of a novel, which I have read, and do not wish to read again. I hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the landlady's desire that I should visit our Lady of Pradelles, "who performed many miracles, although she was of wood"; and before three quarters of an hour I was goading Modestine down the steep descent that leads to Langogne on the Allier. On both sides of the road, in big dusty fields, farmers were preparing for next spring. Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked stolid oxen were patiently haling at the plough. I saw one of these mild, formidable servants of the glebe, who took a sudden interest in Modestine and me. The furrow down which he was journeying lay at an angle to the road, and his head was solidly fixed to the yoke like those of caryatides below a ponderous cornice; but he screwed round his big honest eyes and followed us with a ruminating look, until his master bade him turn the plough and proceed to reascend the field. From all these furrowing ploughshares, from the feet of oxen,


text:
Author:Hugh Reginald Haweis

Works

 * Music and Morals

title: Author:Hugh Reginald Haweis


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38 from a labourer here and there who was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the wind carried away a thin dust like so much smoke. It was a fine, busy, breathing, rustic landscape; and as I continued to descend, the highlands of Gévaudan kept mounting in front of me against the sky. I had crossed the Loire the day before; now I was to cross the Allier; so near are these two confluents in their youth. Just at the bridge of Langogne, as the long-promised rain was beginning to fall, a lassie of some seven or eight addressed me in the sacramental phrase, "D'où'st que vous venez?" She did it with so high an air that she set me laughing; and this cut her to the quick. She was evidently one who reckoned on respect, and stood looking after me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed the bridge and entered the county of Gévaudan.


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 Rh "I'm going after a flock of sheep," he said, "but if I stay too long, and you think I can't get along with the flock by myself, just jump over and help me; do you hear?"

"Well, don't stay too long," said his wife, "for my heart is set on seeing those sheep."

There she stood and waited a while, but then she thought perhaps her husband couldn't keep the flock well together, and so down she jumped after him.

And so Little Peter was rid of them all, and the farm and fields came to him as heir, and horses and cattle too; and, besides, he had money in his pocket to buy milch kine to tether in his byre.

TATTERHOOD.

on a time there was a king and a queen who had no children, and that gave the queen much grief; she scarce had one happy hour. She was always bewailing and bemoaning herself, and saying how dull and lonesome it was in the palace.

"If we had children there'd be life enough," she said.

Wherever she went in all her realm she found God's blessing in children, even in the vilest hut; and wherever she came she heard the Goodies scolding the bairns, and saying how they had done that and that wrong. All this the queen heard, and thought it would be so nice to do as other women did. At last the king and queen took into their palace a stranger lassie to rear up, that they might


text:
Author:Horatio William Parker

Works

 * "Stella" (hymn tune)

title: Author:Horatio William Parker


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Page:Popular tales from the Norse (1912).djvu/532

 346 have her always with them, to love her if she did well, and scold her if she did wrong, like their own child.

So one day the little lassie whom they had taken as their own, ran down into the palace-yard, and was playing with a gold apple. Just then an old beggar wife came by, who had a little girl with her, and it wasn't long before the little lassie and the beggar's bairn were great friends, and began to play together, and to toss the gold apple about between them. When the Queen saw this, as she sat at a window in the palace, she tapped on the pane for her foster-daughter to come up. She went at once, but the beggar-girl went up too; and as they went into the Queen's bower, each held the other by the hand. Then the Queen began to scold the little lady, and to say,—

"You ought to be above running about and playing with a tattered beggar's brat."

And so she wanted to drive the lassie down-stairs.

"If the Queen only knew my mother's power, she'd not drive me out," said the little lassie; and when the Queen asked what she meant more plainly, she told her how her mother could get her children if she chose. The Queen wouldn't believe it, but the lassie held her own, and said every word of it was true, and bade the Queen only to try and make her mother do it. So the Queen sent the lassie down to fetch up her mother.

"Do you know what your daughter says?" asked the Queen of the old woman, as soon as ever she came into the room.

No; the beggar-wife knew nothing about it.

"Well, she says you can get me children if you will," answered the Queen.


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 Rh "Queens shouldn't listen to beggar lassies' silly stories," said the old wife, and strode out of the room.

Then the Queen got angry, and wanted again to drive out the little lassie; but she declared it was true every word that she had said.

"Let the Queen only give my mother a drop to drink," said the lassie; "when she gets merry she'll soon find out a way to help you."

The Queen was ready to try this; so the beggar wife was fetched up again once more, and treated both with wine and mead as much as she chose; and so it was not long before her tongue began to wag. Then the Queen came out again with the same question she had asked before.

"One way to help you perhaps I know," said the beggar wife. "Your Majesty must make them bring in two pails of water some evening before you go to bed. In each of them you must wash yourself, and afterwards throw away the water under the bed. When you look under the bed next morning, two flowers will have sprung up, one fair and one ugly. The fair one you must eat, the ugly one you must let stand; but mind you don't forget the last."

That was what the beggar wife said.

Yes; the Queen did what the beggar wife advised her to do; she had the water brought up in two pails, washed herself in them, and emptied them under the bed; and lo! when she looked under the bed next morning, there stood two flowers; one was ugly and foul, and had black leaves; but the other was so bright, and fair, and lovely, she had never seen its like; so she ate it up at once. But the pretty flower tasted so sweet, that she couldn't help herself.


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HE next day (Tuesday, September 24th), it was two o'clock in the afternoon before I got my journal written up and my knapsack repaired, for I was determined to carry my knapsack in the future and have no more ado with baskets; and half an hour afterwards I set out for Le Cheylard l'Evêque, a place on the borders of the forest of Mercoire. A man, I was told, should walk there in an hour and a half; and I thought it scarce too ambitious to suppose that a man encumbered with a donkey might cover the same distance in four hours.

All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained and hailed alternately; the wind kept freshening steadily, although slowly; plentiful hurrying clouds—some dragging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and luminous, as though


text:
Author:Arthur De Wint Foote

Works

 * (Pneumatic)

title: Author:Arthur De Wint Foote


text:
Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 60.djvu/270

 on 16 June 1610, aged 17, became a student of Lincoln's Inn in 1613, and was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of Charles I. In 1634 he was sheriff of Oxfordshire, and found the task of collecting ship-money extremely difficult (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1635 pp. 475, 505, 519, 1635–6 p. 224). On 18 Dec. 1641 he was elected to the Long parliament as member for Tamworth (Official Return, i. 494). He took no conspicuous share in its proceedings, but succeeded in obtaining a grant of part of the estate of a royalist delinquent, George Warner of Wolston, Warwickshire, a transaction which is severely commented on by Denzil Holles (Memoirs, p. 135; cf. Commons' Journals, v. 453; Cal. of Committee for Compounding, p. 1454). Wentworth was appointed one of the commissioners for the king's trial, but refused to act (, Trial of Charles I). He was elected a member of the second, fourth, and fifth councils of state of the Commonwealth (Commons' Journals, vi. 369, vii. 42, 220). Foreign affairs engaged the attention of many committees of the council on which he served, and he was thus brought into contact with Milton, whose friend he became. By his will Wentworth bequeathed 100l. ‘to my worthy and very learned friend Mr. John Milton, who writ against Salmasius.’ On 20 April 1653, when Cromwell dissolved the Long parliament, he classed Wentworth and Harry Marten together as members whose immorality was a disgrace to the house (, Memorials, iv. 5). Wentworth rose to answer him, and complained of ‘the unbecoming language given to the parliament by Cromwell,’ but was cut short by the entry of Cromwell's musketeers (, Memoirs, ed. 1894, i. 353). In August 1655 Wentworth opposed a tax levied by the Protector, and caused a collector to be arrested; but when summoned before the council he submitted, excusing himself to Ludlow for his retractation by saying that he was sixty-three, ‘when the blood does not run with the same vigour as in younger men’ (ib. i. 414; cf. Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1655, pp. 296, 300, 596). On the fall of the house of Cromwell, Wentworth returned to his place in the Long parliament (cf., ii. 139), and on 10 Jan. 1659–60 lodgings were assigned to him in Whitehall by the council of state.

He died unmarried, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, on 1 Dec. 1675, and was buried in the church of Lillingstone Lovell (, Knights, p. 36). By his will he left property in Warwickshire to his grand-nephew Fisher Dilke, on condition that he and his descendants should take the name of Wentworth. The name was so taken for a time, but abandoned in the eighteenth century after the property had been alienated. A portrait of Sir Peter is in the possession of Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, bart., M.P., whose great-great-grandfather, Wentworth Dilke Wentworth, was the last of Fisher Dilke's descendants to use the stipulated surname.

[W. L. Rutton's Three Branches of the Wentworth Family, 1891. A life of Wentworth is given in Noble's Lives of the Regicides, ii. 323; letters of Wentworth are among the Domestic State Papers for 1635–6, and in Cary's Memorials of the Civil War, ii. 122.]  WENTWORTH, THOMAS, first (1501–1551), was descended from an ancient Yorkshire family, two branches of which were settled at Wentworth-Woodhouse, and North Elmsall. Thomas Wentworth, the great earl of Strafford [q. v.], belonged to the former branch (see, Yorkshire Pedigrees). Roger Wentworth (d. 1452), younger son of John Wentworth of North Elmsall, Yorkshire, acquired the manor of Nettlestead, Suffolk, in right of his wife Margery (1397–1478), daughter of Sir Philip Despenser and his wife Elizabeth, daughter of Robert de Tiptoft or Tibetot, last baron Tiptoft of the first creation and lord of the manor of Nettlestead. Roger Wentworth's younger son, Henry (d. 1482), was by his first wife ancestor of the Wentworths of Gosfield, Essex, and by his second wife of the Wentworths of Lillingstone Lovell, Oxfordshire; to the latter branch belonged Paul Wentworth [q. v.], Peter Wentworth (1530?–1596) [q. v.], and Sir Peter Wentworth (1592–1675) [q. v.] Roger's elder son, Sir Philip, was father of Sir Henry Wentworth (d. 1499), whose daughter Margery (d. 1550) married Sir John Seymour (d. 1536) of Wolfhall, and was mother of Queen Jane Seymour, of Protector Somerset, and grandmother of Edward VI. Sir Henry Wentworth's son, Sir Richard Wentworth (d. 1528), was sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk in 1509 and 1517, was knighted in 1512, served at the battle of Spurs in 1513, was present at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1520, and died on 17 Oct. 1528. He married Anne, daughter of Sir James Tyrrell [q. v.], the supposed murderer of the princes in the Tower, and was father of the subject of this article.

Thomas Wentworth, born in 1501, served through the Duke of Suffolk's expedition into France in 1523, and was knighted in the chapel at Roye on 31 Oct. with his cousin,


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34 was my slave. A prick, and she passed the most inviting stable-door. A prick, and she broke forth into a gallant little trotlet that devoured the miles. It was not a remarkable speed, when all was said; and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the best of it. But what a heavenly change since yesterday! No more wielding of the ugly cudgel; no more flailing with an aching arm; no more broadsword exercise, but a discreet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now and then a drop of blood should appear on Modestine's mouse-coloured wedge-like rump? I should have preferred it otherwise, indeed; but yesterday's exploits had purged my heart of all humanity. The perverse little devil, since she would not be taken with kindness, must even go with pricking. It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade of stride-legged ladies and a pair of post-runners, the road was dead solitary all the way to Pradelles. I scarce remember an incident but one. A handsome foal with a bell about his neck came charging up to us upon a stretch of common, sniffed the air martially as one about to do great


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42 promising snow—careered out of the north and followed me along my way. I was soon out of the cultivated basin of the Allier, and away from the ploughing oxen, and such-like sights of the country. Moor, heathery marsh, tracts of rock and pines, woods of birch all jewelled with the autumn yellow, here and there a few naked cottages and bleak fields,—these were the characters of the country. Hill and valley followed valley and hill; the little green and stony cattle-tracks wandered in and out of one another, split into three or four, died away in marshy hollows, and began again sporadically on hillsides or at the borders of a wood. There was no direct road to Cheylard, and It was no easy affair to make a passage in this uneven country and through this intermittent labyrinth of tracks. It must have been about four when I struck Sagnerousse, and went on my way rejoicing in a sure point of departure. Two hours afterwards, the dusk rapidly falling, in a lull of the wind, I issued from a fir-wood where I had long been wandering, and found, not the


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Rh village, but another marish bottom among rough-and-tumble hills. For some time past I had heard the ringing of cattle-bells ahead; and now, as I came out of the skirts of the wood, I saw near upon a dozen cows and perhaps as many more black figures, which I conjectured to be children, although the mist had almost unrecognisably exaggerated their forms. These were all silently following each other round and round in a circle, now taking hands, now breaking up with chains and reverences. A dance of children appeals to very innocent and lively thoughts; but, at nightfall on the marshes, the thing was eerie and fantastic to behold. Even I, who am well enough read in Herbert Spencer, felt a sort of silence fall for an instant on my mind. The next, I was pricking Modestine forward, and guiding her like an unruly ship through the open. In a path, she went doggedly ahead of her own accord, as before a fair wind; but once on the turf or among heather, and the brute became demented. The tendency of lost travellers to go round in a circle was developed in her to the degree of passion, and


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44 it took all the steering I had in me to keep even a decently straight course through a single field.

While I was thus desperately tacking through the bog, children and cattle began to disperse, until only a pair of girls remained behind. From these I sought direction on my path. The peasantry in general were but little disposed to counsel a wayfarer. One old devil simply retired into his house, and barricaded the door on my approach; and I might beat and shout myself hoarse, he turned a deaf ear. Another, having given me a direction which, as I found afterwards, I had misunderstood, complacently watched me going wrong without adding a sign. He did not care a stalk of parsley if I wandered all night upon the hills! As for these two girls, they were a pair of impudent sly sluts, with not a thought but mischief. One put out her tongue at me, the other bade me follow the cows; and they both giggled and jogged each other's elbows. The Beast of Gévaudan ate about a hundred children of this district; I began to think of him with sympathy.


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Rh Leaving the girls, I pushed on through the bog, and got into another wood and upon a well-marked road. It grew darker and darker. Modestine, suddenly beginning to smell mischief, bettered the pace of her own accord, and from that time forward gave me no trouble. It was the first sign of intelligence I had occasion to remark in her. At the same time, the wind freshened into half a gale, and another heavy discharge of rain came flying up out of the north. At the other side of the wood I sighted some red windows in the dusk. This was the hamlet of Fouzilhic; three houses on a hillside, near a wood of birches. Here I found a delightful old man, who came a little way with me in the rain to put me safely on the road for Cheylard. He would hear of no reward; but shook his hands above his head almost as if in menace, and refused volubly and shrilly, in unmitigated patois. All seemed right at last. My thoughts began to turn upon dinner and a fireside, and my heart was agreeably softened in my bosom. Alas, and I was on the brink of new and greater miseries!


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46 Suddenly, at a single swoop, the night fell. I have been abroad in many a black night, but never in a blacker. A glimmer of rocks, a glimmer of the track where it was well beaten, a certain fleecy density, or night within night, for a tree,—this was all that I could discriminate. The sky was simply darkness overhead; even the flying clouds pursued their way invisibly to human eyesight I could not distinguish my hand at arm's length from the track, nor my goad, at the same distance, from the meadows or the sky. Soon the road that I was following split, after the fashion of the country, into three or four in a piece of rocky meadow. Since Modestine had shown such a fancy for beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this predicament. But the instinct of an ass is what might be expected from the name; in half a minute she was clambering round and round among some boulders, as lost a donkey as you would wish to see. I should have camped long before had I been properly provided; but as this was to be so short a stage, I had brought no wine, no bread for myself, and a little over a


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Rh pound for my lady-friend. Add to this, that I and Modestine were both handsomely wetted by the showers. But now, if I could have found some water, I should have camped at once in spite of all. Water, however, being entirely absent, except in the form of rain, I determined to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a guide a little further on my way—"a little farther lend thy guiding hand." The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In this sensible roaring blackness I was sure of nothing but the direction of the wind. To this I set my face; the road had disappeared, and I went across country, now in marshy opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to Modestine, until I came once more in sight of some red windows. This time they were differently disposed. It was not Fouzilhic, but Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the other in space, but worlds away in the spirit of its inhabitants. I tied Modestine to a gate, and groped forward, stumbling among rocks, plunging mid-leg in bog, until I gained the entrance of the village. In the first lighted house


text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Olotoraca


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Author:Henry Ogg Forbes

Works

 * A naturalist's wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago, (1885)
 * A hand-book to the primates, (1896) (in two volumes)
 * (in six volumes, published 1896-1898; Forbes contributed, together with his wife Anna Forbes to the text about the Orders Herodiones and Odontoglossæ in volume 4, and about the Order Gaviæ in volume 6.)
 * The natural history of Sokotra and Abdel-Kuri, (1903)
 * (in part)

Contributions to Transactions and Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute

 * On a New Genus of Fishes of the Family Percidæ, from New Zealand (1889)
 * Remarks on the Shoulder-girdles of Aptornis and Cnemiornis (1889)
 * On the Physical Characters, Climate, People, and Prospects of the British Possessions in New Guinea, with some Personal Experiences of Travel there (1889)
 * On Avian Remains found under a Lava-flow near Timaru, in Canterbury (1890)
 * Note on the Disappearance of the Moa (1890)
 * Preliminary Notice of Additions to the Extinct Avi-fauna of New Zealand (1891)
 * Note on a Species of Platycercus (P. erythrotis, Wagl.) from Antipodes Island (1891)
 * On a Species of Regalecus or Great Oar-fish, caught in Okain's Bay (1891)
 * On some Points in the Anatomy of a Species of Sea-bear caught off Sumner, Canterbury, New Zealand; with Notes on the New Zealand Eared Seals (1891)

title: Author:Henry Ogg Forbes


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48 there was a woman who would not open to me. She could do nothing, she cried to me through the door, being alone and lame; but if I would apply at the next house, there was a man who could help me if he had a mind. They came to the next door in force, a man, two women, and a girl, and brought a pair of lanterns to examine the wayfarer. The man was not ill-looking, but had a shifty smile. He leaned against the door-post, and heard me state my case. All I asked was a guide as far as Cheylard. "C'est que, voyez-vous, il fait noir," said he. I told him that was just my reason for requiring help. "I understand that,' said he, looking uncomfortable; "mais—c'est—de la peine."

I was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I rose as high as ten francs; but he continued to shake his head. "Name your own price, then," said I. "Ce n'est pas ça" he said at length, and with evident difficulty; "but I am not going to cross the door—mais je ne sortirai pas de la porte."


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Rh I grew a little warm, and asked him what he proposed that I should do. "Where are you going beyond Cheylard?" he asked by way of answer. "That is no affair of yours," I returned, for I was not going to indulge his bestial curiosity; "it changes nothing in my present predicament." "C'est vrai, ça," he acknowledged, with a laugh; "oui, c'est vrai. Et d'où venez-vous?" A better man than I might have felt nettled.

"O," said I, "I am not going to answer any of your questions, so you may spare yourself the trouble of putting them. I am late enough already; I want help. If you will not guide me yourself, at least help me to find some one else who will." "Hold on," he cried suddenly. "Was it not you who passed in the meadow while it was still day?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl, whom I had not hitherto recognised; "it was monsieur; I told him to follow the cow." "As for you, mademoiselle," said I, "you are a farceuse."


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50 "And," added the man, "what the devil have you done to be still here?"

What the devil, indeed! But there I was. "The great thing," said I, "is to make an end of it"; and once more proposed that he should help me to find a guide. "C'est que," he said again, "c'est que—il fait noir."

"Very well," said I; "take one of your lanterns."

"No," he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again intrenching himself behind one of his former phrases; "I will not cross the door." I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on his face with unaffected shame; he was smiling pitifully and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected school-boy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked him what I was to do. "I don't know," he said; "I will not cross the door." Here was the Beast of Gévaudan, and no mistake.


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 Edward Seymour (afterwards Duke of Somerset). In 1527 he was a member of the household of Henry VIII's sister Mary, and on 17 Oct. 1528 succeeded his father at Nettlestead. He was returned as knight of the shire to the ‘Reformation’ parliament summoned to meet on 3 Nov. 1529, but on 2 Dec. 1529 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Wentworth. He adopted with apparent sincerity Reformation principles, and to his influence John Bale attributed his conversion (, Vocacyon, p. 14). Subsequently he took some part in the proceedings against heretics, but probably with much reluctance. In 1530 he signed the peers' letter to the pope, requesting that Henry VIII's divorce from Catherine of Aragon might be granted, and in 1532 he attended the king on his visit to Calais to meet Francis I. In May 1536 he was one of the peers who tried and condemned Anne Boleyn, and in December 1539 he was sent to Calais to receive Anne of Cleves. He must be distinguished from the Sir Thomas Wentworth who was captain of Carlisle from 26 June 1537 to 24 Oct. 1541. He did not benefit by Henry's will, but in February 1546–7 Paget declared that it was the late king's intention that Wentworth should be granted the stewardship of all the bishop of Ely's lands. In July 1549 he served under the Marquis of Northampton against the insurgents in Norfolk, and in the following October he was one of the peers whose aid Warwick enlisted to overthrow Somerset. He joined the conspirators in London on the 9th, and henceforth sat as a member of the privy council. He was further rewarded by being appointed one of the six lords to attend on Edward VI, and on 2 Feb. 1549–50, when Warwick deprived the catholic peers of their offices, Wentworth succeeded Arundel as lord chamberlain of the household; he was also on 16 April following granted the manors of Stepney and Hackney. He was a constant attendant at the privy council meetings until 15 Feb. 1550–1. He died on 3 March following, and was buried in Westminster Abbey on the 7th with a magnificence that contrasted strangely with the council's refusal to go into mourning the previous July on the death of Wentworth's aunt, who was also Somerset's mother and Edward VI's grandmother. A portrait of Wentworth is among the Holbein drawings at Windsor; it was engraved by Dalton, by Bartolozzi in 1792, and by Minaso in 1812; another portrait was lent by Mr. F. Vernon-Wentworth of Castle Wentworth to the South Kensington loan exhibition of 1866 (No. 169); a third, painted by Theodore Bernards, belongs to Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, bart., and was reproduced as a frontispiece to Mr. W. L. Rutton's ‘Three Branches of the Wentworth Family’ (1891).

Wentworth married, about 1520, Margaret, elder daughter of Sir Adrian Fortescue [q. v.], by his first wife, granddaughter and heir of John Neville, marquis of Montagu [q. v.] Sir Anthony Fortescue [q. v.] and Sir John Fortescue (1531?–1607) [q. v.] were her half-brothers, and Elizabeth, the wife of Sir Thomas Bromley (1530–1587) [q. v.], was her half-sister. Her daughters by Wentworth married equally well; Jane (d. 1614) became the wife of Henry, baron Cheney of Toddington; Margaret of first John, baron Williams of Thame [q. v.], secondly Sir William Drury [q. v.], and thirdly Sir James Crofts; and Dorothy of first Paul Withypole (d. 1579), secondly Martin Frobisher [q. v.], and thirdly Sir John Savile of Methley. Of the sons, Thomas succeeded as second baron, and is separately noticed; and John and James were lost with the Greyhound in March 1562–1563 (, pp. 304, 394). Wentworth had issue sixteen children in all.

[Letters and Papers of Henry VIII; Acts of the Privy Council, ed. Dasent; Chron. of Calais, Machyn's Diary, and Wriothesley's Chron. (Camden Soc.); Lit. Remains of Edward VI (Roxburghe Club); Hamilton Papers; Hist. MSS. Comm. 4th Rep. App. p. 178; Lords' Journals; Burnet's Hist. of the Reformation; Strype's Works; Davy's Suffolk Collections in Brit. Museum Addit. MS. 19154; Rutton's Three Branches of the Wentworth Family; Burke's Extinct Peerage and G. E. C[okayne]'s Complete Peerages.]  WENTWORTH, THOMAS, second of Nettlestead (1525–1584), born in 1525, was the eldest son of Thomas Wentworth, first baron [q. v.] He is said to have been educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, but he took no degree, and on 9 Feb. 1545–6 married, at Gosfield, Essex, his cousin Mary, daughter of Sir John Wentworth of that place. In September 1547 he accompanied the Protector Somerset, whose second cousin he was, on his invasion of Scotland, distinguished himself at the battle of Pinkie (10 Sept.), and was dubbed a knight-banneret by the Protector at Roxburgh on the 28th. Meanwhile he was on 26 Sept., during his absence, returned to parliament as one of the knights of the shire for Suffolk, retaining his seat until his succession to the peerage at his father's death on 3 March 1550–1. He was a docile tool of the Earl of Warwick, and on 1 Dec. 1551 was one of the peers who tried and condemned the Duke of Somerset. On 16 May


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198 I had lost Modestine. Up to that moment I had thought I hated her; but now she was gone,

For twelve days we had been fast companions; we had travelled upwards of a hundred and twenty miles, crossed several respectable ridges, and jogged along with our six legs by many a rocky and many a boggy by-road. After the first day, athough sometimes I was hurt and distant in manner, I still kept my patience; and as for her, poor soul! she had come to regard me as a god. She loved to eat out of my hand. She was patient, elegant in form, the colour of an ideal mouse, and inimitably small. Her faults were those of her race and sex; her virtues were her own. Farewell, and if for ever—— Father Adam wept when he sold her to me; after I had sold her in my turn, I was tempted to follow his example; and being alone with a stage-driver and four or five agreeable young men, I did not hesitate to yield to my emotion.


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 1552 he was one of the three commissioners appointed to exercise the functions of lord lieutenant of Norfolk and Suffolk, and his appointment was renewed on 24 May 1553. He was one of the witnesses to Edward VI's settlement of the crown on Lady Jane Grey, but, not being a privy councillor, did not sign the engagement to carry it out. He gave in his adhesion to Mary on 17 July, securing by his promptness the favour of the queen, who at once made him one of her privy councillors, and bestowed on him a greater mark of confidence by appointing him one of the commissioners to examine Northumberland, Northampton, and Lady Jane Grey. He was one of the peers who tried Northumberland on 17 Aug., and the minor conspirators on the following day.

On 13 Sept. following Wentworth was by letters patent appointed deputy of Calais (Dep. Keeper of Records, 4th Rep. App. ii. 259), but he did not assume the duties of his office until December. He was the last English deputy of Calais, and, with the exception of a visit to England in March to May 1556, remained at his post until its capture by the French. Soon after his arrival Wentworth represented to the council the defenceless state of Calais, but no effective steps were taken to strengthen it (Acts P. C. 1556–8, p. 91). Late in the autumn of 1557 Guise laid plans for the seizure of the town by a coup-de-main. On 18 Dec. news of this project reached Wentworth, but he neglected the warning until it was confirmed on the 26th. On the following day a council of war was held, and it was decided to abandon the open country, and only attempt the defence of Guisnes, Hammes, Newhaven (Haven Etue), Rysbank, and Calais. Reinforcements were ordered from England under the Earl of Rutland, but on the 29th Wentworth wrote that Calais was in no immediate danger; he disbelieved alike the French reports and the warnings of Lord Grey de Wilton, who was captain of Guisnes. On the 31st Guise's army arrived on the borders of the Pale, and on 1 Jan. 1557–8 Rutland was again ordered to proceed at once to Calais. He failed to arrive in time; one fortress after another fell before Guise; on the 6th the castle of Calais was surrendered, and on the 7th Wentworth yielded up the town, being himself one of the prisoners of war.

It was well for Wentworth that he was kept away from England for a time; for the loss of the last stronghold on the continent produced an outbreak of indignation that would certainly have cost him his head, and he would have been a convenient scapegoat for the government. On 2 July 1558 he was indicted for having on 20 Dec. 1557 become an adherent of the French king, and conspired to deliver Calais into his hands, of having neglected to take any musters or make any levies for its defence, and on 15 July orders were given for sequestering his estates and taking an inventory of his goods. Wentworth, however, prudently remained in France, and was not ransomed till after the change of government. He returned in April 1559, and on the 21st was committed to the Tower. Northampton had on the 20th been appointed lord high steward for his trial for high treason; it took place before a panel of his peers on the 22nd, and Wentworth was acquitted (‘Baga de Secretis’ in Dep.-Keeper of Records, 4th Rep. App. ii. 259–61;, Diary, p. 195; , Annals, p. 36; , Chron. ii. 144). There was indeed no evidence that Wentworth was a traitor, and Elizabeth was no doubt averse from marking the commencement of her reign with bloodshed; but it is evident that Wentworth's incompetence contributed materially to the loss of Calais, and he was at least as culpable as his subordinates, Sir Ralph Chamberlain, lieutenant of the castle of Calais, and John Harleston, lieutenant of Rysbank, who were condemned for treason on 1 and 22 Dec. 1559, though their lives were spared. In an elaborate article in the ‘North British Review’ (December 1866), based on unpublished archives at Brussels and Paris, the entire blame of the catastrophe is put upon Wentworth, who is described as ‘a man of small capacity, of no energy, of great arrogance and conceit, and withal unmindful of his duties.’ It should, however, be remembered that Wentworth had repeatedly pointed out the condition of Calais to the government, which had persistently neglected his warnings.

Wentworth failed to obtain any important employment under Elizabeth. He was, however, appointed lord lieutenant of Norfolk and Suffolk, and frequently served as commissioner for musters and for the good government of the city of London (Acts P. C. 1558–80 passim). On 8 Sept. 1560 he was one of those ordered to receive the king of Sweden, and in January 1572 was one of the peers who tried the Duke of Norfolk. In 1561 was dedicated to him the English translation of Bullinger's ‘Sermons.’ He died at Stepney on 13 Jan. 1583–4. A portrait of Wentworth belonged in 1779 to Thomas Noel, viscount Wentworth, and was engraved for the ‘Antiquarian Repository’ (1808, iii. 59); another belonged in 1866 to Mr. F. Vernon-Wentworth of Wentworth Castle (Cat. First Loan Exhib. No. 178).


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Rh Protestant. The maire, a Protestant, asked me to help him in a small matter which is itself characteristic of the country. The young women of the Cévennes profit by the common religion and the difference of the language to go largely as governesses into England; and here was one, a native of Mialet, struggling with English circulars from two different agencies in London. I gave what help I could; and volunteered some advice, which struck me as being excellent. One thing more I note. The phylloxera has ravaged the vineyards in this neighbourhood; and in the early morning, under some Chestnuts by the river, I found a party of men working with a cider-press. I could not at first make out what they were after, and asked one fellow to explain. "Making cider," he said. "Oui, c'est comme ça. Comme dans le nord!" There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice; the country was going to the devil. It was not until I was fairly seated by the driver, and rattling through a rocky valley with dwarf olives, that I became aware of my bereavement.


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Rh "Sir," said I, with my most commanding manners, "you are a coward."

And with that I turned my back upon the family party, who hastened to retire within their fortifications; and the famous door was closed again, but not till I had overheard the sound of laughter. Filia barbara pater barbarior. Let me say it in the plural: the Beasts of Gévaudan.

The lanterns had somewhat dazzled me, and I ploughed distressfully among stones and rubbish-heaps. All the other houses in the village were both dark and silent; and though I knocked at here and there a door, my knocking was unanswered. It was a bad business; I gave up Fouzilhac with my curses. The rain had stopped, and the wind, which still kept rising, began to dry my coat and trousers. "Very well," thought I, "water or no water, I must camp." But the first thing was to return to Modestine. I am pretty sure I was twenty minutes groping for my lady in the dark; and if it had not been for the unkindly services of the bog, into which I once more stumbled, I might have still been groping


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 Wentworth's first wife died without issue at Calais about 1554, and he married secondly, in 1555 or 1556, her cousin Anne or Agnes, daughter of Henry Wentworth of Mountnessing, Essex. She escaped from Calais in December 1557, and was imprisoned in the Fleet on 16 Aug. 1558 ‘for certein her offences,’ which were of a religious nature; on the 30th she made her submission to the council, and was sent to her mother's house in Essex. She died on 2 Sept., and was buried in Stepney church on 3 Sept. 1571 or 1576. Wentworth may have married a third time as on 9 Sept. 1589 William Borough [q. v.] married at Stepney a Lady Wentworth (Harl. MS. 6994, f. 104). By his second wife Wentworth had issue three children, two of whom were born before August 1558. The eldest, William, married on 26 Feb. 1581–2 Elizabeth, second daughter of William Cecil, lord Burghley. The wedding was characterised by much magnificence, but the bridegroom died of the plague at Burghley's house at Theobalds on 7 Nov. 1582 (Cal. Hatfield MSS. v. 70). His wife died, leaving no issue, in April 1583; her portrait, painted by Lucas de Heere, belongs to the Marquis of Salisbury (Cat. First Loan Exhib. No. 240). The second son, Henry (1558–1593), accordingly succeeded as third Baron Wentworth. He was father of Thomas Wentworth, fourth baron Wentworth of Nettlestead and first earl of Cleveland [q. v.]

[Davy's Suffolk Collections (Addit. MS. 19154); Rutton's Three Branches of the Wentworth Family, 1891, pp. 35–53; Cooper's Athenæ Cantabr. i. 484–5, and authorities there mentioned; Froude's Hist. of England; Cal. Hatfield MSS. vols. i. and ii.; Official Return of Members of Parl.; G. E. C[okayne]'s Complete Peerage.]  WENTWORTH, THOMAS (1568?–1628), lawyer, born in 1567 or 1568, was the third son of Peter Wentworth [q. v.] of Lillingstone Lovell in Oxfordshire (now in Buckinghamshire), by his second wife, Elizabeth, sister of Sir Francis Walsingham. He matriculated from University College, Oxford, on 30 Oct. 1584, entered Lincoln's Inn on 23 Oct. 1585, and was called to the bar in 1594. In September 1607 he was elected recorder of Oxford city, and in 1612 was appointed Lent reader at Lincoln's Inn. On 1 March 1603–4 he was returned to parliament for Oxford city, and retained his seat until his death.

Like his father, Thomas was an ardent parliamentarian, and in February 1606–7 he resisted the project of union between England and Scotland. In December 1610 James desired to punish him by imprisonment for his violent speeches, but was dissuaded by his council (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1603–1610, p. 649). In May 1614, on the occasion of a debate on impositions in the House of Commons, Wentworth roundly declared that ‘the just reward of the Spaniards' imposition was the loss of the Low Countries; and for France, that their late most exalting kings died like calves upon the butcher's knife’ (Court and Times of James I, 1848, p. 312; Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1611–18, p. 235, Addenda 1580–1625 p. 541). For these rash words he was imprisoned on the dissolution of parliament in June. John Chamberlain [q. v.], in a letter to Sir Dudley Carleton (Viscount Dorchester) [q. v.], states that Wentworth was thought simple rather than malicious, and that he was detained chiefly to satisfy the French ambassador (Court and Times of James I, pp. 322, 324, 326). In January 1621 Wentworth opposed the claim of the upper house to examine members of the lower house on oath in regard to the patent for gold and silver thread, and in December he strongly censured the project of the Spanish marriage. On this occasion James, incensed at the interference of the commons, wrote to the speaker commanding them not to meddle with mysteries of state. In the debate on this letter on 18 Dec. Wentworth boldly declared ‘that he never yet read of anything that was not fit for the consideration of a parliament.’ In March 1624, in a debate on supplies, he strongly advocated war with Spain in opposition to Sir George Chaworth, who wished to preserve the Spanish treaties (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1623–1625, p. 197).

While Wentworth was throwing himself so strongly into the parliamentary opposition, he was involved by his office of recorder of Oxford city in serious differences with the university, arising chiefly from the desire of the citizens to establish an efficient night police in the city (, Hist. and Antiq. of the Univ. of Oxford, ed. Gutch, ii. 299–304). His attitude in parliament probably increased his unpopularity with the strong loyalists of the university, and in 1611 he was discommonsed by order of the vice-chancellor ‘as a malicious and implacable fomentor of troubles’ (ib. ii. 308). He was only restored on his urgent entreaty on 30 April 1614 (ib. ii. 309–10). Returning to his former attitude of opposition, he incurred such peril that he was persuaded about 1620, by the solicitations of his friends, to retire to Henley. Soon afterwards, about 1623, John Whistler was appointed his


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20 for her at the dawn. My next business was to gain the shelter of a wood, for the wind was cold as well as boisterous. How, in this well-wooded district, I should have been so long in finding one, is another of the insoluble mysteries of this day's adventures; but I will take my oath that I put near an hour to the discovery. At last black trees began to show upon my left, and, suddenly crossing the road, made a cave of unmitigated blackness right in front. I call it a cave without exaggeration; to pass below that arch of leaves was like entering a dungeon. I felt about until my hand encountered a stout branch; and to this I tied Modestine, a haggard, drenched, desponding donkey. Then I lowered my pack, laid it along the wall on the margin of the road, and unbuckled the straps. I knew well enough where the lantern was; but where were the candles? I groped and groped among the tumbled articles, and, while I was thus groping, suddenly I touched the spirit-lamp. Salvation! This would serve my turn as well. The wind roared unwearyingly among the trees; I could hear the boughs


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Rh tossing and the leaves churning through half a mile of forest; yet the scene of my encampment was not only as black as the pit, but admirably sheltered. At the second match the wick caught flame. The light was both livid and shifting; but it cut me off from the universe, and doubled the darkness of the surrounding night. I tied Modestine more conveniently for herself, and broke up half the black bread for her supper, reserving the other half against the morning. Then I gathered what I should want within reach, took off my wet boots and gaiters, which I wrapped in my waterproof, arranged my knapsack for a pillow under the flap of my sleeping-bag, insinuated my limbs into the interior, and buckled myself in like a bambino. I opened a tin of Bologna sausage and broke a cake of chocolate, and that was all I had to eat. It may sound offensive, but I ate them together, bite by bite, by way of bread and meat. All I had to wash down this revolting mixture was neat brandy: a revolting beverage in itself. But I was rare and hungry; ate well, and smoked one of the best


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54 cigarettes in my experience. Then I put a stone in my straw hat, pulled the flap of my fur cap over my neck and eyes, put my revolver ready to my hand, and snuggled well down among the sheepskins. I questioned at first if I were sleepy, for I felt my heart beating faster than usual, as if with an agreeable excitement to which my mind remained a stranger. But as soon as my eyelids touched, that subtle glue leaped between them, and they would no more come separate. The wind among the trees was my lullaby. Sometimes it sounded for minutes together with a steady even rush, not rising nor abating; and again it would swell and burst like a great crashing breaker, and the trees would patter me all over with big drops from the rain of the afternoon. Night after night, in my own bedroom in the country, I have given ear to this perturbing concert of the wind among the woods; but whether it was a difference in the trees, or the lie of the ground, or because I was myself outside and in the midst of it, the fact remains that the wind sang to a different tune among these woods of Gévaudan. I


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 deputy in the recordership. He was nominated treasurer of Lincoln's Inn in 1621, and died at Henley in March or April 1628. He married Dorothy, daughter and coheiress of Thomas Keble of Newbottle in Northamptonshire. By her he had seven sons and two daughters. His daughter Margaret was married, on 22 April 1628, to Anthony Saunders, rector of Pangbourne in Berkshire.

To Wentworth has been assigned the authorship of a legal treatise entitled ‘The Office and Duty of Executors,’ which first appeared in 1641, though Wood erroneously states that there was an earlier edition in 1612. The first two editions were anonymous, but the third, which also appeared in 1641, bore the name of Thomas Wentworth. The work was, however, generally ascribed to the judge, Sir [q. v.], and several indications in the book itself seem to support his claim. The latest English edition of the treatise was published in 1829 under the editorship of Henry Jeremy, London, 4to (, Touchstone of Common Assurances, 1648;, Works, 1648, p. 184; , Legal Bibliogr. p. 355).

WENTWORTH, THOMAS, first (1593–1641), statesman, the eldest son of Sir William Wentworth of Wentworth-Woodhouse, and his wife Anne, daughter of Sir Robert Atkinson of Stowell, Gloucestershire, was born on Good Friday, 13 April 1593, at the house of his mother's father, in Chancery Lane, and was baptised at St. Dunstan's-in-the-West. The family had long been settled at Wentworth-Woodhouse, and the Barons Wentworth and Earls of Cleveland were descended from a younger branch [see, first ].

The future Earl of Strafford was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, but the date of his entrance is unknown. In November 1607 he was admitted a student of the Inner Temple (, Complete Peerage, xii. 262). On 22 Oct. 1611 he married Margaret, the eldest daughter of Francis Clifford, fourth earl of Cumberland; was knighted on 6 Dec., after which he travelled on the continent (, Progresses of James I, ii. 435; State Papers, Docquets, 8 Dec.) under the care of Charles Greenwood, a fellow of University College, Oxford. He returned home about fourteen months later, in February 1613. In 1614 he sat for Yorkshire in the Addled parliament, and about Michaelmas in the same year (Strafford Letters, ii. 430) he became second baronet and head of the family on his father's death. In 1615 he was appointed custos rotulorum in Yorkshire in succession to Sir John Savile, who surrendered the office to avoid dismissal [see, first ]. In 1617 Savile, who had in the meantime curried favour with Buckingham, obtained a letter from the favourite asking Wentworth to restore the dignity to its former holder as having been voluntarily surrendered by him. On Wentworth's explanation of the true state of the case, Buckingham abstained from pressing his request. A lifelong quarrel between Savile and Wentworth was the perhaps inevitable result. For the Yorkshire seat in the parliament which met in 1621 Wentworth was a successful candidate in opposition to Savile. As he stood in conjunction with Calvert, the secretary of state, it is evident that he was at that time prepared to support the king's government, especially so far as it was represented by Calvert, who was a member of that party in the council which favoured an understanding with Spain.

It was, in fact, perfectly natural that it should be so. The main question likely to occupy parliament was that of succouring the elector palatine after his loss of Bohemia, and Wentworth was not the man to wish to hurry the king into a further extension of a warlike policy than he was willing to agree to. All through his life Wentworth gave the first place to domestic reform, and disliked entanglement in continental politics, and especially in a religious war. In the early part of the session he appeared as an occasional speaker, but it was not till after the adjournment in the summer that the young member took any prominent part in the debates. The government having proposed a vote of supply to enable James to maintain a force in the lower palatinate during the winter, leaving it to him to declare war or not when the summer arrived, the opposition showed an inclination to drag the king into a more direct conflict with Spain, and Wentworth on 26 Nov. proposed an adjournment, apparently to give James time to come to an understanding with the house; and, being beaten, supported the government on the 27th in its demand for a supply, leaving the king the choice of a fit time for declaring war. Later in the session, when a constitutional question was raised by


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Rh hearkened and hearkened; and meanwhile sleep took gradual possession of my body and subdued my thoughts and senses; but still my last waking effort was to listen and distinguish, and my last conscious state was one of wonder at the foreign clamour in my ears. Twice in the course of the dark hours—once when a stone galled me underneath the sack, and again when the poor patient Modestine, growing angry, pawed and stamped upon the road—I was recalled for a brief while to consciousness, and saw a star or two overhead, and the lace-like edge of the foliage against the sky. When I awoke for the third time (Wednesday, September 25th), the world was flooded with a blue light, the mother of the dawn. I saw the leaves labouring in the wind and the ribbon of the road; and, on turning my head, there was Modestine tied to a beech, and standing half across the path in an attitude of inimitable patience. I closed my eyes again, and set to thinking over the experience of the night I was surprised to find how easy and pleasant it had been, even in this tempestuous weather. The


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 James's declaration that the privileges of parliament were not the ‘ancient and undoubted right’ of the house, Wentworth on 15 Dec. avowed his own opinion to be opposite to that of the sovereign, but recommended that it should be embodied in a protestation which need not be communicated to the king, and would therefore maintain the ground taken by the house without necessarily leading to a collision with the king. Wentworth's suggestion was adopted, and it was James's own want of wisdom which found in the protestation an occasion for dissolving parliament. Young as he was—he was only in his twenty-ninth year—Wentworth had displayed during this session a mingled firmness and moderation which marked him out as a statesman who might do good service to his country if the personages in authority had been such as to allow of a prudent and moderating policy.

While Wentworth regretted the dissolution as putting a stop to domestic legislation, he was as hopeful as James himself of seeing the palatinate restored through the mediation of Spain, on the ground that it was to the interest of Philip IV to keep himself out of war, being inclined in this matter, as in many others in the course of his career, to think of men as led by their interests rather than by their feelings and passions (Strafford Letters, i. 15).

In the spring of 1622 Wentworth had a serious fever, and on his recovery removed to Bow, where his wife died, leaving no children. After her death he returned to Wentworth-Woodhouse, and was again seriously ill in 1623.

In the parliament of 1624 Wentworth sat for Pontefract. From scattered hints in his letters it appears that he had no sympathy with the eagerness of Buckingham and parliament to rush into a war with Spain. ‘I judge further,’ he wrote before the session opened, ‘the path we are like to walk in is now more narrow and slippery than formerly, yet not so difficult but may be passed with circumspection, patience, and silence’ (ib. p. 19). In another letter written after the prorogation he shows sympathy with Bristol, the negotiator of the Spanish marriage [see, first ], and jestingly dwells on the folly of the House of Commons in a reference to a statue of Samson killing a Philistine with the jawbone of an ass, ‘the moral and meaning whereof may be yourself standing at the bar, and there with all your weighty curiously-spun arguments beaten down by some such silly instrument as that, and so the bill in conclusion passed, sir, in spite of your nose’ (ib. p. 21). In the same spirit he mocks at ‘the cobblers and other bigots and zealous brethren’ who rejoiced in the departure of the Spanish ambassador, and laments the injury done by the Dutch to English commerce. The whole tone of this letter, written by Wentworth to his lifelong friend (Sir) Christopher Wandesford [q. v.], is that of a man who has ranged himself on the anti-puritan side, but who has no great respect for the conduct of the government as managed by Buckingham.

On 24 Feb. 1625 Wentworth was again a married man. His second wife was Arabella, second daughter of John Holles, first earl of Clare [q. v.], and sister of Denzil Holles [q. v.] In the first parliament of Charles I, which met on 18 June, he again sat for Yorkshire, but was unseated on petition, on the ground that the sheriff had prematurely closed the poll against the supporters of Wentworth's old rival, Savile. In the proceedings which followed in the house (, Life of Eliot, i. 153;, Hist. of Engl. v. 349) Wentworth, in defiance of the rules, attempted to address the house in his own defence when the case was under investigation, and brought down on himself a fierce attack from Eliot, who compared him to Catiline, who had come into the senate in order to destroy it. There was an impatience of contradiction in Wentworth which exposed him to attack, but Eliot would hardly have been so severe unless it had been generally understood that Wentworth's views were at that time regarded as contrary to those of the popular party.

Wentworth was re-elected on 1 Aug. in time to take his place after the adjournment to Oxford. To an offer of favour conveyed to him from Buckingham, he replied that ‘he was ready to serve him as an honest man and a gentleman’ (Strafford Letters, i. 34). It is, however, evident that he was not in favour of the war with Spain, whether it was promoted by Buckingham or his opponents. ‘Let us first,’ he said in the house, ‘do the business of the commonwealth, appoint a committee for petitions, and afterwards, for my part, I will consent to do as much for the king as any other.’ The avoidance of external complications with a view to the pursuance of internal reforms was, to the end, the main principle of Wentworth's political conduct, putting him out of sympathy alike with the popular sentiment and with the aims of the powerful favourite. At the close of the session his sense of independence was roused by the threat of a penal dissolution. To a proposal that the house should withdraw from the position it had taken up in opposition to the duke, he replied, ‘We


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56 stone which annoyed me would not have been there, had I not been forced to camp blindfold in the opaque night; and I had felt no other inconvenience, except when my feet encountered the lantern or the second volume of Peyrat's Pastors of the Desert among the mixed contents of my sleeping-bag; nay more, I had felt not a touch of cold, and awakened with unusually lightsome and clear sensations. With that, I shook myself, got once more into my boots and gaiters, and, breaking up the rest of the bread for Modestine, strolled about to see in what part of the world I had awakened. Ulysses, left on Ithaca, and with a mind unsettled by the goddess, was not more pleasantly astray. I have been after an adventure all my life, a pure dispassionate adventure, such as befell early and heroic voyagers; and thus to be found by morning in a random woodside nook in Gévaudan—not knowing north from south, as strange to my surroundings as the first man upon the earth, an inland castaway—was to find a fraction of my day-dreams realised, I was on the skirts of a


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 are under the rod, and we cannot with credit or safety yield. Since we sat here, the subjects have lost a subsidy at sea.’ In November 1625, when a new parliament was contemplated, he was made sheriff of Yorkshire to prevent his sitting in the house. Yet Charles could not but be aware that his conduct had differed from that of the other members of the late parliament, who were treated in the same way. ‘Wentworth,’ he remarked, ‘is an honest gentleman’ (ib. i. 29). The difference between Wentworth and the other opponents of the court was no less strongly shown by his own words written not long after he had been marked for exclusion from the House of Commons. ‘My rule,’ he wrote, ‘which I will never transgress, is never to contend with the prerogative out of parliament, nor yet to contest with a king but when I am constrained thereunto, or else make shipwreck of my peace of conscience, which I trust God will ever bless me with, and with courage, too, to preserve it’ (ib. i. 32).

It was the misfortune of Charles and Buckingham that they knew not how to convert a half-hearted opponent into a friend. So far from associating himself with the attack on Buckingham, Wentworth, on a rumour that the presidency of the council of the north was vacant, wrote to ask for the appointment (State Papers, Dom. xviii. 110). There was no vacancy, but in Easter term he came to London, was introduced to the duke, and was favourably received (Strafford Letters, i. 35). Yet on 8 July his name appears on a list of the opponents of the court to be dismissed from the justiceship of the peace (Harl. MS. 286, f. 297), and Wentworth accordingly lost this office, together with that of custos rotulorum, which was given back to Sir John Savile, from whom he had previously wrested it. The blow was the more keenly felt as the letter of dismissal was handed to him as he was sitting as high sheriff in his court at York. From the language used by him in announcing his loss of place, it would appear that he had refused to perform some service required of him, probably to support Charles's demand of a free gift from his subjects. Subsequently, when the free gift reappeared in the shape of a forced loan, Wentworth refusing to pay his quota, was placed in confinement in the Marshalsea in May 1627, though after six weeks' imprisonment he was allowed to retire to Dartford, under the obligation not to stir more than two miles from the place (Strafford Letters, ii. 430). At this time he seems to have held that as parliament had no right to encroach on the king by usurping executive functions, so the king had no right to levy taxes without the consent of parliament. It is not unlikely that his support of the latter proposition was strengthened partly by his sense of personal wrong, partly by his dislike of Buckingham's rash foreign policy, which had involved the country in a war with France in addition to that with Spain.

In this spirit, when Charles's third parliament met on 17 March 1628, Wentworth came to an agreement with the parliamentary leaders to drop the attack on Buckingham and to vindicate the violated rights of the subject. On the 22nd he spoke strongly on the illegality of ‘the raising of loans strengthened by commissions with unheard-of instructions and oaths, the billeting of soldiers by the lieutenants and deputy-lieutenants.’ At the same time he urged that the fault was in the king's instruments, not in the king himself. A privy council—that is to say a secret council, apart from the constitutional council of the king—had been introduced, ‘ravishing at once the spheres of all ancient government,’ an expression which shows Wentworth to have been a diligent reader of Bacon's essays (Essay on Superstition), ‘imprisoning us without banks or bounds.’ A third complaint against imprisonment without cause shown was thus added to the two against forced loans and martial law mentioned in the earlier part of the speech. The course Wentworth recommended was no less clearly indicated. The house was to vindicate the ‘ancient, sober, and vital liberties by reinforcing of the ancient laws of our ancestors, by setting such a stamp upon them as no licentious spirit shall dare hereafter to enter upon them.’ It was for the interest as much of the king as of the parliament that this should be done, otherwise it would ‘be impossible to relieve him.’

A fourth demand, that of the abolition of martial law, was afterwards added. With this exception Wentworth's speech contained the substance of the future petition of right, yet with this difference, that whereas the petition declared the law to have been broken, Wentworth merely asked that the law as it had long existed should be clearly explained. In the following weeks the discussion turned mainly upon imprisonment without cause shown, on which Charles was particularly obdurate. On 2 April, when there was a debate on the supply needed for the war, Wentworth refused even to discuss foreign complications. ‘Unless we be secured in our liberties, we cannot give,’ was still his simple ground of inaction. To see whether the king was


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Rh little wood of birch, sprinkled with a few beeches; behind, it adjoined another wood of fir; and in front, it broke up and went down in open order into a shallow and meadowy dale. All around there were bare hill-tops, some near, some far away, as the perspective closed or opened, but none apparently much higher than the rest. The wind huddled the trees. The golden specks of autumn in the birches tossed shiveringly. Overhead the sky was full of strings and shreds of vapour, flying, vanishing, reappearing, and turning about an axis like tumblers, as the wind hounded them through heaven. It was wild weather and famishing cold. I ate some chocolate, swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and smoked a cigarette before the cold should have time to disable my fingers. And by the time I had got all this done, and had made my pack and bound it on the pack-saddle, the day was tiptoe on the threshold of the east. We had not gone many steps along the lane, before the sun, still invisible to me, sent a glow of gold over some cloud mountains that lay ranged along the eastern sky.


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 prepared to yield on the domestic question, he proposed and carried the adjournment of the debate to the 4th. The adjournment only brought a vague assurance from Charles that the liberties of his subjects were in no danger. When a new question of the king's right to press soldiers for foreign service was raised by Selden, Wentworth carried a motion referring it to a committee.

So far as was in those days possible, Wentworth stood forth as the leader of the House of Commons. Representing faithfully the general temper in favour of an accommodation with Charles on the basis of his abandonment of what were understood to be unconstitutional claims, he secured the adoption (4 April) in committee of supply of a motion that five subsidies should be granted, without specification of the purposes to which they were to be applied. He followed up this success by carrying another motion that no report of the grant should be made to the house, so that the king could not, as he had done after the session of 1626, demand payment, in the shape of a forced loan, of subsidies on the ground that the house had signified its approval of a grant, though no bill had been passed on the subject. The present offer, as Wentworth said, was conditional on the settlement of the fundamental liberties. To secure this, Wentworth asked that a sub-committee be appointed to draw up a bill in which these liberties should be set forth.

Wentworth was now known as the man ‘who hath the greatest sway in parliament.’ But the motion to avoid reporting the grant had given offence to the king, and when the four resolutions had passed the house and had been laid before the lords, it seemed as if Charles would, to some extent, find an ally in the upper house, which on 25 April drew up counter-proposals, allowing the king to imprison without cause shown, till he found it convenient to do so. In the commons, Noye, who was under Wentworth's influence, proposed to provide for the case by the more ready issue of writ of habeas corpus, and by an enactment that ‘if there be no cause of detaining upon that writ,’ the prisoner was ‘to be delivered.’ Wentworth supported Noye's desire of proceeding by a bill declaring ‘that none shall be committed without showing cause,’ with a penalty attached to its violation. If it was violated, he added, ‘on any emergent cause, he thinks no man shall find fault with it.’ Wentworth's view of the case was what it remained to the end. Let the law be declared with provision for enforcing it. If some real necessity arose, let the king use his prerogative boldly, and violate the law for the safety of the state. The real weakness of Wentworth's position lay in the impossibility of securing that Charles would not discover a necessity where it could be seen by no one else. Wentworth's proposal was, however, adopted, and on 28 April a bill was brought into the house by a sub-committee, making no reference to the past conduct of the government, but declaring in set terms that by the existing law every freeman committed by the king's sole command was to be bailed or delivered, that no tax, tallage, or other imposition was to be levied, nor soldier billeted. The question of martial law was left over for further consideration. On 1 May Wentworth proposed to modify the bill by softening it down. It would be enough to confirm the old laws, adding that every prisoner should be bailed if cause were not shown in the writ. There would then be no denial of the king's right to commit; but whenever he did commit without showing cause on which the prisoner could be tried, the judges would be required to bail him.

Wentworth might carry the house with him; he could not depend on the king. Charles replied by a message asking the house to depend on his royal word and promise; and Secretary Coke explained that whatever laws parliament might please to make, he should find it his duty to commit without showing cause to any one but the king. The ground was thus cut from under Wentworth's feet. On 2 May, indeed, he replied that, though the house had no ground of complaint against the king, the law had been violated by his ministers, and a bill was therefore needed. The house drew up a remonstrance to bring the substance of Wentworth's argument before the king, and this remonstrance was presented on 5 May. Charles would have none of Wentworth's bill, and he merely offered to confirm the old laws ‘without additions, paraphrases, or explanations.’ For the rest, the houses must be content with his royal word. Wentworth's mediation between king and parliament had hopelessly broken down by the obstinacy of the king. It was not for him to lead the house further. The petition of right occupied the place of his bill, but it was drawn up by other hands. When it was before the house, indeed, he favoured its modification in such a way as to secure the consent of the lords, and thereby (23 May) came into collision with Eliot; but he expressed his general concurrence in the petition as it stood. Charles had left no other course open to him. On 7 June the petition was accepted by the king (, Hist. of England, vi. 230–309, with references to the original evidence).


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by. Master, U. S. Navy.

The undulatory theory of light assumes the existence of a medium called the ether, whose vibrations produce the phenomena of heat and light, and which is supposed to fill all space. According to Fresnel, the ether, which is enclosed in optical media, partakes of the motion of these media, to an extent depending on their indices of refraction. For air, this motion would be but a small fraction of that of the air itself and will be neglected.

Assuming then that the ether is at rest, the earth moving through it, the time required for light to pass from one point to another on the earth’s surface, would depend on the direction in which it travels.

Let $$\textrm{V}$$ be the velocity of light.

 * $$v$$ = the speed of the earth with respect to the ether.
 * $$\textrm{D}$$ = the distance between the two points.
 * $$d$$ = the distance through which the earth moves, while light travels from one point to the other.
 * $$d_1$$ = the distance earth moves, while light passes in the opposite direction.

Suppose the direction of the line joining the two points to coincide with the direction of earth’s motion, and let $$\textrm{T}$$ = time required for light to pass from the one point to the other, and $$\textrm{T}_{1}$$ = time required for it to pass in the opposite direction. Further, let $$\textrm{T}_{0}$$ = time required to perform the journey if the earth were at rest. Then

$$\textrm{T}=\frac{\textrm{D}+d}{\textrm{V}}=\frac{d}{v}$$; and $$\textrm{T}_{1}=\frac{\textrm{D}-d}{\textrm{V}}=\frac{d_{1}}{v}$$

From these relations we find $$d=\textrm{D}\tfrac{v}{\textrm{V}-v}$$ and $$d_{1}=\textrm{D}\tfrac{v}{\textrm{V}+v}$$, whence $$\textrm{T}=\tfrac{\textrm{D}}{\textrm{V}-v}$$ and $$\textrm{T}_{1}=\tfrac{\textrm{D}}{\textrm{V}+v}$$; $$\textrm{T}-\textrm{T}_{1}=2\textrm{T}_{0}\tfrac{v}{\textrm{V}}$$ nearly, and $$v=\textrm{V}\tfrac{\textrm{T}-\textrm{T}_{1}}{2\textrm{T}_{0}}$$.

If now it were possible to measure $$\textrm{T} - \textrm{T}_{1}$$, since $$\textrm{V}$$ and $$\textrm{T}_{0}$$ are known, we could find $$v$$ the velocity of the earth’s motion through the ether.

In a letter, published in “Nature” shortly after his death, Clerk Maxwell pointed out that $$\textrm{T} - \textrm{T}_{1}$$, could be calculated by measuring the velocity of light by means of the eclipses of Jupiter’s satellites at periods when that planet lay in different directions from earth; but that for this purpose the observations of these eclipses must greatly exceed in accuracy those

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58 The wind had us on the stern, and hurried us bitingly forward. I buttoned myself into my coat, and walked on in a pleasant frame of mind with all men, when suddenly, at a corner, there was Fouzilhic once more in front of me. Nor only that, but there was the old gentleman who had escorted me so far the night before, running out of his house at sight of me, with hands upraised in horror. "My poor boy!" he cried, "what does this mean?" I told him what had happened. He beat his old hands like clappers in a mill, to think how lightly he had let me go; but when he heard of the man of Fouzilhac, anger and depression seized upon his mind. "This time, at least," said he, "there shall be no mistake." And he limped along, for he was very rheumatic, for about half a mile, and until I was almost within sight of Cheylard, the destination I had hunted for so long.