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Page:Alumni Oxoniensis (1715-1886) volume 3.djvu/412

 Randolph, Herbert, s. Thomas, of Petham, Kent, doctor. , matric. 26 March, 1762, aged 14, B.A. 1765; M.A. from 1768, B.D. 1777, precentor of St. Paul's 1812, vicar of Canewdon, Essex, rector of Hanwell 1809, and perp. curate Wimbledon, Surrey, died 8 March, 1819.  Randolph, Herbert, s. Herbert, of Durnford, Wilts, cler. , matric. 22 May, 1787, aged 15; B.A. 1791, fellow, M.A. 1704, B.D. 1802, vicar of Chute, rector of Letcomb Bassett 1805, until his death at Rotterdam in 1828.  Randolph, Herbert, s. Herbert, of Wimbledon, Surrey, cler. , matric. 22 Dec., 1806, aged 17; student 1806-19, B.A. 1810, M.A. 1813, perp. curate Hawkhurst, Sussex, 1815-9, vicar of Mareham, Berks, 1819, until his death 13 March, 1875.  Randolph, Herbert, 1s. Herbert, of Letcombe, Berks, cler. , matric. 17 March, 1836, aged 17; scholar 1826-32, B.A. 1830. M.A. 1842, incumbent of Holy Trinity, Melrose, 1849-55.  Randolph, James, s. Charles, of Langport, Somerset, arm. , matric. 3 May, 1785, aged 18.  Randolph, John, s. Herbert, of Christ Church, Canterbury, arm. , matric. 20 Feb., 1719-20. aged 15; B.A. 1723.  [6] Randolph, John, s. Thomas, of Oxford (city), doctor. , matric. 17 June, 1767, aged 17; student, B.A. 1771, M.A. 1774, B.D. 1782, D.D. by diploma 30 Oct., 1783, professor of poetry 1776-83, proctor 1781, regius professor of Greek 1782-3, a canon of Christ Church and regius professor of divinity 1783-1807, preb. of Salisbury 1782, rector of Ewelme 1783, sinecure rector of Darowen 1797-1800, bishop of Oxford 1799-1806, Bangor 1806-9, and of London 1809-13, privy councillor 1809, F.R.S. 1811, died 28 July, 1813. See Alumni West., 385.  Randolph, John, 1s. John Honywood, of Fulham, Middlesex, cler. , matric. 13 June, 1839, aged 18; B.A. 1843, M.A. 1847, chaplain Tattenhoe, etc., 1850-66, rector of Sanderstead, Surrey, 1866, until his death 11 July, 1881. See Alumni West., 516.

Randolph, John Honywood, s. John, bishop of Bangor. , matric. 17 May, 1809, aged 18; student 1809-14, B.A. 1813, M.A. 1815, preacher to hon. Society of Gray's Inn 1815-7, rector of Burton Coggles, co. Lincoln, 1816, chaplain of the British Factory at St. Petersburg 1818, rector of Fobbing, Essex, 1822, and preb. of St. Paul's 1821, rector of Northolt, Middlesex, 1822-35, perp. curate St. Leonard's-on-Sea 1835, rector of Mistley-cum-Bradfield and Manningtree, Essex, 1839, and of Sanderstead, Surrey, 1845, died in June, 1868. See Alumni West. 469.

Randolph, John James, 2s. Thomas, of Sheen, Surrey, cler. , matric. 15 May, 1834, aged 17, student 1834-40, B.A. 1838; fellow 1840, M.A. 1841, tutor and dean 1841, bursar 1842, sub-warden 1846, bar.-at-law, Lincoln's Inn, 1844, See Foster's Men at the Bar & Alumni West., 510.
 [10]
Randolph, Joseph Randolph, 1s. Arthur Randolph, of Tor, Devon, arm. , matric. 21 Oct., 1886, aged 19.

Randolph, Leveson Cyril, 5s. Thomas, of Hadham, Herts, cler. , matric. 12 May, 1842, aged 17; student 1842-53, B.A. 1846, M.A. 1848, vicar of East Garston, Berks, 1853-70, and of St. Luke's, Lower Norwood, 1870, until his death 1 March, 1876. See Alumni West., 519.

Randolph, Leveson John, 1s. Leveson Cyril, of Hemel Hempstead, Herts, cler. , matric. 25 Jan., 1878, aged 19; B.A. 1884, a student of the Inner Temple 1881. See Eton School Lists.

Randolph, Rodney Granville, 1s. George Granville, of Southsea, Hants, gent. , matric. 14 Oct., 1870. aged 18; B.A. 1874, M.A. 1877, curate of Leckhamstead, Bucks, 1880-2, rector 1882-3, vicar of South Kyme, co. Lincoln, 1884.

Randolph, Thomas, s. Herbert, of Canterbury (city), arm. , matric. 26 Nov., 1715, aged 14; B.A. 1719, M.A. 1 Feb., 1722-3. B.D. 1730, D.D. 1735, president 1748-83, vice-chancellor 1756-9, Margaret professor of divinity 1768-83, archdeacon of Oxford 1767, preb. of Worcester 1768, rector of Petham and Waltham, Kent 1737, died 24 March, 1783.
 [15]
Randolph, Thomas, s. Thomas, of Islip, Oxon, doctor. , matric. 19 Jane, 1759, aged 18; B.A. 1763, M.A. 1766, rector of Saltwood-with-Hythe, Kent, 1769, vicar of Waltham and Petham 1783, until his death 18 July, 1808. See Alumni West., 372.

Randolph, Thomas, s. John, bishop of Oxford. , matric. 17 May, 1806, aged 17; student 1806-13, B.A. 1810, M.A. 1812. preb. of St. Paul's 1812, chaplain in ordinary to the King 1825, rector of Much with Little Hadham, Essex, 1812, until his death 2 May, 1875. See Alumni West., 464.

Randolph, William Cater, 1s. Henry Jones, of Hawkesbury, co. Gloucester, cler. , matric. 23 Nov., 1837, aged 19; B.A. 1842, M.A. 1844, of Yate House, co. Gloucester, sometime curate of Ermington, Devon.

Randolph, William, of, Cambridge (senior optime and B.A. 1840, M.A. 1843); adm. 'ad eundem' 20 June, 1844, incumbent of Aldersholt, Dorset, 1854.

Randolph, Rev. William Frederick Herbert, 4s. Edward John, of Dunnington, Yorks. cler. , matric. 15 Oct., 1880, aged 17; scholar 1883-5. B.A. 1884. M.A. 1888.
 [20]
Rangeley, Rev. Isaac, o.s. Isaac, of Hayfield, co. Derby, gent. , matric. 3 June, 1870, aged 22; B.A. from. 1874.

Ranger, Alfred Washington Guest, 1s. Josiah. of Brislington, Somerset, gent. , matric. 16 Oct., 1872, aged 24; B.A. 1875, B.C.L. & M.A. 1879. D.C.L. 1884.

Ranken, Rev. Charles, s. Charles, of Belfast, Ireland, arm. , matric. 23 May, 1814, aged 17; student 1814-27, B.A. 1817, M.A. 1820, died 31 Oct., 1883. See Alumni West., 478.

Ranken, Charles Edward, 1s. Charles, of Brislington, Somerset, cler. , matric. 15 Oct. 1845, aged 17; B.A. 1850, M.A. 1853, vicar of Sandford-on-Thames 1867-71, etc.

Ranken, Edward John, 2s. Charles, of Brislington, Somerset, cler. , matric. 28 Jan., 1847, aged 17; B.A. from 1851.

Ranken, George Elliot, 1s. George Elliot, of Clifton, co. Gloucester, cler. , matric. 21 Feb., 1845, aged 17; scholar 1845-51, B.A. 1840, M.A. 1883, a student of the Inner Temple 1849. See Eton School Lists.
 [26]
Ranken, John William, 1s. Charles, of St. George's, Bloomsbury, London, arm. , matric. 25 Oct., 1832, aged 17.

Ranken, Robert Burt, 1s. Thomas, of St. Mary's, Edinburgh, arm. ., matric. 29 Jan., 1859, aged 18; exhibitioner 1859-64, B.A. 1863, M.A. 1865.

Ranken, William Henry, 3s. Charles, of Brislington, Somerset, cler. matric. 7 June, 1850, aged 17; scholar 1850-62, B.A. 1854, M.A. 1857, fellow 1862-9, junior bursar 1867, vicar of Sandford-on-Thames 1862-6, of Radley, Berks, 1865-7, of West Houghton, Lancashire, 1868-73, and of Marston Meysey, co. Gloucester, 1873-82, rector of Meysey Hampton, co. Gloucester, 1808-84, vicar of Christ Church, Surbiton, 1884.

Rankin, Daniel, 3s. Daniel, of Greenock, co. Renfrew, gent. , matric. 17 Oct., 1882, aged 24; exhibitioner 1882, B.A. 1886.
 [30]
Rankine, Adam, o.s. John, of Liverpool, Lancashire, gent. , matric. 16 Oct., 1866, aged 19; exhibitioner 1866-71, B.A. 1871.
 [ 1175 ]


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Page:Alumni Oxoniensis (1715-1886) volume 3.djvu/415

 Rawbone, John, s. John, of Drayton, Oxon, pleb. , matric. 2 May, 1740, aged 19; B.A. 7 March, 1748-9. M.A. 1765, vicar of Winslow and Granby, Bucks, 1765, until his death 17 Jan., 1775.  Rawbone, John, s. William, of Winslow, Bucks, pleb. , matric. 8 Dec., 1761, aged 18; chaplain 1760-1821, B.A. 1765, M.A. 1768, vice-principal, B.D. 1787, D.D. from  1804, usher of the College School 1764-9, deputy-keeper of the archives, vicar of Cheddar, Somerset, vicar of Buckland, Berks, 1805, and rector of Hatford 1804, until his death 22 July, 1825, father of Charles B., John Egerton, and Thomas Rathbone. See Bloxam, ii. 176.  Rawbone, John, s. John, of Uxbridge, Middlesex, pleb. , matric. 10 Oct., 1791, aged 19; B.A. 1795, M.A. 1798.  Rawbone, John, 3s. George, of London, gent. , matric. 12 Oct., 1878, aged 16.  Rawdon-Hastings, Francis, 1s. (John), Earl of Moira. , matric. 23 Oct., 1771, aged 16; 2nd Earl of Moira in 1793, created Baron Rawdon 5 March, 1783, and Marquis of Hastings, etc., 13 Feb., 1817, K.G. 1812, G.C.B. & G.C.H. 1818. M.P. Randalstown 1780-3, assumed the additional surname and arms of 1790, general in the army 1803, privy councillor 1806, constable of the Tower 1806, governor-general Bengal and commissioner-in-chief India 1812-23, etc., died 28 Nov., 1826.  [5]

Rawdon, Francis, s. John, of Glasslough, co. Monaghan, Ireland, arm. , matric. 25 March, 1809, aged 30; B.A. 1812.  Rawdon-Hastings, George Augustus Francis, 1s. Francis, Marquis of Hastings. , matric. 9 Nov., 1826, aged 18; 2nd marquis, a lord of the bedchamber to William IV. 1830, and bearer of the golden spurs at the coronation in 1831, died 13 Jan., 1844.  Rawdon, George Wordsworth, 3s. Joshua, of Everton, near Liverpool, arm. , matric. 3 June, 1857, aged 18; demy 1858-63.

Rawdon, James Hamer, 1s. Joshua, of Liverpool, arm. , matric. 8 June, 1854, aged 18; B.A. 1858, M.A. 1861, held various curacies 1863-75, vicar of Crompton 1875-7, and of Preston, Lancashire, 1877.

Rawdon, William Frederick, 1s. William Frederick, of Naples, Italy, D.Med. , matric. 17 March, 1852, aged 19; B.A. 1856, M.A. 1859. See Rugby School Reg., 282.
 [10]

Rawes, James, s. Gerard, of Kirby Lonsdale, Westmoreland, pleb. , matric. 29 Oct., 1735. aged 19; B.A. 1741, fellow, M.A. 1744, B.D. 1759, of Chedworth, co. Gloucester, died 6 June, 1785.

Rawes, Robert Booth, s. Richard, of Bromley, Kent, gent. , matric. 3 July, 1801, aged 16; B.A. 1805, M.A. 1808.

Rawes, Rev. William, s. William, of Witton-le-Wear, co. Durham, cler. , matric. 26 May, 1813. aged 17; B.A. 1817.

Rawkins, Silvester, s. Stephen, of Chardstock, Dorset, gent. , matric. 6 June, 1753, aged 18; B.A. 1757.

Rawkins, Sylvester, s. Sylvester, of East Pennard, Somerset, cler. , matric. 18 Oct., 1785. aged 17; B.A. 1789, M.A. 1792.
 [15]

Rawling, John, s. Cuthbert, of Stanton, Cumberland, pleb. , matric. 7 Nov., 1716, aged 17; B.A. 1722.

Rawling, John, s. John, of Kensington, Middlesex, arm. , matric. 13 March, 1793, aged 18.

Rawling, Robert, s. Luke, of Bolden, co. Durham, pleb. , matric. 1 Dec., 1738, aged 18; B.A. 1742.

Rawlings, Rev. Charles, 4s. William, of Padstow, Cornwall, cler. , matric. 24 Feb., 1823, aged 18.

Rawlings, James, s. John, of Witherington, co. Hereford, pleb. , matric. 19 Nov., 1724, aged 18; B.A. 1728.
 [20]

Rawlings, Philip, s. Mos., of Devizes, Wilts, pleb. , matric. 14 May, 1730, aged 16; B.A. 22 Feb., 1733-4.

Rawlings, William, s. William, of Padstow, Cornwall, gent. , matric. 11 March, 1780, aged 18; scholar 1779, B.A. 1783, vicar of Padstow 1790, until his death 20 Dec., 1836, father of Charles, and William next named. See ''Coll. Reg.'', 146.

Rawlings, William, s. William, of Padstow, Cornwall, cler. , matric. 21 March, 1809, aged 18; B.A. 1813, rector of Lansallos, Cornwall.

Rawlings, William, 1s. Edward, of Stanton-super-Arrow, co. Hereford, gent. , matric. 5 June, 1824, aged 29; B.A. 1829, M.A. 1831.

Rawlins, Rev. Christopher, s. John, of Guildford, Surrey, arm. , matric. 15 Dec., 1794, aged 17; B.A. 1798, M.A. 1826, died at Englefield Green 13 Dec., 1848, aged 72.
 [25]

Rawlins, Christopher, 1s. Christopher, of St. Pancras, London, cler. , matric. 2 May, 1827, aged 18; B.A. 1832, vicar of Thornton and Allerthorpe, Yorks, 1836, until his death 1 April, 1876.

Rawlins, Edmund, s. William, of Salford, co. Warwick, arm. , matric. 14 June, 1771, aged 17; B.A. 1775, M.A. 1780, rector of Dorsington, 1816, until his death in 1830.

Rawlins, Edmund, s. William, of Pophills, co. Warwick, gent. , matric. 1 Dec., 1802, aged 18.

Rawlins, Henry, s. Henry, of Wedmore, Somerset, gent. , matric. 11 May, 1769, aged 20; B.A. 1773, died rector of Staplegrove, Somerset in 1810.

Rawlins, Henry William, s. Henry, of Martock, Somerset, cler. , matric. 17 Oct., 1801, aged 18; B.A. 1805, M.A. 1808, rector of Fiddington, 1821, and vicar of Kilton, Somerset, 1844, until his death 21 June, 1855.
 [30]

Rawlins, James, s. William, of St. Cross, Hants, cler. , matric. 16 July, 1808, aged 19; B.A. 1812, M.A. 1825.

Rawlins, James Murray Richard. , 1845. See.

Rawlins, John, s. John, of St. Aldate's, Oxford (city), pleb. , matric. 20 May, 1724, aged 16; B.A. from 1727, M.A. 1730, rector of Haselton, co. Gloucester, and Ley, co. Worcester, 1752 (and also of Badley), until his death 3 Nov., 1784.

Rawlins, John, s. John, of Evesham, co. Worcester, cler. , matric. 5 Dec., 1764, aged 17, B.A. 1768; M.A. from 1772, B.D. 1782, vicar of Ponteland, Northumberland, 1788, until his death in 1811.

Rawlins, John, s. John, of Calcutta, East Indies, arm. , matric. 10 May, 1810, aged 18; B.A. 1814, chaplain Bombay establishment, died at Cambay 24 Sep., 1817. See Eton School Lists.

Rawlins, John, 3s. Robert, of Whitchurch, Hants, arm. , matric. 1 March, 1848, aged 18; B.A. 1852, M.A. 1857.
 [36]

Rawlins, John Arthur, 3s. John, of Handsworth, co. Stafford, gent. , matric. 29 May, 1860, aged 18: choral scholar 1862-3, B.A. 1863, M.A. 1867, held various curacies 1865-80, vicar of St. Andrew's, Willesden, 1880.
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license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Author talk:Willingham Franklin Rawnsley

Probate calendar
England & Wales, National Probate Calendar (Index of Wills and Administrations) — 1927 > R > p.26

RAWNSLEY Willingham Franklin of the Manor House Shamley Green near Guildford and of Loughrigg Holme Rydal Westmorland died 18 February 1927 at the Manor House Probate London 23 July to Alice Julia Rawnsley widow. Effects £25516 10s. 9d. Resworn £25823 7s. 3d.


text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Punchard, George


text:
Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 19.djvu/437

 last eighteen chapters of this book are made up of extracts from Abbot Baldred or Ailred of Rievaulx, 'Lamentatio pro morte regis David.' At this point the 'Gesta Annalia' take up the narrative, and continue it from the accession of Malcolm IV (1153 A.D.) down to 1383 A.D. The historical chapters of book vi. (i.e. cc. 9-23) are a sketch of English history from Cerdic, or rather Woden, down to the death of Edward the Confessor.

From Mr. Skene's careful analyses of the extant manuscripts of these works it appears that Fordun compiled the materials for book v. and the still extant part of book vi. before his journey into England; for the additions which these books in their later form contain 'are frequently taken from William of Malmesbury, while in the materials there is no allusion to that writer.' Of the 'Gesta Annalia' there also seem to be two texts, the earlier one of which (represented by Cotton Vitellius MS. E. xi., a sixteenth-century manuscript, and Trinity Coll. Dublin MS. E. 2, 28, a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century manuscript) was plainly drawn up in 1363, for the list of English kings in chapter 80 ends with 'Edwardus tertius qui nunc est,' and the history of events breaks off with the year 1363. On the other hand, the Wolfenbüttel MS. (fourteenth century) carries on the narrative to 1383, and, after recording the Black Prince's death, winds up the list of English kings with 'Edwardus princeps genuit Ricardum qui nunc est' (, pref. pp. xxxii-iii; cf., pp. 319, 382, 383). It was apparently after his journey into England that Fordun compiled the first four books, and brought the 'Gesta Annalia' down to 1384 or 1385.

Fordun's authorities are collected by Mr. Skene at the end of the second volume of his edition. He was an historian of no great discernment when dealing with early times, but becomes more valuable the nearer he gets to his own days. There can be little doubt that he made use of Irish materials in his work.

FORDYCE, ALEXANDER (d. 1789), banker, youngest son of Provost Fordyce of Aberdeen, and brother to David, James, and William Fordyce, each of whom is separately noticed, was educated under his uncle, the younger [q. v.], and was afterwards for some time in the hosiery trade at Aberdeen. Abandoning this occupation, he went to London, and obtained a situation as outdoor clerk to a banker named Boldero. Eventually he became the most active partner in the firm of Neale, James, Fordyce, & Down. Under his guidance this firm speculated freely, and gained a large sum by obtaining early intelligence of the signature of the preliminaries of the peace of Paris in 1763, and a still larger one when East India stock rose greatly in 1764–5. With the proceeds of these and other speculations Fordyce purchased an estate and built a fine house at Roehampton, where he lived in great magnificence. He stood as a candidate for the borough of Colchester at the general election of 1768, and spent nearly 14,000l., but was defeated by twenty-four votes. On this he proceeded to build a hospital and otherwise ‘nurse’ the borough. In 1770 he married Lady Margaret Lindsay, second daughter of the Earl of Balcarres. The tide of fortune then turned; he lost heavily at the beginning of 1771 in the fluctuations of the market caused by the dispute with Spain about the Falkland Islands. His partners became alarmed, but it is said he succeeded in quieting their fears by the simple expedient of showing them a pile of bank notes which he had borrowed for the purpose for a few hours. His losses continuing, he absconded, and the bank stopped payment on 10 June 1772. The stoppage precipitated a crisis which was impending in consequence of the collapse of a speculative mania in Scotland; no bankruptcies of importance happened for a few days, but then a great panic arose in the city. Sir Richard Glyn and Hallifax stopped payment, though only temporarily as it turned out, and the stoppage of Sir George Colebrooke was only prevented with difficulty. Fordyce soon returned and went through his examination at the Guildhall, although his life was supposed to be in danger from the mob. His deficiency was about 100,000l. He was again the defeated candidate at Colchester in 1780. He died 8 Sept. 1789, at Mr. Mead's in George Street, Portman Square. A sermon by Thomas Toller, published in London in 1775, describes Fordyce's fall. His widow married in 1812 Sir [q. v.]


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Fordyce, Alexander


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Page:The Life of Michael Angelo.djvu/110

68 complain of me and say that I have driven you away, I am all the more astonished. From the day of my birth until now I am certain of never having had the intention of doing anything, great or small, to displease you. All the difficulties which I have supported I have ever supported through my love for you ... I have ever taken your part. . . But a few days ago I told and promised you that, as long as I lived, I should devote all my strength to you: and I again make that promise. I am astounded that you have so soon forgotten all that. For the past thirty years you and your sons have tested me. You know that I have ever been good to you, as far as I was able, both in thought and in deed. How can you go about repeating everywhere that I have driven you away? Do you not see what a reputation you are giving me ? Nothing more now is wanting to make my troubles complete, and all these troubles I support through my love for you! Well, indeed, do you reward me ! . . . But so let it be. I wish to persuade myself that I have never ceased to cause you shame and do you harm, and I ask your pardon as though I had done so. Pardon me as you would a son who has always lived an evil life and done you all the harm that is possible in this world. Once more I beg you to pardon me, wretch that I am. But do not accuse me of having driven you from home, for my reputation is dearer to me than you are aware. In spite of everything, I am your son."

So much love and humility disarmed the embittered mind of the old man for but a moment. Some time afterwards he accused his son of having robbed him. Michael Angelo, stung to the quick, wrote to him as follows:


text:
The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter II

“Good-bye, my boy; God bless you! and don’t forget to tell the housekeeper about airing your flannel waistcoats.”

With this final benediction ringing in his ears, the train which was to carry Master Stephen Greenfield from London to Saint Dominic’s steamed slowly out of the station, leaving his widowed mother to return lonely and sorrowful to the home from which, before this day, her youngest son had never wandered far without her.

Stephen, if the truth must be told, was hardly as affected by the parting as his poor mother. Not that he was not sorry to leave home, or that he did not love her he left behind; but with all the world before him, he was at present far too excited to think of anything rationally. Besides, that last remark about the flannel waistcoats had greatly disturbed him. The carriage was full of people, who must have heard it, and would be sure to set him down as no end of a milksop and mollycoddle.

He blushed to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the window and sat down in his corner, feeling quite certain every one of his fellow-travellers must be secretly smiling at his expense. He wished his mother would have whispered that last sentence. It wasn’t fair to him. In short, Stephen felt a trifle aggrieved; and, with a view to manifesting his hardihood, and dispelling all false impressions caused by the maternal injunction, he let down the window and put his bare head out of it for about a quarter of an hour, until a speck of dust settled in his eye and drove him back to his seat.

It is decidedly awkward to get dust in your eye when you want to figure as a hero, for the eyes will water, and must be wiped, and that looks particularly like weeping. Stephen refrained from using his handkerchief as long as he could; but it was no use; he must wipe his eye in the presence of his fellow-passengers. However, if he whistled a tune while doing so, no one could suspect him of real tears; so he struck up, “Glide along, my bonny boat,” as cheerfully as he could, and mopped his smarting eye at the same time. Alas! the dust only got farther in, and the music, after half an hour’s heroic perseverance, flagged altogether. It was no use trying to appear heroic any longer, so, what with pain and a dawning sense of loneliness and home-sickness, Stephen shed a few real tears into his handkerchief, an indulgence which did him good in every way, for it not only relieved his drooping spirits, but washed that wretched piece of dust fairly out of its hiding-place.

This relief, with the aid of a bun and a bottle of ginger-beer at one of the stations, set him, so to speak, on his feet again, and he was able to occupy the rest of his journey very pleasantly in drumming his heels on the floor, and imagining to himself all the marvellous exploits which were to mark his career at Saint Dominic’s. He was to be a prodigy in his new school from the very first; in a few terms he was to be captain of the cricket club, and meanwhile was to gain the favour of the Sixth by helping them regularly in their lessons, and fighting any one against whom a special champion should be requisite. He was, indeed, just being invited to dinner with the Doctor, who was about to consult him concerning some points of school management, when the train suddenly pulled up at Maltby, and his brother Oliver’s head looked in at the window with a “Hullo! here you are! Tumble out!”

Oliver and Stephen were Mrs. Greenfield’s only two boys. Their father had died twelve years ago, when Stephen was a baby, and the two boys had been left in charge of an uncle, who had carefully watched over their education, and persuaded his sister, to allow her elder boy to go to a public school. Mrs. Greenfield had consented, with many tremblings, and Oliver had, four years ago, been sent to Saint Dominic’s, where he was now one of the head boys in the Fifth Form. Only a few weeks before the opening of this story the boys’ uncle had died, leaving in his will a provision for sending Stephen to the same school as his brother, or any other his mother might select. The poor widow, loth to give up her boy, yet fain to accept the offer held out, chose to send Stephen to Saint Dominic’s too, and this was the reason of that young gentleman’s present appearance on the stage at that centre of learning.

“I’ll send up your traps by the carter; we can walk,” said Oliver, taking his young brother into charge.

Stephen was only too glad, as it gave him time to breathe before plunging at once into the scene of his future exploits. “Is it far?” he asked.

“Only a mile,” said Oliver; “come on. Hullo, Rick, where have you been to?”

This was addressed to Ricketts, whom they met just outside the station.

“Oh! to Sherren’s about my togs. I wanted them for the match to-morrow, you know. I’ve told him if he doesn’t send them up in time we’ll all get our things made in London, so I guess he’ll hurry himself for once. Oh, look here! did you get a paper with the result of the American match? Bother! Here, you kid, what’s your name, cut back to the station and get a daily. Look sharp! Bring it to me in my room. Come on, Greenfield.”

Master Stephen looked so astonished at this cool request from a total stranger that both the elder boys laughed.

“This is my young brother, Rick, just come—”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Ricketts, blushing, “I’ll go—”

“No, I’ll go,” said Stephen, darting off, and expending a penny of his own to get this magnifico of the Fifth his paper.

This little incident served to break the ice for the new boy, who felt highly honoured when Ricketts said he was “much obliged to him.”

“By the way,” said Oliver, suddenly, “I ought to get my togs up too. Bother that Sherren! I say, Rick, see my young brother up to the school, will you, while I cut back? He can wait in my study.”

Stephen felt very desolate to be left thus alone the moment after his arrival, and it did not add to his pleasure to observe that Ricketts by no means appeared to look upon the task of seeing him to Saint Dominic’s as a privilege. They walked on in silence for about half a mile, and then encountered several groups of boys strolling out along the road. Ricketts stopped to talk to several of them, and was very nearly going off with one of the party, when he suddenly remembered his charge. It was rather humiliating this, for Stephen; and already his triumphal entry into Saint Dominic’s was beginning to be shorn of some of its glory. No one noticed him; and the only one that paid him the least attention appeared to look upon him as a nuisance.

“Here, Tony,” suddenly shouted Ricketts to Pembury, who was jogging along on his crutches a little way ahead, towards the school; “do you mind showing this kid the way up? I have to go back with Wren. There’s a good fellow.”

“Well, that’s cool,” replied Master Pembury; “I’m not a kid-conductor! Come on, youngster; I suppose you haven’t got a name, have you?”

“Yes, Stephen Greenfield.”

“Oh, brother of our dear friend Oliver; I hope you’ll turn out a better boy than him, he’s a shocking character.”

Stephen looked concerned. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to do what’s wrong,” began he, apologetically.

“That’s just it, my boy. If he doesn’t mean to do it, why on earth does he do it? I shall be sorry if he’s expelled, very sorry. But come on; don’t mind if I walk too fast,” added he, hobbling along by Stephen’s side.

Stephen did not know what to think. If Ricketts had not addressed his companion as “Tony” he would have fancied he was one of the masters, he spoke with such an air of condescension. Stephen felt very uncomfortable, too, to hear what had been told him about Oliver. If he had not been told, he could not have believed his brother was anything but perfection.

“I’m lame, you see,” said Pembury, presently. “You are quite sure you see? Look at my left leg.”

“I see,” said Stephen, blushing; “I—I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

“Only when I wash my face. But never mind that; Vulcan was lame, too, but then he never washed. You know who Vulcan was, of course?”

“No, I don’t think so,” faltered Stephen, beginning to feel very uneasy and ignorant.

“Not know Vulcan! My eye! where have you been brought up? Then of course you don’t know anything about the Tenth Fiji War? No? I thought not. Dreadful! We shall have to see what you do know. Come on.”

Stephen entered Saint Dominic’s thoroughly crestfallen, and fully convinced he was the most ignorant boy that ever entered a public school. The crowds of boys in the playground frightened him, and even the little boys inspired him with awe. They, at any rate, had heard of Vulcan, and knew about the Tenth Fiji War!

“Here,” said Anthony, “is your brother’s study. Sit here till he returns, and make the most of your time, for you’ll have to put your best foot foremost to-morrow in the Doctor’s exam.”

So saying, he left abruptly, and the poor lad found himself alone, in about as miserable a frame of mind as a new boy would wish to be in.

He looked about the study; there were some shelves with books on them. There was a little bed let into the wall on one side; there was an easy-chair, and what professed to be a sofa; and there was a pile of miscellanies, consisting of bats and boots and collars and papers, heaped up in the corner, which appeared to be the most abundantly furnished portion of the little room. Stephen sat there very dismal, and wishing himself home again once more, when the door suddenly opened and a small boy of his own age appeared.

“Hullo! What do you want?” demanded this hero.

“I’m waiting for my brother.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“Oliver Greenfield.”

“Oh, all right! you can get his tea as well as I can: you’ll find all the things in the cupboard there. And look here, tell him Bullinger wants to know if he can lend him some jam—about half a pint, tell him.”

Poor Stephen! even the small boys ordered him about, and regarded him as nobody. He would fain have inquired of this young gentleman something about Vulcan, and have had the advantage of his experience in the preparation of his brother’s tea; but the youth seemed pressed for time, and vanished.

As well as he could, Stephen extricated the paraphernalia of his brother’s tea-table from the cupboard, and set it out in order on the table, making the tea as well as profound inexperience of the mystery and a kettle full of lukewarm water would permit. Then he sat and waited.

Before Oliver arrived, four visitors broke in upon Stephen’s vigil. The first came “to borrow” some tea, and helped himself coolly to two teaspoonfuls out of Oliver’s canister. Stephen stood by aghast and speechless.

“Tell him I’ll owe it him,” calmly remarked the young gentleman, as he departed with his booty, whistling a cheerful ditty.

Then a fag came in and took a spoon, and after him another fag, with a mug, into which he poured half of the contents of Oliver’s milk-jug; and finally a big fellow rushed in in a desperate hurry and snatched up a chair and made off with it.

Stephen wondered the roof of Saint Dominic’s did not fall in upon these shameless marauders, and was just contemplating putting the stores all back again into the cupboard to prevent further piracy, when the welcome sound of Oliver’s voice in the passage put an end to further suspense.

“Well, here you are,” said Oliver, entering with a friend. “Wray, this is my young brother, just turned up.”

“How are you?” said Wraysford, in a voice which won over Stephen at once; “I heard you were coming. Have you—”

“Oh!” suddenly ejaculated Oliver, lifting up the lid of his teapot. “If that young wretch Paul hasn’t been and made my tea with coal-dust and cold water! I’d like to scrag him! And—upon my word—oh, this is too much!—just look, Wray, how he’s laid the table out! Those Guinea-pigs are beyond all patience. Where is the beggar?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Stephen, starting up, very red in the face, as his brother went to the door; “it wasn’t him. I made the tea. The boy told me to, and I didn’t know the way. I had to guess.”

Oliver and Wraysford both burst out laughing.

“A pretty good guess, too, youngster,” said Wraysford. “When you come and fag for me, I’ll give you a few lessons to begin with.”

“Oh! by the way, Wray,” said Oliver, “that’s all knocked on the head. Loman makes out the captain promised him the first new boy that came. I’m awfully sorry.”

“Just like Loman’s cheek. I believe he did it on purpose to spite me or you. I say, Greenfield, I’d kick up a row about it if I were you.”

“What’s the use, if the captain says so?” answered Oliver. “Besides, Loman’s a monitor, bad luck to him!”

“Loman’s a fellow I don’t take a great fancy to,” said Wraysford. “I wouldn’t care for a young brother of mine to fag for him.”

“You are prejudiced, old man,” said Oliver. “But I wish all the same Stephen was to fag for you. It’s a pity, but it can’t be helped.”

“I’ll speak to the captain, anyhow,” growled Wraysford, sitting down to his tea.

All this was not very pleasant for Stephen, who gathered that he was destined to serve a not very desirable personage in the capacity of fag, instead of, as he would have liked, his brother’s friend Wraysford.

However, he did justice to the tea, bad as it was, and the sardines Oliver had brought from Maltby. He was relieved, too, to find that his brother was not greatly exasperated on hearing of the various raids which had been made on his provisions, or greatly disconcerted at Mr. Bullinger’s modest request for half a pint of jam.

Then, as the talk fell upon home, and cricket, and other cheerful topics, the small boy gradually forgot his troubles, even down to the Fiji War, and finished up his first evening at Saint Dominic’s in a good deal more cheerful frame of mind than that in which he had begun it.


text:
The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter III

It so happened that on the day following Stephen Greenfield’s arrival at Saint Dominic’s, the head-master, Dr. Senior, was absent.

This circumstance gave great satisfaction to the new boy when his brother told him of it, as it put off for another twenty-four hours the awful moment when he would be forced to expose his ignorance before that terrible personage.

“You’d better stick about in my room while I’m in school,” said Oliver, “and then you can come down to the cricket-field and see the practice. By the way, some of the fellows may be in to bag my ink; they always run short on Friday; but don’t let them take it, for I shall want it to-night. Ta, ta; give my love to the mater if you’re writing home. I’ll be back for you after the twelve bell.”

And off he went, leaving Stephen to follow his own sweet devices for three hours.

That young gentleman was at no loss how to occupy part of the time. He must write home. So after much searching he unearthed a crumpled sheet of note-paper from one of the drawers, and set himself to his task. As he wrote, and his thoughts flew back to the home and the mother he had left only yesterday, his spirits fell, and the home-sickness came over him worse than ever. What would he not give to change places with this very letter, and go back home!

Here, no one cared for him, every one seemed to despise him. He wasn’t used to those rough public schools, and would never get on at Saint Dominic’s. Ah! that wretched Tenth Fiji War. What would become of him to-morrow when the Doctor would be back? There was no one to help him. Even Oliver seemed determined to let him fight his own battles.

Poor boy! He sat in his chair and let his mind wander once more back to the snug little home he had left. And, as he did so, his eyes unconsciously filled with tears, and he felt as if he would give anything to escape from Saint Dominic’s.

At this moment the door opened and a small boy entered.

He did not seem to expect to find any one in the room, for he uttered a hurried “Hullo!” as he caught sight of Stephen.

Stephen quickly dashed away a tear and looked up.

“Where’s Greenfield?” demanded the small boy.

“He’s in school,” replied Stephen.

“Hullo! what are you blubbering at?” cried the small boy, growing very bold and patronising all of a sudden, “eh?”

Stephen did not answer this home question.

“I suppose you are a new kid, just left your mammy?” observed the other, with the air of a man of forty; “what’s your name, young ’un?”

“Stephen Greenfield.”

“Oh, my! is it? What form are you in?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Haven’t you been examined?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh, of course; old Senior’s away. Never mind, you’ll catch it to-morrow, blub-baby!”

This last epithet was thrown in in such a very gratuitous and offensive way, that Stephen did not exactly like it.

The small youth, however, finding himself in a bantering mood, pursued his questions with increasing venom.

“I suppose they call you Steenie at home?” he observed, with a sneer that was meant to be quite annihilating.

“No, they don’t,” replied Stephen; “mother calls me Steevie.”

“Oh, Steevie, does she? Well, Steevie, were you ever licked over the knuckles with a ruler?”

“No,” replied Stephen; “why?”

“Because you will be—I know who’ll do it, too, and kick you on the shins, too, if you’re cheeky!”

Stephen was quite at a loss whether to receive this piece of news in the light of information or a threat. He was inclined to believe it the latter; and as he was a rash youth, he somewhat tartly replied—“You won’t!”

The small boy looked astounded—not that he ever contemplated attempting the chastisement about which he had talked; but the idea of a new boy defying him, one of the chosen leaders of the Tadpoles, who had been at Saint Dominic’s two years, was amazing. He glared at the rash Stephen for half a minute, and then broke out, “Won’t I? that’s all! you see, you pretty little blubber boy! Yow-ow-ow! little sneak! why don’t you cut behind your mammy’s skirt, if you’re afraid? I would cry if I were you. Where’s his bottle? Poor infant! Yow-ow-boo-boo!”

This tornado, delivered with increasing vehemence and offensiveness, quite overpowered Stephen, who stared at the boy as if he had been a talking frog.

That youth evidently seemed to expect that his speech would produce a far deeper impression than it did, for he looked quite angry when Stephen made no reply.

“Wretched little sneak!” the amiable one continued; “I suppose he’ll go preaching to his big brother. Never mind, we’ll pay you out, see if we don’t! Go and kiss your mammy, and tell your big brother what they did to little duckie Steevie, did they then? they shouldn’t! Give him a suck of his bottle! oh, my!” and he finished up with a most withering laugh. Then, suddenly, remembering his errand, he walked up to the table, and said, “I want that ink-pot!”

Now was Stephen’s time. He was just in the humour for an argument with this young Philistine.

“What for?”

“What’s that to you? give it up!”

“I sha’n’t give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken.”

“What do you say?” yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage and astonishment.

“It’s my brother’s ink, and I’m not to give it up,” said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it.

It was enough! The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was in words rather than action; but this could not be endured. At whatever risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent, mad new boy must be—kicked.

“I’ll kick you on the legs if you don’t give it up,” said the Tadpole, in a suppressed white heat.

Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the top, and awaited what was to follow.

The hero stepped back a pace or two, to allow of a run worthy of the coming kick; and what might have happened no one knows. At that moment the door opened, and Pembury entered on his crutches.

At sight of this Fifth Form celebrity the Tadpole cringed and cowered, and tried to sneak out of the study unobserved. But Anthony was too quick for him. Gently hooking him by the coat-collar with the end of a crutch, he brought him back.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, he is,” shouted Stephen; “he’s been trying to take away Oliver’s ink.”

“Silence, young gentleman, pray!” said Pembury, very grandly. Then, turning to the Tadpole, he added, “Oh, so you’ve been trying to bag some ink, have you?”

“Well, I only wanted a little; and this—”

“Silence! how much ink did you want?”

“Only half a potful.”

“You shall have half a potful!” said Pembury. “Come here.”

The Tadpole obeyed, and glared triumphantly at Stephen.

“Now, Master Greenfield,” said Pembury, addressing Stephen; “have the kindness to hand me the ink.”

Stephen hesitated; he felt sure Anthony was a master; and yet Oliver’s directions had been explicit.

“Do you hear?” thundered Anthony.

“Do you hear?” squeaked the Tadpole, delighted to have the tables turned on his adversary.

“Oliver said I wasn’t to let it go,” faltered Stephen.

“Do you hear me, sir?” again demanded Anthony.

“Do you hear? give it up!” again squeaked the Tadpole.

Stephen sighed, and surrendered the ink-pot. There was an air of authority about Pembury which he dared not defy.

“Now, Master Tadpole, here’s your ink; half a pot you said? Put your hands behind you, and stir if you dare!” and Pembury looked so awful as he spoke that the wretched boy was quite petrified.

The Fifth Form boy then solemnly emptied half the ink-pot on to the top of the young gentleman’s head, who ventured neither by word nor gesture to protest.

“Now you can go, sir!” and without another word he led the small youth, down whose face trickled a dozen tiny streams of black, making it look very like a gridiron, to the door, and there gently but firmly handed him into the passage. The wretched youth flew off to proclaim his sorrows to his confederates, and vow vengeance all over Tadpole and Guinea-pig-land against his tormentor and the new boy, who was the author of all his humiliation.

Pembury meanwhile returned to Stephen. That young gentleman had felt his belief in Pembury’s authority somewhat shaken by this unusual mode of punishment, but the Fifth Form boy soon reassumed his ascendency. He produced from his pocket a paper, and thus addressed Stephen: “Dr. Senior regrets that he should be absent at such an important time in the history of Saint Dominic’s as the day or your arrival, Master Greenfield, but he will be back to-morrow. Meanwhile, you are to occupy yourself with answering the questions on this paper, and take the answers to the head-master’s study at ten to-morrow. Of course you will not be so dishonourable as to show the questions to any one, not even your brother, or attempt to get the slightest help in answering them. Good-bye, my boy. Don’t trouble to stare at my left leg, if it is shorter than the other. Good-bye.”

Poor Stephen felt so confused by the whole of this oration, particularly the last sentence, which made him blush scarlet with shame, that for some time after the lame boy had hobbled off he could not bring himself to look at the paper. At last, however, he took it up.

This, then, was the awful examination paper which was to determine his position at Saint Dominic’s, or else expose his ignorance to the scorn of his masters. How he wished he was on the other side of it, and that the ordeal was over!

“Question 1. Grammar. Parse the sentence, ‘Oh, ah!’ and state the gender of the following substantives; ‘and,’ ‘look,’ ‘here.’”

Stephen scratched his head and rubbed his eyes. This was not like anything he had learned at home. They must learn out of quite different books at Saint Dominic’s.

“Question 2. History—”

“Hullo,” thought Stephen, “they don’t give many questions in grammar; that’s a good job.”

“Question 2. History. Whose daughter was Stephen the Second, and why was he nicknamed the ‘Green’?”

Stephen laughed. He had found out a mistake in his examiners. “‘Daughter,’ the paper said, should be ‘son’ of course. Funny for Dr. Senior to make such a slip,” thought he.

“Question 3. History and Geography. Who built England? and state the latitude and longitude of Saint Dominic’s, and the boundaries of Gusset Weir.”

“However am I to know?” murmured Stephen, in despair. “I was never here before in my life. Oh, dear, I shall never pass!”

“Question 4. Compound Theology. Give a sketch of the rise and history of the Dominicans from the time of Herod the Conqueror to the death of Titmus.”

“Whew!” was Stephen’s despairing ejaculation. “I never heard of Titmus; it sounds like a Latin name.”

“Question 5. Pure Theology. Who was Mr. Finis? Give a list of the works bearing his signature, with a short abstract of their contents. What is he particularly celebrated for?”

“Mr. Finis?” groaned Stephen. “How can they expect a boy like me to know who he was? And yet I seem to know the name. Oh dear me!”

“Question 6, and last but one,” (“That’s a comfort,” sighed Stephen). “Mathematics. What is a minus? Describe its shape, and say how many are left when the whole is divided by seven. Reduce your answer to vulgar decimals.”

“I’m certain I can never do that. Minus? Minus? I know the name, too. But here’s the last.”

“Question 7. Miscellaneous. Give a brief history of your own life from the earliest times, being particular to state your vicious deeds in chronological order.”

Stephen sighed a sigh of relief. “I can answer that, after a fashion,” he said; “but I can’t even then be sure of all the dates. As for the others—” and he dashed the paper down on the table with an air of bewildered despair.

“What am I to do? They are all too hard for me. Oh! I wish I might just show them to Oliver. If I was only at home, mother could help me. Oh, dear! I wish I had never, come here!”

And he gave himself over to the extreme of misery, and sat staring at the wall until the twelve bell rang, and Oliver and Wraysford broke in on his solitude.

“Hullo, young ’un; in the dumps? Never mind; you’ll be used to it in a day or two, won’t he, Wray?”

“Of course you will,” said Wraysford, cheerily; “it’s hard lines at first. Keep your pecker up, young ’un.”

The young ’un, despite this friendly advice, felt very far from keeping up his pecker. But he did his best, and worked his face into a melancholy sort of a smile.

“Fish us my spike shoes out of that cupboard, Stee, there’s a good fellow,” said Oliver, “and come along to the cricket-field. There’s a big practice on this afternoon.”

Stephen hesitated.

“I’ve got to do my examination before ten to-morrow. Some one brought me up the paper and said so. Perhaps I’d better stop here and do it?”

“I thought you weren’t to be had up till the Doctor came back. Who brought you the paper? I suppose it was Jellicott, the second master?”

“I suppose so,” said Stephen, who had never heard of Mr. Jellicott in his life before.

“Let’s have a look at it,” said the elder brother.

“I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, all serene; I only wanted to see the questions. It’s a new dodge giving papers, isn’t it, Wray? We were examined vivâ voce in the Doctor’s study. Well, come on, old man, or we shall be late. You’ll have lots of time for that this evening.”

And off they went, the wretched Stephen wrestling mentally with his problems all the while.

Of course, profound reader, you have made the brilliant discovery by this time that Master Stephen Greenfield was a very green boy. So were you and I at his age; and so, after all, we are now. For the more we think we know, the greener we shall find we are; that’s a fact!


text:
The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter IV

There is a queer elasticity about boys which no one, least of all themselves, can account for. A quarter of an hour after the big practice had begun Stephen had forgotten all about his examination, and could think of nothing but cricket.

As he sat cross-legged on the grass among half a dozen youngsters like himself, he even began to forget that he was a new boy, and was surprised to find himself holding familiar converse with one and another of his companions.

“Well bowled, sir!” shouted Master Paul, as a very swift ball from Ricketts took Bullinger’s middle stump clean out of the ground—“rattling well bowled! I say,” he added, turning round; “if Ricketts bowls like that to-day week, the others will be nowhere.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, to whom this remark seemed to be addressed.

Master Paul looked sharply round.

“Hullo, young ’un, is that you? Jolly good play, isn’t it? Who are you for, A or Z?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? Do you back the A’s or the Z’s? that’s what I mean. Oh, I suppose you don’t twig, though. A to M, you know, against N to Z.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, “I back the A to M’s, of course; my brother is in that half.”

“So he is—isn’t that him going in now? Yes; you see if Ricketts doesn’t get him out in the first over!”

Stephen watched most eagerly and anxiously. They were not playing a regular game, only standing up to be bowled at in front of the nets, or fielding at fixed places; but each ball, and each hit, and each piece of fielding, was watched and applauded, as if a victory depended on it, for out of those playing to-day the two elevens for the Alphabet match were to be chosen; and out of those two elevens, as every one knew, the School eleven, which would play the County in June, was to be selected. Oliver, despite Paul’s prophecy, stood out several overs of Ricketts’, and Loman’s, and the school captain’s, one after the other, cutting some of their balls very hard, and keeping a very steady guard over his wicket. At last a ball of Loman’s got past him and snicked off his bails.

Stephen looked inquiringly round at Paul, and then at the small knot of Sixth fellows who were making notes of each candidate’s play.

“He’s all right,” said Paul; “I guess Raleigh,” (that was the school captain) “didn’t fancy his balls being licked about like that. Never mind—there goes Braddy in.”

And so the practice went on, each candidate for the honour of a place in the eleven submitting to the ordeal, and being applauded or despised according as he acquitted himself. Wraysford, of course, came out of the trial well, as he always did.

“I declare, the Fifth could lick the Sixth this year, Tom,” said Pembury to Tom Senior, as they sat together looking on.

“I’m sure they could; I hope we challenge them.”

Just then a Sixth Form fellow strolled up to where the speakers were standing.

“I say, Loman,” said Pembury, “we were just saying our men could lick yours all to fits. Don’t you think so yourself?”

“Can’t say I do; but you are such a wonderful lot of heroes, you Fifth, that there’s no saying what you couldn’t do if you tried,” replied Loman, with a sneer.

“But you take such precious good care we shall not try, that’s just it,” said Pembury, winking at his companion. “Never mind, we’ll astonish you some day,” growled the editor of the Dominican as he hobbled away.

Loman strolled up to where the small boys were sitting.

“Which of you is young Greenfield?” he said.

“I am,” said Stephen, promptly.

“Run with this letter to the post, then, and bring me back some stamps while you are there, and get tea ready for two in my study by half-past six—do you hear?”

And off he went, leaving Stephen gaping at the letter in his hand, and quite bewildered as to the orders about tea.

Master Paul enjoyed his perplexity.

“I suppose you thought you were going to get off fagging. I say, you’ll have to take that letter sharp, or you’ll be late.”

“Where’s the post-office?”

“About a mile down Maltby Road. Look here, as you are going there, get me a pound of raisins, will you?—there’s a good chap. We’ll square up to-night.”

Stephen got up and started on his errands in great disgust.

He didn’t see why he was to be ordered about and sent jobs for the other boys, just at a time, too, when he was enjoying himself. However, it couldn’t be helped.

Three or four fellows stopped him as he walked with the letter in his hand to the gates.

“Oh, are you going to the post? Look here, young ’un, just call in at Splicer’s about my bat, will you? thanks awfully!” said one.

Another wanted him to buy a sixpenny novel at the library; a third commissioned him to invest threepence in “mixed sweets, chiefly peppermint”; and a fourth to call at Grounding, the naturalist’s, with a dead white mouse which the owner wanted stuffed.

After this, Stephen—already becoming a little more knowing—stuffed the letter in his pocket, and took care, if ever he passed any one, not to look as if he was going anywhere, for fear of being entrusted with a further mission.

He discharged all his errands to the best of his ability, including that relating to the dead mouse, which he had great difficulty in rescuing from the clutches of a hungry dog on the way down, and then returned with Paul’s raisins in one pocket, the mixed sweets in another, the book in another, and the other boy’s bat over his shoulder.

Paul was awaiting him at the gate of Saint Dominic’s.

“Got them?” he shouted out, when Stephen was still twenty yards off.

Stephen nodded.

“How much?” inquired Paul.

“Eighteen-pence.”

“You duffer! I didn’t mean them—pudding raisins I meant, about sixpence. I say, you’d better take them back, hadn’t you?”

This was gratitude! “I can’t now,” said Stephen. “I’ve got to get somebody’s tea ready—I say, where’s his study?”

“Whose? Loman’s? Oh, it’s about the eighth on the right in the third passage; next to the one with the kicks on it. What a young muff you are to get this kind of raisin! I say, you’d have plenty of time to change them.”

“I really wouldn’t,” said Stephen, hurrying off, and perhaps guessing that before he met Mr. Paul again the raisins would be past changing.

The boy to whom belonged the mixed sweets was no more grateful than Paul had been.

“You’ve chosen the very ones I hate,” he said, surveying the selection with a look of disgust.

“You said peppermint,” said Stephen.

“But I didn’t say green, beastly things!” grumbled the other. “Here, you can have one of them, it’s sure to make you sick!”

Stephen said “Thank you,” and went off to deliver up the bat.

“What a time you’ve been!” was all the thanks he got in that quarter. “Why couldn’t you come straight back with it?”

This was gratifying. Stephen was learning at least one lesson that afternoon—that a fag, if he ever expects to be thanked for anything he does, is greatly mistaken. He went off in a highly injured frame of mind to Loman’s study.

Master Paul’s directions might have been more explicit—“The eighth door on the right; next to the one with the kicks.” Now, as it happened, the door with the kicks on it was itself the eighth door on the right, with a study on either side of it, and which of these two was Loman’s Stephen could not by the unaided light of nature determine. He peeped into Number 7; it was empty.

“Perhaps he’s cut his name on the door,” thought Stephen.

He might have done so, but as there were about fifty different letters cut on the door, he was not much wiser for that.

“I’d better look and see if his name is on his collars,” Stephen next reflected, remembering with what care his mother had marked his own linen.

He opened a drawer; it was full of jam-pots. At that moment the door opened behind him, and the next thing Stephen was conscious of was that he was half-stunned with a terrific box on the ears.

“Take that, you young thief!” said the indignant owner of the study; “I’ll teach you to stick your finger in my jam. What do you mean by it?” and a cuff served as a comma between each sentence.

“I really didn’t—I only wanted—I was looking for—”

“That’ll do; don’t tell lies as well as steal; get away.”

“I never stole anything!” began Stephen, whose confusion was being rapidly followed by indignation at this unjust suspicion.

“That’ll do. A little boy like you shouldn’t practise cheating. Off you go! If I catch you again I’ll take you to the Doctor.”

In vain Stephen, now utterly indignant, and burning with a sense of injustice, protested his innocence. He could not get a hearing, and presently found himself out in the passage, the most miserable boy in all Saint Dominic’s.

He wandered disconsolately along the corridor, trying hard to keep down his tears, and determined to beg and beseech his brother to let him return home that very evening, when Loman and a friend confronted him.

“Hullo, I say, is tea ready?” demanded the former.

“No,” said Stephen, half choking.

“Why ever not, when I told you?”

Stephen looked at him, and tried to speak, and then finally burst into tears.

“Here’s an oddity for you! Why, what’s the row, youngster?”

“Nothing,” stammered Stephen.

“That’s a queer thing to howl at. If you were weeping because you hadn’t made my tea, I could understand it. Come along, I’ll show you how to do it this time, young greenhorn.”

Stephen accompanied him mechanically, and was ushered into the study on the other side of the door with the kicks to that in which he had been so grievously wronged.

He watched Loman prepare the meal, and was then allowed to depart, with orders to be in the way, in case he should be wanted.

Poor Stephen! Things were going from bad to worse, and life was already a burden to him. And besides—that examination paper! It now suddenly dawned upon him. Here it was nearly seven o’clock, and by ten to-morrow he was to deliver it up to Dr. Senior!

How ever was he to get through it? He darted off to Oliver’s study. It was empty, and he sat down, and drawing out the paper, made a dash at the first question.

The answer wouldn’t come! Parse “Oh, ah!”

“Oh” is an interjection agreeing with “ah.”

“Ah” is an interjection agreeing with “oh.” It wouldn’t do. He must try again.

“Why,” cried the voice of Wraysford, half an hour later, “here’s a picture of industry for you, Greenfield. That young brother of yours is beginning well!”

Stephen hurriedly caught up his papers for fear any one should catch a glimpse of the hopeless attempts at answers which he had written. He was greatly tempted to ask Oliver about “Mr. Finis,” only he had promised not to get any help.

“Let’s have a look at the questions,” again demanded Oliver, but at that moment Loman’s voice sounded down the passage. “Greenfield, junior, where are you?”

Stephen, quite glad of this excuse for again refusing to show that wretched paper, jumped up, and saying, “There’s Loman wants his tea cleared away,” vanished out of the room.

Poor Stephen! There was little chance of another turn at his paper that night. By the time Loman’s wants had been attended to, and his directions for future fagging delivered, the prayer-bell rang, and for the half-hour following prayers the new boy was hauled away by Master Paul into the land of the Guinea-pigs, there to make the acquaintance of some of his future class-fellows, and to take part in a monster indignation meeting against the monitors for forbidding single wicket cricket in the passage, with a door for the wicket, an old ink-pot for the ball, and a ruler for the bat. Stephen quite boiled with rage to hear of this act of tyranny, and vowed vengeance along with all the rest twenty times over, and almost became reconciled with his enemy of the morning (but not quite) in the sympathy of emotion which this demonstration evoked.

Then, just as the memory of that awful paper rushed back into his mind, and he was meditating sneaking off to his brother’s study, the first bed-bell sounded.

“Come on,” said Paul, “or they’ll bag our blankets.”

Stephen, wondering and shivering at the bare idea, raced along the passage and up the staircase with his youthful ally to the dormitory. There they found they had been anticipated by the blanket-snatchers; and as they entered, one of these, the hero of the inky head, was deliberately abstracting one of those articles of comfort from Stephen’s own bed.

“There’s young Bramble got your blanket, Greenfield,” cried Paul, “pitch into him!”

Stephen, nothing loth, marched up to Master Bramble and demanded his blanket. A general engagement ensued, some of the inhabitants of the dormitory siding with Stephen, and some with Bramble, until it seemed as if the coveted blanket would have parted in twain. In the midst of the confusion a sentry at the door suddenly put his head in and shouted “Nix!” The signal had a magical effect on all but the uninitiated Stephen, who, profiting by his adversaries’ surprise, made one desperate tug at his blanket, which he triumphantly rescued.

“Look sharp,” said Paul, “here comes Rastle.”

Mr. Rastle was the small boys’ tutor and governor. Stephen took the hint, and was very soon curled up, with his brave blanket round him, in bed, where, despite the despairing thought of his paper, the cruel injustice of the owner of the jam-pots, and the general hardness of his lot, he could not help feeling he was a good deal more at home at Saint Dominic’s than he had ever yet found himself.

Of one thing he was determined. He would be up at six next morning, and make one last desperate dash at his examination paper.


text:
Page:The Life of Michael Angelo.djvu/42

 the lower lip slightly protruding. Scanty side-whiskers and a somewhat thin, cloven, faunlike beard, some four or five inches long, enframed his hollow cheeks and protruding cheek-bones.

Sadness and indecision dominated in the ensemble of his physiognomy. It was indeed a face of the days of Tasso—an anxious face, consumed by doubts. His poignant eyes inspired and called for compassion.

Do not let us be sparing with it. Let us hold out to him the love to which he aspired the whole of his life and which was refused him. He experienced the greatest misfortunes which can fall to the lot of man. He saw his country in bondage. He saw Italy delivered for centuries into the hands of barbarians. He saw the death of liberty. He saw those whom he loved disappear one after the other. One after the other he saw all the luminaries of art pass away.

The last of them all, he remained alone in the gathering night. And, on the threshold of death, when he looked behind him, he had not even the consolation of saying that he had accomplished everything he ought, everything he might have done. His life seemed to him to have been wasted. It had been without joy—in vain. In vain he had sacrificed it to the idol of art.

The preternatural work to which he had been condemned during ninety years of life, without a day’s repose or a day of real life, had not even served for the carrying out of a single one of his great projects. Not one of his great works—those which he held most dear—was

title: Page:The Life of Michael Angelo.djvu/42


text:
Page:The Life of Michael Angelo.djvu/115

 flee. . . Life is worth more than fortune. . . Remain in peace, make no enemy, confide in no one save God, and say neither good nor evil of any one, for we know not the end of things. Occupy yourself solely over your business. . . Meddle with nothing."

His brothers and friends laughed at his disquietude and said that he was crazy.

"Do not laugh at me," replied the saddened Michael Angelo; "one ought not to laugh at any one."

There was nothing, indeed, to laugh over in the perpetual agitation of this great man. He was rather to be pitied for his wretched nerves, which made him the victim of terrors against which he struggled in vain. All the more merit was due to him, on recovering from these humiliating attacks, for forcing his sick body and mind to face the danger, from which it was his first impulse to flee. Moreover, he had more reason to fear than another, for he was more intelligent, and, with his pessimistic outlook, he saw but too clearly the misfortunes which were about to fall on Italy. But, to have allowed himself, naturally timid as he was, to be drawn into the Florentine Revolution he must have been at the height of despair, which revealed the bottom of his soul.

Michael Angelo's soul, so timorously retired within itself, was ardently republican. We see this from the fiery words which, in confidential or feverish moments, sometimes escaped from him, particularly in the conversations which he had later with his friends Luigi


text:
The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter V

“Master Greenfield, junior, is to go to the head-master’s study at half-past nine,” called out Mr. Roach, the school porter, putting his head into the dormitory, at seven o’clock next morning.

Stephen had been up an hour, making fearful and wonderful shots of answers to his awful questions, half of which he had already ticked off as done for better or worse. “If I write something down to each,” thought he to himself, “I might happen to get one thing right; it’ll be better than putting down no answer at all.”

“Half-past nine!” said he to Paul, on hearing this announcement; “ten was the time I was told.”

“Who told you?”

“The gentleman who gave me my paper.”

“What paper? you don’t have papers. It’s vivâ voce.”

“I’ve got a paper, anyhow,” said Stephen, “and a precious hard one, too, and I’ve only half done it.”

“Well, you’ll have to go at half-past nine, or you’ll catch it,” said Paul. “I say, there’s Loman calling you.”

Stephen, who, since the indignation meeting last night, had felt himself grow very rebellious against the monitors, did not choose to hear the call in question, and tried his hardest to make another shot at his paper. But he could not keep deaf when Loman himself opened the door, and pulling his ear inquired what he meant by not coming when he was told? The new boy then had to submit, and sulkily followed his lord to his study, there to toast some bread at a smoky fire, and look for about half an hour for a stud that Loman said had rolled under the chest of drawers, but which really had fallen into one of that gentleman’s boots.

By the time these labours were over, and Stephen had secured a mouthful of breakfast in his brother’s study, it was time to go down to prayers; and after prayers he had but just time to wonder what excuse he should make for only answering half his questions, when the clock pointed to the half-hour, and he had to scuttle off as hard as he could to the Doctor’s study.

Dr. Senior was a tall, bald man, with small, sharp eyes, and with a face as solemn as an owl’s. He looked up as Stephen entered.

“Come in, my man. Let me see; Greenfield? Oh, yes. You got here on Tuesday. How old are you?”

“Nearly eleven, sir,” said Stephen, with the paper burning in his pocket.

“Just so; and I dare say your brother has shown you over the school, and helped to make you feel at home. Now suppose we just run through what you have learned at home.”

Now was the time. With a sigh as deep as the pocket from which he pulled it, Stephen produced that miserable paper.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he began, “I’ve not had time—”

“Tut, tut!” said the Doctor; “put that away, and let us get on.”

Stephen stared. “It’s the paper you gave me!” he said.

The Doctor frowned. “I hope you are not a silly boy,” he said, rather crossly.

“I’m afraid they are all wrong,” said Stephen; “the questions were—were—rather hard.”

“What questions?” exclaimed the Doctor, a trifle impatient, and a trifle puzzled.

“These you sent me,” said Stephen, humbly handing in the paper.

“Hum! some mistake; let’s see, perhaps Jellicott—ah!” and he put on his glasses and unfolded the paper.

“Question 1. Grammar!” and then a cloud of amazement fell over the Doctor’s face. He looked sharply out from under his spectacles at Stephen, who stood anxiously and nervously before him. Then he glanced again at the paper, and his mouth twitched now and then as he read the string of questions, and the boy’s desperate attempts to answer them.

“Humph!” he said, when the operation was over, “I’m afraid, Greenfield, you are not a very clever boy—”

“I know I’m not, sir,” said Stephen, quite relieved that the Doctor did not at once order him to quit Saint Dominic’s.

“Or you would have seen that this paper was a practical joke.”

Then it burst all of a sudden on Stephen. And all this about “Mr. Finis,” “Oh, ah,” and the rest of it had been a cruel hoax, and no more!

“Come, now, let us waste no more time. I’m not surprised,” said the Doctor, suppressing a smile by a very hard twitch; “I’m not surprised you found these questions hard. How far have you got in arithmetic?”

And then the Doctor launched Stephen into a vivâ voce examination, in which that young prodigy of learning acquitted himself far more favourably than could have been imagined, and at the end of which he heard that he would be placed in the fourth junior class, where it would be his duty to strain every nerve to advance, and make the best use of his time at Saint Dominic’s. Then the Doctor rang his bell.

“Tell Mr. Rastle kindly to step here,” said he to the porter.

Mr. Rastle appeared, and to his charge, after solemnly shaking hands and promising to be a paragon of industry and good conduct, Stephen was consigned by the head-master.

“By the way,” said the Doctor, as Stephen was leaving, “will you tell the boy who gave you this paper I wish to see him?”

Stephen, who had been too much elated by the result of the real examination to recollect for the moment the trickery of the sham one, now blushed very red as he remembered what a goose he had been, and undertook to obey the Doctor’s order. And this it was very easy to do. For as he opened the study-door he saw Pembury just outside, leaning against the wall with his eyes on the clock as it struck ten.

As he caught sight of Stephen emerging from the head-master’s study, his countenance fell, and he said eagerly and half-anxiously, “Didn’t I tell you ten o’clock, Greenfield?”

“Yes, but the Doctor said half-past nine. And you are a cad to make a fool of me,” added Stephen, rising with indignation, “and—and—and—” and here he choked.

“Calm yourself, my young friend,” said Pembury. “It’s such a hard thing to make a fool of you that, you know, and—and—and—!”

“I shall not speak to you,” stammered Stephen.

“Oh, don’t apologise,” laughed Pembury. “Perhaps it would comfort you to kick me. Please choose my right leg, as the other is off the ground, eh?”

“The Doctor wants to speak to you, he says,” said Stephen.

Pembury’s face fell again. “Do you mean to say he saw the paper, and you told him?” he said, angrily.

“I showed him the paper, because I thought he had sent it; but I didn’t tell him who gave it to me.”

“Then why does he want me?”

“He wants the boy who gave me the paper, that’s all he said,” answered Stephen, walking off sulkily to his quarters, and leaving Anthony to receive the rebukes of Dr. Senior, and make his apologies for his evil deeds as best he could.

The offence after all was not a very terrible one, and Pembury got off with a mild reprimand on the evils of practical joking, at the end of which he found himself in his usual amiable frame of mind, and harbouring no malice against his innocent victim.

“Greenfield,” said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, “I owe your young brother an apology.”

“What on earth for?”

“I set him an examination paper to answer, which I’m afraid caused him some labour. Never mind, it was all for the best.”

“What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you? What a shame, Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!”

“I’m awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it’ll make a splendid paragraph for the Dominican. By the way, are you going to let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?”

“I can’t get on with it at all,” said Oliver. “I’m stuck for a rhyme in the second line.”

“Oh, stick down anything. How does it begin?”

“‘Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,’” began Oliver.

“Very good; let’s see: how would this do?— “‘I hate the day when first I met you all, And this I undertake to bet you all, One day I’ll into trouble get you all, And down the playground steps upset you all, And with a garden hose I’ll wet you all, And then—’”

“Oh, look here,” said Oliver, “that’ll do. You may as well finish the thing right out at that rate.”

“Not at all, my dear fellow. It was just a sudden inspiration, you know. Don’t mention it, and you may like to get off that rhyme into another. But I say, Greenfield, we shall have a stunning paper for the first one. Tom Senior has written no end of a report of the last meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society, quite in the parliamentary style; and Bullinger is writing a history of Saint Dominic’s, ‘gathered from the earliest sources,’ as he says, in which he’s taking off most of the Sixth. Simon is writing a love-ballad, which is sure to be fun; and Ricketts is writing a review of Liddell and Scott’s Lexicon; and Wraysford is engaged on ‘The Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.’”

“Good!” said Oliver; “and what are you writing?”

“Oh, the leading article, you know, and the personal notes, and ‘Squeaks from Guinea-pig-land and Tadpole-opolis,’ and some of the advertisements. Come up to my study, you and Wray, this evening after prayers, I say, and we’ll go through it.”

And off hobbled the editor of the Dominican, leaving Oliver greatly impressed with his literary talents, especially in the matter of finding rhymes for “perpetual.”

By the time he and Wraysford went in the evening to read over what had been sent in, the poem on the Guinea-pigs was complete.

They found Pembury busy over a huge sheet of paper, the size of his table.

“What on earth have you got there?” cried Wraysford.

“The Dominican, to be sure,” said Anthony, gravely.

“Nonsense! you are not going to get it out in that shape?”

“I am, though. Look here, you fellows,” said Anthony, “I’ll show you the dodge of the thing. The different articles will either be copied or pasted into this big sheet. You see each of these columns is just the width of a sheet of school paper. Well, here’s a margin all round—do you twig?—so that when the whole thing’s made up it’ll be ready for framing.”

“Framing!” exclaimed Greenfield and his friend.

“To be sure. I’m getting a big frame, with glass, made for it, with the tide of the paper in big letters painted on the wood. So the way we shall publish it will be to hang it outside our class-room and then every one can come and read it who likes—much better than passing it round to one fellow at a time.”

“Upon my word, Tony, it’s a capital notion,” exclaimed Wraysford, clapping the lame boy on the back; “it does you credit, my boy.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Tony; “and don’t whack me like that again, or I’ll refuse to insert your ‘Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.’”

“But, I say,” said Greenfield, “are you sure they’ll allow it to hang out there? It may get knocked about.”

“I dare say we may have a row with the monitors about it, but we must square them somehow. We shall have to keep a fag posted beside it, though, to protect it.”

“And to say ‘Move on!’ like the policeman,” added Wraysford. “Well, it’s evident you don’t want any help, Tony, so I’ll go.”

“Good-bye; don’t ask me to your study for supper, please.”

“I’m awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger. I know he has a dozen sausages in his cupboard. Come along there. Are you coming, Greenfield?”

And the worthy friends separated for a season.

Meanwhile, Stephen had made his débût in the Fourth Junior. He was put to sit at the bottom desk of the class, which happened to be next to the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-snatcher. This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was.

“Horrid young blub-baby!” was his affectionate greeting. “I don’t want you next to me.”

“I can’t help it,” said Stephen. “I was put here.”

“Oh, yes, because you’re such an ignorant young sneak; that’s why.”

“I suppose that’s why you were at the bottom before I came—oh!”

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the amiable Master Bramble’s inky pen into Stephen’s leg.

“Who was that?” said Mr. Rastle, looking up from his desk.

“Now then,” whispered Bramble, “sneak away—tell tales, and get me into a row—I’ll pay you!”

Stephen, feeling himself called upon, stood up.

“It was me,” he said.

“It was I, would be better grammar,” said Mr. Rastle, quietly.

Mr. Rastle was a ruddy young man, with a very good-humoured face, and a sly smile constantly playing at the corners of his mouth. He no doubt guessed the cause of the disturbance, for he asked, “Was any one pinching you?”

“Go it,” growled Bramble, in a savage whisper. “Say it was me, you sneak.”

Stephen said, No, no one had pinched him; but finished up his sentence with another “Oh!” as the gentle Bramble gave him a sharp side kick on the ankle as he stood.

Mr. Rastle’s face darkened as he perceived this last piece of by-play.

“Bramble,” said he, “oblige me by standing on the form for half an hour. I should be sorry to think you were as objectionable as your name implies. Sit down, Greenfield.”

And then the class resumed, with Master Bramble perched like a statue of the sulky deity on his form, muttering threats against Greenfield all the while, and the most scathing denunciations against all who might be even remotely connected with big brothers, and mammies, and blub-babies.

Stephen, who was beginning to feel himself much more at home at Saint Dominic’s, betrayed no visible terror at these menaces, and only once took any notice of his exalted enemy, when the latter attempted not only to stand on the form, but upon a tail of Stephen’s jacket, and a bit of the flesh of his leg at the same time. Then he gave the offending foot a knock with his fist and an admonitory push.

“Please, sir,” squeaked the lordly Bramble, “Greenfield junior is trying to knock me over.”

“I was not,” shouted Stephen, “he was squashing me with his foot, and I moved it away.”

“Really, Bramble,” said Mr. Rastle, “you are either very unfortunate or very badly behaved. Come and stand on this empty form beside my desk. There will be no danger here of squashing any one’s leg or of being knocked over. Come at once.”

So Mr. Bramble took no advantage by his last motion, and served the rest of his term of penal servitude, in the face of the entire class, under the immediate eye of Mr. Rastle.

Directly class was over, Stephen had to go and wait upon Loman for a particular purpose, which the reader must hear of in due time.


text:
Page:Alumni Oxoniensis (1715-1886) volume 3.djvu/416

 Rawlins, John Fawsitt Herbert, s. John, of Bristol, co. Gloucester, gent. , matric. 24 Oct., 1789, aged 17; created M.A. 4 July, 1793, bar.-at-law, Inner Temple, 1798.  Rawlins, Michael, s. Michael, of Abingdon, Berks, pleb. , matric. 4 Nov., 1741, aged 19; B.A. 1745.  Rawlins, Richard, 'pharmacopoia;' privilegiatus 12 June, 1773.  Rawlins, Richard, 3s. Samuel, of Cleobury Mortimer, Salop, gent. , matric. 26 Jan., 1822, aged 18; B.A. 1826, M.A. 1833, died curate of St. Anne's, Limehouse, 8 Sep., 1849.  Rawlins, Richard Randall, s. William, of St. Cross, Hants, cler. , matric. 29 Nov., 1804, aged 18; perp. curate Kneeton, Notts, 1836-67, died 24 Oct., 1874.  [5]

Rawlins, Stedman, s. Stedman, of St. Christopher's, West Indies, arm. , matric. 22 Oct., 1801, aged 17.  Rawlins, Thomas, s. Richard, of Chatwall, Salop, gent. , matric. 12 Dec., 1794, aged 21.  Rawlins, Thomas Fraser Pye, 1s. Thomas Samuel Fraser, of Denchworth, Berks, cler. , matric. 14 Oct., 1884, aged 19; B.A. 1887.

Rawlins, Thomas Samuel Fraser, 2s. Richard, of Birmingham, co. Warwick, cler. , matric. 14 Dec., 1847, aged 18; scholar 1848-53, B.A. 1852, fellow 1853-63, M.A. 1854, vicar of Denchworth, Berks, 1858-68, rector of Clifton-Campville, co. Stafford, 1868. See St. Paul's School Reg., 301.

Rawlins, William, s. Thomas, of Stokegursey, Somerset, gent. , matric. 14 April, 1739, aged 20.
 [10]

Rawlins, William, s. Anthony, of Fairford, co. Gloucester, gent. , matric. 31 May, 1775, aged 21; B.A. from 1779, M.A. 1782, rector of Teversal, Notts, 1792, until his death 1 Jan., 1828.

Rawlinson, Abram Tyrack, s. Henry, of Liverpool, Lancashire, arm. , matric. 18 April, 1795, aged 17; died at Chadlington, Oxon, 1 Sep., 1849. See Foster's Lancashire Collection & Rugby School Reg., 67.

Rawlinson, Edward Creswicke Scott, 2s. George, of Oxford, cler. , matric. 15 Oct., 1877, aged 18; drowned in river Cherwell 21 Jan., 1880.

Rawlinson, George, 3s. Abram, of Chadlington, Oxon, arm. , matric. 7 Nov., 1834, aged 21, B.A. 1838; fellow 1840-6, M.A. 1841, tutor 1841, sub-rector and divinity reader 1844, Bampton lecturer 1859, Camden professor of ancient history 1861, canon of Canterbury 1873, rector of All Hallows, Lombard Street, 1888, father of George Ernest 1867; for list of his works see Crockford. See also Foster's Lancashire Collection & Boase, 132.

Rawlinson, George, 5s. John, of St. George's, Bloomsbury, London, arm. , matric. 21 March, 1839, aged 18; B.A. 1842, M.A. 1846, perp. curate Bothamstall, Notts, 1848, until his death 26 Oct., 1850.
 [15]

Rawlinson, George Ernest, 1s. George, of Oxford, cler. , matric. 4 May, 1867, aged 18; B.A. 1880.

Rawlinson, Major-General Sir Henry Creswicke,, created D.C.L. 12 June, 1850 (son of Abram Tyzack Rawlinson, of Chadlington, Oxon), served in Indian army 1837-56, political agent at Candahar 1840-2, in Turkish Arabia 1843-55, consul at Bagdad 1844-51, consul-general 1851-6, envoy and minister plenipotentiary to Persia 1859-60. with rank of major-general, M.P. Reigate 1858, Frome 1865-9, president Royal Geographical Society 1871-5, a trustee British Museum 1878, member Indian Council 1858-9 and 1868, F.R.S., K.C.B. 4 Feb., 1856. See Foster's Lancashire Collection.

Rawlinson, Henry, 4s. John, of 'precincts of Winchester Cathedral,' arm. , matric. 27 March, 1832, aged 18; B.A. 1836. M.A. 1841, curate of Symondsbury, Dorset, 1839-63, rector 1863, until his death 10 June, 1881, father of the next named.

Rawlinson, Henry John, 1s. Henry, of Allington, Dorset, cler. , matric. 10 May, 1859, aged 18; B.A. 1863, M.A. 1866, vicar of Ivinghoe, Herts, since 1874.

Rawlinson, John Baldwin, 1s. Robert, of Whitehaven, Cumberland, arm. , matric. 23 Oct, 1885, aged 18; B.A. 1888.
 [20]

Rawlinson, Lionel Seymour, 3s. George, of Oxford, cler. , matric. 28 Jan., 1882, aged 17.

Rawlinson, William Chapman, 2s. Abraham, of Leyton, Essex, gent. , matric. 22 Oct., 1835. aged 18; B.A. 1839. M.A. 1843, rector of Chedburgh, Suffolk, 1853, until his death, 25 Sep., 1864. See Foster's Lancashire Collection.

Rawnsley, Arthur Eden, 5s. Drummond, of Shiplake, Oxon, cler. , matric. 19 April 1879, aged 20.

Rawnsley, Edward, 1s. Thomas Hardwicke, of Halton, co. Lincoln, cler. , matric. 5 Feb., 1835, aged 18; B.A. 1838, M.A. 1842, of Raithby Hall, co. Lincoln, J.P., vicar of Hundleby, co Lincoln, 1849-60. See Eton School Lists.

Rawnsley, Edward Preston, 2s. Edward, of Raithby, co. Lincoln, cler. , matric. 9 June, 1870, aged 18; B.A. 1873, a student of the Inner Temple 1875. See Eton School Lists.
 [25]

Rawnsley, Hardwicke Drummond, 2s. Robert Drummond Burrell, of Shiplake, Oxon, cler. , matric. 24 Oct., 1870, aged 19; B.A. 1875, M.A. 1883, vicar of Crosthwaite, Cumberland, 1883.

Rawnsley, Robert Drummond Burrell, 2s. Thomas Hardwick, of Spilsby, co. Lincoln, cler. , matric. 4 Feb., 1836, aged 18; demy 1839-40, B.A. 1840, fellow 1840-2, M.A. 1843, preb. of Lincoln 1877, vicar of Shiplake, Oxon, 1849-61, rector of Halton Holgate, co. Lincoln, 1861, until his death 31 Aug., 1882. See Bloxam, vii. 346; & Rugby School Reg., 165.

Rawnsley, Thomas Hardwicke, s. Thomas, of Bourn, co. Lincoln, gent. , matric. 23 April, 1807, aged 17; scholar 1807, B.A. 1811, M.A. 1814, rector of Falkingham, co. Lincoln, 1814, and of Halton Holgate 1835, until his death 2 July, 1861. See ''Coll. Reg., 150; & Eton School Lists''.

Rawnsley, Walter Hugh, 4s. Robert Drummond Borrell, of Shiplake, Oxon, cler. , matric. 14 Oct., 1876, aged 19; postmaster 1876-81, B.A. 1880. See Eton School Lists.
 [29]
Rawnsley, Willingham Franklin, 1s. Robert Drummond Burrell, of Little Hadham, Herts, cler. , matric. 18 Oct., 1864, aged 19; B.A. from 1869, M.A. 1871.

Rawson, Edward Creswell, 6s. Samuel, of Parsloe, Essex, gent. , matric. 19 Oct., 1878, aged 19; of the Indian Civil Service 1878.

Rawson, Henry Gilbert, 1s. Rawson, of Port Louis, Mauritius, arm. , matric. 8 June, 1870, aged 19; a junior student 1870, B.A. 1874, bar.-at-law, Inner Temple, 1877. See Foster's Men at the Bar.

Rawson, Jeremiah, s. Benjamin, of Bolton, Lancashire, arm. , matric. 10 Oct., 1810. aged 19; a student of Lincoln's Inn 1815, of the Nidd Hall family. See Foster's Yorkshire Collection.

Rawson, Philip Heathcote, 2s. Philip, of Aigburth, Lancashire, arm. , matric. 13 Oct., 1883, aged 19; B.A. 1886, a student of the Inner Temple 1884. See Eton School Lists.
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text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Purcell, John Baptist


text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Purchas, Samuel


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 crucifixes, and all church-ornaments and images of saints that were in relief, and burned them publicly, to make his reconciliation with the king impossible. He then called before him Abba Jacob his Catholic chaplain, and, having stripped him of his pontificals, killed him with his own hand. There was no method he could devise of bringing his quarrel sooner to an issue than this which he had adopted. But he did not seem to have taken equal pains to provide for his defence, as he had done to give provocation.

, upon the first intelligence of this murder and treason, ordered Keba Christos to march against him with the troops that he had at hand. This general, equally a good soldier, subject, and Catholic, being convinced of the necessity of punishing speedily so monstrous a crime, passed by forced marches through Sire to Axum, thence to Fremona; and, having appointed Gaspar Paez to meet him there, he confessed himself, and received the sacrament from that Jesuit's hands. From Fremona he continued with the same speed, making three ordinary days marches in one, beings desirous of preventing the possibility of Tecla Georgis's collecting troops, and taking refuge on a mountain called Masha which he heard to be his design.

was the 12th of December 1628 that news were brought him of the situation of the enemy; upon which he ordered his baggage to be left behind, and every soldier to carry two loaves, and to march, without resting till he came up with Tecla Georgis.

the morning of the day following, two horsemen, on the scout before him, discovered five of the rebel soldiers


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 want of obedience, and a relaxation in discipline in the whole army. Each of the detachments, therefore, one after the other, left their poll from different excuses, and returned home. The bad consequence of this was now experienced. The Agows entered Begemder spreading desolation everywhere. Melca Christos, no longer sculking among the rocks of Lasta, planted his standard upon the plain, within five days march of the capital where the king was residing.

jealousies that had arisen between Socinios and his brother-in-law Sela Christos, had been so much aggravated since the oath administered by the patriarch, that the king had again deprived him of Gojam, suffering him to live in obscurity in Damot, and among the Agows, occupied, as the Jesuits say, in the conversion of that Pagan people, by destroying their idols, which they represent to be a species of cane or bamboo, and in forbidding the ceremonies of adoration and devotion, which at stated times they paid to the river.

remedy could be proposed, but the presence of Sela Christos, who, upon the first warning, joined the king, and coming suddenly upon the army of Lasta occupied in laying waste the low country of Begemder, gave them such an overthrow that sufficiently compensated the first loss of the king, and forced them again to take refuge among their strong-holds in Lasta.


text: Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Purdon, John


text: Category:United States Supreme Court decisions in Volume 478


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 of another kind followed this victory: Laeca Mariam, a near relation to the king, was appointed governor of Begemder; but no sooner did he fee himself vested with that government, than he meditated shaking off his allegiance to Socinios.

king, after his last battle with the Agows, had named his son Facilidas commander in chief of his forces; and, to secure him a powerful and able assistant, he had first restored Sela Christos to his government of Gojam, then sent him with an army to join Facilidas, and command under him.

success was answerable to the prudence of the measure; for, immediately upon their arrival, they obliged Laeca Mariam to seek for refuge in the mountains of Amhara, and, without giving him time to recollect himself there, forced their way to the mountain to which he had retired, and from which he and his followers had no way to escape, but by venturing down a steep precipice; in attempting this, Laeca Mariam fell, and was dashed to pieces, as were many others of his followers; the rest were slain by the army that pursued them.

this time, Facilidas began to attract the eyes of the nation in general. Besides personal bravery, he had shewn great military talents in the former campaign of Lasta. Though young, he was in capacity and resolution equal to his father, but less warm, more reserved in his temper and discourse. He was thought to be an enemy to the Catholic religion, because he did not promote it, and neither exceeded nor fell short of what his father commanded him. Yet,


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Blackwell, Thomas (1701-1757)


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 went to inspect the citadel of Pisa and the bastions of Arezzo and Leghorn. In July and August he was sent to Ferrara to examine the famous defences there and confer with the Duke—a great authority on fortifications. Michael Angelo recognised that the most important strategical point of Florence was the hill of San Miniato, so he decided to make this position secure by means of bastions. But—why we know not—he met with opposition from the gonfaloniere Capponi, who sought to remove him from Florence. Michael Angelo, suspecting Capponi and the Medicean party of wishing to get rid of him, in order to prevent the defence of the city, took up his quarters at San Miniato and moved not an inch. But his unhealthy distrust welcomed all the rumours of treason which ever circulate in a besieged town, and which, on this occasion, were only too well founded. Capponi, suspected, had been replaced as gonfaloniere by Francesco Carducci; but they had appointed condottiere and governor-general of the Florentine troops the disquieting Malatesta Baglioni, who was later to deliver the city into the hands of the Pope. Michael Angelo foresaw the crime, and communicated his fears to the Seigniory. "The gonfaloniere Carducci, instead of thanking him, reprimanded him insultingly; he reproached him with always being suspicious and full of fear." Malatesta heard of Michael Angelo's denunciation. A man of his stamp stuck at nothing to get rid of a dangerous adversary, and, as general-in-chief, he was all-powerful in Florence. Michael Angelo thought that he was lost. "I was, however, determined," he wrote, "to await


text: Author:George Dashwood Taubman Goldie

title: Author:George Dashwood Taubman Goldie


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 any merit in professing a religion they did not understand or believe: that they were ready, however, to march and lay down their lives for the king and common-weal, provided he restored them their ancient religion, without which they would have no concern in the quarrel, nor even wish to be conquerors. Whether the king was really in the secret or not, I shall not say; but it is expressly mentioned in the annals of his reign, that Socinios did promise by his son to the army, that he would restore the Alexandrian faith if he should return victorious over Lasta; and the sudden manner in which he executed this must convince every other person that it was so.

army now marched from Dancaz, upon intelligence arriving that the rebels had left their strong-holds in Lasta, and were in their way to the capital to give the king battle there. It was the 26th of July 1631 the king discovered, by his scouts, that the rebel Melca Christos was at hand, having with him an army of about 25,000 men. Upon this intelligence he ordered his troops to halt, and hear mass from Diego de Mattos; and, having chosen his ground, he halted again at mid-day, and confessed, according to the rite of the church of Rome, and then formed his troops in order of battle.

was not long till the enemy came in fight, but without shewing that alacrity and desire of engaging they used to do when in their native mountains. The king, at the head of the cavalry, fell so suddenly and so violently upon them, that he broke through the van-guard commanded by Melca Christos, and put them to flight before his foot could come up. The rest of the army followed the example of the


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 returned before October 7. On this date the fugitives were declared to be rebels and their property was confiscated. However, Michael Angelo's name did not yet appear on the list. The Seigniory granted him a further delay, and the Florentine Ambassador in Ferrara, Galeotto Giugni, informed the Republic that Michael Angelo had heard of the decree too late, and that he was ready to return if they would pardon him. The Seigniory promised, and by the hand of the marble-cutter Bastiano di Francesco sent a safe conduct to Venice. Bastiano at the same time handed Michael Angelo ten letters from friends, all of whom implored him to return. One of them was an appeal, full of love for the fatherland, from the generous Battista della Palla.

"All your friends, without distinction of opinion, without hesitating and with a single voice," he wrote, "exhort you to return, in order to preserve your life, your country, your friends, your property and your honour, as well as to enjoy the new times which you so ardently desired."

He believed that the golden age had returned for Florence, and doubted not that the good cause had triumphed. But the unfortunate man, after the return of the Medici, was to be one of the first victims of the reaction. His words caused Michael Angelo to make up his mind. The sculptor returned, but slowly; for Battista della Palla, who had gone to Lucca to meet him, waited many days for him and at last began to despair of ever seeing him. At last, on November 20, Michael Angelo re-entered


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, and the enemy were everywhere trodden down and destroyed by the victorious horse, till night put an end to the pursuit.

, in the beginning of the engagement, saved himself by the swiftness of his horse; but 8000 of the mountaineers were slain upon the spot, among whom was Bicané, general to Melca Christos, an excellent officer both for council and the field, and, several other considerable persons, as well inhabitants of Lasta as others, who had taken that side from dislike to the king and his measures.

morning the king went out with his son to see the field of battle, where the prince Facilidas is said to have spoke to this effect in name of the army:- "These men, whom you fee slaughtered on the ground, were neither Pagans nor Mahometans at whose death we should rejoice — they were Christians, lately your subjects and your countrymen, some of them your relations. This is not victory which is gained over ourselves. In killing these you drive the sword into your own entrails. How many men have you slaughtered? How many more have you to kill? We are become a proverb even among the Pagans and Moors for carrying on this war, and for apostatizing, as they fay, from the faith of our ancestors." — The king heard this speech: without reply, and returned manifestly disconsolate to Dancaz; though many times before he had feasted and triumphed for the gaining of a letter victory.

his arrival at Dancaz, he had a conference with the patriarch Alphonso Mendes, who, in a long speech, upbraided him with having deserted the Catholic faith at the


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 time when the victory obtained by their prayers gave him an opportunity of establishing it. The king answered, with seeming indifference, that he had done every thing for the Catholic faith in his power; that he had shed the blood of thousands, and as much more was to be shed; and still he was uncertain if it would produce any effect; but that he should think of it, and send him his resolutions to-morrow.

next day Socinios made a declaration by Za Mariam to the patriarch, to this purport: "When we embraced the faith of Rome, we laboured for it with great diligence, but the people shewed no affection for it. Julius rebelled out of hatred against Sela Christos, under pretence of being defender of the ancient faith, and was slain, together with many of his followers. Gabriel did the fame. Tecla Georgis, likewise, made a league to die for the Alexandrian faith, which he did, and many people with him. The same did Serca Christos the preceding year; and those peasants of Lasta fight for the same cause at this day. The faith of Rome is not a bad one; but the men of this country do not understand it. Let those that like it remain in that faith, in the fame way as the Portuguese did in the time of Atzenaf Segued; let them eat and drink together, and let them marry the daughters of Abyssinians. As for those that are not inclined to the Roman faith, let them follow their ancient one as received from the church of Alexandria."

this declaration, delivered by Za Mariam, the patriarch inquired if it came from the king. Being answered that it did; after a little pause, he returned this answer by Emanuel Almeyda, "That the patriarch understood that both religions should be permitted in the kingdom, and that


text: The New Student's Reference Work/Warbler


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 Florence. On the 23rd his sentence of banishment was annulled by the Seigniory, but it was decided that the Grand Council should be closed to him for three years.

Henceforth Michael Angelo did his duty bravely. He went back to his post at San Miniato, which the enemy had been bombarding for a month. He again fortified the hill, invented new engines of war, and, it is said, saved the "Campanile" by protecting it with bales of wool and mattresses suspended by cords. The last trace which we have of his activity during the siege is a piece of news of February 22, 1530, which describes him climbing on to the dome of the Cathedral, either to observe the movements of the enemy or to inspect the condition of the cupola.

However, the misfortunes which he had foreseen occurred. On August 2, 1530, Malatesta Baglione betrayed the city. Florence capitulated on the twelfth, and the Emperor handed it over to the papal commissary, Baccio Valori. Then the executions began. In the