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368 ''like battlements of a fort. I belong to the garrison, perhaps as a volunteer marine officer. We fear the arrival of hostile warships, for we are in a state of war. Mr. P. has the intention of leaving; he gives me instructions as to what must be done in case the dreaded event happens. His sick wife is in the threatened castle with her children. As soon as the bombardment begins the large hall should be cleared. He breathes heavily, and tries to get away; I hold him back, and ask him in what way I should send him news in case of need. He says something else, and then all at once falls over dead. I have probably taxed him unnecessarily with my questions. After his death, which makes no further impression upon me, I think whether the widow is to remain in the castle, whether I should give notice of the death to the commander-in-chief, and whether I should take over the direction of the castle as the next in command. I now stand at the window, and muster the ships as they pass by; they are merchantmen that dart past upon the dark water, several of them with more than one smokestack, others with bulging decks (that are quite similar to the railway stations in the preliminary dream which has not been told). Then my brother stands next to me, and both of us look out of the window on to the canal. At the sight of a ship we are frightened, and call out: "Here comes the warship!" It turns out, however, that it is only the same ships which I have already known that are returning. Now comes a little ship, strangely cut off, so that it ends in the middle of its breadth; curious things like cups or salt-cellars are seen on the deck. We call as though with one voice: "That is the breakfast-ship."''

The rapid motion of the ships, the deep blue of the water, the brown smoke of the funnels, all this together makes a highly tense, sombre impression.

The localities in this dream are put together from several journeys to the Adriatic Sea (Miramare, Duino, Venice, Aquileja). A short but enjoyable Easter trip to Aquileja with my brother, a few weeks before the dream, was still fresh in my memory. Besides, the naval war between America and Spain, and the worry connected with it about my relatives living in America, play a part. Manifestations of emotion appear at two places in this dream. In one place an emotion that would be expected is lacking—it is expressly emphasized that the death of the governor makes no impression upon me;


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Rh at another point, where I see the warships I am frightened, and experience all the sensations of fright while I sleep. The distribution of affects in this well-constructed dream has been made in such a way that every obvious contradiction is avoided. For there is no reason why I should be frightened at the governor's death, and it is fitting that as the commander of the castle I should be alarmed by the sight of the warship. Now analysis shows that Mr. P. is nothing but a substitute for my own Ego (in the dream I am his substitute). I am the governor who suddenly dies. The dream thoughts deal with the future of those dear to me after my premature death. No other disagreeable thought is to be found among the dream thoughts. The fright which is attached to the sight of the warship must be transferred from it to this disagreeable thought. Inversely, the analysis shows that the region of the dream thoughts from which the warship comes is filled with most joyous reminiscences. It was at Venice a year before, one charmingly beautiful day, that we stood at the windows of our room on the Riva Schiavoni and looked upon the blue lagoon, in which more activity could be seen that day than usually. English ships were being expected, they were to be festively received; and suddenly my wife called out, happy as a child: "There come the English warships!" In the dream I am frightened at the very same words; we see again that speeches in the dream originate from speeches in life. I shall soon show that even the element "English" in this speech has not been lost for the dream activity. I thus convert joy into fright on the way from the dream thoughts to the dream content, and I need only intimate that by means of this very transformation I give expression to a part of the latent dream content. The example shows, however, that the dream activity is at liberty to detach the occasion for an affect from its context in the dream thoughts, and to insert it at any other place it chooses in the dream content.

I seize the opportunity which is incidentally offered, of subjecting to closer analysis the "breakfast ship," whose appearance in the dream so nonsensically concludes a situation that has been rationally adhered to. If I take a closer view of this object in the dream, I am now struck by the fact that it was black, and that on account of its being cut off at its greatest 2 A

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370 breadth it closely resembled, at the end where it was cut off, an object which had aroused our interest in the museums of the Etruscan cities. This object was a rectangular cup of black clay with two handles, upon which stood things like coffee cups, or tea cups, very similar to our modern breakfast table service. Upon inquiring, we learned that this was the toilet set of an Etruscan lady, with little boxes for rouge and powder; and we said jokingly to each other that it would not be a bad idea to take a thing like that home to the lady of the house. The dream object, therefore, signifies "black toilet" (German, toilette—dress)—mourning—and has direct reference to a death. The other end of the dream object reminds us of the "boat" (German, Nachen), from the root, as a philological friend has told me, upon which corpses were laid in prehistoric times and were left to be buried by the sea. With this circumstance is connected the reason for the return of the ships in the dream.

"Quietly the old man on his rescued boat drifts into the harbour."

It is the return voyage after the shipwreck (German, schiffbruch; ship-breaking, i.e. shipwreck), the breakfast-ship looks as though it were broken off in the middle. But whence comes the name "breakfast"-ship? Here is where the "English" comes in, which we have left over from the warships. Breakfast—a breaking of the fast. Breaking again belongs to ship-wreck (Schiffbruch), and fasting is connected with the mourning dress.

The only thing about this breakfast-ship, which has been newly created by the dream, is its name. The thing has existed in reality, and recalls to me the merriest hours of my last journey. As we distrusted the fare in Aquileja, we took some food with us from Goerz, and bought a bottle of excellent Istrian wine in Aquileja, and while the little mail-steamer slowly travelled through the Canal delleMee and into the lonely stretch of lagoon towards Grado, we took our breakfast on deck—we were the only passengers—and it tasted to us as few breakfasts have ever tasted. This, then, was the "breakfast-ship," and it is behind this very recollection of great enjoyment that the dream hides the saddest thoughts about an unknown and ominous future.


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Rh The detachment of emotions from the groups of ideas which have been responsible for their development is the most striking thing that happens to them in the course of dream formation, but it is neither the only nor even the most essential change which they undergo on the way from the dream thoughts to the manifest dream. If the affects in the dream thoughts are compared with those in the dream, it at once becomes clear that wherever there is an emotion in the dream, this is also to be found in the dream thoughts; the converse, however, is not true. In general, the dream is less rich in affects than the psychic material from which it is elaborated. As soon as I have reconstructed the dream thoughts I see that the most intense psychic impulses are regularly striving in them for self-assertion, usually in conflict with others that are sharply opposed to them. If I turn back to the dream, I often find it colourless and without any of the more intense strains of feeling. Not only the content, but also the affective tone of my thoughts has been brought by the dream activity to the level of the indifferent. I might say that a suppression of the affects has taken place. Take, for example, the dream of the botanical monograph. It answers to a passionate plea for my freedom to act as I am acting and to arrange my life as seems right to me and to me alone. The dream which results from it sounds indifferent; I have written a monograph; it is lying before me; it is fitted with coloured plates, and dried plants are to be found with each copy. It is like the peacefulness of a battlefield; there is no trace left of the tumult of battle.

It may also turn out differently—vivid affective expressions may make their appearance in the dream; but we shall first dwell upon the unquestionable fact that many dreams appear indifferent, while it is never possible to go deeply into the dream thoughts without deep emotion.

A complete theoretical explanation of this suppression of emotions in the course of the dream activity cannot be given here; it would require a most careful investigation of the theory of the emotions and of the mechanism of suppression. I shall find a place here for two thoughts only. I am forced—on other grounds—to conceive the development of affects as a centrifugal process directed towards the interior of the


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372 body, analogous to the processes of motor and secretory innervation. Just as in the sleeping condition the omission of motor impulses towards the outside world seems to be suspended, so a centrifugal excitement of emotions through unconscious thought may be made more difficult during sleep. Thus the affective impulses aroused during the discharge of the dream thoughts would themselves be weak excitements, and therefore those getting into the dream would not be stronger. According to this line of argument the "suppression of the affects" would not be a result of the dream activity at all, but a result of the sleeping condition. This may be so, but this cannot possibly be all. We must also remember that all the more complex dreams have shown themselves to be a compromised result from the conflict of psychic forces. On the one hand, the thoughts that constitute the wish must fight the opposition of a censorship; on the other hand, we have often seen how, even in unconscious thinking, each train of thought is harnessed to its contradictory opposite. Since all of these trains of thought are capable of emotion, we shall hardly make a mistake, broadly speaking, if we regard the suppression of emotion as the result of the restraint which the contrasts impose upon one another and which the censor imposes upon the tendencies which it has suppressed. The restraint of affects would accordingly be the second result of the dream censor as the disfigurement of the dream was the first.

I shall insert an example of a dream in which the indifferent affective tone of the dream content may be explained by a contrast in the dream thoughts. I have the following short dream to relate, which every reader will read with disgust:

IV. ''A bit of rising ground, and on it something like a toilet in the open; a very long bench, at the end of which is a large toilet aperture. All of the back edge is thickly covered with little heaps of excrement of all sizes and degrees of freshness. A shrub behind the bench. I urinate upon the bench; a long stream of urine rinses everything clean, the patches of excrement easily come off and fall into the opening. It seems as though something remained at the end nevertheless.''

Why did I experience no disgust in this dream?

Because, as the analysis shows, the most pleasant and satisfying thoughts have co-operated in the formation of this dream.


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Rh Upon analysing it I immediately think of the Augean stables cleansed by Hercules. I am this Hercules. The rising ground and the shrub belong to Aussee, where my children are now staying. I have discovered the infantile etiology of the neuroses and have thus guarded my own children from becoming ill. The bench (omitting the aperture, of course) is the faithful copy of a piece of furniture which an affectionate female patient has made me a present of. This recalls how my patients honour me. Even the museum of human excrement is susceptible of less disagreeable interpretation. However much I am disgusted with it, it is a souvenir of the beautiful land of Italy, where in little cities, as everyone knows, water-closets are not equipped in any other way. The stream of urine that washes everything clean is an unmistakable allusion to greatness. It is in this manner that Gulliver extinguishes the great fire in Lilliput; to be sure, he thereby incurs the displeasure of the tiniest of queens. In this way, too, Gargantua, the superman in Master Rabelais, takes vengeance upon the Parisians, straddling Notre Dame and training his stream of urine upon the city. Only yesterday I was turning over the leaves of Garnier's illustrations of Rabelais before I went to bed. And, strangely enough, this is another proof that I am the superman! The platform of Notre Dame was my favourite nook in Paris; every free afternoon I was accustomed to go up into the towers of the church and climb about among the monsters and devil-masks there. The circumstances that all the excrement vanishes so rapidly before the stream correspond to the motto: Afflavit et dissipati sunt, which I shall some day make the title of a chapter on the therapeutics of hysteria.

And now as to the occasion giving rise to the dream. It had been a hot afternoon in summer; in the evening I had given a lecture on the relation between hysteria and the perversions, and everything which I had to say displeased me thoroughly, appeared to me stripped of all value. I was tired, found no trace of pleasure in my difficult task, and longed to get away from this rummaging in human filth, to see my children and then the beauties of Italy. In this mood I went from the auditorium to a cafe, to find some modest refreshment in the open air, for my appetite had left me.


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374 But one of my audience went with me; he begged for permission to sit with me while I drank my coffee and gulped down my roll, and began to say flattering things to me. He told me how much he had learned from me, and that he now looked at everything through different eyes, that I had cleansed the Augean stables, i.e. the theory of the neuroses, of its errors and prejudices—in short, that I was a very great man. My mood was ill-suited to his song of praise; I struggled with disgust, and went home earlier in order to extricate myself. Before I went to sleep I turned over the leaves of Rabelais, and read a short story by C. F. Meyer entitled Die Leiden eines Knaben (The Hardships of a Boy).

The dream had been drawn from these materials, and the novel by Meyer added the recollection of childish scenes (cf. the dream about Count Thun, last scene). The mood of the day, characterised by disgust and annoyance, is continued in the dream in the sense that it is permitted to furnish nearly the entire material for the dream content. But during the night the opposite mood of vigorous and even exaggerated self-assertion was awakened, and dissipated the earlier mood. The dream had to take such a form as to accommodate the expression of self-depreciation and exaggerated self-assertion in the same material. This compromise formation resulted in an ambiguous dream content, but likewise in an indifferent strain of feeling owing to the restraint of the contrasts upon each other.

According to the theory of wish-fulfilment this dream could not have happened had not the suppressed, but at the same time pleasurable, train of thought concerning personal aggrandisement been coupled with the opposing thoughts of disgust. For disagreeable things are not intended to be represented by the dream; painful thoughts that have occurred during the day can force their way into the dream only if they lend a cloak to the wish-fulfilment. The dream activity can dispose of the affects in the dream thoughts in still another way, besides admitting them or reducing them to zero. It can change them into their opposite. We have already become acquainted with the rule of interpretation that every element of the dream may be interpreted by its opposite, as well as by itself. One can never tell at the outset whether to


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 has helped me to make their lives more blessed and happy. I hope they may learn to work for one another in fellowship.

Ladies' Guild, August 1st, 1855. To

Thank you very much for your long, kind letter. It did my heart good to receive it.

You may indeed call me "Miss Ockie" if it pleases you; but I shall be glad if you will leave out the "Miss" altogether, if you like.

"Ockie" is a very familiar name associated in my mind with most of my sisters, and with the times when I ran wild in the country; a name which binds the past and the present together, which bears a continual protest against my tendency to forget my childhood.

"Loke" is my name with which is associated all my strength; it is Florence's own invention; whenever my sisters call me their brother, then I am "Loke." "Octavia" is Mama's name for me, whenever I am working with her. Whenever I am steady, I have a right to it. "Miss Hill" is bound up with very precious recollections, very happy associations. Mr. Maurice, Mr. Ruskin, and one or two others use it principally. But I now think I see in the children's name for me the union of all, the gathering up of the essence of each,—the casting away of its evil. It must bear witness, as the first does, that, however changed, I was once passionate, lonely. It must remind me of scenes long past; it must comprehend the strength of the second, the energy and perseverance of the third; it can do so because it is a working name; because there is no motive of strength or energy, without affection;


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Rh set down the one or the other; only the connection can decide this point. A suspicion of this state of affairs has evidently got into popular consciousness; dream books very often proceed according to the principle of contraries in their interpretation. Such transformation into opposites is made possible by the intimate concatenation of associations, which in our thoughts finds the idea of a thing in that of its opposite. Like every other displacement this serves the purposes of the censor, but it is also often the work of the wish-fulfilment, for wish-fulfilment consists precisely in this substitution of an unwelcome thing by its opposite. The emotions of the dream thoughts may appear in the dream transformed into their opposites just as well as the ideas, and it is probable that this inversion of emotions is usually brought about by the dream censor. The suppression and inversion of affects are useful in social life, as the current analogy for the dream censor has shown us—above all, for purposes of dissimulation. If I converse with a person to whom I must show consideration while I am saying unpleasant things to him, it is almost more important that I should conceal the expression of my emotion from him, than that I modify the wording of my thoughts. If I speak to him in polite words, but accompany them by looks or gestures of hatred and disdain, the effect which I produce upon this person is not very different from what it would have been if I had recklessly thrown my contempt into his face. Above all, then, the censor bids me suppress my emotions, and if I am master of the art of dissimulation, I can hypocritically show the opposite emotion—smiling where I should like to be angry, and pretending affection where I should like to destroy.

We already know of an excellent example of such an inversion of emotion for the purposes of the dream censor. In the dream about my uncle's beard I feel great affection for my friend R., at the same time that, and because, the dream thoughts berate him as a simpleton. We have drawn our first proof for the existence of the censor from this example of the inversion of emotions. Nor is it necessary here to assume that the dream activity creates a counter emotion of this kind out of nothing; it usually finds it lying ready in the material of the dream thoughts, and intensifies it solely with


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streaks of dawn are faintly seen; The stars of half their light are shorn; The Hudson, with its banks of green, Lies tranquil in the early morn.

The earth and sky breathe sacred rest, A holy peace too sweet to break, A spell like that divine behest Which stilled the Galilean lake.

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 1791 at Magdalen College, Oxford, and, according to the title-pages of his works, graduated Mus.B. In Aug. 1788 Hindle sang (counter-tenor) at the Worcester musical festival; and in 1791 and 1792 he performed, chiefly in part songs, at the London Vocal Concerts. He died in 1796.

Hindle's best-known glee, ‘Queen of the Silver Bow’ (A. T. T. B.), and his ‘Tell my Strephon’ were published in the ‘Professional Collection of Glees,’ about 1790. His ‘Set of Glees for Three, Four, and Five Voices, Op. 2, to poetry by Pope, Horace (Atterbury), Ben Jonson, Cowley, Waller, &c., and others, and a ‘Collection of Songs for One or Two Voices’ followed after he had taken his degree.

 HINDLEY, JOHN HADDON (1765–1827), oriental scholar, son of Charles Hindley, cloth mercer of Manchester, was born at that town in 1765, and educated at Manchester grammar school. In 1785 he went to Brasenose, Oxford, and in 1788 was elected a Hulme exhibitioner. He graduated B.A. 1788 and M.A. on 11 Oct. 1790). Two years later he was appointed chaplain of Manchester Collegiate Church, and librarian of the Chetham Library. The latter position he resigned in 1804. He was an accomplished and learned man, and had poetical abilities of no mean order. He was, however, reserved and crochety, and from his complaining abd querulous manner was called ‘the Book of Lamentations.’ In his later years his mind gave way. He died unmarried at Clapham on 17 June 1827.

The circumstance that the Chetham Library possessed many valuable oriental manuscripts led Hindley to the study of Persian. He wrote: 1. ‘Persian Lyrics or scattered Poems from the Diwan-i-Hafiz, with paraphrases in Verse and Prose,’ &c., 1800, 4to. 2. ‘Extracts, Epitomes, and Translations from Asiatick Authors,’ vol. i. 1807, 4to. 3. ‘Pendeh-i-Attar; the Counsels of Attar, edited from a Persian Manuscript,’ 1807 and 1814. 4. ‘Resemblances Linear and Verbal, translated from Jami by F. Gladwin, edited by J. H. H.,’ &c., 1811, 12mo.

[Smith's Manchester School Register (Chetham Soc.), i. 205; Thomas Wilson's Miscellanies (Chetham Soc.); Palatine Note-book, iv. 168; Foster's Alumni Oxon. p. 665; Brit. Mus. Cat.]


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XI Man.—Indicate with both hands the outline of a beard. The size of the beard denotes the age—a great beard is a great age, i.e., an old man (Wurunjerri). Indicate the beard with the right hand, as of passing the hand down it. For an old man, tap lightly several times on the top of the head (Dieri). Clutch the beard and shake it (Dieri). Close the right hand except the middle finger, then describe a small circle with it (Aldolinga). Touch the beard (Eucla).

Mother.—Take hold of the breast with one hand and shake it (Dieri).

No; Not; None.—Shake the head (Wurunjerri). Shake the head several times, the hand being raised as high as the face, and held loosely pendent from the wrist, as if shaking something from the fingers (Dieri), also (Yantruwunta). Shake the head (Dieri). Hold the right hand palm outwards, then point upwards (Aldolinga). Shake the head several times, then wave the hand from the breast, palm downwards (Kuriwalu). Shake the head and raise the hand to the front (Mundainbura).

Peace.—Hold up both hands at full length, open palms outwards above the head (Yantruwunta). The same, or hold one hand up, and shake the fingers as if making the sign for nothing (Dieri). Hand thrown forward, full length from the body, palm downwards, and head bent back (Kuriwalu).

Salt water.—Point to the mouth, and touch the point of the tongue with the finger (Dieri). The same for the Yantruwunta. Rub the windpipe with thumb and forefinger (Wolgal).

Silence; Say no more.—Thumb of each hand turned inwards, then stoop and extend the hands full length. This also implies a threat of strangling, and is used, for instance, by the old men to the young men when they are misbehaving themselves (Dieri).

Sit down.—Make the sign for halt. Stop and point to the ground (Wurunjerri). Extend the arm towards the


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atol ǣse wlanceft-sīðas tēah, fylle gefrǣgnod.Hēo þā fǣhðe wræc, þe þū gystran nihtGrendel cwealdest þurh hǣstne hādheardum clammum, forþan hē tō langelēode mīne wanode ond wyrde.Hē æt wīge gecrang ealdres scyldig,ond nū ōþer cwōm mihtig mān-scaða,wolde hyre mǣg wrecan, ge feor hafaðfǣhðe gestǣled, þæs þe þincean mægþegne monegum, sē þe æfter sinc-gyfanon sefan grēoteþ, hreþer-bealo hearde;nū sēo hand ligeð, sē þe ēow wel-hwylcrawilna dohte. Ic þæt lond-būend,lēode mīne, sele-rǣdende,secgan hȳrde, þæt hīe gesāwonswylce twēgen micle mearc-stapanmōras healdan, ellor-gǣstas;ðǣra ōðer wæs, þæs þe hīe gewislīcostgewitan meahton, idese onlīcnes; ōðer earm-sceapen on weres wæstmumwræc-lāstas *træd, næfne hē wæs māraþonne ǣnig man ōðer, þone on gēar-dagumGrendel nemdon fold-būende;nō hīe fæder cunnon, hwæþer him ǣnig wæsǣr ācenned dyrnra gāsta.Hīe dȳgel lond warigeað, wulf-hleoþu,windige næssas, frēcne fen-gelād,ðǣr fyrgen-strēam under næssa genipuniþer gewīteð,

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6 wind diminished daily: inasmuch as winter was advancing—the season when westerly winds prevail.

All circumstances being maturely considered, it was decided, that to persevere longer in endeavouring to get round Cape Leuwin would be worse than useless; the attempt, therefore, was abandoned. Accordingly at 5 P.M. of the 23d the helm was put up, and all hands called to square yards, an order obeyed with much alacrity, the sailors having been greatly harassed and fatigued ever since our departure from Van Dieman's Land by constant work in making or shortening sail, according to the state of the weather, the vicissitudes of which were sudden and severe.

To be scudding under easy sail, after such continued uproar, was felt to be an agreeable change, although we could not help feeling that we were running from a boisterous, into a smoother, but much more dangerous, sea. The ship was not provided with charts of the north coast of New Holland, (the first sheet of Minder's north coast excepted,) nor of the Indian Archipelago, as it was not contemplated, on leaving England, that they would be required. This circumstance was untoward; but knowing that we should have opportunities of ascertaining our true position from lunar observations, and determining to keep a good look out, we hoped to get safely through the dangers which abounded in the route we were now compelled to pursue.

On the 27th we made Cape Otway; and while

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Rh passing through Bass's Straits we found, from the cross bearings of several islets, that the chronometer deviated widely from the truth: it was, therefore, evident that no reliance could prudently be placed on the longitude thus ascertained; this circumstance, however, caused us no uneasiness, being fortunately favoured with other and unerring celestial time-keepers.

We had scarcely got round Cape Howe when the wind shifted to the northward, and, after two days fruitlessly spent in standing off and on, we stretched out to the eastward until we obtained a favourable breeze. On the 6th of May we passed the parallel of Port Jackson, in longitude 157° 30', when, the wind being still fair, we shaped a course, so as to pass close to the eastward of Cato's bank. At noon, on the 9th, we were one mile north, and ten miles east of it, according to chronometer corrected from Kent's group; but satisfactory lunar observations placed us twenty miles farther to the eastward. The course was, therefore, altered a little more to the westward, that we might obtain a sight of "Bird Islet" on Wreck Reef, in compliance with the generally received opinion, that every vessel bound through Torres' Straits by the outer passage ought to do so; as, from the position of Wreck Reef being well known, a good opportunity is thereby afforded of comparing the chronometer.

At midnight we had passed Bird Islet, as the latitude was ascertained to be 22°.9' south, by the meridian altitudes of several stars taken, in the order of their

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8 culmination between a little before ten and midnight, and reduced to the latter hour. As we possessed, or at least believed that we did possess, the only information to be gained by a sight of Bird Islet, i.e., the exact position of the ship, we concluded that it would be wasting time to lie-to till daylight, more especially as the night was clear and the breeze favourable. We therefore proceeded on our course, which was now directed for Diana's Bank.

I may here mention that as soon as we passed the tropic, and entered into a sea bestrewed with coral reefs and sand-banks, every measure, which prudence could dictate or caution suggest, was adopted to insure a constant and careful look-out. Every one acquainted with inter-tropical navigation must be aware from experience that it is very difficult for a person keeping "watch-and-watch" to be sufficiently alert, especially in sultry weather. Three watches were, therefore, formed, each under the charge of two officers, one of whom was stationed on the poop, and the other on the forecastle: a trust-worthy sailor was also to keep a look-out from the forecastle, and another from the foreyard—the latter to be relieved every half hour: due care being thus taken to guard against dangers known and unknown, we cautiously but confidently, kept under sail even during the night.

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Rh On Saturday, the 10th., the breeze blew strongly from the S. E., attended with frequent showers, and a completely obscured sky. Towards the evening, the clouds dispersed, the wind became lighter, and throughout the night the sky continued clear. At eight o'clock, P.M. of the 11th, we were in the parallel of Diana's Bank. A few minutes afterwards, the watch on the forecastle called out, "breakers on the leebow," and "right a-head!" This intelligence caused considerable alarm. The ship was instantly hove in the wind: some declared they not only saw broken water, but the land very distinctly, and pretended to point it out to others, who were rather sceptical, yet, after the most careful inspection, neither the one nor the other could be perceived. The panic having subsided, we resumed our course direct for the Eastern Fields, and at one o'clock in the morning of the 15th, being in latitude 10° 12' and in longitude 146° 20' east, we shortened sail, expecting to be up with these reefs by day-break.

Shortly afterwards, however, it fell calm, and continued so till next morning, when the breeze sprung up; and at seven, A.M., we descried the "Eastern Fields" right a-head: at noon we were in latitude 10° 2', and, by lunar observations, brought forward by chronometer, in longitude 145° 49'; the north-east extremity of the reef (which, according to Flinders, is in latitude 10° 2' and longitude 145° 45') bearing west; distant from two to three miles. The chronometer

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10 placed us forty-two miles too fax west. It afforded us much gratification to find the observations, which we had taken so frequently, and with great care, prove so correct; as we could now with confidence lay down on the chart our true track, (where we neither met nor saw either reefs or shoals, or sand-banks,) which might prove of considerable utility to others who might hereafter pursue the same route.

Shortly after noon the wind became light and variable; during the night it blew from the westward, consequently we got to the ripplings to the northward of the reef, and experienced an easterly current, which retarded our progress considerably. On the 17th, towards evening, a steady breeze again blew from the south-east, and we made all sail with the intention of being up to the Barrier Reef betimes in the morning; and as we should most probably pass between Boot Beef and Portlock Reef some time in the middle watch, a knowledge of our latitude was an object of the utmost importance.

Fortunately, having fine weather and a cloudless sky, our latitude could be, and was, ascertained almost every half hour, by the meridian altitude of a star, either north or south of the zenith, and by the

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Rh of the Moon from Jupiter and Atair to the east; and from Saturn and Regulus to the west, we inferred our longitude. During the early part of the middle watch, the sound of breakers was distinctly heard on both sides of the ship. About three, A.M., our latitude by Rastaban and Vega, agreeing with that deduced previously from the meridian altitude of Jupiter, the Moon, and sixteen Stars, was 9° 51' south, and our longitude by lunars, brought forward by chronometer, was 134° 38'.

Having thus parsed safely between these reefs, we were rather elated by being the first (as far as our knowledge extended) who had made the attempt during the night. We kept on our course under easy sail till day-light, when, as expected, we saw Murray's Island, and shortly afterwards, the great Barrier Reef, through which we entered by an opening about 100 fathoms wide, Murray's Island bearing W.S.W.

Imagining we could reach Half-way Island long before sun-set, we did not stop at Murray's Island; greatly to the disappointment of the natives, many of whom were seen running along the beach, and inviting us, by every means in their power to stay. I regret, individually, that I had not an opportunity of renewing an acquaintance formed with several of these interesting islanders some years ago.

We proceeded on, following nearly the "

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12 " track; the captain and chief mate keeping a good look-out from the fore-yard; the other officers attending to the manoeuvring of the ship, while a person, who had some previous knowledge of the passage, attended to the wheel.

About one, P.M., being in the fair channel, under the influence of a strong breeze, and the tide in our favour, we pursued our serpentine and perilous course with much rapidity; and, guided only by the colour of the water, passed many sand-banks and reefs in safety, until 2.45 P.M., when the ship struck with such force on a small detached coral reef, that the rock penetrated instantly through her bottom! There was no occasion for sounding the well, the encroaching water, in a few minutes up to the lower deck, affording us a melancholy proof of the extensive and irremediable damage that the ship had sustained.

Thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, in broad day-light, after having, by unremitted attention and care, passed the most dangerous parts of this intricate passage, were all our hopes utterly annihilated.

It now only remained for us to consider by what means we might have a chance of saving our lives. After as much deliberation as such disastrous circumstances would admit of, the only mode that appeared to us to hold out any prospect of success, was—to endeavour to reach some European settlement in the boats: the nearest to us, of whose situation we had any certain knowledge, was Melville Island, which, we

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Rh had heard, previously to leaving Sydney, was about to be abandoned. We determined, however, to touch there in the first instance, and should we find it deserted, we made up our minds to endeavour to get to Coupang, the principal establishment of the Dutch on the island of Timor, where Captain Bligh was so hospitably received, after his miraculous escape in the "Bounty's" launch.

The ship's company being assembled on the quarter-deck, a short address was made to them, explanatory of what was intended to be attempted for the general good. When it was understood that we must proceed at least 900 miles in the boats, through, to us, an unknown sea, before we could reach the nearest probable place of obtaining succour, many of them,—those particularly who had wives and children,—began to despair; they were rallied out of their despondency, and as there were several intelligent men among the crew, they were invited to give their opinion relating to our ulterior proceedings. But they unanimously declined doing so, and assured us of their readiness, not only to abide implicitly by our decision, but also to obey all orders which might be given, with as much promptitude as they had done prior to the shipwreck, being, as they said, well aware, that by such conduct only, could they have any reasonable hope of being delivered from their present perilous situation.

Our boats, three in number, were now hoisted out; two of them, the skiff and jolly boat, were fitted with

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14 sails, and in every other respect in good order: the long boat, not having been out of the ship since she left Sydney in October 1827, and not having, during the interval, received any repairs, (particularly caulking, of which she stood much in need,) was far from being in a fit state for the present unexpected service. As regarded our distribution in the different boats, it was at first proposed to draw lots, but it was finally arranged that the Captain and myself should go in the long boat, the first mate and the sailmaker in the skiff, and the second mate and the boatswain in the jolly boat. The Captain and mates choosing the remainder of the crew alternately, in the same manner as is customary in forming a watch.

In this manner, then, were we divided; nineteen in the long boat, twelve in the skiff, and eight in the jolly boat; and it was agreed that we should keep close company, that we might afford assistance to each other in case of necessity; being determined to be saved, or to perish together.

Our attention was now naturally drawn to reflect on what ought to be taken in the boats; and lest any individual, from misguided self-interest, should take with him private property, to the exclusion of that which was necessary for the public good, it was suggested, that nothing of the kind should be permitted, and no opposition was offered to this prudent arrangement. It was, therefore, directed that only such articles necessary either for the sustenance of life,

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Rh or for self-defence, or for our guidance, were to be taken. In the long boat were placed three casks of water, also some biscuit, salt beef, pork, hams, and cheese, tea and sugar, a small keg of brandy, a few cooking utensils, a lantern, a few candles, a tinder-box and matches, a keg of gunpowder, some muskets and cutlasses; the chronometer, sextants, quadrants, a compass, and necessary books of navigation; a top-gallant studding sail boom, and a fore royal, were also thrown into her, for a mast and sail: a little canvas, tarpaulin, and some deal boards, were not forgotten: and the carpenter was enjoined to take such of his tools as might prove useful. The skiff and jolly boat had their barrels filled with water, and each was provided with a compass: there was a sextant in one and a quadrant in the other; and with the exception of their not being lumbered with provisions, which we were to issue to them from time to time, they were similarly supplied with other necessary and useful articles.

Matters being thus arranged, a few effects belonging to individuals, (i. e., blankets and wearing apparel, in a limited quantity,) were permitted to be put on board their respective boats. At this time some of the sailors who had managed, notwithstanding all our precautions, to get access to the spirits, of which they had freely partaken, requested they might have a little grog to support their strength, sagely remarking that, although too much would prove injurious, a little could

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16 not possibly do them any harm. This request, however, although backed with such a powerful argument, was decidedly refused; and on their showing a disposition to argue the point, rather insubordinately, they were reminded of their promise, made only a very short time before, of implicit obedience; which would, if necessary, be strictly and fearlessly enforced. This rebuke had the desired effect of making them desist from further importunity, and measures were taken to remove all chance of their obtaining any more spirits clandestinely.

The ship was now gradually going down a-stern, and fears were entertained that she might suddenly slip off the rock and sink in deep water.

From having been formerly placed in a similar situation, I had no apprehension of such a result; on the contrary, I thought that if no particularly bad weather occurred, she would perhaps remain nearly in the same state, till the change of the monsoon; the Captain coincided in this opinion, and it was thought advisable to remain on board until the morning.

After having assisted in the arrangement of all matters connected with our safety, I retired to my cabin, and while employed there, in selecting some papers and other small articles, which I wished, if possible, to preserve, one of the sailors, on whose judgment I placed some reliance, came hurriedly in, and begged me to come instantly into the boat, as the ship was rapidly going down; this intelligence, although contrary to my own

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Rh opinion, was not to be neglected, especially as the water was now up to the cabin windows. On coming out, I found every one, excepting the Captain, in the greatest alarm; all dreading that the ship would suddenly slip off the rock, and drag the boats down with her, thereby rendering our escape impossible, and our destruction inevitable.

Although the Captain and myself were still persuaded that there was no immediate danger of such an accident, yet, in acquiescence with the general wish, the order was given, which there was no occasion to repeat, for all hands to go into the boats; and we left, with sorrowful hearts, the ship that had conveyed us in safety through stormy seas, so many thousand miles, just as the sun,—emblematic of her fate,—had sunk in the western wave.

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it would have been imminently dangerous to proceed in the boats during the night, we decided to keep close to the ship till break of day. Accordingly, the boats were made fast to each other, and the long-boat attached to the flying gib-boom by a rope of considerable length, which one of our party was in readiness to cut, should the ship go down. The advantage of the caution used in loading the boats was now apparent; the gunwale of the long-boat being within a very little distance of the water, and she was leaking so much, that it required the constant labour of two hands to keep her free; but we hoped she would take up before morning.

Being now in a state of inaction, we had time to reflect on our altered situation. A few hours ago, we

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Author talk:Sydney Francis Gedge

Death notice
The Standard (London, England), Friday, September 27, 1895; p. 1; Issue 22227

GEDGE.—Sept. 23 on his way home from South Africa, of typhoid fever, Sydney Francis Gedge, of Horton Lodge, Slough, and 23, Austinfrairs, aged 34, only son of Rev. W. W. Gedge, 9, Lansdown-crescent, Cheltenham.

 * - online copy

Birmingham Daily Post (Birmingham, England), Saturday, September 28, 1895; Issue 11632.

States of Gedge, Loughborough and Nesbitt, of Natal. Buried at sea

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2 him, and some of the historians who followed them, have, however, assigned a greater value to Bede’s early narrative than he himself would probably have given to it. In this work it will be our aim to gather what supplementary information we can from all available sources, and among the more important subjects that will be dealt with are the evidence of ancient customs and the influence of family organization as shown by the survival of many ancient place-names.

Anyone who departs from the beaten track, and attempts to obtain some new information from archæological and other research bearing on the circumstances of the Anglo-Saxon settlement, will find many difficulties in his way, and that much time is required to make even small progress. Here and there, however, by the comparison of customs, old laws, the ancient names of places, and other archæological circumstances, with those of a similar kind in Scandinavia or Germany, some advance may be made.

It is to tribal organization and tribal customs that we must look for explanation of much that would otherwise be difficult to understand in the Anglo-Saxon settlement and the origin of the Old English race. Many of the ancient place-names can be traced to tribal origins. Others, whose sources we cannot trace, probably had their origin in tribal or clan names that have been lost. Many of the old manorial and other customs, especially those of inheritance, that survive, or are known to have prevailed, and the variations they exhibited in different English localities, were probably tribal in their origin. The three national names, Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, denoting the people by whom England was occupied, were not the names of nations, as nations are now understood, but convenient names for confederations of tribes. The dialects that were spoken by the English settlers were probably mutually intelligible, but were not, until the lapse of centuries, one speech. Their variations have


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[ 7 ]

Rh


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[ 9 ] 46 Bernard


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[ 11 ] 1 The


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Rh not yet wholly passed away, as the differences in grammar, vocabulary, intonation, and pronunciation of English dialects still show. It is to the ancient tribes of North Germany and Scandinavia that we must look if we would understand who were the real ancestors of the Old English people, and in comparison with the Germanic element, the Scandinavian has probably not received the attention to which it is entitled. The old place-names in England, except along the Welsh border and in Cornwall, are almost all of Teutonic origin, but we cannot say what they all mean. It is easy to guess, but not easy to guess rightly, for the Northumbrian and Mercian speech of the earliest periods have been almost lost, and the early West Saxon dialect during the later period was not what it was during the earlier. The names of places appear in perhaps the majority of cases to have been given them from topographical considerations. Some of these, derived from hills, fords, woods, and the like, may be of very early date, but most of them are probably later. The place-names derived from tribes or clans are, however, as old as the settlement, whether they arose from a kindred of people or from one man of a particular race. In considering this subject the earliest forms of local government must not be ignored. In the primitive settlements the customary law was administered by families or kindreds. It at first was tribal, and not territorial. The communities must have been known by names they gave themselves, or those by which the neighbouring communities commonly called them. Probably in most cases the names which survived were those by which their neighbours designated them. As regards the disappearance of Anglo-Saxon names, nothing is more striking in one county of Wessex alone—Hampshire, the original Wessex—than the large number of boundary names and names of places mentioned in the Saxon charters that now are lost or are beyond 1—2


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 it must be connected with the last name, because there is no sure ground for it, except in the words "This is My commandment that ye love one another."

This name is indeed dear to me now. I never can forget (I do not think the recollection will ever grow fainter) the way they received me on Saturday. I had been ill, but insisted upon working. One of them suggested that they should be quiet; and I never had such complete silence, although I did not once tell them to be quiet, because I thought it hard to cramp them simply because I chose to work; and the next morning when I returned from my early walk, they were all over the house, to catch the first sight of me. Four of them had been here since before seven, nine being their usual time. Those who lived near together arranged that whoever woke early should go to call all the others. Every one had something for me—flowers, books, fruit; they brought me the footstool; they anticipated every want that I had. I never saw such bountiful unconscious love and attention. … I should never have done telling you how kind they are. … I began reading out to them to-day; it succeeded admirably. I only wish I knew more people to do it. I can only give them three hours in a week, and that only during the autumn.

August 5th. I do not know what you will say to me, dear Miss Harrison, for not sending this letter, but I have been very busy and much excited.

I have been, since I wrote it, to Mr. Ruskin's for the third time. But still it is a very wonderful event for me; and, I think, always will be; for not only is everything which he says precious—all opening new fields of thought and lighting them,—but also his


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as is the fecundity of Nature—which sets an orchid beckoning to us from the dry bark of a fallen tree, or the delicate edelweiss amid the silent Alpine summits—History has equal phenomena. For History, too, has blossomed "in purple and red" down many a stony highway, up many a forgotten and thorn-choked by-path. One of these gracious miracles has been the persistence of the Catholic note in English poetry, with all the powers of this world uniting to drown and silence it. One can scarcely conjure up a less promising soil for things Catholic than England of the late sixteenth and middle seventeenth centuries; yet it is a sober fact that the most intensely religious poets of both these eras were of the Old Faith. The latter part of Elizabeth's reign was so barren in devotional poetry that the palm goes quite unhesitatingly to the martyred Robert Southwell; and his successor's claim, although on more disputed ground, is not less assured.

For Richard Crashaw, if, possibly, less of an apostle than Father Southwell, was even more of a poet—so deeply and transcendently a poet that, in his own field, he need fear comparison with no English lyrist, save perhaps only one, before or since. Yet from a strange and troublous background his picture stands out. On one side was the Established Church; recognised as so much the bulwark of conservative English policies that Charles I. rose up, when about to receive the sacrament from Archbishop Usher, to declare publicly

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Rh his intention of maintaining "the true reformed Protestant religion as it stood in its beauty in the happy days of Queen Elizabeth." On the other hand was Puritanism—a tremendous force in national affairs, a leaven of good and of evil through every class of English society. Both sides could point to their representative poets: good poets for the Establishment, one great poet for the Dissenters; all of whom the world has remembered. But it is not for the fervour and intensity of their religious emotion that the world remembers Milton, or Cowley, or even Herbert. And yet the fire of sincerest devotional poetry did burn on through this somewhat frigid time, tended with all devotion by its gentle high-priest; nor did the light and warmth of it fail to guide Crashaw back to its true altar-source, the Catholic faith.

Students of heredity may find the usual discrepancies in the poet's story. His father, William Crashaw, was a clergyman and scholar of pronounced Puritan tendencies; very active in the production of "Romish Forgeries and Falsifications," and Anti-Jesuit treatises in general. His imagination ran also into the fields of poetry; his most interesting work (to us) being a "Complaint or Dialogue betwixt the Soule and Body of a damned man. Supposed to be written by St. Bernard." These literary labours do not seem, however, to have brought much remuneration, for we find Queen Elizabeth once proposing the elder Crashaw for a Cambridge fellowship, having learned of his "povertie and yet otherwise good qualities." Richard was born in London in the year 1612-13; and one of the pathetic incidents of his life is its almost entire lack of a mother's understanding love. Just when she died is not known—nor, in fact, who she was; but, as early

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38 as 1620, Archbishop Usher preached the funeral sermon over William Crashaw's second wife, praising her, one is happy to read, for "her sin-gular motherly affection to the child of her predecessor." Of the subsequent life in this austere Puritan home few details have come down; we know that Richard was educated at the Charter-house on the nomination of two nobles, friends of his father; and that the latter died in 1626. But for the most part his boyhood is a blank.

It is at Cambridge University, where Crashaw entered in 1631, that the first clear light is thrown upon his life. The loneliness of his youth was over at last; and here, in the more friendly High Church atmosphere, among friends and tutors alike congenial, the poet's nature blossomed out like a flower in the sunshine. The death of two fellow-students called from him a number of graceful laments, and he contributed several occasional poems in Latin to the University collections—a significant but scarcely phenomenal achievement for the undergraduate of those days.

In 1634, probably his twenty-first or twenty-second year, something more notable occurred: the University Press published (anonymously) his remarkable Epigrammatum Sacrorum Liber, containing nearly two hundred Latin epigrams, including the oft-quoted and ever-memorable one upon the miracle at Cana:

It was probably in early youth, also, that Crashaw composed those charming "Wishes to his (supposed) Mistress":

Who e'er she be, That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me;

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Rh

Where e'er she lye, Lock't up from mortal eye, In shady leaves of destiny:

for the ascetic turn of his mind soon banished even the supposition of an earthly sweetheart. Our poet's whole life was a romance, but one looks in vain for any recorded love-story.

In 1636, the young man passed to Peterhouse, and we must thank the anonymous editor of his first poems for many valuable details of his life there. "He was excellent," it seems, "in five languages (besides his mother-tongue), Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish; the two last whereof were his own acquisition." Among Crashaw's other accomplishments, "as well pious as harmless," he mentions music, drawing, and graving; and makes comments upon his "rare moderation in diet." The poet's religious life during these years seems to have been almost monastic. Once again let us turn to the editor's picturesque words: "In the temple of God, under his wing, he led his life in St. Mary's Church, near St. Peter's College; there he lodged under Tertullian's roof of angels; there he made his nest more gladly than David's swallow near the House of God; where, like a primitive saint, he offered more prayers in the night than others usually offer in the day." There was very little of earth in this life at Peterhouse; but his poems—many of them composed in the quiet chapel—show how much of Heaven. Lines like these speak for themselves:

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40 A subsequent editor (the Rev. George Gilfillan) asserts that Crashaw "entered, but in what year is uncertain, on holy orders, and became an ardent and powerful preacher." Undoubtedly he did contemplate such a step, but there is no conclusive evidence that it was taken. The increasing sway of Puritanism in the English Church would naturally repel and unsettle him; moreover, about this time many causes were uniting to lead him to a more Catholic outlook. One of his associates at Peterhouse was the gentle Dr. Shelford, whose Five Pious and Learned Discourses bore a prefatory poem by Crashaw. Both of these souls protested against the unloveliness of Puritan worship and the bitterness of Puritan feeling; they were even so radical as to question whether considering the Pope as Anti-Christ were an essential point of Faith. "Whate'er it be," said our young poet,

Crashaw had, moreover, acquired the habit of riding over with some frequency to Little Gidding, there to commune with Nicholas Ferrar and his ascetic companions. This "Protestant Nunnery" was a rock of offence to the Puritans, but Richard, and others of the more devout Cambridge men, found in it a very haven of inspiration. Ferrar's household made no pretence at being a religious order; it was merely a pious family-community of about thirty members; but the pervading atmosphere was decidedly (although not avowedly) Catholic. "If others knew what comfort God had ministered to them since their sequestration," Ferrar used to say, "they might take the like course."

Meanwhile the mystic lines of St. Teresa were burning their way into Crashaw's very soul. It

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Rh would be hard, indeed, to over-estimate the influence of this newly-canonised Spanish nun, alike upon his literary and his spiritual life, for he seems to have paid her the devotion of a lover, a disciple and a religious enthusiast. Strange and awesome are the ways by which a soul draws near to the Source of Life; one counts the visible milestones, but dares only guess at the mysteries of that inner guidance. So with Richard Crashaw: not too closely may we trace the gradual steps which led him further and further from his past, and on to the very gates of Peter's Stronghold. Once there, he paused, waiting doubtless for strength to proceed; like Dante's Beatrice, he had "attained to look upon the beginnings of peace"—but its consummation was not yet.

The cannon of the Civil War were destined to awake the dreamer, cruelly indeed, yet kindly in the end. Crashaw had woven the glory of his own visions about the Church of England; he was soon to see her stripped of her beauties. A few days before Christmas, 1643, Manchester and his soldiers began their "reform" of Cambridge, and the lovely chapel there was sacked and desecrated. One of the official reports describes with evident elation how the Puritans came to Peterhouse "with officers and soldiers," and "pulled down two mighty great angells with wings, and divers other angells, and the foure Evangelists and Peter with his keyes, and divers superstitious letters in gold." A few months later the Parliamentary commissioners presented the Solemn League and Covenant to all fellows of that University: Crashaw with four others refused to sign, and the little band was formally ejected. The shock to a nature like our poet's must have been terrific—the very ground seemed cut from beneath his feet. For twelve years Cambridge had been

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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Rutile

RUTILE, titanium oxide TiO$2$ in tetragonal form, the chief source of titanium; also used as a gem and for coloring matter for porcelain, artificial teeth, etc. Mined in Virginia.


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42 his home; now its doors were closed to him for ever. Worse than all, he saw his Church impotent, subservient, shaken like a very reed before these winds of new doctrine. The two following years of his life are veiled. He is said to have resided for a while at Oxford University; later he must have been in London, where the first edition of his poems, Steps to the Temple, with other Delights to the Muses, was published in 1646. But one event is quite certain—morning star of this bitter night!—before leaving England, Richard Crashaw had been received into his soul's true home. Thenceforth he was a Catholic.

This step was, of course, disastrous to his prospects in England. Even the fondly appreciative London editor speaks of him as "now dead to us"; and some words of Prynne's flung out regarding Crashaw's "sinful and notorious apostasy and revolt" show what a passing over to "Popery" meant to the Puritans. So the young convert tried his fortunes for a while in Paris; and there in 1646 Abraham Cowley discovered him—in poverty, it seems, if not actually in want. Very touching is this reunion of the former college mates, both exiles now from their disowning fatherland; and from this time date Crashaw's modest little lines "On Two Green Apricocks sent to Mr. Cowley." Very characteristic, too, is our poet's answer to his friend's verses on "Hope." "Dear Hope," he cried with wistful optimism:

Moreover Cowley (being officially connected with the suite of the exiled English Queen, then also in Paris) was able to offer help to his brother poet.

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Rh Henrietta Maria received Crashaw with all graciousness; and when, a few years later, he determined to visit Rome, she gave him introductory letters there. More than this she was no longer able to do. It is probable that most of Crashaw's later poems—those of the Carmen Deo Nostro—were written in the French capital. They were entirely religious in character, and Crashaw himself prepared more than half a score of the most interesting and characteristic illustrations for them; but their publication was not till 1652. The dedication of this volume to the Countess of Denbigh reveals a "friend and patron," whom we would gladly know better; but even Dr. Grosart has been able to discover little more than that she was probably Susan, the sister of Buckingham. This latter lady did, we know, eventually enter the Catholic Church. In one of these poems, "Against Irresolution in Matters of Religion," Crashaw had exhorted her with angelic eloquence to that step which had cost himself so much.

About 1648 or 1649, Crashaw took up his abode in Italy; and, possibly through the influence of Henrietta Maria, became private secretary to Cardinal Palotta, then Governor of Rome. This "good Cardinal" seems to have won and merited the poet's sincerest admiration; but the official life was stormy and uncongenial. Dreamer, mystic that he was, Crashaw had little place amid the sin and noise and conflict of the world. In time, moreover, he discovered flagrant corruption in the Governor's own suite, and fearlessly reported it. This expostulation appears to have been entirely just, but it drew upon the young English-man's head the whole wrath of the offending Italians; and so bitter grew the feeling that Cardinal Palotta was obliged to find some other refuge for his protégé. So the choice fell upon

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44 the Loretto, scene of many a pious pilgrimage, and Crashaw was appointed sub-canon of the basilica church there. This last scene in the dreamer's human tragedy has been thus described by Mr. Edmund Gosse:

 "We can imagine with what feelings of rapture and content the world-worn poet crossed the Apennines and descended to the dry little town above the shores of the Adriatic. . . . As he ascended the last hill, and saw before him the magnificent basilica which Bramante had built as a shelter for the Holy House, he would feel that his feet were indeed upon the threshold of his rest. With what joy, with what a beating heart he would long to see that very Santa Casa, the cottage built of brick, which angels lifted from Nazareth out of the black hands of the Saracen, and gently dropped among the nightingales in the forest of Loreta on that mystic night of the year 1294. There . . . the humble Casa lay in the marble enclosure which Sansovino had made for it, and there through the barbaric brickwork window in the Holy Chimney he could see, in a trance of wonder, the gilded head of Madonna's cedarn image that St. Luke the Evangelist had carved with his own hands. . . . To minister all day in the rich incense. . . to trim the golden lamps. . . to pass in and out between the golden cherubim and brazen seraphim. . . . There, in the very house of Jesus, to hear the noise and mutter of the officiating priest, the bustle of canons, chaplains, monks, and deacons, the shrill sweet voices of the acolytes singing all day long—this must have seemed the very end of life and beginning of heaven to the mystical and sensuous Crashaw."

But a greater rest was at hand. Making his

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Where Crashaw lies buried

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Rh journey from Rome in the summer of 1650, the poet contracted a fever which quickly broke his constitution: only a few weeks did he linger before the altar—then the church which was to have been his sanctuary became his tomb:

So sang Abraham Cowley of his friend—"poet and saint, O hard and rarest union that can be!"

Born in earlier ages, Crashaw might be pictured as going to martyrdom with a smile and a hymn of praise upon his lips: or, in the quiet of a monastic cell he might have worked lovingly upon those heavenly verses—a poetic Fra Angelico. But the thundering questions of Cromwell's day woke little echo in his nature. All about him men were demanding if king or parliament should rule England; he cared little, providing the Counsels of Perfection ruled his own life, and dreamed on while others fought. Crashaw was not, perhaps, a leader of men; but he was most indubitably a follower of God. And he could act as well as dream when the crisis came—he could and did act with such an uncompromising fidelity to truth and to his own ideals that the old world's story is brighter for his record.

With estimates of Richard Crashaw it is customary to couple the name of George Herbert; a comparison which was begun by that editor of 1646, and has persisted since. Superficially it seems reasonable: their writings were almost contemporaneous; they were said to be of the same "school"; both were sincerely religious; their very titles, The Temple and Steps to the Temple, imply more than an accidental

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46 . But in truth, one might almost as well compare Jeremy Taylor with Ignatius Loyola. In Herbert's work we have the piously beautiful fancies of a poetic English clergyman; in Crashaw's, the burning dreams of a genius and a mystic. Speaking of this from a wholly literary standpoint, Dr. Grosart declares our poet's work "of a diviner stuff, and woven in a grander loom; in sooth, infinitely deeper and finer in almost every element of true singing as differenced from pious and gracious versifying." But obviously the stream was not innocent of tributaries. The influence of the Italian Marino is conspicuous, not only in Crashaw's translation of the "Sospetto d'Herode," but throughout his style as a whole; indeed, this elaborate fancifulness of writing is noticeable in all the poets of the day. There is, to boot, more than a touch of John Donne's subtlety in his work, although but little of his ambiguity. As for Robert Southwell, I think we cannot doubt his influence on Crashaw, and his real affinity of temperament; he is one of the very few other Englishmen in whom we find this singular blending of "conceit" with deep sincerity—of emotional tenderness with ascetic concentration upon things divine. But most potent of all were the writings of the great Spanish contemplative, St. Teresa:

Crashaw declares: and again—

Francis Thompson has declared that Crashaw

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Rh was a Shelley manqué; while Shelley was what the so-called "Metaphysical School" should have been and tended to be. Something of all this was anticipated by an earlier critic, Mr. Gilfillan, who was happy in pointing out that "in soaring imagination, in gorgeous language, in ecstasy of lyrical movement, Crashaw very much resembles Shelley, and may be called the Christian Shelley:

Yes: it is the air of the rose-garden, but the fire of the censer. In his religious poems Crashaw rises altogether above terrestrial limits, and bequeaths us half-intoxicating draughts of fiery, tender beauties. That famous "Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Sainte Teresa" thrills with a loveliness never bred upon our humble earth.

the poet writes in allusion to her childish desire for martyrdom; and later he breaks into that wondrous outburst:

Thou art Love's victime; and must dy A death more mysticall and high,

His is the dart must make the death Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow'd breath; A dart thrice dip't in that rich flame Which writes thy Spouse's radiant name Upon the roof of Heav'n, where ay

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48

It shines; and with a sovereign ray Beates bright upon the burning faces Of soules which in that Name's sweet graces Find everlasting smiles.

For full two hundred years after Crashaw there was no English poet at all comparable to him in this rapturous beauty of religious singing. Even now, the tale of his successors is quickly told—Dante Rossetti in exquisite moments, Patmore in odes, Lionel Johnson in a few wistful pages, and, finally, Francis Thompson; for it is a strain fugitive and homesick in our modern world. But to be, in Richard Crashaw's understanding, was to make melody:

And like the Assisian, he included all creatures in this universal harmony, the little things and weak as well as the mighty.

declares his hymn "To the Name Above Every Name."

Crashaw's secular lyrics, while less distinctively characteristic, might very well have made the reputation of another man. Whether one considers the dainty love-lines of his "Wishes," the tender simplicity of his "Epitaph on a Newly Married Couple," or the gaiety of "Cupid's Cryer" and "Love's Horoscope," one is certain

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Rh to find cause for delighted appreciation. Yet probably the brightest gem of them all is "Musick's Duel": truly "fraught with a fury so harmonious" that it leaves poet and reader gasping at its close. Nothing was ever so charming and reassuring as to watch a saint at play—and in these poems the holy mystic does play delectably; nay, the artist rejoices as a strong man to run his race. By them, one knows that Crashaw was not a one-sided genius, but liberal in his love and sympathies.

If it should be necessary to characterise Crashaw's work by three epithets, the manifest points would seem to be his spirituality, his ingenuity, and his sensuous emotion. In the last two exercises he has, haply, fallen into excess, and, most of all, in his religious poems. He is prone to "invoke Sweetness by all her names," and for all the world

rise his breathless raptures. One turns giddy trying to follow him: or else, standing judicially aside, one declares the infatuated poet to have been giddy himself.

This is the persistent reproach of "The Weeper," in many ways a great and touching poem, yet subject to the ridicule and criticism even of those who love Crashaw best. "Mea culpa—mea maxima culpa," one seems to see him smiling down to us, from his high eternal place. Yet, if his earthly metaphors were occasionally strained, they were almost infallibly beautiful and quite infallibly telling. In fact, they were at moments too telling for our sober taste. So also with his extreme sensibility. It is rather

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50 , possibly distasteful even to the colder English mind; but it is certainly not "swooning" or "languishing," as Gilfillan once complained—largely, one infers, because he imagined Catholic mysticism to be a swooning and languishing thing. Crashaw's nature, in every fibre, was as sensitive to each passing emotion as the strings of the harp to its master's touch: and, once struck, the note vibrated indefinitely. Il avait les défauts de ses qualités, in the familiar phrase.

Crashaw was very rarely autobiographical, yet the seal of his individuality is stamped on all his verse. Indeed, as being part of his own life and personality, his poems occupy a place quite apart from their position in literary history. He, in his own day, was often misunderstood; and it is still the easiest thing for unsympathetic minds to misunderstand the poetry he has left. Paradoxical it may sound, but is none the less true, that we must love the poet a little before we can greatly appreciate him. Strength and weakness were his, doubtless; but strength predominated alike in the man and in his work. However extravagant his fancies, they are patently the flashes of a mind rushed on by the whirlwind of unbounded imagination—never the mock-heroics of a mere rhetorician. And the reason of all this is simple enough: Richard Crashaw was fundamentally, consummately, sincere. When his verse soars up to heights celestial, among fragrant nests of seraphim and fair adoring saints, his own soul breathes through the ecstasy. Cannot we hear his voice ringing down the ages, as he appeals with characteristic self-abnegation to his beloved Teresa?

Oh, thou undaunted daughter of desires, By all thy dower of lights and fires;

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Rh

By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy larg, draughts of intellectual day,— And by thy thirsts of love, more larg than they; By all thy brim-fill'd bowles of fierce desire; By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdome of that finall kisse That seiz'd thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the Heav'ns thou hast in Him, (Fair sister of the seraphim!) By all of Him we have in thee, Leave nothing of myself in me; Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may dy!

And once having heard, could we, by any chance, confuse this voice with another's?

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text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Parker, Sir Gilbert


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Park

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Park


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Parker, Sir Hyde


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Jones, Theophilus (d.1685)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Jones, Theophilus (1758-1812)


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Parker, John Henry


text: User talk:71.118.241.237

title: User talk:71.118.241.237


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Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/374

iv. 32- the end; MS. has ávā for pāhí at beginning of d; both have viçvávedās at end of b. Ppp. reads yaṣ for yāḥ before pāhi.

3. Attack, O fury, being mightier than a mighty one; with fervor as ally smite apart the foes; slayer of enemies, slayer of Vṛtra, and slayer of barbarians, do thou bring to us all [their] good things.

4. Since thou, O fury, art of overcoming force, self-existent, terrible, overpowering hostile plotters, belonging to all men (-carṣaṇí), powerful, very powerful—do thou put in us force in fights.

5. Being portionless, I am gone far away, by the action (? krátu) of thee that art mighty, O forethoughtful one; so at thee, O fury, I, actionless, was wrathful; come to us, thine own self (tanū́), giving strength.

6. Here I am for thee; come hitherward unto us, meeting (pratīcīná) [us], O powerful, all-giving one; O thunderbolt-bearing fury, turn hither to us; let us (two) slay the barbarians; and do thou know thy partner (āpí).

7. Go thou forth against [them]; be on our right hand; then will we (two) smite and slay many Vṛtras; I offer to thee the sustaining top of the sweet (mádhu); let us both drink first the initial draught (? upāṅçú).

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The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker

PARKER, a N. county of Texas, intersected by the Brazos river; area, 900 sq. m.; pop. in 1870, 4,186, of whom 293 were colored. It consists of prairie and woodland in about equal proportions. The soil is productive. Wheat, corn, cotton, and fruits and vegetables thrive. The chief productions in 1870 were 13,658 bushels of wheat, 70,685 of Indian corn, 10,905 of oats, 13 bales of cotton, and 20,050 lbs. of butter. There were 1,497 horses, 1,222 milch cows, 10,348 other cattle, 944 sheep, and 4,383 swine. Capital, Weatherford.

title: The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker, Matthew

PARKER, Matthew, the second Protestant archbishop of Canterbury, born in Norwich, Aug. 6, 1504, died in London, May 17, 1575. He entered Corpus Christi college, Cambridge, in 1520, and in 1527 was ordained, made M. A., and received a fellowship, and was offered by Cardinal Wolsey a professorship in his newly founded college at Oxford. In 1533 he received a license to preach, and soon after became chaplain to Anne Boleyn, dean of the college of Stoke Clare in 1535, chaplain to Henry VIII. in 1537, master of Corpus Christi college in 1544, vice chancellor of Cambridge university in 1545, and dean of Lincoln in 1552. Upon the outbreak of Kett's insurrection in 1549,

he had the boldness to preach to the rebels in their camp, exhorting them to submission. Having married in 1547, he was deprived upon the accession of Queen Mary of his offices, and during her reign was obliged to remain in obscurity. Part of this time he spent in translating the Psalms into English verse, and writing a treatise entitled “A Defence of Priests' Marriages.” On the accession of Queen Elizabeth he was chosen archbishop of Canterbury, and on Dec. 17, 1559, consecrated in Lambeth chapel. He successfully combated the queen's lingering affection for the use of images, filled all the vacant sees with men of decided Protestant opinions, and strove to render the rites and ceremonies of the church as uniform as possible. He founded several schools, and made many valuable presents to the colleges at Cambridge, besides establishing scholarships and fellowships. He was one of the first chosen to review the “Book of Common Prayer,” and the revision called the “Bishop's Bible” was made in great part under his inspection, and published at his expense in 1568. He published a Saxon homily on the sacraments, and caused to be printed the chronicles of Matthew of Westminster, Matthew Paris, and Thomas Walsingham, and Asser's “Life of King Alfred.” The work entitled De Antiquitate Britannicæ Ecclesiæ (1572) is commonly attributed to him, and without doubt he had much to do with its preparation.


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205

1. Gleaming (çuc) away our evil (aghá), O Agni, gleam thou wealth unto [us]: gleaming away our evil.

2. With desire of pleasant fields, of welfare, of good things, we sacrifice—gleaming away our evil—

3. In order that the most excellent of them, and in order that our patrons (sūrí)—gleaming away our evil—

4. In order that thy patrons, O Agni; in order [namely] that we may be propagated for thee with progeny—gleaming away our evil—

5. As of the powerful Agni the lusters (bhānú) go forth in every direction—gleaming away our evil.

6. For, O thou that facest in every direction, thou art [our] encompasser on all sides: gleaming away our evil.

7. Our haters, O thou that facest in every direction, do thou make us pass over as with a boat: gleaming away our evil.

8. Do thou pass us over unto well-being, as [over] a river with a boat: gleaming away our evil.

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The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker, Nathan

PARKER, Nathan, an American clergyman, born in Reading, Mass., June 5, 1782, died in Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. 8, 1833. He graduated at Harvard college in 1803, became a tutor in Bowdoin college in 1805, and was ordained pastor of the South church in Portsmouth Sept. 14, 1808, which office he retained through life. When the division of the Congregational body in New England into two parties was recognized, he took his stand as a professed Unitarian. After his death a volume of his sermons was published, with a memoir by the Rev. Henry Ware, jr.


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker, Peter

PARKER, Peter, an American missionary, born in Framingham, Mass., June 18, 1804. He graduated at Yale college in 1831, studied theology and medicine there, and was ordained and went to China in 1834. He established a hospital at Canton, intended particularly for the treatment of eye diseases; but it was soon found impracticable to exclude patients suffering from other maladies. Over 2,000 patients were admitted the first year. In surgery Dr. Parker manifested remarkable skill and wrought wonderful cures, and the fame of the hospital spread rapidly. He often preached to its inmates, and trained several Chinese students in the arts of medicine and surgery, some of whom attained considerable skill. In 1840, on the occurrence of hostilities between England and China, the hospital was closed, and Dr. Parker revisited his native land. Returning to China in 1842, he reopened the hospital, and it was thronged as before. In 1845

he resigned his connection with the American board, and became a secretary and interpreter to the new embassy from the United States, still keeping the hospital in operation. In the absence of the minister Dr. Parker acted as chargé d'affaires. In 1855, finding his health seriously impaired, he again visited this country, but by special desire of the government returned the same year to China as commissioner, with full power to revise the treaty of 1844. He acted in this capacity until a change of administration in 1857; and his health again failing, he has since resided in the United States. He has published “A Statement respecting Hospitals in China” (London, 1841), and an account of his visit to the Loo Choo islands and Japan in 1837.


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58

flōd under foldan.Nis þæt feor heonon mīl-gemearces,þæt se mere standeð, ofer þǣm hongiaðhrīmge bearwas, wudu wyrtum fæst,wæter oferhelmað. Þǣr mæg nihta gehwǣmnīð-wundor sēon, fȳr on flōde.Nō þæs frōd leofað gumena beama,þæt þone grund wite. Ðēah þe hǣð-stapahundum geswenced, heorot hornum trum,holt-wudu sēce, feorran geflȳmed,ǣr hē feorh seleð, aldor on ōfre,ǣr hē in wille hafelan [hȳdan]. Nis þæt hēoru stōw; þonon ȳd-geblondūp āstīgeð won tō wolcnum,þonne wind styreþ lāð gewidru,oð ðæt lyft drysmaþ, roderas rēotað.Nū is se rǣd gelang eft æt *þē ānum.Eard git ne const, frēcne stōwe,ðær þū findan miht fela-sinnigne secg;sēc gif þū dyrre. Ic þē þā fǣhðefēo lēanige, eald-gestrēonum,swā ic ǣr dyde, wundnum golde,gyf þū onweg cymest.”

title: Page:Beowulf (Wyatt).djvu/82


text: Beowulf (Wyatt)/Beowulf 20

title: Beowulf (Wyatt)/Beowulf 20


text: Author:Charles Peck Bush

title: Author:Charles Peck Bush


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker, Theodore

PARKER, Theodore, an American clergyman, born in Lexington, Mass., Aug. 24, 1810, died in Florence, Italy, May 10, 1860. He worked on the farm which had been in his family for 150 years, and in the tool shop, and at the age of 17 began to teach school in the winter months. In 1830 he entered Harvard college, but studied at home, only attending the examinations. In 1831 he was teaching a private class in Boston. Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, French, Spanish, and metaphysics filled his leisure. In 1832 he opened a private school in Watertown with two scholars, one of whom was on charity; but he soon had more than 50. For their benefit, and for his class in the Sunday school, he wrote a history of the Jews, which is still in manuscript. He entered the divinity school in Cambridge in 1834. Syriac, Arabic, Danish, and Swedish were here added to his list of languages; and Anglo-Saxon and modern Greek were commenced. He was one of the editors of the “Scriptural Interpreter,” a magazine conducted by members of the school. During the autumn and winter of 1836 he preached in various pulpits of Massachusetts, and was settled as pastor of the Unitarian church at West Roxbury in June, 1837. Here he formed views upon the authority and inspiration of the Bible which were not in harmony with those of his Unitarian brethren. At the ordination of Mr. Shackford in South Boston, May 19, 1841, Mr. Parker preached a discourse on the “Transient and Permanent in Christianity,” which, assuming the humanity and natural inspiration of Christ, gave rise to a controversy, during which Mr. Parker developed his anti-supernaturalism in various writings and sermons. In the autumn of 1841 he delivered in Boston five lectures, which were published under the title of “A Discourse of Matters pertaining to Religion” (1842). During the autumn and winter of 1842 he delivered six “Sermons for the Times” in Boston and elsewhere. He travelled in England, France, Italy, and Germany in 1843-'4; and after his return the controversy was renewed on occasion of his exchanging pulpits with some of the more liberal Unitarian preachers. He began to preach at the

Boston, Feb. 16, 1845, and was installed there over a newly organized parish, styled the 28th Congregational society, in the spring of 1846. Up to this time, besides the writings above mentioned, his more notable productions were articles in the “Dial” and other periodicals. His translation of De Wette's “Introduction to the Old Testament,” with additions, appeared in 1843. Other translations, from Ammon, Eichhorn, and Gesenius, seem to have been preparatory to that work. In December, 1847, appeared the first number of the “Massachusetts Quarterly,” which he conducted during its life of three years. He became popular as a lecturer, vigorously opposed the Mexican war, and was one of the earliest advocates of temperance and anti-slavery. After the passage of the fugitive slave law in 1850, every case of attempted rendition in Boston enlisted his personal activity; and at the time of the rendition of Anthony Burns (May 24 to June 8, 1854), an indictment was brought against him for resisting an officer of the United States in his attempt to execute process, based upon a speech delivered at Faneuil hall before an anti-rendition meeting. It was quashed upon a technicality; but Mr. Parker had prepared an elaborate defence, which he printed. In November, 1852, his congregation occupied for the first time the great music hall in Boston, which was crowded every Sunday. He was now often ill, and compelled for a while to cease preaching and writing; but his persistent will carried him through till January, 1859, when an attack of bleeding at the lungs brought to a close his public services at the music hall. On Feb. 3 he sailed for Santa Cruz, whence in May he sent a letter to his parish entitled “Theodore Parker's Experience as a Minister.” Thence he sailed to Europe, spent some time in Switzerland, and went to Rome, where he passed the winter of 1859. Setting out thence in April, 1860, very much enfeebled, he reached Florence with difficulty, where he died. He was buried in the cemetery outside the walls. Parker's published works are: “A Discourse of Matters pertaining to Religion” (1842); “Miscellaneous Writings” (12mo, Boston, 1843); “Occasional Sermons and Speeches” (2 vols. 12mo, 1852); “Ten Sermons on Religion” (1853); “Sermons on Theism, Atheism, and the Popular Theology” (1853); “Additional Speeches, Addresses,” &c. (2 vols. 12mo, 1855); “Trial of Theodore Parker for the ‘Misdemeanor of a Speech in Faneuil Hall against Kidnapping’ ” (1855); “Two Christmas Celebrations;” and “Experience as a Minister” (1859). A collective edition of his works was edited by Frances Power Cobbe (12 vols., London, 1863-'5), and a later edition by H. B. Fuller (10 vols. 12mo, Boston, 1870). His “Life and Correspondence” was published by the Rev. John Weiss (2 vols. 8vo, New York, 1864), and his “Life” by the Rev. O. B. Frothingham (New York, 1874). See also Albert Réville's Théodore Parker, sa

vie et ses œuvres (Paris, 1865). His library of more than 13,000 volumes he bequeathed to the public library of Boston.


text:
The Poets' Chantry/Richard Crashaw

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title: The Poets' Chantry/Richard Crashaw


text:
Author:John Weiss

Works

 * Wit, humor, and Shakspeare (1876)

title: Author:John Weiss


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Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/190

134 XXX

still, how happy! These are words

That once would scarce agree together;

I loved the splashing of the surge,

The changing heaven, the breezy weather,

More than smooth seas and cloudless skies

And solemn, soothing, softened airs,

That in the forest woke no sighs

And from the green spray shook no tears.

How still, how happy! now I feel

Where silence dwells is sweeter far

Than laughing mirth with joyous swell,

However pure its raptures are.

Come, sit down on this sunny stone;

'Tis wintry light o'er flowless moors;

But sit, for we are all alone,

And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.

I could think in the withered grass

Spring's budding wreaths we might discern;

The violet's eye might shyly flash,

And young leaves shoot among the fern.

It is but thought—full many a night

The snow shall clothe these hills afar,

And storms shall add a drearier blight

And winds shall wage a wilder war,


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Rh Before the lark may herald in

Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair,

And summer days again begin

Their glory-haloed crown to wear.

Yet my heart loves December's smile

As much as July's golden gleam!

Then let me sit and watch the while

The blue ice curdling on the stream.


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Parker, Willard

PARKER, Willard, an American surgeon, born in Hillsboro, N. H., Sept. 2, 1800. He is the sixth in descent from one of five brothers who came from England in 1644 and settled at Chelmsford, Mass., to which place his father returned when Willard was five years old. He graduated at Harvard college in 1826, commenced the study of medicine under Dr. John C. Warren, the professor of surgery in Harvard university, and received the degree of M. D. there in 1830. He was at once appointed professor of anatomy in the Vermont medical college, and in the same year accepted the chair of anatomy in the Berkshire medical college, and in 1833 also that of surgery. In 1836 he was appointed professor of surgery in the Cincinnati medical college, and afterward spent some time in the hospitals of Paris and London. In 1839 he became professor of surgery in the college of physicians and surgeons of New York, which post he resigned after a service of 30 years, but accepted that of professor of clinical surgery, which he now holds (1875). In 1865 he was elected president of the New York state inebriate asylum at Binghamton, succeeding Dr. Valentine Mott. This was the first institution ever established for the treatment of inebriety as a disease. In 1870 he received the degree of LL. D. from the college of New Jersey at Princeton. Dr. Parker was the first to point out a condition which is known as concussion of the nerves, as distinguished from concussion of the nerve centres, and which had been previously mistaken for one of inflammation. The operation of cystotomy for the relief of chronic cystitis, and also that for the cure of abscess of the appendix vermiformis, are among his contributions to the art of surgery.


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Translation:Shulchan Aruch/Orach Chaim/508

Things That Are Forbidden When Preparing a Grill

דברים האסורים ביום טוב להכנת צלי

Paragraph 1 - We do not make rocks white-hot in order to grill or bake on them, because they are thus hardened. We do not break pottery or cut paper in order to roast on it. We do not break a reed in order to make it like a skewer to grill on it.

סעיף א - אין מלבנים את האבנים לצלות או לאפות עליהם, מפני שמחסמן. ואין שוברין את החרס ואין חותכין את הניר לצלות עליהם. ואין פוצעין את הקנה לעשותו כמו שפוד לצלות בו.

Paragraph 2 - We crack nuts in a rag, and we dot worry that it will rip.

סעיף ב - פוצעים אגוזים במטלית, ולא חיישינן שמא תקרע.

 * }


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Charles II


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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Parker, Herschel Clifford

PARKER, HERSCHEL CLIFFORD, American mountain climber. He was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1867, and graduated from the Columbia School of Mines in 1890. Some years later he explored the Canadian Alps, prospecting, surveying, and studying mineralogy and general physics. He began to teach physics in Columbia University in 1903, and at intervals explored the mountains of Alaska, ascending to the summit of Mt. McKinley, after a previous attempt

in which Frederick A. Cook accompanied him. He has written articles for scientific journals and published “A Systematic Treatise on Electrical Measurements.”


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Rh were in the enjoyment of every comfort compatible with a seafaring life,—a justly-grounded prospect of an agreeable and prosperous voyage, and, at no distant period, a happy meeting with our friends in our native land:—now, our only hope of personal safety depended on a leaky boat, necessarily overloaded, an intricate and dangerous navigation around us, many hundred miles distant from the nearest abode of civilised man! Our misfortunes, however, pressed less heavily, in consequence of there being no females to share them.

To others differently situated, the night might have appeared exceedingly beautiful, as the moon, and her starry train, shone with that splendour peculiar to the torrid zone; but to us it was long and dreary, and we hailed with delight the first appearance of dawning day. In the morning. Captain Young and myself went on board. I was anxious to save some manuscripts and other papers of value, but the sea having taken possession of my cabin, rendered the attempt useless. As the alarm, caused by the apprehension that the ship would suddenly sink, had subsided, several of the sailors came on board, ostensibly for the purpose of obtaining a little more rope, canvass, and wood; but their real design (to search for spirits) being suspected, was soon perceived and prevented.

It was our intention to remain by the ship for a short time, to put the long-boat in some order, and to fit her with sails; but, being convinced that no good was to be expected from the sailors while spirits were

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