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Rh hands with." I should have done so, without the preparation, as he had shaken hands with no one yet.

Almost as soon as he had spoken, a portly upright man (whom I can see now, as I write) in a well-worn olive-coloured frock-coat, with a peculiar pallor overspreading the red in his complexion, and eyes that went wandering about when he tried to fix them, came up to a corner of the bars, and put his hand to his hat—which had a greasy and fatty surface like cold broth—with a half-serious and half-jocose military salute.

"Colonel, to you!" said Wemmick; "how are you, Colonel?"

"All right, Mr. Wemmick."

"Everything was done that could be done, but the evidence was too strong for us, Colonel."

"Yes, it was too strong, sir—but I don't care."

"No, no," said Wemmick, coolly, "you don't care." Then, turning to me, "Served His Majesty, this man. Was a soldier in the line and bought his discharge."

I said, "Indeed?" and the man's eyes looked at me, and then looked over my head, and then looked all round me, and then he drew his hand across his lips and laughed.

"I think I shall be out of this on Monday, sir," he said to Wemmick.

"Perhaps," returned my friend, "but there's no knowing."

"I am glad to have the chance of bidding you good bye, Mr. Wemmick," said the man, stretching out his hand between two bars.

"Thankye," said Wemmick, shaking hands with him. "Same to you, Colonel."

"If what I had upon me when taken, had been real, Mr. Wemmick," said the man, unwilling to let his hand go, "I should have asked the favour of your wearing another ring—in acknowledgment of your attentions."

"I'll accept the will for the deed," said Wemmick. "By-the-bye; you were quite a pigeon-fancier." The man looked up at the sky. "I am told you had a remarkable breed of tumblers. Could you commission any friend of

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

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274 yours to bring me a pair, if you've no further use for 'em?"

"It shall be done, sir."

"All right," said Wemmick, "they shall be taken care of. Good afternoon, Colonel. Good bye!" They shook hands again, and as we walked away Wemmick said to me, "A Coiner, a very good workman. The Recorder's report is made to-day, and he is sure to be executed on Monday. Still you see, as far as it goes, a pair of pigeons are portable property, all the same." With that he looked back, and nodded at his dead plant, and then cast his eyes about him in walking out of the yard, as if he were considering what other pot would go best in its place.

As we came out of the prison through the lodge, I found that the great importance of my guardian was appreciated by the turnkeys, no less than by those whom they held in charge. "Well, Mr. Wemmick," said the turnkey, who kept us between the two studded and spiked lodge gates, and who carefully locked one before he unlocked the other, "What's Mr. Jaggers going to do with that Waterside murder? Is he going to make it manslaughter, or what is he going to make of it?"

"Why don't you ask him?" returned Wemmick.

"Oh, yes, I dare say!" said the turnkey.

"Now, that's the way with them here, Mr. Pip," remarked Wemmick, turning to me with his post-office elongated. "They don't mind what they ask of me, the subordinate; but you'll never catch 'em asking any questions of my principal."

"Is this young gentleman one of the 'prentices or articled ones of your office?" asked the turnkey, with a grin at Mr. Wemmick's humour.

"There he goes again, you see!" cried Wemmick, "I told you so! Asks another question of the subordinate before the first is dry! Well, supposing Mr. Pip is one of them?"

"Why then," said the turnkey, grinning again, "he knows what Mr. Jaggers is."

"Yah!" cried Wemmick, suddenly hitting out at the

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Rh turnkey in a facetious way, "you're as dumb as one of your own keys when you have to do with my principal, you know you are. Let us out, you old fox, or I'll get him to bring an action against you for false imprisonment."

The turnkey laughed, and gave us good day, and stood laughing at us over the spikes of the wicket when we descended the steps into the street.

"Mind you, Mr. Pip," said Wemmick, gravely in my ear, as he took my arm to be more confidential; "I don't know that Mr. Jaggers does a better thing than the way in which he keeps himself so high. He's always so high. His constant height is of a piece with his immense abilities. That Colonel durst no more take leave of him, than that turnkey durst ask him his intentions respecting a case. Then, between his height and them, he slips in his subordinate—don't you see?—and so he has 'em, soul and body."

I was very much impressed, and not for the first time, by my guardian's subtlety. To confess the truth, I very heartily wished, and not for the first time, that I had had some other guardian of minor abilities.

Mr. Wemmick and I parted at the office in Little Britain, where suppliants for Mr. Jaggers's notice were lingering about as usual, and I returned to my watch in the street of the coach-office, with some three hours on hand. I consumed the whole time in thinking how strange it was that I should be encompassed by all this taint of prison and crime; that, in my childhood out on our lonely marshes on a winter evening I should have first encountered it; that, it should have reappeared on two occasions, starting out like a stain that was faded but not gone; that, it should in this new way pervade my fortune and advancement. While my mind was thus engaged, I thought of the beautiful young Estella, proud and refined, coming towards me, and I thought with absolute abhorrence of the contrast between the jail and her. I wished that Wemmick had not met me, or that I had not yielded to him and gone with him, so that, of all days in the year, on this day I might not have had Newgate in my breath and on my clothes. I beat the

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276 prison dust off my feet as I sauntered to and fro, and I shook it out of my dress, and I exhaled its air from my lungs. So contaminated did I feel, remembering who was coming, that the coach came quickly after all, and I was not yet free from the soiling consciousness of Mr. Wemmick's conservatory, when I saw her face at the coach window and her hand waving to me.

What was the nameless shadow which again in that one instant had passed?

In her furred travelling-dress, Estella seemed more delicately beautiful than she had ever seemed yet, even in my eyes. Her manner was more winning than she had cared to let it be to me before, and I thought I saw Miss Havisham's influence in the change.

We stood in the Inn Yard while she pointed out her luggage to me, and when it was all collected I remembered—having forgotten everything but herself in the meanwhile—that I knew nothing of her destination.

"I am going to Richmond," she told me. "Our lesson is, that there are two Richmonds, one in Surrey and one in Yorkshire, and that mine is the Surrey Richmond. The distance is ten miles. I am to have a carriage, and you are to take me. This is my purse, and you are to pay my charges out of it. Oh, you must take the purse! We have no choice, you and I, but to obey our instructions. We are not free to follow our own devices, you and I."

As she looked at me in giving me the purse, I hoped there was an inner meaning in her words. She said them slightingly, but not with displeasure.

"A carriage will have to be sent for, Estella. Will you rest here a little?"

"Yes, I am to rest here a little, and I am to drink some tea, and you are to take care of me the while."

She drew her arm through mine, as if it must be done, and I requested a waiter who had been staring at the coach

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Rh in the world that he should not bear in the world—bear it as well for the sake of his own character as for the sake of helping others who suffer like him. This way lie moral heroism and martyrdom. This way, even, lies the utmost self-sacrifice, if one will only try to see it. No, I have but little sympathy with such cases. The only kind of monk who has all my sympathy is the one that is produced by early training and education. Take a boy whose nature has nothing in common with the scourge and the cell. Immure him. Never let him get from beneath the shadow of convent walls or away from the sound of masses and the waving of crucifixes. Bend him, train him, break him, until he turns monk despite nature's purposes, and ceases to be a man without becoming a saint. I have sympathy for him. Sympathy! I do not know of any violation of the law of personal liberty that gives me so much positive suffering."

"But why suffer over imaginary cases? Such constraint belongs to the past."

"On the contrary, it is just such an instance of constraint that has colored my thoughts of this abbey. It is this that has led me to haunt the place for years from a sort of sad fascination. Men find their way to this valley from the remotest parts of the world. No one knows from what inward or outward stress they come. They are hidden away here and their secret histories are buried with them. But the history of one of these fathers is known, for he has grown up here under the shadow of these monastery walls. You may think the story one of mediæval flavor, but I believe its counterpart will here and there be found as long as monasteries rise and human beings fall.

"He was an illegitimate child. Who his father was,


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144 no one ever so much as suspected. When his mother died he was left a homeless waif in one of the Kentucky towns. But some invisible eye was upon him. He was soon afterwards brought to the boarding-school for poor boys which is taught by the Trappist fathers here. Perhaps this was done by his father, who wished to get him safely out of the world. Well, he has never left this valley since then. The fathers have been his only friends and advisers. He has never looked on the face of a woman since he looked into his mother's when a child. He knows no more of the modern world—except what the various establishments connected with the abbey have taught him—than the most ancient hermit. While he was in the Trappist school, during afternoons and vacations he worked in the monastery fields with the lay-brothers. With them he ate and slept. When his education was finished he became a lay-brother himself. But amid such influences the rest of the story is foreseen; in a few years he put on the brown robe and leathern girdle of a brother of the order, and last year he took final vows, and now wears the white cowl and black scapular of a priest."

"But if he has never known any other life, he, most of all, should be contented with this. It seems to me that it would be much harder to have known human life and then renounce it."

"That is because you are used to dwell upon the good, and strive to better the evil. No; I do not believe that he is happy. I do not believe nature is ever thwarted without suffering, and nature in him never cried out for the monkish life, but against it. His first experience with the rigors of its discipline proved nearly fatal. He was prostrated with long illness. Only


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Rh by special indulgence in food and drink was his health restored. His system even now is not inured to the cruel exactions of his order. You see, I have known him for years. I was first attracted to him as a lonely little fellow with the sad lay-brothers in the fields. As I would pass sometimes, he would eye me with a boy's unconscious appeal for the young and for companionship. I have often gone into the abbey since then, to watch and study him. He works with a terrible pent-up energy. I know his type among the young Kentuckians. They make poor monks. Time and again they have come here to join the order. But all have soon fallen away. Only Father Palemon has ever persevered to the taking of the vows that bind him until death. My father knew his mother and says that he is much like her—an impulsive, passionate, trustful, beautiful creature, with the voice of a seraph. Father Palemon himself has the richest voice in the monks choir. Ah, to hear him, in the dark chapel, sing the Salve Regina! The others seem to moderate their own voices, that his may rise clear and uncommingled to the vaulted roof. But I believe that it is only the music he feels. He puts passion and an outcry for human sympathy into every note. Do you wonder that I am so strongly drawn towards him? I can give you no idea of his appearance. I shall show you his photograph, but that will not do it. I have often imagined you two together by the very law of contrast. I think of you at home in New York City, with your charities, your missions, your energetic, untiring beneficence. You stand at one extreme. Then I think of him at the other—doing nothing, shut up in this valley, spending his magnificent manhood in a never-changing, never-ending routine of


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146 sterile vigils and fasts and prayers. Oh, we should change places, he and I! I should be in there and he out here. He should be lying here by your side, looking up into your face, loving you as I have loved you, and winning you as I never can. Oh, Madeline, Madeline, Madeline!"

The rapid, broken utterance suddenly ceased.

In the deep stillness that followed, Father Palemon heard the sound of a low sob and a groan.

He had sat all this time rivetted to the spot, and as though turned into stone. He had hardly breathed. A bright lizard gliding from out a crevice in the wall had sunned itself in a little rift of sunshine between his feet. A bee from the honeysuckles had alighted unnoticed upon his hand. Others sounds had died away from his ears, which were strained to catch the last echoes of these strange voices from another world.

Now all at once across the gardens came the stroke of a bell summoning to instant prayer. Why had it suddenly grown so loud and terrible? He started up. He forgot priestly gravity and ran—fairly ran, head long and in a straight course, heedless of the tender plants that were being crushed beneath his feet. From another part of the garden an aged brother, his eye attracted by the sunlight glancing on a bright moving object, paused while training a grape-vine and watched with amazement the disorderly figure as it fled. As he ran on, the skirts of his cowl, which he had forgotten to tie up, came down. When at last he reached the door of the chapel and stooped to unroll them, he discovered that they had been draggled over the dirt and stained against the bruised weeds until they were


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Rh hardly recognizable as having once been spotless white. A pang of shame and alarm went through him. It was the first stain.

Every morning the entire Trappist brotherhood meet in a large room for public confession and accusation. High at one end sits the venerable abbot; beside him, but lower, the prior; while the fathers in white and the brothers in brown range themselves on benches placed against the wall on each side.

It was near the close of this impressive ceremony that Father Palemon arose, and, pushing the hood far back from his face, looked sorrowfully around upon the amazed company. A thrill of the tenderest sympathy shot through them. He was the youngest by far of their number and likeliest therefore to go astray; but never had any one found cause to accuse him, and never had he condemned himself. Many a head wearing its winter of age and worldly scars had been lifted in that sacred audience-chamber of the soul confessing to secret sin. But not he. So awful a thing is it for a father to accuse himself, that in utter self-abasement his brethren throw themselves prone to the floor when he rises. It was over the prostrate forms of his brethren that Father Palemon now stood up erect, alone. Unearthly spectacle! He began his confession. In the hushed silence of the great bare chamber his voice awoke such echoes as might have terrified the soul had one gone into a vast vault and harangued the shrouded dead. But he went on, sparing not himself and laying bare his whole sin—the yielding to weariness in the


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148 garden; the listening to the conversation; most of all, the harboring of strange doubts and desires since then. Never before had the word "woman" been breathed at this confessional of devoted celibates. More than one hooded, faded cheek blushed secret crimson at the sound. The circumstances attending Father Palemon's temptation invested it with an ancient horror. The scene, a garden; the tempter, a woman. It was like some modern Adam confessing his fall.

His penance was severe. For a week he was not to leave his cell, except at brief seasons. Every morning he must scourge himself on his naked back until the blood came. Every noon he must go about the refectory on his knees, begging his portion of daily bread, morsel by morsel, from his brethren, and must eat it sitting before them on the floor. This repast was reduced in quantity one half. An aged deaf monk took his place in the garden.

His week of penance over, Father Palemon came forth too much weakened to do heavy work, and was sent to relieve one of the fathers in the school. Educated there himself, he had often before this taught its round of familiar duties.

The school is situated outside the abbey wall on a hill-side several hundred yards away. Between it and the abbey winds the road which enters the valley above and goes out below, connecting two country highways. Where it passes the abbey it offers slippery, unsafe footing on account of a shelving bed of rock which rises on each side as a steep embankment, and is kept moist by overhanging trees and by a small stream that issues from the road-side and spreads out over the whole pass. The fathers are commanded to cross this road at a


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Rh quick gait, the hood drawn completely over the face, and the eyes bent on the ground.

One sultry afternoon, a few days later, Father Palemon had sent away his little group of pious pupils, and seated himself to finish his work. The look of unawakened innocence had vanished from his eyes. They were full of thought and sorrow. A little while and, as though weighed down with heaviness, his head sank upon his arms, which were crossed over the desk. But he soon lifted it with alarm. One of the violent storms which gather and pass so quickly in the Kentucky skies was rushing on from the south. The shock of distant thunder sent a tremor through the building. He walked to the window and stood for a moment watching the rolling edge of the low storm-cloud with its plumes of white and gray and ominous dun-green colors. Suddenly his eyes were drawn to the road below. Around a bend a horse came running at full speed, uncontrolled by the rider. He clasped his hands and breathed a prayer. Just ahead was the slippery, dangerous footing. Another moment and horse and rider disappeared behind the embankment. Then the horse reappeared on the other side, without saddle or rider, rushing away like a forerunner of the tempest.

He ran down. When he reached the spot he saw lying on the road-side the form of a woman—the creature whom his priestly vows forbade him ever to approach. Her face was upturned, but hidden under a great wave of her long, loosened, brown hair. He knelt down and, lifting the hair aside, gazed down into it.

"Ave Maria!—Mother of God!" The disjointed exclamations were instinctive. The first sight of beautiful womanhood had instantly lifted his thought to the


text:
Talk:Le Corbeau (Mallarmé)

Candidate
... for DoubleWiki usage example. ( [//en.wikisource.org/wiki/Le_Corbeau_(Mallarm%C3%A9)?match=fr] ). An almost perfect example except images won't align even when using new exclude= parameter. -- George Orwell III (talk) 09:58, 25 April 2012 (UTC)

title: Talk:Le Corbeau (Mallarmé)


text:
User talk:91.206.246.64

Welcome

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title: User talk:91.206.246.64


text: The Statutes at Large (Ruffhead)/Volume 9/Doncaster: Small Debts, Lighting, etc. Act 1763


text: Category:4 Geo 3

title: Category:4 Geo 3


text:
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A.D. 1763. Quantity of Coals not exceeding the Quantity of one Chaldron, and the Ingrain thereunto belonging, after the Rate of one Chaldron in every twenty Chaldrons, without being liable to any Penalty for the same ; any Thing in the said Act of the sixth Year of the Reign of his said Majesty King George the First, or any other Act or Acts, to the contrary thereof in any wise notwithstanding.

XXVI. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That all Penalties and Forfeitures by this Act imposed (the Manner of levying and recovering whereof is not hereby otherwise particularly directed) shall be levied and recovered by Disstress and Sale of the Offender's Goods and Chattles, by Warrant under the Hand and Seal of some Justice of the Peace for the said County of Middlesex, or the City and Liberty of Westminster, as the Case may be ; which Warrant such Justice is hereby impowered and required to grant, upon the Confession of the Party or Parties, or upon the Information of any one or more credible Witness or Witnesses upon Oath (which Oath such Justice is hereby impowered to administer) ; and the Penalties and Forfeitures when recovered, after rendering the Overplus, if any be, upon Demand to the Party or Parties whose Goods and Chattles shall be so distrained and sold (the Charges of such Distrefs and Sale being first deducted) shall be paid to the Treasurer to the said Commissioners for the Time being, and be applied towards the Purposes of the said former Acts and this Act ; and in case sufficient Distress cannot be found, and such Penalties or Forfeitures shall not be paid, it shall and may be lawful for such Justice, and he is hereby authorized and required, by Warrant under his Hand and Seal, to commit such Offender or Offenders to the House of Correction, for any Time not exceeding two Months.

XXVII. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That no Proceeding to be had touching the Conviction of any Offender or Offenders against this Act, or any Order made, or other Matter or Thing to be done or transacted, in or relating to the Execution of this Act, shall be vacated or quashed for Want of Form, or be removed by Certiorari, or any other Writ or Process whatsoever, into any of his Majesty's Courts of Record at Westminster ; any Law or Statute to the contrary notwithstanding.

 * XXVIII. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That no Action or Suit shall be commenced against any Person or Persons for any thing done in pursuance of this Act, until eight clear Days Notice shall be thereof given in Writing to the Clerk or Treasurer to the said Commissioners, or after sufficient Satisfaction, or tender thereof, hath been made to the Party or Parties aggrieved, or after fix Calendar Months next after the Fact committed, for which such Action or Actions, Suit or Suits, shall be fo brought; and every such Action shall be brought, laid and tried, in the County or Place where such Matters and Things respectively shall be committed or done, and not in any other County or Place ; and that the Defendant or Defendants in such Actions and Suits, and every of them, may plead the General Issue, and give this Act, and the Special Matter in Evidence, at at any Trial or Trials which shall be had thereupon, and that the Matter or Thing for which such Action or Actions, Suit or Suits, shall be so brought, was done in pursuance and by the Authority of this Act : And if the said Matter or Thing shall appear to have been so done, or if it shall appear that such Action or Suit was brought before eight clear Days Notice thereof given as aforesaid, or that sufficient Satisfaction was made or tendered as aforesaid, or if any such Action or Suit shall not be commenced within the Time before or for that Purpose limited, or shall be laid in any other County or Place than as aforesaid, then the Jury or Juries shall find for the Defendant or Defendants therein; and if a Verdict or Verdicts shall be found for such Defendant or Defendants, or if the Plaintiff or Plaintiffs in such Action or Actions, Suit or Suits, shall become nonsuited, or suffer a Discontinuance of such Action or Actions, or if, upon any Demurrer or Demurrers any such Action or Actions, Judgment shall be given for the Defendant or Defendants therein, then, and in either of the Cases aforefaid, such Defendant or Defendants shall nave Treble Costs ; and shall have such Remedy for recovering the same, as any Defendant or Deferdants may have for his, her or their Costs in any other Cases by Law.

'HERE AS the Borough of Doncaster in the County of York, is large and populous, has a navigable River, and is a great Thoroughfare between the South and Northern Parts of this Kingdom, by Means whereof a considerable Trade is carried on in the said Borough and Soke thereof : And whereas there are many Persons to whom the Traders of the said Borough and Soke are obliged to give Credit for small Sums of Money, who frequently refuse although able to pay the fame, presuming on the Discouragements which Creditors lie under, from the Expence which they are unavoidably put to, and the Delays they meet with in suing for such Debts : And whereas a more easy and speedy Method of recovering small Debts, within the said Borough and Soke, would greatly tend to promote Industry, and support useful Credit therein : And   whereas


text:
User talk:85.83.9.136

Welcome

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In any case, I hope you enjoy donating your time to grow the Wikisource library that is free for everyone to use! In discussions, please sign your comments using four tildes ( ~ ); this will automatically produce your IP address (or username if you're logged in) and the date. If you need help, ask me on my talk page, or ask your question here (click  [ edit] ) and place  before your question. Again, welcome! — billinghurst  sDrewth  11:12, 25 April 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:85.83.9.136


text:
Illinois Law Review

 * Volume 1 (1906-07)
 * Volume 2 (1907-08)
 * Volume 3 (1908-09)
 * Volume 4 (1909-10)
 * Volume 5 (1910-11)
 * Volume 6 (1911-12)
 * Volume 7 (1912-13)
 * Volume 8 (1913-14)
 * Volume 9 (1914-15)
 * Volume 10 (1915-16)
 * Volume 11 (1916-17)
 * Volume 12 (1917-18)
 * Volume 13 (1918-19)
 * Volume 14 (1919-20)
 * Volume 15 (1920-21)
 * Volume 16 (1921-22)
 * Volume 17

title: Illinois Law Review


text:
International Journal of Ethics

 * Volume 1 (1890–91)
 * Volume 2 (1891–92)
 * Volume 3 (1892–93)
 * Volume 4 (1893–94)
 * Volume 5 (1894–95)
 * Volume 6 (1895–96)
 * Volume 7 (1896–97)
 * Volume 8 (1897–98)
 * Volume 9 (1898–99)
 * Volume 10 (1899–1900)
 * Volume 11 (1900–01)
 * Volume 12 (1901–02)
 * Volume 13 (1902–03)
 * Volume 14 (1903–04)
 * Volume 15 (1904–05)
 * Volume 16 (1905–06)
 * Volume 17 (1906–07)
 * Volume 18 (1907–08)
 * Volume 19 (1908–09)
 * Volume 20 (1909–10)
 * Volume 21 (1910–11)
 * Volume 22 (1911–12)
 * Volume 23 (1912–13)
 * Volume 24 (1913–14)
 * Volume 25 (1914–15)
 * Volume 26 (1915–16)
 * Volume 27 (1916–17)
 * Volume 28 (1917–18)
 * “Militant Pacifism”, by Mary Whiton Calkins, issue 1 (1917-10-01)
 * Volume 29 (1918–19)
 * Volume 30 (1919–20)
 * Volume 31 (1920–21)
 * Volume 32 (1921–22)

title: International Journal of Ethics


text:
Yale Law Journal

 * Volume 1 (1891-92)
 * Volume 2 (1892-93)
 * Volume 3 (1893-94)
 * Volume 4 (1894-95)
 * Volume 5 (1895-96)
 * Volume 6 (1896-97)
 * Volume 7 (1897-98)
 * Volume 8 (1898-99)
 * Volume 9 (1899-1900)
 * Volume 10 (1900-01)
 * Volume 11 (1901-02)
 * Volume 12 (1902-03)
 * Volume 13 (1903-04)
 * Volume 14 (1904-05)
 * Volume 15 (1905-06)
 * Volume 16 (1906-07)
 * Volume 17 (1907-08)
 * Volume 18 (1908-09)
 * Volume 19 (1909-10)
 * Volume 20 (1910-11)
 * Volume 21 (1911-12)
 * Volume 22 (1912-13)
 * Volume 23 (1913-14)
 * Volume 24 (1914-15)
 * Volume 25 (1915-16)
 * Volume 26 (1916-17)
 * Volume 27 (1917-18)
 * Volume 28 (1918-19)
 * Volume 29 (1919-20)
 * Volume 30 (1920-21)
 * Volume 31 (1921-22)
 * Volume 32

title: Yale Law Journal


text:
Author:Maurice Hauriou

Works

 * Principes de droit public (1910)

title: Author:Maurice Hauriou


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220 whereas the Lighting in a proper Manner, the Streets, Lanes and other open Passages and Places, within the said Borough, would be of great Benefit and Safety to the Inhabitants thereof, as well 'as to all Persons resorting thereto ;' May it therefore please your Majesty that it may be enacted ; and be it enacted by the King's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the Advice and Consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this Present Parliament Assemebled and by the Authority of the same, That Sir Bryan Cooke Baronet, the Mayor of Doncaster for the time being, Richard Whitaker,Goerge Healy,Robert Copely,Anthony Wharton,William Dawson,John Cooke, Francis Laye, John Arthur, John Ellerker, Edmund Bower, Henry Farrer, William Ellerker, John Hawley, Benjamin Hague, John Silverwood, Francis Caley, William Heaton, Conrade Stiffel, John Turner, Charles Heme, Robert Ellis, John Healy, Henry Heaton, Thomas Smith,Matthew Sanderson, Thomas 'Jennings, William Bingley, James Graham, Thomas Tofield, Richard Walker, John Broughton, John Broughton junior, Thomas Heaton, John Hancock, William Patrick, John France, George Jarratt, John Jaques, Nathaniel Pearson, Philip Gill, Gervase Seaton, William Richard, George Halifax, John Watson, Solomon Holmes, John Whitaker, Robert Hudson, Richard Staveley, Thomas Pheasant, Richard Bowzer, Thomas Seaton, George Pearson, Thomas Rimington, William Pigot, William Dixon Cave, Thomas Gill, Francis Haworth, William Pheazant, Jofeph Collisson, Esquires and Gentlemen, shall be, and are hereby appointed Commissioners, to hear and determine all sush Matters of Debt as are hereafter mentioned : And the said Commissioners, and their Successors, are hereby constituted a Court of Justice, by the Name of The Court of Requests for the Borough and Soke of Doncaster in the County of York ;  and they the said Commissioners, or any three or more of them, shall and are hereby impowered and required to meet and hold the said Court, on every other Thursday, or oftener, if there shall be Occasion, in the Guild Hall of the said Borough, or at any other convenient Place within the said Borough, to be appointed by the major Part of such of the Commissioners as shall be assembled at any such Meeting ; and the first Meeting of the said Commissioners shall be held on the Thursday Fortnight next after the passing of this Act, but so as the said Meetings shall not interrupt the Business at any Time to be done by or before his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, usually done, held or kept in the said Guildhall ;  and the said Commissioners, or any three or more of them, from Time to Time assembled at such Courts, are hereby authorized and fully impowered to hear and determine all such Causes as are hereafter mentioned, and to give such Judgments, and to make such Orders and Decrees therein, and to award Execution thereupon with Costs, against the Body and Bodies, or against the Goods of all and every the Person and Persons against whom they shall give any such Judgment, or make any such Order or Decree, as to them shall seem just in Law or Equity ;   and if the Commissioners so assembled shall happen to be equally divided, upon any Question that may come before them, the Mayor of the Borough for the Time being, if present,or in his Absence the senior Alderman present, and if no Alderman is present, the Commissioner present, who stands first in the List of Commissioners to be hung up in the Court or Place where the Commissioners shall meet, shall have another and the casting Vote.

II. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That, from time to time, on the Death or Refusal to act, of any or either of the Commissioners herein before particularly named, or of any or either of their Successors, to be elected in Manner herein after immediately mentioned, it shall be lawful for the surviving or remaining Commissioners, or the major Part of such of them as shall be present at a Meeting which is hereby directed to be held for that Purpose, within the Space of one Month next after such Decease, or Refusal to act, shall happen or be known, or as soon after as conveniently may be, to elect and appoint one other Commissioner, in the Stead of each such Commissioner so dying or refusing to act ; and every such Commissioner, so elected, shall be and is hereby enabled to act in the Execution of the Powers hereby granted to the Commissioners aforesaid, as fully and effectually, to all Intents and Purposes, as if he had been particularly named herein as a Commissioner ; but Notice in Writing, of the Time and Place of Meeting for every such Election, shall be given by the Clerk to the said Commissioners, by affixing the same upon the Market-House in the said Borough, at least ten Days before every such Meeting.

III. And, to the end that no undue Preference maybe made and given in summoning the said Commissioners appointed, or to be appointed, in pursuance of this Act, to attend the said Court ; Be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That the Serjeant of the said Court, for the Time being, to be nominated or elected as herein after mentioned, shall summon the Mayor and one Alderman, or two Aldermen together with four other Commissioners, beginning with the Mayor and one Alderman and four other Commissioners, who shall be first named in the List of Commissioners to be hung up in the said Court, to attend the said Court as Commissioners for two Weeks then next ensuing; and shall, once a Fortnight, summon the like Number of Commissioners, as they shall stand in Order and Rotation upon the said List.

IV. Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to exclude or debar any of the Commissioners for the Time being from sitting in the said Court, although such Commissioners shall not have been summoned, or stand in Rotation to be summoned ; but that such Commissioners, if they shall think fit so to do, shall and may sit, hear, determine, give Judgment, and make Orders and Decrees in the said Court; any thing herein before contained to the contrary thereof in any wise notwithstanding. V. And


text:
Author:Léon Duguit

Works

 * Law in the Modern State (tr. by Frida and Harold J. Laski, 1919)
 * Les transformations du droit public (1913)

title: Author:Léon Duguit


text:
Author:Harold Joseph Laski

Works

 * Authority in the Modern State (1919)

Translations

 * Duguit, Léon. Law in the Modern State. New York: B.W. Huebsch, 1919.

title: Author:Harold Joseph Laski


text:
Civil Procedure Acts Repeal Act 1879

An Act for repealing certain Enactments relating to Civil Procedure which have ceased to be in force, or have become unnecessary, and for abolishing Outlawry in Civil Proceedings. [15th August 1879.]

WHEREAS, with a view to the revision of the Statute Law, it is expedient that certain enactments (mentioned in the schedule to this Act) which relate to civil procedure or matters connected therewith, and which may be regarded as spent, or have ceased to be in force otherwise than by express and specific repeal by Parliament, or have, by lapse of time and change of circumstances, become unnecessary, be expressly and specifically repealed:

And whereas the process of outlawry in civil proceedings has become obsolete, and it is expedient that it be formally abolished, and that the enactments relating thereto be repealed:

Be it therefore enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:

Short title.

1. This Act may be cited as the Civil Procedure Acts Repeal Act, 1879.

Repeal of enactments in schedule.

2. The enactments described in the schedule to this Act are hereby repealed, subject to the exceptions and qualifications mentioned in this Act and in the schedule to this Act.

Abolition of outlawry in civil proceedings.

3. After the passing of this Act no person shall be outlawed or waived in or in consequence of any civil proceeding, and no proceedings to outlawry or waiver in or in consequence of any civil proceeding shall be taken at the instance of the Crown or otherwise.

Saving as to repealed enactments.

4.-(1.) The repeal effected by this Act shall not affect: (a.) Anything done or suffered before the passing of this Act under any enactment repealed by this Act; or (b.) Any jurisdiction or principle or rule of law or equity established or confirmed, or right or privilege acquired, or duty or liability imposed or incurred, or compensation secured, by or under any enactment so repealed; or (c.) Any right to any hereditary revenues of the Crown, or any charges thereon; or (d.) The repeal, confirmation, revival, or perpetuation by any enactment so repealed of any enactment not so repealed; or (e.) The application or incorporation of any enactment so repealed by any enactment not so repealed. (2.) The repeal effected by this Act shall not extend to any part of Her Majesty's dominions out of the United Kingdom, and shall not, as regards the enactments described in Part II. of the schedule to this Act, operate in repect of any court other than the Supreme Court of Judicature in England. (3.) Nothing in this Act shall be construed to imply that any enactment described in Part II. of the schedule to this Act has not ceased to be in force or become unnecessary as regards any court other than the Supreme Court of Judicature in England. (4.) This Act shall not revive or restore any jurisdiction, office, duty, drawback, fee, payment, franchise, liberty, custom, right, title, privilege, restriction, exemption, usage, practice, procedure, or other matter or thing, not existing or in force at the passing of this Act.

SCHEDULE.

ENACTMENTS REPEALED.

This Schedule is to be read as referring to the Revised Edition of the Statutes prepared under the direction of the Statute Law Committee in all cases of statutes included in that edition.

The chapters of the statutes (before the division into separate Acts) are described by the marginal abstracts given in that edition.

The repeal by the present Act of a part of a statute set out or referred to in terms of the translation given in that edition is to operate on the original Latin or Norman-French, of which the translation is set out or referred to, as if the original itself were in a like manner set out or referred to.

A description or citation of a portion of an Act is inclusive of the words, section, or other part, first or last mentioned, or otherwise referred to as forming the beginning or forming the end of the portion comprised in the description or citation.

PART I.

Enactments Repealed Generally.

title: Civil Procedure Acts Repeal Act 1879


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A.D. 1763. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That no Person shall be capable of acting as a Commissioner, in the Execution of this Act, until he shall have taken an Oath to the Effect following ; that is to say,

A. B. do swear, That I will faithfully, impartially and honestly, according to the best of my Judgment, hear and determine such Matters and Things as shall be brought before me, by virtue of An Act of Parliament, intituled, An Act for the more easy and speedy recovery of small Debts within the Borough and Soke of Doncaster, in the County of York ; and for lighting the Streets, Lanes, and other open Passages and Places, within the said Borough, without Favour, Affection, or Prejudice to either Party.'

Which Oath the Clerk of the said Court, or any of the Commissioners who shall have taken such To be administered By Oath, is hereby impowered and required to administer in open Court; and a Memorial thereof shall therof shall be entered in the Registers of the said Court, by the said Clerk.

VI. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That Richard Shepherd, the Town Clerk of the said Borough, and the Town Clerk of the said Borough for the Time being, shall be, and is hereby constituted and appointed Clerk of the said Court of Requests, during his good Behahaviour in the said Office ; and shall have Power and Authority, from time to time, to appoint a with Power to anoint Deputy ; which said Clerk, or his Deputy, are hereby impowered and required to issue out all Summonses, Warrants and Precepts, and to register all Orders, Decrees and Judgments of the said Court, and shall enter and register, or cause to be entered and registered, in proper Books to be provided by him, and kept for that Purpose, all the Acts and Proceedings of the said Court.

VII. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That the Serjeants at Mace, of the said Borough for the Time being, shall be and are hereby constituted and appointed Serjeants of the the faid Court of Requests, during their good Behaviour, for the serving of Summonses, and executing such Orders, Warrants and Precepts, and doing and performing such other Acts, Matters and Things, as are herein appointed to be done by them.

VIII. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That from and after the passing of this Act, it shall and may be lawful to and for any Person or Persons whatsoever, who now hath, have, or hereafter shall have, any Debt or Debts under the Value of forty Shillings, due or owing, or belonging unto him, her or them, in his, her or their own Rights, or as Executor, Administrator, Guardian or Trustee, to any other Person or Persons, by or from any other Person or Persons whatsoever, inhabiting or residing within the said Borough and Soke, or using or frequenting the Markets thereof, or usually buying or selling, or seeking a Livelihood therein, or sailing or navigating to or from the said Town, to apply to the Clerk of the Court for the Time being, or his Deputy, who shall immediately make out and deliver to one of the Serjeants of the said Court for the Time being (who is and are hereby authorized and required to execute all Warrants, Precepts and Processes of the said Court of Requests) a Summons in Writing, under his hand, directed to such Debtor or Debtors, expressing the Sum demanded of him, her or them, the Party demanding and requiring him, her or them, to appear at a certain Time and Place, to be mentioned in such Summons, before the Commissioners of the said Court, to answer such Complaint : And such Serjeant shall forth with cause such Summons to be served on such Debtor or Debtors, either personally, or by leaving the Clerk, who shall the same at the Dwelling House, Lodging, Place of abode, Shop, Shed, Stall, Stand, or other summon the Debtor, Place of Dealing, Trading or Working of such Debtor or Debtors, being within the Limits of the said Borough and Soke, with his, her or their Servant, or other Person belonging to him, her or them; and that, upon Proof made, that such Summons hath been duly served, the said Commissioners, or any three or more of them, assembled in Court, being a Majority of such Court, are hereby impowered and required to make due Enquiry concerning such Demands or Plaints, and make such Orders and Decrees therein, and pass such final Judgment or Sentence thereupon, and award Costs of Suit, as to them shall seem most agreeable to Equity and good Conscience : And, for the better and Discovery of the Truth, and more solemn Determination of Matters and Causes which shall be depending in the said Court, it shall be lawful for the said Commissioners, or any three or more of them, assembled in Court, and they are hereby impowered to administer, or cause to be administer, an Oath or Oaths to either of the said Parties, willing to be examined touching the Matters thereupon: then in Question, and to such Witness or Witnesses as shall be produced by each Party, and to And may administer an the Officers of the said Court, and also to any other Person or Persons, whose Evidence shall seem necessary towards the hearing or determining any of the said Causes, or making any Order or Decree therein, or for any other Purposes requisite to the Execution of this Act.

IX. And be it further enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That if such Debtor or Debtors, who Debtor not appearing, shall have been duly summoned as aforesaid, shall not appear before such Court, at the Time and Place mentioned in the said Summons, then it shall and may be lawful to and for the said Commissoners, or any three or more of them so assembled, being a Majority of the said Court, after due Proof made, upon Oath, of the Service of the said Summons, in Manner aforesaid, to hear the with Costs, Cause on the Part of the Plaintiff or Plaintiff's only, and to make such Order, Decree or Judgment, and to award reasonable Costs of Suit, as to them shall seem most agreeable to Equity and good Consience. X. And


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text: Author:Christoph Wilhelm Friedrich Hufeland


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Definition—": an offering for the sins of the whole people, made by the censors at the expiration of their five years of office."

Elementary Latin Dictionary of Charlton T. Lewis.

200 copies privately printed, of which this is No. 197

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User talk:Lionelt

— billinghurst  sDrewth  12:40, 25 April 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:Lionelt


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150 utmost height of holy associations. Indeed, no sweet face had he ever looked on but the Virgin's picture. Many a time in the last few years had he, in moments of restlessness, drawn near and studied it with a sudden rush of indefinable tenderness and longing. But beauty, such as this seemed to him, he had never dream ed of. He bent over it, reverential, awe-stricken. Then, as naturally as the disciple John might have succored Mary, finding her wounded and fainting by the way side, he took the unconscious sufferer in his arms and bore her to the school-room for refuge from the bursting storm. There he quickly stripped himself of his great soft cowl, and, spreading it on the bare floor, laid her on it, and with cold water and his coarse monk's handkerchief bathed away the blood that flowed from a little wound on her temple.

A few moments and she opened her eyes. He was bending close over her, and his voice sounded as sweet and sorrowful as a vesper bell:

"Do you suffer? Are you much hurt? Your horse must have fallen among the rocks. The girth was broken."

She sat up bewildered, and replied slowly:

"I think I am only stunned. Yes, my horse fell. I was hurrying home out of the storm. He took fright at something and I lost control of him. What place is this?"

"This is the school of the abbey. The road passes just below. I was standing at the window when your horse ran past, and I brought you here."

"I must go home at once. They will be anxious about me. I am visiting at a place not more than a mile away."


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Rh He shook his head and pointed to the window. A sudden gray blur of rain had effaced the landscape. The wind shook the building.

"You must remain here until the storm is over. It will last but a little while."

During this conversation she had been sitting on the white cowl, and he, with the frankness of a wondering, innocent child, had been kneeling quite close beside her. Now she got up and walked to one of the windows, looking out upon the storm, while he retired to another window at the opposite end of the room.

What was the tempest-swept hill outside to the wild, swift play of emotions in him? A complete revulsion of feeling quickly succeeded his first mood. What if she was more beautiful—far more beautiful—than the sweet Virgin's picture in the abbey? She was a devil, a beautiful devil. Her eyes, her hair, which had blown against his face and around his neck, were the Devil's implements; her form, which he had clasped in his arms, was the Devil's subtlest hiding-place. She had brought sin into the world. She had been the curse of man ever since. She had tempted St. Anthony. She had ruined many a saint, sent many a soul to purgatory, many a soul to hell. Perhaps she was trying to send his soul to hell now—now while he was alone with her and under her influence. It was this same woman who had broken into the peace of his life two weeks before, for he had instantly recognized the voice as the one that he had heard in the garden and that had been the cause of his severe penance. Amid all his scourgings, fasts, and prayers that voice had never left him. It made him ache to think of what penance he must now


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152 do again on her account; and with a sudden impulse he walked across the room, and, standing before her with arms folded across his breast, said in a voice of the simplest sorrow:

"Why have you crossed my path-way, thus to tempt me?"

She looked at him with eyes that were calm but full of natural surprise.

"I do not understand how I have tempted you."

"You tempt me to believe that woman is not the devil she is."

She was silent with confusion. The whole train of his thought was unknown to her. It was difficult, bewildering. A trivial answer was out of the question, for he hung upon her expected reply with a look of pitiable eagerness. She took refuge in the didactic.

"I have nothing to say about the nature of woman. It is vague, contradictory; it is anything, everything. But I can speak to you of the lives of women; that is a definite subject. Some women may be what you call devils. But some are not. I thought that you recognized the existence of saintly women within the memories and the present pale of your church."

"True. It is the women of the world who are the devils."

"You know so well the women of the world?"

"I have been taught. I have been taught that if Satan were to appear to me on my right hand and a beautiful woman of the world on my left, I should flee to Satan from the arms of my greater enemy. You tempt me to believe that this is not true—to believe that the fathers have lied to me. You tempt me to believe that Satan would not dare to appear in your


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Rh. Is it because you are yourself a devil that you tempt me thus?"

"Should you ask me? I am a woman of the world. I live in a city of more than a million souls—in the company of thousands of these women-devils. I see hundreds of them daily. I may be one myself. If you think I am a devil, you ought not to ask me to tell you the truth. You should not listen to me or believe me."

She felt the cruelty of this. It was like replying logically to a child who had earnestly asked to be told something that might wreck its faith and happiness.

The storm was passing. In a few minutes this strange interview would end: he back to his cell again; she back to the world. Already it had its deep influence over them both. She, more than he, felt its almost tragical gravity, and was touched by its pathos. These two young human souls, true and pure, crossing each other's path-way in life thus strangely, now looked into each other's eyes, as two travellers from opposite sides of the world meet and salute and pass in the midst of the desert.

"I shall believe whatever you tell me," he said, with tremulous eagerness.

The occasion lifted her ever-serious nature to the extraordinary; and trying to cast the truth that she wished to teach into the mould which would be most familiar to him, she replied:

"Do you know who are most like you monks in consecration of life? It is the women—the good women of the world. What are your great vows? Are they not poverty, labor, self-denial, chastity, prayer? Well, there is not one of these but is kept in the hearts of good women. Only, you monks keep your vows for


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154 your own sakes, while women keep them as well for the sakes of others. For the sake of others they live and die poor. Sometimes they even starve. You never do that. They work for others as you have never worked; they pray for others as you have never prayed. In sickness and weariness, day and night, they deny themselves and sacrifice themselves for others as you have never done—never can do. You keep yourselves pure. They keep themselves pure and make others pure. If you are the best examples of personal holiness that may be found in the world apart from temptation, they are the higher types of it maintained amid temptations that never cease. You are content to pray for the world, they also work for it. If you wish to see, in the most nearly perfect form that is ever attained in this world, love and sympathy and forgiveness, if you wish to find vigils and patience and charity—go to the good women of the world. They are all through the world, of which you know nothing—in homes, and schools, and hospitals; with the old, the suffering, the dying. Sometimes they are clinging to the thankless, the dissolute, the cruel; sometimes they are ministering to the weary, the heart-broken, the deserted. No, no! Some women may be what you call them, devils–"

She blushed all at once with recollection of her earnestness. It was the almost elemental simplicity of her listener that had betrayed her into it. Meantime, as she had spoken, his quickly changing mood had regained its first pitch. She seemed to rise higher to be arraigning him and his ideals of duty. In his own sight he seemed to grow smaller, shrink up, become despicable; and when she suddenly ceased speaking, he lifted his eyes to her, alas! too plainly now betraying his heart.


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Rh "And you are one of these good women?"

"I have nothing to say of myself; I spoke of others. I may be a devil."

For an instant through the scattering clouds the sun light had fallen in through the window, lighting up her head as with a halo. It fell upon the cowl also, which lay on the floor like a luminous heap. She went to it, and, lifting it, said to him:

"Will you leave me now? They must pass here soon looking for me. I shall see them from the window. I do not know what should have happened to me but for your kindness. And I can only thank you very gratefully."

He took the hand that she gave him in both of his, and held it closely a while as his eyes rested long and intently upon her face. Then, quickly muffling up his own in the folds of his cowl, he turned away and left the room. She watched him disappear behind the embankment below and then reappear on the opposite side, striding rapidly towards the abbey.

All that night the two aged monks whose cells were one on each side of Father Palemon's heard him tossing in his sleep. At the open confessional next morning he did not accuse himself. The events of the day before were known to none. There were in that room but two who could have testified against him. One was Father Palemon himself; the other was a small dark-red spot on the white bosom of his cowl, just by his heart. It was a blood-stain from the wounded head


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156 that had lain on his breast. Through the dread examination and the confessions Father Palemon sat motionless, his face shadowed by his hood, his arms crossed over his bosom, hiding this scarlet stain. What nameless foreboding had blanched his cheek when he first beheld it? It seemed to be a dead weight over his heart, as those earth-stains on the hem had begun to clog his feet.

That day he went the round of his familiar duties faultlessly but absently. Without heeding his own voice, he sang the difficult ancient offices of the Church in a full volume of tone, that was heard above the rich unison of the unerring choir. When, at twilight, he lay down on his hard, narrow bed, with the leathern cincture about his gaunt waist, he seemed girt for some lonely spiritual conflict of the midnight hours. Once, in the sad tumult of his dreams, his out-stretched arms struck sharply against some object and he awoke; it was the crucifix that hung against the bare wall at his head.

He sat up. The bell of the monastery tolled twelve. A new clay was beginning. A new day for him? In two hours he would set his feet, as evermore, in the small circle of ancient monastic exactions. Already the westering moon poured its light through the long windows of the abbey and flooded his cell. He arose softly and walked to the open casement, looking out upon the southern summer midnight. Beneath the window lay the garden of flowers. Countless white roses, as though censers swung by unseen hands, waved up to him their sweet incense. Some dreaming bird awoke its happy mate with a note prophetic of the coming dawn. From the bosom of the stream below, white trailing shapes rose ethereal through


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Rh the moonlit air, and floated down the valley as if journeying outward to some mysterious bourn. On the dim horizon stood the domes of the forest trees, marking the limits of the valley the boundary of his life. He pressed his hot head against the cold casement and groaned aloud, seeming to himself, in his tumultuous state, the only thing that did not belong to the calm and holy beauty of the scene. Disturbed by the sound, an old monk sleeping a few feet distant turned in his cell and prayed aloud:

"Seigneur! Seigneur! Oubliez lafaiblesse de majeunesse! Vive Jesus! Vive sa Croix!"

The prayer smote him like a warning. Conscience was still torturing this old man—torturing him even in his dreams on account of the sinful fevers that had burned up within him half a century ago. On the very verge of the grave he was uplifting his hands to implore forgiveness for the errors of his youth. Ah! and those other graves in the quiet cemetery garth below—the white-cowled dust of his brethren, mouldering till the resurrection morn. They, too, had been sorely tempted had struggled and prevailed, and now reigned as saints in heaven, whence they looked sorrowfully and reproachfully down upon him, and upon their sinful heaps of mortal dust, which had so foiled the immortal spirit.

Miserably, piteously, he wrestled with himself. Even conscience was divided in twain and fought madly on both sides. His whole training had left him obedient to ideas of duty. To be told what to do always had been for him to do it. But hitherto his teachers had been the fathers. Lately two others had appeared—a man and a woman of the world, who had spoken of life


text: Weird Tales/Volume 28/Issue 3/R. E. H.

title: Weird Tales/Volume 28/Issue 3/R. E. H.


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158 and of duty as he had never thought of them. The pale, dark hunchback, whom he had often seen haunting the monastery grounds and hovering around him at his work, had unconsciously drawn aside for him the curtains of the world and a man's nobler part in it. The woman, whom he had addressed as a devil, had come in his eyes to be an angel. Both had made him blush for his barren life, his inactivity. Both had shown him which way duty lay.

Duty? Ah! it was not duty. It was the woman, the woman! The old tempter! It was the sinful passion of love that he was responding to; it was the recollection of that sweet face against which his heart had beat—of the helpless form that he had borne in his arms. Duty or love, he could not separate them. The great world, on the boundaries of which he wished to set his feet, was a dark, formless, unimaginable thing, and only the light from the woman's face streamed across to him and beckoned him on. It was she who made his priestly life wretched—made even the wearing of his cowl an act of hypocrisy that was the last insult to Heaven. Better anything than this. Better the renunciation of his sacred calling, though it should bring him the loss of earthly peace and eternal pardon.

The clock struck half-past one. He turned back to his cell. The ghastly beams of the setting moon suffused it with the pallor of a death-scene. God in heaven! The death-scene was there—the crucifixion! The sight pierced him afresh with the sharpest sorrow, and taking the crucifix down, he fell upon his knees and covered it with his kisses and his tears. There was the wound in the side, there were the drops of blood and the thorns on the brow, and the divine face


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Rh still serene and victorious in the last agony of self-renunciation. Self-renunciation!

"Lord, is it true that I cannot live to Thee alone? And Thou didst sacrifice Thyself to the utmost for me! Consider me, how I am made! Have mercy, have mercy! If I sin, be Thou my witness that I do not know it!—Thou, too, didst love her well enough to die for her!"

In that hour, when he touched the highest point that nature ever enabled him to attain, Father Palemon, looking into his conscience and into the divine face, took his final resolution. He was still kneeling in steadfast contemplation of the cross when the moon withdrew its last ray and over it there rushed a sudden chill and darkness. He was still immovable before it when, at the resounding clangor of the bell, all the spectral figures of his brethren started up from their couches like ghosts from their graves, and in a long, shadowy line wound noiselessly downward into the gloom of the chapel, to begin the service of matins and lauds.

He did not return with them when at the close of day they wound upward again to their solemn sleep. He slipped unseen into the windings of a secret passage-way, and hastening to the reception-room of the abbey sent for the abbot.

It was a great bare room. A rough table and two plain chairs in the middle were the only furniture. Over the table there swung from the high ceiling a single low, lurid point of light, that failed to reach the


text:
Author:Robert Hayward Barlow

Works

 * The Battle That Ended the Century written June 1934 with Howard Phillips Lovecraft
 * Collapsing Cosmoses written June 1935 with Howard Phillips Lovecraft
 * The Hoard of The Wizarrd-Beast with Howard Phillips Lovecraft, 1933
 * The Night Ocean with Howard Phillips Lovecraft written c. 1935, published winter 1936 in The Californian, 4, No. 3, 41–56
 * The Slaying of the Monster with Howard Phillips Lovecraft, 1933
 * Till A' the Seas with Howard Phillips Lovecraft, written c. 1935, published winter 1936 in The Californian, 4, No. 3, 41–56
 * , on the death of Robert Ervin Howard

title: Author:Robert Hayward Barlow


text: Author:George Gleig

title: Author:George Gleig


text:
Page:Australian Emigrant 1854.djvu/108

 from the fact of his never, in all his life, being able to pay a debt until it had been doubled by law expenses. He generally used to know when any suspicious-looking strangers were en-route to Westernport through some friends who occupied stations upon the road, and (as he significantly expressed himself,) "got time to clear out," if he surmised, as was often really the case, that the parties were bent on serving him with a writ, a summons, or on transacting similar law business. Many a time, after due deliberation, and generally at the proper season, Dodge would be seen leaving his station, mounted on his faithful steed with a tether rope neatly coiled upon its neck, and followed by his dogs; a blanket strapped on the top of a well-filled kangaroo-skin knapsack, indicated that the wary old fellow had been signalised "not to be at home;" and if any doubt yet remained, it would be entirely removed on finding that, previous to leaving, he collected all his cattle and drove them leisurely through a mountain gorge opening into some fine pasture land, the existence of which was only known by a few. Many were the desperate straits to which he had been reduced, but his genius as often triumphed.

Whilst the party sailed down the creek, the amusing Mr. Dodge recounted several of his hair-breadth 'scapes. The following he told with great gusto, but we must take leave to present it to the reader in our own way.

An advertisement appeared in the Melbourne papers as follows:—"If Mr. Giles Dodge, squatter, of Westernport, or else-where, will wait upon J. Nailem, Esq., Solicitor, Melbourne, he will hear of something to his advantage. N.B. The melancholy duty which devolves upon the advertiser, in having to make known to Mr. Dodge his severe bereavement in the demise of a near relative, will, he trusts, be somewhat mitigated by further intelligence which he is prepared to communicate." A

title: Page:Australian Emigrant 1854.djvu/108


text:
Page:Australian Emigrant 1854.djvu/109

 newspaper containing the above reached Mr. Dodge in the course of a month or two from publication. Concluding that his father was the "near relative" therein alluded to, and that a remittance was the result of his death, he set off without delay for town, intending, as he said, "to square up his accounts and to turn over a new leaf." In due course Dodge found himself threading the intricacies of the "brick-fields" which stretch along on the banks of the Yarra opposite Melbourne, and crossing the river in the punt, he rode boldly into the town. After refreshing his horse and himself—the horse was always the first thought of—Dodge went boldly in quest of the solicitor; but he went on horseback, for he knew that his steed "Charley," who had borne him some thousands of miles, would not fail him at a pinch. He found Mr. Nailem's office without much difficulty: it was a weather-boarded building of one story. Leaving his horse to graze near, he was shewn inside, and was presently waited on by the redoubtable Mr. Nailem. Dodge made known his name and business.

"And so you are Mr. Giles Dodge of Westernport, are you, Sir?" inquired the lawyer.

"I am," said Dodge. "You have unpleasant news to communicate."

"Very," said the other, with a grim smile; which did not escape Dodge's notice, for he could not comprehend how it could presage bad news; besides he detected a stifled laugh from the clerks' office. "I have something which will surprise you; and he turned over a pile of papers which lay on a desk, presently singling out one, he dallied with it for a short time, still conversing with Dodge, on whose mind flashed a suspicion that

title: Page:Australian Emigrant 1854.djvu/109


title: Page:Lustra.djvu/11


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/31

This book will perhaps only be understood by those who have themselves already thought the thoughts which are expressed in it—or similar thoughts. It is therefore not a text-book. Its object would be attained if it afforded pleasure to one who read it with understanding.

The book deals with the problems of philosophy and shows, as I believe, that the method of formulating these problems rests on the misunderstanding of the logic of our language. Its whole meaning could be summed up somewhat as follows: What can be said at all can be said clearly; and whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.

The book will, therefore, draw a limit to thinking, or rather—not to thinking, but to the expression of thoughts; for, in order to draw a limit to thinking we should have to be able to think both sides of this limit (we should therefore have to be able to think what cannot be thought).

The limit can, therefore, only be drawn in language and what lies on the other side of the limit will be simply nonsense.

How far my efforts agree with those of other philosophers I will not decide. Indeed what I have here written makes no claim to novelty in points of detail; and therefore I give no sources, because it is indifferent to me whether what I have thought has already been thought before me by another.


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Rh I will only mention that to the great works of Frege and the writings of my friend Bertrand Russell I owe in large measure the stimulation of my thoughts.

If this work has a value it consists in two things. First that in it thoughts are expressed, and this value will be the greater the better the thoughts are expressed. The more the nail has been hit on the head.—Here I am conscious that I have fallen far short of the possible. Simply because my powers are insufficient to cope with the task.—May others come and do it better.

On the other hand the truth of the thoughts communicated here seems to me unassailable and definitive. I am, therefore, of the opinion that the problems have in essentials been finally solved. And if I am not mistaken in this, then the value of this work secondly consists in the fact that it shows how little has been done when these problems have been solved.


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160 of the recesses. The few poor pictures of saints and martyrs on the walls were muffled in gloom. The air was dank and noisome, and the silence was that of a vault.

Standing half in light and half in darkness, Father Palemon awaited the coming of his august superior. It was an awful scene. His face grew whiter than his cowl, and he trembled till he was ready to sink to the floor. A few moments, and through the dim door-way there softly glided in the figure of the aged abbot, like a presence rather felt than seen. He advanced to the little zone of light, the iron keys clanking at his girdle, his delicate fingers interlaced across his breast, his gray eyes filled with a look of mild surprise and displeasure.

"You have disturbed me in my rest and meditations. The occasion must be extraordinary. Speak! Be brief!"

"The occasion is extraordinary. I shall be brief. Father Abbot, I made a great mistake in ever becoming a monk. Nature has not fitted me for such a life. I do not any longer believe that it is my duty to live it. I have disturbed your repose only to ask you to receive the renunciation of my priestly vows and to take back my cowl: I will never put it on again."

As he spoke he took off his cowl and laid it on the table between them, showing that he wore beneath the ordinary dress of a working-man.

Under the flickering spark the face of the abbot had at first flushed with anger and then grown ashen with vague, formless terror. He pushed the hood back from his head and pressed his fingers together until the jewelled ring cut into the flesh.

"You are a priest of God, consecrated for life.


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Rh the sin and folly of what you say. You have made no mistake. It would be too late to correct it, if you had."

"I shall do what I can to correct it as soon as possible. I shall leave the monastery to-night."

"To-night you confess what has led you to harbor this suggestion of Satan. To-night I forgive you. To-night you sleep once more at peace with the world and your own soul. Begin! Tell me everything that has happened—everything!"

"It were better untold. It could only pain—only shock you."

"Ha! You say this to me, who stand to you in God's stead?"

"Father Abbot, it is enough that Heaven should know my recent struggles and my present purposes. It does know them."

"And it has not smitten you? It is merciful."

"It is also just."

"Then do not deny the justice you receive. Did you not give yourself up to my guidance as a sheep to a shepherd? Am I not to watch near you in danger and lead you back when astray? Do you not realize that I may not make light of the souls committed to my charge, as my own soul shall be called into judgment at the last day? Am I to be pushed aside—made naught of—at such a moment as this?"

Thus urged, Father Palemon told what had recently befallen him, adding these words:

"Therefore I am going—going now. I cannot expect your approval: that pains me. But have I not a claim upon your sympathy? You are an old man, Father Abbot. You are nearer heaven than this earth.


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162 But you have been young; and I ask you, is there not in the past of your own buried life the memory of some one for whom you would have risked even the peace and pardon of your own soul?"

The abbot threw up his hands with a gesture of sudden anguish, and turned away into the shadowy distances of the room.

When he emerged again, he came up close to Father Palemon in the deepest agitation.

"I tell you this purpose of yours is a suggestion of the Evil Spirit. Break it against the true rock of the Church. You should have spoken sooner. Duty, honor, gratitude, should have made you speak. Then I could have made this burden lighter for you. But, heavy as it is, it will pass. You suffer now, but it will pass, and you will be at peace again–at perfect peace again."

"Never! Never again at peace here! My place is in the world. Conscience tells me that. Besides, have I not told you, Father Abbot, that I love her, that I think of her day and night? Then I am no priest. There is nothing left for me but to go out into the world."

"The world! What do you know of the world? If I could sum up human life to you in an instant of time, I might make you understand into what sorrow this caprice of restlessness and passion is hurrying you."

Sweetness had forsaken the countenance of the aged shepherd. His tones rung hoarse and hollow, and the muscles of his face twitched and quivered as he went on:

"Reflect upon the tranquil life that you have spent here, preparing your soul for immortality. All your


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Rh training has been for the solitude of the cloister. All your enemies have been only the spiritual foes of your own nature. You say that you are not fitted for this life. Are you then prepared for a life in the world? Foolish, foolish boy! You exchange the terrestrial solitude of heaven for the battle-field of hell. Its coarse, foul atmosphere will stifle and contaminate you. It has problems that you have not been taught to solve. It has shocks that you would never withstand. I see you in the world? Never, never! See you in the midst of its din and sweat of weariness, its lying and dishonor? You say that you love this woman. Heaven forgive you this sin! You would follow her. Do you not know that you may be deluded, trifled with, disappointed? She may love another. Ah! you are a child—a simple child!"

"Father Abbot, it is time that I were becoming a man." But the abbot did not hear or pause, borne on now by a torrent of ungovernable feelings:

"Your parents committed a great sin." He suddenly lifted the cross from his bosom to his lips, which moved rapidly for an instant in silent prayer. "It has never been counted against you here, as it will never be laid to your charge in heaven. But the world will count it against you. It will make you feel its jeers and scorn. You have no father," again he bent over and passionately kissed his cross, "you have no name. You are an illegitimate child. There is no place for you in the world—in the world that takes no note of sin unless it is discovered. I warn you—I warn you by all the years of my own experience, and by all the sacred obligations of your holy order, against this fatal step."


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164 "Though it be fatal, I must and will take it."

"I implore you! God in heaven, dost thou punish me thus? See! I am an old man. I have but a few years to live. You are the only tie of human tenderness that binds me to my race. My heart is buried in yours. I have watched over you since you were brought here, a little child. I have nursed you through months of sickness. I have hastened the final assumption of your vows, that you might be safe within the fold. I have stayed my last clays on earth with the hope that when I am dead, as I soon shall be, you would perpetuate my spirit among your brethren, and in time come to be a shepherd among them, as I have been. Do not take this solace from me. The Church needs you—most of all needs you in this age and in this country. I have reared you within it that you might be glorified at last among the saints and martyrs. No, no! You will not go away!"

"Father Abbot, what better can I do than heed the will of Heaven in my own conscience?"

"I implore you!"

"I must go."

"I warn you, I say."

"Oh, my father! You only make more terrible the anguish of this moment. Bless me, and let me go in peace."

"Bless you?" almost shrieked the abbot, starting back with horror, his features strangely drawn, his uplifted arms trembling, his whole body swaying. "Bless you? Do this, and I will hurl upon you the awful curse of the everlasting Church!"

As though stricken by the thunderbolt of his own imprecation, he fell into one of the chairs and buried his


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/35

 The world is everything that is the case.

The world is the totality of facts, not of things.

The world is determined by the facts, and by these being all the facts.

For the totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case.

The facts in logical space are the world.

The world divides into facts.

Any one can either be the case or not be the case, and everything else remain the same.

What is the case, the fact, is the existence of atomic facts.

An atomic fact is a combination of objects (entities, things).

It is essential to a thing that it can be a constituent part of an atomic fact.

In logic nothing is accidental: if a thing can occur in an atomic fact the possibility of that atomic fact must already be prejudged in the thing.

It would, so to speak, appear as an accident, when to a thing that could exist alone on its own account, subsequently a state of affairs could be made to fit.

If things can occur in atomic facts, this possibility must already lie in them.

(A logical entity cannot be merely possible. Logic treats of every possibility, and all possibilities are its facts.) Rh


title: Index:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu


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Rh head in his arms upon the table. Father Palemon had staggered backward, as though the curse had struck him in the forehead. These final words he had never thought of—never foreseen. For a moment the silence of the great chamber was broken only by his own quick breathing and by the convulsive agitation of the abbot. Then with a rapid movement Father Palemon came forward, knelt, and kissed the hem of the abbot's cowl, and, turning away, went out.

Love—duty—the world; in those three words lie all the human, all the divine, tragedy.

Another June came quickly into the lonely valley of the Abbey of Gethsemane. Again the same sweet monastery bells in the purple twilights, and the same midnight masses. Monks again at work in the gardens, their cowls well tied up with hempen cords. Monks once more teaching the pious pupils in the school across the lane. The gorgeous summer came and passed beyond the southern horizon, like a mortal vision of beauty never to return. There were few changes to note. Only the abbot seemed to have grown much feebler. His hand trembled visibly now as he lifted the crosier, and he walked less than of yore among his brethren while they busied themselves with the duties of the waning autumn. But he was oftener seen pacing to


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 and fro where the leaves fell sadly from the moaning choir of English elms. Or at times he would take a little foot-path that led across the brown November fields, and, having gained a crest on the boundary of the valley, would stand looking far over the outward landscape into imaginary spaces, limitless and unexplored.

But Father Palemon, where was he? Amid what splendors of the great metropolis was he bursting Joy's grape against his palate fine? What of his dreams of love and duty, and a larger, more modern stature of manhood?

Late one chill, cloud-hung afternoon in November there came into the valley of Gethsemane the figure of a young man. He walked slowly along the road towards the abbey, with the air of one who is weary and forgetful of his surroundings. His head dropped heavily forward on his breast, and his empty hands hung listlessly down. At the iron gate of the porter's lodge entrance was refused him; the abbey was locked in repose for the night. Urging the importance of his seeing the abbot, he was admitted. He erased a name from a card and on it wrote another, and waited for the interview.

Again the same great dark room, lighted by a flickering spark. He did not stand half in light and half in shadow, but hid himself away in one of the darkest recesses. In a few moments the abbot entered, holding the card in his hand and speaking with tremulous haste:

"Father Palemon? who wrote this name, Father Palemon?"

Out of the darkness came a low reply:

"I wrote it."


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Rh "I do not know you."

"I am Father Palemon."

The calm of a great sadness was in the abbot's voice, as he replied, musingly:

"There—is—no—Father Palemon: he died long ago."

"Oh, my father! Is this the way you receive me?"

He started forward and came into the light. Alas! No; it was not Father Palemon. His long hair was unkempt and matted over his forehead; his face pinched and old with suffering, and ashen gray except for the red spots on his cheeks. Deep shadows lay under his hollow eyes, which were bloodshot and restless and burning.

"I have come back to lead the life of a monk. Will you receive me?"

"Twice a monk, no monk. Receive you for what time? Until next June?"

"Until death."

"I have received you once already until death. How many times am I to receive you until death?"

"I beseech you do not contest in words with me. It is too much. I am ill. I am in trouble."

He suddenly checked his passionate utterance, speaking slowly and with painful self-control:

"I cannot endure now to tell you all that has befallen me since I went away. The new life that I had begun in the world has come to an end. Father Abbot, she is dead. I have just buried her and my child in one grave. Since then the one desire I have had has been to return to this place. God forgive me! I have no heart now for the duties I had undertaken. I had not measured my strength against this calamity. It has left


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 me powerless for good to any human creature. My plans were wrecked when she died. My purposes have gone to pieces. There is no desire in me but for peace and solitude and prayer. All that I can do now is to hide my poor, broken, ineffectual life here, until by God's will, sooner or later, it is ended."

"You speak in the extremity of present suffering. You are young. Nearly all your life lies yet before you. In time Nature heals nearly all the wounds that she inflicts. In a few years this grief which now unmans you—which you think incurable—will wear itself out. You do not believe this. You think me cruel. But I speak the truth. Then you may be happy again happier than you have ever been. Then the world will resume its hold upon you. If the duties of a man's life have appealed to your conscience, as I believe they have, they will then appeal to it with greater power and draw you with a greater sense of their obligations. Moreover, you may love again—ah! Hush! Hear me through! You think this is more unfeeling still. But I must speak, and speak now. It is impossible to seclude you here against all temptation. Some day you may see another woman's face—hear another woman's voice. You may find your priestly vows intolerable again. Men who once break their holiest pledges for the sake of love will break them again, if they love again. No, no! If you were unfit for the life of a monk once, much more are you unfit now. Now that you are in the world, better to remain there."

"In Heaven's name, will you deny me? I tell you that this is the only desire left to me. The world is as dead to me as though it never existed, because my heart is broken. You misunderstood me then. You


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Rh misunderstand me now. Does experience count for nothing in preparing a man for the cloister?"

"I did misunderstand you once; I thought that you were fitted for the life of a monk. I understand you now: I do not make the same mistake twice."

"This is the home of my childhood, and you turn me away?"

"You went away yourself, in the name of conscience and of your own passion."

"This is the house of God, and you close its doors against me?"

"You burst them open of your own self-will."

Hitherto the abbot had spoken for duty, for his church, for the inviolable sanctity of his order. Against these high claims the pent-up tenderness of his heart had weighed as nothing. But now as the young man, having fixed a long look upon his face, turned silently away towards the door, with out-stretched arms he tottered after him, and cried out in broken tones: "Stop! Stop, I pray you! You are ill. You are free to remain here a guest. No one was ever refused shelter. Oh, my God! what have I done?"

Father Palemon had reeled and fallen fainting in the door-way.

In this life, from earliest childhood, we are trained by merciful degrees to brave its many sorrows. We begin with those of infancy, which, Heaven knows, at the time seem grievous enough to be borne. As we grow older we somehow also grow stronger, until through the discipline of many little sufferings we are enabled to bear up under those final avalanches of disaster that rush down upon us in maturer years. Even thus


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170, there are some of us on whom these fall only to overwhelm.

But Father Palemon. Unnaturally shielded by the cloister up to that period of young manhood when feeling is deepest and fortitude least, he had suddenly appeared upon the world's stage only to enact one of the greatest scenes in the human tragedy—that scene where in the perfect ecstasy of love by one swift, mortal transition becomes the perfect agony of loss. What wonder if he had staggered blindly, and if, trailing the habiliments of his sorrow, he had sought to return to the only place that was embalmed in his memory as a peaceful haven for the shipwrecked? But even this quiet port was denied him.

Into the awful death-chamber of the abbey they bore him one midnight some weeks later. The tension of physical powers during the days of his suspense and suffering, followed by the shock of his rejection, had touched those former well-nigh fatal ravages that had prostrated him during the period of his austere novitiate. He was dying. The delirium of his fever had passed away, and with a clear, dark, sorrowful eye he watched them prepare for the last agony.

On the bare floor of the death-chamber they sprinkled consecrated ashes in the form of a cross. Over these they scattered straw, and over the straw they drew a coarse serge cloth. This was his death-bed–a sign that in the last hour he was admitted once more to the fellowship of his order. From the low couch on which he lay he looked at it. Then he made a sign to the abbot, in the mute language of the brotherhood. The abbot repeated it to one of the attendant fathers, who


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Rh withdrew and soon returned, bringing a white cowl. Lifting aside the serge cloth, he spread the cowl over the blessed cinders and straw. Father Palemon's request had been that he might die upon his cowl, and on this they now stretched his poor emaciated body, his cold feet just touching the old earth-stains upon its hem. He lay for a little while quite still, with closed eyes. Then he turned them upon the abbot and the monks, who were kneeling in prayer around him, and said, in a voice of great and gentle dignity:

"My father—my brethren, have I your full forgiveness?"

With sobs they bowed themselves around him. After this he received the crucifix, tenderly embracing it, and then lay still again, as if awaiting death. But finally he turned over on one side, and raising himself on one forearm, sought with the hand of the other among the folds of his cowl until he found a small blood-stain now faint upon its bosom. Then he lay down again, pressing his cheek against it; and thus the second time a monk, but even in death a lover, he breathed out his spirit with a faint whisper –"Madeline!"

And as he lay on the floor, so now he lies in the dim cemetery garth outside, wrapped from head to foot in his cowl, with its stains on the hem and the bosom.


text: Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances/The White Cowl


text: On Einstein's Theory of gravitation

title: On Einstein's Theory of gravitation


text:
Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/1

 "On 's Theory of gravitation." By Prof..

I.

(Communicated in the meeting of February 26, 1916).

§ 1. In pursuance of his important researches on gravitation has recently attained the aim which he had constantly kept in view; he has succeeded in establishing equations whose form is not changed by an arbitrarily chosen change of the system of coordinates. Shortly afterwards, working out an idea that had been expressed already in one of 's papers, has shown the use that may be made of a variation law that may be regarded as 's principle in a suitably generalized form. By these results the "general theory of relativity" may be said to have taken a definitive form, though much remains still to be done in further

title: Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/1


text:
Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/2

 developing it and in applying it to special problems. It will also be desirable to present the fundamental ideas in a form as simple as possible.

In this communication it will be shown that a four-dimensional geometric representation may be of much use for this latter purpose; by means of it we shall be able to indicate for a system containing a number of material points and an electromagnetic field (or eventually only one of these) the quantity $$H$$, which occurs in the variation theorem, and which we may call the principal function. This quantity consists of three parts, of which the first relates to the material points, the second to the electromagnetic field and the third to the gravitation field itself.

As to the material points, it will be assumed that the only connexion between them is that which results from their mutual gravitational attraction.

§ 2. We shall be concerned with a four-dimensional extension $$R_{4} $$, in which "space" and "time" are combined, so that each point $$P$$ in it indicates a definite place $$A$$ and at the same time a definite moment of time $$t$$. If we say that $$P$$ refers to a material point we mean that at the time $$t$$ this point is found at the place $$A$$. In the course of time the material point is represented every moment by a new point $$P$$; all these points lie on the "world-line", which represents the state of motion (or eventually the state of rest) of the material point. In the same sense we may speak of the world-line of a propagated light-vibration. An intersection of two world-lines means that the two objects to which they belong meet at a certain moment, that a "coincidence" takes place. Now has made the striking remark that the only thing we can learn from our observations and with which our theories are essentially concerned, is the existence of these coincidences. Let us suppose e.g. that we have observed an occultation of a star by the moon or rather the reappearance of a star at the moon's border. Then the world-line of a certain light-vibration starting from a point on the world-line of the star has in its further course intersected the world-line of a

title: Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/2


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Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/3

 point of the border of the moon and finally that of the observer's eye. A similar remark may be made when the moment of reappearance is read on a clock. Let us suppose that the light-vibration itself lights the dial-plate, reaching it when the hand is at the point $$a$$; then we may say that three world-lines, viz. that of the light-vibration, that of the hand and that of the point $$a$$ intersect.

§ 3. We may imagine that, in order to investigate a gravitation field as e.g. that of the sun, a great number of material points, moving in all directions and with different velocities, are thrown into it, that light-beams are also made to traverse the field and that all coincidences are noted. It would be possible to represent the results of these observations by world-lines in a four-dimensional figure — let us say in a "field-figure" — the lines being drawn in such a way that each observed coincidence is represented by an intersection of two lines and that the points of intersection of one line with a number of the others succeed each other in the right order.

Now, as we have to attend only to the intersections, we have a great degree of liberty in the construction of the "field-figure". If, independently of each other, two persons were to describe the same observations, their figures would probably look quite different and if these figures were deformed in an arbitrary way, without break of continuity, they would not cease to serve the purpose.

After having constructed a field-figure $$F$$ we may introduce "coordinates", by which we mean that to each point $$P$$ we ascribe four numbers $$x_{1},x_{2},x_{3},x_{4}$$, in such a way that along any line in the field-figure these numbers change continuously and that never two different points get the same four numbers. Having done this we may for each point $$P$$ seek a point $$P'$$ in a four-dimensional extension $$R'_{4} $$, in which the numbers $$x_{1},\dots x_{4} $$ ascribed to $$P$$ are the Cartesian coordinates of the point $$P'$$. In this way we obtain in $$R'_{4} $$ a figure $$F'$$, which just as well as $$F$$ can serve as field-figure and which of course may be quite different according to the choice of the numbers $$x_{1},\dots x_{4} $$, that have been ascribed to the points of $$F$$.

If now it is true that the coincidences only are of importance it must be possible to express the fundamental laws of the phenomena by geometric considerations referring to the field-figure, in such a way that this mode of expression is the same for all possible field-figures; from our point of view all these figures can be considered as being the same. In such a geometric treatment the introduction of

title: Page:LorentzGravitation1916.djvu/3