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 He snatched it up in his puffy hands and let out a squeal of rage that was exactly like the "eeee-yeee!" of a pig caught under a gate. I laughed at him and started toward the door.

"Wait!" he called after me. "Wait, Julian!"

I turned, and was amazed to see that his face was creased and folded into a kind of porkine smile. "Don't go. Come back and sit down. This"—he picked up the summons and flung it aside—"doesn't mean anything. I should have had to settle the case eventually, anyhow. I'm sorry for what I said—now be a good boy, come back—and let's be friends."

I had nothing to lose, and although I did not like my uncle, his remarkable change of manner excited my curiosity and impelled me to accept his invitation. It was as simple a thing as returning to my chair that altered the whole probable course of my life.

My uncle sang a tune to the title: Blood Is Thicker Than Water. It was a sweet, subtle melody, and well-calculated to fall pleasantly on my ears. I was broke, and I was in love; Uncle Alfred was rich and lonely; and after all, I was his nearest blood relative—the logical person to inherit his fortune. With a hint of tears in his shoe-button eyes he described to me the misunderstanding and ridicule that had cursed his life. He had no friends, a woman's love he had never known, even his own relations (among them, his brother, my father) had refused him their sympathies. In short, it was a melancholy recital. Late in the afternoon he began to plead with me to invite Annette to his house, and nothing would do but that we must stay to dinner.

ROM the moment of Annette's arrival, Uncle Alfred's manner changed again; he stopped his moaning, and became on the instant a picture of pathetic and almost absurd gallantry. In every way possible he showed Annette that she was welcome—that she was much more than welcome.

As the evening wore on, he became more and more outspoken in his praises both for Annette and for me; we were his beloved, long-lost niece and nephew, the darlings of his old age sent by Providence to comfort his final years. In leaving him, the last thing that he said to us was: "Remember, children—I have great plans for you! Great plans! Great plans for us all!"

When we were out on the street, and the door closed behind us, I asked Annette, "Well, what do you think of him?"

"The poor old man," she said. "It's not his fault he's so fat."

"Perhaps not entirely," I said. "But to judge by the way he acted at dinner, he had something to do with it."

"You mustn't be too critical—he seems awfully fond of you—"

"Yes," I said, as much to myself as to her. "And I would very much like to know why."

I was a long time finding the answer—if I ever did.

We saw Uncle Alfred frequently in the days that followed. I do not recall exactly how he first introduced the subject of his farm, but each time we visited him he talked more and more enthusiastically of it. Strictly as a farm, it was nothing, he told us—only a few acres in the hills, up-state. An old house, dating from Revolutionary times, that had been restored and modernized, a small orchard, a plot or two of vegetables. But the pigs! That was the attraction for him. He boasted that he had six of the finest pens of pedigreed hogs in the country, and when he spoke of them, it was with the same admiration and affection that a hunter lavishes upon his dog.

Shortly after our first meeting, Uncle Alfred insisted that Annette and I spend a


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The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/On being asked what was the "Origin of Love"

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 weekend with him at the farmhouse. We found the place much as he had described it—a rather charming old building set among ancient fruit trees. At a little distance there was a modern barn which was flanked by a series of elaborately constructed pig pens. I had always thought of pigs as wallowing in mud and refuse, but these pens were as clean and dry as the cage of any animal in the zoo. Each enclosure contained four well-groomed hogs.

George Harris lived on the place and acted as caretaker. He is a lanky, leather-skinned farmer, surly in manner, taciturn, and completely without humor of any civilized variety. From the beginning, however, I was conscious of a bond of sympathy between Harris and me; unspoken and unadmitted, I believe it was none the less real.

Annette was more charitable than I. She loved the house, the pigs did not disgust her, and she was even able to persuade herself that Uncle Alfred's almost insane fondness for them was somehow praiseworthy. Even when he would get into the pen with them, scratch their bristly backs with a stick, call them individually by name, and grunt crooningly at them, Annette felt only a kind of sorrow for the loveless life that had brought my uncle at last to pigs.

On that first evening at my uncle's house in New York, he had said, "Remember, children—I have great plans for you!" But I doubt very much if he spoke the truth. Instead, I think he realized that eventually he would have a plan—when he had had time, to devise one of sufficient intricacy. When the scheme finally emerged, it was so delicately constructed, so beautifully balanced, that I completely failed to recognize it.

NE night my uncle said, "Julian, my boy—I don't know if I ever told you that I have several important business interests in South America. As you can see, I am not built for traveling, so I have always employed agents to represent me. But agents are not always entirely trustworthy. Now if only you could speak Spanish—"

The offer expanded slowly and alluringly, like dawn that begins with a line of light on the horizon and gradually sets the whole sky a-blaze. First, I would give up my miserable job, and devote my entire time for a period of three or four weeks to the study of the South American enterprises, and to learning enough Spanish to handle my uncle's affairs. Then, Annette and I could be married, and sail to Rio for our honeymoon. The salary would be large, but even this was not all. In addition, Uncle Alfred proposed to make me his sole heir. There was one other detail: Uncle Alfred insisted that Annette give up her work and the room where she lived. He wished her to stay at the Savoy Plaza, at his expense. Laughing, he said that she must begin to accustom herself to life as the wife of a rich man.

The month of preparation went according to my uncle's schedule; Annette spent most of her time shopping for her trousseau, and my days were filled by my studies.

On the date set for our marriage, we three went to the farm where it was my uncle's whim to have the ceremony performed. We would spend the night there, and sail in the morning for Brazil. All the arrangements were in Uncle Alfred's hands—hiring the minister, buying the tickets, and so on. Apparently he enjoyed playing Lord Bountiful, for his face was like a smiling mould of jelly.

When we arrived at the farm the weather was unnaturally warm and threatening; heavy, sluggish clouds hung low in the sky, the air was oppressively still, and it seemed to me that I could feel the vibration of distant thunder, though it was not yet audible. Even the hogs seemed affected by the sultry atmosphere; they were restless


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 and irritable, and kept up an annoying squeal of complaint.

Uncle Alfred's gaiety was somewhat dampened by the discovery that George Harris was absent without leave. He said that he supposed Harris would show up in time to feed the pigs, but meanwhile he strongly disapproved of the man leaving the farm alone, even for a short while. "Suppose something should happen to one of the hogs—with nobody here to help!"

Annette and I were in a state of comatose bliss; our new life lay before us, but it had not yet quite begun. "With my arm around her, I remember wandering about the house and grounds—saying little, thinking of nothing but the future: the future that we owed entirely to the kindness of my uncle.

The minister was expected at two o'clock. At three he had not arrived, and since the sky was growing more and more ominous, I began to fear that if he did not come, soon, a storm might interfere with making the trip that day. Uncle Alfred said he would telephone to find out the reason for the delay. He waddled out of the living room, and down the hall to his own bedroom where the telephone was. As I heard his door dose, I heard also the first deep growl of thunder.

The passage of time meant nothing to Annette and me, but I suppose it must have been more than half an hour later when Uncle Alfred appeared in the doorway and clapped his pink hand to his forehead in a gesture of despair.

"My God, Julian!" he groaned. "The most terrible thing has happened! I don't know how to tell you! I can't tell you!"

We stared at him. "What is it?" I demanded. "The minister—"

"No, not that. I tried to reach him, and there was no answer, so I suppose he's on his way. If it were only that!"

"Then what?"

"Afterwards, you see, I called my office. I won't stop to tell you all about it, now, but—" he sighed deeply. "Julian, my boy, you must fly to Mexico City at once! My office has made a reservation for you on the earliest plane—we must leave here within an hour!" As I started to protest, he handed me a long envelope that was sealed in a number of places with red wax. "Here — take this! I will tell you about it before you go. Oh, Julian, I am so sorry about this! So sorry!" Then he sighed again, and added, "But journeys end in lovers' meeting, you know. Annette will follow you as soon as your mission is finished—"

I interrupted, "Why shouldn't she come with me now?"

"Ah!" he said. "There was another piece of bad luck! Terrible luck! There was only room for one more passenger on the plane. But don't worry—I'll send her to you at the first possible moment." He put his arm as far as it would go around her waist, and murmured, "Poor, poor girl—"

Annette looked at me with shining eyes. "It's all right—it's your job—and I can understand that. I'll follow you, darling."

"Of course she will" Uncle Alfred assured me. "And if there isn't time for you to be married here, she'll marry you wherever you are. Won't you, my dear?"

WAS enraged by something indefinable in my uncle's manner—or perhaps it was by the situation, itself. In any case, I remember the insane itch to sink my fingers in my uncle's fat neck, to squeeze the life from his disgusting body. But I stood silent in the gloomy room, as if waiting for the next thing to happen. Annette released herself, came to me and put her hands on my shoulders; raising her head, she whispered, "Think of the future, darling. We'll be so happy for so long." I kissed her—and my anger was gone.

The thunder had grown louder, and


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Rh ardor and resolution of the patriots. Famine attacked them, and they were driven to the necessity of eating worm-eaten hides; but capitulation meant certain death, despite the offers of pardon made by the viceroy. All now seemed favorable for Calleja to capture the whole army, but notwithstanding his military prowess and reputation, with an ample supply of men and munitions of war, the Indian priest completely outwitted him. With masterly strategy Morelos withdrew from the town at night, and had been gone two hours before Calleja knew of his departure.

In September, 1813, Morelos called the first Congress at Chilpanzingo, the first act of which confirmed his title of Generalissimo, and a month later independence was declared.

It is not possible in this brief sketch to chronicle or enumerate his brilliant victories, in many of which he was aided by such chiefs as Matamoros, Galeana, the Bravos, Guadalupe Victoria, and Guerrero, most of whom figured afterward in the history of the country.

The city of Valladolid was a desirable point for the head-quarters of either army, being in the center of a wealthy and populous country. Morelos approached its confines, and stretched his infantry in a line in front of the city, while the cavalry occupied the hill of Santa Maria. Here it was that he met with an overwhelming defeat at the hands of Colonel Iturbide, from which he never recovered. Soon after, he lost his chief support by the capture of Matamoros, who was executed on February 3d following, in the public square of Valladolid, now called Morelia in honor of Morelos. From this time Morelos met with a succession of defeats and reverses until November 16, 1815, when he was taken prisoner, contending with characteristic bravery against an overwhelming force. He was carried to the capital, tried, and degraded from the ranks of the clergy, the bishop shedding tears during this last ceremony. He was then conveyed to San Cristobal, a village north of the lake, where the closing scene was to be enacted. Having said the last prayer, Morelos himself bandaged his eyes, and was led forth bound, and dragging his shackles. He complied with the order to kneel, murmuring calmly, "Lord, thou knowest if I have


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326 done well: if ill, I implore thy infinite mercy." "The next moment he fell, shot in the back, passing, through a traitor's death, into the sphere of patriot-martyr and hero immortal."

Among the many historic places that I visited, none interested me more than the house of Morelos in Morelia. In the drawing room I saw a finely executed portrait, placed there by the Junta Patriotica (Patriotic Club) in 1858. In this the expression of the face shows that blending of firmness, energy, frankness, and magnetism, which distinguished him, as well as the humor and gravity of his character, and other evidences of the genius of this remarkable man.

In the same room there hangs a frame containing a piece of the silk handkerchief which served to blindfold him before his execution at San Cristobal. At the bottom of the frame I read with pathetic interest these lines:

In front of the house is a commemorative tablet with this inscription:

It will be seen that in the portrait of Morelos a handkerchief is wound around the head. This somewhat eccentric habit of his was adopted as a measure of relief from headache, to which he was subject. His frame was massive and in harmonious development


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Rh with his head. He was consistent in everything, and recognizing the fact that war was a cruel necessity, he spared neither himself, his friends, nor his enemies. His piety was sincere and unostentatious, and throughout the five years of arduous service in behalf of his country, he did not omit his religious duties. He never went into an engagement without previously confessing himself; but after his first battle, always delegated to the chaplain the celebration of mass.

With feelings of more than ordinary interest I now turn to a contemplation of the life of Augustin de Iturbide. A peculiar chain of circumstances has associated his memory intimately with my own experiences and first days spent in Mexico, imparting a flavor of romantic interest to the details that follow.

It will be remembered that in exploring the immense old house in which I lived, my curiosity was richly rewarded by the discovery of the dust-covered and cobwebbed portrait of a beautiful woman. The soft eyes beamed on me from the painted canvas and the lips parted as if to speak. For two years it remained a mystery, but at length I ascertained that it was the portrait of Dona Ana, the beautiful wife of the Emperor Iturbide. More than two years passed, and I again returned to the land of the Aztecs; even now scarcely expecting to tread the soil which had nurtured both Iturbide and Doña Ana. But I had not only the pleasure of visiting at Morelia the identical houses in which they were born and reared, but also had the happiness of enjoying the acquaintance and friendship of, with one exception, the last living and only descendants of this handsome and distinguished pair. Augustin de Iturbide was fifteen when his father died, and the management of large estates devolved upon him.

His parents were of noble birth from Navarre, in old Spain; but Augustin was a native of Mexico, having been born at Morelia, September 27, 1783. He was married, at twenty-two, to the lovely Doña Ana Maria Huerte, also of a distinguished Spanish family. The same


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 suddenly there was a piercing squeal from one of the hogs, as if it were being injured. My uncle trundled out of the room, calling back, "Come along, Julian! I'll tell you what you must know while I see what's the matter—" I held Annette a moment longer before I followed.

The sky was boiling black, with intermittent flashes of lightning on the horizon, but so far there was little wind, and no rain. The pens were over a hundred yards from the house, and not visible from it owing to the curve of the hill. As I started along the path, I heard steps behind me, and turned to see George Harris coming around the corner of the porch.

"Looks like bad weather," I said. "Where have you been? My uncle's been looking for you."

"Has he? Why? Anything missing?"

"Missing?" I repeated.

"I'll ask him, myself." We walked a few paces side by side. "I only came back for a saw I forgot."

We had topped the hill, and were looking down at Uncle Alfred who was bending over one of the hogs in the third pen before Harris' statement struck me as curious. I halted, and said, "What do you mean? Has something happened between you and Mr. Fry?"

"Why, sure. Didn't you know? I'm fired. He called me up yesterday, and told me to be off the place by this morning."

Distant lightning glinted in Harris' sardonic eyes as I gazed at him, wonderingly. Why had Uncle Alfred pretended to think that Harris would return? The answer was in a closed cell of my brain—I knew it was there, but I could not find it.

"That's strange," I said at last, and we went down the hill to the pen, inside of which my uncle was comforting one of his swine.

Without looking up, my uncle said, "Galahad has scratched himself on a nail, or something of the sort. Awful thing to happen at a moment like this—just when I've got to give you your instructions and send you off—"

Harris cut in; "Did you want to see me?"

My uncle was obviously startled. He jerked his head around, and exclaimed, "What! Oh—Harris. No, I don't want to see you—why would I? I spoke to you yesterday and I haven't changed my mind."

Harris nodded and leaned against the wall of the pen. My uncle stood up. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and jowls, his upper lips was raised over his yellow teeth, and he looked less human than usual. "Well?" he cried. "Get on about your business! I've got to talk to my nephew!"

"Sure," said Harris. "I just wondered if you knew the telephone line's been cut? I noticed it when I came around the house just now—"

"Damn you!" my uncle shouted. "Go on! Go on! I won't listen to your nonsense!" He turned to me. "Julian, you must hurry! Go before the storm breaks! You'll find the man at the address on the letter. I'll wire you there—I'll—

At that moment the hog named Galahad broke away and trotted painfully to the far end of the pen—my uncle trotted after him. And then, a wide, blinding river of fire spilled out of the sky. I heard it sizzle and crackle before the thunder came, and before the thunder had echoed away I smelled the sulphur strong in the still air. I turned to Harris and said, shakily, "That was close!"

Harris was staring into the pen, a look of amazement on his face. As my gaze followed his, I, too, was amazed—my uncle had disappeared. I said, "Did you see him go? How did he get away so quickly?"

Suddenly the rain began to fall as if it were dashed out of buckets, but Harris remained a few seconds, leaning over the


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Rh dissensions with the military authorities, in consequence of which he retired to private life. But, smarting under the injustice that had been shown him, he conceived the idea of devoting his talents and services to the liberation of his country. The royalists evidently feared his marked abilities, should he again come upon the scene. A bishop, writing to Calleja, then viceroy, said of Iturbide, "that young man is full of ambition, and it would not surprise me if, in the course of time, he became the liberator of his country." Later events proved the correctness of the prediction.

The seed sown by Hidalgo was nurtured by Morelos, and, in due time, the whole grand scheme was harvested by the strong arm of Iturbide.

In the opinion of many writers, Morelia has given birth to the two most brilliant men in Spanish-America—Morelos and Iturbide.

For four years the cause of independence languished, though a guerrilla warfare was for a time kept up by Guerrero, Guadalupe Victoria, and others. In 1820 the troubles in Spain urged the Mexicans to a renewed effort for independence. Iturbide was again called upon by the viceroy, and given the command of the army of the southwest. In the distracted condition of the country, he knew the only safe and practicable plan would be to accept and then carry out his own design of freedom. Having a secret understanding with Guerrero, under pretense of an engagement, he soon afterward coalesced with that leader, taking his army with him. Thus it was, after all the struggle and sacrifice of years, independence was achieved by a bloodless victory. Iturbide then formulated "the plan of Iguala," an embodiment of his ideas of government, the first article of which declared the independence of Mexico.

It was well received at the time and accepted alike by the leaders and people. Soon after, on his thirty-eighth birthday, he entered the great capital triumphantly, surrounded by his aids, greeted with all the enthusiasm and manifestations of delight which the people were capable of displaying. Keys of gold were handed him with great ceremony on a silver salver. The country showered honors


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 wall of the pen. "Five!" I heard him mutter. "Yes, by God, five!"

I waited no longer, but ran back to the house where I arrived soaked and breathless.

Annette met me at thhethe [sic] door, pale and frightened. "Wasn't the lightning ghastly? Where's Uncle Alfred?"

"Isn't he here?" And then it occurred to me where he must have gone. "Oh!" I said. "He's in the barn, of course—though how he got away so quickly, I can't imagine."

Harris came striding out of the rain and joined us on the porch. I noticed he was carrying the hand saw he had mentioned, and I asked, "Did you go into the barn?"

"Yes."

"Was Mr. Fry there?"

He looked at me in what I thought was a very curious way, but he made no answer, and I asked the question again. "Did you see Mr. Fry when you got your saw out of the barn?"

A strange, almost mocking smile spread over Harris' angular face; slowly he dropped the lid over one eye in an adagio wink, and at last he uttered the one syllable: "No."

"Then where is he?"

"If you don't know," said Harris, "I don't know."

Annette said, "You'd both better come in and dry your clothes. Anyhow, darling, you can't possibly get to the airport in this weather."

"No—these clay roads will be impassable for at least several hours. I suppose I had better phone Uncle Alfred's office to have them cancel the plane reservation—but I wish he'd come back here! I don't really know what to do."

Harris chuckled deep in his chest, and then I remembered what he had said about the telephone. I told him that he must be mistaken about it, because Uncle Alfred was making a call just a few minutes before.

Harris said, "Try it if you want to."

As I started out of the room, he asked, "Did you notice how many hogs there was in that pen we was leaning over?"

"Four," I said. "There are four in each of the pens. You know that better than I."

"There's five in that pen, now," Harris told me. "And next time you go down, I'll ask you to look close at one hog in particular—he's the biggest, and the fattest—and he's got no ring in his nose!"

Apparently this meant much more to Harris than to me. To me, the explanation seemed obvious: simply that Uncle Alfred had bought a new hog during Harris' absence. I did not begin to take the man seriously until I raised the telephone receiver to my ear. The line was dead.

HE discovery of the severed telephone was the first link in a chain of astonishing revelations. As soon as the condition of the road permitted, Annette, Harris and I drove down to the village of Oaktree. Through the drug store telephone I began to learn some of the truth about my missing uncle. Uncle Alfred had never spoken to the minister whom he had been expecting. I called the North-South Continental Company, which was Uncle Alfred's New York headquarters. They had never heard of an Alfred Fry. I called the airport and found, somewhat to my surprise, that there was a reservation in my name. In canceling it, I asked when the ticket had been bought, and whether there was more room on the plane. There was more room, and the passage had been reserved three days in advance. While I still sat in the telephone booth, Annette and Harris waiting outside, I tore open the elaborately sealed envelope Uncle Alfred had given me. It was addressed to "Carlos Diaz, Hotel Geneva, Mexico City," and it


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 contained two sheets of perfectly blank paper.

For the moment, the problem was too much for me. I went out and told Harris to notify the local authorities of Uncle Alfred's disappearance, and then to go back to the house and stay there until he heard from us or we heard from him.

"He looked at me owlishly. "What should I do about the hogs?"

"Damn the hogs!" I exclaimed. "What difference does it make to me? Do anything!"

"Even the—the new one?"

"Of course!" If I thought anything, I suppose I thought the man was talking about feeding the brutes.

Annette and I drove back to New York and went directly to Uncle Alfred's town house. The place was closed, shades drawn at all the windows, the front door locked.

There we were. The mystery seemed as complete as our despair.

But within the next few days, our fortunes took a sudden upward turn. I got a much better position than I could have hoped for, and within a short time Annette and I were married.

O FAR as I know, Alfred Fry was never seen again. Although it seems impossible that such a tremendously fat man could vanish like an illusion in a distorting mirror, search has been made for him throughout the world, in vain. If he does not turn up in the time specified by law, his death will be legally presumed, and his considerable estate (which does not include ownership in the North-South Continental Company) will come to me. It seems I am his sole living relative.

I hesitate to speak of the night Annette and I spent at the farmhouse, because as a reasonable, unimaginative man I am not willing to argue the accuracy of my own impressions. We went up to the country shortly after our marriage, and within a month of my uncle's disappearance. The first thing I noticed was that the pens were completely empty, and I asked Harris what had happened to the hogs.

"Oh," he said, "I sent them to market. You'll be getting the check for them."

I said, "If my uncle ever shows up, he'll throw you in jail for it."

Harris grinned at me. "If he ever shows up."

After dinner, Annette, Harris and I talked once again about the mystery of Uncle Alfred. There was little doubt in my mind of what the old devil had planned and I was certain that if I had made the trip to Mexico, I should never have returned. As I said, whatever happened to him, and however it happened, it seemed to me that only the merest, eleventh hour luck had saved my life and spared Annette the most terrible fate. Harris said nothing, but sat staring into the firelight.

The sound woke me from a deep sleep, in the middle of the night—the clatter of hooves on the hardwood floor in the hall outside our door. I waited, listening, while the beast stopped and snuffled along the bottom of the door, as if food were just beyond his reach. Then the clatter began again as the hog started down the hall. I jumped out of bed, and was in the long, straight corridor before the trotting hooves had reached the end. There was nothing to see. As I stared into empty space, I heard Harris call, "Peeeeg!" and it seemed to me that the sound of the sharp hooves on the bare floor appeared to enter Harris' room, but the door neither opened nor closed.

Fortunately, the commotion had not awakened Annette, and I did not wish to frighten her, now. I sat up for the rest of the night, thinking. I shall not say what I thought, nor shall I advance any theories. But when the estate of my uncle Alfred Fry is settled, Harris shall have the farm.


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 time countenanced by Western geographers, loses more and more probability now that it is evident that at a relatively recent period the Caspian Sea extended much farther eastward than it does now, and that Lake Aral communicated with it through the Sary-kamysh depression. The present writer is even inclined to think that, besides this southern communication with the Caspian, Lake Aral may have been, even in historical times, connected with the Mortvyi Kultuk (Tsarevich) Gulf of the Caspian, discharging part of its water into that sea through a depression of the Ust-Urt plateau, which is marked by a chain of lakes (Chumyshty, Asmantai). In this case it might have been easily confounded with a gulf of the Caspian (as by Jenkinson). That the level of Lake Aral was much higher in post-Pliocene times is proved by the discovery of shells of its characteristic species of Pecten and Mytilus in the Kara-kum Desert, 33 m. south of the lake and at an altitude of 70 ft. above its present level, and perhaps even up to 200 ft. (by Syevertsov).

The fish of Lake Aral belong to fresh-water species, and in some of its rapid tributaries the interesting Scaphirhynchus, which represents a survival from the Tertiary epoch, is found. The fishing is very productive, the fish being exported to Turkestan, Merv and Russia. The shores of the lake are uninhabited; the nearest settlements are Kazala, 55 m. east, on the Syr, and Chimbai and Kungrad in the delta of the Amu.

.—Makshéev’s “Description of Lake Aral,” and Kaulbars’ “Delta of the Amu,” in ''Zapiski of Russ. Geogr. Soc., 1st series, v., and new series, ix.; Grimm’s Studies of the Aral-Caspian Expedition; Nikolsky’s “Fishing in Lake Aral,” in Izvestia, Russ. Geogr. Soc., 1887; Prof. Mushketov, Turkestan, vol. i. (1886), which contains bibliographical references; Rösler, Die Aralseefrage (1873); Wood, The Shores of the Aral Lake (1876); and Berg in Izvestia, Turkestan Branch of Russian Geog. Soc.'' (vol. iii., Tashkent, 1902).

ARAM, EUGENE (1704–1759), English scholar, but more famous as the murderer celebrated by Hood in his ballad, the Dream of Eugene Aram, and by Bulwer Lytton in his romance of Eugene Aram, was born of humble parents at Ramsgill, Yorkshire, in 1704. He received little education at school, but manifested an intense desire for learning. While still young, he married and settled as a schoolmaster at Netherdale, and during the years he spent there, he taught himself both Latin and Greek. In 1734 he removed to Knaresborough, where he remained as schoolmaster till 1745. In that year a man named Daniel Clark, an intimate friend of Aram, after obtaining a considerable quantity of goods from some of the tradesmen in the town, suddenly disappeared. Suspicions of being concerned in this swindling transaction fell upon Aram. His garden was searched, and some of the goods found there. As, however, there was not evidence sufficient to convict him of any crime, he was discharged, and soon after set out for London, leaving his wife behind. For several years he travelled through parts of England, acting as usher in a number of schools, and settled finally at Lynn, in Norfolk. During his travels he had amassed considerable materials for a work he had projected on etymology, to be entitled a Comparative Lexicon of the English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew and Celtic Languages. He was undoubtedly an original philologist, who realized, what was then not yet admitted by scholars, the affinity of the Celtic language to the other languages of Europe, and could dispute the then accepted belief that Latin was derived from Greek. Aram’s writings show that he had grasped the right idea on the subject of the Indo-European character of the Celtic language, which was not established till J. C. Prichard published his book, Eastern Origin of the Celtic Nations, in 1831. But he was not destined to live in history as the pioneer of a new philology. In February 1758 a skeleton was dug up at Knaresborough, and some suspicion arose that it might be Clark’s. Aram’s wife had more than once hinted that her husband and a man named Houseman knew the secret of Clark’s disappearance. Houseman was at once arrested and confronted with the bones that had been found. He affirmed his innocence, and, taking up one of the bones, said, “This is no more Dan Clark’s bone than it is mine.” His manner in saying this roused suspicion that he knew more of Clark’s disappearance than he was willing to admit. He was again examined, and confessed that he had been present at the murder of Clark by Aram and another man, Terry, of whom nothing further is heard. He also gave information as to the place where the body had been buried in St Robert’s Cave, a well-known spot near Knaresborough. A skeleton was dug up here, and Aram was immediately arrested, and sent to York for trial. Houseman was admitted as evidence against him. Aram conducted his own defence, and did not attempt to overthrow Houseman’s evidence, although there were some discrepancies in that; but made a skilful attack on the fallibility of circumstantial evidence in general, and particularly of evidence drawn from the discovery of bones. He brought forward several instances where bones had been found in caves, and tried to show that the bones found in St Robert’s Cave were probably those of some hermit who had taken up his abode there. He was found guilty, and condemned to be executed on the 6th of August 1759, three days after his trial. While in his cell he confessed his guilt, and threw some light on the motives for his crime, by asserting that he had discovered a criminal intimacy between Clark and his own wife. On the night before his execution he made an unsuccessful attempt at suicide by opening the veins in his arm. ARAMAIC LANGUAGES, a class of languages so called from Aram, a geographical term, which in old Semitic usage designates nearly the same districts as the Greek word Syria. Aram, however, does not include Palestine, while it comprehends Mesopotamia (Heb. Aram of two rivers), a region which the Greeks frequently distinguish from Syria proper. Thus the Aramaic languages may be geographically defined as the Semitic dialects originally current in Mesopotamia and the regions extending south-west from the Euphrates to Palestine. (See ; ; .) ARANDA, PEDRO PABLO ABARCA DE BOLEA, (1719–1798), Spanish minister and general, was born at the castle of Siétamo, a lordship of his family near Huesca in Aragon, on the 1st of August 1719. The house of Abarca was very ancient, a fact of which Don Pedro, who never forgot that he was a “rico hombre” (noble) of Aragon, was deeply conscious. He was educated partly at Bologna and partly at the military school of Parma. In 1740 he entered the army as captain in the regiment “Castilla,” of which his father was proprietary colonel. On the death of his father he became colonel, and served in the Italian campaigns of the War of the Austrian Succession. In 1749 he married Doña Ana, daughter of the 9th duke of Hijar, by whom he had one son, who died young, and a daughter. During the following years he travelled and visited the camp of Frederick the Great, whose system of drill he admired and afterwards introduced into the Spanish army. After a short period of diplomatic service in Portugal, where his exacting temper made it impossible for him to agree with the premier, Pombal, he returned to Madrid, was made a knight of the Golden Fleece, and director-general of artillery—a post which he threw up, together with his rank of lieutenant-general, because he was not allowed to punish certain fraudulent contractors. The king, Ferdinand VI., exiled him to his estates, but Charles III. on his accession took him into favour. He was again employed in diplomacy, and then appointed to command an army against Portugal in 1763. In 1764 he was made governor of Valencia. When in 1766 the king was driven from his capital in a riot, he summoned Aranda to Madrid and made him president of the council, and captain-general of New Castile. Until 1773 Aranda was the most important minister in Spain. He restored order and aided the king most materially in his work of administrative reform. But his great achievements, which gave him a high reputation throughout Europe with the philosophical and anti-clerical parties, were his expulsion of the Jesuits, whom the king considered responsible for the riot of 1766, and the active part he took in the suppression of the order. Aranda had come much under foreign influence by his education and his travels, and had acquired the reputation of being a confirmed sceptic. By Voltaire and the Encyclopaedists he was erected into a hero from whom great things were expected. His ability, his

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 02.djvu/332


text: An Act to amend the Act of the present Session, intituled: An Act imposing duties of Customs, with the Tariff of Duties payable under it


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Aral

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Aral


text: Author:Epaminondas

title: Author:Epaminondas


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Aram, Eugene


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Aramaic Languages


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Rh But even this was denied him, and on the evening of July 19th, when the shadows began to gather and all nature was sinking to rest, they led him forth to execution.

With noble and commanding mien; with all his beauty and valor and social gifts; his smooth white brow, encircled with wavy light brown locks, now bared to meet the last decree of fate, the patriot stood undaunted, in Roman dignity. In clear tones he addressed these words to the soldiers: "Mexicans, in this last moment of my life I recommend to you the love of your country and the observances of our holy religion. I die for having come to aid you, and depart happy because I die among you. I die with honor, not as a traitor; that stain will not attach to my children and their descendants. Preserve order and be obedient to your commanders. From the bottom of my heart I forgive all my enemies." The officer came to bind his eyes, to which he objected, but being told that it was a necessary form, he unfalteringly bandaged his own eyes; then being requested to kneel, he did so, and the next instant received the fatal volley which terminated his brilliant and eventful life. His remains were buried in the dilapidated old church at Padilla, where they rested until 1838, when, with somewhat tardy justice and appreciation, an act of Congress was passed by which they were removed to the capital. They now rest in a stately tomb, in the great cathedral, with those of the noblest and best sons of Mexico. Here also lies Morelos, his old-time opponent. Cradled in the same city, their final resting-place is beneath the same dome.

On a tablet in the front wall of Iturbide's house I read the following inscription:

The 16th of September, being the Mexican 4th of July, was a


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Rh party to preside over a new empire. Shortly after his arrival in Mexico he invited the Princess Josefa to take up her residence in the imperial household as a member of the family. She accepted, and was accorded the highest distinction by Maximilian and Carlotta.

Feeling the insecurity of his position and hoping to conciliate the discordant element among the Mexican people, Maximilian proposed to adopt the grandson of the Emperor Iturbide—son of Don Angel and Alice Green de Iturbide—and, should his empire succeed, the young Augustin, then three years old, would be heir to the throne. But a condition was made that his parents should leave Mexico without delay. The government then owed them a large sum of pension money, which it was agreed should be paid them in case of compliance.

The prospect was brilliant, and the parents thought that to some extent the arrangement would bring reparation for the wrongs inflicted on the child's grandfather, and so consented. The beautiful boy, with soft golden curls, gentle blue eyes and sweet baby prattle, became at once the idol of Maximilian and Carlotta. But the mother was bereft of her darling, and the compact was no sooner agreed to than regretted; she and her husband were to leave Mexico immediately, and the separation from her only child might be final and lasting. She reached Pueblo en route to Europe, but the anguish was too great, and she returned to the capital, hoping to regain the custody of her child. Marshal Bazaine received her with kindness, and she then addressed a heart-rending appeal to Maximilian. But under the guise of being taken to the palace she was decoyed from the city and forced to return to Pueblo. In Paris she met Carlotta, then on her ill-fated mission to procure aid for the fast crumbling empire. They had a memorable interview, and soon after, as Madame Iturbide herself told me, Carlotta received the death-blow to her hopes, and even when ordered to Italy by Napoleon, evidences of a tottering reason were manifest. Throughout these trying scenes Madame Iturbide maintained the dignity befitting a brave and high-bred woman.

When Maximilian felt his fate fast overtaking him, he sent


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Rh age of fourteen, all alone, with $1,000 in his pocket, he sailed from Vera Cruz to New York, thence to Liverpool, and from there to Oscott College, near Birmingham, where he presented his letters to the president, and entered himself as a student. His life is still before him, and with his rich natural endowments and intellectual culture, his career will doubtless be worthy of his lineage and training.

The accompanying portraits furnish an excellent representation of mother and son.

Madame de Iturbide, herself, is one of the most remarkable women of her time. Beautiful in her youth, she is still strikingly handsome in face and figure. Of distinguished presence, queenly in manner and bearing, she impresses one as possessing in reserve the strength of will and purpose which sustained her in so many trying circumstances. All the elements of kindliness, courtesy, and dignity are combined in her, to which is added a personal magnetism which calls forth the warmest regard and devotion from all who enjoy the privilege of her friendship. During the thirty years since she went to Mexico, a bride, she has been a close observer of men and things. She is a living compendium of information on subjects of general interest, and is especially delightful in recounting those historical incidents which have come under her own observation.

In every transaction of business Madame Iturbide has proved herself equal to the occasion; and in the various lawsuits in which she has been engaged before the Mexican courts, she is said by competent authority to be as well versed in the jurisprudence of the country as the lawyers themselves. She is much attached to her Mexican friends, who warmly reciprocate the feeling, never losing an opportunity of showing their devotion to her. Americans everywhere may take pride in the fact that she is their countrywoman.

My interest in the history of Mexican independence was deepened by meeting and associating with many of the descendants


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 {|

 * Are there 1000 WEIRD TALES fans who will pay $2.00 per copy for the weird classics of our time—for the best of Smith, Merritt, Quinn, Howard, Bloch, Whitehead, Kuttner, etc., for an anthology of the best shorts from WT? Arkham House will publish them IF the fans will buy each book as it appears, if the fans will trust to our judgment to make the Arkham House Fantasy Library a reality, and not buy only their favorites. One or four books a year—your support will determine how many.
 * Are there 1000 WEIRD TALES fans who will pay $2.00 per copy for the weird classics of our time—for the best of Smith, Merritt, Quinn, Howard, Bloch, Whitehead, Kuttner, etc., for an anthology of the best shorts from WT? Arkham House will publish them IF the fans will buy each book as it appears, if the fans will trust to our judgment to make the Arkham House Fantasy Library a reality, and not buy only their favorites. One or four books a year—your support will determine how many.

The first book in the Arkham House Fantasy Library will be ready October 1—SOMEONE IN THE DARK, 14 short stories, and 2 novelettes by August Derleth: $2.00 from Arkham House or your bookseller (the best of Derleth from Glory Hand to The Sandwin Compact). If only 1000 fans buy this and succeeding books, the Fantasy Library is assured. (Arkham House have left a few copies of H. P. Lovecraft's giant omnibus, THE OUTSIDER AND OTHERS, at $5.00 the copy— and a second Lovecraft omnibus on the way.)

Let us know what you think of our plan for the Arkham House Fantasy Library, which books you would like to see us publish. Write us, and send your $2.00 for SOMEONE IN THE DARK today!
 * }
 * }
 * }

(Yes, I Did—Actually and Literally)

and as a result of that little talk with God a strange Power came into my life. After 42 years of horrible, dismal, sickening failure, everything took on a brighter hue. It's fascinating to talk with God, and it can be done very easily once you learn the secret. And when you do—well—there will come into your life the same dynamic Power which came into mine. The shackles of defeat which, bound me for years went a-shimmering—and now—?—well, I own control of the largest daily newspaper in our County, I own the largest office building in our City, I drive a beautiful Cadillac limousine. I own my own home which has a lovely pipe-organ in it, and my family are abundantly provided for after I'm gone. And all this has been made possible because one day, ten years ago, I actually and literally talked with God.

You, too, may experience that strange mystical Power which comes from talking with God, and when you do, if there is poverty, unrest, unhappiness, or ill-health in your life, well—this same God-Power is able to do for you what it did for me. No matter how useless or helpless your life seems to be—all this can be changed. For this is not a human Power I'm talking about—it's a God-Power. And there can be no limitations to the God-Power, can there? Of course not. You probably would like to know how you, too, may talk with God, so that this same Power which brought me these good things might come into your life, too. Well—just write a letter or a post-card to Dr. Frank B. Robinson, Dept. 970, Moscow, Idaho, and full particulars of this strange Teaching will be sent to you free of charge. But write now—while you are in the mood. It only costs one cent to find out, and this might easily be the most profitable one cent you have ever spent. It may sound unbelievable—but it's true, or I wouldn't tell you it was.—Advt. Copyright, 1939, Frank B. Robinson.

mention when answering advertisements>


text:
Author:Zoroaster

Works

 * The Gâthas, collection of 17 hymns
 * Yasna Haptanghaiti, occasionally credited to Zoroaster

Works about Zoroaster

 * "Zoroaster" in The Age of Fable by Thomas Bulfinch (1855).
 * "Zoroaster" in The Age of Fable by Thomas Bulfinch (1855).
 * "Zoroaster" in The Age of Fable by Thomas Bulfinch (1855).

title: Author:Zoroaster


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Page:Notes and Queries - Series 2 - Volume 8.djvu/536

430 man, is living at the present date in very reduced circumstances at Great Oakley, co. Essex.

Lennard Family. — The following extracts from the earliest register of Sevenoaks parish, relative to this eminent family, may be acceptable to one of your readers: —

1577. May 23. Bapt. Thomas, son of Samson Lennard, Esq. 1578. Sept. 25. Margaret, dau. of S. L., Esq. 1580. June 8. Elizabeth, dau. of S. L., Esq. 1581. Nov. 26. Elizabeth, dau. of S. L., Esq. 1583. July 28. Frances, dau. of S. L., Esq. 1584. Oct. 11. John, son of S. L. Esq. 1594. Oct. 27. Margaret, dau. of Henry Lennard, Esq. 1597. Dec. 27. Ffynes, son of Henrv Lennard, Knt. 1598. Jan. 21. Philadelphia, dau. of Hen. L., Knt. 1579. Dec. 27. Guildford Walsingham, Esq., to Mary Lennard. 1587. Aug. 23. Thomas Greshame, Esq., to Mary Walsingham, widow. 1589. Sep. 30. Frances Querst, Esq., to Eliz. Lennard. 1591. May 25. Herbert Morley, Esq., to Anne Lennard, Gen. 1592. May 24. Marmaduke Dorrell, Esq., to Anne Lennard, Gen. 1593. Sep. 6. Thomas Waller, Esq., to Margt Lennard, Gen. 1594. Apr. 2. Ralf Bosvile, Esq., to Mary Lennard. 1598. Jan. 3. Francis Barnam, Esq., to Elizabeth Lennard. 1601. May 12. Robert Moore, Esq., to Ffrances Lennard, Gen.

1575. Oct. 10. John, son of Sampson Lennard, Esq. 1581. Oct. 20. Eliaabeth, dau. of Sampson Lennard."

Besides the above are numerous entries relating to the Sydneys, Nevills, Walsinghams, Bosvilles, Wallers, and other important families. .

Impromptu by O'Connell. — The impromptu of Daniel O'Connell, occasioned by the attack of the three Colonels, Sibthorp, Perceval, and Verner, is being given in an incorrect form in the public prints. The following is a copy, as it appears Nov. 10, 1859: — "Three colonels in three different counties born, Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln did adorn; The first of them in ignorance surpassed, The next in impudence, in grace the last. The force of nature could no farther go. To beard the third, she shaved the other two."

The lines given below are in the author's own hand, dated August 6, 1838, and in my possession: — "Three colonels in three distant counties born, Lincoln, Sligo, and Armagh did adorn; The first in gravity of face surpassed, In sobriety the next, in grace the last. The force of nature could no farther go, To beard the first, she shaved the other two."

Paternoster Row.

Literary Tastes of Different Countries. I find the following in a late American newspaper. Can any of the readers of the "N. & Q." either corrobo rate or disprove the assertions there made?

Literary Tastes in this Country. — The people of the United States show a strong predilection for a lighht and fictitious literature. Of two thousand old and new volumes issued in this country in the year, it is said that about one-half were works of fiction or imagination. In France only about one-ninth are works of the same class, and in England works of fancy constitute one-seventh of the whole number published." Stoke Newington.

There are two meanings attached to the word damask in Johnson: —

1. Linen or silk woven, invented at Damascus, by which part, by various directions of the threads, exhibits flowers or other forms.

2. It is used for red colour in Fairfax, from the damask rose. "And for some deals perplexed was her spirit, Her damask late, now chang'd to purest white."

In this second sense it is used by many authors of celebrity, as in the hackneyed quotation from Shakspeare: — "But let concealment like a worm i' th' bud feed on her damask cheek." — Twelfth Night, Act II., Sc. 4.

And in Milton's Sonnet to Charles Diodati, where he uses the expression "Ne treccie d' oro, ne guancia vermiglia M' abbaglian sì," which Cowper thus renders: — "Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow Of golden locks, or damtuk cheek." And more recently Sir Lytton Bulwer in his great novel, What will he do with it? (vol. iii. p. 15.): — "Lady Adela was an unconscious impostor; for owing to a mild softness of ere and a susceptibility to blushes, a victim ensnared by 'her beauty would be apt to give her credit for a nature far more accessible to the tender passion than happily for her own peace of mind she possessed; and might flatter himself that he bad produced a sensation which gave that softness to the eye and that damask to the blush."

I find, however, that there is another sense in which the word "damask" was used, i.e. to cancel or efface, or cover over, as in the Copyright Act of Queen Anne, the 8th Anne, c. 19., intituled "An Act for the Encouragement of Learning by vesting the Copies of printed books in the Authors or Purchasers of such copies during the Terms therein mentioned," where after a long preamble showing how authors had been injured by piracy of various kinds, it proceeds to enact, "That the author of any book and his assigns should have the sole right and


text: Author talk:Frederick Hastings

title: Author talk:Frederick Hastings


text:
The Times/1937/Obituary/Frederick Hastings

The Rev. Frederick Hastings, a minister of the Congregational Church at Eastbourne, died on Saturday at the age of 98.

Hastings was born on July 21, 1838. His father was a merchant and shipowner in London, and the son began his active life in his father's office. Later, he joined a Greek New Testament class started by the pastor of the church he attended, and after a sermon by Spurgeon at the Surrey Music Hall he decided to become a minister. He entered Hackney College, and in 1862 became pastor of of the historic Quay Meeting of the Congregational Church at Woodbridge. After four years there he went out to New Brunswick as a minister at St. John. In 1870 he returned to this country to a charge at Wanstead, where he remained for two years. His next appointment was at Weston-super-Mare from 1872 to 1881. Then he had seven years at the Institutional Church at Tolmer's Square. At the request of Dr. R. W. Dale he went to Australia as minister of a church in North Adelaide and remained there five years. He came back to London in 1894 to Markham Square, Chelsea, and preached there till 1903, when he went back to Tolmer's Square for 10 years. In 1912 he was appointed to Clifton Church, Peckham, where he remained for six years, going to Eastbourne in 1920. He celebrated his ninety-eighth birthday last year, and the seventieth anniversary of his induction to the pastorate in 1932, by breaching in his church.

Mr. Hastings was a traveller in many lands. He returned from Australia via Paraguay wrote letters which helped to prevent the exodus of shearers and other labourers from Australia. He visited so many countries on his bicycle that he received the soubriquet of "the cycling parson," a name he employed in one of his many books, "The Spins of a Cycling Parson." He claimed to have ridden some 30,000 miles, visiting France, Saxony, the coat of Italy to Rome, and many parts of the Mediterranean coast. After the War he cycled to Ypres.

Mr. Hastings was an ex-chairman of the London Congregational Union, and for some years served on the London County Council. He was a delegate representing the Free Churches at the tercentenary of the signing of the Edict of Nantes. for eight years he was editor of the Homilectic Magazine and of Nisbet's "Theological Library." His recollections were published under the titles. "Memories of a Million Miles" and "Phases of a Joyous Life." Sketching, boating, cycling and chess, as well as travel, were the recreations of a long and useful career. His union with his first wife, Emily Brightman, who died in 1925, lasted for 63 years. At the age of 88 he married the widow of Mr W. Wallace Copland, of Gibraltar. He leaves three sons and two daughters.


text: User talk:198.99.244.32

title: User talk:198.99.244.32


text: An Act to amend the Act of the present Session, intituled: An Act imposing duties of Customs, with the Tariff of Duties payable under it/Schedule A


text: Page:New land mollusks from Madagascar and Mexico.djvu/1


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text: The European Concert in the Eastern Question/Chapter 4


text: The European Concert in the Eastern Question/Chapter 6


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An Act to amend the Act of the present Session, intituled: An Act imposing duties of Customs, with the Tariff of Duties payable under it/Schedule B

Cassia, ground, Cinnamon, “ Ginger, “ Mace, Nutmegs, Pepper, ground, Perfume, not otherwise speciﬁed, Perfumery and fancy soaps, Pimento, ground, Playing cards,

Sole and Upper Leather.

Iron—viz:—Bar, Rod, Hoop and Sheet. Canada plates and tinned plates. Nail and Spike Rod, round, square and ﬂat. Rolled plate and Boiler plate. Wire, Type.


text:
User talk:96.50.22.205

Beeswaxcandle (talk) 03:46, 6 November 2012 (UTC)

New templates
I see you're creating some new templates. I would suggest that you check out what we've got already so that you don't double up. The best place to look to begin with is Category:Maintenance templates. For the template you've called Rfexp we've got Standardise, which pretty much covers the same ground. Beeswaxcandle (talk) 03:46, 6 November 2012 (UTC)

You may also not understand that this is not Wikipedia. We often have multiple identical texts from different sources, and do not expand texts beyond what they originally included. --EncycloPetey (talk) 04:08, 6 November 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:96.50.22.205


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Page:Memories of Virginia.djvu/27

A lineal descendant and worthy son of a long line of fighting ancestors and founding sires, in whom I find many characteristics of his distinguished ancestor,

title: Page:Memories of Virginia.djvu/27


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Page:History of England (Froude) Vol 3.djvu/81

1537.] 'Experience,' he wrote to them, 'has taught us that it is much better for no laws to be made, than when many be well made none to be kept; and even so it is imich better nothing should be written concerning religion, than when many things be well written nothing of them be taught and observed.… Our commandment is, therefore, that you agree in your preaching, and that vain praise of crafty wits and worldly estimation be laid aside, and true religion sought for. You serve God in your calling, and not your own glory or vile profit. We will no correcting of things, no glosses, that take away the text; being much desirous, notwithstanding, that if in any place you have not written so plainly as you might have done, in your sermons to the people you utter all that is in God's Word. We will have no more thwarting—no more contentions whereby the people are much more set against one another than any taketh profit by such undiscreet doctrines. We had much sooner to pray you than command you, and if the first will serve we will leave out the second. Howbeit, we will in any case that all preachers agree; for if any shall dissent, let him that will defend the worser part assure himself that he shall run into our displeasure.'

'The wind bloweth where it listeth, and we hear the soimd thereof, but we cannot tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth, so is every one that is born of the Spirit.' Henry would have the bishops agree; as easily could he bind the winds, and bid them blow at his


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62. Under conditions, and within limits which he did not imagine, some measure of the agreement which he desired would be at last accomplished when the time and season would permit. Meanwhile, though his task was an impossible one, it was better to try and fail, than to sit by and let the dissensions rage. Nor was Henry a man to submit patiently to failure. He would try and try again; when milder methods were unsuccessful he would try with bills of six articles, and pains and penalties. He was wrestling against destiny; yet then, now, and ever, it was, and remains true, that in great matter of religion, in which to be right is the first condition of being right in anything—not variety of opinion, but unity—not the equal license of the wise and the foolish to choose their belief—but an ordered harmony, where wisdom prescribes a law to ignorance, is the rule which reasonable men should most desire for themselves and for mankind.

But if Henry erred, his errors might find excuse in the multitude of business which was crowded upon him. Insurrection and controversy, foreign leagues, and Papal censures did not exhaust the number of his difficulties. All evil things in nature seemed to have combined to thwart him.

In the first few years after he became King, he had paid particular attention to the navy. He had himself some skill as a naval engineer, and had conducted experiments in the construction of hulls and rigging, and in ship artillery. Other matters had subsequently called off his attention, and especially since the


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1537.] of the Reformation every moment had brought with it its own urgent claims, and the dockyards had fallen into decay. The finances had been straitened by the Irish wars, and from motives of economy the ships which the Government possessed had fallen many of them out of commission, and were rotting in harbour. A few small vessels were kept on the coast of Ireland; but in the year 1536 there was scarcely in all the Channel a single royal cruiser carrying the English flag. Materials to man a fleet existed amply among the fishermen who went year after year in vast numbers to Iceland and to Ireland —hardy sailors, who, taught by necessity, went always armed, and had learnt to fight as well as to work; but, from a neglect not the less injurious because intelligible, the English authority in the home waters had sunk to a shadow. Pirates swarmed along the coasts—entering fearlessly into the harbours, and lying there in careless security. The war breaking out between Charles and Francis, the French and Flemish ships of war captured prizes or fought battles in the mouths of English rivers, or under the windows of English towns; and through preying upon each other


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64 as enemies in the ordinary sense, both occasionally made prey of heretic English as enemies of the Church. While the Courts of Brussels and Paris were making professions of goodwill, the cruisers of both Governments openly seized English traders and plundered English fishing vessels, and Henry had for many months been compelled by the insurrection to submit to these aggressions, and to trust his subjects along the coasts to such inadequate defences as they could themselves provide. A French galliass and galleon came into Dartmouth harbour and attempted to cut out two merchantmen which were lying there; the mayor attacked them in boats and beat them off: but the harbours in general were poorly defended, and strange scenes occasionally took place in their waters. John Arundel, of Trerice, reports the following story to Cromwell: 'There came into Falmouth haven a fleet of Spaniards, and the day after came four ships of Dieppe, men-of-war, and the Spaniards shot into the Frenchmen, and the Frenchmen shot into the Spaniards, and during three hours great guns shot between them,, and the Frenchmen were glad to come higher up the haven; and the morrow after St Paul's day the Spaniards came up to assault the Frenchmen, and the Frenchmen came up almost to the town of Truro, and went aground there. I went to the admiral of the Spaniards and commanded him to keep the King's peace, and not to follow further; but the Spaniard would not, but said,


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1537.] 'I will have them, or I will die for it.' And then the Spaniards put their ordnance in their boats, and shot the French admiral forty or sixty shots during a long hour, the gentlemen of the city, Mr Killigrew and Mr Trefusis, and others, taking pleasure at it. Then I went to the Spaniards and told them to leave their shooting, or I would raise the country upon them. And so the Spaniards left. My Lord, I and all the country will desire the King's Grace that we may have blockhouses made upon our haven.'

Pirates were enemies to which the people were accustomed, and they could in some measure cope with them; but commissioned vessels of war had now condescended to pirates' practices. Sandwich boatmen were pillaged by a Flemish cruiser in the Downs in the autumn of 1536. A smack belonging to Deal was twice boarded and robbed by a Flemish officer of high rank, the admiral of the Sluys.

The King had for several years been engaged in making a harbour of refuge at Dover. The workmen saw English traders off the coast, and even the very vessels


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66 which brought the iron and timber for the harbour-piers, plundered by French and Flemings under their eyes; and the London merchants declared that, although the country was nominally at peace, their ships could not venture out of port unless the Government would undertake their convoy. The remonstrances which were made, of course in loud terms, at Paris and Brussels, were received with verbal apologies, and the Queen regent gave orders that her cruisers should cease their outrages; but either their commanders believed that their conduct would be secretly winked at, or they could not be convinced that heretics were not lawful game; or perhaps the zealous subjects of the Catholic powers desired to precipitate the sluggish action of their Governments. At any rate, the same insolences continued, and no redress could be obtained.

Henry could not afford to declare war. The exchequer was ill- furnished. The rebellion had consumed the subsidy, and the abbey lands had as yet returned little profit either by their rentals or by sale. The country, however, had not yet sunk so low as to be


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1537.] to defend its own coasts and its own traders. Sufficient money was found for the immediate purpose, and a small but admirably equipped fleet was fitted out silently at Portsmouth. Sir Thomas Seymour, the Queen's brother, Sir George Carew, Sir John Dudley, and Christopher Coo, a rough English sailor, were appointed to the command; and, when the ships were ready, they swept out into the Channel. Secrecy had been observed as far as possible, in the hope of taking the offenders by surprise. The greater number of them had, unhappily, been warned, and had escaped to their own harbours; but Coo shortly brought two pirate prizes into Rye. The people of Penzance, one August afternoon, heard the thunder of distant cannon. Carew and Seymour, searching the western coast, had come on the traces of four French ships of war, which had been plundering. They came up with them in Mounts Bay, and, closing against heavy odds, they fought them there till night. At daybreak, one of the four lay on the water, a sinking wreck. The others had crawled away in the darkness, and came no more into English waters. Dudley had been even more fortunate. 'As he was lying between the Needles and the Cowe,' there came a letter to him from the Mayor of Rye, 'that the Flemings had boarded a merchant-ship belonging to that port, and had taken goods out of her valued at three hundred pounds.' 'That hearing,' he said, in his despatch to Henry, 'I, with another of your Grace's ships, made


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68 all the diligence that was possible towards the said coast of Rye; and, as it chanced, the wind served us so well that we were next morning before day against the Combe, and there we heard news that the said Flemings were departed the day before. Then we prepared towards the Downs, for the wind served for that place, and there we found lying the admiral of the Sluys, with one ship in his company besides himself, being both as well trimmed for the war as I have lightly seen. And when I had perfect knowledge that it was the admiral of the Sluys, of whom I had heard, both at Rye and at Portsmouth, divers robberies and ill-demeanours by him committed against your Highness's subjects, then I commanded my master to bring my ship to an anchor, as nigh to the said admiral as he could, to the intent to have had some communication with him; who incontinent put himself and all his men to defence, and neither would come to communication nor would send none of his men aboard of me. And when I saw what a great brag they set upon it—for they made their drumsalt to strike alarum, and every man settled them to fight—I caused my master gunner to loose a piece of ordnance, and not touched him by a good space; but he sent one to my ship, and mocked not with me, for he brake down a part of the decks of my ship, and hurt one of my gunners very sore. That done, I trifled no more with him, but caused my master to lay her aboard; and so, within a little fight, she was yielded.' Dudley's second ship had been engaged with the other Fleming; but the latter, as soon as the admiral was taken, slipped


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1537.] her cable and attempted to escape. The Englishman stood after her. Both ships vanished up Channel, scudding before a gale of wind; but whether the Dutchman was brought back a prize, or whether the pursuer followed too far, and found himself, as Dudley feared, caught on a lee shore off the Holland flats, the Records are silent. Pirates, however, and over-zealous privateers, in these and other encounters, were taught their lesson; and it did not, for some time, require to be repeated: 'Your subjects,' Dudley and Seymour told the King in a joint letter, 'shall not only pass and repass without danger of taking, but your Majesty shall be known to be lord of these seas.' They kept their word. In this one summer the Channel was cleared, and the nucleus was formed of the fleet which, eight years after, held in check and baffled the most powerful armament which had left the French shores against England since the Norman William crossed to Hastings.

But Henry did not rest upon his success. The impulse had been given, and the work of national defence went forward. The animus of foreign powers was evidently as bad as possible. Subjects shared the feelings of their rulers. The Pope might succeed, and most likely would succeed at last, in reconciling France and Spain; and experience proved that England lay formidably open to attack. It was no longer safe to trust wholly to the extemporized militia. The introduction of artillery was converting war into a science; and the


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70 recent proofs of the unprotected condition of the harbours should not be allowed to pass without leaving their lesson. Commissions were issued for a survey of the whole eastern and southern coasts. The most efficient gentlemen residing in the counties which touched the sea were requested to send up reports of the points where invading armies could be most easily landed, with such plans as occurred to them for the best means of throwing up defences. The plans were submitted to engineers in London; and in two years every exposed spot upon the coast was guarded by an earthwork, or a fort or blockhouse. Batteries were erected to protect the harbours at St Michael's Mount, Falmouth, Fowey, Plymouth, Dartmouth, Torbay, Portland, Calshot, Cowes, and Portsmouth. Castles (some of them remain to the present day) were built at Dover, Deal, Sandwich, and along both shores of the Thames. The walls and embankments at Guisnes and Calais were repaired and enlarged; and Hull, Scarborough, Newcastle, and Berwick-upon-Tweed were made impregnable against ordinary attack. Each of these places was defended by adequate and trained garrisons; and the musters were kept in training within twenty miles of


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text: Popular Science Monthly/Volume 54/November 1898/Was Middle America Peopled from Asia?


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The Man of Property/Part II/Chapter 1

The winter had been an open one. Things in the trade were slack; and as Soames had reflected before making up his mind, it had been a good time for building. The shell of the house at Robin Hill was thus completed by the end of April.

Now that there was something to be seen for his money, he had been coming down once, twice, even three times a week, and would mouse about among the debris for hours, careful never to soil his clothes, moving silently through the unfinished brickwork of doorways, or circling round the columns in the central court.

And he would stand before them for minutes' together, as though peering into the real quality of their substance.

On April 30 he had an appointment with Bosinney to go over the accounts, and five minutes before the proper time he entered the tent which the architect had pitched for himself close to the old oak tree.

The accounts were already prepared on a folding table, and with a nod Soames sat down to study them. It was some time before he raised his head.

"I can't make them out," he said at last; "they come to nearly seven hundred more than they ought."

After a glance at Bosinney's face he went on quickly:

"If you only make a firm stand against these builder chaps you'll get them down. They stick you with everything if you don't look sharp.... Take ten per cent. off all round. I shan't mind it's coming out a hundred or so over the mark!"

Bosinney shook his head:

"I've taken off every farthing I can!"

Soames pushed back the table with a movement of anger, which sent the account sheets fluttering to the ground.

"Then all I can say is," he flustered out, "you've made a pretty mess of it!"

"I've told you a dozen times," Bosinney answered sharply, "that there'd be extras. I've pointed them out to you over and over again!"

"I know that," growled Soames: "I shouldn't have objected to a ten pound note here and there. How was I to know that by 'extras' you meant seven hundred pounds?"

The qualities of both men had contributed to this not-inconsiderable discrepancy. On the one hand, the architect's devotion to his idea, to the image of a house which he had created and believed in—had made him nervous of being stopped, or forced to the use of makeshifts; on the other, Soames' not less true and wholehearted devotion to the very best article that could be obtained for the money, had rendered him averse to believing that things worth thirteen shillings could not be bought with twelve.

"I wish I'd never undertaken your house," said Bosinney suddenly. "You come down here worrying me out of my life. You want double the value for your money anybody else would, and now that you've got a house that for its size is not to be beaten in the county, you don't want to pay for it. If you're anxious to be off your bargain, I daresay I can find the balance above the estimates myself, but I'm dd if I do another stroke of work for you!"

Soames regained his composure. Knowing that Bosinney had no capital, he regarded this as a wild suggestion. He saw, too, that he would be kept indefinitely out of this house on which he had set his heart, and just at the crucial point when the architect's personal care made all the difference. In the meantime there was Irene to be thought of! She had been very queer lately. He really believed it was only because she had taken to Bosinney that she tolerated the idea of the house at all. It would not do to make an open breach with her.

"You needn't get into a rage," he said. "If I'm willing to put up with it, I suppose you needn't cry out. All I meant was that when you tell me a thing is going to cost so much, I like to—well, in fact, I—like to know where I am."

"Look here!" said Bosinney, and Soames was both annoyed and surprised by the shrewdness of his glance. "You've got my services dirt cheap. For the kind of work I've put into this house, and the amount of time I've given to it, you'd have had to pay Littlemaster or some other fool four times as much. What you want, in fact, is a first-rate man for a fourth-rate fee, and that's exactly what you've got!"

Soames saw that he really meant what he said, and, angry though he was, the consequences of a row rose before him too vividly. He saw his house unfinished, his wife rebellious, himself a laughingstock.

"Let's go over it," he said sulkily, "and see how the money's gone."

"Very well," assented Bosinney. "But we'll hurry up, if you don't mind. I have to get back in time to take June to the theatre."

Soames cast a stealthy look at him, and said: "Coming to our place, I suppose to meet her?" He was always coming to their place!

There had been rain the night before-a spring rain, and the earth smelt of sap and wild grasses. The warm, soft breeze swung the leaves and the golden buds of the old oak tree, and in the sunshine the blackbirds were whistling their hearts out.

It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what. The earth gave forth a fainting warmth, stealing up through the chilly garment in which winter had wrapped her. It was her long caress of invitation, to draw men down to lie within her arms, to roll their bodies on her, and put their lips to her breast.

On just such a day as this Soames had got from Irene the promise he had asked her for so often. Seated on the fallen trunk of a tree, he had promised for the twentieth time that if their marriage were not a success, she should be as free as if she had never married him!

"Do you swear it?" she had said. A few days back she had reminded him of that oath. He had answered: "Nonsense! I couldn't have sworn any such thing!" By some awkward fatality he remembered it now. What queer things men would swear for the sake of women! He would have sworn it at any time to gain her! He would swear it now, if thereby he could touch her—but nobody could touch her, she was cold-hearted!

And memories crowded on him with the fresh, sweet savour of the spring wind—memories of his courtship.

In the spring of the year 1881 he was visiting his old school-fellow and client, George Liversedge, of Branksome, who, with the view of developing his pine-woods in the neighbourhood of Bournemouth, had placed the formation of the company necessary to the scheme in Soames's hands. Mrs. Liversedge, with a sense of the fitness of things, had given a musical tea in his honour. Later in the course of this function, which Soames, no musician, had regarded as an unmitigated bore, his eye had been caught by the face of a girl dressed in mourning, standing by herself. The lines of her tall, as yet rather thin figure, showed through the wispy, clinging stuff of her black dress, her black-gloved hands were crossed in front of her, her lips slightly parted, and her large, dark eyes wandered from face to face. Her hair, done low on her neck, seemed to gleam above her black collar like coils of shining metal. And as Soames stood looking at her, the sensation that most men have felt at one time or another went stealing through him—a peculiar satisfaction of the senses, a peculiar certainty, which novelists and old ladies call love at first sight. Still stealthily watching her, he at once made his way to his hostess, and stood doggedly waiting for the music to cease.

"Who is that girl with yellow hair and dark eyes?" he asked.

"That—oh! Irene Heron. Her father, Professor Heron, died this year. She lives with her stepmother. She's a nice girl, a pretty girl, but no money!"

"Introduce me, please," said Soames.

It was very little that he found to say, nor did he find her responsive to that little. But he went away with the resolution to see her again. He effected his object by chance, meeting her on the pier with her stepmother, who had the habit of walking there from twelve to one of a forenoon. Soames made this lady's acquaintance with alacrity, nor was it long before he perceived in her the ally he was looking for. His keen scent for the commercial side of family life soon told him that Irene cost her stepmother more than the fifty pounds a year she brought her; it also told him that Mrs. Heron, a woman yet in the prime of life, desired to be married again. The strange ripening beauty of her stepdaughter stood in the way of this desirable consummation. And Soames, in his stealthy tenacity, laid his plans.

He left Bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a month's time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, but to her stepmother. He had made up his mind, he said; he would wait any time. And he had long to wait, watching Irene bloom, the lines of her young figure softening, the stronger blood deepening the gleam of her eyes, and warming her face to a creamy glow; and at each visit he proposed to her, and when that visit was at an end, took her refusal away with him, back to London, sore at heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. He tried to come at the secret springs of her resistance; only once had he a gleam of light. It was at one of those assembly dances, which afford the only outlet to the passions of the population of seaside watering-places. He was sitting with her in an embrasure, his senses tingling with the contact of the waltz. She had looked at him over her, slowly waving fan; and he had lost his head. Seizing that moving wrist, he pressed his lips to the flesh of her arm. And she had shuddered—to this day he had not forgotten that shudder—nor the look so passionately averse she had given him.

A year after that she had yielded. What had made her yield he could never make out; and from Mrs. Heron, a woman of some diplomatic talent, he learnt nothing. Once after they were married he asked her, "What made you refuse me so often?" She had answered by a strange silence. An enigma to him from the day that he first saw her, she was an enigma to him still....

Bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged, good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as though he too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a coming happiness in the spring air. Soames looked at him waiting there. What was the matter with the fellow that he looked so happy? What was he waiting for with that smile on his lips and in his eyes? Soames could not see that for which Bosinney was waiting as he stood there drinking in the flower-scented wind. And once more he felt baffled in the presence of this man whom by habit he despised. He hastened on to the house.

"The only colour for those tiles," he heard Bosinney say, "is ruby with a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. I should like Irene's opinion. I'm ordering the purple leather curtains for the doorway of this court; and if you distemper the drawing-room ivory cream over paper, you'll get an illusive look. You want to aim all through the decorations at what I call—charm."

Soames said: "You mean that my wife has charm!"

Bosinney evaded the question.

"You should have a clump of iris plants in the centre of that court."

Soames smiled superciliously.

"I'll look into Beech's some time," he said, "and see what's appropriate!"

They found little else to say to each other, but on the way to the Station Soames asked:

"I suppose you find Irene very artistic."

"Yes." The abrupt answer was as distinct a snub as saying: "If you want to discuss her you can do it with someone else!"

And the slow, sulky anger Soames had felt all the afternoon burned the brighter within him.

Neither spoke again till they were close to the Station, then Soames asked:

"When do you expect to have finished?"

"By the end of June, if you really wish me to decorate as well."

Soames nodded. "But you quite understand," he said, "that the house is costing me a lot beyond what I contemplated. I may as well tell you that I should have thrown it up, only I'm not in the habit of giving up what I've set my mind on."

Bosinney made no reply. And Soames gave him askance a look of dogged dislike—for in spite of his fastidious air and that supercilious, dandified taciturnity, Soames, with his set lips and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog....

When, at seven o'clock that evening, June arrived at 62, Montpellier Square, the maid Bilson told her that Mr. Bosinney was in the drawing-room; the mistress—she said—was dressing, and would be down in a minute. She would tell her that Miss June was here.

June stopped her at once.

"All right, Bilson," she said, "I'll just go in. You, needn't hurry Mrs. Soames."

She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran downstairs.

June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest—a slim, imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her crown of twisted red-gold hair.

She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering azaleas.

She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney's voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying.

"Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and now we shan't have time!"

Irene's voice answered: "Why not at dinner?"

"How can one talk"

June's first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.

Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.

"Come on Sunday by yourself—We can go over the house together"

June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It was not the look of a coquette, but—far worse to the watching girl—of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much.

"I've promised to go for a drive with Uncle"

"The big one! Make him bring you; it's only ten miles—the very thing for his horses."

"Poor old Uncle Swithin!"

A wave of the azalea scent drifted into June's face; she felt sick and dizzy.

"Do! ah! do!"

"But why?"

"I must see you there—I thought you'd like to help me"

The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from amongst the blossoms: "So I do!"

And she stepped into the open space of the window.

"How stuffy it is here!" she said; "I can't bear this scent!"

Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces.

"Were you talking about the house? I haven't seen it yet, you know—shall we all go on Sunday?"'

From Irene's face the colour had flown.

"I am going for a drive that day with Uncle Swithin," she answered.

"Uncle Swithin! What does he matter? You can throw him over!"

"I am not in the habit of throwing people over!"

There was a sound of footsteps and June saw Soames standing just behind her.

"Well! if you are all ready," said Irene, looking from one to the other with a strange smile, "dinner is too!"

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 have passed the two nights on deck, wrapped up in my cloak. It was only toward morning that I felt it getting cold. I am now actually in latitude forty-five, and yet go on repeating my old song,—I would gladly leave all to the inhabitants of the land, if only, after the fashion of Dido, I could enclose enough of the heavens to surround our dwellings with. It would then be quite another state of existence. The voyage in this glorious weather has been most delightful, the views and prospects simple, but agreeable. The Po, with its fertilising stream, flows here through wide plains. Nothing, however, is to be seen but its banks covered with trees or bushes: you catch no distant view. On this river, as on the Adige, are silly water-works, which are as rude and ill-constructed as those on the Saal.

, Oct. 16, 1786.

At night.

Although I only arrived here early this morning (by seven o'clock, German time), I am thinking of setting off again to-morrow morning. For the first time since I left home, a feeling of dissatisfaction has fallen upon me in this great and beautiful, but flat and depopulated city. These streets, now so desolate, were, however, once kept in animation by a brilliant court. Here dwelt Ariosto discontented, and Tasso unhappy; and so we fancy we gain edification by visiting such scenes. Ariosto's monument contains much marble, ill arranged: for Tasso's prison they show a wood-house or coal-house, where, most assuredly, he never was kept. Moreover, the people pretend to know scarcely anything you may ask about. But at last, for "something to drink" they manage to remember. All this brings to my mind Luther's ink-spots, which the housekeeper freshens up from time to time. Most travellers, however, are little better than our Handwerksburschen, or strolling journeymen, and content themselves with such