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Miss Cayley's Adventures/Chapter 5

HE explosion and evaporation of Dr. Fortescue-Langley (with whom were amalgamated the Comte de Laroche-sur-Loiret, Mr. Higginson the courier, and whatever else that versatile gentleman chose to call himself) entailed many results of varying magnitudes.

In the first place, Mrs. Evelegh ordered a Great Manitou. That, however, mattered little to 'the firm,' as I loved to call us (because it shocked dear Elsie so); for, of course, after all her kindness we couldn't accept our commission on her purchase, so that she got her machine cheap for L15 from the maker. But, in the second place—I declare I am beginning to write like a woman of business—she decided to run over to England for the summer to see her boy at Portsmouth, being certain now that the discoloration of her bangle depended more on the presence of sulphur in the india-rubber bottle than on the passing state  of her astral body. 'Tis an abrupt descent from the inner self to a hot-water bottle, I admit; but Mrs. Evelegh took the plunge with grace, like a sensible woman. Dr. Fortescue-Langley had been annihilated for her at one blow: she returned forthwith to common-sense and England.

'What will you do with the châlet while you're away?' Lady Georgina asked, when she announced her intention. 'You can't shut it up to take care of itself. Every blessed thing in the place will go to rack and ruin. Shutting up a house means spoiling it for ever. Why, I've got a cottage of my own that I let for the summer in the best part of Surrey—a pretty little place, now vacant, for which, by the way, I want a tenant, if you happen to know of one: and when it's left empty for a month or two'

'Perhaps it would do for me?' Mrs. Evelegh suggested, jumping at it. 'I'm looking out for a furnished house for the summer, within easy reach of Portsmouth and London, for myself and Oliver.'

Lady Georgina seized her arm, with a face of blank horror. 'My dear,' she cried. 'For you! I wouldn't dream of letting it to you. A nasty, damp, cold, unwholesome house, on stiff clay soil, with detestable drains, in the deadliest part of the Weald of Surrey,—why, you and your boy would catch your deaths of rheumatism.'

'Is it the one I saw advertised in the Times this morning, I wonder?' Mrs. Evelegh inquired in a placid voice. '"Charming furnished house on Holmesdale Common; six bedrooms, four reception-rooms; splendid views; pure air; picturesque surroundings; exceptionally situated." I thought of writing about it.'

'That's it!' Lady Georgina exclaimed, with a demonstrative wave of her hand. 'I drew up the advertisement myself. Exceptionally situated! I should just think it was! Why, my dear, I wouldn't let you rent the place for worlds; a horrid, poky little hole, stuck down in the bottom of a boggy hollow, as damp as Devonshire, with the paper peeling off the walls, so that I had to take my choice between giving it up myself ten years ago, or removing to the cemetery; and I've let it ever since to City men with large families. Nothing would induce me to allow you and your boy to expose yourself to such risks.' For Lady Georgina had taken quite a fancy to Mrs. Evelegh. 'But what I was just going to say was this: you can't shut your house up; it'll all go mouldy. Houses always go mouldy, shut up in summer. And you can't leave it to your servants; I know the baggages; no conscience—no conscience; they'll ask their entire families to come and stop with them en bloc, and turn your place into a perfect piggery. Why, when I went away from my house in town one autumn, didn't I leave a policeman and his wife in charge—a most respectable man—only he happened to be an Irishman. And what was the consequence? My dear, I assure you, I came back unexpectedly from poor dear Kynaston's one day—at a moment's notice—having quarrelled with him over Home Rule or Education or something—poor dear Kynaston's what they call a Liberal, I believe—got at by that man Rosebery—and there didn't I find all the O'Flanagans, and O'Flahertys, and O'Flynns in the neighbourhood camping out in my drawing-room; with a strong detachment of O'Donohues, and O'Dohertys, and O'Driscolls lying around loose in possession of the library? Never leave a house to the servants, my dear! It's positively suicidal. Put in a responsible caretaker of whom you know something—like Lois here, for instance.'

'Lois!' Mrs. Evelegh echoed. 'Dear me, that's just the very thing. What a capital idea! I never thought of Lois! She and Elsie might stop on here, with Ursula and the gardener.'

I protested that if we did it was our clear duty to pay a small rent; but Mrs. Evelegh brushed that aside. 'You've robbed yourselves over the bicycle,' she insisted, 'and I'm delighted to let you have it. It's I who ought to pay, for you'll keep the house dry for me.'

I remembered Mr. Hitchcock—'Mutual advantage: benefits you, benefits me'—and made no bones about it. So in the end Mrs. Evelegh set off for England with Cecile, leaving Elsie and me in charge of Ursula, the gardener, and the châlet.

As for Lady Georgina, having by this time completed her 'cure' at Schlangenbad (complexion as usual; no guinea yellower), she telegraphed for Gretchen—'I can't do without the idiot'—and hung round Lucerne, apparently for no other purpose but to send people up the Bruenig on the hunt for our wonderful new machines, and so put money in our pockets. She was much amused when I told her that Aunt Susan (who lived, you will remember, in respectable indigence at Blackheath) had written to expostulate with me on my 'unladylike' conduct in becoming a bicycle commission agent. 'Unladylike!—the Cantankerous Old Lady exclaimed, with warmth. 'What does the woman mean? Has she got no gumption? It's "ladylike," I suppose, to be a companion, or a governess, or a music-teacher, or something else in the black-thread-glove way, in London; but not to sell bicycles for a good round commission. My dear, between you and me, I don't see it. If you had a brother, now, he might sell cycles, or corner wheat, or rig the share market, or do anything else he pleased, in these days, and nobody'd think the worse of him—as long as he made money; and it's my opinion that what is sauce for the goose can't be far out for the gander—and vice-versa. Besides which, what's the use of trying to be ladylike? You are a lady, child, and you couldn't help being one; why trouble to be like what nature made you? Tell Aunt Susan from me to put that in her pipe and smoke it!'

I did tell Aunt Susan by letter, giving Lady Georgina's authority for the statement; and I really believe it had a consoling effect upon her; for Aunt Susan is one of those innocent-minded people who cherish a profound respect for the opinions and ideas of a Lady of Title. Especially where questions of delicacy are concerned. It calmed her to think that though I, an officer's daughter, had declined upon trade, I was mixing at least with the Best People!

We had a lovely time at the châlet—two girls alone, messing just as we pleased in the kitchen, and learning from Ursula how to concoct pot-au-feu in the most approved Swiss fashion. We pottered, as we women love to potter, half the day long; the other half we spent in riding our cycles about the eternal hills, and ensnaring the flies whom Lady Georgina dutifully sent up to us. She was our decoy duck: and, in virtue of her handle, she decoyed to a marvel. Indeed, I sold so many Manitous that I began to entertain a deep respect for my own commercial faculties. As for Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock, he wrote to me from Frankfort: 'The world continues to revolve on its axis, the Manitou, and the machine is booming. Orders romp in daily. When you ventilated the suggestion of an agency at Limburg, I concluded at a glance you had the material of a first-class business woman about you; but I reckon I did not know what a traveller meant till you started on the road. I am now enlarging and altering this factory, to meet increased demands. Branch offices at Berlin, Hamburg, Crefeld, and Duesseldorf. Inspect our stock before dealing elsewhere. A liberal discount allowed to the trade. Two hundred agents wanted in all towns of Germany. If they were every one of them like you, miss—well, I guess I would hire the town of Frankfort  for my business premises.'

One morning, after we had spent about a week at the châlet by ourselves, I was surprised to see a young man with a knapsack on his back walking up the garden path towards our cottage. 'Quick, quick, Elsie!' I cried, being in a mischievous mood. 'Come here with the opera-glass! There's a Man in the offing!'

'A what?' Elsie exclaimed, shocked as usual at my levity.

'A Man,' I answered, squeezing her arm. 'A Man! A real live Man! A specimen of the masculine gender in the human being! Man, ahoy! He has come at last—the lodestar of our existence!'

Next minute, I was sorry I spoke; for as the man drew nearer, I perceived that he was endowed with very long legs and a languidly poetical bearing. That supercilious smile—that enticing moustache! Could it be?—yes, it was—not a doubt of it—Harold Tillington!

I grew grave at once; Harold Tillington and the situation were serious. 'What can he want here?' I exclaimed, drawing back.

'Who is it?' Elsie asked; for, being a woman, she read at once in my altered demeanour the fact that the Man was not unknown to me.

'Lady Georgina's nephew,' I answered, with a tell-tale cheek, I fear. 'You remember I mentioned to you that I had met him at Schlangenbad. But this is really too bad of that wicked old Lady Georgina. She has told him where we lived and sent him up to see us.'

'Perhaps,' Elsie put in, 'he wants to charter a bicycle.'

I glanced at Elsie sideways. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that she said it slyly, like one who knew he wanted nothing of the sort. But at any rate, I brushed the suggestion aside frankly. 'Nonsense,' I answered. 'He wants me, not a bicycle.'

He came up to us, waving his hat. He did look handsome! 'Well, Miss Cayley,' he cried from afar, 'I have tracked you to your lair! I have found out where you abide! What a beautiful spot! And how well you're looking!'

'This is an unexpected' I paused. He thought I was going to say, 'pleasure,' but I finished it, 'intrusion.' His face fell. 'How did you know we were at Lungern, Mr. Tillington?'

'My respected relative,' he answered, laughing. 'She mentioned—casually—' his eyes met mine—'that you were stopping in a châlet. And as I was on my way back to the diplomatic mill, I thought I might just as well walk over the Grimsel and the Furca, and then on to the Gotthard. The Court is at Monza. So it occurred to me ... that in passing ... I might venture to drop in and say how-do-you-do to you.'

'Thank you,' I answered, severely—but my heart spoke otherwise—'I do very well. And you, Mr. Tillington?'

'Badly,' he echoed. 'Badly, since you went away from Schlangenbad.'

I gazed at his dusty feet. 'You are tramping,' I said, cruelly. 'I suppose you will get forward for lunch to Meiringen?'

'I—I did not contemplate it.'

'Indeed?'

He grew bolder. 'No; to say the truth, I half hoped I might stop and spend the day here with you.'

'Elsie,' I remarked firmly, 'if Mr. Tillington persists in planting himself upon us like this, one of us must go and investigate the kitchen department.'

Elsie rose like a lamb. I have an impression that she gathered we wanted to be left alone.

He turned to me imploringly. 'Lois,' he cried, stretching out his arms, with an appealing air, 'I may stay, mayn't I?'

I tried to be stern; but I fear 'twas a feeble pretence. 'We are two girls, alone in a house,' I answered. 'Lady Georgina, as a matron of experience, ought to have protected us. Merely to give you lunch is almost irregular. (Good diplomatic word, irregular.) Still, in these days, I suppose you may stay, if you leave early in the afternoon. That's the utmost I can do for you.'

'You are not gracious,' he cried, gazing at me with a wistful look.

I did not dare to be gracious. 'Uninvited guests must not quarrel with their welcome,' I answered severely. Then the woman in me broke forth. 'But indeed, Mr. Tillington, I am glad to see you.'

He leaned forward eagerly. 'So you are not angry with me, Lois? I may call you Lois?'

I trembled and hesitated. 'I am not angry with you. I— I like you too much to be ever angry with you. And I am glad you came—just this once—to see me.... Yes,—when we are alone—you may call me Lois.'

He tried to seize my hand. I withdrew it. 'Then I may perhaps hope,' he began, 'that some day'

I shook my head. 'No, no,' I said, regretfully. 'You misunderstand me. I like you very much; and I like to see you. But as long as you are rich and have prospects like yours, I could never marry you. My pride wouldn't let me. Take that as final.'

I looked away. He bent forward again. 'But if I were poor?' he put in, eagerly.

I hesitated. Then my heart rose, and I gave way. 'If ever you are poor,' I faltered,—'penniless, hunted, friendless—come to me, Harold, and I will help and comfort you. But not till then. Not till then, I implore you.'

He leant back and clasped his hands. 'You have given me something to live for, dear Lois,' he murmured. 'I will try to be poor—penniless, hunted, friendless. To win you I will try. And when that day arrives, I shall come to claim you.'

We sat for an hour and had a delicious talk—about nothing. But we understood each other. Only that artificial barrier divided us. At the end of the hour, I heard Elsie coming back by judiciously slow stages from the kitchen to the living-room, through six feet of passage, discoursing audibly to Ursula all the way, with a tardiness that did honour to her heart and her understanding. Dear, kind little Elsie! I believe she had never a tiny romance of her own; yet her sympathy for others was sweet to look upon.

We lunched at a small deal table in the veranda. Around us rose the pinnacles. The scent of pines and moist moss was in the air. Elsie had arranged the flowers, and got ready the omelette, and cooked the chicken cutlets, and prepared the junket. 'I never thought I could do it alone without you, Brownie; but I tried, and it all came right by magic, somehow.' We laughed and talked incessantly. Harold was in excellent cue; and Elsie took to him. A livelier or merrier table there wasn't in the twenty-two Cantons that day than ours, under the sapphire sky, looking out on the sun-smitten snows of the Jungfrau.

After lunch, Harold begged hard to be allowed to stop for tea. I had misgivings, but I gave way—he was such good company. One may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, says the wisdom of our ancestors: and, after all, Mrs. Grundy was only represented here by Elsie, the gentlest and least censorious of her daughters. So he stopped and chatted till four; when I made tea and insisted on dismissing him. He meant to take the rough mountain path over the screes from Lungern to Meiringen, which ran right behind the châlet. I feared lest he might be belated, and urged him to hurry.

'Thanks, I'm happier here,' he answered.

I was sternness itself. 'You promised me!' I said, in a reproachful voice.

He rose instantly, and bowed. 'Your will is law—even when it pronounces sentence of exile.'

Would we walk a little way with him? No, I faltered; we would not. We would follow him with the opera-glasses and wave him farewell when he reached the Kulm. He shook our hands unwillingly, and turned up the little path, looking handsomer than ever. It led ascending through a fir-wood to the rock-strewn hillside.

Once, a quarter of an hour later, we caught a glimpse of him near a sharp turn in the road; after that we waited in vain, with our eyes fixed on the Kulm; not a sign could we discern of him. At last I grew anxious. 'He ought to be there,' I cried, fuming.

'He ought,' Elsie answered.

I swept the slopes with the opera-glasses. Anxiety and interest in him quickened my senses, I suppose. 'Look here, Elsie,' I burst out at last. 'Just take this glass and have a glance at those birds, down the crag below the Kulm. Don't they seem to be circling and behaving most oddly?'

Elsie gazed where I bid her. 'They're wheeling round and round,' she answered, after a minute; 'and they certainly do look as if they were screaming.'

'They seem to be frightened,' I suggested.

'It looks like it, Brownie,'

'Then he's fallen over a precipice!' I cried, rising up; 'and he's lying there on a ledge by their nest. Elsie, we must go to him!'

She clasped her hands and looked terrified. 'Oh, Brownie, how dreadful!' she exclaimed. Her face was deadly white. Mine burned like fire.

'Not a moment to lose!' I said, holding my breath. 'Get out the rope and let us run to him!'

'Don't you think,' Elsie suggested, 'we had better hurry down on our cycles to Lungern and call some men from the village to help us? We are two girls, and alone. What can we do to aid him?'

'No,' I answered, promptly, 'that won't do. It would only lose time—and time may be precious. You and I must go; I'll send Ursula off to bring up guides from the village.'

Fortunately, we had a good long coil of new rope in the house, which Mrs. Evelegh had provided in case of accident. I slipped it on my arm, and set out on foot; for the path was by far too rough for cycles. I was sorry afterwards that I had not taken Ursula, and sent Elsie to Lungern  to rouse the men; for she found the climbing hard, and I had difficulty  at times in dragging her up the steep and stony pathway, almost a watercourse. However, we persisted in the direction of the Kulm, tracking Harold by his footprints; for he wore mountain boots with sharp-headed nails, which made dints in the moist soil, and scratched the smooth surface of the rock where he trod on it. We followed him thus for a mile or two, along the regular path; then of a sudden, in an open part, the trail failed us. I turned back, a few yards, and looked close, with my eyes fixed on the spongy soil, as keen as a hound that sniffs his way after his quarry. 'He went off here, Elsie!' I said at last, pulling up short by a spindle bush on the hillside.

'How do you know, Brownie?'

'Why, see, there are the marks of his stick; he had a thick one, you remember, with a square iron spike. These are its dints; I have been watching them all the way along from the châlet!

'But there are so many such marks!'

'Yes, I know; I can tell his from the older ones made by the spikes of alpenstocks because Harold's are fresher and sharper on the edge. They look so much newer. See, here, he slipped on the rock; you can know that scratch is recent by the clean way it's traced, and the little glistening crystals still left behind in it. Those other marks have been wind-swept and washed by the rain. There are no broken particles.'

'How on earth did you find that out, Brownie?'

How on earth did I find it out! I wondered myself. But the emergency seemed somehow to teach me something of the instinctive lore of hunters and savages. I did not trouble to answer her. 'At this bush, the tracks fail,' I went on; 'and, look, he must have clutched at that branch and crushed the broken leaves as the twigs slipped through his fingers. He left the path here, then, and struck off on a short cut of his own along the hillside, lower down. Elsie, we must follow him.'

She shrank from it; but I held her hand. It was a more difficult task to track him now; for we had no longer the path to guide us. However, I explored the ground on my hands and knees, and soon found marks of footsteps on the boggy patches, with scratches on the rock where he had leapt from point to point, or planted his stick to steady himself. I tried to help Elsie along among the littered boulders and the dwarf growth of wind-swept daphne: but, poor child, it was too much for her: she sat down after a few minutes upon the flat juniper scrub and began to cry. What was I to do? My anxiety was breathless. I couldn't leave her there alone, and I couldn't forsake Harold. Yet I felt every minute might now be critical. We were making among wet whortleberry thicket and torn rock towards the spot where I had seen the birds wheel and circle,  screaming. The only way left was to encourage Elsie and make her feel the necessity for instant action. 'He is alive still,' I exclaimed, looking up; 'the birds are crying! If he were dead, they would return to their nest— Elsie, we must get to him!'

She rose, bewildered, and followed me. I held her hand tight, and coaxed her to scramble over the rocks where the scratches showed the way, or to clamber at times over fallen trunks of huge fir-trees. Yet it was hard work climbing; even Harold's sure feet had slipped often on the wet and slimy boulders, though, like most of Queen Margherita's set, he was  an expert mountaineer. Then, at times, I lost the faint track, so that I had to diverge and look close to find it. These delays fretted me. 'See, a stone loosed from its bed—he must have passed by here.... That twig is newly snapped; no doubt he caught at it.... Ha, the moss there has been crushed; a foot has gone by. And the ants on that ant-hill, with their eggs in their mouths—a man's tread has frightened them.' So, by some instinctive sense, as if the spirit of my savage ancestors revived within me, I managed to recover the spoor again and again by a miracle, till at last, round a corner by a defiant cliff—with a terrible foreboding, my heart stood still within me.

We had come to an end. A great projecting buttress of crag rose sheer in front. Above lay loose boulders. Below was a shrub-hung precipice. The birds we had seen from home were still circling and screaming.

They were a pair of peregrine hawks. Their nest seemed to lie far below the broken scar, some sixty or seventy feet beneath us.

'He is not dead!' I cried once more, with my heart in my mouth. 'If he were, they would have returned. He has fallen, and is lying, alive, below there!'

Elsie shrank back against the wall of rock. I advanced on my hands and knees to the edge of the precipice. It was not quite sheer, but it dropped like a sea-cliff, with broken ledges.

I could see where Harold had slipped. He had tried to climb round the crag that blocked the road, and the ground at the edge of the precipice had given way with him; it showed a recent founder of a few inches. Then he clutched at a branch of broom as he fell; but it slipped through his  fingers, cutting them; for there was blood on the wiry stem. I knelt by the side of the cliff and craned my head over. I scarcely dared to look. In spite of the birds, my heart misgave me.

There, on a ledge deep below, he lay in a mass, half raised on one arm. But not dead, I believed. 'Harold!' I cried. 'Harold!'

He turned his face up and saw me; his eyes lighted with joy. He shouted back something, but I could not hear it.

I turned to Elsie. 'I must go down to him!'

Her tears rose again. 'Oh, Brownie!'

I unwound the coil of rope. The first thing was to fasten it. I could not trust Elsie to hold it; she was too weak and too frightened to bear my weight: even if I wound it round her body, I feared my mere mass might drag her over. I peered about at the surroundings. No tree grew near; no rock had a pinnacle sufficiently safe to depend upon. But I found a plan soon. In the crag behind me was a cleft, narrowing wedge-shape as it descended. I tied the end of the rope round a stone, a good big water-worn stone, rudely girdled with a groove near the middle, which prevented it from slipping; then I dropped it down the fissure till it jammed; after which, I tried it to see if it would bear. It was firm as the rock itself. I let the rope down by it, and waited a moment to discover whether Harold could climb. He shook his head, and took a notebook with evident pain from his pocket. Then he scribbled a few words, and pinned them to the rope. I hauled it up. 'Can't move. Either severely bruised and sprained, or else legs broken.'

There was no help for it, then. I must go to him.

My first idea was merely to glide down the rope with my gloved hands, for I chanced to have my dog-skin bicycling gloves in my pocket. Fortunately, however, I did not carry out this crude idea too hastily; for next instant it occurred to me that I could not swarm up again. I have had no practice in rope-climbing. Here was a problem. But the moment suggested its own solution. I began making knots, or rather nooses or loops, in the rope, at intervals of about eighteen inches. 'What are they for?' Elsie asked, looking on in wonder.

'Footholds, to climb up by.'

'But the ones above will pull out with your weight.'

'I don't think so. Still, to make sure, I shall tie them with this string. I must get down to him.'

I threaded a sufficient number of loops, trying the length over the edge. Then I said to Elsie, who sat cowering, propped against the crag, 'You must come and look over, and do as I wave to you. Mind, dear, you must! Two lives depend upon it.'

'Brownie, I daren't? I shall turn giddy and fall over!'

I smoothed her golden hair. 'Elsie, dear,' I said gently, gazing into her blue eyes, 'you are a woman. A woman can always be brave, where those she loves are concerned; and I believe you love me.' I led her, coaxingly, to the edge. 'Sit there,' I said, in my quietest voice, so as not to alarm her. 'You can lie at full length, if you like, and only just peep over. But when I wave my hand, remember, you must pull the rope up.'

She obeyed me like a child. I knew she loved me.

I gripped the rope and let myself down, not using the loops to descend, but just sliding with hands and knees, and allowing the knots to slacken my pace. Half-way down, I will confess, the eerie feeling of physical suspense was horrible. One hung so in mid-air! The hawks flapped their wings. But Harold was below; and a woman can always be brave where those she loves—well, just that moment, catching my breath, I knew I loved Harold.

I glided down swiftly. The air whizzed. At last, on a narrow shelf of rock, I leant over him. He seized my hand. 'I knew you would come!' he cried. 'I felt sure you would find out. Though, how you found out, Heaven only knows, you clever, brave little woman!'

'Are you terribly hurt?' I asked, bending close. His clothes were torn.

'I hardly know. I can't move. It may only be bruises.'

'Can you climb by these nooses with my help?'

He shook his head. 'Oh, no. I couldn't climb at all. I must be lifted, somehow. You had better go back to Lungern and bring men to help you.'

'And leave you here alone! Never, Harold; never!'

'Then what can we do?'

I reflected a moment. 'Lend me your pencil,' I said. He pulled it out—his arms were almost unhurt, fortunately. I scribbled a line to Elsie. 'Tie my plaid to the rope and let it down.' Then I waved to her to pull up again.

I was half surprised to find she obeyed the signal, for she crouched there, white-faced and open-mouthed, watching; but I have often observed that women are almost always brave in the great emergencies. She pinned on the plaid and let it down with commendable quickness. I doubled it, and tied firm knots in the four corners, so as to make it into a sort of basket; then I fastened it at each corner with a piece of the rope, crossed in the middle, till it looked like one of the cages they use in mills for letting down sacks with. As soon as it was finished, I said, 'Now, just try to crawl into it.'

He raised himself on his arms and crawled in with difficulty. His legs dragged after him. I could see he was in great pain. But still, he managed it.

I planted my foot in the first noose. 'You must sit still,' I said, breathless. 'I am going back to haul you up.'

'Are you strong enough, Lois?'

'With Elsie to help me, yes. I often stroked a four at Girton.'

'I can trust you,' he answered. It thrilled me that he said so.

I began my hazardous journey; I mounted the rope by the nooses—one, two, three, four, counting them as I mounted. I did not dare to look up or down as I did so, lest I should grow giddy and fall, but kept my eyes fixed firmly always on the one noose in front of me. My brain swam: the rope swayed and creaked. Twenty, thirty, forty! Foot after foot, I slipped them in mechanically, taking up with me the longer coil whose ends were attached to the cage and Harold. My hands trembled; it was ghastly, swinging there between earth and heaven. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven— I knew there were forty-eight of them. At last, after some weeks, as it seemed, I reached the summit. Tremulous and half dead, I prised myself over the edge with my hands, and knelt once more on the  hill beside Elsie.

She was white, but attentive. 'What next, Brownie?' Her voice quivered.

I looked about me. I was too faint and shaky after my perilous ascent to be fit for work, but there was no help for it. What could I use as a pulley? Not a tree grew near; but the stone jammed in the fissure might once more serve my purpose. I tried it again. It had borne my weight; was it strong enough to bear the precious weight of Harold? I tugged at it, and thought so. I passed the rope round it like a pulley, and then tied it about my own waist. I had a happy thought: I could use myself as a windlass. I turned on my feet for a pivot. Elsie helped me to pull. 'Up you go!' I cried, cheerily. We wound slowly, for fear of shaking him. Bit by bit, I could feel the cage rise gradually from the ground; its weight, taken so, with living capstan and stone axle, was less than I should have expected. But the pulley helped us, and Elsie, spurred by need, put forth more reserve of nervous strength than I could easily have believed lay in that tiny body. I twisted myself round and round, close to the edge, so as to look over from time to time, but not at all quickly, for fear of dizziness. The rope strained and gave. It was a deadly ten minutes of suspense and anxiety. Twice or thrice as I looked down I saw a spasm of pain break over Harold's face; but when I paused and glanced inquiringly, he motioned me to go on with my venturesome task. There was no turning back now. We had almost got him up when the rope at the edge began to creak ominously.

It was straining at the point where it grated against the brink of the precipice. My heart gave a leap. If the rope broke, all was over.

With a sudden dart forward, I seized it with my hands, below the part that gave; then—one fierce little run back—and I brought him level with the edge. He clutched at Elsie's hand. I turned thrice round, to wind the slack about my body. The taut rope cut deep into my flesh; but nothing mattered now, except to save him. 'Catch the cloak, Elsie!' I cried; 'catch it: pull him gently in!' Elsie caught it and pulled him in, with wonderful pluck and calmness. We hauled him over the edge. He lay safe on the bank. Then we all three broke down and cried like children together. I took his hand in mine and held it in silence.

When we found words again I drew a deep breath, and said, simply, 'How did you manage to do it?'

'I tried to clamber past the wall that barred the way there by sheer force of stride—you know, my legs are long—and I somehow overbalanced myself. But I didn't exactly fall—if I had fallen, I must have been killed; I rolled and slid down, clutching at the weeds in the crannies as I slipped, and stumbling over the projections, without quite losing my foothold on the ledges, till I found myself brought up short with a bump at the end of it.'

'And you think no bones are broken?'

'I can't feel sure. It hurts me horribly to move. I fancy just at first I must have fainted. But I'm inclined to guess I'm only sprained and bruised and sore all over. Why, you're as bad as me, I believe. See, your dear hands are all torn and bleeding!'

'How are we ever to get him back again, Brownie?' Elsie put in. She was paler than ever now, and prostrate with the after-effects of her unwonted effort.

'You are a practical woman, Elsie,' I answered. 'Stop with him here a minute or two. I'll climb up the hillside and halloo for Ursula and the men from Lungern.'

I climbed and hallooed. In a few minutes, worn out as I was, I had reached the path above and attracted their attention. They hurried down to where Harold lay, and, using my cage for a litter, slung on a young fir-trunk, carried him back between them across their shoulders to the village. He pleaded hard to be allowed to remain at the châlet, and Elsie joined her prayers to his; but, there, I was adamant. It was not so much what people might say that I minded, but a deeper difficulty. For if once I nursed him through this trouble, how could I or any woman in my place any longer refuse him? So I passed him ruthlessly on to Lungern (though my heart ached for it), and telegraphed at once to his nearest relative, Lady Georgina, to come up and take care of him.

He recovered rapidly. Though sore and shaken, his worst hurts, it turned out, were sprains; and in three or four days he was ready to go on again. I called to see him before he left. I dreaded the interview; for one's own heart is a hard enemy to fight so long: but how could I let him go without one word of farewell to him?

'After this, Lois,' he said, taking my hand in his—and I was weak enough, for a moment, to let it lie there—'you cannot say No to me!'

Oh, how I longed to fling myself upon him and cry out, 'No, Harold, I cannot! I love you too dearly!' But his future and Marmaduke Ashurst's half million restrained me: for his sake and for my own I held myself in courageously. Though, indeed, it needed some courage and self-control. I withdrew my hand slowly. 'Do you remember,' I said, 'you asked me that first day at Schlangenbad'—it was an epoch to me now, that first day—'whether I was mediæval or modern? And I answered, "Modern, I hope." And you said, "That's well!"—You see, I don't forget the least things you say to me. Well, because I am modern—'my lips trembled and belied me—'I can answer you No. I can even now refuse you. The old-fashioned girl, the mediæval girl, would have held that because she saved your life (if I did save your life, which is a matter of opinion) she was bound to marry you. But I am modern, and I see things differently. If there were reasons at Schlangenbad which made it impracticable for me to accept you—though my heart pleaded hard—I do not deny it—those reasons cannot have disappeared merely because you have chosen to fall over a precipice, and I have pulled you up again. My decision was founded, you see, not on passing accidents of situation, but on permanent considerations. Nothing has happened in the last three days to affect those considerations. We are still ourselves: you, rich; I, a penniless adventuress. I could not accept you when you asked me at Schlangenbad. On just the same grounds, I cannot accept you now. I do not see how the unessential fact that I made myself into a winch to pull you up the cliff, and that I am still smarting for

He looked me all over comically. 'How severe we are!' he cried, in a bantering tone. 'And how extremely Girtony! A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive, by Lois Cayley! What a pity we didn't take a professor's chair. My child that isn't you! It's not yourself at all! It's an attempt to be unnaturally and unfemininely reasonable.'

Logic fled. I broke down utterly. 'Harold,' I cried, rising, 'I love you! I admit I love you! But I will never marry you—while you have those thousands.'

'I haven't got them yet!'

'Or the chance of inheriting them.'

He smothered my hand with kisses—for I withdrew my face. 'If you admit you love me,' he cried, quite joyously, 'then all is well. When once a woman admits that, the rest is but a matter of time—and, Lois, I can wait a thousand years for you.'

'Not in my case,' I answered through my tears. 'Not in my case, Harold! I am a modern woman, and what I say I mean. I will renew my promise. If ever you are poor and friendless, come to me; I am yours. Till then, don't harrow me by asking me the impossible!'

I tore myself away. At the hall door, Lady Georgina intercepted me. She glanced at my red eyes. 'Then you have taken him?' she cried, seizing my hand.

I shook my head firmly. I could hardly speak. 'No, Lady Georgina,' I answered, in a choking voice. 'I have refused him again. I will not stand in his way. I will not ruin his prospects.'

She drew back and let her chin drop. 'Well, of all the hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate young women I ever saw in my born days, if you're not the very hardest'

I half ran from the house. I hurried home to the châlet. There, I dashed into my own room, locked the door behind me, flung myself wildly on my bed, and, burying my face in my hands, had a good, long, hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate cry—exactly like any other mediæval woman. It's all very well being modern; but my experience is that, when it comes to a man one loves—well, the Middle Ages are still horribly strong within us.

title: Miss Cayley's Adventures/Chapter 5


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CHAP. IX northern peoples were to be held in tutelage to the form and constitution of that which they had received: they continued to revere the patristic sources of Christian doctrines, and to look with awe upon the profane culture accompanying them.

Thus, as under authority, Christianity came to the Teutonic peoples, even to those who, like the Goths, were converted to the Arian creed. Likewise the orthodox belief was brought to the Celtic Britons and Irish as a superior religion associated with superior culture. But the qualities or circumstances of these western Celts reacted more freely upon their form of faith, because Ireland and Britain were the fringe of the world, and Christianity was hardly fixed in dogma and ritual when the conversion at least of Britain began.

Certain phrases of Tertullian indicate that Christianity had made some progress among the Britons by the beginning of the third century. For the next hundred years nothing is known of the British Church, save that it did not suffer from the persecution under Diocletian in 304, and ten years afterwards was represented by three bishops at the Council of Arles. It was orthodox, accepting the creed of Nicaea (A.D. 325) and the date of Easter there fixed. The fourth century seems to have been the period of its prosperity. It was affiliated with the Church of Gaul; nor did these relations cease at once when the Roman legions were withdrawn from Britain in 410. But not many decades later the Saxon invasion began to cut off Britain from the Christian world. After a while certain divergences appear in rite and custom, though not in doctrine. They seem not to have been serious when Gildas wrote in 550. Yet when Augustine came, fifty years later, the Britons celebrated Easter at a different date from that observed by the Roman Catholic Church; for they followed the old computation which Rome had used before adopting the better method of Alexandria. Also the mode of baptism and the tonsure differed from the Roman.

At the close of the sixth century the British Church existed chiefly in Wales, whither the Britons had retreated before the Saxons. Formerly there had been no

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

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172 to follow the Church of Rome. But now a long period had elapsed, during which Britain had been left to its misfortunes. The Britons had been raided and harassed; their country invaded; and at last they had been driven from the greater portion of their land. How they hated those Saxon conquerors! And forsooth a Roman mission appears to convert those damned and hateful heathen, and a somewhat haughty summons issues to the expelled or down-trodden people to abandon their own Christian usages for those of the Roman communion, and then join this Roman mission in its saving work among those Saxons whom the Britons had met only at the spear's point. Love of ancient and familiar customs soured to obstinacy in the face of such demands; a sweeping rejection was returned. Yet to conform to Roman usages and join with Augustine in his mission to the Saxons, was the only way in which the dwindling British Church could link itself to the Christian world, and save its people from exterminating wars. By refusing, it committed suicide.

A refusal to conform, although no refusal to undertake missions to the Saxons, came from the Irish-Scottish Church. As Ireland had never been drawn within the Roman world, its conversion was later than that of Britain. Yet there would seem to have been Christians in Ireland before 431; for in that year, according to an older record quoted by Bede, Palladius, the first bishop (primus episcopus), was sent by Celestine the Roman pontiff "ad Scottos in Christum credentes." The mission of Palladius does not appear to have been acceptable to the Irish. Some accounts have confused his story with that of Patrick, the "Apostle of Ireland," whose apostolic glory has not been overthrown by criticism. The more authentic accounts, and above all his own Confession, go far to explain Patrick's success. His early manhood, passed as a slave in Antrim, gave him understanding of the Irish; and doubtless his was a great missionary capacity and zeal. The natural approach to such a people was through their tribal kings, and Patrick

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 signs of Faustus's influence. 'Of all that Marlow hath written to the stage his "Dr. Faustus" hath made the greatest noise,' wrote Phillips in his 'Theatrum Poetarum,' 1675. In 1684 appeared Mountfort's 'Life and Death of Dr. Faust,' in which Marlowe's tragedy was converted into a pantomime, and in that uncomplimentary form obtained a new lease of popularity (cf. Anglia, vii. 341 sq.) Abroad Marlowe's work was equally well appreciated. English companies of actors performed it on their continental tours in the seventeenth century. It was acted at Grätz in 1608, and at Dresden in 1626, and very frequently at Vienna (cf., Die englischen Comodianten ... in Oesterreich). Goethe admired it, and had an intention of translating it before he designed his own play on the same theme. W. Muller rendered it into German in 1858, and Francois Victor Hugo translated it into French in 1668. A Dutch version was published at Groningen in 1887.

Marlowe's third effort was 'The Jew of Malta.' An incidental reference to the death of the Duke of Guise proves that its date was subsequent to 1588. It was frequently acted under Henslowe's management between 26 Feb. 1591–2 and 21 June 1596, and was revived by him on 19 May 1601. Alleyn, who took the part of Barabas the Jew, is said to have worn an exceptionally large nose. In 1633 it was again acted in London, both at court and at the Cockpit. On 24 April 1818 Kean revived at Drury Lane a version altered by S. Penley, and played Barabas himself; it ran for twelve nights (, Hist. Account, viii. 645). It was equally popular abroad. In 1607 English actors produced it while on continental tours at Passau, and in 1608 at Grätz. In an early seventeenth-century manuscript, now at Vienna, there is a German comedy based partly on Marlowe's play and partly on Shakespeare's 'Merchant of Venice.' This is printed in Meissner's 'Die englischen Comildianten,' pp. 180 sq.

A lost ballad, doubtless based on the play, was entered on the Stationers' Registers by John Danter on 16 May 1594. Next day the tragedy was itself entered there by Nicholas Ling and Thomas Millington, but it was not published till 1683. when it was edited by Thomas Heywood. The full title runs: 'The Famous Tragedy of the Rich Jew of Malta. As it was played before the King and Qveene in Her Majesties Theatre at White Hall, by her Majesties servants at the Cock-pit. Written by Christopher Marlo. London. Printed by I. B. for Nicholas Vavasour, 1633' 4to. It was included in Dodsley's collection, 1780; it was separately edited by W. Oxberry, 1818; and was translated by E. von Buelow into German in his 'Altenglische Schaübhne,' 1831, pt. i. A Dutch translation was issued at Leyden as early as 1645.

The opening scenes are in Marlowe's best vein, and are full of dramatic energy; in the later acts there is a rapid descent into 'gratuitous, unprovoked, and incredible atrocities,' hardly tolerable as caricature, and it is possible that the only accessible text presents a draft of Marlowe's work defaced by playhouse hacks. As in 'Tamburlaine,' Marlowe here again sought his plot in oriental history, although no direct source is known. He embodied hearsay versions of the siege of Malta by the Turks under Selim, son of the sultan Soliman, in 1565, and of another attack on the island by the Spaniards (cf., Les Chevaliers de Malte et la Marine de Philippe II, Paris, 1887). Barabas resembles a contemporary historical personage, Joan Miquez (b. 1520), afterwards known as Josef Nossi, a Portuguese Jew, who, after sojourning in Antwerp and Venice, settled in Constantinople, exerted much influence over the sultan, became Duke of Naxos and the Cyclades (1569), and took part, in the siege of Cyprus in 1570 against the Venetians (cf., De Sacro Fœdere in Selimum, Geneva, 1587). Marlowe also knew the chapter on Malta in Nicholas Nicholay's 'Navigations. . . into Turkie,' translated by T. Washington the younger, 1586 (cf. 'Die Quelle von Marlowe's "Jew of Malta,"' by Leon Kellner, in Englische Studien, x. 80–110).

'Edward II' was Marlowe's chief incursion into the English historical drama, and by the improvement manifest in dramatic construction it may be ascribed to his latest year. Marlowe mainly borrowed his information from Holinshed and had occasional reference to Stow, but in his spirited characterisation of Gaveston and Edward II, Mortimer and Edmund, earl of Kent, he owes little to the chroniclers. It is the best constructed of Marlowe's pieces. 'The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward,' wrote Charles Lamb, 'furnished hints which Shakespeare scarcely improved in his "Richard II;" and the death scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern, with which I am acquainted.' The work was entered on the Stationers' Registers by William Jones on 6 July 1593. A unique copy of an edition of 1594 is in the public library of Cassel. The earliest edition known in this country was published in 1598 as 'The Troublesome Raigne and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of


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 214 One of Thomas Dabney's friends, Adam Giffen, of New Orleans, himself a refugee in Mobile at this time, came to offer his purse to the family of his friend. Thomas was absent and his daughter refused to accept the money, fearing that she would not be able to repay it. "I do not care if I never see it again," Mr. Giffen said, as he thrust two thousand dollars into her hand. "Your father will pay me some day if he can, and if he cannot, I shall not consider it a debt."

She then tried to give to Mr. Giffen a receipt for the money, but he refused to receive it.

"A receipt from your father's daughter! No, indeed, and no thanks either." In a few weeks Thomas was able to return the two thousand dollars to his generous friend.

The cavalry company had withdrawn from their camp on the Tallahala Creek. Soon after the negroes were brought down to Mobile,—the one hundred who had not left the plantation. The money and silver and wearing apparel also of the family were brought down, and a good many books and a few other things that were valued as mementos. Then a sale was held at Burleigh, and not only were the furniture, etc., sold out of the house, but the stock and plantation implements of all sorts were disposed of. Our father was opposed to giving up the accumulations of years in this manner, but he yielded to his daughters, and the plantation and home were stripped bare. A handful of Confederate money was all that was brought by the sale.

At the end of the six months in Mobile, papa decided to take his family to Macon, Georgia. There he bought a little cottage with four diminutive rooms. As we drove up to it in the old family carriage, which


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


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 Rh we had been able still to keep, he handed us out, saying in his bright way, "Welcome to Burleigh No. 2."

He could not make his servants as comfortable as he wished, and this was a source of regret to him. Many of them were hired in good homes, near enough to come to him if they were in trouble; but some of them he preferred not to hire out, as they were not strong, and these, he said, were too much crowded for their health. They did not complain of this specially, and they seemed really to enjoy the novelty of town life.

Mammy Maria, who had left two husbands in Mississippi, came out in the new country as "Miss Dabney," and attracted, as she informed her "white children," as much admiration as any of the young girls, and had offers of marriage too. But she meant to enjoy her liberty, she said, and should not think of marrying any of them.

In that small cottage in Macon the rooms were little more than closets, and we were much thrown together. We were strangers too in Georgia, although we had some very good friends there; then the times were sad. We never felt the family ties stronger than we did in that year in Macon, in a house that was built for the humblest class of factory people. It was near the railroad station, and in the midst of the factories, and we had to stop talking at the train hours and when the factory whistles blew.

But the dear father had no plantation to attend to, and not much to feel interest in besides his little fireside and his absent children. So he sat with us, and he grew interested in everything that we said and did, and we talked to him as freely as if he had been another sister. At night he left the door of his sleeping cabinet open, and we left ours open. We had never been so intimate with him before. One cannot be in a large house, with rooms on different floors. He joined in all our talks, as we sisters lay in bed in our room and he in his room, and shared all our jokes. Ever since our mother's death he had been in the habit of singing in the middle of the night. We found out that it was because he was lonely, with no one to talk to.


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, David (fl.1795)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, David (1763-1812)


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 216 In this cottage, when he sang his funny songs in the night, we laughed out, and he would be delighted to hear us. Then always a talk sprang up, and we talked till we were all sleepy. The calling from bed to bed of anything that was interesting or amusing, and many things that would hardly have seemed amusing at other times, brought out shouts of laughter and applause in our midnight gossipings. He enjoyed it like a boy on a lark, as the whole party did.

During our year in Macon he had the pleasure of meeting General Joseph E. Johnston, for whom he had a high admiration. An amusing incident occurred one day when General Johnston came to call on him. Lelia had wished much to see the hero of whom everybody was talking. Her nurse was fired with the same desire, and they planned a way of getting a sight of him through a transom over the parlor door. Accordingly chairs and boxes were piled up, and she and Lelia mounted to the top of the pile. But an unlucky movement caused the structure to totter, and it fell with a crash on the floor of the little back gallery. As a matter of course, the unusual noise made papa open the door to see what was the matter, and this revealed Lelia and poor Milly overcome with confusion and shame at having brought disgrace on the house at such a time. Papa was struck with the ridiculous aspect of the wreck and the culprits, and when General Johnston had heard the explanation he laughed heartily, and insisted on having the child brought in. He doubtless looked on the thing as a compliment to himself, as he had good right to do. But the child in her faded Confederate homespun frock, and Milly, the aider and abettor in the misdemeanor, were very uncomfortable as to their share in the adventure. Milly had a right to special indulgence, and the whole thing was laughed off.

Milly was in Raymond at the time the battle was fought two miles from that place, having been sent thither to learn dress-making. She was dreadfully frightencd by the guns, and ran about crying, "Oh, I am 'feared dey will kill do ladies at Burleigh."


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 England; with the Tragiciall Fall of proud Mortimer; And also the Life and Death of Peirs Ganeston, the great Earle of Cornewall, and mighty Favorite of King Edward the Second, as it was publiquely acted by the Right Honourable the Earle of Pembrooke his servauntes. Written by Chri. Marlow, Gent. Imprinted at London by Richard Bradocke, for William Jones, 1598, 4to' (British Museum and Bodleian). A manuscript cony of this edition, in a seventeenth-century hand, is in the Dyce Library. The text is in a far more satisfactory state than in the case of any other of Marlowe's works. Other early editions are dated 1612 and 1622. It was translated into German by Von Buelow in 1831. There are recent editions by Mr. F. O. Fleay (1877) and by Mr. O. W. Tancock, Oxford, 1879 and 1887.

In two dramatic pieces—of far inferior calibre—Marlowe was also concerned. The 'Massacre at Paris,' which concludes with the assassination of Henry III, 2 Aug. 1689, appears to have been first acted 3 Jan. 1692-3 (, Diary). It reproduces much recent French history and seems to have been largely based on contemporary reports. The text of the printed piece is very corrupt. A fragment of a contemporary manuscript copy (sc. 19) printed by Mr. Collier is extant among the Halliwell-Phillipps papers, and attests, as far as it goes, the injury done to the piece while going through the press. The soliloquy of the Duke of Guise in sc. 2 alone is worthy of notice. The only early edition is without date. It was probably published in 1600. The title runs: 'The Massacre at Paris: with the death of the Duke of Guise. As it was plaide by the right honourable the Lord High Admirall his Serrante. Written by Christopher Marlow. At London Printed by E A. for Edward White. There are copies in the British Museum, the Bodleian, and the Pepysian libraries.

The 'Tragedy of Dido,' published in 1594, is described as the joint work of Marlowe 'and Thomas Nash. Gent.' Unlike Marlowe's earlier efforts, it is overlaid with quaint conceits and has none of his tragic intensity. Æneas's recital to Dido of the story of the fall of Troy is in the baldest and most pedestrian verse, and was imdoubtedly parodied bv Shekespeare in the play-scene in 'Hamlet.' The piece must have been a very juvenile effort, awkwardly revised and completed by Nashe after Marlowe's death. The title of the editio princep runs: 'The Tragedie of Dido Queene of Carthage: Played by the Children of her Majesties Chappell. Written by Christopher Marlowe and Thomas Nash, Gent. At London, Printed by the Widdowe Orwin for Thomas Woodcocke, 1594. Copies are in the Bodleian, Bridgwater House, and Devonshire House libraries.

Several other plays have been assigned to Marlowe on internal evidence, but critics are much divided as to the extent of his work outside the pieces already specified. Like his friends Kyd and Shakespeare, he doubtless refurbished some old plays and collaborated in some new ones, but he had imitators, from whom he is not, except in his most exalted moments, always distinguishable. Shakespeare's earlier style often closely resembled his, and it is not at all times possible to distinguish the two with certainty. 'A Taming of a Shrew' (1694), the precursor of Shakespeare's comedy, has been frequently assigned to Marlowe. It contains many passages literally borrowed from 'Tamburlaine or 'Faustus,' but it is altogether unlikely either that Marlowe would have literally borrowed from himself or that he could have sufficiently surmounted his deficiency in humour to produce so humorous a play. 'The Trublesome Raign of Kinge John' (1591), 'a poor, spiritless chronicle play,' may in its concluding portions be by Marlowe, but many of his contemporaries could have done as well. Internal evidence gives Marlowe some claim to be regarded as part author of 'Titus Andronicus,' with which Shakespeare was very slightly, if at all, concerned. Aaron might well have been drawn by the creator of the Jew of Malta, but the theory that Kyd was largely responsible for the piece deserves consideration. The three parts of 'Henry VI,' which figure in the 1623 folio of Shakespeare's works, although they were apparently written in 1592, present features of great difficulty. The first part shows very slight, if any, traces of Marlowe's co-operation. But in the second and third plays passages appear in which his hand can be distinctly traced. Each of these plays exists in another shape. Part II. is an improved and much altered version of 'The First Part of the Contention betwixt the two Famous Houses of Vork and Lancaster,' 1594, 4to, and Part III. bears similar relation to 'The True Tragedie of Richard, Duke of Yorke.' 1595, 4to, although the divergences between the two are less extensive. There are many internal proofs that Marlowe worked on the earlier pieces in conjunction with one or more coadjutors who have not been satisfactorily identified. But that admission does not exclude the theory that he was afterwards associated with Shakespeare in converting these imperfect drafts into the form in which they were admitted to the 1623 folio (cf., Life of Shakeapeare, pp. 235 sq.; Transactions of New Shakspere Soc. pt. ii.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, George (1790-1865)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, George Hilary


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, Gilbert


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, Ignatius


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There was a wedding o'er in Fife, An' mony a ane frae Lothian at it; Jean Vernon there maist lost her life, For love o' Jamie Howden at it. Blyth Will and Bessie's weddin', Blyth Will and Bessie's weddin', Had I been Will, Bess had been mine, An' Bess an' I had made the weddin'. Right sair she grat, and wet her cheeks, An' naithing pleased that we could gie her; She tint her heart in Jamie's breeks, It cam nae back to Lothian wi' her.

[Kate Mackie cam frae Parloncraigs, The road was foul 'twixt that an' Couper; She shaw'd a pair o' handsome legs. When Highland Donald he o'ertook her.

Comin' o'er the moor o' Couper, Coming o'er the moor o' Couper, Donald fell in love wi' her. An' row'd his Highland plaid about her.

They took them to the Logan steps, An' set them down to rest thegither, Donald laid her on her back. An' fir'd a Highland pistol at her.

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, James (1812-1881)


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/New Testament Chronology

NEW TESTAMENT CHRONOLOGY, the approximate dates of the events recorded in the gospels and other books of the New Testament summarized according to the findings of the best scholarship of recent years. The unity in diversity of the different texts of the evangelists is synchronized by chapter and verse references to related incidents. Allowing for the preparatory incidents which led early chroniclers to approximate the beginnings of the Christian Era at 9-8 B.C., the principal events may be outlined as follows:

For the extension of New Testament Chronology, see , and other special articles in this work on ; on the books of the New Testament, and related references.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, James Baldwin (1785-1843)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Brown, James Baldwin (1820-1884)


text: Author:Charles Leonard-Stuart

title: Author:Charles Leonard-Stuart


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 Rh When General Stoneman made his raid on Macon, Thomas and his son were among the troops who went out to meet him. The following are Thomas Dabney, Jr's., recollections of this event;

"In the latter part of July, 1864, General Stoneman was sent by General Sherman to capture Macon, Georgia, to liberate the United States prisoners there contined, and to destroy the arsenal and ordnance department of the Confederate States of America.

"General Stoneman, accompanied by several brigades of picked men, eluded General Hood's army, and reached Macon about an hour before daybreak. But, unfortunately for him, a severe freshet, which occurred a day or two previous to his arrival, had washed the bridge over the Ocmulgee River away. The railroad bridge, about a mile lower down, was still intact, but before General Stoneman could recover from his surprise the market gardeners and butchers on their way to the city discovered his presence, hurried across the railroad bridge and gave the alarm. Soon the streets rang with the cry of heralds from the mayor calling upon every one who could shoulder a gun to run to the railroad bridge to defend it at all hazards.

"Father and I ran to the arsenal and got forty rounds of ammunition apiece, and then ran all the way to the bridge, over a mile distant. We were among the first to arrive, but soon old men and boys began to pour in from all quarters. A considerable number of convalescents from the numerous hospitals located in Macon joined us. We were none too soon, for already could be seen the long lines of the enemy not over a half-mile from the bridge, and every few moments shot and shell whistled over the heads of the defenders of that bridge.

"Father's company was Company A, Findley's battalion, but it generally went by the name of the 'Silver Grays,' from the color of the hair of the members. I was the only member in it without a gray head.

"Finally the enemy moved his position farther down the river, and General Johnston ordered most of his


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 which equity might be on his side, with the law dead against him; and which was regarded by older men with the conservatism of age as impossible until, by his brilliant effort, he unexpectedly won it. As like as not he rode forty miles that night to give a flower to his sweetheart.

From this time his reputation, his influence, and his practice increased. His professional position was henceforth assured. He had risen from a tyro to be an old lawyer.

[James Lane Allen was born near Lexington, Kentucky, in 1849. He attended Transylvania University, and after teaching school for several years he accepted the chair of Latin and higher English in Bethany College, West Virginia. After two years he resigned this position and has since devoted himself to literature, residing the greater part of the time in New York City. His earlier sketches of Kentucky life were published in 1891 under the title "Flute and Violin." This was followed by the short novels "A Kentucky Cardinal," and its sequel "Aftermath," and "A Summer in Arcady." With "The Choir Invisible" Mr. Allen began to work in the longer form of fiction, the novel, which has since chiefly occupied his time.]

[Under the new conditions resulting from the Civil War and his altered fortunes, Colonel Romulus Fields, representing "the flower of that social order which had bloomed in rank perfection over the blue-grass plains of Kentucky during the final decades of the old régime," determined to sell his place and move to town. Of the Colonel's former slaves, one remained inseparable from his person. This was "an old gentleman—for such he was—named Peter Cotton." "In early


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 218 men across the river, leaving Company A to defend the bridge.

"A furious cannonade was opened upon this point, but as we, according to orders, were lying behind the railroad embankment, none of the Silver Grays were touched until Major Taliaferro placed two cannon on our side of the river and proposed returning the enemy's fire. Volunteers to man the guns were called for. In an instant father and many other old gentlemen were busy loading the two twenty-pounders that were to commit such havoc in those serried blue lines just on the crest of yonder hill. Our shot flew wide of the mark and the blue lines wavered not. Suddenly the enemy ceased firing, and horsemen were seen galloping up and down the long line. We were beginning to feel much encouraged, when suddenly an old soldier cried out, 'Look, the enemy is massing his batteries!' It was only too true. Cannon seemed to come from everywhere, and a perfect storm of shot and shell burst upon our devoted heads. In a few minutes our guns were silenced, but not until several of the Silver Grays lay dead beside the little brazen guns which brought us nothing but death.

"We were ordered to lie down again. The battle scene shifted, and finally General Stoneman and most of his men were outwitted and captured. A small brigade of Texans under the gallant General Gregg, I think, coming up in the enemy's rear decided the day in our favor.

"Father and I did not fire a gun during the entire day."

One night while we were in Macon papa was taking us to the theatre, and we happened to meet Mammy Maria on the way. Hearing where we were going, she said, "Why don't you take me too, marster? I never been to the theatre in my life." So he told her to come along. When we got there, mammy was quite disgusted at being told by the door-keeper that she was to sit in the gallery, instead of with her white people. When the play was over—it was "Taming the Shrew"—


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 1876, by Miss Jane Lee;, Study of Shakespeare, pp. 51 sq.) Evidence of style also gives Marlowe some pretension to a share in 'Edward III,' 1596, 4to, a play of very unequal merit, but including at least one scene which has been doubtfully assigned to Shakespeare.

Harvey in his 'Newe Latter' of 1593 expresses surprise that Marlowe's 'Gargantua mind' was conquered and had 'left no Scanderbeg behind.' Mr. Fleay infers that Marlowe had written, but had failed to publish, a play concerning Scanderbeg; but this is not the most obvious meaning of a perplexing passage. 'The True History of George Scanderbage, played by the Earl of Oxford's servants' (i.e. not later than 1588), and entered on the Stationers' Registers 3 July 1601, is not extant. 'Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Qneen. A Tragedie written by Christofer Marloe, Gent.' published by Kirkman in 1657 (another edit. 1661), is unjustifiably ascribed to Marlowe. It is possibly identical, as Collier suggested, with the 'Spanish Moor's Tragedy,' written for Henslowe early in 1600 by Dekker, Haughton, and Day. Among the plays destroyed by Warburton's cook was 'The Maiden's Holiday,' a comedy assigned to Day and Marlowe. Day belonged to a slightly later generation, and there is no evidence of Marlowe's association with a comedy.

Three verse renderings from the classics also came from Marlowe's pen. His translation of Ovid's 'Amores' was thrice printed in 12mo, without date, at 'Middleborough,' with the epigrams of Sir John Davies [q. v.] Whether 'Middleborough' is to be taken literally is questionable. The earliest edition, 'Epigrammes and Elegies,' appeared about 1597, and is now very rare. A copy at Lamport Hall, Northamptonshire, the property of Sir Charles Edmonds, has been reproduced in facsimile by Mr. Charles Edmonds, who assigns it to the London press of W. Jaggard, the printer of the 'Passionate Pilgrim.' The work was condemned to the flames by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London in June 1599, on the ground of its licentiousness (Notes and Queries, 3rd ser. xii. 436).

Marlowe's chief effort in narrative verse was his unfinished paraphrase of Musæus's 'Hero and Leander.' He completed two 'sestiads,' which were entered by John Wolf as 'an amorous poem' on the Stationers' Registers on 28 Sept. 1593, and were published in 1598 by Edward Blount [q. v.] at the press of Adam Islip. This was dedicated by Blount to Sir Thomas Walsingham. A copy is in Mr. Christie-Millet's library at Britwell. George Chapman finished the poem, and in the same year two further editions of the work appeared from the press of Felix Kingston with the four sestiads added Chapman. Copies of both these later editions are at Lamport. Other editions of the complete poem were issued in 1606 (Brit. Mus.) 1643, 1617 (Huth Library), 1629, and 1637. A copy of the 1629 edition, formerly in Heber's library, contains in seventeenth-century handwriting Marlowe's 'Elegy on Manwood' and some authentic notes respecting his life (see Cat. 1834, iv. No. 1415). It now belongs to Colonel Prideaux of Calcutta (cf. Notes and Queries, 6th ser. xi. 305, 353, xii. 16;, iii. App.ii.) The poem is throughout in rhymed heroics, and Marlowe's language is is peculiarly 'clear, rich, and fervent.' Its popularity was as great as any of Marlowe's plays. According to Nashe he was here inspired by 'a diviner muse' than Musæus ('Lenten Stuffe,' in, Works. Francis Meres, in his 'Palladia Tamia' (1598), declared that 'Musæus, who wrote the loves of Hero and Leander . . . hath in England two excellent poets, imitators in the same argument and subject, Christopher Marlow and George Chapman.' Ben Jonson quotes from it in 'Every Man in his Humour,' and is reported by a humble imitator of Marlowe, William Bosworth, author of 'Chast and Lost Lovers' (1651), to have been 'often heard to say' that its 'mighty lines . . . were fitter for admiration than for parallel.' Henry Petowe published in 1598 'The Second Part of Hero and Leander.' John Taylor the Water-poet claims to have sung verses from it while sculling on the Thames. Middleton in 'A Mad World, my Masters,' described it and 'Venus and Adonis' as 'two luscious marrow-bone pies for a young married wife.' An edition by S. W. Singer appeared in 1821, and it was reprinted in Brydges's 'Restituta' (1814).

'The First Book of Lucan's Pharsalia,' entered by John Wolf on the Stationers' Registers on 28 Sept. 1593, was issued in 1600, 4to. It is in epic blank verse, and although the lines lack the variety of pause which was achieved by Marlowe's greatest successors, the author displays sufficient mastery of the metre to warrant its attribution to his later years. The volume has a dedication signed by 'Thom. Thorpe,' the publisher of Shakespeare's 'Sonnets,' and addressed to Blount. It was reprinted by Percy in his specimens of blank verse before Milton.

Marlowe's well-known song, 'Come live with me and be my love,' was first printed, without the fourth or sixth stanzas and with the first stanza only of the 'Answer,' in the


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 Rh and mammy rejoined us at the door, she was in a state of excitement. She had been dreadfully scared by the fighting on the stage, and feared that Petruchio might go up in the gallery and fight there too.

After the battle of Resaca and New Hope Church, the wounded were sent to Macon, and they were laid out on the floor of the railroad station in long rows. Their wounds had been dressed on the field two days before, but not since, and they had had no food during those days. Thomas Dabney took every available thing in the house to nourish them, and his daughters, under his direction, made lint and tore up linen into long strips. They accompanied him, and helped to minister to the suffering men, binding up wounds, giving them hot tea, milk, and other refreshment.

The surgeons soon discovered that he understood dressing wounds, as he went from one soldier to another, putting on fresh bandages and helping his daughters in cases that they could not manage.

Years after, as he was getting on a railroad train, a man seized his hand, and said, "I can never forget you, sir. You dressed my wound at Macon." Thomas could not recall the man's face, he had dressed the wounds of so many. But the man was not satisfied till he made him recollect which one he was.

"I asked your daughter to dress my wound, and she said that she could not, but she brought you to do it for me." And this recalled the circumstance to his memory.

The only groans heard from those wounded men came from two sweet-faced young boys. They were shot through the head, and were delirious, and both were dying. One of them said, "Kiss me, mother."

As they left this scene, Thomas's daughter said to him, "I could not get to the boy I begged the lady standing near him to kiss him."

"Yes, I heard you," Thomas replied, in a husky voice.

The lady had passed her hand over the lips of the dying lad, and said, "That seems to satisfy him."


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The New International Encyclopædia/Deutsch, Emanuel Oscar

DEUTSCH, doich, (1829-73). A distinguished Semitic scholar. He was born of Jewish parents, at Neisse, in Silesia. His education was begun by an uncle, to whose inspiration he owed his interest in Oriental languages and literature, and was finished at the University of Berlin. In 1855 he was called to England to fill an appointment in the library of the British Museum and labored there until his death in 1873. He acquired an extraordinary mastery of the whole range of Hebrew, Aramaic, and Rabbinical literature, and is best known for his articles on the Talmud and Islam in the Quarterly Review, and also wrote excellent articles on the Targum and the Samaritan Pentateuch for Smith's Dictionary of the Bible. The monument of his official work in the British Museum is to be found in the Phœnician Inscriptions, edited by Mr. Vaux, to whom Deutsch rendered most valuable assistance. His engrossing public duties and comparatively short life prevented Deutsch from fulfilling the dream of his life, an elaborate work on the Talmud. Consult his Literary Remains, containing reprints of his most important articles, with memoir (London and New York, 1874). The essay on the Talmud has also been reprinted by the American Jewish Publication Society, Special Series No. 3 (Philadelphia, 1897).


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 220 ", 16th August, 1864.

..." Tommy and I belong to an organization composed of citizens exempt by age,—a fine looking body of gentlemen. Tommy, I think, is the only member under fifty years of age."

", 18th September, 1864.

..." I write now to say, as you may well imagine, that our troubles are not ended, the Yankees still struggling to reach our abode, poor as it now is. We cannot now pretend to know the immediate objects of Sherman, but think it prudent to suppose that, either immediately or ultimately, Macon will become an object of interest with him. Under this view of the subject I have concluded to leave here on Wednesday, the 21st inst. I will take the family and the establishment of servants to Burleigh. . . . Nothing; could be more injudicious than an attempt on your part to reach us. The trains are all in the hands of the government, private travel excluded, except by freight boxes, on freight trains. Occasionally a few beg themselves into the express car, a close box, and this was the manner of my getting Mrs. Governor Brown off. We will have to go by the freight train, if at all, and I believe I shall succeed in this."

From the day that General Johnston was relieved from the command of the Army of Northern Georgia Thomas had no hope for the Confederacy, and he now wished to take his family back to Burleigh while it could get be done.

He had never liked Jefferson Davis, and now he was confirmed in his view of his character, that he would brook no rival to his face. Thomas Dabney had never been introduced to Mr. Davis, although he had been several times in his company. When friends proposed


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 It would seem that, impelled by love and faith, and guided by his wandering reason, he had come forth to preach his last sermon on the immortality of the soul over the dust of his dead master.

The sexton led him home, and soon afterwards a friend, who had loved them both, laid him beside the colonel.

It was perhaps fitting that his winding sheet should be the vestment in which, years agone, he had preached to his fellow slaves in bondage; for if it so be that the dead of this planet shall come forth from their graves clad in the trappings of mortality, then Peter should arise on the Resurrection Day wearing his old jeans coat.

[William Sidney Porter, better known by his pen name "O. Henry," was born in 1862 at Greensboro, North Carolina. His disposition early led him into a roving life, and he successively lived on a cattle ranch in Texas, did newspaper work in Houston and Austin, spent a while in South America, moved to New Orleans, and in 1902 settled in New York, where he was living at the time of his death, in 1910. He achieved widespread popularity as a writer of short stories, which in the collected edition of his works fill some nine or ten volumes.]

In the Gate City of the South the Confederate Veterans were reuniting; and I stood to see them march, beneath the tangled flags of the great conflict, to the hall of their oratory and commemoration.

While the irregular and halting line was passing I made onslaught upon it and dragged forth from the ranks my friend


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 'Passionate Pilgrim,' 1699, a collection of verse by various hands, although the title-page bore the sole name of Shakespeare. In 'England's Helicon' the lyric appeared in its complete form, with the signature 'C. Marlowe' beneath it; the well-known answer in six stanzas which follows immediately is signed 'Ignoto' and is ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. Marlowe's lyric caught the popular ear immediately. Sir Hugh Evans quotes it in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' (iii. i.); Donne imitated it in his poem called 'The Bait;' Nicholas Breton referred to it as 'the old song' in 1637; and Isaak Walton makes Maudlin in the 'Complete Angler' sing to Piscator 'that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlowe,' as well as 'The Nymph's Reply' 'made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.' Walton supplies an additional stanza to each lyric. Both were issued together as a broadside about 1650 (Roxburghe Ballads, i. 205), and they were included in Percy's 'Reliques' (cf. ed. 1876, i. 220 sq.) A beautiful fragment by Marlowe, 'I walked along a stream for pureness rare,' figures in 'England's Parnassus,' 1600.

Marlowe's life ended gloomily. Of revolutionary temperament, he held religious views which outraged all conventional notions of orthodoxy. In 'Tamburlaine'(ii. 5) he spoke with doubt of the existence of God. Greene in his 'Goatsworth of it,' written in September 1592, plainly appealed to bim to forsake his aggressive unbelief. 'Why should thy excellent wit, God's gift, be so blinded that thou abouldst give no glory to the giver?' Chettle, Greene's publisher, wheu defending himself in his 'Kind Hart's Dreame' from a charge of having assisted Greene to attack Marlowe and other dramatists, claimed to have toned down Greene's references to Marlowe, which in their original shape contained 'intolerable' matter. The early manuscript notes in the 1629 copy of 'Hero and Leander' (formerly in Hebers collection) also describe Marlowe as an atheist, and state that he converted to his views a friend and admirer at Dover. The latter, whose name has been deciphered as 'Phineaux' (i.e. Fineux), is said to have subsequently recanted (cf. MS. Chorus Fatum). It is moreover certain that just before his death Marlowe's antinomian attitude had attracted the attention of the authorities, and complaints were made to Sir John Puckering, the lord keeper, of the scandal created on the part of Marlowe and his friends by the free expression of their views. On 18 May 1593 the privy council issued 'a warrant to Henry Maunder, one of the messengers of Her Majesties Chamber, to repair to the house of Mr. Thomas Wolsingham in Kent, or to anie other place where he shall understand Christopher Marlow to be remayning, and by virtue hereof to apprehend and bring him to the court in his companie, and in case of need to require ayd' (Privy Council MS. Register, 22 Aug. 1592-22 Aug. 1593, p. 374). Walsingham lived at the manor of Scadbury in the parish of Chislehurst (cf., Kent, 1797, ii. 7; and , Surrey, ii. 540). Some weeks earlier (19 March) similar proceedings had been taken by the council against Richard Cholmley and Richard Strange; the former is known to have been concerned with Marlowe in disseminating irreligious doctrines (Privy Council Reg. p. 298). Cholmley and Marlowe both escaped arrest at the time. The poet reached Deptford within a few days of the issue of the warrant, and there almost immediately met his death in a drunken brawl. He was little more than twenty-nine years old. In the register of the parish church of St. Nicholas, Deptford, appears the entry, which is ordinarily transcribed thus: 'Christopher Marlow, slain by Francis Archer 1 June 1593.' Mr. Holliwell-Phillipps read the surname of the assailant as 'Frezer,' i.e. Frazer.

In a sonnet which concludes Gabriel Harvey's 'Newe letter of Notable Contents' (September 1593) reference is made to the death of 'Tamberlaine' as one of the notable events of 'the wonderful yeare' 1593, and in a succeeding 'glosse' death, 'smiling at his Tamberlaine contempt,' is declared to have 'sternly struck home the peremptory stroke.' The exact circumstances are doubtful. Francis Meres, in 'Palladis Tamia,' 1598, wrote: 'As the poet Lycophron was shot to death by a certain rival of his, so Christopher Marlowe was stabd to death by a bawdy serving-man, a riual of his in his lewde love' (fol. 2S6). William Vaughan, in his 'Golden Grove,' 1600, supplies a somewhat different account, and gives the murderer the name of Ingram: 'It so happened that at Detford, a little village about three miles distant from London, as he [i.e. Marlowe] meant to stab with his ponyard one named Ingram that had inuited him thither to a feast and was then playing at tables, hee [i.e. Ingram] quickly perceyving it, so avoyded the thrust, that withall drawing out his dagger for his defence, be stabd this Marlow into the eye, in such sort that, his braynes comming out at the dagger point, he shortly after dyed.' Thomas Beard the puritan told the story more vaguely for purposes of edification in his 'Theatre of God's Judgments,' 1597, p. 148. 'It so fell out,' Beard wrote, 'that in


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Treaty of Berwick

Treaty
At Berwick, the twenty-seventh day of February, the year of our Lord God one thousand five hundred and fifty-nine years; it is appointed and finally contracted betwixt the noble and mighty prince, Thomas

duke of Norfolk, earl Marshal of England, and lieutenant to the queen's most excellent majesty of the said realm in the north, in the name and behalf of her highness on the one part, and the right honourable lord James Stewart, Patrick lord Ruthven, Sir John Maxwell of Teregles, knight, William Maitland of Lethington younger, John Wiseheart of Pittarrow, and Mr Henry Balnaves of Hallhill, in name and behalf a noble and mighty prince James, duke of Chatelherault, second person of the realm of Scotland, and the remanent lords of his part, joined with him in this cause, for the maintenance and defence of the ancient rights and liberties of their country on the other part, in form as hereafter follows: that is to say, that the queen's majesty having sufficiently understood, as well by information sent from the nobility of Scotland, as by the proceedings of the French, that they intend to conquer the realm of Scotland, suppress the liberty thereof, and unite the same unto the crown of France perpetually, contrary to the laws of the same realm, and the pactions, oaths, and promises of France; and being thereto most humbly and earnestly required by the said nobility, for, and in the name of the whole realm, shall accept the said realm of Scotland, the said duke of Chatelherault being declared, by act of Parliament in Scotland to be heir apparent to the crown thereof, and the nobility and subjects thereof into her majesty's protection and maintenance, only for preservation of the same in their old freedoms and liberties, and from conquest, during the time that the marriage shall continue betwixt the queen of Scots and the French king, and one year after. And for expelling out of the same realm of such as presently and apparently goeth about to practise the said conquest, her majesty shall with all speed send into Scotland a convenient aid of men of war on horse and foot, to join with the power of Scotsmen, with artillery, munition, and all other instruments of war meet for the purpose, as well by sea as by land and not only to expel the present power of French within that realm oppressing the same, but also to stop, as far as

conveniently may be, all greater forces of French to enter therein for the like purpose; and shall continue her majesty's aid to the said realm, nobility, and subjects of the same, unto the time the French be utterly expelled thence: and shall never transact, compone, nor agree with the French, nor conclude any league with them, except the Scots and the French shall be agreed, that the realm of Scotland may be left in a due freedom by the French; nor shall leave the maintenance of the said nobility and subjects, whereby they might fall as a prey into their enemies' hands, as long as they shall acknowledge their sovereign lady and queen, and shall endeavour themselves to maintain the liberty of their country, and the estate of the crown of Scotland. And if in case any forts or strengths within the realm be won out of the hands of the French at this present, or at any time hereafter by her majesty's aid, the same shall be immediately demolished by the Scotsmen, or delivered to the said duke and his party foresaid at their option and choice; neither shall the power of England fortify within the ground of Scotland, being out of the bounds of England, but by the advice of the said duke, nobility, and estates of Scotland. For the which causes, and in respect of her majesty's most genteel clemency and liberal support, the said duke and all the nobility, as well such as be now joined, as such as shall hereafter join with him, for defence of the liberty of that realm, shall to the uttermost of their power, aid and support her majesty's army against the French and their partakers, with horsemen and footmen, and with victuals, by land and by sea, and with all manner of other aid to the best of their power, and so shall continue during the time that her majesty's army shall remain in Scotland.

Item [I]. They shall be enemies to all such Scotsmen and French, as shall in anyways show themselves enemies to the realm of England, for the aiding and supporting the said duke and nobility, to the delivery of the realm of Scotland from conquest.

Item [II]. They shall never assent nor permit, that the realm of Scotland shall be

conquered, or otherwise knit to the crown of France, than it is at this present only by marriage of the queen their sovereign to the French king, and by the laws and liberties of the realm, as it ought to be.

Item [III]. In case the Frenchmen shall at any time hereafter invade, or cause be invaded the realm of England, they shall furnish the number of two hundred horsemen, and one thousand footmen, at the least, or such part of either of them, at the choice of the queen's majesty of England; and shall conduct the same to pass from the borders of Scotland next England, upon her majesty's charges, to any part upon the realm of England, for the defence of the same. And in case the invasion be upon the north parts of England, on the north part of the water of Tyne, towards Scotland, or against Berwick, on the north side of the water of Tweed, they shall convene and gather their whole forces upon their own charges, and shall join with the English power, and shall continue in good and earnest pursuit of the quarrel of England, during the space of thirty days, or so much longer as they were accustomed to remain in the fields for the defence of Scotland, at the commandment of their sovereigns, at any time by past. And also the earl of Argyle, lord justice of Scotland, being presently joined with the said duke, shall employ his force and good will, where he shall be required by the queen's majesty, to reduce the north parts of Ireland to the perfect obedience of England, conform to a mutual and reciprocal contract, to be made betwixt her majesty's lieutenant, or depute of Ireland being for the time, and the said earl; wherein shall be contained what he shall do for his part, and what the said lieutenant, or depute, shall do for his support, in case he shall have to do with James Mackonell>, or any others of the isles of Scotland or realm of Ireland: for performance and sure keeping whereof, they shall for their part enter to the foresaid duke of Norfolk the pledges presently named by him, before the entry of her majesty's army within Scotland, to

remain in England for the space of six months, and to be exchanged upon deliverance of new hostages of like or as good conditions as the former; or being the lawful sons, brethren, or heirs of any of the earls, or barons of parliament, that have, or hereafter shall show themselves and persist open enemies to the French in this quarrel, and so forth from six months to six months, or four months to four months, as shall best please the part of Scotland. And the time of the continuance of the hostages shall be during the marriage of the queen of Scots to the French king, and one year after the dissolution of the same marriage, until farther order may be had betwixt both the realms for peace and concord.

And, furthermore, the said duke, and all the nobility, being earls and barons of the parliament, joined with him, shall subscribe and seal these articles and counts, within the space of twenty or thirty days at the uttermost, next following the day of the delivery of the said hostages; and shall also procure and persuade all others of the nobility that shall join themselves hereafter with the said duke, for the causes above specified, likewise to subscribe and seal these articles, at any time after the space of twenty days after their conjunction, upon requisition made by them on the part of the queen's majesty of England.

And, finally, the said duke, and nobility joined with him, certainly perceiving, that the queen's majesty of England is thereunto moved only upon respect of princely honour and neighbourhood, for the defence of the freedom of Scotland from conquest, and not of any other sinister intent, do, by these presents, testify and declare, that they, nor any of them, mean by this compt to withdraw any due obedience to their sovereign lady the queen, nor in any lawful thing to withstand the French king, her husband and head, that during the marriage shall not tend to the subversion and oppression of the just and ancient liberties of the said kingdom of Scotland; for preservation whereof, both for their sovereign's honour, and for the continuance of the kingdom in ancient

estate, they acknowledge themselves bound to spend their goods, lands, and lives. And for performance of this present contract for the part of England, the queen's majesty shall confirm the same, and all clauses therein contained, by her letters patent, under the great seal of England, to be delivered to the nobility of Scotland, upon the entrance of the pledges aforesaid within the ground of England.

In witness whereof, the said duke's grace of Norfolk has subscribed these presents, and thereunto has affixed his seal, the day, year, and place foresaid.

In witness whereof, the commissioners for the duke of Chatelherault and the nobility of Scotland before named have subscribed these presents, and thereunto has affixed their seals, the day the day, year, and place foresaid:
 * James Stewart,
 * Patrick lord Ruthven,
 * Sir John Maxwell,
 * William Maitland,
 * John Wiseheart,
 * Henry Balnaves.

Scottish subscriptions
[The] contract we find honest, reasonable, and that our said commissioners therein have considerately respected the commonwealth of this realm, of us and our posterity; and, therefore, do ratify, allow, confirm, and approve the same, with all clauses and articles therein contained, by these presents. In witness hereof, to the same, subscribed with our hands, our seals of arms, in like cases accustomed, are appended. At the camp, forenent Leith, the tenth day of May, 1560 years:
 * The Duke of Chattelherault,
 * Earl of Arran,
 * Earl of Huntly,
 * Earl of Glencairn,
 * Earl of Morton,
 * Earl of Rothes,
 * Earl of Monteith,
 * Earl of Argyle,
 * Lord Ogilvie,
 * Lord Borthwick,
 * Lord James Stewart,
 * Lord of St John,
 * Lord John of Aberbrothock.
 * Lord Boyd,
 * Lord Sommerville,
 * Lord Ochiltree,
 * Lord Robert Stewart,
 * Alexander Gordon,
 * Gatin Hamilton, of Kilwinning,
 * James Stewart of St Colm's-inch,
 * Abbot of Kinloss,
 * Abbot of Culross.

title: Treaty of Berwick


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Translation:Shulchan Aruch/Choshen Mishpat/4

Paragraph 1
A person may take the law into his own hands in order to safeguard his interests. If he sees something that belongs to him in the hand of another person who robbed it from him, he may take it from his hand and if the latter makes a stand against him, he may strike him until he releases it, (if he can't save the item in another way) (Tur). Even if it is a matter that would not cause a loss if he waits until he takes legal proceedings against him, provided he can prove that what he takes is his own in accordance with the law. Nevertheless, he has no right to seize a pledge for his debt when it matures.


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 Rh to introduce him he refused. It was a great blow to him when Mr. Davis was made the President of the Confederacy. Sometimes, in the heat of discussion, he would amuse his friends by his prompt reply to the question, " Well, who would have done better?" " Why, you would." He tried to overcome his prejudice and to hope for the best, but still adhered to his resolution of not meeting Mr. Davis. He allowed his daughters to attend the receptions given to him at Mobile and Macon, in his progress through the Confederate States, and laughed when he heard from them, after each reception, that Mr. Davis had said in shaking hands, "Ah, Colonel Dabney's daughters; I am very happy to meet you."

He admired the gallant soldier who was put in General Johnston's place, but felt, with most other people, that General Hood's love of fighting would lead him to take too great risks.

By paying several thousand dollars in Confederate money Thomas was able to charter two cars, and in these he took his family from Macon, Georgia, to Jackson, Mississippi; the white family in one and the servants in the other. We were two weeks on the journey, and so well had everything been planned that we found it the most comfortable long journey that we had ever undertaken. The furniture was placed in our car, the beds made up, a table or two, with books and writing materials, set about, and the chairs placed as if we had been at home in our own house. Even the pet cat, whose mother and brothers and sisters had been on board the "Gaines" in the naval engagement in Mobile Bay, was in that car with us. She had been taken to Macon from Mobile, and on her arrival had promptly run away. A reward of twenty dollars, offered through the morning paper, had brought her back. When somebody laughed at the advertisement and thought it a joke, papa answered, "It is no joke. I offer it in earnest. My daughter is a refugee and has little enough to amuse her, and shall not lose the kitten if I can help it."

On our long journey we did not travel at night.


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CHAP. IX appears to have made his prime onslaught upon Druidical heathendom at Tara, the abode of the high king of Ireland. The earliest accounts do not refer to any authority from Rome. Patrick seems to have acted from spontaneous inspiration; and a like independence characterizes the monastic Christianity which sprang up in Ireland and overleapt the water to lona, to Christianize Scotland as well as northern Anglo-Saxon heathendom.

Irish monasticism was an ascetically ordered continuance of Irish society. If, like other early western monasticism, it derived suggestions from Syria or Egypt, it was far more the product of Irish temperament, customs, and conditions. One may also find a potent source in the monastic communities alleged to have existed in Ireland in the days of the Druids. Doubtless many members of that caste became Christian monks.

The noblest passion of Irish monastic Christianity was to peregrinare for the sake of Christ, and spread the Faith among the heathen; the most interesting episodes of its history are the wanderings and missionary labours and foundations of its leaders. The careers of Columba and Columbanus afford grandiose examples. Something has been said of the former. The monastery which he founded on the Island of lona was the Faith's fountainhead for Scotland and the Saxon north of England in the sixth and seventh centuries. About the time of Columba's birth, men from Dalriada on the north coast of Ireland crossed the water to found another Dalriada in the present Argyleshire, and transfer the name of Scotia (Ireland) to Scotland. When Columba landed at lona, these settlers were hard pressed by the heathen Picts under King Brude or Bridius. Accompanied by two Pictish Christians, he penetrated to Brude's dwelling, near the modern Inverness, converted that monarch in 565, and averted the overthrow of Dalriada. For the next thirty years Columba and his monks did not cease from their labours; numbers of monasteries were founded, daughters of lona; and great parts of Scotland became Christian at least in name. The supreme authority was the Abbot of lona with his council of monks; "bishops" performed their functions under him. Early in the seventh

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