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User talk:213.230.97.223

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title: User talk:213.230.97.223


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Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 36.djvu/313

Martindale was circulated in manuscript, and a critique on Matthew Smith's 'Patriarchal Sabbath,' 1683, was sent to London for press, but not printed, owing to a dispute between Martinale's agent and the bookseller. Martindale's, autobiography, to 1685, was edited in 1845 for the Chetham Society by Canon Parkinson from the autograph in the British Museum, formerly in the possession of Thomas Birch, D.D. [q. v.] In addition to its personal interest, it contains sketches of the social life of the period, worthy of Defoe. Its omission of proper names makes many of its allusions obscure.

 MARTINDALE, MILES (1756–1824), Wesleyan minister, son of Paul Martindale, was born in 1756 at Moss Bank, near St. Helens, Lancashire. He had as a youth only a slender education, but taught himself French, Latin, and Greek, the last in order that he might read the New Testament in the original. When quite young he was given to meditating on serious things, and as he grew up passed through various stages of doubt to firm belief. In 1776 he went to live at Liverpool, and in the following year was married to Margaret King. About the same time he became a methodist. From 1786 to 1789 he occupied himself as a local preacher, chiefly at Scorton in the Wirral district of Cheshire, where the people were ‘the most ignorant he ever laboured among.’ In 1789 he was received as a Wesleyan minister, and remained in the regular itinerancy twenty-seven years, when he was appointed governor of Woodhouse Grove School, Yorkshire (1816). In the conduct of that establishment he was eminently successful, and was thanked by the conference for his services.

He died of cholera on 6 Aug. 1824, while attending the Wesleyan conference at Leeds, leaving a widow, who died in 1840, and three daughters, one of whom married the Rev. John Farrar; another was the wife of the Rev. James Brownell; and the third became matron of Wesley College, Sheffield. His portrait is given in the ‘Wesleyan Magazine’ for August 1820.

He published, besides sermons: 1. ‘Elegy on the Death of Wesley,’ 1791. 2. ‘Britannia's Glory,’ a poem, 1793. 3. ‘Original Poems, Sacred and Moral,’ 1806. 4. ‘Grace and Nature, a Poem in twenty-four Cantos,’ translated from the French of the Rev. J. Fletcher, 1810. 5. ‘Dictionary of the Holy Bible,’ 1810, 2 vols. 6. ‘Essay on the Eloquence of the Pulpit,’ translated from the French of the Abbé Besplas, 1819.

 MARTINDELL or MARTINDALL, GABRIEL (1756?–1831 ), major-general H.E.I.C. service, a Bengal cadet of 1772, with other cadets of his year bore arms in the 'Select Picket,' which greatly distinguished itself in the Rohilla battle of St. George in 1774. He was appointed ensign in the Bengal native infantry 4 Aug. 1776, and became lieutenant in 1778, captain 1793, major 1797, lieutenant-colonel 1801, colonel 1810, and major-general 4 June 1813. As a subaltern he was long adjutant of the native corps to which he belonged, and as lieutenant-colonel his battalion was counted one of the best native corps in the army. He was employed with a detached force in Bundelkund, then in a state of anarchy, during the Mahratta war of 1804-1805. On 2 July 1804 he attacked and routed an invading force of Mahrattas, under Ameer Khan, at Paswarree, and covered Lord Lake's army during the siege of Bhurtpore in the following December-January. In 1809 Martindell captured the strong fortress of Ajagerh in Bundelkund (see, vii. 174-7). In 1812 he attacked the city and celebrated hill-fort of Kalinjar (Callinger), also in Bundelkund. The assault proved unsuccessful, but Daryan Singh, who held the fort, surrendered eight days afterwards, on receiving an equivalent of territory in the plains (, Gazetteer of India, vii. 333). For each of these services Martindell received the thanks of the governor-general in council. After the fall of Robert Rollo Gillespie at Kalanga in the Himalayas, in October 1814, Martindell was appointed to the command of a division of the army for the invasion of Nepaul, with which he made some unsuccessful attacks on Jytak. He commanded the division in the subsequent operations under Sir David Ochterlony, who assumed command of the army in February 1815 (see, viii. 31, 35-6 et seq.) When the order of the Bath was extended to include the East India Company's officers in 1815, Martindell was one of the first selected for the distinction of K.C.B. (7 April 1815). He commanded a column of troops during the Pindarree war; and in 1818, as commander of

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text:
A Gipsy Prophecy

"I really think," said the Doctor, "that, at any rate, one of us should go and try whether or not the thing is an imposture."

"Good!" said Considine. "After dinner we will take our cigars and stroll over to the camp."

Accordingly, when the dinner was over, and the La Tour finished, Joshua Considine and his friend, Dr. Burleigh, went over to the east side of the moor, where the gipsy encampment lay. As they were leaving, Mary Considine, who had walked as far as the end of the garden where it opened into the laneway, called after her husband:

"Mind, Joshua, you are to give them a fair chance, but don't give them any clue to a fortune-and don't you get flirting with any of the gipsy maidens-and take care to keep Gerald out of harm."

For answer Considine held up his hand, as if taking a stage oath, and whistled the air of the old song, "The Gipsy Countess." Gerald joined in the strain, and then, breaking into merry laughter, the two men passed along the laneway to the common, turning now and then to wave their hands to Mary, who leaned over the gate, in the twilight, looking after them.

It was a lovely evening in the summer; the very air was full of rest and quiet happiness, as though an outward type of the peacefulness and joy which made a heaven of the home of the young married folk. Considine's life had not been an eventful one. The only disturbing element which he had ever known was in his wooing of Mary Winston, and the long-continued objection of her ambitious parents, who expected a brilliant match for their only daughter. When Mr. and Mrs. Winston had discovered the attachment of the young barrister, they had tried to keep the young people apart by sending their daughter away for a long round of visits, having made her promise not to correspond with her lover during her absence. Love, however, had stood the test. Neither absence nor neglect seemed to cool the passion of the young man, and jealousy seemed a thing unknown to his sanguine nature; so, after a long period of waiting, the parents had given in, and the young folk were married.

They had been living in the cottage a few months, and were just beginning to feel at home. Gerald Burleigh, Joshua's old college chum, and himself a sometime victim of Mary's beauty, had arrived a week before, to stay with them for as long a time as he could tear himself away from his work in London.

When her husband had quite disappeared Mary went into the house, and, sitting down at the piano, gave an hour to Mendelssohn.

It was but a short walk across the common, and before the cigars required renewing the two men had reached the gipsy camp. The place was as picturesque as gipsy camps-when in villages and when business is good-usually are. There were some few persons round the fire, investing their money in prophecy, and a large number of others, poorer or more parsimonious, who stayed just outside the bounds but near enough to see all that went on.

As the two gentlemen approached, the villagers, who knew Joshua, made way a little, and a pretty, keen-eyed gipsy girl tripped up and asked to tell their fortunes. Joshua held out his hand, but the girl, without seeming to see it, stared at his face in a very odd manner. Gerald nudged him:

"You must cross her hand with silver," he said. "It is one of the most important parts of the mystery." Joshua took from his pocket a half-crown and held it out to her, but, without looking at it, she answered:

"You must cross the gipsy's hand with gold."

Gerald laughed. "You are at a premium as a subject," he said. Joshua was of the kind of man-the universal kind-who can tolerate being stared at by a pretty girl; so, with some little deliberation, he answered: "All right; here you are, my pretty girl; but you must give me a real good fortune for it," and he handed her a half sovereign, which she took, saying:

"It is not for me to give good fortune or bad, but only to read what the Stars have said." She took his right hand and turned it palm upward; but the instant her eyes met it she dropped it as though it had been red hot, and, with a startled look, glided swiftly away. Lifting the curtain of the large tent, which occupied the centre of the camp, she disappeared within.

"Sold again!" said the cynical Gerald. Joshua stood a little amazed, and not altogether satisfied. They both watched the large tent. In a few moments there emerged from the opening not the young girl, but a stately looking woman of middle age and commanding presence.

The instant she appeared the whole camp seemed to stand still. The clamour of tongues, the laughter and noise of the work were, for a second or two, arrested, and every man or woman who sat, or crouched, or lay, stood up and faced the imperial looking gipsy.

"The Queen, of course," murmured Gerald. "We are in luck to-night." The gipsy Queen threw a searching glance around the camp, and then, without hesitating an instant, came straight over and stood before Joshua.

"Hold out your hand," she said in a commanding tone.

Again Gerald spoke, sotto voce: "I have not been spoken to in that way since I was at school."

"Your hand must be crossed with gold."

"A hundred per cent at this game," whispered Gerald, as Joshua laid another half sovereign on his upturned palm.

The gipsy looked at the hand with knitted brows; then suddenly looking up into his face, said:

"Have you a strong will-have you a true heart that can be brave for one you love?"

"I hope so; but I am afraid I have not vanity enough to say 'yes.'"

"Then I will answer for you; for I read resolution in your face-resolution desperate and determined if need be. You have a wife you love?"

"Yes," emphatically. "Then leave her at once-never see her face again. Go from her now, while love is fresh and your heart is free from wicked intent. Go quick-go far, and never see her face again!"

Joshua drew away his hand quickly, and said, "Thank you!" stiffly but sarcastically, as he began to move away.

"I say!" said Gerald, "you're not going like that, old man; no use in being indignant with the Stars or their prophet-and, moreover, your sovereign-what of it? At least, hear the matter out."

"Silence, ribald!" commanded the Queen, "you know not what you do. Let him go-and go ignorant, if he will not be warned."

Joshua immediately turned back. "At all events, we will see this thing out," he said. "Now, madam, you have given me advice, but I paid for a fortune."

"Be warned!" said the gipsy. "The Stars have been silent for long; let the mystery still wrap them round."

"My dear madam, I do not get within touch of a mystery every day, and I prefer for my money knowledge rather than ignorance. I can get the latter commodity for nothing when I want any of it."

Gerald echoed the sentiment. "As for me I have a large and unsaleable stock on hand."

The gipsy Queen eyed the two men sternly, and then said, "As you wish. You have chosen for yourself, and have met warning with scorn, and appeal with levity. On your own heads be the doom!"

"Amen!" said Gerald.

With an imperious gesture the Queen took Joshua's hand again, and began to tell his fortune.

"I see here the flowing of blood; it will flow before long; it is running in my sight. It flows through the broken circle of a severed ring."

"Go on!" said Joshua, smiling. Gerald was silent.

"Must I speak plainer?"

"Certainly; we commonplace mortals want something definite. The Stars are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the message."

The gipsy shuddered, and then spoke impressively. "This is the hand of a murderer-the murderer of his wife!" She dropped the hand and turned away.

Joshua laughed. "Do you know," said he, "I think if I were you I should prophesy some jurisprudence into my system. For instance, you say 'this hand is the hand of a murderer.' Well, whatever it may be in the future-or potentially-it is at present not one. You ought to give your prophecy in such terms as 'the hand which will be a murderer's,' or, rather, 'the hand of one who will be the murderer of his wife.' The Stars are really not good on technical questions."

The gipsy made no reply of any kind, but, with drooping head and despondent mien, walked slowly to her tent, and, lifting the curtain, disappeared.

Without speaking the two men turned homewards, and walked across the moor. Presently, after some little hesitation, Gerald spoke.

"Of course, old man, this is all a joke; a ghastly one, but still a joke. But would it not be well to keep it to ourselves?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, not to tell your wife. It might alarm her."

"Alarm her! My dear Gerald, what are you thinking of? Why, she would not be alarmed or afraid of me if all the gipsies that ever didn't come from Bohemia agreed that I was to murder her, or even to have a hard thought of her, whilst so long as she was saying 'Jack Robinson.' "

Gerald remonstrated. "Old fellow, women are superstitious-far more than we men are; and, also, they are blessed-or cursed-with a nervous system to which we are strangers. I see too much of it in my work not to realise it. Take my advice and do not let her know, or you will frighten her."

Joshua's lips unconsciously hardened as he answered: "My dear fellow, I would not have a secret from my wife. Why, it would be the beginning of a new order of things between us. We have no secrets from each other. If we ever have, then you may begin to look out for something odd between us."

"Still," said Gerald, "at the risk of unwelcome interference, I say again be warned in time."

"The gipsy's very words," said Joshua. "You and she seem quite of one accord. Tell me, old man, is this a put-up thing? You told me of the gipsy camp-did you arrange it all with Her Majesty?" This was said with an air of bantering earnestness. Gerald assured him that he only heard of the camp that morning; but he made fun of every answer of his friend, and, in the process of this raillery, the time passed, and they entered the cottage.

Mary was sitting by the piano but not playing. The dim twilight had waked some very tender feelings in her breast, and her eyes were full of gentle tears. When the men came in she stole over to her husband's side and kissed him. Joshua struck a tragic attitude.

"Mary," he said in a deep voice, "before you approach me, listen to the words of Fate. The Stars have spoken and the doom is sealed."

"What is it, dear? Tell me the fortune, but do not frighten me."

"Not at all, my dear; but there is a truth which it is well that you should know. Nay, it is necessary so that all your arrangements can be made beforehand, and everything be decently done and in order."

"Go on, dear; I am listening."

"Mary Considine, your effigy may yet be seen at Madame Tussaud's. The juris-imprudent stars have announced their fell tidings that this hand is red with blood-your blood. Mary! Mary! my God!" He sprang forward, but too late to catch her as she fell fainting on the floor.

"I told you," said Gerald. "You don't know them as well as I do."

After a little while Mary recovered from her swoon, but only to fall into strong hysterics, in which she laughed and wept and raved and cried, "Keep him from me-from me, Joshua, my husband," and many other words of entreaty and of fear.

Joshua Considine was in a state of mind bordering on agony, and when at last Mary became calm he knelt by her and kissed her feet and hands and hair and called her all the sweet names and said all the tender things his lips could frame. All that night he sat by her bedside and held her hand. Far through the night and up to the early morning she kept waking from sleep and crying out as if in fear, till she was comforted by the consciousness that her husband was watching beside her.

Breakfast was late the next morning, but during it Joshua received a telegram which required him to drive over to Withering, nearly twenty miles. He was loth to go; but Mary would not hear of his remaining, and so before noon he drove off in his dog-cart alone.

When he was gone Mary retired to her room. She did not appear at lunch, but when afternoon tea was served on the lawn, under the great weeping willow, she came to join her guest. She was looking quite recovered from her illness of the evening before. After some casual remarks, she said to Gerald: "Of course it was very silly about last night, but I could not help feeling frightened. Indeed I would feel so still if I let myself think of it. But, after all, these people may only imagine things, and I have got a test that can hardly fail to show that the prediction is false-if indeed it be false," she added sadly.

"What is your plan?" asked Gerald.

"I shall go myself to the gipsy camp, and have my fortune told by the Queen."

"Capital. May I go with you?"

"Oh, no! That would spoil it. She might know you and guess at me, and suit her utterance accordingly. I shall go alone this afternoon."

When the afternoon was gone Mary Considine took her way to the gipsy encampment. Gerald went with her as far as the near edge of the common, and returned alone.

Half-an-hour had hardly elapsed when Mary entered the drawing-room, where he lay on a sofa reading. She was ghastly pale and was in a state of extreme excitement. Hardly had she passed over the threshold when she collapsed and sank moaning on the carpet. Gerald rushed to aid her, but by a great effort she controlled herself and motioned him to be silent. He waited, and his ready attention to her wish seemed to be her best help, for, in a few minutes, she had somewhat recovered, and was able to tell him what had passed.

"When I got to the camp," she said, "there did not seem to be a soul about. I went into the centre and stood there. Suddenly a tall woman stood beside me. 'Something told me I was wanted!' she said. I held out my hand and laid a piece of silver on it. She took from her neck a small golden trinket and laid it there also; and then, seizing the two, threw them into the stream that ran by. Then she took my hand in hers and spoke: 'Naught but blood in this guilty place,' and turned away. I caught hold of her and asked her to tell me more. After some hesitation, she said: 'Alas! alas! I see you lying at your husband's feet, and his hands are red with blood.'"

Gerald did not feel at all at ease, and tried to laugh it off. "Surely," he said, "this woman has a craze about murder."

"Do not laugh," said Mary, "I cannot bear it," and then, as if with a sudden impulse, she left the room.

Not long after Joshua returned, bright and cheery, and as hungry as a hunter after his long drive. His presence cheered his wife, who seemed much brighter, but she did not mention the episode of the visit to the gipsy camp, so Gerald did not mention it either. As if by tacit consent the subject was not alluded to during the evening. But there was a strange, settled look on Mary's face, which Gerald could not but observe.

In the morning Joshua came down to breakfast later than usual. Mary had been up and about the house from an early hour; but as the time drew on she seemed to get a little nervous, and now and again threw around an anxious look.

Gerald could not help noticing that none of those at breakfast could get on satisfactorily with their food. It was not altogether that the chops were tough, but that the knives were all so blunt. Being a guest, he, of course, made no sign; but presently saw Joshua draw his thumb across the edge of his knife in an unconscious sort of way. At the action Mary turned pale and almost fainted.

After breakfast they all went out on the lawn. Mary was making up a bouquet, and said to her husband, "Get me a few of the tea-roses, dear."

Joshua pulled down a cluster from the front of the house. The stem bent, but was too tough to break. He put his hand in his pocket to get his knife; but in vain. "Lend me your knife, Gerald," he said. But Gerald had not got one, so he went into the breakfast-room and took one from the table. He came out feeling its edge and grumbling. "What on earth has happened to all the knives-the edges seem all ground off?" Mary turned away hurriedly and entered the house.

Joshua tried to sever the stalk with the blunt knife as country cooks sever the necks of fowl-as schoolboys cut twine. With a little effort he finished the task. The cluster of roses grew thick, so he determined to gather a great bunch.

He could not find a single sharp knife in the sideboard where the cutlery was kept, so he called Mary, and when she came, told her the state of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he could not help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt, asked her:

"Do you mean to say that you have done it?"

She broke in, "Oh, Joshua, I was so afraid."

He paused, and a set, white look came over his face. "Mary!" said he, "is this all the trust you have in me? I would not have believed it."

"Oh, Joshua! Joshua!" she cried entreatingly, "forgive me," and wept bitterly.

Joshua thought a moment and then said: "I see how it is. We shall better end this or we shall all go mad."

He ran into the drawing-room.

"Where are you going?" almost screamed Mary.

Gerald saw what he meant-that he would not be tied to blunt instruments by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised when he saw him come out through the French window, bearing in his hand a large Ghourka knife, which usually lay on the centre table, and which his brother had sent him from Northern India. It was one of those great hunting-knives which worked such havoc, at close quarters with the enemies of the loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny, of great weight but so evenly balanced in the hand as to seem light, and with an edge like a razor. With one of these knives a Ghourka can cut a sheep in two.

When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his hand she screamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last night were promptly renewed.

Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the knife and tried to catch her.

However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out in horror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade.

When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand had struck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of the small veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from the wound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the wedding ring was severed by the steel.

They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she came out, with her arm in a sling, she was peaceful in her mind and happy. She said to her husband:

"The gipsy was wonderfully near the truth; too near for the real thing ever to occur now, dear."

Joshua bent over and kissed the wounded hand.

 * End*

title: A Gipsy Prophecy


text:
Dig Me No Grave

THE THUNDER of my old-fashioned door-knocker, reverberating eerily through the house, roused me from a restless and nightmare-haunted sleep. I looked out the window. In the last light of the sinking moon, the white face of my friend John Conrad looked up at me.

"May I come up, Kirowan?" His voice was shaky and strained.

"Certainly!" I sprang out of bed and pulled on a bath-robe as I heard him enter the front door and ascend the stairs.

A moment later he stood before me, and in the light which I had turned on I saw his hands tremble and noticed the unnatural pallor of his face.

"Old John Grimlan died an hour ago," he said abruptly.

"Indeed? I had not known that he was ill."

"It was a sudden, virulent attack of peculiar nature, a sort of seizure somewhat akin to epilepsy. He has been subject to such spells of late years, you know."

I nodded. I knew something of the old hermit-like man who had lived in his great dark house on the hill; indeed, I had once witnessed one of his strange seizures, and I had been appalled at the writhings, howlings and yammerings of the wretch, who had groveled on the earth like a wounded snake, gibbering terrible curses and black blasphemies until his voice broke in a wordless screaming which spattered his lips with foam. Seeing this, I understood why people in old times looked on such victims as men possessed by demons.

"—some hereditary taint," Conrad was saying. "Old John doubtless fell heir to some ingrown weakness brought on by some loathsome disease, which was his heritage from perhaps a remote ancestor—such things occasionally happen. Or else—well, you know old John himself pried about in the mysterious parts of the earth, and wandered all over the East in his younger days. It is quite possible that he was infected with some obscure malady in his wanderings. There are still many unclassified diseases in Africa and the Orient."

"But," said I, "you have not told me the reason for this sudden visit at this unearthly hour—for I notice that it is past midnight."

My friend seemed rather confused.

"Well, the fact is that John Grimlan died alone, except for myself. He refused to receive any medical aid of any sort, and in the last few moments when it was evident that he was dying, and I was prepared to go for some sort of help in spite of him, he set up such a howling and screaming that I could not refuse his passionate pleas—which were that he should not be left to die alone.

"I have seen men die," added Conrad, wiping the perspiration from his pale brow, "but the death of John Grimlan was the most fearful I have ever seen."

"He suffered a great deal?"

"He appeared to be in much physical agony, but this was mostly submerged by some monstrous mental or psychic suffering. The fear in his distended eyes and his screams transcended any conceivable earthly terror. I tell you, Kirowan, Grimlan's fright was greater and deeper than the ordinary fear of the Beyond shown by a man of ordinarily evil life."

I shifted restlessly. The dark implications of this statement sent a chill of nameless apprehension trickling down my spine.

"I know the country people always claimed that in his youth he sold his soul to the Devil, and that his sudden epileptic attacks were merely a visible sign of the Fiend's power over him; but such talk is foolish, of course, and belongs in the Dark Ages. We all know that John Grimlan's life was a peculiarly evil and vicious one, even toward his last days. With good reason he was universally detested and feared, for I never heard of his doing a single good act. You were his only friend."

"And that was a strange friendship," said Conrad. "I was attracted to him by his unusual powers, for despite his bestial nature, John Grimlan was a highly educated man, a deeply cultured man. He had dipped deep into occult studies, and I first met him in this manner; for as you know, I have always been strongly interested in these lines of research myself.

"But, in this as in all other things, Grimlan was evil and perverse. He had ignored the white side of the occult and delved into the darker, grimmer phases of it—into devil- worship, and voodoo and Shintoism. His knowledge of these foul arts and sciences was immense and unholy. And to hear him tell of his researches and experiments was to know such horror and repulsion as a venomous reptile might inspire. For there had been no depths to which he had not sunk, and some things he only hinted at, even to me. I tell you, Kirowan, it is easy to laugh at tales of the black world of the unknown, when one is in pleasant company under the bright sunlight, but had you sat at ungodly hours in the silent bizarre library of John Grimlan and looked on the ancient musty volumes and listened to his grisly talk as I did, your tongue would have cloven to your palate with sheer horror as mine did, and the supernatural would have seemed very real and near to you—as it seemed to me!"

"But in God's name, man!" I cried, for the tension was growing unbearable; "come to the point and tell me what you want of me."

"I want you to come with me to John Grimlan's house and help carry out his outlandish instructions in regard to his body."

I had no liking for the adventure, but I dressed hurriedly, an occasional shudder of premonition shaking me. Once fully clad, I followed Conrad out of the house and up the silent road which led to the house of John Grimlan. The road wound uphill, and all the way, looking upward and forward, I could see that great grim house perched like a bird of evil on the crest of the hill, bulking black and stark against the stars. In the west pulsed a single dull red smear where the young moon had just sunk from view behind the low black hills. The whole night seemed full of brooding evil, and the persistent swishing of a bat's wings somewhere overhead caused my taut nerves to jerk and thrum. To drown the quick pounding of my own heart, I said:

"Do you share the belief so many hold, that John Grimlan was mad?"

We strode on several paces before Conrad answered, seemingly with a strange reluctance, "But for one incident, I would say no man was ever saner. But one night in his study, he seemed suddenly to break all bonds of reason.

"He had discoursed for hours on his favorite subject—black magic—when suddenly he cried, as his face lit with a weird unholy glow: 'Why should I sit here babbling such child's prattle to you? These voodoo rituals—these Shinto sacrifices—feathered snakes—goats without horns—black leopard cults—bah! Filth and dust that the wind blows away! Dregs of the real Unknown—the deep mysteries! Mere echoes from the Abyss!

"'I could tell you things that would shatter your paltry brain! I could breathe into your ear names that would wither you like a burnt weed! What do you know of Yog-Sothoth, of Kathulos and the sunken cities? None of these names is even included in your mythologies. Not even in your dreams have you glimpsed the black cyclopean walls of Koth, or shriveled before the noxious winds that blow from Yuggoth!

"'But I will not blast you lifeless with my black wisdom! I cannot expect your infantile brain to bear what mine holds. Were you as old as I—had you seen, as I have seen, kingdoms crumble and generations pass away—had you gathered as ripe grain the dark secrets of the centuries—'

"He was raving away, his wildly lit face scarcely human in appearance, and suddenly, noting my evident bewilderment, he burst into a horrible cackling laugh.

"'Gad!' he cried in a voice and accent strange to me, 'methinks I've frighted ye, and certes, it is not to be marveled at, sith ye be but a naked salvage in the arts of life, after all. Ye think I be old, eh? Why, ye gaping lout, ye'd drop dead were I to divulge the generations of men I've known—'

"But at this point such horror overcame me that I fled from him as from an adder, and his high-pitched, diabolical laughter followed me out of the shadowy house. Some days later I received a letter apologizing for his manner and ascribing it candidly—too candidly—to drugs. I did not believe it, but I renewed our relations, after some hesitation."

"It sounds like utter madness," I muttered.

"Yes," admitted Conrad, hesitantly. "But—Kirowan, have you ever seen anyone who knew John Grimlan in his youth?"

I shook my head.

"I have been at pains to inquire about him discreetly," said Conrad. "He has lived here—with the exception of mysterious absences often for months at a time—for twenty years. The older villagers remember distinctly when he first came and took over that old house on the hill, and they all say that in the intervening years he seems not to have aged perceptibly. When he came here he looked just as he does now—or did, up to the moment of his death—of the appearance of a man about fifty.

"I met old Von Boehnk in Vienna, who said he knew Grimlan when a very young man studying in Berlin, fifty years ago, and he expressed astonishment that the old man was still living; for he said at that time Grimlan seemed to be about fifty years of age."

I gave an incredulous exclamation, seeing the implication toward which the conversation was trending.

"Nonsense! Professor Von Boehnk is past eighty himself, and liable to the errors of extreme age. He confused this man with another." Yet as I spoke, my flesh crawled unpleasantly and the hairs on my neck prickled.

"Well," shrugged Conrad, "here we are at the house."

The huge pile reared up menacingly before us, and as we reached the front door a vagrant wind moaned through the near-by trees and I started foolishly as I again heard the ghostly beat of the bat's wings. Conrad turned a large key in the antique lock, and as we entered, a cold draft swept across us like a breath from the grave—moldy and cold. I shuddered.

We groped our way through a black hallway and into a study, and here Conrad lighted a candle, for no gas lights or electric lights were to be found in the house. I looked about me, dreading what the light might disclose, but the room, heavily tapestried and bizarrely furnished, was empty save for us two.

"Where—where is—It ?" I asked in a husky whisper, from a throat gone dry.

"Upstairs," answered Conrad in a low voice, showing that the silence and mystery of the house had laid a spell on him also. "Upstairs, in the library where he died."

I glanced up involuntarily. Somewhere above our head, the lone master of this grim house was stretched out in his last sleep—silent, his white face set in a grinning mask of death. Panic swept over me and I fought for control. After all, it was merely the corpse of a wicked old man, who was past harming anyone—this argument rang hollowly in my brain like the words of a frightened child who is trying to reassure himself.

I turned to Conrad. He had taken a time-yellowed envelope from an inside pocket.

"This," he said, removing from the envelope several pages of closely written, time-yellowed parchment, "is, in effect, the last word of John Grimlan, though God alone knows how many years ago it was written. He gave it to me ten years ago, immediately after his return from Mongolia. It was shortly after this that he had his first seizure.

"This envelope he gave me, sealed, and he made me swear that I would hide it carefully, and that I would not open it until he was dead, when I was to read the contents and follow their directions exactly. More, he made me swear that no matter what he said or did after giving me the envelope, I would go ahead as first directed. 'For,' he said with a fearful smile, 'the flesh is weak but I am a man of my word, and though I might, in a moment of weakness, wish to retract, it is far, far too late now. You may never understand the matter, but you are to do as I have said.'"

"Well?"

"Well," again Conrad wiped his brow, "tonight as he lay writhing in his death- agonies, his wordless howls were mingled with frantic admonitions to me to bring him the envelope and destroy it before his eyes! As he yammered this, he forced himself up on his elbows and with eyes staring and hair standing straight up on his head, he screamed at me in a manner to chill the blood. And he was shrieking for me to destroy the envelope, not to open it; and once he howled in his delirium for me to hew his body into pieces and scatter the bits to the four winds of heaven!"

An uncontrollable exclamation of horror escaped my dry lips.

"At last," went on Conrad, "I gave in. Remembering his commands ten years ago, I at first stood firm, but at last, as his screeches grew unbearably desperate, I turned to go for the envelope, even though that meant leaving him alone. But as I turned, with one last fearful convulsion in which blood-flecked foam flew from his writhing lips, the life went from his twisted body in a single great wrench."

He fumbled at the parchment.

"I am going to carry out my promise. The directions herein seem fantastic and may be the whims of a disordered mind, but I gave my word. They are, briefly, that I place his corpse on the great black ebony table in his library, with seven black candles burning about him. The doors and windows are to be firmly closed and fastened. Then, in the darkness which precedes dawn, I am to read the formula, charm or spell which is contained in a smaller, sealed envelope inside the first, and which I have not yet opened."

"But is that all?" I cried. "No provisions as to the disposition of his fortune, his estate—or his corpse?"

"Nothing. In his will, which I have seen elsewhere, he leaves estate and fortune to a certain Oriental gentleman named in the document as—Malik Tous!"

"What!" I cried, shaken to my soul. "Conrad, this is madness heaped on madness! Malik Tous—good God! No mortal man was ever so named! That is the title of the foul god worshipped by the mysterious Yezidees—they of Mount Alamout the Accursed—whose Eight Brazen Towers rise in the mysterious wastes of deep Asia. His idolatrous symbol is the brazen peacock. And the Muhammadans, who hate his demon-worshipping devotees, say he is the essence of the evil of all the universes—the Prince of Darkness—Ahriman—the old Serpent—the veritable Satan! And you say Grimlan names this mythical demon in his will?"

"It is the truth," Conrad's throat was dry. "And look—he has scribbled a strange line at the corner of this parchment: 'Dig me no grave; I shall not need one.'"

Again a chill wandered down my spine.

"In God's name," I cried in a kind of frenzy, "let us get this incredible business over with!"

"I think a drink might help," answered Conrad, moistening his lips. "It seems to me I've seen Grimlan go into this cabinet for wine—" He bent to the door of an ornately carved mahogany cabinet, and after some difficulty opened it.

"No wine here," he said disappointedly, "and if ever I felt the need of stimulants—what's this?"

He drew out a roll of parchment, dusty, yellowed and half covered with spiderwebs. Everything in that grim house seemed, to my nervously excited senses, fraught with mysterious meaning and import, and I leaned over his shoulder as he unrolled it.

"It's a record of peerage," he said, "such a chronicle of births, deaths and so forth, as the old families used to keep, in the Sixteenth Century and earlier."

"What's the name?" I asked.

He scowled over the dim scrawls, striving to master the faded, archaic script.

"G-r-y-m—I've got it—Grymlann, of course. It's the records of old John's family—the Grymlanns of Toad's-heath Manor, Suffolk—what an outlandish name for an estate! Look at the last entry."

Together we read, "John Grymlann, borne, March 10, 1630." And then we both cried out. Under this entry was freshly written, in a strange scrawling hand, "Died, March 10, 1930." Below this there was a seal of black wax, stamped with a strange design, something like a peacock with a spreading tail.

Conrad stared at me speechless, all the color ebbed from his face. I shook myself with the rage engendered by fear.

"It's the hoax of a madman!" I shouted. "The stage has been set with such great care that the actors have overstepped themselves. Whoever they are, they have heaped up so many incredible effects as to nullify them. It's all a very stupid, very dull drama of illusion."

And even as I spoke, icy sweat stood out on my body and I shook as with an ague. With a wordless motion Conrad turned toward the stairs, taking up a large candle from a mahogany table.

"It was understood, I suppose," he whispered, "that I should go through with this ghastly matter alone; but I had not the moral courage, and now I'm glad I had not."

A still horror brooded over the silent house as we went up the stairs. A faint breeze stole in from somewhere and set the heavy velvet hangings rustling, and I visualized stealthy taloned fingers drawing aside the tapestries, to fix red gloating eyes upon us. Once I thought I heard the indistinct clumping of monstrous feet somewhere above us, but it must have been the heavy pounding of my own heart.

The stairs debouched into a wide dark corridor, in which our feeble candle cast a faint gleam which but illuminated our pale faces and made the shadows seem darker by comparison. We stopped at a heavy door, and I heard Conrad's breath draw in sharply as a man's will when he braces himself physically or mentally. I involuntarily clenched my fists until the nails bit into the palms; then Conrad thrust the door open.

A sharp cry escaped his lips. The candle dropped from his nerveless fingers and went out. The library of John Grimlan was ablaze with light, though the whole house had been in darkness when we entered it.

This light came from seven black candles placed at regular intervals about the great ebony table. On this table, between the candles—I had braced myself against the sight. Now in the face of the mysterious illumination and the sight of the thing on the table, my resolution nearly gave way. John Grimlan had been unlovely in life; in death he was hideous. Yes, he was hideous even though his face was mercifully covered with the same curious silken robe, which, worked in fantastic bird-like designs, covered his whole body except the crooked claw-like hands and the bare withered feet.

A strangling sound came from Conrad. "My God!" he whispered; "what is this? I laid his body out on the table and placed the candles about it, but I did not light them, nor did I place that robe over the body! And there were bedroom slippers on his feet when I left—"

He halted suddenly. We were not alone in the death-room.

At first we had not seen him, as he sat in the great armchair in a farther nook of a corner, so still that he seemed a part of the shadows cast by the heavy tapestries. As my eyes fell upon him, a violent shuddering shook me and a feeling akin to nausea racked the pit of my stomach. My first impression was of vivid, oblique yellow eyes which gazed unwinkingly at us. Then the man rose and made a deep salaam, and we saw that he was an Oriental. Now when I strive to etch him clearly in my mind, I can resurrect no plain image of him. I only remember those piercing eyes and the yellow, fantastic robe he wore.

We returned his salute mechanically and he spoke in a low, refined voice, "Gentlemen, I crave your pardon! I have made so free as to light the candles—shall we not proceed with the business pertaining to our mutual friend."

He made a slight gesture toward the silent bulk on the table. Conrad nodded, evidently unable to speak. The thought flashed through our minds at the same time, that this man had also been given a sealed envelope—but how had he come to the Grimlan house so quickly? John Grimlan had been dead scarcely two hours and to the best of our knowledge no one knew of his demise but ourselves. And how had he got into the locked and bolted house?

The whole affair was grotesque and unreal in the extreme. We did not even introduce ourselves or ask the stranger his name. He took charge in a matter-of-fact way, and so under the spell of horror and illusion were we that we moved dazedly, involuntarily obeying his suggestions, given us in a low, respectful tone.

I found myself standing on the left side of the table, looking across its grisly burden at Conrad. The Oriental stood with arms folded and head bowed at the head of the table, nor did it then strike me as being strange that he should stand there, instead of Conrad who was to read what Grimlan had written. I found my gaze drawn to the figure worked on the breast of the stranger's robe, in black silk—a curious figure, somewhat resembling a peacock and somewhat resembling a bat, or a flying dragon. I noted with a start that the same design was worked on the robe covering the corpse.

The doors had been locked, the windows fastened down. Conrad, with a shaky hand, opened the inner envelope and fluttered open the parchment sheets contained therein. These sheets seemed much older than those containing the instructions to Conrad, in the larger envelope. Conrad began to read in a monotonous drone which had the effect of hypnosis on the hearer; so at times the candles grew dim in my gaze and the room and its occupants swam strange and monstrous, veiled and distorted like an hallucination. Most of what he read was gibberish; it meant nothing; yet the sound of it and the archaic style of it filled me with an intolerable horror.

"To ye contract elsewhere recorded, I, John Grymlann, herebye sweare by ye Name of ye Nameless One to keep goode faithe. Wherefore do I now write in blood these wordes spoken to me in thys grim & silent chamber in ye dedde citie of Koth, whereto no mortal manne hath attained but mee. These same wordes now writ down by mee to be rede over my bodie at ye appointed tyme to fulfill my parte of ye bargain which I entered intoe of mine own free will & knowledge beinge of rite mynd & fiftie years of age this yeare of 1680, A. D. Here begynneth ye incantation:

"Before manne was, ye Elder ones were, & even yet their lord dwelleth amonge ye shadows to which if a manne sette his foote he maye not turn vpon his track."

The words merged into a barbaric gibberish as Conrad stumbled through an unfamiliar language—a language faintly suggesting the Phoenician, but shuddery with the touch of a hideous antiquity beyond any remembered earthly tongue. One of the candles flickered and went out. I made a move to relight it, but a motion from the silent Oriental stayed me. His eyes burned into mine, then shifted back to the still form on the table.

The manuscript had shifted back into its archaic English.

"—And ye mortal which gaineth to ye black citadels of Koth & speaks with ye Darke Lord whose face is hidden, for a price maye he gain hys heartes desire, ryches & knowledge beyond countinge & lyffe beyond mortal span even two hundred and fiftie yeares."

Again Conrad's voice trailed off into unfamiliar gutturals. Another candle went out.

"—Let not ye mortal flynche as ye tyme draweth nigh for payement & ye fires of Hell laye hold vpon ye vytals as the sign of reckoninge. For ye Prince of Darkness taketh hys due in ye endde & he is not to bee cozened. What ye have promised, that shall ye deliver. Augantha ne shuba—"

At the first sound of those barbaric accents, a cold hand of terror locked about my throat. My frantic eyes shot to the candles and I was not surprised to see another flicker out. Yet there was no hint of any draft to stir the heavy black hangings. Conrad's voice wavered; he drew his hand across his throat, gagging momentarily. The eyes of the Oriental never altered.

"—Amonge ye sonnes of men glide strange shadows for ever. Men see ye tracks of ye talones but not ye feete that make them. Over ye souls of men spread great black wingges. There is but one Black Master though men calle hym Sathanas & Beelzebub & Apolleon & Ahriman & Malik Tous—"

Mists of horror engulfed me. I was dimly aware of Conrad's voice droning on and on, both in English and in that other fearsome tongue whose horrific import I scarcely dared try to guess. And with stark fear clutching at my heart, I saw the candles go out, one by one. And with each flicker, as the gathering gloom darkened about us, my horror mounted. I could not speak, I could not move; my distended eyes were fixed with agonized intensity on the remaining candle. The silent Oriental at the head of that ghastly table was included in my fear. He had not moved nor spoken, but under his drooping lids, his eyes burned with devilish triumph; I knew that beneath his inscrutable exterior he was gloating fiendishly—but why—why?

But I knew that the moment the extinguishing of the last candle plunged the room into utter darkness, some nameless, abominable thing would take place. Conrad was approaching the end. His voice rose to the climax in gathering crescendo.

"Approacheth now ye moment of payement. Ye ravens are flying. Ye bats winge against ye skye. There are skulls in ye starres. Ye soul & ye bodie are promised and shall bee delivered uppe. Not to ye dust agayne nor ye elements from which springe lyfe—"

The candle flickered slightly. I tried to scream, but my mouth gaped to a soundless yammering. I tried to flee, but I stood frozen, unable even to close my eyes.

"—Ye abysse yawns & ye debt is to paye. Ye light fayles, ye shadows gather. There is no god but evil; no lite but darkness; no hope but doom—"

A hollow groan resounded through the room. It seemed to come from the robe-covered thing on the table! That robe twitched fitfully.

"Oh winges in ye black darke!"

I started violently; a faint swish sounded in the gathering shadows. The stir of the dark hangings? It sounded like the rustle of gigantic wings.

"Oh redde eyes in ye shadows! What is promised, what is writ in bloode is fulfilled! Ye lite is gulfed in blackness! Ya—Koth!"

The last candle went out suddenly and a ghastly unhuman cry that came not from my lips or from Conrad's burst unbearably forth. Horror swept over me like a black icy wave; in the blind dark I heard myself screaming terribly. Then with a swirl and a great rush of wind something swept the room, flinging the hangings aloft and dashing chairs and tables crashing to the floor. For an instant an intolerable odor burned our nostrils, a low hideous tittering mocked us in the blackness; then silence fell like a shroud.

Somehow, Conrad found a candle and lighted it. The faint glow showed us the room in fearful disarray—showed us each other's ghastly faces—and showed us the black ebony table—empty! The doors and windows were locked as they had been, but the Oriental was gone—and so was the corpse of John Grimlan.

Shrieking like damned men we broke down the door and fled frenziedly down the well-like staircase where the darkness seemed to clutch at us with clammy black fingers. As we tumbled down into the lower hallway, a lurid glow cut the darkness and the scent of burning wood filled our nostrils.

The outer doorway held momentarily against our frantic assault, then gave way and we hurtled into the outer starlight. Behind us the flames leaped up with a crackling roar as we fled down the hill. Conrad, glancing over his shoulder, halted suddenly, wheeled and flung up his arms like a madman, and screamed:

"Soul and body he sold to Malik Tous, who is Satan, two hundred and fifty years ago! This was the night of payment—and my God—look! Look! The Fiend has claimed his own!"

I looked, frozen with horror. Flames had enveloped the whole house with appalling swiftness, and now the great mass was etched against the shadowed sky, a crimson inferno. And above the holocaust hovered a gigantic black shadow like a monstrous bat, and from its dark clutch dangled a small white thing, like the body of a man, dangling limply. Then, even as we cried out in horror, it was gone and our dazed gaze met only the shuddering walls and blazing roof which crumpled into the flames with an earth-shaking roar.

title: Dig Me No Grave


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Page:Public General Statutes 1896.djvu/78

58
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 105.
 * An Act the title of which begins with the words "An Act to continue," and ends with the words " due application thereof."
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 110.
 * An Act the title of which begins with the words "An Act for amending," and ends with the words " of Counties in England."
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 116.
 * An Act to amend an Act of this Session of Parliament for amending the Laws relating to the Local Militia of England.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 130.
 * An Act for the more effectual Punishment of Persons destroying the Properties of His Majesty's Subjects, and enabling the Owners of such Properties to recover Damages for the injury sustained.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 131.
 * An Act to exempt from the Duties of One Shilling and of Sixpence in the Pound certain Augmentations made to the Stipends of Parishes in Scotland.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 134.
 * An Act for the better Regulation of the Butter Trade in Ireland.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 143.
 * An Act for amending and reducing into one Act the Provisions contained in any Laws now in force imposing the Penalty of Death for any Act done in breach of or in resistance to any Part of the Laws for collecting His Majesty's Revenue in Great Britain
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 144.
 * An Act to suspend and finally vacate the Seats of Members of the House of Commons who shall become Bankrupts, and who shall not pay their Debts in full within a limited time.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 146.
 * An Act for the better regulating and preserving Parish and other Registers of Births, Baptisms, Marriages and Burials in England.
 * }
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 134.
 * An Act for the better Regulation of the Butter Trade in Ireland.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 143.
 * An Act for amending and reducing into one Act the Provisions contained in any Laws now in force imposing the Penalty of Death for any Act done in breach of or in resistance to any Part of the Laws for collecting His Majesty's Revenue in Great Britain
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 144.
 * An Act to suspend and finally vacate the Seats of Members of the House of Commons who shall become Bankrupts, and who shall not pay their Debts in full within a limited time.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 146.
 * An Act for the better regulating and preserving Parish and other Registers of Births, Baptisms, Marriages and Burials in England.
 * }
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 144.
 * An Act to suspend and finally vacate the Seats of Members of the House of Commons who shall become Bankrupts, and who shall not pay their Debts in full within a limited time.
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 146.
 * An Act for the better regulating and preserving Parish and other Registers of Births, Baptisms, Marriages and Burials in England.
 * }
 * 52 Geo 3 c. 146.
 * An Act for the better regulating and preserving Parish and other Registers of Births, Baptisms, Marriages and Burials in England.
 * }
 * }


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 MARTINEAU, HARRIET (1802–1876), miscellaneous writer, born at Norwich 12 June 1802, was third daughter and sixth of eight children of Thomas Martineau, manufacturer of camlet and bombazine, by Elizabeth (Rankin), daughter of a sugar-refiner at Newcastle-on-Tyne. The eminent divine, Dr., was her younger brother. The Martineau family traced its descent to a Huguenot, David Martineau, who, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, had settled as a surgeon at Norwich. A succession of Martineaus followed the same profession at Norwich, the last of whom, Philip Meadows (d. 1828), was a brother of Thomas Martineau. The family was unitarian and belonged to the little literary coterie of which William Taylor was the head. Mrs. Barbauld and her niece, Miss Aikin, were occasional visitors (, Autobiography,, i. 297–304).

The elder Martineaus, feeling that their fortune was precarious in the war time, pinched themselves to provide all their children with an education which would enable them to earn a living. Harriet was a sickly child, and suffered for many years from indigestion and nervous weakness. The well-meant but rigid discipline of her parents, and the thoughtless roughness of the elder children, injured her temper and made her gloomy, jealous, and morbid. She was, however, persevering, and at an early age began compiling little note-books of an edifying tendency. At seven years old she happened to open ‘Paradise Lost,’ and she soon knew it almost by heart. She was educated at home, learning Latin from her eldest brother, Thomas, and music from [q. v.] the Norwich organist. In 1813 she was sent with her sister Rachel to a school in the town kept by the Rev. Isaac Perry, where she learnt French. Besides Latin and French she was practised in English composition. When Perry left Norwich in 1815 she left school, but continued her classical studies at home. While at Perry's her deafness began to show itself, and before she was sixteen it had become very distressing. It was afterwards (in 1820) suddenly increased ‘by what might be called an accident’ (ib. i. 124). She never possessed the senses of taste or smell, except that once in her life she tasted a leg of mutton and ‘thought it delicious’ (, p. 118). The morbid state of her nerves and temper induced her parents to send her for a change of scene and climate to Bristol, where the wife of her mother's brother kept a school. Here for the first time she found in her aunt a ‘human being of whom she was not afraid’ (Autobiog. i. 90). After fifteen months' stay, she returned home in April 1819, morally improved by affectionate treatment, but with health rather worse. She had been overworked and medically mismanaged. She had become an almost fanatical disciple of [q. v.], the unitarian minister at Bristol. She now read the Bible systematically, was attracted to philosophical books by Carpenter's influence, and was especially impressed by Hartley, whose ‘Treatise on Man’ became to her ‘perhaps the most important book in the world, except the Bible’ (ib. p. 104). She also read Priestley, and became, like Hartley and Priestley, a believer in the doctrine of ‘philosophical necessity,’ which greatly modified her religious beliefs. In 1821, at the suggestion of her brother James, at this period her ‘idolised companion,’ she sent an article (on ‘Female Writers on Practical Divinity’) to the unitarian organ, the ‘Monthly Repository.’ It was warmly praised by her brother Thomas, who upon her confessing to the authorship advised her to give up darning stockings and take to literature. She at once began to write upon ‘Devotional Exercises,’ and made an attempt at a theological novel.

In 1823 her brother Thomas was taken ill and died in June 1824 at Madeira. Her father's health broke down, partly from the shock of losing his son. He became embarrassed during the financial crisis of 1825–6 and died in June 1826, leaving a very small provision for his family. Harriet soon afterwards was ‘virtually engaged’ to a poor fellow-student of her brother James, named Worthington. His family objected, misled by false reports of her being engaged to another; and after many difficulties had been surmounted he became insane and died some months later. She seems to have come to the conclusion in later life that her escape from the risks of marriage was on the whole fortunate. During 1827, however, her health suffered. She wrote some melancholy poems, and sent some ‘dull and doleful prose writings’ (ib. i. 134) to an old Calvinistic publisher named Houlston of Wellington, Shropshire. He accepted ‘two little eightpenny stories,’ sent her 5l., her first literary earnings, and asked for more copy. She sent him several short tales, one of which, called ‘The Rioters,’ dealt with the wages question; it was republished without her consent by Houlston's successors, after some machine-breaking, about 1842.

A long illness followed, which was successfully treated at Newcastle by her brother-in-law, husband of her eldest sister, Elizabeth. While there she began a literary connection with [q. v.],


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lettice, John


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Martineau the new editor of the 'Monthly Repository,' and wrote a life of Howard for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. Her father's widowed sister, Mrs. Lee, came to live with her mother at the same time. In 1829 the failure of the house in which the fortunes of the family had been invested brought them all into difficulties, and she was left penniless. The 'Life of Howard' had somehow vanished in the archives of the society, and no payment was received. She was forced to gain a living partly by needlework, and for two years lived on 60l. a year. Fox gave her 15l. a year, all the money at his disposal, for writing reviews in the 'Repository.' In it she also wrote the first number of the 'Traditions of Palestine,' the success of which encouraged the publication of the volume so called in the foil owing spring. Fox remained one of her most valued friends to the end of his life. Her mother, for domestic reasons, refused to permit her to accept a small post involving literary drudgery in London. The Central Unitarian Association offered prizes at this time for three essays, intended to convert the catholics, the Jews, and the Mahommedan8. Miss Martineau wrote for them all. The prize for the first was awarded to her in September 1830, and the other two prizes in the following May. The essays probably converted nobody, but brought in forty-five guineas. The prize-money enabled her to visit her brother James at Dublin in 1831, and while there she thought out a plan for a series of stories in illustration of political economy. She had touched similar subjects in her stories for Houlston in 1827, and had learnt shortly afterwards something about the science from the 'Conversations' of Mrs. [q. v.] The idea of the stories had then first occurred to her and been approved by her brother. She now determined to devote herself to the work entirely, and accepted small loans from two rich friends to set her free for the time. She wrote to publishers from Dublin without success, and in December 1831 went to London to carry on negotiations. After many repulses she finally agreed with a young publisher. Charles Fox, brother of W. J. Fox, to bring out her stories. He was to have half profits, and there was to be a subscript ion for five hundred copies before the publication began. The subscription only reached three hundred, but the series was begun in February 1832, and at once made a remarkable success. Her publisher wrote to her on 10 Feb. saying that the first edition of fifteen hundred copies was nearly exhausted, and proposing to print five thousand more. She soon became one of the 'lions ' of the day.

Her labours were severe. She had resolved, by the advice of her brother in Dublin, to bring out a story every month. Twenty-five numbers were thus produced, the last in February 1834. Besides this she wrote four 'poor-law tales' for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge at Brougham's suggestion, and added in 1834 five supplementary tales called 'Illustrations of Taxation.' She had taken lodgings in Conduit Street, but her mother, after some months, took a house in Fludyer Street, Westminster, where they lived, together with her aunt, till she left London. She dined out every day except Sunday, and made acquaintance with all the literary celebrities. Hallam advised her; Sydney Smith joked with her; Milman, Malthus (with whom she stayed at Haileybury), Rogers, Monckton Milnes, Bulwer, and many others became friends. She knew Carlyle some time later, and suggested and managed his first course of lectures in 1837. She gave her impressions of 'literary lionism' in an article in the 'Westminster Review' for April 1839 (most of it reprinted in Autobiography, i. 271, &c), which shows that social flattery did not turn her head. Cabinet ministers asked her opinion of their methods; the retired governor of Ceylon (Sir Alexander Johnstone) crammed her for a tale to illustrate the monopoly of the East India Company; Brougham took her up warmly, and as chancellor supplied her with private papers in order that she might write effectively on behalf of the projected poor-law reforms; Owen tried unsuccessfully to get her to defend his socialism, and an agent of the American colonisation scheme endeavoured to imbue her with his theories about slavery. Croker attempted to 'destroy her' by an article in the 'Quarterly Review' for her support of Malthus, and Empson praised her in the 'Edinburgh.' She says (ib. i. 208) that her sale was increased by the suggestions of her wickedness in the 'Quarterly,' which is conceivable, and that it 'diminished markedly and immediately' after the praises of the 'Edinburgh,' because whig praises were disliked by the people. As, however, both 'articles appeared in the numbers for April 1833, the statements are not easily reconcilable. Empson says that she was writing too fast, and the stories therefore declined in interest. Some deduction must be made from her estimate of her own importance, and certainly from her imputations upon hostile editors. The 'tales' are now an unreadable mixture of fiction, founded on rapid cramming, with raw masses of the dismal science. They certainly show the true journalist's talent of turning hasty acquisi-


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lettou, John


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Page:Public General Statutes 1896.djvu/79

1896.
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 150.
 * An Act to amend an Act passed in the Forty-fourth Year of His Majesty's Reign for granting Stamp Duties In Great Britain so far as regards the Duties granted on Medicines and on Licences for vending the same.
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 155.
 * An Act to repeal certain Acts and amend other Acts relating to Religious Worship and Assemblies, and Persons teaching or preaching therein.
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 156.
 * An Act for the more effectual Punishment of Persona aiding Prisoners of War to escape from His Majesty's Dominions.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 28.
 * An Act to extend and amend an Act passed in the last Session of Parliament for amending the Laws relating to the Local Militia in England.
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 29.
 * An Act to extend and amend an Act passed in the last Session of Parliament, intituled, "An Act for amending the laws relating " to the Local Militia in Scotland."
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 48.
 * An Act to amend the Laws relating to raising and training the Militia in Ireland.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 49.
 * An Act to explain and amend an Act passed in the Seventh and Eighth Years of the Reign of the late King William, as far as relates to the splitting and dividing the Interest in Houses and Lands among several Persons to enable them to vote at Elections of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 64.
 * An Act for the better Regulation of the Court of Session in Scotland.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 77.
 * An Act to amend an Act passed in Ireland in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Years of His present Majesty for empowering Grand Juries to present Bridges, and Tolls to be paid for passing the same, in certain cases.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 89.
 * An Act for the more regular conveyance of Writs for the Election of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * }
 * 52 Geo. 3 c. 48.
 * An Act to amend the Laws relating to raising and training the Militia in Ireland.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 49.
 * An Act to explain and amend an Act passed in the Seventh and Eighth Years of the Reign of the late King William, as far as relates to the splitting and dividing the Interest in Houses and Lands among several Persons to enable them to vote at Elections of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 64.
 * An Act for the better Regulation of the Court of Session in Scotland.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 77.
 * An Act to amend an Act passed in Ireland in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Years of His present Majesty for empowering Grand Juries to present Bridges, and Tolls to be paid for passing the same, in certain cases.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 89.
 * An Act for the more regular conveyance of Writs for the Election of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * }
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 77.
 * An Act to amend an Act passed in Ireland in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Years of His present Majesty for empowering Grand Juries to present Bridges, and Tolls to be paid for passing the same, in certain cases.
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 89.
 * An Act for the more regular conveyance of Writs for the Election of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * }
 * 53 Geo. 3 c. 89.
 * An Act for the more regular conveyance of Writs for the Election of Members to serve in Parliament.
 * }
 * }


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Letts, Thomas


text:
Page:The Holy Bible, containing the Old & New Testament & the Apocrypha.djvu/1116

Rh in the city of David his father: and Rehoboam his son reigned in his stead.

Rehoboam went to Shechem: for all Israel were come to Shechem to make him king. And it came to pass, when Jeroboam the son of Nebat, who was yet in Egypt, heard of it, (for he was fled from the presence of king Solomon, and Jeroboam dwelt in Egypt;) that they sent and called him. And Jeroboam and all the congregation of Israel came, and spake unto Rehoboam, saying. Thy father made our yoke grievous: now therefore make thou the grievous service of thy father, and his heavy yoke which he put upon us, lighter, and we will serve thee. And he said unto them, Depart yet for three days, then come again to me. And the people departed.

And king Rehoboam consulted with the old men; that stood before Solomon his father while he yet lived, and said. How do ye advise that I may answer this people? And they spake unto him, saying. If thou wilt be a servant unto this people this day, and wilt serve them, and answer them, and speak good words to them, then they will be thy servants for ever. But he forsook the counsel of the old men, which they had given him, and consulted with the young men that were grown up with him, and which stood before him: and he said unto them, What counsel give


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lettsom, John Coakley


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Levens, Peter


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lever, Ashton


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lever, Christopher


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lever, Darcy


text:
Page:The Holy Bible, containing the Old & New Testament & the Apocrypha.djvu/1117

XII] ye that we may answer this people, who have spoken to me, saying, Make the yoke which thy father did put upon us lighter? And the young men that were grown up with him spake unto him, saying, Thus shalt thou speak unto this people that spake unto thee, saying. Thy father made our yoke heavy, but make thou it lighter unto us; thus shalt thou say unto them, My little finger shall be thicker than my father's loins. And now whereas my father did lade you with a heavy yoke, I will add to your yoke: my father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions.

So Jeroboam and all the people came to Rehoboam the third day, as the king had appointed, saying. Come to me again the third day. And the king answered the people roughly, and forsook the old men's counsel that they gave him; and spake to them after the counsel of the young men, saying, My father made your yoke heavy, and I will add to your yoke: my father also chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions. Wherefore the king hearkened not unto the people; for the cause was from the Lord, that he might perform his saying, which the Lord spake by Ahijah the Shilonite unto Jeroboam the son of Nebat.

So when all Israel saw that the king hearkened


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lever, Ralph


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lever, Thomas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leveridge, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leverton, Thomas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Levi, David


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Levi, Leone


text:
Page:The Holy Bible, containing the Old & New Testament & the Apocrypha.djvu/1118

Rh not unto them, the people answered the king, saying, What portion have we in David? neither have we inheritance in the son of Jesse: to your tents, O Israel: now see to thine own house, David. So Israel departed unto their tents. But as for the children of Israel which dwelt in the cities of Judah, Rehoboam reigned over them. Then king Rehoboam sent Adoram, who was over the tribute; and all Israel stoned him with stones, that he died. Therefore king Rehoboam made speed to get him up to his chariot, to flee to Jerusalem. So Israel rebelled against the house of David unto this day. And it came to pass, when all Israel heard that Jeroboam was come again, that they sent and called him unto the congregation, and made him king overall Israel: there was none that followed the house of David, but the tribe of Judah only.

And when Rehoboam was come to Jerusalem, he assembled all the house of Judah, with the tribe of Benjamin, an hundred and fourscore thousand chosen men, which were warriors, to fight against the house of Israel, to bring the kingdom again to Rehoboam the son of Solomon. But the word of God came unto Shemaiah the man of God, saying, Speak unto Rehoboam, the son of Solomon, king of Judah, and unto all the house of Judah and Benjamin, and to the remnant of the people, saying, Thus saith the Lord,


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Levinge, Richard (d.1724)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Levinge, Richard George Augustus