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34 so that when the waist is closed the closing will not break the perfect succession of the plaids. The crosswise plaids in front must be on a line with the plaid in back so that when the underarm seam is joined the plaids will match perfectly. (Ill. 61.)

When making a waist of striped material, if the stripes of the material are cut bias or if the waist itself is cut on the bias, follow the same rules given in the paragraphs above for cutting the plaids.

CUTTING A SKIRT OF PLAID. In cutting a gored skirt of plaid material decide on the line or stripe that will look best at the center front. After the front is cut, lay it on your cutting table and place the uncut material beside it with the lengthwise and crosswise stripes matching. (Ill. 62.) Place the pattern of the side gore on the material, matching the front, and cut it.

Matching a plaid or stripe in this way frequently means wasting some of your material. That is unavoidable, however, for the plaid or figure must match even if the pattern has to be moved the width of a plaid or figure before the correct position is found. Cut each gore of the skirt in the same way so that the stripes and plaids will match in every gore.

Illustration 62 shows a skirt cut of plaid material. In this case the uncut material had to be lifted up in order to match the crosswise plaid, making it necessary to waste some of the material at the top. (Ill. 62.) This happens so frequently in cutting plaids that you must buy extra material for a plaid skirt or dress.

Striped, cheeked and plaid materials are very good-looking in a two-piece circular skirt with a bias seam down the front. (Ill. 63.) The pattern will give you explicit directions for cutting it in plaid or striped materials, so that you will get the proper bias at the seam. Follow the directions carefully.

In cutting a circular skirt of plaid or striped material cut one side first and then remove the pattern. Lay the piece that you have cut upon the material and match the plaid or stripes at all points before cutting other half of the skirt. When the skirt is put together the prominent lines of the plaids or stripes should have a mitered effect as shown in Illustration 63 and Illustration 64.

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132 stopping you; but I tell you, I can’t sleep when I think about it.”

“Oh, she‘ll be all right, mother. We shall manage.”

“And she lets you buy her underclothing?” asked the mother.

“Well,” he began apologetically, “she didn’t ask me; but one morning—and it was cold—I found her on the station shivering, not able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: ‘I think so.’ So I said: ‘Have you got warm underthings on?’ And she said: ‘No, they were cotton.’ I asked her why on earth she hadn’t got something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she had nothing. And there she is—a bronchial subject! I had to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn’t mind the money if we had any. And, you know, she ought to keep enough to pay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find the money.”

“It’s a poor lookout,” said Mrs. Morel bitterly.

He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair.

“But I can’t give her up now; it’s gone too far,” he said. “And, besides, for some things I couldn’t do without her.”

“My boy, remember you’re taking your life in your hands,” said Mrs. Morel. “Nothing is as bad as a marriage that’s a hopeless failure. Mine was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it might have been worse by a long chalk.”

He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his hands in his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he would go to the world’s end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on his face.

“I couldn’t give her up now,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an engagement.”

“I can’t give her up now,” he said.

The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict between them; but he would say no more. At last she said:

“Well, go to bed, my son. You’ll feel better in the morning, and perhaps you’ll know better.”

He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now as it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be breaking down in her, but


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Rh they did not destroy her power to live. Now her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.

And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her.

“Well,” he said, “if you don’t believe me, what she’s like, would you believe she has been confirmed three times?”

“Nonsense!” laughed Mrs. Morel.

“Nonsense or not, she has! That’s what confirmation means for her—a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.”

“I haven’t, Mrs. Morel!” cried the girl—“I haven’t! it is not true!”

“What!” he cried, flashing round on her. “Once in Bromley, once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else.”

“Nowhere else!” she said, in tears—“nowhere else!”

“It was! And if it wasn’t, why were you confirmed twice?”

“Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel; “I can quite understand it, child. Take no notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.”

“But it’s true. She’s religious—she has blue velvet Prayer-Books—and she’s not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and that’s how she is in everything—everything!”

The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.

“As for love!” he cried, “you might as well ask a fly to love you! It’ll love settling on you——”

“Now, say no more,” commanded Mrs. Morel. “If you want to say these things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don’t you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you’re engaged to her!”

Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.

William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.

When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.

“You know, mother,” he said to her, “Gyp’s shallow. Nothing goes deep with her.”


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text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Plombières

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Plombières


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User:Euterpia

I contribute mainly on the french Wikipedia (see my userpage there).

Profiles

 * Wikipédia francophone
 * Wikidata

Works in progress

 * Harold Dennis Taylor, A System of Applied Optics, 1906, Macmillan. Index:Harold Dennis Taylor - A System of Applied Optics.djvu Proof reading in progress.

Books

 * How to Write a Short Story, 1904 (Proofread of the month)
 * Tensing Exercises, 1913 (Proofread of the month)

Authors

 * Leslie W. Quirk

title: User:Euterpia


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1833.] 1st mo. 1st. 1833. I measured a Tea Tree, Leptospermum lanigerum, 7 feet in circumference, and about 70 feet high. This is usually a shrub of about 10 feet in height. I afterwards met with one of these trees 80 feet high. A Silver Wattle, Acacia mollis? was 11 feet 2 inches round: the area of its branches and its height 60 feet. A Sasafras was 6 feet round and 140 feet high.—On a Myrtle, we met with a large fungus, such as is eaten by the natives in cases of extremity. It is known in the colony by the name of Punk, and is white and spongy; when dried it is commonly used instead of tinder. Another edible fungus grows upon the Myrtle, in these forests: it is produced in clusters, from swollen portions of the branches, and varies from the size of a marble to that of a walnut. When young, its colour is pale, and it is covered with a thin skin that is easily taken off. Its taste, in this state, is like cold cow-heel. When matured, the skin splits, and exhibits a net-work of a yellowish colour. It may be considered the best native esculent in V. D. Land.

A White Hawk, and some other birds of the Falcon tribe were observed here.—Among the few singing birds of this country there is one with a slender note, like that of a Red-breast; another has a protracted whistle, repeated at intervals.—The shrill chirp of the Mole-cricket has been heard during the two last days, and the harsh creaking note of a small Tetagonia ? a kind of fly, called the Croaker, is every where to be heard among the grass and bushes.

2nd. Showery with thunder. I dug up a Gastrodium sesamoides, a plant of the orchis tribe, which is brown, leafless, and 1½ feet high, with dingy, whitish, tubular flowers. It grows among decaying vegetable matter, and has a root like a series of kidney potatoes, terminating in a branched, thick mass of coral-like fibres. It is eaten by the Aborigines, and is sometimes called Native Potato; but the tubers are watery and insipid.

3rd. In company with J. Milligan and Henry Stephenson, a servant of the Company, from near Richmond in Yorkshire, we visited a place in the forest, remarkable for an assemblage of gigantic Stringy Barks, and not far from


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 {| negative for rays in secondary planes, but positive for rays in primary planes. Hence the manner in which the two curves cross one another at 27 and 30 degrees respectively, after which there follows a rapid mutual separation. Now it is clear that were the ratio between the aberrations of the third order invariably 3 : 1 or any other fixed ratio between the primary and secondary planes, then such graphs as these could never arise. But since (leaving all terms containing a out of consideration, as we are dealing here with pencils of infinitely small aperture) the third order functions of - are in the ratio 3:1 in the primary and secondary planes, while the third order functions of ^ are in the ratio 5 : 1 in the primary and secondary rays, then we can clearly see that in the case of the functions of - being of the opposite sign to the functions f* of ^ we may easily have the total aberrations of the third order plus in one plane while they are minus in the other. The separation corrections to the y's, existing, as we have seen, only in the primary plane, cause a still further degree of independence between the curvature errors in the two planes. we come to deal with the images thrown by pencils of relatively large aperture, for we have seen that in the primary plane there are functions of a that are seven and six times the corresponding functions in the secondary plane. Therefore it is that, if we take the lenses we have dealt .with and open out their apertures and locate their oblique foci (by obtaining the best possible distinctness of image), we may find the curvature errors come out substantially different to those shown on Plate XXIV. It is clear, then, that it is not always practicable to determine the working character of a lens by calculating its curvature errors for progress of photographic lenses towards perfection depends chiefly upon the successful elimination of the curvature errors of the order tan 4 , and the doing of it with the simplestossible lens construction.
 * Independence of the curvature errors of the third order in the two planes.
 * the fact that the curvature errors of the order tan 4 < are decidedly
 * the fact that the curvature errors of the order tan 4 < are decidedly
 * The disturbing effect of aperture upon the curvature errors of the third order.
 * And the scope for vagaries of this sort is still more enlarged when
 * And the scope for vagaries of this sort is still more enlarged when
 * Future progress de- pends upon elimina- tion of curvature errors of third and fourth orders.
 * infinitely narrow pencils only. It will easily be seen that the future
 * infinitely narrow pencils only. It will easily be seen that the future
 * }


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120 the junction of the Emu River with the Loudwater; the latter of which takes its name from three falls over basaltic rock, at short intervals, the highest of which is 17 feet.—Within half a mile we measured standing trees as follows, at 4 feet from the ground. Several of them had one large excrescence at the base, and one or more far up the trunk.

No. 1—45 feet in circumference, supposed height 180 feet, the top was broken, as is the case with most large-trunked trees; the trunk was a little injured by decay, but not hollow. This tree had an excresence at the base, 12 feet across, and 6 feet high, protruding about 3 feet.

No. 2—37½ feet in circumference, tubercled.

No. 3—35 feet in circumference; distant from No. 2 about 80 yards.

No. 4—38 feet in circumference; distant from No. 3 about fifty yards.

No. 5—28 feet in circumference.

No. 6—30 feet in circumference.

No. 7—32 feet in circumference.

No. 8—55 feet in circumference; supposed to be upwards of 200 feet high; very little injured by decay; it carried up its breadth much better than the large tree on the Lopham Road, and did not spread so much at the base.

No. 9—40½ feet in circumference; sound and tall.

No. 10—48 feet in circumference; tubercled, tall, with some cavities at the base, and much of the top gone. A prostrate tree near to No. 1, was 35 feet in circumference at the base, 22 feet, at 66 feet up, 19 feet, at 110 feet up; there were two large branches at 120 feet; the general head branched off at 150 feet; the elevation of the tree, traceable by the branches on the ground, was 213 feet. We ascended this tree on an inclined plane, formed by one of its limbs, and walked four a breast, with ease, upon its trunk! In its fall, it had overturned another, 168 feet high, which had brought up with its roots, a ball of earth, 20 feet across. It was so much imbedded in the earth that I could not get a string round it


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1833.] to measure its girth. This is often the case with fallen trees. On our return, I measured two Stringy-barks, near the houses at the Hampshire Hills, that had been felled for splitting into rails, each 180 feet long. Near to these, is a tree that has been felled, which is so large that it could not be cut into lengths for splitting, and a shed has been erected against it; the tree serving for the back!

7th. I accompanied J. Milligan in a visit to an open plain, previously unexplored, which we had seen from an eminence, and taken the bearing of, by the compass. We set out early and reached the place about noon. It was covered with long grass and tall fern, to which we set fire. As evening drew on, we made "a break-wind" of boughs, and thatched it with fern, &c, of which we also prepared a bed. Toward night, rain fell, but not so as to extinguish our tire, though it stopped the burning of the grass and fern. We were amused with the note of a little bird, in the wood near which we had formed our shelter, that in a shrill whistle, seemed to involve the words, "Who are you? who are you? Are you wet? are you?"—In passing through a woody hollow, we saw many of the tree-ferns, with the upper portion of the trunk split, and one half turned back. This had evidently been done by the Aborigines, to obtain the heart for food, but how the process was effected, I could not discover; it must certainly have required considerable skill. Many small branches of the bushes were broken and left hanging: by this means these people had marked their way through the untracked thicket.

8th. The morning being wet, we concluded to return to the Hampshire Hills, and having to pass over the burnt ground on which the charred stems of the fern were standing, we were blackened by them in a high degree; but afterwards, on coming among wet scrub, we were as effectually washed. We then passed 4½ hours in traversing a dreary Myrtle-forest, making frequent use of the compass, and sometimes losing sight of each other, by the intervention of tree-ferns. We were much impeded by roots of trees projecting above the grassless surface of the earth, and by fallen and decaying timber. In crossing some of the latter,


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 of the image formed by a lens, in the cases of both central and eccentric oblique refractions. He assumed the aperture of the pencil of rays in question to be infinitely narrow, and got at his results by the employment of the differential calculus. I saw that while this would be quite valid for such infinitely narrow pencils, still, as considerably broad pencils generally occur in practice, it struck me it might be worth while trying to devise a method not dependent upon the calculus, whereby the foci of broad oblique and eccentric pencils could be elucidated, when possibly some new results of practical importance might be forthcoming. About the year 1890 I undertook that task, and after meeting with many difficulties which almost compelled me to give up the investigation as hopeless, I at last succeeded in arriving at the results embodied in Sections V., VI., and VII. of this volume, and in so doing was fortunate enough to bring to light the formula relating to coma, a phenomenon that appears, strange as the fact may seem, never to have been noticed by Coddington. I then saw that the formulæ I thus arrived at implied corollaries of the greatest practical importance, and I was led almost directly to the conception of the Cooke lens, that is, of the older complex Cooke lens built up of two achromatic positive lenses and one achromatic negative lens. The simple Cooke lens was of later conception. Thus the theory preceded the practice, although I should say that there are certain other features of the Cooke lens, such as distortion and oblique achromatism more especially, whose theory I did not arrive at until a few years later, so that in that respect the practice preceded the theory.

Having subsequently worked out a complete system of formulæ, which I have proved and tested and found reliable in all manner of ways, and recognising the great importance of theory and practice working loyally together for future improvements, I thought that as soon as I had time enough at my disposal I would gather together and arrange what has been the interrupted labour of many years, with a view to publication, if by so doing I could, even in a humble degree, forward the development of optical science in this country, wherein it has lain so long neglected, or perhaps furnish some raw material on which some far abler heads than mine should at some future time found important corollaries not yet dreamed of.

Considerations of space have compelled me to confine myself to theorems and formulæ that I consider to be of the greatest practical value, and to leave out many corollaries of minor importance that might be dealt with in a future edition, were it ever called for.

There are also many problems and theorems untouched upon,


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 which are only of theoretical importance or of interest from a mathematical point of view, and of little value to the practical optician, such as, for instance, the theory of caustics, planes of unit magnification, etc., about which the more mathematical student can obtain full information from various contemporary works of well-known repute, such as those mentioned above, as well as Coddington's work, which, however, is now out of print and often difficult to procure.

It will be observed that I have not given the lines of reasoning by which the formulæ of the first approximation are arrived at; for I have assumed that the student will bring with him to the study of this work a knowledge of such elementary optical formulae. For those who wish to enter upon it without that knowledge I do not know a better book to recommend as a clearly written first guide to the formulæ of the first approximation than Todhunter's Optics (in Part II. of his Natural Philosophy for Beginners, 1877, which I believe is also out of print) or Lardner's Optics, and the series of articles on “Applied Optics” by Dr. Drysdale in the British Optical Journal.

I think it must be conceded that, while the method of investigating the foci of oblique and eccentric pencils of finite or large aperture explained in this work leads to novel and highly important formulæ of the second approximation, and some others which are novel in many respects, it also opens out possibilities of working out formulæ of the third and in some cases the fourth approximations, which in the hands of a skilful mathematician may lead to new and useful results of great importance; while the application of the differential method of Coddington and other workers to infinitely narrow pencils is exceedingly limited in its scope and results, as I shall show.

At first sight it seems a remarkable thing that a system of surfaces bound by the simplest of all known curves, namely, the circle, with their centres on a common axis, should give rise to problems which, if solved to a high degree of exactitude, are of such extraordinary complexity.

I gladly take the present opportunity of expressing my thanks to Sir W. de W. Abney and Professor Silvanus P. Thompson for much kind encouragement and valuable help; and also to Dr. Moritz von Eohr for allowing me to reproduce some of his diagrams on Plate XXIV.

In conclusion, I shall be only too glad if any technical errors or obscurities, which must, in spite of all care, exist in a work of this kind, are pointed out to me. H. DENNIS TAYLOR


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CANTO I.] XLVI.

But all unconscious of the coming doom,

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;

Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;

Here Folly still his votaries inthralls;

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:

Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals,

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.

XLVII.

Not so the rustic—with his trembling mate

He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,

Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,

Blasted below the dun hot breath of War.

No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star

Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet:


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54 Ah, Monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,

Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;

The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet!

XLVIII.

How carols now the lusty muleteer?

Of Love, Romance, Devotion is his lay,

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,

His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?

No! as he speeds, he chants "Vivā el Rey!"N8

And checks his song to execrate Godoy,

The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day

When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,

And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

XLIX.

On yon long level plain, at distance crowned

With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,


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 SECTION I

A RECAPITULATION

will first of all recapitulate those well-known formulæ of the first approximation relating to ultimate axial rays constituting direct or axial pencils, or, in other words, extremely narrow pencils whose central or principal ray coincides with the axis or straight line joining the origin or apex of the pencil to the centre of curvature of the spherical surface. Spherical aberration is in such cases a vanishing quantity and is therefore not regarded. Throughout this work it is assumed that all reflecting and refracting surfaces are either plane or spherical.

Case of a Plane or Curved Reflector

Throughout the diagrams in this book light is supposed to be travelling from left to right.

Plane reflector.— Here if Q (Plate I.) be the origin and Q..A, the principal ray, be perpendicular to the reflecting surface R..R, then after reflection the rays will proceed backwards as if originating from a virtual point q situated on Q..A projected and at a distance A..q

from the surface equal to A..Q. On the contrary, if the incident pencil is of rays converging to the apex q, then they will be reflected back to a real point Q such that A..Q = A..q and Q..q is normal to R..R.

If the reflecting surface be curved spherically as r.r, Figs. 2a, 2b, 2c, and 2d, c being the centre of curvature and Q the origin or apex of the incident pencil, then the formula

universally applies and interprets itself in all cases if the following conventions are strictly adhered to, viz.—


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CANTO I.] Wide-scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;

And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest

Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:

Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,

Here the bold peasant stormed the Dragon's nest;

Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,

And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

L.

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet

Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,

Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:N9

Woe to the man that walks in public view

Without of loyalty this token true:

Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;

And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,

If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke,

Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.

LI.

At every turn Morena's dusky height

Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;

And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,

The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,


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90 8.

"Vivā el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them: some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc., etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.

[Manuel de Godoy (1767-1851) received the title of Principe de la Paz, Prince of the Peace, in 1795, after the Treaty of Basle, which ceded more than half St. Domingo to France. His tenure of power, as prime minister and director of the king's policy, coincided with the downfall of Spanish power, and before the commencement of the Peninsular War he was associated in the minds of the people with national corruption and national degradation. He was, moreover, directly instrumental in the betrayal of Spain to France. By the Treaty of Fontainebleau, October 27, 1807, Portugal was to be divided between the King of Etruria and Godoy as Prince of the Algarves, Portuguese America was to fall to the King of Spain, and to bring this about Napoleon's troops were to enter Spain and march directly to Lisbon. The sole outcome of the treaty was the occupation of Portugal and subsequent invasion of Spain. Before Byron had begun his pilgrimage, Godoy's public career had come to an end. During the insurrection at Aranjuez, March 17-19, 1808, when Charles IV. abdicated in favour of his son Ferdinand VII., Godoy was only preserved from the fury of the populace by a timely imprisonment. In the following May, by which time Ferdinand himself was a prisoner in France, he was released at the instance of Murat, and ordered to accompany Charles to Bayonne, for the express purpose of cajoling his master into a second abdication in favour of Napoleon. The remainder of his long life was passed, first at Rome, and afterwards at Paris, in exile and dependence. The execration of Godoy, "who was really a mild, good-natured man," must, in Napier's judgment, be attributed to Spanish venom and


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100 means of promoting individual as well as social happiness, is that of one of the faculties of the human mind, the cultivation of which is too little regarded in the training of youth. I mean the faculty of admiration, which, if properly directed, under the influence of religious feeling, has the effect of raising, by imperceptible degrees, the moral nature of man in his intellectual, as well as his spiritual enjoyments.

It is too much the tendency of the present day to confine the exercise of admiration to what is of man's invention, elaborate, costly, and artificial—to the arts and manufactures which belong to a high state of civilization, to the patent inventions of the day, to the newest fabrics, or the most expensive ornaments—in short, to all which may be regarded as characteristic of an "age of great cities;" rather than to a development of those principles of harmony and beauty, which pervade the universe at large. I presume not to say that these are not good—good in a certain manner, and to a certain extent; but good as the objects of our highest admiration, they certainly are not, and especially for this reason—because they are material, and only gratify the senses, without leaving any beneficial or indelible impression upon the soul.

The cultivation of a true taste necessarily belongs to this part of our subject, because it rests very much with parents to direct their children's admiration as they choose; and whatever they most admire, becomes naturally the standard of true taste to them. It may fairly be said, then, that the taste of the present day is for everything material. When young people now turn their attention to intellectual pursuits, it is to collect specimens, not ideas. Imagination in its higher walks is discarded, and even our works of fiction are only valued so far as they present a succession of active scenes, so exaggerated as to produce the effect of startling the senses. All this may be tolerated in the present generation, because we have yet among us the remains of a higher order of thought and feeling; but it will tell to a lamentable extent upon the next, when all enthusiasm for poetry and the fine arts will have become extinct. Already it may be said that poetry is banished from our world; and if painting still lingers on the stage of public

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CANTO I.] Spanish prejudice. The betrayal of Spain was, he thinks, the outcome of Ferdinand's intrigues no less than of Godoy's unpatriotic ambition. Another and perhaps truer explanation of popular odium is to be found in his supposed atheism and well-known indifference to the rites of the Church, which many years before had attracted the attention of the Holy Office. The peasants cursed Godoy because the priests triumphed over his downfall (Napier's History of the War in the Peninsula, i. 8; Southey's Peninsular War, i. 85 note, 93, 215, 280).]

9.

The red cockade, with "Fernando Septimo" in the centre.

10.

All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville.

11.

Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. When the author was at Seville, she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta.

[The story, as told by Southey (who seems to have derived his information from The Narrative of the Siege of Zaragoza, by Charles Richard Vaughan, M.B., 1809), is that "Augustina Zaragoza (sic), a handsome woman of the lower class, about twenty-two years of age," a vivandiere, in the course of her rounds came with provisions to a battery near the Portello gate. The gunners had all been killed, and, as the citizens held back, "Augustina sprang over the dead and dying, snatched a match from the hand of a dead artilleryman, and fired off a twenty-six pounder; then,


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 the first organ in Europe was that sent by the Emperor Constantine V to King Pepin in 756. In 812, Louis Le Debonnaire placed one in the Church of Aix-la-Chappelle; and one is mentioned as having been erected at Winchester in the tenth century.

Gervase the Monk, describing the destruction of the Cathedral of Canterbury by fire in 1174, especially mentions the burning of the organ; and Durandus, in the thirteenth century, alludes to the organ as common in the churches of his time. These facts completely refute the notion of Bingham and his followers that the instrument was first introduced into the Church by Marinus Sanutus in 1290.

The organ erected in the monastery at Winchester, just mentioned, requires more than a passing notice. It is described by a monk named Wulstan, whose fidelity, as Lingard remarks, cannot be questioned, since he dedicated his "Life of St.


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56 The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,

The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,

The magazine in rocky durance stowed,

The bolstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,N10

LII.

Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;

A little moment deigneth to delay:

Soon will his legions sweep through these their way;

The West must own the Scourger of the world.

Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day,

When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,

And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.

LIII.

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave,

To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign?

No step between submission and a grave?

The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain?


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 Swithin," in which the description occurs, to Elphegus, Bishop of Winchester, by whose order the organ was erected, about the middle of the tenth century.

To quote the lengthy account left us by the good monk, and the absurd deductions that have been made from it would occupy more time than we could spare; suffice it to say that Mr. Wackerbarth, in his "Music and the Anglo-Saxons," states that he believes that it possessed registers or stops, and a key-board furnished with all the chromatic semi-tones! Mr. Arthur Ashpitel, a modern writer and archæologist, believes all this, and much more. He thinks it had "forty stops!" and after summing up his opinions, concludes with this remarkable passage:—"The instrument, therefore, would be the size of that


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Author:Richard Boulton

Works

 * Examination of John Colbatch, his books

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 organe case." The Parish Registers of this church, under the date July 26th, 1567, record the burial of ", organe maker." It was in the establishment of this worthy, in all probability, that the first Doncaster organ was manufactured.

To return again to Oxford. In 1520 one was employed in repairing the "little orgayns" in the chapel of Magdalen College; but nothing seems to be known of him. We have also the names of, and , shortly afterwards. They were probably all three local builders of no great note. The latter, from the spelling of his name, may have been a German.

Another organ builder of this period was named, or. Entries of payments to him for work done to the organ of Magdalen College occur in the books from 1531 to 1545. In one of these entries he is called Magister White.


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H 434 Index to Volume XXVII. PAGK . 252 Hood, Alexander (1758-1798) Hood, Alexander, Viscount Bridport (1727- ) 253 Hood, Charles (1826-1883). . . .256 Hood, Edwin Paxton (1820-1885). . .256 Hood, Francis Grosvenor (1809-1855). . 257 Hood, John (1720-1783 ?). . . .258 Hood, Robin, legendary outlaw. . . 258 Hood, Sir Samuel (1762-1814). . . 261 Hood, Samuel, Viscount Hood (1724-1816). 263 Hood, Samuel (1800 ?-1875). See under Hood, John. Hood, Thomas (ft. 1582-1698). . .270 Hood, Thomas (1799^-1845). . . .270 Hood, Thomas, the younger (1835-1874), known as Tom Hood * 272 Hook, James (1746-1827). . . .272 Hook, James ( 1772 ?-1828). . . .273 Hook, John (1634-1710). See under Hook, William. Hook, Theodore Edward (1788-1841). . 274 Hook, Walter Farquhar (1798-1875). . 276 Hook, William (1600-1677). . . .279 Hooke, John < 1655-1712) . . .280 Hooke, Luke Joseph, D.D. (1716-1796) . . 281 Hooke, Nathaniel (1664-1788) . . .281 Hooke, Nathaniel orNatbanael (d. 1763) . 282 Hooke, Robert (1635-1703) .... 283 Hooker or Hoker, John ( ft. 1540). See under Hooker, alias Vowell, ^ohn. Hooker, alia* Vowell, John (1526 P-1601) . 287 Hooker, Richard (1554 ?-1600) . . .289 Hooker, Thomas (1586 P-1647) . . . 295 Hooker, William Dawson (1816-1840). See under Hooker, Sir W T illiam Jackson. Hooker, Sir William Jackson (1785-1865) . 296 Hookes, Nicholas (1628-1712) . . . 299 Hoole, Charles (1610-1667) .... 299 Hoole, Elijah (179&-1872) . . . . W0 Hoole, John (1727-1803) 300 Hooper, Edmund (1553 P-1621) . . .301 Hooper, George (1640-1727) . . .301 Hooper, John (d. 1555) 304 Hooper, Robert (1773-1835) . . . .306 Hooper, William Hulme (1827-1854) . . S07 Hooten, Elizabeth (rf. 1672) . . . .308 Hooton, Charles (1813 P-1847) . . . 308 Hope, Sir Alexander (1769-1837) . . . 308 Hope (afterwards Beresford-Hope), Alexander James Beresford (1820-1887) . . . 309 Hope, Mrs. Anne (1809-1887) . . . .311 Hope, Archibald, Lord Rankeillor (1639-1706). See under Hope, Sir John, Lord Craighall. Hope, Charles, of Hopetoun, first Earl of Hope- toun (1681-1742) . . . . .311 Hope, Charles, Lord Granton (1763-1851) . 312 Hope, Frederick WUHam (1797-1862) . . £13 Hope, George (1811-1876) .... 313 Hope, Sir Henrv (1787-1863) . . . .314 Hope, Henry fchilip (rf. 1839). See under Hope, Thomas. Hope, Sir James (1614-1661) . . . .315 Hope James, afterwards James Hope John- stone, third Earl of Hopetoun ( 1741-1816) .316 Hope, James (1801-1841), . . .316 Hope, James (1764-1846?) . . . * . 317 ; Hope, Sir James (1808-1881) . . . - 318 j Hope, Sir James Archibald (1785-1871) . . 320 j Hope, Sir John, Lord Craighall (1605 P-1654) 320 Hope, Sir John (a 1766). See Bruce, Sir John Hope. i Hope, John (1739-1785) . . . . . 321 I PAOK Hope, John (1725-1786) . . . . .321 Hope, John, fourth Earl of Hopetoun (1765- 324 325 325 326 327 32* 329 Hope, Sir John (1765-1836). Hope, John (1794-1858) /. Hope, John Williams (1757-1813) Hope, Sir Thomas ( 160^-1643) Hope, Sir Thomas (d. 1646). Hope, Thomas (1770P-1831). Hope, Thomas Charles (1766-1844), Hope, Sir William Johnstone (1766-1831) Hope, William Williams (1802-1855). »ee under Hope, John Williams. Hope-Scott, James Robert ( 1 812-1873). . 3S0 Hopetoun, Earls of. See Hope, Charles, first Earl (1681-1742); Hope, James, third Earl (1741-1816); Hope, John, fourth Earl (1765-1823). Hopkin, Hopkin (1737-1754). See under Hopkin, Lewis. Hopkin, Lewis ( 1708-1771 ). . . .332 Hopkins, Charles ( 1664 ?-l 700?). . .333 Hopkins, Edward (1600-1657). . .383 Hopkins, Ezekiel, D.D. (1634-1690). . 334 Hopkins, George (1620-1666). See under Hopkins, William (1647-1700). Hopkins, John (d. 1570) 334 Hopkins, John (ft. 1700). . . .336 Hopkins, John Larkin (1819-1873). . 336 Hopkins, Matthew (d. 1647). . . .336 Hopkins, Richard (d. 1594 ?). . . .337 Hopkins, William ( ft. 1674). . . - 388 Hopkins, William (1*647-1700). . .338 Hopkins, William (1706-1786). . . 339 Hopkins, William (1793-1866). . .339 Hopkinson, John (1610-1680). . . 340 Hopkinson, William ( ft. 1583). . .341 Hopkirk, Thomas ( 1790 ?-1851 ?). . .341 Hoplev, EdwardWiUiam John (1816-1869). 341 Hopper, Humphrey (ft. 1799-1834). . 341 Hopper, Thomas ('177&-1856). . . .341 Hoppner, John (1758-1810). . . .342 Hoppus, John (1789-1875). . . .343 Hopson, Cbarles Rivington (1744-1796). . 344 Hopsonn, Edward (rf. 1728). See under Hop- sonn, Sir Thomas. Hopsonn, Sir Thomas (1642-1717). . .344 Hopton, Arthur (1588P-1614). See under Hopton, Sir Arthur. Hopton, Sir Arthur (1588 ?-1650). . .345 Hopton, John, D.D. (d. 1558). . . .346 Hopton, Ralph, Lord Hopton (1598-1662). 347 Hopton, Susanna (1627-1709). . . .350 Hopwood, James (1752 P-1819). . .350 Hopwood, James, the vounger (ft. 1800-1850). See under Hopwoocf, James (1752 P-1819). Hopwood, William (1784-1858). See under Hopwood, James (1752 P-1819). Horbery, Matthew (1707 ?-1773). . .351 Horden, Hildebrand (rf. 1696). . . .351 Horman, William (rf. 1585) 352 Horn, Andrew (d. 1328) ..... 352 Horn, Charles Edward ( 1786-1849). . . 353 Hornblower, Jabez Carter (1744-1814). See under Hornblower, Jonathan. Hornblower, Jonathan (1717-1800). .354 Hornblower, Jonathan Carter (1753-1816)., See under Hornblower, Jonathan. Hornblower, Josiah (1729?-1809). See under Hornblower, Jonathan. Hornby, Sir Phipps ( 1785-1867 ). 855 Hornby, William (/. 1618) .... 355


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 of the psalmody of the church." According to this resolution, money was collected, and arrangements entered into with Renatus Harris, who erected the organ at present standing in the church.

Nothing more is known of Anthony Duddyngton, "citizen of London"; but it is more than probable that many of the old City organs, destroyed in the great fire, were of his construction.

Organs were not mute in our country parish-churches during the sixteenth century, and constant mention of them is to be found in old accounts.

Among the local builders who have entirely escaped notice, is one, who lived at Crewkerne about the time of the Reformation. He was an "orgynmaker," who let out organs to churches by the year. Probably this might have


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, for the organs, A.D. 1519." From this contract we learn that the builder was to include pipes of 5 feet and 8 feet length in his instrument; that he was to use "fyne metall of pure tyn" in their construction; and that he was to have as few "stopped" pipes as "may be convenient." The compass was to be three octaves and five notes, namely, from C below the bass staff to A above the treble staff. The number of stops is not stated, but the builder was to be allowed fifteen months for the completion of his labour, and the price was to be £50.

It is not known what was the ultimate fate of this organ but it seems likely that it was sold for the value of the old metal—"the pure tyn" mentioned in the contract—during the reign of fanaticism in the century following. This seems the more likely, as the church was without an organ in 1675, when it was resolved at a vestry meeting to erect "an organ of convenient size and loudness for the due


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 entered for "organs" to. Nothing whatever is known of this builder further than he resided in London

was an organ builder resident in London in the early part of the sixteenth century. A payment to him is thus recorded in the accounts of the churchwardens of St. Margaret's, Westminster, under the date of 1514:

"'Item. Paid to Thomas Smyth, organemaker, for mendyng of the grete orgones, xls., and for the small orgones, vs.'"

Another contemporary builder was a, a priest, who made an organ for Lambeth Church, in 1517, for the small sum of 10s.

A curious document was discovered, in 1862, among the old papers, in the church chest of Allhallows, Barking, of which a copy was kindly forwarded to me by the late, George Corner, F.S.A. It purports to be "An Indenture, or Contract, between the Churchwardens of Allhallows, Barking, and


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 monument to his memory still stands there (see print in History of Gloucester). His wife Christian, whom he married in 1564, died in 1615.

Another family of Machon was known in Yorkshire. (1572–1640?), son of John of Machon Bancko, Sheffield, graduated B.A. from Magdalen College, Oxford, 1594; was vicar of Aston, Warwickshire, 1603, and of Ridgely, Staffordshire, 1620; canon of Lichfield, 1631; master of the hospital of St. John's de Forbrage in Stafford, 1632; and vicar of Hartburn, Northamptonshire, 1632. His son John Machon (1603–1679) graduated B.A. 1624 and M.A. 1626 from Magdalen Hall, Oxford, was master of Christ's Hospital at Sherbourne, co. Durham, and was father of Thomas Machon (d. 27 Feb. 1672–3), chaplain to Prince Rupert, master of St. John the Baptist's Hospital, Lichfield, from 1671, and canon of Lichfield (see, Visitation of Durham and Alumni Oxon. 1500–1714).

One (fl. 1608) was author, in collaboration with  [q. v.], of a comedy called ‘The Dumbe Knight,’ London, 1608, 1633. Machin signs the address ‘To the Understanding Reader.’ The piece is throughout in blank verse. Shirley makes a casual reference to it in his ‘Example,’ 1637. It is reprinted in Dodsley's ‘Old Plays,’ ed. Hazlitt, x. 108 sq. ‘Three Eclogs’ by Machin are appended to William Barkstead's ‘Mirrha,’ 1607.

 MACHIN, JOHN (1624–1664), ejected nonconformist, only son of John Machin (d. 12 March 1653), was born at Seabridge, in the parish of Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, on 2 Oct. 1624. His father held the freehold of the Seabridge estate, which had been in his family since 1531. His mother was Katherine Vernon of Audley, Staffordshire. He was educated under Orme of Newcastle-under-Lyne, and John Ball of Whitmore, Staffordshire. At first he was meant for the bar, then trained to farming as a country gentleman, and 'given to cockfights.' In December 1645 he was admitted at Jesus College, Cambridge. Shortly after this he dates his 'conversion.' In March 1648 he was ill of 'a dangerous spotted feavour,' and after his recovery 'set up a meeting of some schollars for religious purposes,' which he continued for some years after he left the university. He commenced B.A. in 1649, and in the same year received presbyterian ordination at Whitchurch, Shropshire. For about a year he preached in Staffordshire and Cheshire without fixed charge. In 1650 he settled as lecturer every other Sunday at Ashborne, Derbyshire, preaching on the alternate Sunday in the country round. In the spring of 1652 he became lecturer at Atherstone Chapel in the parish of Mancetter, Warwickshire. He was the 'one Macham, a priest in high account,' who prescribed physic and bloodletting for George Fox, the quaker founder. On 17 Nov. 1652 he was called to Astbury, Cheshire, as lecturer, and removed from Atherstone in the spring of 1653. At his own cost (8l. 12s. per annum) he set up a 'double lecture' in twelve Staffordshire towns on the last Friday in each month. He devised the plan on 31 July 1652, and began its execution on 4 Aug. 1653. The last lecture was delivered on 2 Jan. 1660. Walker says he was presented to the rectory of Astbury in 1654. This appears erroneous, for 'by the coming of another incumbent' ( [q. v.]) his preaching at Astbury was limited to alternate Sundays, giving him opportunity to pursue his ministry at large. Machin and Moxon lived together at the rectory house. On 17 May 1661 he obtained the perpetual curacy of Whitley Chapel, in the parish of Great Budworth, Cheshire. The Uniformity Act of 1662 ejected him from this cure, but he appears to have remained at Whitley, preaching there and in the neighbourhood until the first Conventicle Act came into force (1 July 1664). He was then in bad health, and removed to Seabridge, where he died of malignant fever on Tuesday, 6 Sept. 1664. He was buried on 18 Sept. at Newcastle-under-Lyne. He married at Uttoxeter, on 29 Sept. 1653, Jane, daughter of John Butler, and had four or five children, including Samuel (b. 13 Nov. 1654, d. 29 July 1722), John (d. 5 Aug. 1741, aged 82 years and 10 months), and Sarah.

He published nothing, and is known only from 'A Faithful Narration' of his life, published anonymously in 1671, 12mo, with a 'prefatory epistle ' by Sir Charles Wolseley. According to [q. v.] the author was [q. v.] of Manchester, who had preceded Machin at Astbury. It is an excellent specimen of later puritan religious biography. It was reprinted in Clarke's 'Lives of Sundry Eminent Persons' (1683), and republished in 1799, 12mo, with notes, by [q. v.], who married a descendant of Machin.

[Newcome's Faithful Narration, 1671; George Fox's Journal, 1691, p. 4; Calamy's Account, 1713, pp. 125 sq.; Calamy's Continuation, 1727, i. 170; Walker's Sufferings of the Clergy, 1714, p. 261; Life of Philip Henry (Williams), 1826,


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 "Clarence (who before, as 'tis said, had secretly conveyed himself out of prison), to the end that he might be King, and that the House of York might again flourish. But the said Symonds being discovered, was apprehended, and on February 10 confessed in St. Paul's Church, before divers Bishops and Nobles, as also the Lord Mayor, Aldermen and Sheriffs of London, that he, by flattery, had seduced the son of a certain organ-maker of the University of Oxford, and had caused him to be sent into Ireland, where he was by many reputed to be the Earl of Warwick, and that he was with the Lord Lovell at Furnsell. Upon which confession he was sent to the Tower, and afterwards (as some say) suffered as a traitor; though others not, but that he was only kept in close prison as long as he lived. Some report that the said youth was named Lambert Symmell, and that he was a baker's son in Oxford; but the Priest's confession was the truest, viz., that he was the son of an organ-maker of the University of Oxford. And who that should be but one William Wotton I cannot tell, knowing very well, from various obscure writs, that such an one, and nobody else professed that art at that time in Oxford.'"

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134 “William, I wish you wouldn’t say these things,” said Mrs. Morel, very uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her.

“But it doesn’t, mother. She’s very much in love with me now, but if I died she’d have forgotten me in three months.”

Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quiet bitterness of her son’s last speech.

“How do you know?” she replied. “You don’t know, and therefore you’ve no right to say such a thing.”

“He’s always saying these things!” cried the girl.

“In three months after I was buried you’d have somebody else, and I should be forgotten,” he said. “And that’s your love!”

Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returned home.

“There’s one comfort,” she said to Paul—“he’ll never have any money to marry on, that I am sure of. And so she’ll save him that way.”

So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly believed William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she kept Paul near to her.

All summer long William’s letters had a feverish tone; he seemed unnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually he was flat and bitter in his letter.

“Ay,” his mother said, “I’m afraid he’s ruining himself against that creature, who isn’t worthy of his love—no, no more than a rag doll.”

He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a long while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could come for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October.

“You are not well, my boy,” said his mother, when she saw him.

She was almost in tears at having him to herself again.

“No, I’ve not been well,” he said. “I’ve seemed to have a dragging cold all the last month, but it’s going, I think.”

It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboy escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than ever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes.

“You are doing too much,” said his mother to him. He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he was sad and tender about his beloved.


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Rh “And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she’d be broken-hearted for two months, and then she’d start to forget me. You’d see, she’d never come home here to look at my grave, not even once.”

“Why, William,” said his mother, “you’re not going to die, so why talk about it?”

“But whether or not——” he replied.

“And she can’t help it. She is like that, and if you choose her—well, you can’t grumble,” said his mother.

On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:

“Look,” he said to his mother, holding up his chin, “what a rash my collar’s made under my chin!”

Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation.

“It ought not to do that,” said his mother. “Here, put a bit of this soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars.”

He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for his two days at home.

On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs. Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram, called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, put on her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express for London in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. A small figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the porters if they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She sat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King’s Cross still no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying her string bag, that contained her nightdress, comb and brush, she went from person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon Street.

It was six o’clock when she arrived at William’s lodging; The blinds were not down.

“How is he?” she asked.

“No better,” said the landlady.

She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshot eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, there was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at his bedside. No one had been with him.

“Why, my son!” said the mother bravely.

He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her.


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136 Then he began to say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation: “Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and become converted into rock. It needed hacking——”

He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some such cargo of sugar in the Port of London.

“How long has he been like this?” the mother asked the landlady.

“He got home at six o’clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor.”

“Will you have a fire made?”

Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still.

The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas, which had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and was spreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain.

Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that he would recognize her. But the young man’s face grew more discoloured. In the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not come to consciousness. At two o’clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died.

Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; then she roused the household.

At six o’clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then she went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the doctor.

At nine o’clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire:

“William died last night. Let father come, bring money.”

Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. The three children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul set off for his father.

It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled high up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy noise.

“I want my father; he’s got to go to London,” said the boy to the first man he met on the bank.

“Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an’ tell Joe Ward.”

Paul went into the little top office.

“I want my father; he’s got to go to London.”


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User talk:2ndGenCoder

Please post messages to me on my wikiversity talk page, here.... Thanks.

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 of the modern tremulant, and occurs in a specification for an organ given by John Loosemore, of Exeter, in 1665. It is not found in later specifications, and went out of use owing to the noise in action, occasioned by its faulty construction.

The total cost of the organ and case, according to the writer from whom I glean my knowledge of the King's College organ, was about £370; the outlay upon the organ, so far as the items may now be divided, amounting to £214, and that upon the case to £156.

The name of Dallam still occurs in the College accounts after the completion of the organ. In 1607 he is paid xxxvs. for tuning the organ, besides xxxvs. received by the sale of the surplus tin, of which "a thousand six hundred" had been purchased for the pipes; in 1617, £10, and in 1638, £22, are paid to him for repairs. His name occurs for the last time in 1641. In no case is a Christian name given.


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Plight

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I'm from Wikipedia.

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HEN George III. and Louis XV. were on the thrones of England and France respectively, there was born one of the world's greatest naturalists. Georges Chrétien Léopold Frédéric Dagobert Cuvier was born on 23rd August 1769, at Montbéliard, in the Department of Doubs, then belonging to Würtemberg. His father, an officer and a Protestant, retired in order to escape religious persecution, and settled in the town previously mentioned. He had three sons—the eldest died young, the second became the hero of our story, and the third was Frédéric Cuvier (1772-1838), the naturalist.

Georges Cuvier, on account of his delicate constitution, was first taught by his mother an excellent and praise-worthy woman. At ten years of age he went to school, and there acquired an excellent knowledge of Greek, Latin, mathematics, and other subjects; and at the age of fourteen the Duke of Würtemberg sent him to the Academy of Stuttgart. He had studied Buffon, and thereby became acquainted with the natural history of


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WO years before the birth of Priestley, and in the reign of George II., there was born at Nice, on 10th October 1731, a son to Lord Charles Cavendish, and a nephew of the third Duke of Devonshire. The family is an old one, and traces its descent to Sir John Cavendish, Lord Chief Justice in the reign of Edward III., and to Robert de Gernon a compatriot of the Norman Conqueror; and the ﬁrst peer was son to William Cavendish, usher to Cardinal Wolsey. The mother of the Hon. Henry Cavendish died when he was two years old, and of his boyhood days nothing is known. At the age of eighteen he went to Cambridge, remaining at Peterhouse for four years, but did not take his degree. This representative of a noble house was a recluse, cold, passionless, selfish, reticent, a misogynist, a hater of noise and bustle, a man of few words, a millionaire, and a devotee to science. "There was nothing earnest, enthusiastic, heroic, or chivalrous in the nature of Cavendish, and as little was there anything mean, grovelling, or ignoble. All that needed for its


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 one at St. Sepulchre's, Newgate Street!"

Now I think that this lecture on the Early History of the Organ, is not without its use, if it only clears up some of these important points, about which clever and even scientific men are daily making mistakes. The slightest investigation into the progress of the science of music would alone aid us materially in drawing our conclusions, even without the valuable assistance of archæology; but when both are combined, we feel that we are treading on sure ground.

The organ described by Wulstan was a most primitive instrument, without registers or stops, of any kind, and unprovided with a key-board. Its compass is uncertain, but the only chromatic note it possessed was the B flat It had a set of rods or levers, in connection with the pipes; and the performance of the


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Rh XVII

——,

You ask me whether one who has seceded from miraculous to non-miraculous Christianity still finds himself able to pray as before. But towards the end of your letter you amend your question. You are "quite sure," you are pleased to say, from what you know of me, that I shall "answer this question affirmatively, though in defiance of all logic:" and therefore, anticipating my answer, you state your objection to it beforehand, and ask me how I can meet your objection, which is to this effect: "If the laws of nature are never suspended, then it is absurd, or perhaps impious, to pray for that which implies their suspension. For example, a friend of mine may be in a stage of disease so fatally advanced that, without a suspension of the laws of nature, it is no more possible that he should recover from the disease than that his body should rise from the grave. According to the tenets of your non-miraculous Christianity, must I not abstain from praying that he may recover?"

I do not see any great difficulty here. Change the hypothesis for a moment. Suppose your friend to be no longer living, but dead. Are you willing—would you be willing, even were you the most orthodox believer in miraculous Christianity—to pray that the body of your dead friend might arise revivified from the grave a week after he had been laid in it? You know you would not be willing. Why not? You cannot say "Because it is


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282 possible," for you would admit (on the supposition of your being a believer in the miraculous) not only that it is possible, but that it has actually been done in times past. But you would feel, I am sure, that you dare not, and ought not, to pray for this object, because such a prayer would be a revolt against that established order of things which you recognize to be a manifestation of God's present will. I say "God's present will," because you do not (if you agree with me) regard death as being in accordance with God's future will: it is an evil, sprung, not from God, but from evil, out of which God is working good. But He bids us acquiesce in it during our present imperfect state of existence; and hence, though you believe He will ultimately destroy death, you do not feel justified in praying that its present operation may be neutralized by a suspension of the laws of nature.

Now to return to your own supposition that your friend is not dead, but merely in danger of death. Health and life are dependent upon many complex causes, among which (it will be admitted by all) are those mysterious fluctuations of the thoughts and emotions, which I believe in many cases to proceed—I speak in a metaphor—straight from God Himself. To one who believes that the spirits of men are in constant communion with the all-sustaining Spirit of the Creator, the thoughts of men may well seem to be as dependent upon their divine Origin as the air in my little room is at this moment dependent upon the changes of the circumambient atmosphere. Of course, if you are a thorough-going, scientific hope-nothing and trust-nothing, such a belief as this appears to you an idle dream. From your point of view, you are a machine; your friend is a machine; all men are machines; the world is a machine; the action and inter-action of all these animate and inanimate machines is predetermined, even to the minutest


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Letter 26] movement of a limb, or most fleeting shade of thought, in each one of the myriads of human mechanisms called men.

The thorough-going materialist, when he rebukes his son and tells him that he "ought not to have" told a lie, knows perfectly well that his son could not possibly help telling that lie, and that he was bound by all the laws of nature to tell it. The materialist father is, in fact, telling a lie himself; only more deliberately than the little son. He is using words which have no true meaning for him, as a kind of oil to grease the wheels of the little machine before him, having learned by accumulated experience that this lying phrase, "You ought to have," has for many thousands of years proved a very effective kind of oil, and that the true and scientific phrase, "It would have been better if you could have, but you could not," would be wholly inefficacious. But since it is obvious that this view of existence converts all moral language, and almost all the higher relations of life, into one gigantic lie, I make no apology at all for putting it by with contempt as being beneath the consideration of a child of ten—at which age, as far as I remember I grappled with this question of predestination, and settled it (so far as I was concerned, for ever) by coming to the conclusion that "it does not work." Now when you have once given up, as unworkable, the theory that all our thoughts and emotions spring necessarily from antecedent material causes, you have bidden good-bye to Knowledge, so far as concerns the origin of human thought, and you are thrown back upon Faith. I believe therefore, and I make no apology for my belief, that the mysterious fluctuations of human thought and will may sometimes proceed from God without the intervention of material causes, perhaps in virtue of the existence of some invisible law of union by which the souls of men are united to God and to one another.


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284 This being my belief—which at all events does not contain so many and such perpetually-recurring inconsistencies as the belief of your thorough-going materialist—you will understand, without much further explanation, when and why I should pray even for those of whom the physician is inclined to despair. Faith and hope, have, before now, worked such wonders in healing, that "while there is life there is hope" has passed into a proverb. I cannot be sure that my prayers might not have some kind of direct power—by a kind of brain-wave such as we have heard of lately—in affecting the emotions and spirits of the sufferer. It is seldom that even a physician can speak with certainty about the immediate issue of a disease: and whatsoever is uncertain is (if it be also right) a reasonable subject for prayer. But if I were myself absolutely convinced that there was no chance of my friend's recovery without a suspension of the laws of nature, I should feel that prayer rightly and naturally gave way to resignation.

No one however who is in the habit of praying will think it necessary to spend much time or thought in discriminating exactly between that which may be, and that which cannot possibly be. He must know that, very often, where his prayer trenches on the province of the material, the line cannot be drawn except by an expert in science, which he may not happen to be; and besides, in the mood of prayer, he will feel that the scientific and discriminating spirit is out of place. He is not thinking of things scientifically, but spiritually, putting his wishes before the Father in heaven, and content to couple each wish with an "If it be possible." Sometimes he learns, after constant repetition, that the prayer is an unfit one, and he discontinues it; in that case he has gained by his prayer a closer insight into, and conformity with, the will of God. In other cases he continues his prayer and receives an answer to it—either the answer that he


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Letter 26] desires, or some other perhaps, quite different from that which he expected, but one which he ultimately recognizes to be the best. But there will be cases where he will continue his prayer, feeling it to be right and natural, although he receives no answer to it at all, so far as he can discern. For he will feel quite certain that no genuine prayer is wasted. Our spirits, or our angels—to use the language of metaphor—are not on earth: they sit together in heaven, that is to say, in the heart of God; and whenever one of us can conceive a genuinely unselfish and righteous wish for a brother spirit and wing it with faith so that it flies up to heaven—a flight by no means so easy or so common as we suppose, and probably not often flown, unless the arrow is feathered by deeds and pains as well as words—then it not only brings back a blessing upon the wisher but also thrills through the spiritual assembly above and comes back as a special blessing to the person prayed for. But need I add that this is not a process to be performed mechanically? There is no recipe for effectual prayer.

But, to come down from metaphors, let me attempt to answer your question, "What difference of attitude in prayer will there be between the believer in natural, and the believer in miraculous, Christianity?" As far as my experience goes, there will be very little; except that the former will be rather more disposed to ask, before uttering a prayer, how far the granting of it might indirectly affect others. Logically and theoretically there ought to be a great deal of difference; for if the believer in the miraculous were consistent, he might naturally pray that a miracle might be performed for him, as it has been for others, for a good purpose. As a matter of fact, the prayers of children trained in orthodoxy are thus sometimes consistent. I dare say one might find a child who has prayed that the sun might stand still that he might have


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 1733-1804

URING the reign of George II. and six years before the war with Spain, Joseph Priestley was born on 13th March 1733, at Fieldhead, a hamlet near Leeds. He was destined to be a remarkable man in more ways than one, whose work will live as long as time endures, and whose moral character was above reproach.

Priestley's father was a cloth dresser, and his mother a farmer's daughter. The mother dying when Priestley was seven years old, the home, managed by his father's sister, became the meeting-place of numerous dissenting ministers, who helped to mould the character of the boy, for in after life his work became divided between science on the one hand, and theology, metaphysics, and politics on the other. During his schooldays and subsequently he acquired a knowledge of Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, Chaldean, Arabic, French, Italian, and Dutch; also logic, metaphysics, mathematics, and natural philosophy. Although not blessed with the best of health, he was always of a cheerful temperament, so much so that he 44


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286 a longer holiday. And why not now—from the child's point of view—as well as formerly? But I suppose few men in England, now, even of the strictly orthodox, are in this puerile stage. Almost all full-grown English Protestants recognize that, although miracles were freely performed from the year 4004 B.C. to, say A.D. 61 or thereabouts—when St. Paul shook off the serpent and took no harm—yet "the age of miracles is now past." Yet I have heard of men of business who make a point of praying earnestly on the subject of commercial speculations, the rise and fall of consols, the price of sugar and the like. Will any one maintain that people are not the worse for such prayers as these, or that the believer in natural Christianity is not a gainer by losing the desire and the power to utter them? On the whole, I see but one subject of prayer mentioned in our English Prayer-book, as to which natural Christianity would probably dictate silence: I mean the weather. It might be argued that, "since the weather is affected by human action (by the clearing of forests, draining of marshes, and so on), and since prayers affect human action, therefore they do affect the weather indirectly, and may affect it directly." But from "indirect" to "direct" is a great leap; and I am moved toward resignation rather than prayer, by the thought that, in revealing to us more and more of the extent of the causes and effects of meteorological phenomena, God seems to be shewing us that, in asking for weather that suits ourselves, we may be asking for weather that may not suit others. I should be sorry to see harvest prayers excluded from our Church service; but I think they should express our hope and trust in God's orderly government of the seasons, beseeching Him to bestow on the husbandman patience and skill so as to meet and improve adversity, and on the nation thrift and frugality so as to avoid waste.


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Letter 26] Since writing the last paragraph I was interrupted; and now, returning to my letter, I feel strongly inclined to cancel the last two or three pages of apologetic argumentation; arguing about prayer seems so absurdly useless. Yet perhaps my remarks may weigh for something with you in your present oscillation. They may possibly prevent you from giving up, in a moment of virtuous logic, a habit which, once discontinued, is not easily resumed. Let them pass then; but let them not pass without a protest that they by no means express my sense of the vital necessity of prayer for a Christian. To me it seems the very breath of our spiritual life, as needful for peace and union with God as communion between children and parents is needful for domestic concord. Without it, faith must speedily vanish. Even a comparatively dull and lifeless petition at stated intervals has some value as a sign-post, indicating the road on which we ought to be travelling though our feet may be straying elsewhere. But in truth real Christian prayer (mostly silent) should be, as St. Paul says "without ceasing;" for prayer is but aspiration and desire, emerging into shape. When a man has reached such a height that he has ceased to wish to be something better than he is, then and then only may he cease to pray.

One kind of prayer at all events I have felt able to retain which seems to me of far more value than the prayer for fair weather—I mean prayer for the dead. I do not deny that, when coupled with superstitious views about heaven and hell, the custom of praying for the dead may result in superstition, and even in the encouragement of immorality; and the hired and conventional prayers for the dead prevalent in the sixteenth century appear to me to have constituted an abuse against which our English Reformers did well to protest. But these abuses and corruptions seem to me accidental, and quite insufficient


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288 to deter us from use of the most helpful of spiritual habits. I do not propose to argue about it, but you may like to know the sort of accident by which I was led to form this habit, and the practical reasons for which I clung to it, and still cling to it, with the deepest conviction that it is not only spiritually useful, but also based on spiritual truth.

Many years ago a brother of mine was drowned at sea through the sudden capsizing of a vessel by night. When the news came, I was at first distracted between an intense desire to pray as before, and a kind of instinctive and general repugnance to all prayers for the dead as being "a Romanist practice." All the books I had read, and all the notions I had formed, about the fixed future of the dead, suggested that such prayers were useless, if not blasphemous. On the other side there was no argument at all, nothing but a vague strong desire to pray. The painful conflict of that night—a conflict, as it seems to me now, between true natural religion and the false appearance of revealed religion—is still present to my recollection. At last it occurred to me that more than a month had elapsed between the death and our knowledge of the death, and throughout all those thirty days my prayers had gone up to God for one whose soul was no longer upon earth. Were those prayers wasted? I could not believe it. Besides, we had not yet received full details of the loss of the vessel. It was just possible that my brother might have been saved in one of the ship's boats: he might be still living, and in sore need of help: how monstrous, if it were so, that I should in such a crisis cease to pray for him! So with doubt and trembling I still continued my custom, fashioning some kind of prayer to suit the emergency. While I was in this oscillating state of mind, news came that a second boatful, and almost immediately afterwards that a third, had been picked up at sea. My


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Letter 26] brother was not in either: but why might there not be a fourth? For some time, with less doubt than before, I continued to pray. Days, weeks, months rolled on, and now all hope had slipped away; but the habit was now fixed. I could not, or would not, break it. Praying day and night for one who was possibly living; just possibly living; probably not living; certainly dead—I had learned to realize the presence of my brother's spirit, as very near and close to me, as one with whom I was still in some kind of communion; and now to drop his name out of my prayers, simply because I should never touch his hand again in this world, seemed a faithless, a wicked, a cruel act. The prayer could not indeed remain the same in circumstances so completely changed; I could of course no longer pray that the dead might be restored to me on earth: but it was still open to me to make mention of his name, and to beseech God that he and I might meet again in heaven: and thus, with a curious kind of compromise, worthy of a less youthful theologian, I circumvented my own orthodoxy by still praying in reality for my brother while I appeared to be praying for myself. More than seven-and-twenty years have now passed away, but not a night or morning has passed without the mention of that familiar name; and I entreat you to believe me that, next to the power of Christ Himself upon the soul, I have not found, nor can I imagine, any influence so potent as this habit of praying for the dead, to detach the mind from petty and visible things, to unlock the spiritual world, to carry the soul up to the very source and centre of spiritual life, and to bring us into faithful communion with the Father of the spirits of all flesh.

You see I have kept my promise of not arguing on this matter. I have simply told you how I have longed and doubted; how my doubts were dissipated by practice; and what strength I have personally derived from


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290 the practice. Probably this will seem to you, if interesting, at all events inadequate. "Logically," you will perhaps say to yourself, "he ought to have attempted first to convince me that the eternal state of the dead is not finally determined at the moment of death; so that prayer may reasonably be expected to have some power to change their condition. He ought to have told me whether he believes in a Purgatory, or in a limited Hell; whether he is a Universalist; or whether he believes in the annihilation of all who are not to be saved. In a word, he ought to have given me a full account of his theory about the condition of the dead, before he commends to me the habit of praying for them."

Here I fear I shall terribly disappoint you; but, at the risk of whatever disappointment, I will confess to you the whole truth. This part of my Manual of Theology has large print, large margin, and several blank pages. I believe some things with such force and clearness that I prefer to say I do not believe them—I see them: but about many other things which most people believe, I know little or nothing. Do I believe in a Hell? Yes, as firmly as I believe in a Heaven; but not in your Hell perhaps, and certainly not in the ordinary guide-books to Hell and Heaven. Perhaps some would call my Hell "merely retribution," or "an illogical and ill-defined Purgatory;" and from their point of view they could be right in complaining of its indefiniteness; for they profess to know all about it and to be able to define it. But from my point of view I am equally right in speaking indefinitely; for I profess to have only a glimpse of it. Of the principles of Hell and Heaven I am certain, but of the details I am entirely ignorant. I know nothing whatever, and I know that no one else knows anything whatever, about the state of the dead; except that they are just as much in God's hand when dead as when living, and that


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Letter 26] He will ultimately do the best thing for each; but what that "best thing" may be I cannot tell in detail, although I am very sure that it will be one thing for St. Francis and quite another for Nero. For the rest, all the elaborate structures and fancy-fabrics of Heaven and Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, Limbo, and other regions, whether theologians or poets be the architects, appear to me built upon the flimsiest foundations, tags of texts, fragments of words, quagmires of metaphor, quicksands of hyperbole. No; such real knowledge—or shall we say such conviction?—as we have about the eternal future of the dead, is to be based, not upon argument or inference from minute and disputable interpretations of small portions of Scripture, but mainly upon our faith in the divine righteousness and power. You will not, I hope, misunderstand my words that "God will do the best thing for each," or draw from them the inference, "Then he is a Universalist after all." I took for granted—I hope I was not wrong—that you would remember the definition of justice which you have read in Plato. In fact therefore I merely expressed in those words my conviction that God would be "just" to us after death. Might we not also define the highest mercy, in the same terms in which we define the highest justice, as being the feeling that prompts us to "do what is best for each"? And, if so, does it not seem to follow that in Hell God will not cease to be merciful, and in Heaven God will not cease to be just? And hence are we not brought close to the conclusion that Heaven and Hell are not really places, but the diverse results of the operation of the Eternal—the just Mercy, the merciful Justice—upon the diverse dead? But here the question widens and deepens into expanses and depths altogether too vast


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292 and profound for me, and I give up the problem. All that I know is, that there will be hereafter a just retribution.

Yet if I am to tell you my own conjectural imaginations—for who can help at times imagining what the infinite unknown may be, however loth he may be to insist or dogmatize about it, or even to bestow much attention on it, when the urgent present presses its superior claims?—I will say for myself that I cannot believe I shall have served all my apprenticeship to righteousness in my brief life upon this earth, or that I shall be fit immediately after death, for that closest communion with God which appears to me the Heaven of Heavens. Some cleansing retribution, some further purification, seems to me necessary and likely for myself—and, I must add, for the greater number of those human beings with whom I have had to do—before we attain to that blessed consummation.

"So you believe in a Purgatory then?" How do I know? Say rather, I conjecture there may be many heavens. In any case, I find it very easy to imagine a retribution and a purification that shall be purely spiritual, without having recourse to any material flames or physical horrors. Some people find a difficulty in this notion: they consider it, but deliberately put it aside; as if mere remorse, sorrow, and self-condemnation, could never be bitter enough to constitute a just Hell. I do not think they have ever realized—perhaps they have never tried to realize—the pain that may be felt by a spirit sitting alone, away from this familiar world and every well-known face, and quietly judging and condemning itself. A mere accident, a ludicrous accident, once gave me a moment's experience of this feeling, and I have never been able to forget it, never been able to put aside the conviction that that feeling, intensified, might constitute Hell.

It happened in this way. Some years ago, before