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 minds into, driving some perhaps into downright infidelity. And then I went on to reflect, what if my poor children should hereafter fall into the way of some such false teachers, and learn to deny the that bought them, and to despise the  of Grace.

"This thought I could not endure; so I resolved, that with God's gracious help, I would search the matter out for myself; for surely, Sir, it is a matter in which not the Clergy only, but we all are deeply interested."

"You say right," I replied; "the knowledge of God's truth must be the greatest earthly treasure to us all. It unquestionably concerns the Laity full as much as it does the Clergy, to ascertain the Truth and to keep it; also to hand it on pure and uncorrupted to their children after them."

He proceeded; "My plan was this; first to endeavour to make out what was the intention of the Church in appointing this and the other two Creeds to be occasionally used; and then to try this Athanasian Creed by Scripture rules; and if I could not reconcile it to them, why then certainly, however unwillingly, I should have joined in opinion with those who wish to have it left out of the Prayer Book."

"A very good plan," said I, "but you must recollect that the enemies of this Creed would ask, what possible reason you could have for being unwilling to part with it, especially when you know that great numbers of people have so vehement a dislike to it."

"Sir," said he, "I have long made up my mind, that on questions of this kind relating to God and Eternity, people's likings and dislikings are not much in the scale either way. But I think, Sir, I can offer one or two good excuses for my being unwilling to have this Creed laid aside. In the first place, it would give me pain to have any great alterations made in such a book as the Prayer Book; which I have been used to from my infancy; which as a child I was always taught to reverence; and which, (I am not ashamed to say,) I do reverence from my heart more and more the older I grow. In the next place, I am sure all must allow that some parts of the Athanasian Creed are very noble and beautiful to hear, especially when they are well read or repeated. And again, even a child may see that if this Creed be put away, great encouragement will


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 be given, not only to protest infidels, but also to many wild thoughtless persons, who would fain believe that Religion, like every thing else, needs to be radically reformed."

"But, Richard," I said, "you are not, I suppose, so vain as to imagine that our Church Reformers will be willing to keep the Prayer Book just as it is, merely because you and I and a few more admire some of the clauses in this Creed."

"Sir," said he, "you may be sure I never imagined such a thing. I was not presuming to give an opinion, whether or not the Prayer Book is likely to be improved by any alterations which may be made in it. I was only excusing myself for being lothe to part with the Athanasian Creed."

"But," said I, "will you now tell me what conclusion you came to in your enquiry into the intention of the Church in appointing this and the other two Creeds to be used.

"I remembered," he said, "that I had heard you, Sir, or some one whose opinion I could take on these subjects, make an observation, that the three Creeds were not written all at the same time, but at three different periods. That the Apostles' Creed was made first, either in the time of the Apostles, or very soon after. That the Nicene Creed came next, after an interval of two hundred years or more. And that then again, after another considerable space, I think I understood more than a century, followed the Creed of St. Athanasius, as it was called.

"So it came into my thoughts that the Church seemed to act like a tender mother very anxious for her children, from the very first; but growing still more and more anxious as they grow older, are more exposed to dangers, and yet less and less willing to yield themselves to her control.

"Thus it may seem, that in the most ancient, the Apostles' Creed, a plain simple rule of faith is given.

"In the next, the Nicene Creed, the same rule is laid down, but more at length, and in a tone of anxiety and caution as if the enemy were at hand.

"But in the last, the Athanasian Creed, where still the very same rule of faith is laid down, the alarm is loudly sounded, there is throughout an expression of urgent warning, as needful for

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 in the very midst of foes, some open, and more secret foes, who would rob  of His honour, and man of the everlasting inheritance, purchased for him by his  Blood.

"Indeed," said I, "it is fearful to think to what lengths the pride of human reason will draw those who yield to it. But before you proceed with your statement, I should wish to know what opinion you have come to respecting what are so falsely, not to say profanely, called 'the damnatory clauses' in the Athanasian Creed. You are doubtless aware that many good sort of persons, who profess not to disapprove of the other parts of the Creed, are, (or at least fancy themselves,) much offended and hurt in their feelings by these clauses.

"Observe, I am not now exactly referring to persons who speak harshly or disrespectfully of this Creed, but rather to persons of piety and learning, who with all reverence for it as an ancient and true confession of faith, have yet thought that some of the expressions in it are unnecessarily strong, and what they cannot endure to repeat or to hear."

"Sir," he replied, "if it is not presumptuous in me to pass my opinion on the conduct of such persons as you represent, I should say to them, if you can endure to believe these things, you may also endure to acknowledge such your belief, and to hear it confirmed by the voice of the Church.

"The parent who cannot endure to correct his child, will doubtless live to repent his mistaken tenderness, as we are taught in Scripture.

"And if the Church or her Ministers through like false pity should no longer endure to hold out to our consciences the terrors of the, we of the people shall no doubt have cause to lament their mistaken tenderness; even though now, like over-indulged Christians, we may many of us be impatient of strict restraint or of warnings seemingly severe; yet, if the Church will be but firm to her sacred trust, many souls will doubtless in the end bless for these very warnings and threatenings, which now they fancy to be almost intolerable.

"But as to persons who scruple not to speak scornfully and reproachfully of this Creed, or any part of it, I must think such language of theirs shows rashness, and ignorance too, very


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 a Christian. For, it may well be asked, is a mother to be blamed who, seeing her child in imminent danger, warns him of it in language the most powerful her tongue can give utterance to?

"If the Gospel of be indeed our only hope, is not the Church a true friend to us, in telling us so; in making us confess it, as one may almost say, whether we choose or no?

If the Gospel of the Lord Jesus be our only hope; is not this kind?"

"Indeed," said I, "your argument is most just; it is the truest kindness to warn people of their danger. But as it is too often a thankless office; so in the present instance. For, as you know, these which may fitly be called 'The Warning Clauses,' or 'The Monitory Clauses,' are especially reviled; as, in fact, the tendency of the whole Creed is accounted to be unscriptural and uncharitable, even by some who think themselves, and desire to be thought by others, very serious Christians."

"Sir," said he, "to any Christian who was disposed to think so ill of it, I should like just to mention a conversation I had some time last year with a man of our parish, Edmund Plush, the man that has set up the new beer-house. You know. Sir, I dare say, that he was once a gentleman's servant."

"I have heard so," I answered; "but as I see some of the boys coming, it is time for me to leave you, and make the best of my way to the school."

"And I," said he, "will take the child back, and be after you in a quarter of an hour; but in the evening I shall hope, Sir, to have some further conversation with you."

"I hope so too," I answered. But, as it happened, I was called to go after the Evening Service to visit a sick person in a distant part of the parish; and a week or two passed away before we again met. He then happened to come to my house one evening to settle an account; I desired he might come to me into my Study; and when we had concluded our business, I told him I wished he would stay half an hour, that we might finish the conversation which we had broken off so abruptly before.

He said, if I were disengaged he would be glad to stay; and not without some difficulty I prevailed on him to sit down.


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 How do you explain his action? • to tell. Нам объясняли, как ехать, да мы забыли. They told us how to go, but we've forgotten.

обыкновенный average. Она самая обыкновенная девушка. She's just an average girl. □ обыкновенно usually. Обыкновенно мы работаем по вечерам. We usually work in the evenings. • generally. Обыкновенно я так поздно не выхожу. I don't go out so late generally.

обыск search. В его квартире был произведён обыск. A search was made of his apartment.

обычай custom. Я совсем не знаю здешних обычаев. I'm ignorant of local customs. □ в обычае customary. У нас это не в обычае. It's not customary with us.

обычный usual. Его обычное место у окна. His usual seat is at the window. • ordinary. При обычных обстоятельствах это было бы возможно. It would be possible under ordinary circumstances. □ обычно usually. Обычно он приходит домой в пять часов. He usually comes home at five o'clock.

обязанность (F) duty. Я считаю своей обязанностью вас предупредить. I consider it my duty to warn you. • responsibility. Вы добровольно взяли на себя эту обязанность? Did you take on this responsibility voluntarily? □ временно исполняющий обязанности директора acting manager.

обязанный. □ быть обязанным to have to. Я не обязан давать вам отчёта в своём поведении. I don't have to give you an account of my behavior. • to be obligated. Вы обязаны им помочь. You're obligated to help them. • to owe. Он обязан ему всем. He owes him everything.

обязательный compulsory. У нас введено всеобщее обязательное обучение. Compulsory education was introduced here. — Английский язык у нас в школе теперь обязательный предмет. English is now a compulsory subject in our school. □ обязательно surely. Она завтра обязательно приедет. She'll surely arrive tomorrow. • without fail. Приходите обязательно. Come without fail. □ Обязательно осмотрите дворец культуры. Don't fail to see the Palace of Culture.

овация ovation. Друзья устроили ему настоящую овацию. His friends staged a real ovation for him. • applause. Публика встретила музыканта овацией. The audience greeted the musician with applause.

овёс (овса) oats.

овец See овца.

овладевать (-ваю, -вает; dur of овладеть).

овладеть (pct of овладевать) to take possession. После долгой борьбы мы овладели этим городом. We took possession of the town after a prolonged struggle. • to master. Она в совершенстве овладела английским языком. She mastered English perfectly. • to learn the use of. Наши ударницы быстро овладели этим станком. Our woman shockworkers learned the use of this lathe quickly. □ овладеть собой to get hold of oneself. Он быстро овладел собой. He got hold of himself quickly. □ Мною овладел ужас. I was terrified.

овощи (щёй P /of овощь/ F) vegetables. Свежие овощи сейчас очень дороги. Fresh vegetables are very high now. □ *Всякому овощу своё время. There's a time and place for everything.

овощь (see овощи).

овса See овёс.

овсянка oatmeal cereal.

овца (F овцы, овец, овцам) sheep. Этих овец разводят для шерсти, а не для мяса. They raise these sheep for wool, not for meat. □ *Паршивая овца всё стадо портит. One rotten apple will spoil a whole barrel.

оглавление table of contents.

оглядываться (dur of оглянуться) to look back. Не оглядывайтесь назад. Don't look back.

оглянуться (pct of оглядываться) to look back. Я оглянулся и увидел его. I looked back and saw him. □ Мы и оглянуться не успели, как работа была сделана. The work was finished before we knew it.

огнетушитель (M) fire extinguisher. Есть в доме огнетушитель? Is there a fire extinguisher in this house?

огни See огонь.

огня See огонь.

огонь (-гня M) fire. Поставьте чайник на огонь. Put the teapot on the fire. — Противник открыл огонь по нашим позициям. The enemy opened fire on our positions. — Мне удалось потушить огонь. I was able to put the fire out. — *Нет дыма без огня. Where there's smoke, there's fire. — *Я попал между двух огней. I was caught between two fires. • light. Отсюда уже видны огни города. You can see the lights of the city from here. — Мы долго сидели на крылечке без огня. We sat on the stoop for a long time without any light. □ *Мы попали из огня да в полымя! That's what you call out of the frying pan into the fire. *Такого другого и днём с огнём не найдёшь. He's one in a million. • *За своего учителя я готов в огонь и в воду. I'd go through hell for my teacher. • *Ему ничего не страшно, он прошёл огонь, и воду и медные трубы. He can take anything; he's been through the mill.

огораживать (dur of огородить) to fence.

огород vegetable garden. У нас овощи из своего огорода. Our vegetables are from our own vegetable garden. • truck farm. Колхозные огороды тянутся на несколько километров. The kolkhoz truck farms are several kilometers long. □ *Это камешек в мой огород? You wouldn't mean me, would you? • *Так зачем же было огород городить? What did we have to start it for in the first place?

огородить (-рожу, -родит; ppp огороженный; pct of огораживать) to fence. Здесь все сады огорожены. All the gardens are fenced here.

огорожу See огородить.

огорчать (dur of огорчить) to make (one) feel bad. Я не хочу вас огорчать, но нам придётся расстаться. I don't want to make you feel bad, but we'll have to part company. • to take to heart. Меня очень огорчает его неудача. I'm taking his failure very much to heart.

огорчить (pct of огорчать). □ огорчённый disappointed. Почему у вас такой огорчённый вид? Why do you look so disappointed?

ограниченный limited. Количество рабочих рук у нас очень ограничено. We have a very limited number of


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 "Richard," said I, "if you recollect, you were going to tell me of a conversation you had with Edmund Plush."

"Yes, Sir," he replied; "I had two or three days' work, pointing his garden wall; (for Edmund is very curious about his fruit, especially about some favourite Orlean plums:) and one day, as he was standing by me, and running on with his talk about alterations and reforms, he said, among other observations not very moderate, that the Church Prayer Book wanted to be altered and reformed as much as any thing."

To this I replied, that "alteration was one thing, and reform was another; and that if the Prayer Book was altered, it did not follow that it would be reformed."

"He then went on to say, that while he was footman at Squire Martingal's, over in Cheshire, one day, when he was waiting at table, and there were four or five gentlemen at dinner, they were talking about the Prayer Book, and whether it was not now time for it to be altered.

"And the Squire gave it as his opinion that there was one word in particular which he wished very much to see put entirely out of the Book; and that was, the word 'damnation.' Such words as that, he said, ought not to be in a book, which gentlefolks were expected to sit and hear.

"Edmund went on to say, that there was a gentleman at the table, who observed, it would be better to alter the word to 'condemnation:' of which the company very much approved, though, (as Plush himself remarked,) it was not easy to see what was gained by the alteration.

"Now, Sir, it does seem to me, that Squire Martingal and his friends forgot, when they made such short work with the Prayer Book, that there was the Bible still in their way, quite as much needing to be corrected and amended.

"And I told Edmund so; and I also told him, that if I were in his place, I should not like to go about repeating private conversations which he might have overheard at his master's table; especially when they were so little calculated to be of use.

"However, Edmund must do as he pleases; but for myself, Sir, I do assure you, that after giving the subject the best consideration in my power, the objections which people make against


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 the Athanasian Creed, are, to my thinking, not at all more substantial than Squire Martingal's against the Prayer Book and Bible. Indeed, Sir, it is my opinion, that there is nothing in that Creed either unscriptural or uncharitable, but quite the very contrary; that it is essentially, (as I once heard you call the Commination Service,) 'in its matter, Christian Truth; and in its manner, Christian Love.' And, Sir, if you will not be weary of me, I will try to show you how I came to this conclusion."

"Richard," said I, "you need not fear that you will tire me."

"Well, Sir," he proceeded; "it seemed to me plain from the Scriptures, (what no one indeed will deny or question,) that the Great should be the object of all our Love and Adoration. From the same Scriptures it also appeared, that the  our only Saviour and Hope, is entitled to all our Love and Adoration.

"And again, from the same Scriptures, it appears that the of, the only Sanctifier, Guide, and Guardian of His Church, is entitled to all our Love and Adoration."

"Certainly," I replied; "no one, who believes the Scriptures, can doubt this."

"And is not this," he said, "the very doctrine of the first part of the Creed; 'that the Father is, the Son is , and the Holy Ghost is ; and yet they are not three , but one ?'" In like manner, if any man enquire for the very foundation of Christian hope and consolation, surely it is the doctrine that our  took on Him our frail and mortal nature; that He was 'perfect man,' as well as 'perfect .' Without this doctrine, the peculiar hopes and consolations of the Gospel fade away and disappear. Now this is the great truth prest on our thoughts in the second part of the Athanasian Creed, where we are taught boldly to maintain that 'the right faith is, that we ,—not believe only, but believe and confess,—that our, the Son of , is .'"

"Yes," I answered, "it is difficult to imagine how any one who acknowledges the truth of the Scriptures, can deny and question this. But you must, I am sure, be aware, that many people object, that this doctrine is not simply stated, and so left to every one's own conscience to approve, but that attempts are made to draw


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 out distinctions and explanations, which are not in the Scripture, and which no one can understand; and then, after all, people are made to say, that whoever does not believe all this, has no chance of salvation."

"Sir," he replied, "there is a verse in the Psalms, which seems to give an answer to such objectors; 'If I should say like them, I should condemn the generation of children.' No one will dare deny that those who framed this Creed, and those who put it into our Prayer Book, were good and holy men, sincerely anxious for the honour of, and for the salvation of men's souls. It was surely not their fault that these distinctions and explanations, (if they are to be so called,) became necessary, but the fault of rash or loose-minded people, who attempted to corrupt the hearts of the simple with their false distinctions and false explanations.

"Against such, the Church, as a good parent should, warns her sons in the strongest terms; and if stronger terms could have been found, no doubt she would have used them.

"And it seems to me, that it is not at all the intention of the Church, in this Creed or anywhere else, to endeavour to explain what is above human comprehension; but only to warn us that quibbled and pretended distinctions have been made of old, and will be again, against the essential doctrines of the Gospel; and that, come in whatever shape they may, they are to be opposed at once with a sharp and strong denial; to be at once, and as the Article says, "thoroughly" rejected.

"And the absolute need of some such strong impenetrable fence appears from what I have heard, that there have been Church people, and even Clergymen, who denied these doctrines, and, (as might be expected,) scorned this Creed. How they could reconcile their conduct to their consciences, it is not for me to say; but it is plain, that if the fence were taken away and weakened, the danger to the fold would be much increased."

"I fully agree with you," was my reply; "but you know those who dislike this Creed assert, that the 'Fence,' as you call it, is much sharper and stronger than it need be; and that it would be better to have no 'Monitory Clauses' at all, than any exprest in such strong and, as they call them, violent terms."


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 "Sir," he answered, "you know that in different places in the New Testament we are taught that adultery, fornication, drunkenness, and other such crimes, are entirely unsuitable to the Christian Profession, and that persons who are guilty of them do in practice renounce the Gospel.

"Now supposing it should be thought well by the Governors of the Church to set forth a solemn warning to profligates thus worded:—

"'Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is necessary that he avoid the crimes of adultery, whoredom, drunkenness, and blasphemy; which crimes, unless every one do carefully abstain from, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly;'

"And if then were to follow some solemn admonitions, setting forth, (according to the sense, though not in the very words of Scripture,) the necessity of self-denial, mortification, and constant communion with in prayer and at His holy table, so that the affections may be kept set on high and heavenly things; and all concluding thus:—

"'This is the rule of Christian Purity, which except a man observe faithfully he cannot be saved;'

"Do not you. Sir, think such warnings would be quite agreeable to Scripture and to Christian Charity?"

"Indeed I think so," I replied.

"And yet," he proceeded; "supposing such an admonition as this were to be made by authority, and ordered to be printed in all the Prayer Books, and to be read twelve times a year in every Church in England, do you not think there would be a great outcry against it; and that many people, when it was going to be read, would shut their books, or perhaps go out of the Church?"

"It is too probable," I replied, "considering how little account is now made of crimes of this kind, even by many who are thought religious people. Indeed, I have understood from a person I can rely upon, otherwise I could not have credited it, that one of the objections which Mr. Cartwright himself brought against the Prayer Book was, that in the Litany, fornication is termed 'a deadly sin.'"

"It is strange, indeed, Sir," said he, "and sad to think that any one who believes the Scriptures could offer such an objection.


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 But it confirms an opinion I was going to express to you. For if a good kind of man, as Mr. Cartwright is said to be, objects to the Litany on such grounds, how much more is it to be expected that such an admonition as that which I have spoken of would be frequently scorned and hooted at.

"And then," continued he, "supposing such an admonition as this had been made and used in the Church for hundreds of years, and it were now to be left out in the reformed Prayer Book, would not such a measure give great satisfaction and encouragement to all the loose dissolute people throughout the country?"

"That cannot be doubted," I answered. "But there is one objection, (absurd enough to be sure,) which people offer against the Athanasian Creed, which you have not noticed, perhaps because you had never heard of it.

"The objection I mean is, that this Creed leaves no allowance for unavoidable ignorance, or bad education; nor any chance even for persons of weak doubting minds, no not for idiots, or children, to escape from its heavy censures.

"It is, obviously, an absurd objection, yet it is what people do urge, and people too who make pretension to reason and religion."

"Sir," said he, "I can never suppose that any really conscientious person, whose mind was free from prejudice, could offer such an objection.

"It must be quite plain to all candid minds, that as in the Scripture itself, so in the Church Prayer Book, we are always instructed to believe that our merciful God makes allowance for our weakness and blindness in matters of knowledge and faith, as well as in other things. As in the Scriptures, so in the Church Prayer Book we are always taught, that occasional doubt and perplexity are no proof of want of Faith; that he truly believes who acts, (if I may so say,) upon trust, who like Abraham, the father of the faithful, 'obeys and goes on' obeying, 'not knowing whither he goes;' knowing only that if he follow guidance, he must be right.

"It is too always taught, as in the Scriptures, so in the Prayer Book, that upon true repentance, sincere faith in the Blood and Mediation of the One Redeemer, and entire submission to the guidance of the One Sanctifier, it is, I say, always taught, that the door of


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 workers. — Он очень ограниченный человек. He's a man of limited intelligence.

ограничивать (dur of ограничить) to cut down on. Он не умеет ограничивать себя в расходах. He doesn't know how to cut down on his expenses.

-ся to limit oneself. Я не могу ограничиваться десятью папиросами в день. I can't limit myself to ten cigarettes a day.

ограничить (pct of ограничивать) to limit. Предлагаю ограничить время ораторов пятью минутами. I make a motion to limit the time of the speakers to five minutes.

-ся to limit oneself. Председатель ограничился краткой речью. The chairman limited himself to a short speech. □ Вы думаете этим дело ограничится? Do you think this will be the end of it?

огромный great. Мы прошли огромное расстояние пешком. We walked a great distance on foot. • a great deal. Его книга вызвала огромный интерес. His book created a great deal of interest. • huge. Я никогда не видал такого огромного арбуза. I never saw such a huge watermelon. • tremendous. Этот фильм имеет огромный успех. This film is having a tremendous success.

огурец (-рца) cucumber. Нарежьте огурец тонкими ломтиками. Slice the cucumber thin. □ солёный огурец dill pickle. У меня в этом году солёные огурцы удались на славу. This year my dill pickles turned out very well.

огурца See огурец.

огурцы See огурец.

одевать (dur of одеть) to dress. Вы слишком тепло одеваете вашего мальчика. You dress your boy too warmly.

-ся to dress (oneself). Одевайтесь поскорее. Dress quickly. — Тут в деревне можно одеваться попроще. Here in the country you could dress more simply. • to dress up (oneself). Нет, одеваться не нужно, приходите как есть. It's not necessary to dress up; come as you are.

одежда clothing. Без тёплой одежды туда ехать нельзя. You can't go there without any warm clothing. • clothes. Производственную одежду нам выдаёт завод. They issue work clothes to us at the factory. □ верхняя одежда overcoats. У меня нет никакой верхней одежды. I haven't any kind of an overcoat.

одеколон eau de cologne. У этого одеколона очень приятный запах. This eau de cologne has a very pleasant odor.

одеть (-дену, -нет; ppp одетый; pct of одевать) to dress. Оденьте ребёнка и пойдём гулять. Dress the child and let's go for a walk. • to clothe. В семье пятеро ребят. Всех одеть, обуть нелегко. There are five children in the family and it's not easy to clothe them. □ Он всегда одет с иголочки. He's always neat as a pin.

-ся to put on (clothing). Они оделись во всё новое. They put on brand new clothing. • to dress (oneself). Оденьтесь потеплее, сегодня на дворе мороз. Dress as warmly as possible; it's bitter cold outside today.

одеяло blanket. Дайте мне, пожалуйста, ещё одно одеяло. Give me another blanket, please. □ стёганое одеяло quilt. Я покрываюсь стёганым одеялом. I usually cover myself with a quilt.

один (§16) one. У них один сын. They have one son. — Это одна из его лучших пьес. This is one of his best plays. • alone. Вы одни дома? Are you home alone? — Только она одна умеет печь такие пироги. She alone can bake such pies. • only one. Она одна может мне помочь. She's the only one who can help me. • same. Мы с ним из одного города. He and I are from the same town. • by oneself. Я не могу один передвинуть этот комод. I can't move this dresser all by myself. • nothing but. Что вы мне за жаркое дали — одни кости. What kind of roast is this you gave me? It's nothing but bones. • one thing. Одно меня огорчает. I'm sorry for one thing. □ все до одного to the last man. В нашей деревне все мужчины до одного ушли в партизаны. Everyone in our village to the last man became a guerrilla. ни один no other. Ни один музыкант не исполняет эту вещь так, как он. There's no other musician who plays this piece quite the way he does. один-одннёшенек, одна-одинёшенька all alone. После смерти матери она осталась одна-одинёшенька. After the death of her mother, she was left all alone. один раз once. Я там был всего один раз. I've been there only once. одним словом in short. Одним словом, об этом нечего больше разговаривать. In short, there's no use talking about it any more. одно из двух one or the other. Нам придётся сделать одно из двух: или поехать самим или послать телеграмму. Either we go ourselves or we send a telegram; we'll have to do one or the other. одно и то же same thing. Сколько раз вам надо повторить одно и то же? How many times do I have to repeat the same thing to you? □ Одно из двух: либо мы выходим сейчас же, либо я остаюсь дома. Take your choice: either we go immediately or I'll stay home.

одинаковый identical. У нас с вами одинаковые пальто. You and I have identical coats. □ одинаково equally. Все мой дети мне одинаково дороги. All my children are equally dear to me. • in the same way. Он ко всем одинаково относится. He treats everybody in the same way. □ Цена то одинаковая, но эти сапоги лучше. The price is the same, but these boots are better.

одиннадцатый eleventh.

одиннадцать (gdl -ти, i -тью, §22) eleven.

одинокий lonely. Он очень одинокий человек. He's a very lonely man. • single. Мы сдадим эту комнату только одинокому. We'll rent this room to a single man only. □ одиноко lonesome. Ей здесь очень одиноко без детей. She's lonesome here without the children. □ Я люблю одинокие прогулки. I like to walk by myself.

одна (nF of один).

однажды once. Однажды он явился к нам поздно ночью. He showed up at our place once late at night.

однако but. Он очень изменился, однако я его сразу узнал. He's changed a great deal, but I recognized him immediately. — Он много обещает, однако надеяться на него нельзя. He promises a lot, but you can't rely on him. • nevertheless. Он не хотел говорить о своих планах, однако сказал, что пробудет здесь с месяц. He didn't want to tell me his plans; nevertheless, he told me that he'd stay here about a month. • really. В чём же, однако, дело? What's it really all about? • now. Однако, это уж слишком! Now, that's going a bit too far.

одни (np of один).


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 mercy is open even to the most inveterate sinners, whatever the nature of their sins might have been; unless indeed the sin against the be considered an exception; to guard Christians against which, may be supposed one great and surely charitable purpose of this Creed.

"How then," he proceeded, "can the Church with any show of reason be called 'uncharitable,' which, with this evangelical doctrine implied in all her Services, uses occasionally the strongest language of warning, (or even of threatening,) against fatal sins and errors, if by any means she may preserve the souls committed to her charge stedfast in the faith, 'the faith which was once delivered unto the Saints?'"

"Yes," said I, "once for all, never to be changed or frittered away in base compliance with the ever-varying customs and fancies of worldly and self-conceited men."

"And Sir," he proceeded, "I put it to myself in this way. What a fearful thing it would be for a person on his death-bed to deny the of, the only Redeemer, and the  of , the only Comforter! Now the Church Prayer Book considers us all as it were on our death-beds, or at least but a little way from them. The Services for the Visitation of the Sick, and the Burial of the Dead, come very close after Baptism and the Catechism. As we should wish to die, so the Church would have us live. If it be an awful thought to pass into Eternity in wilful ignorance or negligence of the essential truths of the Gospel; is it not also an awful thought that people should spend this their probationary time in such ignorance or negligence? And again, I would ask, can the Church be called 'uncharitable,' which earnestly and incessantly, and in the plainest, strongest words that the English language can supply, warns her members of their danger in this respect?"

"Certainly, Richard," I replied, "what you say is most worthy to be thought on by all persons who find fault with this Creed. But I wish you to recollect, that many of them take what they call 'high ground' in their argument. They confidently assert that it is 'bigotted,' 'unscriptural,' 'unchristian,' and other such hard names, to pretend that 'modes of faith,' (that is their term,) are of any great importance, or indeed of any importance at all; that if a


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 man's life is in the right, his faith can't be wrong; that of course adultery and those kind of things are forbidden in the Testament, but that there are few passages or (as some of them say) none at all, which can be brought forward in support of the opinions put forth in the Athanasian Creed; much less (they assert) can any passages be found, denouncing so heavy a woe against those who reject these opinions."

"Sir," he replied, with more than even his usual energy, "I will be bold to say, that there are as many passages in the New Testament, distinctly proving and supporting the great doctrines put forth in the Athanasian Creed, as there are passages expressly forbidding adultery, and other such crimes. But supposing it were otherwise, it really does not appear to me, that the case would be different. Gambling is not in words forbidden, (so far as I can recollect,) in any part or passage of the Old or New Testament; yet no one doubts, I mean, no serious thinking person, that it is one of the most fatal habits a person can get into; not because it is expressly forbidden in any part or passage, but because it is against the whole Gospel; utterly inconsistent with a Christian's practice.

"Now, Sir, it really does appear to me, that to deny the great doctrines contained in this noble Creed, is not merely to go against express passages of Scripture; passages, I mean, wherein our, and the Blessed are spoken of as ; but more than this, it is against the whole Gospel, utterly inconsistent with a Christian's faith."

"Well, Richard," I said, "the considerations you have suggested are certainly such as should lead all Christians to pause before they encourage in themselves or others any dislike of this ancient, and as you justly call it, this noble Creed."

"Sir," he replied, "in my poor judgment it is indeed a noble, a magnificent confession.

"But still, noble and magnificent as it is, if it, or any part of it, were against Scripture, or against Christian Charity, I, for one, should not be easy till it were put out of the Prayer Book.

"How happy then am I to think that it breathes the very spirit of pure Christian Charity; of Love, more than parental; of Love like His, Sir, who 'so often would have gathered His children


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 together, as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, !"

"Yes, Richard," I said; "and often as this tender yearning anxiety for men's souls is displayed in the conduct and words of our adored Master, I have frequently thought it nowhere more strikingly appears, than in that pathetic chapter of warnings to which you refer, the 23rd of St. Matthew; a chapter truly of 'monitory clauses.'"

"Sir," he answered, "it might almost be expected of those who rashly accuse the Church of uncharitableness for retaining the Athanasian Creed, that they should also wish to have that chapter left out of the Calendar; as indeed I have heard that they do wish many of the Psalms to be omitted on some such ground.

"But it is now time for me to wish you good evening; hoping. Sir, that I have not taken too great a liberty in thus speaking out my opinions, or wearied you by staying too long."

"Richard," said I, "once for all, believe me it is one of the chief comforts and encouragements I have, to be with you at Church and at School, and to talk with you on these great subjects."


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Science and Citizenship III What is the relevance of all this for science? There are two dominant moods or manifestations of science: the cosmic, the naturalistic or geographical mood, on the one hand; and on the other, the humanist, the historical, the idealist mood. In the former, the cosmic mood, the scientist feels a relatively slight interest in the human race and its doings. There are so many more impressive phenomena in the field of observation! Are there not one hundred thousand species of beetles compared with a single species of man? The entomologist bulks larger in science than the sociologist, simply because the boy is father to the man. The scientist in his cosmic mood is a stereotyped, a perpetual boy. The curiosity of the boy about the wonders of nature ceases, from the moment when his collection of curiosities fills the last of his pockets. But the pockets of the scientist take the form of extensible museums; and hence the temptation to go on collecting, until the habit determines his life, and in course of time he finds himself unable to feel either the cosmic or the human emotion.

As the boy sometimes grows into the man, the cosmic scientist may grow into the humanist one. He no longer observes the phenomena of nature as a mere series of sequences and co-existences following each other in endless succession; he looks upon nature as a reservoir of resources for the use of man. He seeks out the potencies of 6

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Science and Citizenship nature, foresees their possible developments, and conceives his ideals of human life in terms of the optimum expression of known potencies. In Bacon's phrase, man controls nature by obeying her. In this respect science is just the ordered and growing knowledge of the ways of nature leading to human evolution. Science, in its pure and applied forms, here stands for the collective resources of the race available for the maintenance and advancement of human life. Science is thus—in terms of the illustration used above—a sort of generalised mother of men, as it were, a race-mother. And if the policy and ideals of science for her children are slow of formulation, that is because of the slow evolution of science itself. Arrested at the cosmic stage of thought, the majority of scientists do not recapitulate, with sufficient completeness, the racial evolution of the group to which they belong. Such racial recapitulation is, as has been well said, nature's way of preparing for a fresh start. And unless, therefore, the individual scientist in his own personal development passes on from the cosmic, physical or naturalist phase to the humanist and idealist phase, he does not undergo the preparation necessary to enable him to contribute to the advancement of science in its proper historical evolution. In this arrested development of most individual scientists is doubtless to be found an explanation of the slow evolution of the humanist or sociologist sciences.

If we understand by spiritual power a set of 7

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Science and Citizenship established beliefs, like Judaism, Mohammedanism, Romanism, that influence conduct and determine the mode of life, then we must say of science that it is an incipient rather than an actual spiritual power. In this sense there are sciences but no science. If we look round us amongst our contemporaries, we should most of us have to search far before finding an individual whose life and conduct are unified by science. Notable examples are, to be sure, numerous in history—such as Lavoisier and Condorcet, Helmholtz and Pasteur, Darwin and Clifford, and, if it is permissible to cite living scientists, Berthelot and Haeckel, Francis Galton and Karl Pearson. Similar though less notable contemporary instances are not common, though in all probability they are more numerous in the obscure annals of University and Academy, Museum and Library, than most of us imagine. There are many whose lives are unified by religion, still more by marriage, and not a few by Monte Carlo. But the truth is that as yet science has afforded no rounded doctrine of Humanity sufficiently simple and facile for the comprehension of the artisan, the rustic, and the cabinet minister. The difficulty of that achievement lies mainly in the natural history fact, that the scientific habit of mind in the observation of social phenomena, though it is universal amongst children, yet persists in few adults. It survives adolescence in a certain number of social investigators, like anthropologists, folklorists^ economists, historians, psychologists, &c., most of whom are so highly specialised as to have 8

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Science and Citizenship lost the instinctive desire for a general doctrine of social evolution. It survives also in a limited number of sociologists, many of whom are reluctant to be labelled with that title. Thus the dispersion and isolation of the sociologists, and the ignorance and unpopularity of the name, are due not so much to the hardness of the word, or the difficulty of the doctrine, as to the prevailing inability of the folk-mind to distinguish between sociology and socialism, between science and scepticism.

IV Thus, owing mainly to the incompleteness and sterility of the social sciences, the unification of science is very far from being a visible reality, and consequently the influence of the scientific party is relatively slight in every country of the occidental world, and least important of all perhaps in Great Britain, with the possible exception of Spain and Venezuela. It is but the other day that the only high-level meteorological observatory of Great Britain was closed, and the staff dispersed, the records ignored even without examination, and the apparatus offered for public sale—all because the influence of the scientific party was not equal to securing for its support about £500 out of the one hundred and forty odd millions which constitute the annual national budget. In laudable over-estimate of the desire of other European Governments to possess meteorologists, the Government of the Argentine Republic cabled to secure the staff of the Ben 9

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Declassified per Executive Order 13526, Section 3.3 NND Project Number: NND 63316. By: NWD Date: 2011 TOP SECRET – Sensitive

The Resistance Groups

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Science and Citizenship Nevis Observatory; and as they were in this largely successful, it may be that what has been lost to the British Empire by this calamitous misadventure is to be preserved for science. A measure of the relative weight exercised in the councils of the nation by the scientific and militarist parties is seen in the annual grant made by the Central Government to the collective university chests of Great Britain and Ireland. This grant is about £100,000 per annum. That is about the sum expended in keeping in commission for a year a single first-class battleship. And if we add to this an allowance for depreciation and certain necessary incidental expenses, the annual cost of a first*class battleship would probably reach to three times the university grant, for a first-class battleship costs about a million sterling to build, and is not effective for much more than a decade; and the addition of each one to the fleet necessitates for its full efficiency an increase of dockyard and harbour accommodation, the cost of which, if it were known, would probably be found to run into hundreds of thousands of pounds. A final illustration. An eminent astronomer who had spent a long life alternately in the observatory and as professor in the university class-rooms, recently retired. That his salary had been little more than the earnings of a successful artisan need be no ground of reproach to the good scientist; but the rigid application of official regulations, framed for a somewhat dissimilar purpose, resulted in the allocation of a pension which was entirely insufficient to 10

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C 2


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User talk:66.191.227.97

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Science and Citizenship provide for the few and simple wants of the aged astronomer in his retirement. Representations were made to the Central Government, and a complacent officialdom awarded an increase of the pension at the amount and rate of 2s. 6d. per week.

If we assume that at present there is no science, but sciences—unclassified and therefore ungeneralised, it would seem to follow that there is no scientific ideal, but only scientific ideals—unharmonised; and no scientific policy, but only scientific policies—un-co-ordinated. The scientific party, or what would be the scientific party if there was a common doctrine to give it cohesion, is broken up into disparate groups, most of which do not speak each other^s language. For instance, the mathematician and the physiologist are separated from each other by a wide arc in the circle of the sciences; but they have this in common, that each holds it an article of faith that he would fall short of his scientific duty if he did not acquire the language of France, Germany, and Italy, as well as of England. But if it should happen that here and there a mathematician or physiologist takes the pains of learning the language of comparative ethics, folklore, economics, or any other sociological field, he will be held by his brother mathematicians and physiologists to be doing what is at best a work of supererogation, at worst an act of reprehensible wastefulness. To the scientist of the physical or biological group it appears as much and as little a matter of professional obligation to acquire the language of the sociological group as to acquire 11

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Science and Citizenship that of the Hottentots, What then amid this apparent confusion and disruptiveness of science is the inquiring citizen to do if he wishes to know the bearing of science on citizenship? The answer of science, as of every other spiritual power, is that there is only one way to know the doctrine, and that is to lead the life.

V The scientific quality of citizenship can only be apprehended through the scientific conception of the city. And the first question which science asks about the city is—What is it?

What is a City? Legal and political definitions we have, but seemingly no scientific ones as yet. Now legal and political definitions, whether of cities or other social phenomena, are, as it were, ready-made articles of common usage, alike popular and recondite. To the majority of scientists—that is to say, those arrested at the mechanical stage of scientific thought—such definitions are alternately meaningless mysteries to be scoffed at, or shibboleths naively adopted by these scientists themselves, whenever social action is unavoidable or social thought demanded. On the other hand, there is a small but ever-increasing number of scientists, who push on through the world of form with which the mathematical sciences deal, onwards through the world of matter with which the physical sciences deal, and thence through the world of organic life with which the biological 12

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Science and Citizenship sciences deal, and finally attempt to explore in a scientific spirit and with scientific methods the world of mind and society with which the psychological and social sciences deal. And this, as already stated, is the normal progress of the mind. We see it exemplified by most of the great leaders. We see it, for instance, in Helmholtz, who began his career as a mathematician, passed through that to physiology, whence it was but a single step into psychology, and in the later period of his life he interested himself most in education and social questions. The same tendency is seen in Darwin's transition from the "Origin of Species" to the "Descent of Man." We have been told that the sociologist is an individual who has failed to make a career in one of the preliminary sciences, just as, according to Disraeli, the critic is a person who has failed in literature. In point of fact this doubtless is often true; but the contrary proposition still more widely holds, that the successful mathematician, physicist, or naturalist, is an arrested sociologist.

Returning to the question of legal and political definitions, we have to note that these, are to the psychologist and sociologist an essential part of the. raw material upon which he has to work. They are points of departure in his observations, and often supply valuable clues in his researches. What definitions of the City are available for the purpose? They differ, of course, from country to country, but whether propounded by a lawyer, by a politician, or by the man in the street, they 13

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text:
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Science and Citizenship belong, in the eyes of the comparative psychologist, to the folklore of the country. In short, they are pre-scientific. In England, the legal definition of a City is, as every one knows, a place which is or has been the seat of a bishopric. In other words, a City is essentially a cathedral city. To this we must return later, merely noting it now as for the sociologist a great "pointer fact," in the phrase of Tylor, In the United States of America, the conception of a City is, in appearance at least, of a more material kind. In that country there is no lack of resources of observation, for it is a place where a crop of new cities is grown annually. The process of city making may be seen as a matter of almost daily observation in new and rapidly developing states of the Union, like Oklahoma and Alaska.

VI There is perhaps no more representative type of American civilisation, and also, therefore, of the dominant phase of the contemporary western world, than the American railway engineer. He is the true Viking of the times, and is already on the way to plant his forges, and open his lines of communication all round the margin of the Pacific Ocean. What is the conception of a city in the mind of the American engineer? Direct items of evidence may be gathered from almost any of the innumerable reports on new railway enterprises, which are common documents, not 14

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Author:James Hervey

Works

 * Meditations and Contemplations
 * Meditations among the Tombs
 * Cross of Christ the Christian's glory
 * Serious Thoughts for the Living, from Hervey's 'Meditations among the Tombs' (c.1800)
 * Reflections Among the Monuments, from Hervey's 'Meditations among the Tombs' (c.1800)
 * Last sermon of the Reverend James Hervey (chapbook, 1795)

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Science and Citizenship only in the great cities of America, but also in the capitals of Western Europe. The following extract is taken from a typical document of this sort. An eminent engineer is reporting on a proposed railway from Oklahoma into Indian territory. He surveys and records centres of population, actual, incipient, or prospective, along the route of the projected line, taking one centre after another in the following fashion:—

"' is the recording-town of the Nineteenth District. Population claimed, 8000. The town site has an area of 124,619 acres, and is located in the valley of the Washita river, surrounded by rich farming lands, where corn, wheat, oats, rye, potatoes, and all kinds of vegetables, fruit, and berries grow in abundance. Horses, mules, and cattle are raised."

"'It is an incorporated city with a city government, and is the recognised jobbing centre of the south-western section. Contains among other the following industries:—"

Chickasa Cotton Oil Co., capacity 120 tons per day.

Chickasa Milling Co., capacity 800 barrels of flour

per day; two elevators, capacity 100,000 bushels.

Chickasa Iron Works. Choctaw Mill and Elevator Co.

Traders Compress Co. (about 50,000 bales).

Electric planing mill

Steam brick plant.

Wholesale grocery, hardware, furniture, saddlery and harness stores, and general merchandising. "'The city is provided with electric light plant, ice plant, two telephone exchanges, water-works and sewerage, gas plant (under construction).'"

It will be noticed that this engineering conception of a city does not envisage a single culture 15

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 He was very industrious both in his parochial and literary work, and his delicate constitution broke down. He retired to London, but his health grew worse. He remained in London until 1762, when on his father's death he succeeded at once to the living of Weston Favell; some authorities assert, though others deny, that he scrupled so long about taking his father's other living of Collingtree that the presentation nearly lapsed to the bishop. At any rate he accepted both at last (the joint value only amounted to 180l. a year) in consideration of his having to support his widowed mother and sister. His biographers, say (though the statement requires explanation) that in order to qualify him for holding both livings his friends procured, without his knowledge, the certificates from Oxford of his being a BA.. that he might take the degree of M.A. at Cambridge. This be did at Clare Hall in 1769, and then settled at Weston Favell. He again overworked himself in his parish and in his study. This brought on a decline, of which he died on Christmas day, 1758. His body was, by his own express desire, carried to the grave covered with the poor's pall. He was buried under the middle of the communion-table of Weston Favell Church. His funeral sermon was preached by the ablest of all the evangelicals, William Romaine.

Hervey's writings were for a long time exceedingly popular. His finest work was entitled 'Meditations and Contemplations.' The first volume, containing 'Meditations among the Tombs,' 'Reflections on a Flower Garden,' and 'A Descant upon Creation,' was published in February 1745–46 and the second containing 'Contemplations on the Night', 'Contemplations on the Starry Heavens,' and a 'Winter Piece,' appeared in 1747. These volumes are filled with truisms expressed in the most inflated language, but were admired by educated parson., and even superseded to a great extent such a powerful work as Law's 'Serious Call.' The explanation may in part he found in Hervey's sympathy with the principles of the evangelical revival and partly in a true appreciation of the beauties of nature, very rare in his time. If he had condescended to write plain English many of his descriptions would have been pleasing. The 'Meditations' had reached a twenty-fifth edition in 1791.

Towards the end of 1752 he published 'Remarks on Lord Bolingbroke's Letters on the Study and Use of History,' and in 1755 a much more famous work, 'Dialogues between Theron and Aspasio,' in three volumes. This work he dedicated to Lady Frances Shirley, a kinswoman of, countesse of Huntingdon [q. v.] Aspasia endeavours to convince Theron of the doctrine of imputed righteousness. The 'Calvinistic controversy' was then at its height, and Hervey, as a Calvinist, drew down upon himself many opponents, especially John Wesley, who wrote some 'Remarks' on 'Theron and Aspasio' which were not very complimentary either in matter or style. Hervey wrote 'Eleven Letters' in reply, which were all but ready for the press when he died, and which were published by his brother, William Hervey, in 1706. These are the most important of his works; but he also wrote in 1753 a perface, and account of the author for the 'Pious Memorials' of (1711-1752) [q. v.] In 1757 he published three sermons preached on public fast-days, to which were added in the third edition of 1769 his sermon at Archdeacon Browne's visitation in 1763, and a sermon on the prevailing custom of visiting on Sundays. In 1767 he also published a new edition of his favourite work, Jenk's 'Meditations,' with a preface. He intended also to have written a treatise on 'Gospel Holiness', as a supplement to Theron and Aspasio. After his death a collection of his letters were published, and in 1782 his 'Letters to Lady Frances Shirley,' various sermons also were printed from his manuscripts,. All these compositions are included in the full edition of his 'Works,' published in 1 vol. folio, Edinburgh, 1769, in 6 vols. 8vo, Edinburgh. 1709, and afterwards several times republished.

A more gentle, pious, unworldly spirit than that of James Heresy it is difficult to conceive. He was never known to be in a passion; be made a solemn vow to dedicate all the profits of his literary work to pious and charitable uses, and scrupulously per-formed it. He was naturally disinclined to controversy, though from a sense of duty he threw himself into the hottest and most unsatisfactory of all controversies. The simplicity of his character is a strange contrast to the artificiality of his best-known writings; but in his correspondence and his sermons he uses a simpler end therefore more pleasing style. His popularity as a writer never led him to take a false view of his own powers; when it was at its height he frankly confessed that he was not a man of strong mind, and that he had not power for arduous researches.

[Life. of J. Hervey, by Dr. Birch, prefixed to his Letters; a supplement to the Life by the Rev. Abraham Maddock, his curate; Life by 'T. W.,' prefixed to the Meditations in 2 vols.; A Particular Account of the Life of the Author, prefixed to the edition of his Works in 1 vol. fol.


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Rh


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Science and Citizenship institute—not even a church or public-house. This, however, is an omission rectified in a document issued by the Seward Chamber of Commerce in August 1905, descriptive of the growing towns and cities of Alaska. Of Seward itself the document says: "Although but one year old, it contains general stores of every kind, hotels, ten saloons, a bank capitalised at 50,000 dols., a daily newspaper, four churches, a flourishing public school, an electric light plant, and a telephone exchange." Of a place called Fairbanks we are told that: "The city had a population of 7500 on 1st July 1905, and was equipped with every modern convenience, such as telephone, electric light, water-works, churches, public schools, and a daily paper receiving a full telegraphic report of the world's news." It is clear that what the American railway reformer understands by a city is not a city at all, but a Town—ie. in the admirably correct and concrete phraseology cited, it is a "jobbing centre." To the list of the urban "conveniences," the Chamber of Commerce standard adds, churches, schools, newspapers, and saloons. And the progress in civic ideals is signal. For churches, schools, newspapers and saloons are institutes of culture; and are seen to be the lower institutes of culture only when contrasted with Cathedral and University, with Scientific Society and Art Museum as higher ones.

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298 and eagerly watching the spectators. "Aye, a very fit ting epitaph."

"Where is it?"

"Carved on the heart of the monument!" he cried, in a tone of triumph.

"On the heart of the monument? Then we cannot see it."

"It is not meant to be seen."

"How do you know of it?"

"I made the monument."

"Then tell us what it is."

"It cannot be told. It is there only because it is unknown."

"Out on you! You play your pranks with the living and the dead."

"You will live to regret this day," said a thoughtful by-stander. "You have tampered with the memory of the dead."

"Why, look you, good people," cried Nicholas, springing up and approaching his beautiful master-work. He rested one hand lovingly against it and glanced around him pale with repressed excitement, as though a long-looked-for moment had at length arrived. "I play no pranks with the living or the dead. Young as I am, I have fashioned many monuments, as this cemetery will testify. But I make no more. This is my last; and as it is the last, so it is the greatest. For I have fashioned it in such love and sorrow for her who lies beneath it as you can never know. If it is beautiful, it is yet an unworthy emblem of that brief and transporting beauty which was hers; and I have planted it here beside her grave, that as a delicate white flower it may exhale the perfume of her memory for centuries to come.


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Rh "Tell me," he went on, his lips trembling, his voice faltering with the burden of oppressive hope—"tell me, you who behold it now, do you not wed her memory deathlessly to it? To its fair shape, its native and unchanging purity?"

"Aye," they interrupted, impatiently. "Cut the epitaph?"

"Ah!" he cried, with tenderer feeling, "beautiful as the monument is to the eye, it would be no fit emblem of her had it not something sacred hidden within. For she was not lovely to the sense alone, but had a perfect heart. So I have placed within the monument that which is its heart, and typifies hers. And, mark you!" he cried, in a voice of such awful warning that those standing nearest him instinctively shrank back, "the one is as inviolable as the other. No more could you rend the heart from the human bosom than this epitaph from the monument. My deep and lasting curse on him who attempts it! For I have so fitted the parts of the work together, that to disunite would be to break them in pieces; and the inscription is so fragile and delicately poised within, that so much as rudely to jar the monument would shiver it to atoms. It is put there to be inviolable. Seek to know it, you destroy it. This I but create after the plan of the Great Artist, who shows you only the fair outside of his masterpieces. What human eye ever looked into the mysterious heart of his beautiful—that heart which holds the secret of inexhaustible freshness and eternal power? Could this epitaph have been carved on the outside, you would have read it and forgotten it with natural satiety. But uncomprehended, what a spell I mark it exercises! You will—nay, you must—remember it


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300 ! You will speak of it to others. They will come. And thus in ever-widening circle will be borne afar the memory of her whose name is on it, the emblem of whose heart is hidden within. And what more fitting memorial could a man rear to a woman, the pure shell of whose beauty all can see, the secret of whose beautiful being no one ever comprehends?"

He walked rapidly away, then, some distance off, turned and looked back. More spectators had come up. Some were earnestly talking, pointing now to the monument, now towards him. Others stood in rapt contemplation of his master-work.

Tears rose to his eyes. A look of ineffable joy overspread his face.

"Oh, my love!" he murmured, "I have triumphed. Death has claimed your body, heaven your spirit; but the earth claims the saintly memory of each. This day about your name begins to grow the Legend of the Beautiful."

The sun had just set. The ethereal white shape of the monument stood outlined against a soft background of rose-colored sky. To his transfiguring imagination it seemed lifted far into the cloud-based heavens, and the evening star, resting above its apex, was a celestial lamp lowered to guide the eye to it through the darkness of the descending night.

Mysterious complexity of our mortal nature and estate that we should so desire to be remembered after death, though born to be forgotten! Our words and deeds, the influences of our silent personalities, do


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Rh pass from us into the long history of the race and abide for the rest of time: so that an earthly immortality is the heritage, nay, the inalienable necessity, of even the commonest lives; only it is an immortality not of self, but of its good and evil. For Nature sows us and reaps us, that she may gather a harvest, not of us, but from us. It is God alone that gathers the harvest of us. And well for us that our destiny should be that general forgetfulness we so strangely shrink from. For no sooner are we gone hence than, even for such brief times as our memories may endure, we are apt to grow by processes of accumulative transformation into what we never were. Thou kind, kind fate, therefore—never enough named and celebrated—that biddest the sun of memory rise on our finished but imperfect lives, and then lengthenest or shortenest the little day of posthumous reminiscence, according as thou seest there is need of early twilight or of deeper shadows!

Years passed. City and cemetery were each grown vaster. It was again an afternoon when the people strolled among the graves and monuments. An old man had courteously attached himself to a group that stood around a crumbling memorial. He had reached a great age; but his figure was erect, his face animated by strong emotions, and his eyes burned beneath his brows.

"Sirs," said he, interposing in the conversation, which turned wholly on the monument, "you say nothing of him in whose honor it was erected."

"We say nothing because we know nothing."

"Is he then wholly forgotten?"

"We are not aware that he is at all remembered."


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302 "The inscription reads: 'He was a poet.' Know you none of his poems?"

"We have never so much as heard of his poems."

"My eyes are dim; is there nothing carved beneath his name?"

One of the by-standers went up and knelt down close to the base.

"There was something here, but it is effaced by time Wait!" And tracing his finger slowly along, he read like a child;

"That is all," he cried, springing lightly up. "Oh, the dust on my knees?" he added with vexation.

"He may have sung very sweetly," pursued the old man.

"He may, indeed!" they answered, carelessly.

"But, sirs," continued he, with a sad smile, "perhaps you are the very generation that he looked to for the fame which his own denied him; perhaps he died believing that you would fully appreciate his poems."

"If so, it was a comfortable faith to die in," they said, laughing, in return. "He will never know that we did not. A few great poets have posthumous fame: we know them well enough." And they passed on.

"This," said the old man, as they paused elsewhere, "seems to be the monument of a true soldier: know you aught of the victories he helped to win?"

"He may not have helped to win any victories. He may have been a coward. How should we know? Epitaphs often lie. The dust is peopled with soldiers." And again they moved on.


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Rh "Does any one read his sermons now, know you?" asked the old man as they paused before a third monument.

"Read his sermons!" they exclaimed, laughing more heartily. "Are sermons so much read in the country you come from? See how long he has been dead! What should the world be thinking of, to be reading his musty sermons?"

"At least does it give you no pleasure to read He was a good man? "inquired he, plaintively.

"Aye; but if he was good, was not his goodness its own reward?"

"He may have also wished long to be remembered for it."

"Naturally; but we have not heard that his wish was gratified."

"Is it not sad that the memory of so much beauty and truth and goodness in our common human life should perish? But, sirs,"—and here the old man spoke with sudden energy—"if there should be one who combined perfect beauty and truth and goodness in one form and character, do you not think such a rare being would escape the common fate and be long and widely remembered?"

"Doubtless."

"Sirs," said he, quickly stepping in front of them with flashing eyes, "is there in all this vast cemetery not a single monument that has kept green the memory of the being in whose honor it was erected?"

"Aye, aye," they answered, readily. "Have you not heard of it?"

"I am but come from distant countries. Many years ago I was here, and have journeyed hither with much


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Science and Citizenship VII A visitor to any of the goods stations of the railways running into London from the north, will see any day of the year, but more particularly in the autumn, vast numbers of coal-laden trucks awaiting delivery. It may be said of at least two of the northern railway systems, that they exist for the purpose of carrying coal to London. The traveller who is carried, in about two hours, from St. Pancras to Nottingham in a luxurious restaurant car may imagine that the Midland Railway is designed and administered for his benefit and comfort. But that is an illusion of the unreflecting citizen. The truth is, that the luxurious restaurant car is itself a bye-product of the coal traffic. In the eyes of the representative railway engineer the cities of England are, primarily just the terminal yards of the collieries; and the citizens themselves, according to his ethical scheme, rank in status and civic worth in proportion to the capacity of their respective factory furnaces. With literal and historical accuracy, the typical railway engineer sees the modern locomotive as just an elaborated pit pump-engine placed on wheels, and engaged all day in hauling coal-laden trollies from the pit mouth to the cities, and all night in hauling them back empty. To the railway engineer, science is a means of transmuting the energy of coal into cities and citizens. It follows that his policy of city development—or, as one should rather say, urban expansion—leans to the erection and multiplication of lofty 17

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 added his letters to Sir John Strange in Egerton MSS. 1970, 2001, 2002, and 2137. Other letters of his and incidental references to him will be found in Addit. MSS. 32907,32908, 33100, 33101, 33105; Burdy's Life of Skelton; Hardy's Life of Charlemont; Irish Magazine, 1807; Wesley’s Journal, June 1775; Barrington’s Historic Anecdotes; Bentham’s Works, vol. x.; Gage’s Hist. and Antiquities of Suffolk; Brady’s Records of Cork, Oloyne, and Ross; Gent. Mag. vols. lxviii. and lxxiii.; Grattan’s Life of Henry Grattan; Colby’s Ordnance Survey of the County of Londonderry; Hist. of the Proceedings of the Volunteer Delegates, Dublin, 1783; Mémoires de la Comtesse Lichtenau; Biographie dos Hommes Vivants, s. v. ‘Lichtenau, la Comtesse de;’ Pryse Lockhart Gordon's Personal Memoirs; Memoirs of Lady Hamilton; Cloncurry’s Personal Recollections; Lecky’s Hist. of England; Hist. MSS. Comm. Reports, v. 251. viii. 195, 197, ix. (Stopford Sackville MSS.) 67, 117; Doyle’s Official Baronage]  HERVEY, GEORGE WILLIAM, second (1721–1775), born on 31 Aug. 1721, was the eldest son of, lord Hervey of Ickworth (1696-1743) [q. v.], by Mary [see ], daughter of Brigadier-general Nicholas Lepell. He became ensign in the 38th, or ‘Duke of Marlborough’s,’ regiment of foot on 2 June 1739, ensign in the 1st regiment of foot-guards on 11 May 1740, and captain in the 48th, or ‘Cholmondeley’s,’ regiment of foot on 27 Jan. 1741, but resigned his commission in August 1742. On 5 Aug. 1743 he succeeded his father as third Lord Hervey of Ickworth, and on the following 1 Dec. took his seat in the House of Lords. He became second Earl of Bristol on the death of his grandfather, (1665-1751) [q. v.] on 20 Jan. 1751, and hereditary high steward of Bury St. Edmunds. On 5 April 1755 he was gazetted envoy extraordinary to Turin, a post which he quitted in August 1758, on being appointed ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary to Madrid. Upon the ratification of the family compact between the houses of Bourbon, he left Madrid without taking leave on 17 Dec. 1761. He was nominated lord-lieutenant of Ireland and a privy councillor on 26 Sept. 1766. The king Wrote to Chatham that he expected ‘his constant residence while he held his office. But Bristol threw up the post next year without visiting Ireland, although he received the usual allowance of 3,000l. for his voyage. On 2 Nov. 1768 he was chosen lord keeper of the privy seal, in which oﬁice he continued until 29 Jan. 1770, when he became groom of the stole and first lord of the bedchamber to the king. He died unmarried on 18 or 20 March 1775. Wraxall tells a story of a gross insult inflicted by Nugent and Lord Temple on Bristol when a young man, and of the spirited way in which Bristol resented it (Memoirs, i. 94-6). His portrait after J. Zoffany has been engraved.

 HERVEY, JAMES (1714–1758), devotional writer, was born at Hardingstone, a village one mile from Northampton, on 26 Feb. 1713-14. His father was the incumbent of Collingtree, a neighbouring village. He was educated as a day scholar at the free grammar school, Northampton. At the age of seventeen he was sent to Lincoln College, Oxford, under the tuition of Dr. Hutchins, the rector of the college. During the ﬁrst two or three years of his Oxford course he was rather idle, but in 1783 was greatly inﬂuenced by the Oxford methodists. In 1734 he began to learn Hebrew without any teacher at the persuasion of John Wesley, then fellow and tutor of Lincoln College. Hervey in his letters gratefully owns his obligations to Wesley for this and other services. After having graduated B.A. he received holy orders at the end of 1736 or the beginning of 1737. He held a Crewe exhibition of 20l. a year at Lincoln College, and his father urged him to take a curacy in or near Oxford so that he might still retain his exhibition. He thought it unfair to keep what another might want more, and after acting as curate to his father for a short while he went to London. He was curate for a year at Dummer in Hampshire, the rector being Mr. Kinchin, one of the early Oxford methodists. In 1738 he became chaplain to Paul Orchard of Stoke Abbey, Devonshire. He was godfather to Orchard’s son and heir, and dedicated the second volume of the ‘Meditations’ to his godchild. He remained at Stoke for more than two years, and then (1740) became curate of Bideford, North Devon. While in Devonshire he planned and probably began his ‘Meditations among the Tombs.’ An excursion to Kilkhampton from Bideford is said to have been the occasion of his laying the scene of the ‘Meditations’ among the tombs of that place. His friends at Bideford contributed to raise his stipend to 60l. per annum. When after serving this curacy for nearly three years he was dismissed by a new rector, the parishioners offered to maintain him at their own expense. But he returned to Weston Favell, a living which his father held with Collingtree, in 1743, and became his father’s curate.


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304 desire to see the place once more. Would you kindly show me this monument?"

"Come!" they answered, eagerly, starting off. "It is the best known of all the thousands in the cemetery. None who see it can ever forget it."

"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man. "That is why I have—I foresaw— Is it not a beautiful monument? Does it not lie—in what direction does it lie?"

A feverish eagerness seized him. He walked now beside, now before, his companions. Once he wheeled on them.

"Sirs, did you not say it perpetuates the memory of her—of the one—who lies beneath it?"

"Both are famous. The story of this woman and her monument will never be forgotten. It is impossible to forget it."

"Year after year—" muttered he, brushing his hand across his eyes.

They soon came to a spot where the aged branches of memorial evergreens interwove a sunless canopy, and spread far around a drapery of gloom through which the wind passed with an unending sigh. Brushing aside the lowest boughs, they stepped in awe-stricken silence within the dank, chill cone of shade. Before them rose the shape of a gray monument, at sight of which the aged traveller, who had fallen behind, dropped his staff and held out his arms as though he would have embraced it. But, controlling himself, he stepped forward, and said, in tones of thrilling sweetness:

"Sirs, you have not told me what story is connected with this monument that it should be so famous. I conceive it must be some very touching one of her whose name I read—some beautiful legend–"


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Rh "Judge you of that!" interrupted one of the group, with a voice of stern sadness and not without a certain look of mysterious horror. "They say this monument was reared to a woman by the man who once loved her. She was very beautiful, and so he made her a very beautiful monument. But she had a heart so hideous in its falsity that he carved in stone an enduring curse on her evil memory, and hung it in the heart of the monument because it was too awful for any eye to see. But others tell the story differently. They say the woman not only had a heart false beyond description, but was in person the ugliest of her sex. So that while the hidden curse is a lasting execration of her nature, the beautiful exterior is a masterpiece of mockery which her nature, and not her ugliness, maddened his sensitive genius to perpetrate. There can be no doubt that this is the true story, as hundreds tell it now, and that the woman will be remembered so long as the monument stands—aye, and longer—not only for her loathsome—Help the old man!"

He had fallen backward to the ground. They tried in vain to set him on his feet. Stunned, speechless, he could only raise himself on one elbow and turn his eyes towards the monument with a look of preternatural horror, as though the lie had issued from its treacherous shape. At length he looked up to them, as they bent kindly over him, and spoke with much difficulty:

"Sirs, I am an old man—a very old man, and very feeble. Forgive this weakness. And I have come a long way, and must be faint. While you were speaking my strength failed me. You were telling me a story—were you not?—the story—the legend of a most beautiful woman, when all at once my senses grew confused


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306 and I failed to hear you rightly. Then my ears played me such a trick! Oh, sirs! if you but knew what a damnable trick my ears played me, you would pity me greatly, very, very greatly. This story touches me. It is much like one I seemed to have heard for many years, and that I have been repeating over and over to myself until I love it better than my life. If you would but go over it again—carefully—very carefully."

"My God, sirs!" he exclaimed, springing up with the energy of youth when he had heard the recital a second time, "tell me who started this story! Tell me how and where it began!"

"We cannot. We have heard many tell it, and not all alike."

"And do they—do you—believe—it is—true?" he asked, helplessly.

"We all know it is true; do not you believe it?"

"I can never forget it!" he said, in tones quickly grown harsh and husky. "Let us go away from so pitiful a place."

It was near nightfall when he returned, unobserved, and sat down beside the monument as one who had ended a pilgrimage.

"They all tell me the same story," he murmured, wearily. "Ah, it was the hidden epitaph that wrought the error! But for it, the sun of her memory would have had its brief, befitting day and tender setting. Presumptuous folly, to suppose they would understand my masterpiece, when they so often misconceive the hidden heart of His beautiful works, and convert the uncomprehended good and true into a curse of evil!"

The night fell. He was awaiting it. Nearer and nearer rolled the dark, suffering heart of a storm;


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Rh nearer towards the calm, white breasts of the dead. Over the billowy graves the many-footed winds suddenly fled away in a wild, tumultuous cohort. Overhead, great black bulks swung heavily at one another across the tremulous stars.

Of all earthly spots, where does the awful discord of the elements seem so futile and theatric as in a vast cemetery? Blow, then, winds, till you uproot the trees! Pour, floods, pour, till the water trickles down into the face of the pale sleeper below! Rumble and flash, ye clouds, till the earth trembles and seems to be aflame! But not a lock of hair, so carefully put back over the brows, is tossed or disordered. The sleeper has not stretched forth an arm and drawn the shroud closer about his face, to keep out the wet. Not an ear has heard the riving thunderbolt, nor so much as an eyelid trembled on the still eyes for all the lightning's fury.

But had there been another human presence on the midnight scene, some lightning flash would have revealed the old man, a grand, a terrible figure, in sympathy with its wild, sad violence. He stood beside his masterpiece, towering to his utmost height in a posture of all but superhuman majesty and strength. His long white hair and longer white beard streamed outward on the roaring winds. His arms, bared to the shoulder, swung aloft a ponderous hammer. His face, ashen-gray as the marble before him, was set with an expression of stern despair. Then, as the thunder crashed, his hammer fell on the monument. Bolt after bolt, blow after blow. Once more he might have been seen kneeling beside the ruin, his eyes strained close to its heart, awaiting another flash to tell him that the inviolable epitaph had shared in the destruction.


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308 For days following many curious eyes came to peer into the opened heart of the shattered structure, but in vain.

Thus the masterpiece of Nicholas failed of its end, though it served another. For no one could have heard the story of it, before it was destroyed, without being made to realize how melancholy that a man should rear a monument of execration to the false heart of the woman he once had loved; and how terrible for mankind to celebrate the dead for the evil that was in them instead of the good.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Samaritan Language and Literature

SAMARITAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. The Samaritan belongs to the Semitic languages and may be grouped with the western Aramaic dialects, although it contains strong admixtures of Hebrew. It is no longer spoken, but is still studied by a few priests in the small Samaritan community (see ) at Nabulus, where the common speech is now Arabic, The dialect is interesting from a philological point of view, both because of its antiquity and of its ‘mixed’ character. Its history may be traced back to the fourth century B.C., but its beginnings belong to a still earlier date. That it survived the Arabic conquest is due to the sacred character which it acquired in the eyes of the Samaritans by virtue of the translation of the Pentateuch into their dialect. The alphabet is a direct derivation of the Phoenician and more antique in character than the ordinary Hebrew letters. Its phonology presents some peculiar characteristics, the most pronounced being the practical loss of guttural sounds, which leads to considerable confusion in the writing of words containing guttural letters. Its morphology presents no unique features, while its vocabulary contains many foreign words borrowed from Arabic, Latin, and Greek. The literature is of small extent and of little value. Besides the Samaritan Pentateuch and Targum (see

it consists of chronicles, liturgies, and hymns. The chronicles include: (1) The Samaritan Book of Joshua, an Arabic chronicle, ascribed by critics to the thirteenth century, taken in part from the canonical Book of Joshua, with legendary additions, that charge the Jews with being oppressors of the Samaritans, and, after the time of Eli, apostates from the faith. The narrative is continued to A.D. 350, when it abruptly ends. (2) The Chronicle of the Generations, professedly written by Eleazer ben Amram, 1142, and afterwards continued by many hands; it gives a calculation of sacred times, the age of patriarchs, and a list of high priests. (3) The Chronicle of Abulfath, written about the middle of the fourteenth century, is drawn from the two previous works, with additional legendary matter. The liturgies and hynms belong to different periods. The Samaritans have also produced a number of commentaries, theological tracts, and grammatical works, written in Arabic. Consult: Petermann, Brevis Linguæ Samaritanæ Grammatica (Berlin, 1873); Kohn, Zur Sprache, Litterratur und Dogmatik der Samaritaner (Leipzig, 1876); id., Samaritanische Studien (Breslau, 1868); Nutt, Fragments of a Samaritan Pentateuch (London, 1874).


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 final aim of Greek tragedy! Let us but look at the Grecian tragic poets with respect to what most excited their diligence, their inventiveness, and their emulation, — certainly it was not the intention of subjugating the spectators by emotion! The Athenian went to the theatre to hear fine talking! And fine talking was arrived at by Sophocles! pardon me this heresy! — It is very different with serious opera: all its masters make it their business to prevent their personages being understood. "An occasional word picked up may come to the assistance of the inattentive listener; but on the whole the situation must be self-explanatory, the talking is of no account! " — so they all think, and so they have all made fun of the words. Perhaps they have only lacked courage to express fully their extreme contempt for words: a little additional insolence in Rossini, and he would have allowed la-la-la-la to be sung throughout — and it might have been the rational course ! The personages of the opera are not meant to be believed "in their words," but in their tones! That is the difference, that is the fine unnaturalness on account of which people go to the opera! Even the recitativo secco is not really intended to be heard as words and text: this kind of half-music is meant rather in the first place to give the musical ear a little repose (the repose from melody, as from the sublimest, and on that account the most straining enjoyment of this art),— but very soon something different results, namely, an increasing impatience, an increasing resistance, a new longing for entire music, for melody.— How is it with the art of


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Science and Citizenship chimney stacks. The ideal citizens, pictured in the carbonaceous logic of his occupation, are stokers and chimney-sweeps. It requires little observation and less historic insight to verify the affirmation, that urban expansion in the nineteenth century was largely determined by the unavowed but real ideals of a coal civilisation.

The archæologists who are so industriously deciphering the buried histories of cities, have found the accumulated survivals of seventeen different cities in Rome. And so for other historic cities, the successive phases of city formations are marked by layers of superimposed debris like geological strata, with which indeed they are in direct continuity. Each successive civic formation is characterised by the impressions and the marks of its contemporary inhabitants, which survive in material structures like so many sociological fossils. Looked at from this point of view, the coal-laden trucks and the factory chimney stack with all their associated structures, economic and aesthetic, are actual or incipient sociological fossils of the coal cities of the nineteenth century;

To the dwellers in these coal towns—for cities in the proper sense they most of them are not—science presents itself as a kind of inverted philosopher's stone. The accumulated applications of science in the coal civilisations did not end with the production of gold, but rather began with it, more particularly that in Australia and California about mid-century. Given a possession or control of sufficient quantity of the precious metal, the 18

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Science and Citizenship citizen found himself able to initiate a cycle of transmutations, and to carry it on up to a certain point, after which it appeared that the cycle completed itself automatically. This sort of scientific magic transformed coal into power to make cheap goods for the consumption of cheap labourers, and the cheap labour then applied itself to coal to produce more power to make more cheap goods for the consumption of still cheaper labourers, and so on indefinitely. This ever-extending series of transformations evidently reaches its culmination in the growth of an ideal city like East London, which so magnificently surpasses all other cities in its accumulated reservoir of cheap labour. Such are the ideals of civic policy which tend to work themselves out in fact and history, if not in word and theory, when city development gets arrested at the stage of Town.

VIII Unfair as it would be to English, not less would it be to American civilisation as a whole, to impute to it the conception of civic status restricted to the limitations of the railway engineer or even of the Chamber of Commerce. The United States is not only the country of railway cities and railway kings, it is also the country par excellence, of schools, universities, and educationists. The American "School-ma'rm" balances the American Viking, and the world trembles in the hope and expectation that some day she may succeed in 19

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Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Reed, Caroline Gallup

REED, Caroline Gallup, educator, b. in Berne, N. Y., 5 Aug., 1821. She is the daughter of Albert Gallup, treasurer of Albany county, and was educated at St. Peter's school and the Female academy in Albany. In 1851 she married the Rev. Sylvanus Reed, and in 1864 established a school for young ladies in New York city. In 1883 this very successful school was incorporated under the laws of New York state as Reed college, so that the perpetuity of the establishment might be assured. Mrs. Reed was elected a member of the American geographical society in 1860, of the American association for the advancement of science, and of the New York genealogical and biographical society in 1882. She has published various valuable papers, and before retiring from her school issued regularly “circulars of information” upon subjects of general educational interest.


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118 past. Moreover, I had to contend against what the Philadelphians love to call the Philadelphia inertia, while all the time they talk about it they keep giving substantial proofs of how little reason there is for the talk. The Philadelphia inertia only means that it is not good form in Philadelphia to betray emotion on any occasion or under any circumstance. The coolness, or indifference, of Philadelphians at moments and crises of great passion and excitement has always astonished the outsider. If you do not understand the Philadelphia way, as I did not then, you take the Philadelphian's talk literally and believe the beautiful Philadelphia calm to be more than surface deep, as I did who had not the sense as yet to see that, even if this inertia was real, it was my business to get the better of it and to develop for myself the energy I imagined my town and its people to be without. I have often thought that the Philadelphia calm is a little like the London climate that either conquers you or leaves you the stronger for having conquered it.

IV

If one of Philadelphia's unwritten laws closed my eyes to what was most worth looking at when I took my walks abroad, another, no less stringent, limited those walks to a small section of the town. On the map Philadelphia might stretch over a vast area with the possibility of spreading indefinitely, but for social purposes it was shut in to the East and the West by the Delaware and the Schuylkill,


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Rh to the North and the South by a single line of the old rhyming list of the streets: "Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce and Pine." I have not the antiquarian knowledge to say who drew that rigid line, or when what had been all right for Washington and Provosts of the University and no end of distinguished people became all wrong for ordinary mortals—I have heard the line ridiculed, but never explained. No geographical boundary has been, or could be, more arbitrary, but there it was, there it is, and the Philadelphian who crosses it risks his good name. Nor can the stranger, though unwarned, disregard it with impunity. I remember when I met Mrs. Alexander Gilchrist, the first friend I made in London, and she told me the number of the house away out North Twenty-second Street where she lived for two years in Philadelphia, I had a moment of Philadelphia uncertainty as to whether her literary distinction could outbalance her social indiscretion. Philadelphia never had a doubt, but was serenely unconscious of her presence during her two years there. And yet she had then edited and published, with the help of the Rossettis, her husband's Life of Blake which had brought her fame in England, and her up-town house must have been one of the most interesting to visit. Walt Whitman was a daily guest and few American men of letters passed through Philadelphia without finding their way to it. Philadelphia, however, would scruple going to Heaven were Heaven north of Market Street.

It is an absurd prejudice, but I am not sure if I have