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 ARBUTHNOT, ALEXANDER JOHN (1822–1907), Anglo-Indian official and author, third son of Alexander Arbuthnot, Bishop of Killaloe, by his second wife, Margaret Phoebe, daughter of George Bingham, was born at Farmhill, co. Mayo, on 11 Oct. 1822, a younger brother (b. 1824) being General Sir Charles George Arbuthnot [q. v. Suppl. I]. Sir Alexander's great grand-uncle was Dr. John Arbuthnot [q. v.], poet and wit, and his father's brothers included Charles Arbuthnot [q. v.], General Sir Robert Arbuthnot [q. v.], and General Sir Thomas Arbuthnot [q, v.]. His father died suddenly towards the close of 1828, leaving his widow ill provided for. She settled at Rugby in order that her two boys might be educated under Dr. Arnold. Alexander entered Rugby as a foundationer in April 1832, his contemporaries and friends there including Arthur Stanley, Tom Hughes, and Matthew Arnold. His last two years were spent in the sixth form, and he retained through life the impressions made upon his mind by the great headmaster.

It was an unsolicited testimonial from Arnold which secured for him nomination to a writership for the East India Company. He accordingly studied at the East India College, Haileybury, from ,23 Jan. 1840 to Christmas 1841, winning distinction in classics and Telugu. Leaving England on 24 May 1842, he sailed round the Cape and landed at Madras on 21 Sept. In the following June he earned the honorary reward of 1000 pagodas for proficiency in Telugu and Hindustani. After serving as assistant collector in Chingleput and then in Nellore, he was appointed early in 1845 head assistant to the registrar of the Sadr court and Foujdari Adalat, the forerunners of the chartered high court. In 1851 he completed the compilation of a selection of reports of criminal cases in the Sadr court between 1826 and 1850, with an historical preface. He similarly compiled and summarised the papers relating to public instruction in the Madras province from the time that Sir Thomas Munro [q. v.] took charge in 1822. With his Sadr court appointment he combined the secretaryship of the so-called university board, which had charge of what later became the presidency college.

The memorable education despatch of the court of directors in 1854 led to Arbuthnot's appointment in March 1855 as the first director of public instruction for Madras, In this capacity he established the education department on the basis still maintained, organising an inspecting staff, opening district schools, and introducing the grant-in-aid system. He also worked out the details of the scheme under which the university was incorporated 1857, He was one of the original fellows, and was vice-chancellor in 1871-2, filling the same position in the Calcutta University in 1878-80. A warm supporter of the policy of fitting Indians for situations of trust and emolument in the public service, he always strongly defended from attack the government's educational system, which proved more successful in Madras than elsewhere in India, owing in part at any rate to Arbuthnot's wise control of its early years.

In October 1862 Arbuthnot was appointed chief secretary to the Madras government, becoming ex officio member of the local legislature. From October 1867 he was a member of the executive council, and as senior member he acted as governor from 19 Feb. to 15 May 1872, when on the assassination of Lord Mayo (8 Feb. 1872) Lord Napier of Merchiston went to Calcutta temporarily to assume the viceroyalty. He was created C.S.I., but with characteristic independence he declined the decoration, on the ground that it was an inadequate recognition of his office and services. Next year (24 May) he was gazetted K.C.S.I. At the close of his council term (28 Oct. 1872) he came home on furlough, and two years later, on expiry of leave, he resigned the service. In the spring of 1875 he went back to India, on the invitation of Lord Salisbury, the secretary of state, as a member of the governor-general's council He joined the council on 6 May, serving first with Lord Northbrook and then, from April 1876, with Lord Lytton. In September 1876 Lytton nominated him for the lieutenant-governorship of Bengal in succession to Sir Richard Temple [q. v. Suppl. II], but the law member of the India council, Sir H. S. Maine [q. v.], advised Lord Salisbury that, as Arbuthnot had resigned the civil service, he was statutorilly ineligible, and to his severe disappointment he was passed over. Already in 1871 the same office, in the event of its being declined by Sir George Campbell [q. v. Suppl. I], had been destined for Arbuthnot ( Bengal under the Lieutenant-Governors, vol. i.).

As home member of the governor-general's council Arbuthnot was largely responsible for the measures dealing with the great southern India famine in 1877-8. He took part in the proclamation durbar at Delhi on 1 Jan, 1877, and his name headed


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  and desiderata were of no small service to students of the byways of religious history. His latest summary of results, 'Baptist Authors and History, 1527-1800,' was printed in the 'Baptist Handbook,' in 1894, and issued separately in 1896. As a theologian his position was essentially conservative; in a controversy of 1870 he upheld the doctrine of eternal torments; he was not without mellowing influences in his later years. He died at Hampstead on 28 Aug. 1902, and was buried in Norwood cemetery.

Angus's portrait by Melville is in Regent's Park College, and has been engraved. He married on 3 March 1841 Amelia (d. 1893), fourth daughter of William Brodie Gurney. Of his family of four sons and six daughters, the second son, John Mortimer Angus, M.A., is registrar of the University of Wales.

In addition to the manuals indicated above and subsidiary pieces Angus published
 * 1) 'The Voluntary System' (prize essay), 1839.
 * 2) 'Four Lectures on the Advantages of a Classical Education as auxiliary to a Commercial,' 1846.
 * 3) 'Christian Churches' (bicentenary prize essay), 1862; 1864.
 * 4) 'Egypt and the Bible,' 1863.
 * 5) 'Apostolic Missions,' &c., 1871; 2nd edit. 1892.
 * 6) 'Man, a Witness for Christianity,' 1872.
 * 7) 'Popular Commentary on the New Testament' (Hebrews to Jude), 1883.
 * 8) 'Six Lectures on Regeneration' (the Angus Lectureship), 1897.

ANNANDALE, THOMAS (1838–1907), surgeon, born at Newcastle-on-Tyne on 2 Feb. 1838, was second son of Thomas Annandale, surgeon, by his wife E. Johnstone. Annandale was educated at Bruce's academy in Newcastle, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father. Continuing his professional studies at the Newcastle Infirmary, he matriculated in 1856 at Edinburgh, and graduated M.D. in 1860 with the highest honours, receiving the gold medal for his thesis 'On the Injuries and Diseases of the Hip Joint.' He was appointed in 1860 house-surgeon to [q. v.] at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, and was Syme's private assistant from 1861 to 1870. In 1863 he was admitted F.R.C.S. Edinburgh, and became a junior demonstrator of anatomy in the university under Prof. [q. v.]. He was also appointed in 1863 a lecturer on the principles of surgery in the extramural school of medicine, and gave there a course of lectures yearly until 1871, when he began to lecture on clinical surgery at the Royal Infirmary. Annandale was admitted a M.R.C.S., England, on 15 July 1859, and F.R.C.S. on 12 April 1888; in 1864 he won the Jacksonian prize for his dissertation on 'The malformations, diseases and injuries of the fingers and toes, with their surgical treatment' (Edinburgh 1865). Appointed assistant surgeon to the Royal Infirmary at Edinburgh in 1865, and acting surgeon there in 1871, he became regius professor of clinical surgery in the university of Edinburgh in 1877, in succession to (Lord) Lister, who then migrated to King's College, London. He was made honorary D.C.L. of Durham in April 1902, and was surgeon-general to the Royal Archers, his Majesty's bodyguard in Scotland, from 27 May 1900 until his death. He joined the corps as an archer in 1870.

Annandale died suddenly on 20 Dec. 1907, having operated as usual at the Royal Infirmary on the previous day. He was buried in the Dean cemetery, Edinburgh. He married in 1874 Eveline, the eldest daughter of William Nelson, the publisher, of Edinburgh, and had a family of three sons and three daughters.

A bust, executed by W. G. Stevenson, R.S.A., is in the lecture theatre of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary.

Annandale, who began to practise surgery when it was an art left it a science. He kept himself abreast of all the incidents of the change and combined the good points of each period. He was keenly interested in university matters and especially in the welfare of the students. He was prominent at the Students' Union and in the Athletic Club. 'The Annandale gold medal in clinical surgery' was founded in his memory at Edinburgh university.

Annandale published (all at Edinburgh), in addition to the work named and many separate papers in professional periodicals:
 * 1) 'Surgical Appliances and Minor Operative Surgery,' 1866.
 * 2) 'Abstracts of Surgical Principles,' 6 pts. 1868-70 (3rd ed 1878).
 * 3) 'Observations and Cases in Surgery,' 1875.
 * 4) 'On the Pathology and Operative Treatment of Hip Disease,' 1876.

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 of great scientific and industrial value After prolonged investigation on a large scale he determined the resistance of metals to sudden concussion at varying temperatures down to zero (0 deg. F.); and was one of the first to study metals by the aid of the microscope, following up the pioneer inquiries of [q. v. Suppl. II]. In 1888 he was elected F.R.S. and was besides a fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and of the Chemical Society, and member, respectively, of the Institution of Civil Engineers and Society of Engineers. To the publications of these societies and to technical periodicals he contributed some forty papers The Society of Engineers awarded him two premiums for papers in their 'Transactions,' viz. 'On the Strength of Wrought-iron Railway Axles' (1879), and 'On the Effect of Strain on Railway Axles' (1895). In 1902 he received the society's gold medal for the memoir, 'Effect of Segregation on the Strength of Steel Rails.' In 1884 the Institution of Civil Engineers awarded him a Telford medal. An important paper on 'Wear of Steel Rails on Bridges' was published in the 'Journal of the Iron and Steel Institute' (1895).

From time to time Andrews acted as consultant to the admiralty and the board of trade on metallurgical questions. He paid special attention to the microscopic examination of metallic materials with a view to determining the cause of naval accidents, and he contributed a detailed series of observations on the subject to 'Engineering' (1904). In a paper on the microscopic effects of stress on platinum (Roy. Soc. Proc. 1902) he broke new ground. At Cambridge University he delivered lectures to engineering students. At Sheffield Andrews was a consistent advocate of technical education directed to industrial ends; and he actively assisted in founding and developing Sheffield University. He died at his home, 'Ravencrag,' near Sheffield, on 19 June 1907. He married in 1870 Mary Hannah, daughter of Charles Stanley of Rotherham, and had issue three sons (two died in childhood) and one daughter.

ANGUS, JOSEPH (1816–1902), baptist divine and biblical scholar, only son of John Angus, a farmer and later a leather merchant, by his wife Elizabeth Wanless, was born at Bolam, Northumberland, on Jan. 1816. His first schooling was at Newcastle, under [q. v.], who wanted to send him to Cambridge. As a nonconformist and a member of the baptist church under Thomas Pengilly at Newcastle, he preferred Edinburgh, where he entered in 1834, after passing a year at King's College, London. In 1835 he studied for the baptist ministry at Stepney College (instituted 1810), under W. H. Murch, D.D., a good scholar. Returning to Edinburgh with a scholarship under Dr. Ward's trust, he graduated M.A. with distinction on 27 April 1837, and gained the gold medal in moral philosophy and the university English essay prize. In 1838 he accepted a call to New Park Street chapel, Southwark, where subsequently [q. v.] won his fame as a preacher. In 1840 he was appointed colleague to John Dyer in the secretaryship of the Baptist Missionary Society, and became sole secretary in 1841. He had much to do with the raising of the jubilee fund (32,000l.), by means of which, among other enterprises, the mission house in Moorgate Street was built. In 1849 he was placed at the head of Stepney College, which under his presidency largely increased in efficiency and importance, was removed to Regent's Park in 1856, and equipped with special chairs and scholarships by means of a 'professorial fund' (30,000l.), secured by his exertions. He held the presidency till 1893. In connection with his academic work he brought out some useful handbooks to the Bible (1853; 2nd imp. 1907), to the English language (1864), and to English literature (1866); and editions of Butler's 'Analogy and Sermons' (1855; 2nd edit. 1881) and Francis Wayland's 'Elements of Moral Science' (1858); all these were published by the Religious Tract Society. The degree of D.D. was conferred in 1852 by Brown University, Rhode Island. From 1859 he was for ten years examiner in English to the London University, and in 1865 to the civil service commissioners. In 1870 he was appointed on the New Testament company for the revision of the 'authorised' version of the Scriptures. He was elected in 1870 for Marylebone to the first London school board, held office for ten years, and was re-elected for the period 1894-7. In the bibliography of baptist authors of all classes, ancient and modern, he took the greatest interest; his own collection of such works was unsurpassed, and his privately printed lists of acquire-


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 collaterally from John Anderson (1726-1796) [q. v.], founder of the Andersonian Institute, Glasgow.

After early education in Edinburgh Anderson entered Glasgow University to study medicine. There in April 1858 he graduated M.D. with honours, and became a licentiate and fellow of the faculty of physicians and surgeons of Glasgow. Two years were spent as resident physician in the Glasgow Royal Infirmary; two more in travel and medical study at Paris, Wiirzburg, Berlin, Vienna, and Dublin. On returning home he was speedily appointed lecturer on practice of medicine in the Andersonian Institute and, not long after, physician to the royal infirmary. There the lucidity and skill of his clinical teaching attracted large numbers of students.

In 1861 a hospital and dispensary were founded at Glasgow for diseases of the skin. Anderson and Dr. Andrew Buchanan were appointed the first two physicians. Buchanan died prematurely in 1865. For forty-seven years Anderson bore the main share of the duty. In 1909 the institute was absorbed by the western infirmary, and the dermatological teaching was provided for by the foundation of a lectureship at the university on which Anderson's name was conferred in recognition of his services. Meanwhile in 1874 Anderson was appointed to a newly founded chair of clinical medicine in Glasgow University. He held this post till 1900 in conjunction with that of physician to the western infirmary. His clear and systematic method of exposition and demonstration, his strict concentration on the subject in hand, and his organising power enabled him to fulfil his functions with admirable efficiency. From 1897 to 1901 he was examiner in medicine and pathology for the British and Indian medical services. In 1900 he succeeded Sir William Tennant Gairdner [q. v. Suppl. II] in the chair of practice of medicine, and removed from his house in Woodside Terrace to the official residence in the college square. The practical aspects of his subject chiefly appealed to him. The physician's business, he insisted, was to cure the sick. But he took a high view of the moral responsibilities of a medical adviser, and never suffered his pupils to forget that medicine is a liberal profession as well as a useful art.

For many years Anderson engaged in extensive consulting practice. His opinion, was especially valued, not only in skin diseases, in which he long specialised and his eminence in which was recognised in England and on the Continent, but also in consumption, in the curability as well as in he prevention of which he was a believer, and in certain forms of paralysis. In 1903 he was appointed university representative on the general medical council; he was knighted in 1905; in 1906 was entertained at a public dinner by representatives of the medical profession in the west of Scotland, including many former pupils and assistants; in 1908 he was made honorary physician to the king in Scotland.

A conservative in politics, and in religion a member of the Church of Scotland, Anderson was genial in society and obliging in disposition. He died suddenly on 25 Jan. 1908, after speaking at the dinner of the Glasgow Ayrshire Society. He was honoured with a public funeral in the necropolis of Glasgow.

Anderson married on 20 July 1864 Margaret Richardson, daughter of Alexander Ronaldson, merchant, Glasgow, and left one son, Thomas, who is in medical practice at New York. There is a good portrait of Anderson in possession of his widow.

Anderson's chief publications were : 1. 'The Parasitic Affections of the Skin,' 1861; 2nd edit. 1868. 2. On Psoriasis and Lepra,' 1865. 3. On Eczema,' 1867, 3rd edit. 1874. 4. ' Treatment of the Diseases of the Skin, with an Analysis of 11,000 Consecutive Cases,' 1872. 5. 'Lectures on Clinical Medicine,' 1877. 6. 'Curability of Attacks of Tubercular Peritonitis and Acute Phthisis (Galloping Consumption),' 1877. 7. 'A Treatise on Diseases of the Skin,' 1887; 2nd edit. 1894. 8. 'On Syphilite Affections of the Nervous System, their Diagnosis and Treatment,' 1889.

 ANDREWS, THOMAS (1847–1907), metallurgical chemist and ironmaster, born at Sheffield on 16 Feb. 1847, was only son of Thomas Andrews, proprietor of the old-established Wortley Iron Works, near that town, by his wife Mary Bolsover. Educated at Broombank school, Sheffield, and afterwards a student of chemistry under Dr. James Allan of Sheffield, Andrews early developed a faculty for original scientific research, which was fostered by the practical advice and guidance of his father. On the latter's death in 1871 he became head at Wortley.

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Rh Hyperion of 42 guns, going out to the Cape of Good Hope, and afterwards to the West Indies, where he was moved into the Union schooner, employed in the suppression of piracy, in which service he was severely wounded, 25 July 1823. On 18 March 1824 he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant, and appointed to command the Lion schooner employed in the same service. In her he destroyed several nests of pirates on the coast of Cuba, captured nine of their vessels, some of their prizes, and a slaver. He was first lieutenant of the Procris, attending on the Duke of Clarence, then lord high admiral, in 1827–8, and of the Jaseur at the Cape of Good Hope from 1828 to 1832, in which period he was three times officially reported as having saved life by jumping overboard, once in a sea abounding in sharks (, Acts of Gallantry, 1872, pp. 22, 35). From 1833 to 1835 he was first lieutenant of the Snake on the South American station, and from 1835 to 1838 of the Cleopatra frigate with the Hon. Charles Grey. On 28 June 1838 he was promoted to be commander, and in the following January was appointed to the Powerful of 84 guns, carrying the broad pennant of Commodore (afterwards Admiral Sir Charles) Napier [q. v.], as second in command in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Syria, and especially at the bombardment of St. Jean d'Acre. For his services during this time, when he was frequently in actual command of the Powerful, the commodore being employed on shore, Liardet was promoted to post rank 4 Nov. 1840.

In the following year he accepted an appointment as agent for the New Zealand Company at Taranaki. He arrived there towards the end of September. On 29 Nov., in expectation of an attack by the Maoris, he was endeavouring to clear the vent of a rusty old four-pounder when an untimely explosion of the charge destroyed the sight of one eye and seriously injured the other. For several years he was almost totally blind. In February 1842 he left Taranaki for Sydney, whence he returned to England. During his enforced retirement he wrote or dictated ‘Professional Recollections on points of Seamanship, Discipline, &c.,’ 8vo, 1849, and the ‘Midshipman's Companion,’ 12mo, 1851. In January 1856 he was appointed one of the captains of Greenwich Hospital, and he published ‘Friendly Hints to the Young Naval Lieutenant,’ 12mo, 1858. He died in the Hospital on 1 March 1863, and was buried in the mausoleum of the old cemetery. A marble bust by T. Milnes is in the Painted Hall.

In October 1842 Liardet married Caroline Anne, sister of Sir Edmund Filmer, bart., and widow of Lieutenant John Jervis Gregory, R.N., and had two daughters and a son.

LIART, MATTHEW (1736–1782?), engraver, born in 1736 in Compton Street, Soho, was son of a sausage-maker, and grandson of a barber, belonging to a family of French Huguenot refugees settled in Soho. Showing a taste for engraving, Liart was apprenticed by his father to S. F. Ravenet [q. v.] the engraver for seven years. He obtained a premium from the Society of Arts in 1764 and also studied at the Royal Academy, where he gained a silver medal for a drawing from the life. His performances as a draughtsman were commended by Benjamin West, P.R.A. Liart was employed by Boydell to engrave ‘Jacob and Laban’ after Pietro da Cortona, and ‘Noah's Sacrifice’ after A. Sacchi; he exhibited proofs of these engravings at the Society of Arts in 1766 and 1767. In 1771 Liart published himself two engravings after B. West, ‘Cephalus and Procris,’ and ‘Venus lamenting the Death of Adonis.’ He also engraved ‘The Joyous Peasant,’ after A. van Ostade, and some designs for furniture. He died about 1782 in Compton Street, and was buried at Paddington. Lawrenson drew his portrait.

LIBBERTOUN,. [See, d. 1650.]

LICHFIELD. [See also .]

LICHFIELD,. [See, 1622?-1645; , third of the Lee family, 1718–1772.]

LICHFIELD, LEONARD (1604–1657), printer and author, born in 1604, was son of John and Margaret Lichfield. His father was printer to the university of Oxford from 1617 to 1635, and was also yeoman bedell. Leonard succeeded him as university printer, was ‘privilegiatus’ on 12 Nov. 1630, and also became one of the superior bedells. During the civil war from 1642 to 1646 he was employed by the king to print his declarations, proclamations, and other public papers. After the surrender of Oxford he had his house and goods burned, and was reduced to poverty (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1644 p. 73, 1661–2 pp. 135, 238, 245). On 29 Oct. 1649 the council of state ordered him to enter into


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Weird Tales/Volume 10/Issue 6/The Canal

Past the sleeping city the river sweeps; along its left bank the old canal creeps.

I did not intend that to be poetry, although the scene is poetic—somberly, gruesomely poetic, like the poems of Poe. Too well I know.it— too often have I walked over the grass-grown path beside the reflections of black trees and tumble-down shacks and distant factory chimneys in the sluggish waters that moved so slowly, and ceased to move at all.

I shall be called mad, and I shall be a suicide. I shall take no pains to cover up my trail, or to hide the thing that I shall do. What will it matter, afterward, what they say of me? If they knew the truth—if they could vision, even dimly, the beings with whom I have consorted—if the faintest realization might be theirs of the thing I am becoming, and of the fate from which I am saving their city—then they would call me a great hero. But it does not matter what they call me, as I have said before. Let me write down the things I am about to write down, and let them be taken, as they will be taken, for the last ravings of a madman. The city will be in mourning for the thing I shall have done—but its mourning will be of no consequence beside that other fate from which I shall have saved it.

I have always had a taste for nocturnal prowling. We as a race have grown too intelligent to take seriously any of the old, instinctive fears that preserved us through preceding generations. Our sole remaining salvation, then, has come to be our tendency to travel in herds. We wander at night—but our objective is somewhere on the brightly lighted streets, or still somewhere where men do not go alone. When we travel far afield, it is in company. Few of my acquaintance, few in the whole city here, would care to ramble at midnight over the grass-grown path I have spoken of; not because they would fear to do so, but because such things are not being done.

Well, it is dangerous to differ individually from one’s fellows. It is dangerous to wander from the beaten road. And the fears that guarded the race in the dawn of time and through the centuries were real fears, founded on reality.

A month ago, I was a stranger here. I had just taken my first position—I was graduated from college only three months before, in the spring. I was lonely, and likely to remain so for some time, for I have always been of a solitary nature, making friends slowly.

I had received one invitation out —to visit the camp of a fellow employee in the firm for which I worked, a camp which was located on the farther side of the wide river—the side across from the city and the canal, where the bank was high and steep and heavily wooded, and little tents blossomed all along the water’s edge. At night these camps were a string of sparkling lights and tiny, leaping campfires, and the tinkle of music carried faintly far across the calmly flowing water. That far bank of the river was no place for an eccentric, solitary man to love. But the near bank, which would have been an eyesore to the campers had not the river been so wide,—the near bank attracted me from my first glimpse of it.

We embarked in a motor-boat at some distance downstream, and swept up along the near bank, and then out and across the current. I turned my eyes backward. The murk of stagnant water that was the canal, the jumble of low buildings beyond it; the lonely, low-lying waste of the narrow strip of land between canal and river, the dark, scattered trees growing there—I intended to see more of these things.

That week-end bored me, but I repaid myself no later than Monday evening, the first evening when I was back in the city, alone and free. I ate a solitary dinner immediately after leaving the office. I went to my room and slept from seven until nearly midnight. I wakened naturally, then, for my whole heart was set on exploring the alluring solitude I had discovered. I dressed, slipped out of the house and into the street, started the motor in my roadster which I had left parked at the curb, and drove through the lighted streets.

I left behind that part of town which was thick with vehicles carrying people home from their evening engagements, and began to thread my way through darker and narrower streets. Once I had to back out of a cul-de-sac, and once I had to detour around a closed block. This part of town was not alluring, even to me. It was dismal without being solitary.

But when I had parked my car on a rough, cobbled street that ran directly down into the inky waters of the canal, and crossed a narrow bridge, I was repaid. A few minutes set my feet on the old tow-path where mules had drawn river-boats up and down only a year or so ago. Across the canal now, as I walked upstream at a swinging pace, the miserable shacks where miserable people lived seemed to march with me, and then fell behind. They looked like places in which murders might be committed, every one of them.

The bridge I had crossed was near the end of the city going north, as the canal marked its western extremity. Ten minutes of walking, and the dismal shacks were quite a distance behind, the river was farther away and the strip of waste land much wider and more wooded, and tall trees across the canal marched with me as the evil-looking houses had done before. Far and faint, the sound of a bell in the city reached my ears. It was midnight.

I stopped, enjoyed the desolation around me. It had the savor I had expected and hoped for. I stood for some time looking up at the sky, watching the low drift of heavy clouds, which were visible in the dull reflected glow from distant lights in the heart of the city, so that they appeared to have a lurid phosphorescence of their own. The ground under my feet, on the contrary, was utterly devoid of light. I had felt my way carefully, knowing the edge of the canal partly by instinct, partly by the even more perfect blackness of the water in it, and even holding pretty well to the path, because it was perceptibly sunken below the ground beside it.

Now as I stood motionless in this spot, my eyes upcast, my mind adrift with strange fancies, suddenly my feelings of satisfaction and well-being gave way to something different. Fear was an emotion unknown to me—for those things which make men fear, I had always loved. A graveyard at night was to me a charming place for a stroll and meditation.

But now, the roots of my hair seemed to move upright on my head, and along all the length of my spine I was conscious of a prickling, tingling sensation—such as my forefathers may have felt in the jungle when the hair on their backs stood up as the hair of my head was doing now. Also, I was afraid to move; and I knew that there were eyes upon me, and that that was why I was afraid to move. I was afraid of those eyes—afraid to see them, to look into them.

All this while, I stood perfectly still, my face uptilted toward the sky. But after a terrible mental effort, I mastered myself.

Slowly—slowly, with an attempt to propitiate the owner of the unseen eyes by my casual manner, I lowered my own. I looked straight ahead— at the softly swaying silhouette of the tree-tops across the canal as they moved gently in the cool night wind; at the mass of blackness that was those trees, and the opposite shore; at the shiny blackness where the reflections of the clouds glinted vaguely and disappeared, that was the canal. And again I raised my eyes a little, for just across the canal where the shadows massed most heavily, there was that at which I must look more closely. And now, as I grew accustomed to the greater blackness and my pupils expanded, I dimly discerned the contours of an old boat or barge, half sunken in the water.

An old, abandoned canal-boat.

But was I dreaming, or was there a white-clad figure seated on the roof of the low cabin aft; a pale, heart-shaped face gleaming strangely at me from the darkness, the glow of two eyes seeming to light up the face, and to detach it from the darkness?

Surely, there could be no doubt as to the eyes. They shone as the eyes of animals shine in the dark—with a phosphorescent gleam, and a glimmer of red! Well, I had heard that some human eyes have that quality at night.

But what a place for a human being to be—a girl, too, I was sure. That daintily heart-shaped face was the face of a girl, surely—I was seeing it clearer and clearer, either because my eyes were growing more accustomed to peering into the deeper shadows, or because of that phosphorescence in the eyes that stared back at me.

I raised my voice softly, not to break A too much the stillness of the night.

“Hello! Who’s there? Are you lost, or marooned, and can I help?”

There was a little pause. I was conscious of a soft lapping at my feet. A stronger night wind had sprung up, was ruffling the dark waters. I had been over-warm, and where it struck me the perspiration turned cold on my body, so that I shivered uncontrollably.

“You can stay—and talk awhile, if you will. I am lonely, but not lost—I—I live here.”

I could hardly believe my ears. The voice was little more than a whisper, but it had carried clearly—a girl’s voice, sure enough. And she lived there—in an old, abandoned canal-boat, half submerged in the stagnant water.

“You are not alone there?”

“No, not alone. My father lives here with me, but he is deaf—and he sleeps soundly.”

Did the night wind blow still colder, as though it came to us from some unseen, frozen sea—or was there something in her tone that chilled me, even as a strange attraction drew me toward her? I wanted to draw near to her, to see closely the pale, heart-shaped face, to lose myself in the bright eyes that I had seen shining in the darkness. I wanted—I wanted to hold her in my arms, to find her mouth with mine, to kiss it-

With a start, I realized the nature of my thoughts, and for an instant lost all thought in surprize. Never in my twenty-two years had I felt love before. My fancies had been otherwise directed—a moss-grown, fallen gravestone was a dearer thing to me to contemplate than the fairest face in all the world. Yet, surely, what I felt now was love!

I took a reckless step nearer the edge of the bank.

“Could I come over to you?” I begged. “It’s warm, and I don’t mind a wetting. It’s late, I know— but I would give a great deal to sit beside you and talk, if only for a few minutes before I go back to town. It’s a lonely place here for a girl like you to live—your father should not mind if you exchange a few words with someone occasionally.”

Was it the unconventionality of my request that made her next words sound like a long-drawn shudder of protest? There was a strangeness in the tones of her voice that held me wondering, every time she spoke.

“No—no. Oh, no! You must not swim across.”

“Then—could I come tomorrow, or someday soon, in the daytime; and would you let me come on board then —or would you come on shore and talk to me, perhaps?”

“Not in the daytime—never in the daytime!”

Again the intensity of her low-toned negation held me spellbound.

It was not her sense of the impropriety of the hour, then, that had dictated her manner. For surely, any girl with the slightest sense of the fitness of things would rather have a tryst by daytime than after midnight —yet there was an inference in her last words that if I came again it should be again at night.

Still feeling the spell that had enthralled me, as one does not forget the presence of a drug in the air that is stealing one’s senses, even when those senses begin to wander and to busy themselves with other things, I yet spoke shortly.

“Why do you say, ‘Never in the daytime’? Do you mean that I may come more than this once at night, though now you won’t let me cross the canal to you at the expense of my own clothes, and you won’t put down your plank or drawbridge, or whatever you come on shore with, and talk to me here for only a moment? I’ll come again, if you’ll let me talk to you instead of calling across the water. I’ll come again, any time you will let me—day or night, I don’t care. I want to come to you. But I only ask you to explain. If I came in the daytime and met your father, wouldn’t that be the best thing to do? Then we could be really acquainted— we could be friends.”

“In the night time, my father sleeps. In the daytime, I sleep. How could I talk to you, or introduce you to my father then? If you came on board this boat in the daytime, you would find my father—and you would be sorry. As for me, I would be sleeping. I could never introduce you to my father, do you see?”

“You sleep soundly, you and your father.” Again there was pique in my voice.

“Yes, we sleep soundly.”

“And always at different times?”

“Always at different times. We are on guard—one of us is always on guard. We have been hardly used, down there in your city. And we have taken refuge here. And we are always—always—on guard.”

The resentment vanished from my breast, and I felt my heart go out to her anew. She was so pale, so pitiful in the night. My eyes were learning better and better how to pierce the darkness, they were giving me a more definite picture of my companion— if I could think of her as a companion, between myself and whom stretched the black water.

The sadness of the lonely scene, the perfection of the solitude itself, these things contributed to her pitifulness. Then there was that strangeness of atmosphere of which, even yet, I had only partly taken note. There was the strange, shivering chill, which yet did not seem like the healthful chill of a cool evening. In fact, it did not prevent me from feeling the oppression of the night, which was unusually sultry. It was like a little breath of deadly cold that came and went, and yet did not alter the temperature of the air itself, as the small ripples on the surface of water do not concern the water even a foot down.

And even that was not all. There was an unwholesome smell about the night—a dank, moldy smell that might have been the very breath of death and decay. Even I, the connoisseur in all things dismal and unwholesome, tried to keep my mind from dwelling overmuch upon that smell. What it must be to live breathing it constantly in, I could not think. But no doubt the girl and her father were used to it; and no doubt it came from the stagnant water of the canal and from the rotting wood of the old, half-sunken boat that was their refuge.

My heart throbbed with pity again. Their refuge—what a place! And my clearer vision of the girl showed me that she was pitifully thin, even though possessed of the strange face that drew me to her. Her clothes hung around her like old rags, but hers' was no scarecrow aspect. Although little flesh clothed her bones, her very bones were beautiful. I was sure the little, pale, heart-shaped face would be more beautiful still, if I could only see it closely. I must see it closely—I must establish some claim to consideration as a friend of the strange, lonely crew of the half-sunken wreck.

“This is a poor place to call a refuge,” I said finally. “One might have very little money, and yet do somewhat better. Perhaps I might help you—I am sure I could. If your ill-treatment in the city was because of poverty—I am not rich, but I could help that. I could help you a little with money—if you would let me— or, in any case, I could find a position for you. I’m sure I could do that.”

The eyes that shone fitfully toward me like two small pools of water intermittently lit by a cloud-swept sky seemed to glow more brightly. She had been half crouching, half sitting on top of the cabin; now she leaped to her feet with one quick, sinuous, abrupt motion, and took a few rapid, restless steps to and fro before she answered.

When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper; yet surely rage was in its shrill sibilance.

“Fool! Do you think you would be helping me, to tie me to a desk, to shut me behind doors, away from freedom, away from the delight of doing my own will, of seeking my own way? Never, never would I let you do that. Rather this old boat, rather a deserted grave under the stars, for my home!”

A boundless surprize swept over me, and a positive feeling of kinship with this strange being, whose face I had hardly seen, possessed me. So I myself might have spoken—so I had often felt, though I had never dreamed of putting my thoughts so definitely, so forcibly. My regularized daytime life was a thing I thought little of; I really lived only in my nocturnal prowlings. Why, this girl was right! All of life should be free—and spent in places that interested and attracted.

How little, how little I knew, that night, that dread forces were tugging at my soul, were finding entrance to it and easy access through the morbid weakness of my nature! How little I knew at what a cost I deviated so radically from my kind, who herd in cities and love well-lit ways and the sight of man, and sweet and wholesome places to be solitary in, when the desire for solitude comes over them!

That night it seemed to me that there was but one important thing in life—to allay the angry passion my unfortunate words had aroused in the breast of my beloved, and to win from her some answering feeling.

“I understand—much better than you think,” I whispered tremulously.

“What I want is to see you again, to come to know you. And to serve you in any way that I may. Surely, there must be something in which I can be of use to you. All you have to do from tonight on forever, is to command me. I swear it!”

“You swear that—you do swear it?”

Delighted at the eagerness of her words, I lifted my hand toward the dark heavens.

“I swear it. From this night on, forever—I swear it.”

“Then listen. Tonight you may not come to me, nor I to you. I do not want you to board this boat, not tonight, not any night. And most of all, not any day. But do not look so sad. I will come to you. No, not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights —yet before very long. I will come to you there, on the bank of the canal, when the water in the canal ceases to flow.”

I must have made a gesture of impatience, or of despair. It sounded like a way of saying “never”—for why should the water in the canal cease to flow? She read my thoughts in some way, for she answered them.

“You do not understand. I am speaking seriously—I am promising to meet you there on the bank, and soon. For the water within these banks is moving slower, always slower. Higher up, I have heard that the canal has been drained. Between these lower locks, the water still seeps in and. drops slowly, slowly downstream. But there will come a night when it will be quite, quite stagnant —and on that night I will come to you. And when I come, I will ask of you a favor. And you will keep your oath.”

It was all the assurance I could get that night. She had come back to the side of the cabin where she had sat crouched before, and she resumed again that posture and sat still and silent, watching me. Sometimes I could see her eyes upon me, and sometimes not. But I felt that their gaze was unwavering. The little cold breeze, which I had finally forgotten while I was talking with her, was blowing again, and the unwholesome smell of decay grew heavier before the dawn.

She would not speak again, nor answer me when I spoke to her, and I grew nervous, and strangely ill at ease.

At last I went away. And in the first faint light of dawn I slipped up the stairs of my rooming-house, and into my own room.

I was deadly tired at the office next day. And day after day slipped away and I grew more and more weary. For a man cannot wake day and night without suffering, especially in hot weather, and that was what I was doing. I haunted the old tow-path and waited, night after night, on the bank opposite the sunken boat. Sometimes I saw my lady of the darkness, and sometimes not. When I saw her, she spoke little; but sometimes she sat there on the top of the cabin and let me watch her till the dawn, or until the strange uneasiness that was like fright drove me from her and back to my room, where I tossed restlessly in the heat and dreamed strange dreams, half waking, till the sun shone in on my forehead and I tumbled into my clothes and down to the office again.

Once I asked her why she had made the fanciful condition that she would not come ashore to meet me until the waters of the canal had ceased to run. (How eagerly I studied those waters; how I stole away at noontime more than once, not to approach the old boat, but to watch the almost imperceptible downward drift of bubbles, bits of straw, twigs, rubbish!)

My questioning displeased her, and I asked her that no more. It was enough that she chose to be whimsical. My part was to wait.

It was more than a week later that I questioned her again, this time on a different subject. And after that, I curbed my curiosity relentlessly.

“Never speak to me of things you do not understand about me. Never again, or I will not show myself to you again. And when I walk on the path yonder, it will not be with you.”

I had asked her what form of persecution she and her father had suffered in the city, that had driven them out to this lonely place, and where in the city they had lived.

Frightened seriously lest I lose the ground I was sure I had gained with her, I was about to speak of something else. But before I could find the words, her low voice came to me again.

“It was horrible—horrible! Those little houses below the bridge, those houses along the canal—tell me, are they not worse than my boat? Life there was shut in, and furtive. I was not free as I am now—and the freedom I will soon have will make me forget the things I have not yet forgotten. The screaming, the reviling and cursing! Fear and flight! As you pass back by those houses, think how you would like to be shut in one of them, and in fear of your life. And then think of them no more—for I would forget them, and I will never speak of them again!”

I dared not answer her. I was surprized that she had vouchsafed me so much. But surely her words meant this—that before she had come to live on the decaying, water-rotted old boat, she had lived in one of those horrible houses I passed by on my way to her. Those houses, each of which looked like the predestined scene of a murder!

As I left her that night, I felt that I was very daring.

“One or two nights more and you will walk beside me,” I called to her. “I have watched the water at noon, and it hardly moves at all. I threw a scrap of paper into the canal, and it whirled and swung a little where a thin skim of oil lay on the water down there—oil from the big, dirty city you are well out of. But though I watched and watched, I could not see it move downward at all. Perhaps tomorrow night, or the night after, you will walk on the bank with me. I hope it will be clear and moonlight; and I will be near enough to see you clearly—as well as you seem always to see me in darkness or moonlight, equally well. And perhaps I will kiss you—but not unless you let me.”

And yet, the next day, for the first time my thoughts were definitely troubled. I had been living in a dream—I began to speculate concerning the end of the path on which my feet were set.

I had conceived, from the first, such a horror of those old houses by the canal! They were well enough to walk past, nursing gruesome thoughts for a midnight treat. But, much as I loved all that was weird and eery about the girl I was wooing so strangely, it was a little too much for my fancy that she had come from them.

By this time, I had become decidedly unpopular in my place of business. Not that I had made enemies, but that my peculiar ways had caused too much adverse comment. It would have taken very little, I think, to have made the entire office force decide that I was mad. After the events of the next twenty-four hours, and after this letter is found and read, they will be sure that they knew it all along! At this time, however, they were punctiliously polite to me, and merely let me alone as much as possible—which suited me perfectly. I dragged wearily through day after day, exhausted for lack of sleep, conscious of their speculative glances, living only for the night to come.

But on this day, I approached the man who had invited me to the camp across the river, who had unknowingly shown me the way that led to my love.

“Have you ever noticed the row of tumble-down houses along the canal on the city side?” I asked him.

He gave me an odd look. I suppose he sensed the significance of my breaking silence after so long to speak of them—sensed that in some way I had a deep interest in them.

“You have odd tastes, Morton,” he said after a moment. “I suppose you wander into strange places sometimes —I’ve heard you speak of an enthusiasm for graveyards at night. But my advice to you is to keep away from those houses. They’re unsavory, and their reputation is unsavory. Positively, I think you’d be in danger of your life, if you go poking around there. They have been the scene of several murders, and a dope den or two has been cleaned out of them. Why in the world you should want to investigate them—”

“I don’t expect to investigate them,” I said testily. “I was merely interested in them—from the outside. To tell you the truth, I’d heard a story, a rumor—never mind where. But you say there have been murders there—I suppose this rumor I heard may have had to do with an attempted one. There was a girl who lived there with her father once—and they were set upon there, or something of the sort, and had to run away. Did you ever hear that story?”

Barrett gave me an odd look such as one gives in speaking of a past horror so dreadful that the mere speaking of it makes it live terribly again.

“What you say reminds me of a horrible thing that was said to have happened down there once,” he said. “It was in all the papers. A little child disappeared in one of those houses—and a couple of poor lodgers who lived there, a girl and her father, were accused of having made away with it. They were accused—they were accused—oh, well, I don’t like to talk about such things. It was too dreadful. The child’s body was found—part of it was found. It was mutilated, and the people in the house seemed to believe it had been mutilated in order to conceal the manner of its death—there was an ugly wound in the throat, it finally came out, and it seemed as if the child might have been bled to death. It was found in the girl’s room, hidden away. The old man and his daughter escaped, before the police were called. The countryside was scoured for them —the whole country was scoured, but they were never found. Why, you must have read it in the papers, several years ago.”

I nodded, with a heavy heart. I had read it in the papers, I remembered now. And again, a terrible questioning came over me. Who was this girl, what was this girl, who seemed to have my heart in her keeping?

Why did not a merciful God let me die then?

Befogged with exhaustion, bemused in a dire enchantment, my mind was incapable of thought. And yet, some soul-process akin to that which saves the sleepwalker poised at perilous heights sounded its warning now.

My mind was filled with doleful images. There were women—I had heard and read—who slew to satisfy a blood-lust. There were ghosts, specters—call them what you will, their names have been legion in the dark pages of that lore which dates back to the infancy of the races of the earth—who retained even in death this blood-lust. Vampires—they had been called that. I had read of them. Corpses by day, spirits of evil by night, roaming abroad in their own forms or in the forms of bats or unclean beasts, killing body and soul of their victims—for whoever dies of the repeated “kiss” of the vampire, which leaves its mark on the throat and draws the blood from the body, becomes a vampire also—of such beings I had read.

And, horror of horrors! In that last cursed day at the office, I remembered reading of these vampires— these undead—that in their nocturnal flights they had one limitation—they could not cross running water.

That night I went my usual nightly way with tears of weakness on my face—for my weakness was supreme, and I recognized fully at last the misery of being the victim of an enchantment stronger than my feeble will. But I went.

I approached the neighborhood of the canal-boat as the distant city clock chimed the first stroke of 12. It was the dark of the moon and the sky was overcast. Heat-lightning flickered low in the sky, seeming to come from every point of the compass and circumscribe the horizon, as if unseen fires burned behind the rim of the world. By its fitful glimmer, I saw a new thing—between the old boat and the canal bank stretched a long, slim; solid-looking shadow—a plank had been let down! In that moment, I realized that I had been playing with powers of evil which had no intent now to let me go, which were indeed about to lay hold upon me with an inexorable grasp. Why had I come tonight? Why, but that the spell of the enchantment laid upon me was a thing more potent, and far more unbreakable, than any wholesome spell of love? The creature I sought out—oh, I remembered now, with the cold perspiration beading my brow, the lore hidden away between the covers of the dark old book which I had read so many years ago and half forgotten!—until dim memories of it stirred within me, this last day and night.

My lady of the night! No woman of wholesome flesh and blood and odd perverted tastes that matched my own, but one of the undead. In that moment, I knew it, and knew that the vampires of old legends polluted still, in these latter days, the fair surface of the earth.

And on the instant, behind me in the darkness there was the crackle of a twig, and something brushed against my arm!

This, then, was the fulfilment of my dream. I knew, without turning my head, that the pale, dainty face with its glowing eyes was near my own—that I had only to stretch out my arm to touch the slender grace of the girl I had so longed to draw near. I knew, and should have felt the rapture I had anticipated. Instead, the roots of my hair prickled coldly, unendurably, as they had on the night when I had first sighted the old boat. The miasmic odors of the night, heavy and oppressive with heat and unrelieved by a breath of air, all but overcame me, and I fought with myself to prevent my teeth clicking in my head. The little waves of coldness I had felt often in this spot were chasing over my body; yet they were not from any breeze; the leaves on the trees hung down motionless, as though they were actually wilting on their branches.

With an effort, I turned my head.

Two hands caught me around my neck. The pale face was so near, that I felt the warm breath from its nostrils fanning my cheek.

And, suddenly, all that was wholesome in my perverted nature rose uppermost. I longed for the touch of the red mouth, like a dark flower opening before me in the night. I longed for it—and yet more I dreaded it. I shrank back, catching in a powerful grip the fragile wrists of the hands that strove to hold me. I must not—I must not yield to the faintness that I felt stealing languorously over me.

I was facing down the path toward the city. A low rumble of thunder— the first—broke the torrid hush of the summer night. A glare of lightning seemed to tear the night asunder, to light up the whole universe. Overhead, the clouds were careening madly in fantastic shapes, driven by a wind that swept the upper heavens without as yet causing even a trembling in the air lower down. And far down the canal, that baleful glare seemed to play around and hover over the little row of shanties—murder-cursed, and haunted by the ghost of a dead child.

My gaze was fixed on them, while I held away from me the pallid face and fought off the embrace that sought to overcome my resisting will. And so a long moment passed. The glare faded out of the sky, and a greater darkness took the world. But there was a near, more menacing glare fastened upon my face—the glare of two eyes that watched mine, that had watched me as I, unthinking, stared down at the dark houses.

This girl—this woman who had come to me at my own importunate requests, did not love me, since I had shrunk from her. She did not love me; but it was not only that. She had watched me as I gazed down at the houses that held her dark past—and I was sure that she divined my thoughts. She knew my horror of those houses—she knew my new-born horror of her. And she hated me for it, hated me more malignantly than I had believed a human being could hate.

And at that point in my thoughts, I felt my skin prickle and my scalp rise again: could a human being cherish such hatred as I read, trembling more and more, in those glowing fires lit with what seemed to me more like the fires of hell than any light that ought to shine in a woman’s eyes?

And through all this, not a word had passed between us!

So far I have written calmly. I wish that I could write on so, to the end. If I could do that there might be one or two of those who will regard this as the document of a maniac, who would believe the horrors of which I am about to write.

But I am only flesh and blood. At this point in the happenings of the awful night, my calmness deserted me —at this point I felt that I had been drawn into the midst of a horrible nightmare from which there was no escape, no waking! As I write, this feeling again overwhelms me, until I can hardly write at all—until, were it not for the thing which I must do, I would rush out into the street and run, screaming, until I was caught and dragged away, to be put behind strong iron bars. Perhaps I would feel safe there—perhaps!

I know that, terrified at the hate I saw confronting me in those redly gleaming eyes, I would have slunk away. The two thin hands that caught my arm again were strong enough to prevent that, however. I had been spared her kiss—I was not to escape from the oath I had taken to serve her.

“You promised—you swore,” she hissed in my ear. “And tonight you are to keep your oath.”

I felt my senses reel. My oath— yes, I had an oath to keep. I had lifted my hand toward the dark heavens, and sworn to serve her in any way she chose—freely, and of my own volition, I had sworn.

I sought to evade her.

“Let me help you back to your boat,” I begged. “You have no kindly feeling for me—and—you have seen it—I love you no longer. I will go back to the city—you can go back to your father, and forget that I broke your peace.”

The laughter that greeted my speech I shall never forget—not in the depths under the scummy surface of the canal—not in the empty places between the worlds, where my tortured soul may wander.

“So you do not love me, and I hate you! Fool! Have I waited these weary months for the water to stop, only to go back now? After my father and I returned here and found the old boat rotting in the drained canal, and took refuge in it; when the water was turned into the canal while I slept, so that I could never escape until its flow should cease, because of the thing that: I am—even then I dreamed of tonight.

“When the imprisonment we still shared ceased to matter to my father —come on board the deserted boat tomorrow, and see why, if you dare!— still I dreamed on, of tonight!

“I have been lonely, desolate, starving—now the whole world shall be mine! And by your help!”

I asked her, somehow, what she wanted of me, and a madness overcame me so that I hardly heard her reply. Yet somehow, I knew that there was that on the opposite shore of the great river where the pleasure camps were, that she wanted to find. In the madness of my terror, she made me understand and obey her.

I must carry her in my arms across the long bridge over the river, deserted in the small hours of the night!

The way back to the city was long tonight—long. She walked behind me, and I turned my eyes neither to right nor left. Only as I passed the tumble-down houses, I saw their reflection in the canal and trembled so that I could have fallen to the ground, at the thoughts of the little child this woman had been accused of slaying there, and at the certainty I felt that she was reading my thoughts.

And now the horror that engulfed me darkened my brain.

I know that we set our feet upon the long, wide bridge that spanned the river. I know the storm broke there, so that I battled for my footing, almost for my life, it seemed, against the pelting deluge. And the horror I had invoked was in my arms, clinging to me, burying its head upon my shoulder. So increasingly dreadful had my pale-faced companion become to me, that I hardly thought of her now as a woman at all—only as a demon of the night.

The tempest raged still as she leaped down out of my arms on the other shore. And again I walked with her against my will, while the trees lashed their branches madly around me, showing the pale undersides of their leaves in the vivid frequent flashes that rent the heavens.

On and on we went, branches flying through the air and missing us by a miracle of ill fortune. Such as she and I are not slain by falling branches. The river was a welter of whitecaps, flattened down into strange shapes by the pounding rain. The clouds as we glimpsed them were like devils flying through the sky.

Past dark tent after dark tent we stole, and past a few where lights burned dimly behind their canvas walls. And at last we came to an old quarry. Into its artificial ravine she led me, and up to a crevice in the rock wall.

“Reach in your hand and pull out the loose stone you will feel,” she whispered. “It closes an opening that leads into deep caverns. A human hand must remove that stone—your hand must move it!”

Why did I struggle so to disobey her? Why did I fail? It was as though I knew—but my failure was foreordained—I had taken oath!

If you who read have believed that I have set down the truth thus far, the little that is left you will call the ravings of a madman overtaken by his madness. Yet these things happened.

I stretched out my arm, driven by a compulsion I could not resist. At arm’s length in the niche in the rock, I felt something move—the loose rock, a long, narrow fragment, much larger than I had expected. Yet it moved easily, seeming to swing on a natural pivot. Outward it swung, toppling toward me—a moment more and there was a swift rush of the ponderous weight I had loosened. I leaped aside and went down, my forehead grazed by the rock.

For a brief moment I must have been unconscious. But only for a moment. My head a stabbing agony of pain, unreal lights flashing before my eyes, I yet knew the reality of the storm that beat me down as I struggled to my feet. I knew the reality of the dark, loathsome shapes that passed me in the dark, crawling out of the orifice in the rock and flapping through the wild night, along the way that led to the pleasure camps.

So the caverns I had laid open to the outer world were infested with bats. I had been inside unlit caverns, and had heard there the squeaking of the things, felt and heard the flapping of their wings—but never in all my life before had I seen bats as large as men and women!

Sick and dizzy from the blow on my head, and from disgust, I crept along the way they were going. If I touched one of them, I felt that I should die of horror.

Now, at last, the storm abated, and a heavy darkness made the whole world seem like the inside of a tomb.

Where the tents stood in a long row, the number of the monster bats seemed to diminish. It was as though — horrible thought! — they were creeping into the tents, with their slumbering occupants.

At last I came to a lighted tent, and paused, crouching so that the dim radiance that shone through the canvas did not touch me in the shadows. And there I waited, but not for long. There was a dark form silhouetted against the tent—a movement of the flap oft-the tent—a rustle and confusion, and the dark thing was again in silhouette—but with a difference in the quality of the shadow. The dark thing was inside the tent now, its bat wings extending across the entrance through which it had crept.

Fear held me spellbound. And as I looked the shadow changed again— imperceptibly, so that I could not have told how it changed.

But now it was not the shadow of a bat, but of a woman.

“The storm—the storm! I am lost, exhausted—I crept in here, to beg for refuge until the dawn!”

That low, thrilling, sibilant voice— too well I knew it!

Within the tent I heard a murmur of acquiescent voices. At last I began to understand.

I knew the nature of the woman I had carried over the river in my arms, the woman who would not even cross the canal until the water should have ceased utterly to flow. I remembered books I had read—Dracula—other books, and stories. I knew they were true books and stories, now—I knew those horrors existed for me.

I had indeed kept my oath to the creature of darkness—I had brought her to her kind, under her guidance. I had let them loose in hordes upon the pleasure camps. The campers were doomed—and through them, others-

I forgot my fear. I rushed from my hiding-place up to the tent door, and there I screamed and called aloud.

“Don’t take her in—don’t let her stay—nor the others, that have crept into the other tents! Wake all the campers—they will sleep on to their destruction! Drive out the interlopers—drive them out quickly! They are not human—no, and they are not bats. Do you hear me?—do you understand?”

I was fairly howling, in a voice that was strange to me.

“She is a vampire—they are all vampires. Vampires!”

Inside the tent I heard a new voice. “What can be the matter with that poor man?” the voice said. It was a woman’s, and gentle.

“Crazy—somebody out of his senses, dear,” a man’s voice answered. “Don’t be frightened.”

And then the voice I knew so well —so well: “I saw a falling rock strike a man on the head in the storm. He staggered away, but I suppose it crazed him.”

I waited for no more. I ran away, madly, through the night and back across the bridge to the city.

Next day—today—I boarded the sunken canal-boat. It is the abode of death—no woman could have lived there—only such a one as she. The old man’s corpse was there—he must have died long, long ago. The smell of death and of decay on the boat was dreadful.

Again, I felt that I understood. Back in those awful houses, she had committed the crime when first she became the thing she is. And he— her father—less sin-steeped, and less accursed, attempted to destroy the evidence of her crime, and fled with her, but died without becoming like her. She had said that one of those two was always on watch—did he indeed divide her vigil on the boat? What more fitting—the dead standing watch with the undead! And no wonder that she would not let me board the craft of death, even to carry her away.

And still I feel the old compulsion. I have been spared her kiss—but for a little while. Yet I will not let the power of my oath to her draw me back, till I enter the caverns with her and creep forth in the form of a bat to prey upon mankind. Before that can happen, I too will die.

Today in the city I heard that a horde of strange insects or small animals infested the pleasure camps last night. Some said, with horror-bated breath, that they perhaps were rats. None of them was seen; but in the morning nearly every camper had a strange, deep wound in his throat. I almost laughed aloud. They were so horrified at the idea of an army of rats, creeping into the tents and biting the sleeping occupants on their throats! If they had seen what I saw—if they knew that they are doomed to spread corruption-

So my own death will not be enough. Today I bought supplies for blasting. Tonight I will set my train of dynamite, from the hole I made in the cliff where the vampires creep in and out, along the row of tents, as far as the last one—then I shall light my fuse. It will be done before the dawn. Tomorrow, the city will mourn its dead and execrate my name.

And then, at last, in the slime beneath the unmoving waters of the canal, I shall find peace! But perhaps it will not be peace—for I shall seek it midway between the old boat with its cargo of death and the row of dismal houses where a little child was done to death when first she became the thing she is. That is my expiation.

title: Weird Tales/Volume 10/Issue 6/The Canal


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Winifred, Saint

WINIFRED, win'i-frĕd,. A British maiden of noble family, who lived in the seventh

century. According to the legend which in later times grew up round her history. Prince Caradog Ap Alan cut off her head because she would not accept his addresses. Her head, so the legend says, rolled down the hill and into Saint Bueno's Church, where immediately a spring appeared. The head was replaced by Saint Bueno, after which she lived fifteen years. This spring, called Holywell, is one of the most famous in England. The flow of water has never ceased. The spring was leased in 1870 to the corporation of Holywell by the Duke of Westminster for a thousand years at a sovereign a year. See.


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 In 1896 all the volumes were out of print.

In October 1880 Anderson passed from the exhausting twelve hours a day with pick and shovel at 17s. a week to the lighter appointment of assistant librarian in Edinburgh University. Learned leisure failed to stimulate his poetic impulses; henceforward he wrote little but occasional verses, mainly when on holiday amongst old friends at Kirkconnel. For private circulation he printed some translations from Heine; and from time to time he revised, amended, or extended a long blank verse poem on the experiences of Lazarus of Bethany in the world of spirits, and after restoration to life. In 1883 he left the university to become secretary to the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution, a library and lecture society. But in 1886 he returned to the university library, where at his death on 11 July 1909, he had for five years been acting chief librarian. He was unmarried. In Edinburgh he conciliated respect and affection, not less by the native dignity and force of his character than by his geniality and social gifts, although in later years ill-health made him much of a recluse.

Anderson's poetical work shows lyrical power, generous feeling, and vivid vision, as well as a command of metre and a literary equipment that would be note-worthy in a writer of liberal education and in a cultured environment. He had no faculty for prose writing. His most characteristic achievement was as laureate of the rail (after the manner of the 'Pike County Ballads' or Bret Harte) and of child life in humble Scottish homes. In his best-known poems the vernacular of the south-west of Scotland is employed with verve and discretion. Few anthologies of Scots poems now lack one or two of Surfaceman's, and several of the railway and child poems are popular recitations.

In 1912 a modest memorial was erected in Anderson's native village; his scattered and unpublished pieces were collected for issue; and the publication of the Lazarus poem was contemplated.

ANDERSON, GEORGE (1826–1902), Yorkshire batsman, was born at Aiskew near Bedale, Yorkshire, on 20 Jan. 1826; he early showed athletic aptitude as a high and long jumper and as a cricketer; his cricket was greatly improved by the visit to Bedale of the eminent bowler William Clarke in 1848. Employed as a clerk in youth, he made the game his profession in early manhood. Anderson first appeared at Lord's in 1851, when he played for the North v. South, and for the Players v. Gentlemen in 1855. He was from 1857-64 a member of the All England XI captained by William Clarke and [q. v.]. He visited Australia with Parr's team in the winter of 1863, but met with little success. His most successful season was that of 1864, when in first-class matches he averaged 42 runs an innings, and scored 99 not out for Yorkshire v. Notts. He captained the Yorkshire team for a few seasons; in May 1869 a match was played for his benefit at Dewsbury between the All England XI and the United All England XI.

Anderson was a kindly, handsome man of fine physique; he was six feet high, weighed 14½ stone, and was of great strength. His style as a batsman was described as 'the model of manliness'; he had a good defence, and though he took time to get set, he was in his day the hardest and cleanest hitter of the best bowling. In 1862 he made a drive for eight runs at the Oval when playing for the North of England v. Surrey. Another hit by him off Bennett, the Kent slow bowler, was reputed to have pitched farther than any previously recorded at the Oval. On retiring from professional cricketing, Anderson became in 1873 actuary of the Bedale Savings Bank, and held the office until the bank's failure in 1894. He died at Bedale on 27 Nov. 1902.

ANDERSON, THOMAS McCALL (1836–1908), professor of practice of medicine in the University of Glasgow, born in Glasgow on 9 June 1836, was second of three sons of Alexander Dunlop Anderson, M.D. medical practitioner in Glasgow, who in 1852 was president of the faculty of physicians and surgeons of Glasgow, by his wife Sara, daughter of Thomas McCall of Craighead, Lanarkshire. His father's family was descended on the maternal side from [q. v.], principal of Glasgow University, 1690-1700; and in the male line from (1668-1721) [q. v.], the stout defender of presbyterianism, and


text: Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 2/The Owl


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 sold for 1561l.; the engravings for about 2000l.

Lord Amherst travelled much in the East, and his collection of Egyptian curiosities was almost as well known as his books and china. Some of these were described in 'The Amherst Papyri, being an Account of the Egyptian Papyri in the Collection of Lord Amherst,' by P. E. Newberry (1899, 4to), and 'The Amherst Papyri, being an Account of the Greek Papyri in the Collection of Lord Amherst of Hackney,' by B. P. Grenfell and A. S. Hunt (1900, 4to).

He died after a few hours' illness at 23 Queen's Gate Gardens, London, S.W., on 16 Jan. 1909, in his seventy-fourth year, and was buried in the family vault in Didlington churchyard, Norfolk.

His portrait by the Hon. John Collier is now in the possession of Baroness Amherst of Hackney. It has been engraved. He married on 4 June 1856, at Hunmanby, co. York, Margaret Susan (b 8 Jan. 1835), only child of Admiral Robert Mitford of Mitford Castle, Northumberland, and Hunmanby, Yorkshire. His widow and six daughters survived him. The eldest daughter, Mary Rothes Margaret, who married in 1885 Lord William Cecil, succeeded to the peerage by special limitation in default of male heirs. He bore the undifferenced arms of the family of Amherst, quartering Daniel and Tyssen. He was of middle height and sturdy appearance, of genial and unassuming manners, much interested in his literary, artistic, and antiquarian collections and the pursuance of the duties of country life in Norfolk, where he farmed on a large scale and was known as a breeder of Norfolk polled cattle. He was an excellent shot and fond of yachting. He presented a volume to the Roxburgh Club, of which he was a member, and one to the Scottish Text Society. He wrote:
 * 1) (with Hamon Lestrange) 'History of Union Lodge, Norwich, No. 52,' privately printed, Norwich, 1898.
 * 2) (with Basil Home Thomson) 'The Discovery of the Solomon Islands, by Alvaro de Mendana, in 1568, translated from the original Spanish MSS., edited with introduction and notes,' 1901, 2 vols. small 4to, 100 copies on large paper (the translation was made by Amherst from the MSS. in his own collection; it was also issued by Hakluyt Soc.).

ANDERSON, ALEXANDER (1845–1909), labour poet writing under the pseudonym of 'Surfaceman,' born on 30 April 1845, in the village of Kirkconnel in Upper Nithsdale, was sixth and youngest son of James Anderson, a Dumfriesshire quarryman, by his wife Isabella Cowan. When the boy was three, the household removed to Crocketford in Kirkcudbright, and at the village school there Anderson got all his schooling; there too he began to make rhymes. At sixteen he was back in his native village working in a quarry; some two years later (1862), he became a surfaceman or platelayer on the Glasgow and South-western railway there. While performing his long day's task on the line he found opportunity of an evening or at meal times on the embankment to read Shelley, Wordsworth, and Tennyson; and by help of 'Cassell's Educator' and an elementary grammar, acquired French enough to puzzle out Racine and Molière. Later he managed in like manner to read Goethe, Schiller, and Heine in German, learnt a little Italian, and acquired a smattering of Spanish and Latin. In 1870 he began to send verses to the 'People's Friend' of Dundee, whose sub-editor, Mr. A. Stewart, brought Anderson's work under the notice of [q. v.] and advised the publication of a volume of collected pieces, 'A Song of Labour and other Poems' (1873). This Gilfillan reviewed very favourably; and to a second volume, 'The Two Angels and other Poems' (Dundee, 1875), the friendly critic prefixed an appreciative memoir of the 'Surfaceman,' whose verse now appeared from time to time in 'Good Words,' 'Chambers's Journal,' 'Cassell's Magazine,' and the 'Contemporary Review.' A wealthy Glasgow citizen, Mr. Thomas Corbett, sent Anderson to Italy with his son (Archibald Cameron Corbett, afterwards Lord Rowallan). But the sonnet series 'In Rome' does not record the impressions made by Italian experiences; they are the imaginings of the railway labourer who, when he published them (1875), had hardly been out of his native county. Before the surfaceman returned to his labours on the rail he had made personal acquaintance with Carlyle, Roden Noel, Lord Houghton, Miss Mulock (Mrs. Craik), and Alexander Macmillan. His next venture, 'Songs of the Rail' (1878; 3rd edit. 1881), was largely composed of railway poems from the two earlier collections. 'Ballads and Sonnets' (1879), published by Macmillan, also contained a selection from the earlier volumes with new pieces.


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Rh heavy recognisances not to print any ‘seditious or unlicensed books’ (ib. Dom. 1649–50, p. 524). He died in 1657. Lichfield ends a volume of Oxford poems addressed to Queen Henrietta Maria, entitled ‘Musarum Oxoniensium Charisteria’ (1638), with a few verses entitled ‘The Printer's Close,’ to which his name is subscribed. The lines, which may have been supplied by one of his university friends, are reprinted in Brydges's ‘Restituta,’ i. 147–8.

By his wife Ann (d. 1671) he had a son, Leonard, who carried on the business. When Charles II and his court removed from London to Oxford in order to escape the plague in November 1665, Lichfield was licensed by Arlington to print ‘The Oxford Gazette,’ a folio half sheet, containing the government's official notices—the earliest English periodical of the kind. It appeared bi-weekly from 14 Nov. 1665 till the end of January 1665–6, when on the return of the court to London the publication was continued there as ‘The London Gazette’ (, Lit. Anecdotes, iv. 58). Lichfield in December 1679 was a candidate for the yeoman bedelship (, Life, ed. Bliss, p. lxxxvii); he died 22 Feb. 1685–6, and was succeeded by his son Leonard (fl. 1711).

Another of John Lichfield's sons was Solodell Lichfield, who was elected sub-bedell of law 22 Jan. 1634–5; was ejected by the parliamentary visitors in 1648; was restored in 1660, and was chosen yeoman bedell on Edmund Gayton's death in 1666. According to Wood he kept a public inn at Oxford, ‘and was good for nothing but for eating, drinking, smoaking, and punning’ (, Athenæ Oxon. ed. Bliss, iii. 758;, Life and Times, Oxf. Hist. Soc., i. 76, ii. 95, 218, 474, cf. iii. 180). At his death in 1671 he was one of the superior bedells.

LICHFIELD, WILLIAM, D.D. (d. 1447), divine and poet, was doctor of divinity of Oxford according to Pits and Wood (MSS.), of Cambridge according to Gascoigne. In his dictionary (Loci e libro veritatum, ed. Thorold Rogers, sub voce ‘Prædicator’) Gascoigne enumerates Lichfield among the most famous preachers of his time. He left behind him at his death no fewer than 3,083 sermons, written in English with his own hand, besides a collection of materials for sermons, entitled ‘Mille Exempla,’ of which there was once a manuscript in Syon Abbey. He wrote also in verse ‘The Complaynt of God to Sinful Man and the Answer of Man,’ and a ‘Dialogue, “of the Passion,” between God and the Penitent Soul’ (both extant in MS. 174, Gonville and Caius Coll. Cambr. ff. 469–82).

Lichfield was rector of the church of All Hallows the Great, London, but the date of his admission thereto does not appear. His predecessor was admitted in 1397 (, Repertorium Paroch. Londin. i. 248). Lichfield died 24 Oct. 1448, and was buried under the communion table of his church, ‘having a fair plated stone laid over him,’ with a long inscription in rhyming Latin verse (, Survey of London, book ii. 205, ed. 1720).

LIDDEL, DUNCAN (1561–1613), mathematician and physician, born in 1561, was a native of Aberdeen. Having received an education in languages and philosophy at the school and university of that town, he went abroad at the age of eighteen to seek his fortune. After a few months' wandering he arrived at Frankfort-on-Oder, where a Scotchman, John Craig (d. 1620) [q. v.], was engaged in teaching logic and mathematics. Craig received him kindly and superintended his studies. Three years later Craig returned to Scotland, and Liddel, by his advice, removed to the university either of Wratislaw or Breslau in Silesia, where he studied mathematics under Paulus Wittichius. In 1584 he returned to Frankfort, took pupils in mathematics and philosophy, and applied himself to the study of physic. In 1587 an epidemic drove him to Rostock, where he became the friend of Caselius and Brucæus, and received the degree of master in philosophy. He had hardly returned to Frankfort once more in 1590 when he was persuaded to attach himself to the new university of Helmstadt, established by Duke Julius of Brunswick. Caselius had already been appointed to the chair of philosophy there. Next year Liddel obtained the lower mathematical chair vacated by Parcovius, and in 1594 he succeeded Erhardus Hoffmann in the higher mathematical chair. In 1596 he became M.D. of the university, and began publicly to teach physic and to act as præses at the recitation of medical dissertations. In 1599 he was dean of the faculty of philosophy; in 1603 he resigned his mathematical professorship, and in 1604 became pro-rector of the university. Three years later he returned to Scotland with a competent fortune. In 1612 he endowed the university of Aberdeen with lands for the education and support of six poor scholars,


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 interest in study and to diminish the evils of cram and competition, although hampering outside influences interfered here seriously with his ideals. But the main feature in which he may justly be regarded as a pioneer was 'the application of the best knowledge to the physical nurture of the young; the total elimination from our practice with regard to this nurture, of convention, tradition and rule of thumb' (ib. p. 391). He attached a cardinal importance to fresh air, personal cleanliness, proper and regular diet with the abolition of 'grubbing,' the regulation of the hours of sleep and study, physical exercise in all weathers, and the disuse 'of linen shirts and collars and suits of close material for ordinary school wear, in favour of tweed knickerbocker suits of loose texture and flannel shirts worn open at the neck without neckties'; with 'the practice of changing into flannels for all forms of violent exercise.' In regard to the question of fresh air he anticipated the methods 'now employed as a preventative and cure of consumption; and the coatless, flannelled, bare-headed athlete was also largely his creation. That the stamina of Loretto boys greatly exceeded the average was manifested, year by year, by the large proportion of them who won athletic distinction at the English universities; but the result was attained by a proper attention to physical health, not an over attention to physical exercise. Almond did not a little to revolutionise the school methods of Scotland.

After showing for a few years signs of failing health, he died of a bronchial affection on 7 March 1903. He was buried in Inveresk churchyard. He married in 1876 Eleanor Frances, daughter of Canon Tristram of Durham [q. v. Suppl. II], and had issue three sons and three daughters.

Besides various contributions to reviews and magazines, in which he expounded his educational principles, he was author of: 1. 'Health Lectures,' 1884. 2. 'Sermons by a Lay Head Master,' 2 series, Edinburgh, 1886 and 1892. 3. 'English Prose Extracts,' Edinburgh, 1895. 4. 'Christ the Protestant, and other Sermons,' Edinburgh, 1899.

 AMHERST, WILLIAM AMHURST TYSSEN-, first of  (1835–1909), born at Narford Hall, Norfolk, on 25 April 1835, was eldest son of William George Daniel-Tyssen (1801–1855), whose surname was originally Daniel, by Mary, eldest daughter of Andrew Fountaine of Narford Hall, Norfolk. Together with his father, who represented a branch of the old Kentish family of Amherst and had inherited the Tyssen property in Hackney through his mother, he took by royal licence, 6 Aug. 1852, the name of Tyssen-Amhurst, for which he substituted, again by royal licence, that of Tyssen- Amherst on 16 Aug. 1877. He was educated at Eton and matriculated at Christ Church, Oxford, 19 May 1853. Inheriting large property in Norfolk and in Hackney, he was high sheriff for Norfolk in 1866. He was M.P. for West Norfolk in the conservative interest from 1880 to 1885, afterwards representing south-west Norfolk from 1885 to 1892. He was created Baron Amherst of Hackney on 26 Aug. 1892.

For more than fifty years Lord Amherst collected rare books and MSS., tapestries, antique furniture, and other works of art. One object was to illustrate the history of printing and bookbinding from the earliest times down to modern days. Another was to illustrate the history of the Reformation at home and abroad and of the Church of England by means of bibles, liturgies, and controversial tracts. A 'Handlist of the Books and MSS. belonging to Lord Amherst of Hackney' was compiled by Seymour de Ricci (privately printed, 1906). The compiler had also prepared an exhaustive catalogue raisonne of Lord Amherst's whole library. Owing to the dishonesty of a solicitor entrusted with the administration of estate and trust funds, Lord Amherst found himself in 1906 obliged to announce the sale of the finer portion of the magnificent library at Didlington Hall. A series of splendid 'Caxtons,' eleven out of the seventeen being perfect examples, were sold privately to Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan, and the other portions of the library, including many extremely rare printed books and fine Italian, Flemish, French, and English illuminated MSS., were disposed of by auction by Messrs. Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge in a sale which began on 3 Dec. 1908. The second portion of the library was sold 24 to 27 March 1909, and the total realised by both sales was 32,592Z., which does not include the 25,000l. understood to have been paid for the 'Caxtons.' Messrs. Christie disposed (11 Dec. 1908) of some fine examples of old Gobelins and other tapestry, old French and English furniture, Limoges enamels and old Italian majolica. The amount realised was 38,796Z. The pictures


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The New International Encyclopædia/Winkelmann, Eduard

WINKELMANN, vĭṉ'kel-män, (1838-96). A German historian, born in Danzig and educated at Berlin and Göttingen. He became head master of the knight and chapter school at Reval in 1860, and in 1865 was appointed professor at the University of Dorpat. He was called to the chair of history at Bern in 1869, and in 1873 to Heidelberg. He published ''Geschichte Kaiser Friedrichs II. und seiner'' Reiche 1212-1235 (1863); Forschungen zur deutschen Geschichte (1872); Bibliotheca Livoniæ Historica (1870 and 1878); Philipp von ''Schwaben und Otto IV. von Braunschweig'' (1873); Geschichte der Angelsachsen (1883); Urkundenbuch der Universität Heidelberg (1886); and Kaiser Friedrich II. (1889-97).


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Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 2/The Duration of Life

Die Lebenszeit (1857) Elektitaj fabeloj de la Fratoj Grimm/La vivolongo Contos de Grimm/A duração da vida Время жизни (Гримм/Полевой)


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Rh canon of Christ Church, Oxford, was led to nominate him to a studentship at Christ Church. He went up to Oxford at the early age of seventeen.

Liddon entered warmly, not into the sports, but into the intimacies and affections of undergraduate life, and grew possessed by an enduring love for Christ Church and for the historical and ecclesiastical associations of Oxford. His university friends included Lord Beauchamp, Henry Nutcombe Oxenham, Lord Carnarvon, Lord Salisbury, G. W. Kitchin (subsequently dean of Durham), R. M. Benson of Cowley, and Frank Buckland. After graduating B.A. in 1850, with a second class in classical honours, he won in 1851 the Johnson theological scholarship. At the normal period he was confirmed in his studentship at Christ Church, which he held to the day of his death, though after 1871 he handed over the small emolument to a fund under the control of the dean for the benefit of poor students. He was ordained deacon by Bishop Wilberforce in 1852, and priest in 1853. Thenceforth his whole heart and mind were possessed by the ideal of the Christian ministry, and by the responsibilities laid upon him at his ordination. He had come up, as an undergraduate, already prepared to pass wholly under the sway of the Oxford movement, just when, in Oxford, its home, it seemed almost lost. Pusey of Christ Church, Charles Marriott of Oriel, Manuel John Johnson [q. v.] of the Observatory, were left almost alone to represent the cause; and with these men Liddon threw in his lot, knitting himself for life to Pusey and intimately associating himself with Keble.

Liddon left Oxford on his ordination to act as curate to William John Butler, later dean of Lincoln, at Wantage, where Alexander Heriot Mackonochie [q. v.], afterwards of St. Alban's, Holborn, was his fellow-curate. He thus came into touch with that development of parish-work in town and country into which the Oxford movement was then passing. He never lost the profound sympathy, excited in him as a curate, with the life of the very poor; and at Wantage workhouse he received an indelible impression of the harshness of the poor law, which drove him, for the rest of his days, into a defiant refusal to submit his charities to the strict necessities of systematic organisation. At Wantage he gave the earliest indications of his genius as a preacher. His sermons were characterised by passionate fervour, much motion, and great length. The style was felt, by the country people, to be somewhat ‘foreign;’ but a competent critic said at once, ‘That young man preaches better than Manning.’

In spite of his enthusiasm for the ministerial work, Liddon abandoned it in 1854, when he was appointed the first vice-principal of Bishop Wilberforce's Theological College at Cuddesdon; ‘he will be far better fitted for this,’ wrote Mackonochie at the time. At Cuddesdon, during the next four years, he put out his highest powers with the fullest effect. His gifts as an expositor of Scripture, his trained and rich piety, his delightful companionship, gave him exceptional influence over younger men. But his intense convictions were more definite and pronounced than those of the bishop, especially in the matter of sacramental doctrine. ‘There is in him,’ wrote the bishop, ‘an ardour, a strength of will, a restlessness, a dominant imagination, which makes it impossible for him to give to the young men any tone except exactly his own.’ Liddon's teaching excited suspicion, and, finally, attack. In 1858 C. P. Golightly of Oxford obtained a commission of inquiry into the management of Cuddesdon College; the ‘Quarterly Review’ thundered. The bishop's defence was hampered by his inability to agree wholly with Liddon's views. Under these circumstances Liddon resigned at Easter 1859 (, Life, ii. 372).

Returning to Oxford, Liddon took the vice-principalship of St. Edmund's Hall. There he soon began a remarkable series of lectures on Sunday evenings, on the New Testament. The numbers attending grew so rapidly that Liddon was allowed the use of Queen's College Hall. These lectures were models of expository skill, and their fine scholarship, felicity of language, and tone of deep devotion attracted for years the main mass of serious undergraduates. They were continued without cessation until 1869, and were recommenced during the last years of Liddon's life from the beginning of 1883. In 1864 Liddon was appointed examining chaplain to Walter Kerr Hamilton [q. v.], bishop of Salisbury; who in the same year gave him the prebendal stall of Major Pars Altaris. His intimacy with Hamilton, the record of which he gave in a memoir published after the bishop's death in 1869 (3rd edit. 1890), deeply affected his life, and the bishop stood, in Liddon's memory, beside Keble and Pusey. The episcopal charge in which Hamilton formulated in 1867 his adherence to the doctrine of the real presence in the sacrament, was given with Liddon's cordial consent and co-operation. A brother chaplain was James Fraser [q. v.], afterwards bishop of Manchester, with whom, in spite of ever-widening difference of temperament and judgment, Liddon always remained in affectionate relations. Liddon was appointed select preacher to the university


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Rh in 1863, being reappointed in 1870, 1877, and 1884, and from the date of his first university sermon in 1863 to the last that he ever preached, on Whitsunday 1890, the power which he wielded from the pulpit of St. Mary's never for a moment wavered, despite the fixity of his principles and the continual change of audience. His gifts as a preacher and thinker received conspicuous illustration in the celebrated ‘Bampton Lectures,’ delivered, under special request and at short notice, in 1866, ‘On the Divinity of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.’ The published volume has gone into fifteen editions, has been translated into German, and is the text-book on its subject. In these lectures Liddon first proved his powers, both as a Christian advocate and as a trained and equipped expert in theology. They are not characterised by the speculative originality of Mozley or Mansel. But the Christian case has seldom been stated with such insight, learning, or ardour.

From this time until the death of Dr. Pusey (16 Sept. 1882) Liddon played a prominent part in the politics of the university. He was three times elected to the hebdomadal board between 1864 and 1875. In 1870 he proceeded B.D. and D.D., and was created D.C.L. In the same year he was appointed Ireland professor of exegesis, in succession to Dr. Hawkins, a post which involved him in constant and arduous lecturing until his retirement in 1882. In all academical matters he acted in closest concert with Dr. Pusey, and was strongly opposed to the main set of the educational movement which was at that time reshaping the character and redistributing the endowments of the university. He viewed the transformation of Oxford which was finally sealed by the Universities Commission of 1882 as the disestablishing of the church in Oxford, and as an abandonment of its formal attachment to religion. His rooted conservatism as a university politician rendered the movement for the admission of women especially distasteful to him.

Liddon's eminence as a preacher was soon recognised throughout the country. In 1870 he startled the London world by a remarkable series of lectures given in St. James's, Piccadilly, and published as ‘Some Elements of Religion.’ In spite of the abnormal length of each lecture the church was thronged, and the effect on the educated people of the west end of London was profound. In the same year Liddon accepted an offer through Mr. Gladstone of a canonry in St. Paul's Cathedral, and his intimate relations with Oxford were at length interrupted. The crowds that had listened to him at St. James's, Piccadilly, came to hear his first sermon at St. Paul's, and flooded the choir, which alone was then used. On the second Sunday in September 1870 he moved out to a pulpit under the dome, and thus forced the change, which has since become permanent, of using the main body of the cathedral for all services. He found the changes which were to revivify St. Paul's already beginning under Dean Mansel and Canon Gregory. And when, from September 1871, he had the satisfaction of serving under Dean Church, who evoked his devoted loyalty, he threw all his ardour into the revival of the full devotional use of the cathedral. It was in the direction of this devotional development that Liddon's help was of peculiar value. The daily sacrament was restored, together with the midday and evening prayers and the full choral celebration.

His sermons at St. Paul's for twenty years formed a central fact of London life. All ranks and conditions of men were there, of many nations and of all varieties of creeds. Liddon had studied the great school of French oratory, admiring especially Bourdaloue, and of the later preachers the influence of Lacordaire was distinctly discernible. To their example he owed the completeness with which he arranged the framework of his sermons as well as much of the manner and method of his appeals. The matter of the sermon was generally quite simple; it was confined to the elemental doctrines of the faith. The argument was plain, the premisses familiar. He read much, but his central position was unaffected by new discoveries. There was no assimilation of them with the texture of his thought. His mental structure was marked by an intense permanence, and his latest deliverance from the pulpit was in all essentials the same as his first. His acute understanding was set on bringing everything into order, and it fought shy of all that was vague in outline or paradoxical. He was intensely Latin in mental structure; he delighted in calling himself an ecclesiastic. His typical abhorrence was a misty Teutonism. This dislike held him aloof from all philosophies of development. He bent himself in his sermons to exclude originality of idea; he spent himself in the effort simply to prove and to persuade. And to this effort everything in him contributed—his charm of feature, his exquisite intonation, his kindling eye, his quivering pose and gestures, his fiery sarcasm, his rich humour, his delicate knowledge of the heart, and his argumentative skill.

Though constantly touching on the interests of the day, he rarely in the cathedral sermons entered into strictly controversial matter, but he spoke out emphatically from