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Rh bark was worse than his bite; and if suffered to take their course without observation, his outbreaks of ill-temper seldom lasted long.

"We will certainly do our best to get on with him," said the count. "He is no doubt the author of the papers, and we must hope that he will be able to give us some valuable information."

"Beyond a question the documents have originated with him," assented the lieutenant. "Gallia was the word written at the top of every one of them, and Gallia was the first word uttered by him in our hearing."

The astronomer slept on. Meanwhile, the three together had no hesitation in examining his papers, and scrutinizing the figures on his extemporized blackboard. The handwriting corresponded with that of the papers already received; the blackboard was covered with algebraical symbols traced in chalk, which they were careful not to obliterate; and the papers, which consisted for the most part of detached scraps, presented a perfect wilderness of geometrical figures, conic sections of every variety being repeated in countless profusion.

Lieutenant Procope pointed out that these curves evidently had reference to the orbits of comets, which are variously parabolic, hyperbolic, or elliptic. If it were either of the first two, the comet, after once appearing within the range of terrestrial vision, would vanish forever in the outlying regions of space; if the last, it would be sure, sooner or later, after some periodic interval, to return.

From the prima facie appearance of his papers, then, it seemed probable that the astronomer, during his sojourn at Formentera, had been devoting himself to the study of cometary orbits; and as calculations of this kind are ordinarily based upon the assumption that the orbit is a parabola, it was not unlikely that he had been endeavoring to trace the path of some particular comet.

"I wonder whether these calculations were made before or after the 1st of January; it makes all the difference," said Lieutenant Procope.

"We must bide our time and hear," replied the count.

Servadac paced restlessly up and down. "I would give a month of my life," he cried, impetuously, "for every hour that the old fellow goes sleeping on."

"You might be making a bad bargain," said Procope, smiling. "Perhaps after all the comet has had nothing to do with the convulsion that we have experienced."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the captain; "I know better than that, and so do you. Is it not as clear as daylight that the earth and this comet have been in collision, and the result has been that our little world has been split off and sent flying far into space?"

Count Timascheff and the lieutenant looked at each other in silence. "I do not deny your theory," said Procope after a while. "If it be correct, I suppose we must conclude that the enormous disc we observed on the night of the catastrophe was the comet itself; and the velocity with which it was traveling must have been so great that it was hardly arrested at all by the attraction of the earth."

"Plausible enough," answered Count Timascheff; "and it is to this comet that our scientific friend here has given the name Gallia."

It still remained a puzzle to them all why the astronomer should apparently be interested in the comet so much more than in the new little world in which their strange lot was cast.

"Can you explain this?" asked the count.

"There is no accounting for the freaks of philosophers, you know," said Servadac; "and have I not told you that this philosopher in particular is one of the most eccentric beings in creation?"

"Besides," added the lieutenant, "it is exceedingly likely that his observation had been going on for some considerable period before the convulsion happened."

Thus the general conclusion arrived at by the Gallian Academy of Science was this: That on the night of the 31st of December, a comet, crossing the ecliptic, had come into collision with the earth, and that the violence of the shock had separated a huge fragment from the globe, which fragment from that date had been traversing the remote inter-planetary regions. Palmyrin Rosette would doubtless confirm their solution of the phenomenon.

O THE general population of the colony the arrival of the stranger was a matter of small interest. The Spaniards were naturally too indolent to be affected in any way by an incident that concerned themselves so remotely, while the Russians felt themselves simply reliant on their master, and as long as they were with him were careless as to where or how they spent their days. Everything went on with them in an accustomed routine; and they lay down night after night, and awoke to their avocations morning after morning, just as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.

All night long Ben Zoof would not leave the professor's bedside. He had constituted himself sick nurse, and considered his reputation at stake if he failed to set his patient on his feet again. He watched every movement, listened to every breath, and never failed to administer the strongest cordials upon the slightest pretext. Even in his sleep Rosette's irritable nature revealed itself. Ever and again, sometimes in a tone of uneasiness, and sometimes with the expression of positive anger, the name of Gallia escaped his lips, as though he were dreaming that his claim to the discovery of the comet was being contested or denied; but although his attendant was on the alert to gather all he could, he was able to catch nothing in the incoherent sentences that served to throw any real light upon the problem that they were all eager to solve.

When the sun reappeared on the western horizon the professor was still sound asleep; and Ben Zoof, who was especially anxious that the repose which promised to be so beneficial should not be disturbed, felt considerable annoyance at hearing a loud knocking, evidently of some blunt heavy instrument against a door that had been placed at the entrance of the gallery, more for the purpose of retaining internal warmth than for guarding against intrusion from without.

"Confound it!" said Ben Zoof. "I must put a stop to this;" and he made his way towards the door.


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172 bravado suited to the novel dignity of the cause. Never before had an Irish massacre been graced by a Papal sanction, and it was necessary to mark the occasion by unusual form. The young lord, Silken Thomas, as he was called, was twenty-one years old, and an accomplished Irish cavalier. He was vice-deputy, or so he considered himself: and, unwilling to tarnish the honour of his loyal house by any action which could be interpreted into treachery, he commenced with a formal surrender of his office, and a declaration of war. On the eleventh of June the council were sitting in St Mary's abbey, when a galloping of horses was heard, and Lord Thomas, at the head of a hundred and forty of the young Geraldines, dashed up to the gate, and springing off his horse, strode into the assembly. The council rose, but he ordered them to sit still, and, taking the sword of state in his hand, he spoke in Irish to the following effect:—

'However injuriously we be handled, and forced to defend ourselves in arms, when neither our service nor our good meaning towards our prince's crown availeth, yet say not hereafter, but in this open hostility which we profess here, and proclaim, we have showed ourselves no villains nor churls, but warriors and gentlemen. This sword of state is yours, and not mine; I received it with an oath, and have used it to your benefit. I should offend mine honour if I turned the same to your annoyance. Now I have need of mine own sword which I dare trust. As for this common sword, it flattereth me with a golden scabbard; but it hath in it a pestilent


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1534.] edge, and whetteth itself in hope of a destruction. Save yourselves from us, as from open enemies. I am none of Henry's deputy; I am his foe; I have more mind to conquer than to govern, to meet him in the field than to serve him in office. If all the hearts of England and Ireland that have cause thereto would join in this quarrel, as I trust they will, then should he be a byword, as I trust he shall, for his heresy, lechery, and tyranny; wherein the age to come may score him among the ancient princes of most abominable and hateful memory.' 'With that,' says Campion, 'he rendered up his sword, adding to his shameful oration many other slanderous and foul terms.'

Cromer, Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of Armagh, a creature of Kildare, 'more like his parish priest or chaplain, than king's chancellor,' who had been prepared beforehand, rose, and affected remonstrance; but, speaking in English, his words were not understood by the crowd. A bard in the Greraldine train cut short his speech with an Irish battle chant; and the wild troop rushed, shouting, out of the abbey, and galloped from the town.

In these mock heroics there need not have been anything worse than folly; but Irish heroism, like Irish religion, was unfortunately limited to words and feelings. The generous defiance in the cause of the Catholic faith was followed by pillage and murder, the usual accompaniments of Irish insurrection, as a sort of initial


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174 holocaust to propitiate success. The open country was at the mercy of the rebels. Fitzgerald, joined by O'Connor, proceeded to swear- in all such of the inhabitants of the pale as would unite against England; promising protection if they would consent, but inflicting fire and sword wherever he met refusal. The unfortunate people, warned by experience that no service was worse requited in Ireland than loyalty, had no spirit to resist. The few who were obnoxious were killed; the remainder submitted; and the growing corn was destroyed, and the farms were burnt, up to the gates of Dublin, that when the English army arrived, they might find neither food to maintain, nor houses to shelter them. The first object of Fitzgerald, however, was to seize Dublin itself, where a portion of the citizens were in his favour. In the last week in July he appeared with his followers under the walls; a small force which had attempted to resist was defeated and driven in; and, under a threat of burning the city, if he was refused, he demanded the surrender of town and castle. The danger was immediate. The provident treachery of Kildare, in stripping the castle of its stores and cannon, had made defence all but impossible. Ormond was far off, and weeks must pass before relief could arrive from England. Sir John White, an English gentleman, with a handful of men-at-arms, had military command of the city; and the Archbishop of Armagh implored him to have pity on the citizens, and not to expose them


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1534.] to the consequences of a storm. White was too stout a soldier to listen to such timid counsels; yet his position was one of extreme difficulty; his little garrison was too weak to defend the lines of the town without the assistance of the citizens, and the citizens were divided and dispirited. He resolved at length to surrender the city, and defend the castle to the last. Fitzgerald threatened that he would hold the townsmen responsible for the submission of the troops; but, savage as the English commander knew him to be, he calculated, with justice, that he would not ruin his popularity by cutting the throats of an unresisting crowd.

Hastily gathering together sufficient stores to enable him to hold out for a few weeks, and such arms and ammunition as could be collected in the emergency, White withdrew into the fortress, taking with him the Master of the Rolls, the Chief Baron, and such other of the council as desired to be his companions. The inhabitants of Dublin were then empowered to make terms with the rebels. The gates were opened on Fitzgerald's promise to respect life and property, the city was occupied, and siege was immediately laid to the castle. This was on the 27th of July. The morning which followed was marked by one of those atrocities which have so often unfortunately distinguished Irish rebellions. Archbishop Allen, to whose exertions the exposure of Kildare's proceedings had been principally due, either fearing the possible consequences to himself if the


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176 castle was taken, as the Irish writers say, or more probably to hasten in person the arrival of the deputy and his troops, instead of remaining with White, volunteered to cross to England; and before the gates were opened, he went on board a vessel and dropped down the river. He had placed himself unknowingly in the hands of traitors, for the ship was commanded by a Geraldine, and in the night which followed was run aground at Clontarf, close to the mouth of the Liffey. The country was in possession of the insurgents, the crew were accomplices, and the stranded vessel, on the retreat of the tide, was soon surrounded. The Archbishop was partly persuaded, partly compelled to go on shore, and was taken by two dependents of the Earl of Kildare to a farm-house in the village of Artayne. Here he was permitted to retire to bed; but if he slept, it was for an early and a cruel wakening. The news of his capture was carried to Fitzgerald, who was then in the city, but a few miles distant, and the young lord, with three of his uncles, was on the spot by daybreak. They entered the house and ordered Allen to be brought before them. The Archbishop was dragged from his bed; and in his shirt as he was, bare-legged and bare-headed, he dropped upon his knees, and begged for mercy. As well might the sheep have asked mercy of the famished wolf. He had but time to bequeath his soul to heaven, and his skull was cloven as he knelt; and, to make clean work, his chaplains, his servants, all of English blood who were with him, were slaughtered over his


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1534.] body. Such was the pious offering to God and holy Church on which the sun looked down as it rose that fair summer's morning over Dublin Bay; and such were the men whose cause the Mores and the Fishers, the saintly monks of the Charterhouse and the holy martyrs of the Catholic faith, believed to be the cause of the Almighty Father of the world.

The morning's work was still but half completed. To massacre a heretic archbishop was a meritorious, or at least a venial act; but it was desirable that an opinion in favour of it should be pronounced by authority; or that the guilt, if guilt there was, should be washed off without delay. The Archdeacon of Kells, therefore, was despatched to the Pope and to the Emperor, to press the latter to send assistance on this happy success, and to bring back absolution from his Holiness, if the murder required it. The next object was to prevent news from reaching England before the castle should be taken. The river was watched, the timely assistance of an English pirate enabled Fitzgerald to blockade the bay; and Dublin was effectively sealed. But the report of the murder spread rapidly through Ireland. In three days it was known at Waterford, and the Prior of


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178 , who had taken refuge there, crossed into Wales on the instant, intending to ride post to London. He was delayed at St David's by an attack of paralysis; but he sent forward a companion who had left Ireland with him; and the death of the Archbishop was made known to Henry in the second week in August.

If Skeffington could set out on the instant, the castle might be saved, and Dublin recovered. Couriers were despatched to urge him to make haste; and others were sent to Ireland to communicate with Ormond, and, if possible, with the party in the castle. But Skeffington, who was too old for his work, had loitered over his preparations, and was not ready; and the delay would have been fatal, except for the Earl of Ormond, the loyalty of whose noble house at that crisis alone saved the English authority in Ireland. On the arrival of Henry's courier, he collected his people and invaded Kildare. The country was unenclosed—not a fence nor a hedge broke the broad surface of moor and meadow, save where at intervals a few small patches were enclosed for corn crops. Infinite herds of cattle grazed at will over the expanse of pasture, and these cattle were the chief dependence of the people. Ormond, by the suddenness of his inroad, and the absence of the owners, was enabled to sweep clear the whole tract which was occupied by the Greraldines; and Fitzgerald was forced to retire from Dublin to defend or recover his property. He Left a detachment in the city, to prevent the troops in the


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152 "Who's there?" he cried, in no very amiable tone.

"I," replied the quavering voice.

"Who are you?"

"Isaac Hakkabut. Let me in; do, please, let me in."

"Oh, it is you, old Ashtaroth, is it? What do you want? Can't you get anybody to buy your stuffs?"

"Nobody will pay me a proper price."

"Well, old Shimal, you won't find a customer here. You had better be off."

"No; but do, please—do, please, let me in," supplicated the Jew. "I want to speak to his Excellency, the governor."

"The governor is in bed, and asleep."

"I can wait until he awakes."

"Then wait where you are."

And with this inhospitable rejoinder the orderly was about to return to his place at the side of his patient, when Servadac, who had been roused by the sound of voices, called out, "What's the matter, Ben Zoof?"

"Oh, nothing, sir; only that hound of a Hakkabut says he wants to speak to you."

"Let him in, then."

Ben Zoof hesitated.

"Let him in, I say," repeated the captain, peremptorily.

However reluctantly, Ben Zoof obeyed. The door was unfastened, and Isaac Hakkabut, enveloped in an old overcoat, shuffled into the gallery. In a few moments Servadac approached, and the Jew began to overwhelm him with the most obsequious epithets. Without vouchsafing any reply, the captain beckoned to the old man to follow him, and leading the way to the central hall, stopped, and turning so as to look him steadily in the face, said, "Now is your opportunity. Tell me what you want."

"Oh, my lord, my lord," whined Isaac, "you must have some news to tell me."

"News? What do you mean?"

"From my little tartan yonder, I saw the yawl go out from the rock here on a journey, and I saw it come back, and it brought a stranger; and I thought—I thought—I thought"

"Well, you thought—what did you think?"

"Why, that perhaps the stranger had come from the northern shores of the Mediterranean, and that I might ask him"

He paused again, and gave a glance at the captain.

"Ask him what? Speak out, man."

"Ask him if he brings any tidings of Europe," Hakkabut blurted out at last.

Servadac shrugged his shoulders in contempt and turned away. Here was a man who had been resident three months in Gallia, a living witness to all the abnormal phenomena that had occurred, and yet refused to believe that his hope of making good bargains with European traders was at an end. Surely nothing, thought the captain, will convince the old rascal now; and he moved off in disgust. The orderly, however, who had listened with much amusement, was by no means disinclined for the conversation to be continued. "Are you satisfied, old Ezekiel?" he asked.

"Isn't it so? Am I not right? Didn't a stranger arrive here last night?" inquired the Jew.

"Yes, quite true."

"Where from?"

"From the Balearic Isles."

"The Balearic Isles?" echoed Isaac.

"Yes."

"Fine quarters for trade! Hardly twenty leagues from Spain! He must have brought news from Europe!"

"Well, old Manasseh, what if he has?"

"I should like to see him."

"Can't be."

The Jew sidled close up to Ben Zoof, and laying his hand on his arm, said in a low and insinuating tone, "I am poor, you know; but I would give you a few reals if you would let me talk to this stranger."

But as if he thought he was making too liberal an offer, he added, "Only it must be at once."

"He is too tired; he is worn out; he is fast asleep," answered Ben Zoof.

"But I would pay you to wake him."

The captain had overheard the tenor of the conversation, and interposed sternly, "Hakkabut! if you make the least attempt to disturb our visitor, I shall have you turned outside that door immediately."

"No offense, my lord, I hope," stammered out the Jew. "I only meant"

"Silence!" shouted Servadac.

The old man hung his head, abashed.

"I will tell you what," said Servadac after a brief interval; "I will give you leave to hear what this stranger has to tell as soon as he is able to tell us anything; at present we have not heard a word from his lips."

The Jew looked perplexed.

"Yes," said Servadac; "when we hear his story, you shall hear it too."

"And I hope it will be to your liking, old Ezekiel!" added Ben Zoof in a voice of irony.

They had none of them long to wait, for within a few minutes Rosette's peevish voice was heard calling, "Joseph! Joseph!"

The professor did not open his eyes, and appeared to be slumbering on, but very shortly afterwards called out again, "Joseph! Confound the fellow! where is he?" It was evident that he was half dreaming about a former servant now far away on the ancient globe. "Where's my blackboard, Joseph?"

"Quite safe, sir," answered Ben Zoof, quickly.

Rosette unclosed his eyes and fixed them full upon the orderly's face. "Are you Joseph?" he asked.

"At your service, sir," replied Ben Zoof with imperturbable gravity.

"Then get me my coffee, and be quick about it."

Ben Zoof left to go into the kitchen, and Servadac approached the professor in order to assist him in rising to a sitting posture.

"Do you recognize your quondam pupil, professor?" he asked.

"Ah, yes, yes; you are Servadac," replied Rosette. "It is twelve years or more since I saw you; I hope you have improved."

"Quite a reformed character, sir, I assure you," said Servadac, smiling.

"Well, that's as it should be; that's right," said the astronomer with fussy importance. "But let me have my coffee," he added impatiently; "I cannot collect my thoughts without my coffee."

Fortunately, Ben Zoof appeared with a great cup,


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1534.] castle from obtaining supplies, and then hurried off to revenge the foray. Entering Carlow, he took a castle on the Slaney, and murdered the garrison. Thence he turned towards Kilkenny, and was bearing down upon Ormond with a strength which it would have been hard for the Butlers to resist, when he learnt that the citizens of Dublin, encouraged by the news that an English army was actually coming, had repented of their patriotism, and to earn their pardon from Henry, had closed their gates, and had seized and imprisoned the party who were left before the castle. The prize for which he had played so deeply was slipping from his hands at the moment when it was all but won. He was forced to return in haste; but before he left Kilkenny, he made an effort to induce Ormond to join him. He promised, that if the Earl would assist him in driving out the English, he would 'take him as his father,' that he would make a present to his son, Lord James, of half the inheritance of the Kildares, and that they two should together rule Ireland.

Promises when extorted by presence of danger from a Geraldine were of indifferent value; but if Fitzgerald's engagements had been as sure as they were false and fleeting, they would have weighed little with this gallant old nobleman. Ormond replied, that if the rebels would lay down their arms and sue for mercy, they might perhaps find it; but for himself, 'if his country


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180 were wasted, his castles won or prostrate, and himself exiled, yet would he never shrink to persevere in his duty to the King to the death.' Failing here, and having at the same time received a check in a skirmish, Fitzgerald next endeavoured to gain time. The Irish clans were gathering, but they were still at a distance, and his own presence was instantly required elsewhere. He offered a truce, therefore; and to this Ormond, being hard pressed by the Earl of Desmond, was ready to consent. But it was only treachery. Ormond broke up his camp, and his people were scattered; and within three days, O'Neile having joined Fitzgerald, he was taken at a disadvantage; his son, Lord James, was severely wounded; and a cordon of Irish being drawn round him, to prevent him from relieving Dublin, the rebel army hastened back to renew the siege. They had the cannon with them which Kildare had taken from the castle, but were happily ill-provided with ammunition, or resistance would have been desperate. The siege opened at the beginning of September. The month passed away, and the place was still untaken. If the deputy would only arrive, there was still time to save it. Each hour he was looked for, yet through these priceless days he was loitering at


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Rh hot and strong. After draining it with much apparent relish, the professor got out of bed, walked into the common hall, round which he glanced with a pre-occupied air, and proceeded to seat himself in an armchair, the most comfortable which the cabin of the Dobryna had supplied. Then, in a voice full of satisfaction, which involuntarily recalled the exclamations of delight that had wound up the two first of the mysterious documents that had been received, he burst out, "Well, gentlemen, what do you think of Gallia?"

There was no time for anyone to make a reply before Isaac Hakkabut had darted forward.

"By the God"

"Who is that?" asked the startled professor; and he frowned, and made a gesture of repugnance.

Regardless of the efforts that were made to silence him, the Jew continued, "By the God of Abraham, I beseech you, give me some tidings of Europe!"

"Europe?" shouted the professor, springing from his seat as if he were electrified; "what does the man want with Europe?"

"I want to get there!" screeched the Jew; and in spite of every exertion to get him away, he clung most tenaciously to the professor's chair, and again implored for news of Europe.

Rosette made no immediate reply. After a moment or two of reflection, he turned to Servadac and asked him whether it was not the middle of April.

"It is the twentieth," answered the captain.

"Then to-day," said the astronomer, speaking with the greatest deliberation—"to-day we are just three millions of leagues away from Europe."

The Jew was utterly crestfallen.

"You seem here," continued the professor, "to be very ignorant of the state of things."

"How far we are ignorant," rejoined Servadac, "I cannot tell. But I will tell you all that we do know, and all that we have surmised." And as briefly as he could, he related all that had happened since the memorable night of the thirty-first of December; how they had experienced the shock; how the Dobryna had made her voyage; how they had discovered nothing except the fragments of the old continent at Tunis, Sardinia, Gibraltar, and now at Formentera; how at intervals the three anonymous documents had been received; and, finally, how the settlement at Gourbi Island had been abandoned for their present quarters at Nina's Hive.

The astronomer had hardly patience to hear him to the end. "And what do you say is your surmise as to your present position?" he asked.

"Our supposition," the captain replied, "is this. We imagine that we are on a considerable fragment of the terrestrial globe that has been detached by collision with a planet to which you appear to have given the name of Gallia."

"Better than that!" cried Rosette, starting to his feet with excitement.

"How? Why? What do you mean?" cried the voices of the listeners.

"You are correct to a certain degree," continued the professor. "It is quite true that at 47 minutes, 35.6 seconds after two o'clock on the morning of the first of January there was a collision; my comet grazed the earth; and the bits of the earth which you have named were carried clean away."

They were all fairly bewildered.

"Where, then," cried Servadae eagerly, "where are we?"

"You are on my comet, on Gallia itself!"

And the professor gazed around him with a perfect air of triumph.

ES, my comet!" repeated the professor, and from time to time he knitted his brows, and looked around him with a defiant air, as though he could not get rid of the impression that someone was laying an unwarranted claim to its proprietorship, or that the individuals before him were intruders upon his own proper domain.

But for a considerable while, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant remained silent and sunk in thought. Here then, at last, was the unriddling of the enigma they had been so long endeavoring to solve; both the hypotheses they had formed in succession had now to give way before the announcement of the real truth. The first supposition, that the rotatory axis of the earth had been subject to some accidental modification, and the conjecture that replaced it, namely that a certain portion of the terrestrial sphere had been splintered off and carried into space, had both now to yield to the representation that the earth had been grazed by an unknown comet, which had caught up some scattered fragments from its surface, and was bearing them far away into sidereal regions. Unfolded lay the past and the present before them; but this only served to awaken a keener interest about the future. Could the professor throw any light upon that? they longed to inquire, but did not yet venture to ask him.

Meanwhile Rosette assumed a pompous professional air, and appeared to be waiting for the entire party to be ceremoniously introduced to him. Quite willing to humor the vanity of the eccentric little man, Servadac proceeded to go through the expected formalities.

"Allow me to present to you my excellent friend, the Count Timascheff," he said.

"You are very welcome," said Rosette, bowing to the count with a smile of condescension.

"Although I am not precisely a voluntary resident on your comet, Mr. Professor, I beg to acknowledge your courteous reception," gravely responded Timascheff.

Servadac could not quite conceal his amusement at the count's irony, but continued, "This is Lieutenant Procope, the officer in command of the Dobryna."

The professor bowed again in frigid dignity.

"His yacht has conveyed us right around Gallia," added the captain.

"Around Gallia?" eagerly exclaimed the professor,

"Yes, entirely around it," answered Servadac, and without allowing time for reply, proceeded, "And this is my orderly, Ben Zoof."

"Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Governor of Gallia," interposed Ben Zoof himself, anxious to maintain his master's honor as well as his own.

Rosette scarcely bent his head.

The rest of the population of the Hive were


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—Frontispiece,


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, like most other useful discoveries, is involved in great obscurity, and any attempt to ascertain the precise period of the invention or the name of him, who first pointed out the utility of these important adjuncts to the convenience and profit of commercial nations, would be merely to speculate on a subject, which has hitherto bid defiance to conjecture, and which will, in all human probability, for ever remain without satisfactory elucidation. Not so, however, the results to which it has given rise—as the great Newtonian Sytstem of Gravitation owed its existence to a trifling accident of almost daily occurrence, so the numerous canals, which intersect nearly every country of the civilized world, though they might possibly be traced to circumstances of the same trivial import, are no less remarkable for the astonishing effects they produce and the advantages they hold out, as well to the industrious artisan as to the enterprising trader.

That the ancient inhabitants of every part of the globe, wherewith history has made us acquainted, were alive in a greater or less degree to the benefits resulting from the adoption of inland navigation, is a fact that may without difficulty be substantiated.

In India, particularly in that part of it known to us as the province of Bengal, the use of canals was early appreciated; not later than 1355 the Emperor Ferose III. made a canal one hundred miles long, from the River Suttuluz to the River Jidger: in the following years of his reign the same illustrious monarch completed no less than five other canals, all of which were of the greatest utility to the districts through which they passed, inasmuch as they afforded a supply of water for the fertilising of the


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20 and plain, will rejoice in the verdure and flowers of the spring-time. "Good-Bye!" "Good-Bye!" "Good-Bye!" The last friendly hand is shaken, the last affectionate embrace is given, and the plank hauled in, the crash of the great gun on the forward deck startles the echoes of all the hills around the bay, the great steamer moves slowly away from the wharf, swings around with the tide in the harbor, and gliding swiftly past the city front, the shipping from many

ports, Alcatraz, Point San Jose, Fort Point, and the Presidio de San Francisco, passes through the Golden Gate, and heads out into the blue, illimitable Pacific.

The sea is calm, and the sky is clear; and everything promises a quiet, pleasant voyage. Capt. Lapidge, is an old and thorough seaman, Purser Mattoon understands making everybody comfortable, and is disposed to do it in an off-hand, unobtrusive way, and Dr. Miller, U. S. A. is on hand to attend to all who need his professional services; so that all our wants, and all contingencies are provided for. From one end of the steamer to the other, everything goes on like


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Rh ,—no noise, no loud talking, no confusion; Chinese sailors spread the awnings which are to shelter the passengers from the sun of the tropics, and Chinese waiters, clean, quiet, and orderly, with their list-soled slippers, move quietly about the cabin and state-rooms, keeping everything in order, and seeing that no wants of the passengers are left unattended to. On the whole, I think it must be conceded that John is the "coming man," and take him all in all, he is a pretty good fellow;" it is well for us that no worse man is to come in his place.

On the afternoon of the second day—Friday—we were passing the islands off the Santa Barbara Coast, having made two hundred and thirty-five miles during the first twenty-four hours. On Saturday we were out of sight of land all day, and the register showed a progress of two hundred and twenty-two miles for the last twenty-four hours. On Sunday afternoon we came in sight of the large barren island of Cerros, and its outlying rocks and lesser islands, and the whole of the afternoon and evening skirted along the treeless, red mountain shores of Mexican Lower California. No living thing was to be seen on these verdureless mountains. Sitting back far enough from the rail to hide the blue stretch of water, you might fancy yourself upon the Colorado or Mojave Desert, without any serious stretch of the imagination; the same saffron-hued horizon, pale blue sky, red, brown, and yellow, jagged, naked mountains; the same eternal silence of utter desolation. "Mother," said a little prattling child upon the steamer, "mother, do anybody live in that land?" "No my darling, I hope not," was the earnest reply. God is merciful, and I trust she was right.


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154 all presented in succession; the Russian sailors, the Spaniards, young Pablo, and little Nina, on whom the professor, evidently no lover of children, glared fiercely through his formidable spectacles. Isaac Hakkabut, after his introduction, begged to be allowed to ask one question.

"How soon may we hope to get back?" he inquired.

"Get back!" rejoined Rosette, sharply; "who talks of getting back? We have hardly started yet."

Seeing that the professor was inclined to get angry, Captain Servadac adroitly gave a new turn to the conversation by asking him whether he would gratify them by relating his own recent experiences. The astronomer seemed pleased with the proposal, and at once commenced a verbose and somewhat circumlocutory address, of which the following summary presents the main features.

The French Government, being desirous of verifying the measurements already made of the arc of the meridian of Paris appointed a scientific commission for that purpose. From that commission the name of Palmyrin Rosette was omitted, apparently for no other reason than his personal unpopularity. Furious at the slight, the professor resolved to set to work independently on his own account, and declaring that there were inaccuracies in the previous geodesic operations, he determined to re-examine the results of the last triangulation which had united Formentera to the Spanish coast by a triangle, one of the sides of which measured over a hundred miles, the very operation which had already been so successfully accomplished by Arago and Biot.

Accordingly, leaving Paris for the Balearic Isles, he placed his observatory on the highest point of Formentera, and accompanied as he was only by his servant, Joseph, led the life of a recluse. He secured the services of a former assistant and dispatched him to a high peak on the coast of Spain, where he had to superintend a helioscope, which, with the aid of a glass, could be read from Formentera. A few books and instruments, and two months' victuals, was all the baggage he took with him, except an excellent astronomical telescope, which was, indeed, almost part and parcel of himself, and with which he assiduously scanned the heavens, in the sanguine anticipation of making some discovery which would immortalize his name.

The task he had undertaken demanded the utmost patience. Night after night, in order to fix the apex of his triangle, he had to linger on the watch for the assistant's signal-light, but he did not forget that his predecessors, Arago and Biot, had had to wait sixty-one days for a similar purpose. What retarded the work was the dense fog which, as mentioned before, at that time enveloped not only that part of Europe, but almost the entire world.

Never failing to turn to the best advantage the few intervals when the mist lifted a little, the astronomer would at the same time cast an inquiring glance at the firmament, as he was greatly interested in the revision of the chart of the heavens, in the region contiguous to the constellation Gemini.

To the naked eye this constellation consists of only six stars, but through a telescope ten inches in diameter, as many as six thousand are visible. Rosette, however, did not possess a telescope of this magnitude, and was obliged to content himself with the good, but comparatively small, instrument he had.

On one of these occasions, whilst carefully gauging the recesses of Gemini, he espied a bright speck which was unregistered in the chart, and which at first he took for a small star that had escaped being entered in the catalogue. But the observation of a few separate nights soon made it manifest that the star was rapidly changing its position with regard to the adjacent stars, and the astronomer's heart began to leap at the thought that the renown of the discovery of a new planet would be associated with his name.

Redoubling his attention, he soon satisfied himself that what he saw was not a planet; the rapidity of its displacement rather forced him to the conjecture that it must be a comet, and this opinion was soon strengthened by the appearance of a coma, and subsequently confirmed, as the body approached the sun, by the development of a tail.

A comet! The discovery was fatal to all further progress in triangulation. However conscientiously the assistant on the Spanish coast might look to the kindling of the beacon, Rosette had not a glance to spare for that direction; he had no eyes except for the one object of his notice, no thought apart from that of one quarter of the firmament.

A comet! No time must be lost in calculating its elements.

Now, in order to calculate the elements of a comet, it is always deemed the safest mode of procedure to assume the orbit to be a parabola. Ordinarily, comets are conspicuous at their perihelia, as being their shortest distances from the sun, which is the focus of their orbit, and inasmuch as a parabola is nearly an ellipse, but with its axis indefinitely produced, for some short portion of its pathway the orbit may be indifferently considered either one or the other; and in this particular case the professor was right in adopting the supposition of its being parabolic.

Just as in a circle it is necessary to know three points to determine the circumference, so, in ascertaining the elements of a comet, three different positions must be observed before what astronomers call its "ephemeris" can be established.

But Professor Rosette did not content himself with three positions; taking advantage of every rift in the fog he made ten, twenty, thirty observations both in right ascension and in declination, and succeeded in working out with the most minute accuracy the five elements of the comet which was evidently advancing with astounding rapidity towards the earth.

These elements were:

1. The inclination of the plane of the cometary orbit to the plane of the ecliptic, an angle which is generally considerable; but in this case the planes were proved to coincide.

2. The position of the ascending node, or the point where the comet crossed the terrestrial orbit.

These two elements being obtained, the position in space of the comet's orbit was determined.

3. The direction of the axis major of the orbit, which was found by calculating the longitude of the comet's perihelion.

4. The perihelion distance from the sun, which settled the precise form of the parabola.


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Rh 5. The motion of the comet, as being retrograde, or unlike the planets, from east to west.

Rosette thus found himself able to calculate the date at which the comet would reach its perihelion, and overjoyed at his discovery, without thinking of calling it Palmyra or Rosette, after his own name, he resolved that it should be known as Gallia.

His next business was to draw up a formal report. Not only did he at once recognize that a collision with the earth was possible, but he soon foresaw that it was inevitable, and that it must happen on the night of the 31st of December; moreover, as the bodies were moving in opposite directions, the shock could hardly fail to be violent.

To say that he was elated at the prospect was far below the truth; his delight amounted almost to delirium. Anyone else would have hurried from the solitude of Formentera in sheer fright; but, without communicating a word of his startling discovery, he remained resolutely at his post. From occasional newspapers which he had received, he had learnt that fogs, dense as ever, continued to envelop both hemispheres, so that he was assured that the existence of the comet was utterly unknown elsewhere; and the ignorance of the world as to the peril that threatened it averted the panic that would have followed the publication of the facts, and left the philosopher of Formentera in sole possession of the great secret. He clung to his post with the greater persistency, because his calculations had led him to the conclusion that the comet would strike the earth somewhere to the south of Algeria, and as it had a solid nucleus, he felt sure that, as he expressed it, the effect would be "unique," and he was anxious to be in the vicinity.

The shock came, and with it the results already recorded. Palmyrin Rosette was suddenly separated from his servant Joseph, and when, after a long period of unconsciousness, he came to himself, he found that he was the solitary occupant of the only fragment that survived of the Balearic Archipelago.

Such was the substance of the narrative which the professor gave with sundry repetitions and digressions; while he was giving it, he frequently paused and frowned as if irritated in a way that seemed by no means justified by the patient and good-humored demeanor of his audience.

"But now, gentlemen," added the professor, "I must tell you something more. Important changes have resulted from the collision; the cardinal points have been displaced; gravity has been diminished; not that I ever supposed for a minute, as you did, that I was still upon the earth. No! the earth, attended by her moon, continued to rotate along her proper orbit. But we, gentlemen, have nothing to complain of; our destiny might have been far worse; we might all have been crushed to death, or the comet might have remained in adhesion to the earth; and in neither of these cases should we have had the satisfaction of making this marvelous excursion through untraversed solar regions. No, gentlemen, I repeat it, we have nothing to regret."

And as the professor spoke, he seemed to kindle with the emotion of such supreme contentment that no one had the heart to gainsay his assertion. Ben Zoof alone ventured an unlucky remark to the effect that if the comet had happened to strike against Montmartre, instead of a bit of Africa, it would have met with some resistance.

"Pshaw!" said Rosette, disdainfully. "A mole-hill like Montmartre would have been ground to powder in a moment."

"Mole-hill!" exclaimed Ben Zoof, stung to the quick. "I can tell you it would have caught up your bit of a comet and worn it like a feather in a cap."

The professor looked angry, and Servadac having imposed silence upon his orderly, explained the worthy soldier's sensitiveness on all that concerned Montmartre. Always obedient to his master, Ben Zoof held his tongue; but he felt that he could never forgive the slight that had been cast upon his beloved home.

It was now all-important to learn whether the astronomer had been able to continue his observations, and whether he had learned sufficient of Gallia's path through space to make him competent to determine, at least approximately, the period of its revolution round the sun. With as much tact and caution as he could, Lieutenant Procope endeavored to intimate the general desire for some information on this point.

"Before the shock, sir," answered the professor, "I had conclusively demonstrated the path of the comet; but, in consequence of the modification which that shock has entailed upon my comet's orbit, I have been compelled to recommence my calculations entirely."

The lieutenant looked disappointed.

"Although the orbit of the earth was unaltered," continued the professor, "the result of the collision was the projection of the comet into a new orbit altogether."

"And may I ask," said Procope, deferentially, "whether you have got the elements of the fresh orbit?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you know"

"I know this, sir, that at 47 minutes, 35.6 seconds after two oclock on the morning of the 1st of January last, Gallia, in passing its ascending node, came in contact with the earth; that on the 10th of January it crossed the orbit of Venus; that it reached its perihelion on the 15th; that it recrossed the orbit of Venus; that on the 1st of February it passed its descending node; on the 13th crossed the orbit of Mars; entered the zone of the telescopic planets on the 10th of March, and, attracting Nerīna, carried it off as a satellite."

Servadac interposed:

"We are already acquainted with well nigh all these extraordinary facts; many of them, moreover, we learned from documents which we picked up, and which, although unsigned, we cannot entertain a doubt have originated with you."

Professor Rosette drew himself up proudly and said: "Of course they originated with me. I sent them off by hundreds. From whom else could they come?"

"From no one but yourself, certainly," rejoined the count, with grave politeness.

Hitherto the conversation had thrown no light upon the future movements of Gallia, and Rosette was disposed apparently to evade, or at least to postpone, the subject. When Lieutenant Procope was about to press his inquiries in a more categorical form, therefore, Servadac, thinking it inadvisable to press the little savant too far, interrupted him by asking the professor how he accounted for the earth


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156 having suffered so little from such a formidable concussion.

"I account for it in this way," answered Rosette: "the earth was traveling at the rate of 28,000 leagues an hour, and Gallia at the rate of 57,000 leagues an hour. Therefore the result was the same as though a train, rushing along at a speed of about 85,000 leagues an hour had suddenly encountered some obstacle. The nucleus of the comet, being excessively hard, has done exactly what a ball would do fired with that velocity close to a pane of glass. It has crossed the earth without cracking it."

"It is possible you may be right," said Servadac, thoughtfully.

"Right! of course I am right!" replied the snappish professor. Soon, recovering his equanimity, however, he continued: "It is fortunate that the earth was only touched obliquely; if the comet had impinged perpendicularly, it must have plowed its way deep below the surface, and the disasters it might have caused are beyond reckoning. Perhaps," he added, with a smile, "even Montmartre might not have survived the calamity."

"Sir!" shouted Ben Zoof, quite unable to bear the unprovoked attack.

"Quiet, Ben Zoof!" said Servadac sternly.

Fortunately for the sake of peace, Isaac Hakkabut, who at length was beginning to realize something of the true condition of things, came forward at this moment, and in a voice trembling with eagerness, implored the professor to tell him when they would all be back again upon the earth.

"Are you in a great hurry?" asked the professor coolly.

The Jew was about to speak again, when Captain Servadac interposed: "Allow me to say that, in somewhat more scientific terms, I was about to ask you the same question. Did I not understand you to say that, as the consequence of the collision, the character of the comet's orbit has been changed?"

"You did, sir."

"Did you imply that the orbit has ceased to be a parabola?"

"Just so."

"Is it then an hyperbola? and are we to be carried on far and away into remote distance, and never, never return?"

"I did not say an hyperbola."

"And is it not?"

"It is not."

"Then it must be an ellipse?"

"Yes."

"And does its plane coincide with the plane of the earth?"

"Yes."

"Then it must be a periodic comet?"

"It is."

Servadac involuntarily raised a ringing shout of joy that echoed again along the gallery.

"Yes," continued the professor, "Gallia is a periodic comet, and allowing for the perturbations to which it is liable from the attraction of Mars and Jupiter and Saturn, it will return to the earth again in two years precisely."

"You mean that in two years after the first shock, Gallia will meet the earth at the same point at which they met before?" said Lieutenant Procope.

"I am afraid so," said Rosette.

"Afraid so? Why afraid of such a meeting?"

"Because we are doing exceedingly well as we are." The professor stamped his foot upon the ground, by way of emphasis, and added, "If I had my will, Gallia should never return to the earth again!"

LL previous hypotheses were now forgotten in the presence of the one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote solar regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that had been looming through the clouds after the shock was the retreating earth, to the proximity of which the one high tide they had experienced was also to be attributed.

As to the fulfillment of the professor's prediction of an ultimate return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must be owned that the captain, after the first flush of his excitement was over, was not without many misgivings.

The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of the newcomer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to live among the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he cared little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity with which all the internal arrangements of Nina's Hive had been devised. Anxious to show all proper respect to his former tutor, Servadac proposed to put the most comfortable apartment of the place at his disposal; but the professor resolutely declined to occupy it, saying that what he required was a small chamber, no matter how small, provided that it was elevated and secluded, so that he could use it as an observatory where he might continue his studies without disturbance. A general search was instituted, and before long they were lucky enough to find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a small recess or cave hollowed, as it were, in the mountain side, which would exactly answer their purpose. It contained room enough for a bed, a table, an armchair, a chest of drawers, and, what was of still more consequence, for the indispensable telescope. One small stream of lava, an off-shoot of the great torrent, sufficed to keep the apartment warm.

In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on all hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his own way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but little, carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night, and very rarely made his appearance amongst the rest of the little community.

The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30°C. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those fluctuations that are ever and again to be observed in variable climates, but continued slowly and steadily to fall, and in all probability would continue to do so until it reached the normal temperature of the regions of outlying space.

This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no particle of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud; neither were there any of the damp mists or


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The New International Encyclopædia/Klüber, Johann Ludwig

KLÜBER, klụ'bẽr, (1762-1837). A German publicist, born at Tann, near Fulda. He was professor of law at the universities of Erlangen (1786-1804) and Heidelberg (1807-08), held high positions in the Government service at Karlsruhe (1804-07 and 1808-17), and was in Vienna during the Congress of 1814-15, collecting the Akten des Wiener Kongresses in den Jahren 1814 und 1815 (1815-19), of which the most important portions were reprinted separately under the title Quellensammlung zu dem öffentlichen Rechte des Deutschen Bundes (1830). In 1817 he entered the Prussian service, and was appointed Privy Councilor in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs under Hardenberg, whom he accompanied to the Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle (1818), and he took an important part in other political negotiations at Frankfort and Saint Petersburg. When, at the appearance of the second edition of his Oeffentliches Recht des Deutschen Bundes und der Bundesstaaten, in 1822, book and author became the objects of political vilification, he resigned his post and retired to Frankfort. The more important of his other writings are: Le droit des gens moderne de l'Europe (1819, 2d ed., 1874); Abhandlungen und Beobachtungen für Geschichtskunde, Staats- und Rechtswissenschaften (1830-34); and Pragmatische Geschichte der nationalen und politischen Wiedergeburt Griechenlands (1835).


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This work embodies the observations of the Author on Mexico and her people, made while traveling as one of the party of the Hon. Wm. H. Seward, in 1869-70.

Through the kind partiality of Mr. Seward, and the liberality of the Government and Citizens of Mexico, the Author undoubtedly enjoyed greater facilities for seeing the country and its inhabitants, than have been accorded to any other traveler for many years.

I have endeavored to give an impartial description of what I saw and heard in that land of wonder and romance, avoiding neither the lights nor the shadows of the picture.

I had been familiar with the people of Mexico, a portion of their country, and much of their history, for many years; had sympathized with them in their noble struggle against invasion, and the infamous attempt of European rulers to subvert free, government and plant despotic institutions on the soil of America; against the bigoted, superstitious and intolerant party of conservatism, which steadfastly opposed the education of the masses and all progress; against slavery, and the remnants of monarchical institutions handed down to them as a part of the curse of Old Spain, and was prepared to make many allowances for errors and short-comings, in view of the obstacles in the way of the country's progress, and the trials through which the nation had been called upon to pass.

The journey was in many respects the most remarkable one on record. No private citizen—whatever might have been his former station in life—ever received such an ovation as was given to Mr. Seward, by the people and Government of Mexico. From the Pacific to the Atlantic,—over a journey of some twelve hundred miles,—it was one grand triumphal march, and all classes and parties joined in the demonstration.


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 8 Seeing much to praise, something to blame, and much to excuse as the inevitable result of the acts of those who administered the Government and shaped the destinies of Mexico before the present generation came upon the field of action, I can safely say that the balance was decidedly on the right side and that I came away with more respect for the people, more sympathy for a nationality struggling—sometimes blindly, but always earnestly and persistently—along the path of progress, and more hope for the future of that much misunderstood and much misrepresented Republic, than I had when I entered it.

The journey was one of the most pleasing episodes of my life, and the memory of the friendships established, and the unceasing kindness and consideration received at the hands of Mr. Seward and the other members of his party, and the people of the country through which we traveled, will be a source of heartfelt enjoyment through all coming years.

I have not aimed at writing, a comprehensive, statistical, and historical work on Mexico, but have left that task to other and abler pens, giving only what came under our personal observation, and endeavoring to show the reader, the country and the people as we saw them.

In a land where nature has lavished all her wealth with tropical prodigality, where the scenery is grand and beautiful beyond description, and every step is over historic ground, and amid scenes around which the romance of centuries has accumulated, I could not fail to see much to interest the reader and make the story of such a journey worthy of perusal, whatever my abilities as a writer might be.

The relations between Mexico and the United States must become more intimate as years elapse. The interests of the two Republics are growing, every day, more nearly identical. Nature and republican institutions have made us allies, and an injury inflicted upon one must be felt by the other, as well, in the end. If what I have written shall assist my countrymen in forming a more just and favorable idea of Mexico than they have hitherto entertained, I shall have every reason to be more than satisfied with the result of my labors.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Kluckhohn, August

KLUCKHOHN, klōōk'hōn, (1832-93). A German historian. He was born at Bavenhausen and studied at Heidelberg and Göttingen. In 1858 he went to Munich to become one of the editors of Sybel's Historische Zeitschrift. In 1865 he was appointed professor of history at Munich, and in 1883 he went to the University of Göttingen. His works include: Geschichte des Gottesfriedens (1857); Wilhehn III., Herzog von Bayern-Landshut (1865); Friedrich der Fromme, Kurfürst von der Pfalz (1876-79); Luise, Königin von Preussen (1876); Blücher (1879); Ueber L. von Westenrieders Leben und

Schriften (1890); and the posthumous Vorträge und Aufsätze (1894).


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The New International Encyclopædia/Kluge, Friedrich

KLUGE,, (1856—). A Germanic scholar, born at Cologne. He studied at Leipzig, Strassburg, and Freiburg; was made professor at Jena in 1884, and in 1893 at Freiburg. Besides his very valuable Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache (6th ed. 1899), he wrote Stammbildungslehre der altgermanischen Dialekte (2d ed. 1899); Von Luther bis Lessing, sprachgeschichtliche Aufsätze (3d ed. 1897); and Deutsche Studentensprache (1895). With Lutz he published English Etymology (1898), and to Paul's Grundriss der germanischen Philologie he contributed “Vorgeschichte der germanischen Sprachen” and “Geschichte der englischen Sprache” (2d ed. 1899).


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The New International Encyclopædia/Klughardt, August

KLUGHARDT, klōōG'härt, (1847-1902). A German composer, born at Köthen. He studied at the Dessau gymnasium and music at Dresden under Blassmann and Reichel. After having been theatre-kapellmeister at Posen, Lübeck, and Weimar, he became in 1872 Courtkapellmeister at Neustrelitz, and in 1882 took a like position at Dessau. He composed the operas Mirjam (1871), Iwein (1879), Gudrun (1882), Die Hochzeit des Mönchs (1886), and, in addition to overtures, symphonies, and other instrumental pieces, the remarkable symphonic poem Leonore.


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Author talk:Coe Finch Austin

Obituary
AUSTIN, Coe Finch, botanist, born in Finchville, Orange County, New York, 20 June 1831 ; died in Closter, New Jersey, 18 March 1880. He was educated chiefly at Rankin's academy, Deckertown, New Jersey Subsequent to his graduation he devoted some time to lecturing on chemistry and botany, but afterward settled in Closter, where he resided during the latter part of his life. For many years he was curator of the herbarium at Columbia College. He was recognized as an authority on mosses, both in this country and in Europe. His published work includes "Musci Appalachiani" (1870), a valuable description of American mosses, for the preparation of which he made numerous journeys through the eastern, middle, and southern states.

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Rh water who knowing this meditates on the fivefold Sâman as all waters.

1. Let a man meditate on the fivefold Sâman as the seasons. The hinkâra is spring, the prastâva summer (harvest of yava, &c), the udgîtha the rainy season, the pratihâra autumn, the nidhana winter.

2. The seasons belong to him, nay, he is always in season (successful) who knowing this meditates on the fivefold Sâman as the seasons.

1. Let a man meditate on the fivefold Sâman in animals. The hinkâra is goats, the prastâva sheep, the udgîtha cows, the pratihâra horses, the nidhana man.

2. Animals belong to him, nay, he is rich in animals who knowing this meditates on the fivefold Sâman as animals.

1. Let a man meditate on the fivefold Sâman, which is greater than great, as the prânas (senses). The hinkâra is smell (nose), the prastâva speech (tongue), the udgîtha sight (eye), the pratihâra hearing (ear), the nidhana mind. These are one greater than the other.

2. What is greater than great belongs to him, nay, he conquers the worlds which are greater than


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The New International Encyclopædia/Knabl, Joseph

KNABL, knä´b'l, (1819-81). An Austrian sculptor, born at Fliess, Tyrol. The son of a poor peasant, he tended cattle when a boy, was first instructed by the wood-carver Franz Renn at Imst, and afterwards in Munich by Entres and Anselm Sickinger. Deeply interested in mediæval German wood-sculpture, the revival of which he made his chief aim, he studied its best specimens in Bavaria, Tyrol, and on the Rhine, and afterwards produced in Munich a series of sterling works in wood and marble, the most remarkable of which is the “Coronation of Mary,” on the high altar in the Frauenkirche. He was a member of the Academy, at which a special chair was created for him in 1863, and for many years was director of Meyer's Institute for Ecclesiastic Art. — His son (1850—), born in Munich, first practiced sculpture under his father's tuition, but became a genre painter as a pupil of Piloty. His effective and frequently humorous genre scenes include “The Robbed Miser” (1874), “An Undiscovered Genius” (1879), and “Poachers” (1891).


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26 great, who knowing this meditates on the fivefold Sâman, which is greater than great, as the prânas (senses).

1. Next for the sevenfold Sâman. Let a man meditate on the sevenfold Sâman in speech. Whenever there is in speech the syllable hun that is hinkâra, pra is the prastâva, â is the âdi, the first, i. e. Om,

2. Ud is the udgîtha, pra the pratihâra, upa the upadrava, ni the nidhana.

3. Speech yields the milk, which is the milk of speech itself, to him who knowing this meditates on the sevenfold Sâman in speech. He becomes rich in food, and able to eat food.

1. Let a man meditate on the sevenfold Sâman as the sun. The sun is Sâman, because he is always the same (sama); he is Sâman because he is the same, everybody thinking he looks towards me, he looks towards me.

2. Let him know that all beings are dependent on him (the sun). What he is before his rising, that is the hinkâra. On it animals are dependent. Therefore animals say hin (before sunrise), for they share the hinkâra of that Sâman (the sun).

3. What he is when first risen, that is the prastâva. On it men are dependent. Therefore men love praise (prastuti) and celebrity, for they share the prastâva of that Sâman.


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Rh the mirror on the dressing-table glared supernaturally. Louisa clutched her friend. All was dark again, the thunder clapping directly.

“There, wasn’t that lovely!” cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. “Oo, wasn’t it magnificent!—glorious!”

The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown. She hurried to the bed.

“I say, dear!” she exclaimed, “may I come into the fold? I prefer the shelter of your company, dear, during this little lot.”

“Don’t you like it?” cried Louisa. “I think it’s lovely—lovely!”

There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open and shut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost-world between the clanging shutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each other spasmodically.

“There!” exclaimed the former, breathless. “That was fine! Helena, did you see that?”

She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. Helena’s answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder.

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” said Olive, taking a place in the bed. “I can’t say I’m struck on lightning. What about you, Helena?”

“I’m not struck yet,” replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a jest.

“Thank you, dear,” said Olive; “you do me the honour of catching hold.”

Helena laughed ironically.

“Catching what?” asked Louisa, mystified.


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Knapp, Albert

KNAPP, knäp, (1798-1864). A German poet, author of many of the best modern German hymns. He studied theology, and after holding various positions in the Protestant Church became in 1836 the principal clergyman in Stuttgart, where he remained until his death. As a poet Knapp worked chiefly in the religious field, and it was in great measure through his hymns that that long-neglected branch of poetry was brought to new life. Many of his hymns are to be found in the Christoterpe, a periodical edited by him from 1833 to 1853. His other works include Christliche Gedichte (1829), Gedichte, neueste Folge (1843), the Cycles, Hohenstaufen (1839), and Bilder der Vorwelt (1862). To hymnology Knapp contributed his Evangelischer Liederschatz für Kirche und Haus (1837), a valuable collection of Christian hymns of all ages, to which his Christenlieder (1841) forms a

splendid supplement. Consult Gerok, Albert Knapp als schwäbischer Dichter (Stuttgart, 1879).


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262 “Why, dear,” answered Olive, heavily condescending to explain, “I offered Helena the handle of a pun, and she took it. What a flash! You know, it’s not that I’m afraid….”

The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder.

Helena lay on the edge of the bed, listening to the ecstatics of one friend and to the impertinences of the other. In spite of her ironical feeling, the thunder impressed her with a sense of fatality. The night opened, revealing a ghostly landscape, instantly to shut again with blackness. Then the thunder crashed. Helena felt as if some secret were being disclosed too swiftly and violently for her to understand. The thunder exclaimed horribly on the matter. She was sure something had happened.

Gradually the storm drew away. The rain came down with a rush, persisted with a bruising sound upon the earth and the leaves.

“What a deluge!” exclaimed Louisa.

No one answered her. Olive was falling asleep, and Helena was in no mood to reply. Louisa, disconsolate, lay looking at the black window, nursing a grievance, until she, too, drifted into sleep. Helena was awake; the storm had left her with a settled sense of calamity. She felt bruised. The sound of the heavy rain bruising the ground outside represented her feeling; she could not get rid of the bruised sense of disaster.

She lay wondering what it was, why Siegmund had not written, what could have happened to him. She imagined all sorts of tragedy, all of them terrible, and endued with grandeur, for she had kinship with Hedda Gabler.

“But no,” she said to herself, “it is impossible


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Rh anything should have happened to him—I should have known. I should have known the moment his spirit left his body; he would have come to me. But I slept without dreams last night, and to-day I am sure there has been no crisis. It is impossible it should have happened to him: I should have known.”

She was very certain that in event of Siegmund’s death, she would have received intelligence. She began to consider all the causes which might arise to prevent his writing immediately to her.

“Nevertheless,” she said at last, “if I don’t hear to-morrow I will go and see.”

She had written to him on Monday. If she should receive no answer by Wednesday morning she would return to London. As she was deciding this she went to sleep.

The next day passed without news. Helena was in a state of distress. Her wistfulness touched the other two women very keenly. Louisa waited upon her, was very tender and solicitous. Olive, who was becoming painful by reason of her unsatisfied curiosity, had to be told in part the state of affairs.

Helena looked up a train. She was quite sure by this time that something fatal awaited her.

The next morning she bade her friends a temporary good-bye, saying she would return in the evening. Immediately the train had gone, Louisa rushed into the little waiting-room of the station and wept. Olive shed tears for sympathy and self-pity. She pitied herself that she should be let in for so dismal a holiday. Louisa suddenly stopped crying and sat up:


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264 “Oh, I know I’m a pig, dear, am I not?” she exclaimed. “Spoiling your holiday. But I couldn’t help it, dear, indeed I could not.”

“My dear Lou!” cried Olive in tragic contralto, “Don’t refrain for my sake. The bargain’s made; we can’t help what’s in the bundle.”

The two unhappy women trudged the long miles back from the station to their lodging. Helena sat in the swinging express revolving the same thought like a prayer-wheel. It would be difficult to think of anything more trying than thus sitting motionless in the train, which itself is throbbing and bursting its heart with anxiety, while one waits hour after hour for the blow which falls nearer as the distance lessens. All the time Helena’s heart and her consciousness were with Siegmund in London, for she believed he was ill and needed her.

“Promise me,” she had said, “if ever I were sick and wanted you, you would come to me.”

“I would come to you from hell!” Siegmund had replied.

“And if you were ill—you would let me come to you?” she had added.

“I promise,” he answered.

Now Helena believed he was ill, perhaps very ill, perhaps she only could be of any avail. The miles of distance were like hot bars of iron across her breast, and against them it was impossible to strive. The train did what it could.

That day remains as a smear in the record of Helena’s life. In it there is no spacing of hours, no lettering of experience, merely a smear of suspense.

Towards six o’clock she alighted at Surbiton Station,


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Rh deciding that this would be the quickest way of getting to Wimbledon. She paced the platform slowly, as if resigned, but her heart was crying out at the great injustice of delay. Presently the local train came in. She had planned to buy a local paper at Wimbledon, and if from that source she could learn nothing, she would go on to his house and inquire. She had pre-arranged everything minutely.

After turning the newspaper several times she found what she sought.

“The funeral took place, at two o’clock to-day at Kingston Cemetery, of ——. Deceased was a professor of music, and had just returned from a holiday on the South Coast….”

The paragraph, in a bald twelve lines, told her everything.

“Jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity. Sympathy was expressed for the widow and children.”

Helena stood still on the station for some time, looking at the print. Then she dropped the paper and wandered into the town, not knowing where she was going.

“That was what I got,” she said, months afterwards; “and it was like a brick, it was like a brick.”

She wandered on and on, until suddenly she found herself in the grassy lane with only a wire fence bounding her from the open fields on either side, beyond which fields, on the left, she could see Siegmund’s house standing florid by the road, catching the western sunlight. Then she stopped, realizing where she had come. For some time she stood looking at the house. It was no use her going there; it was of


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Rh 4. What he is at the time of the sangava, that is the âdi, the first, the Om. On it birds are dependent. Therefore birds fly about in the sky without support, holding themselves, for they share the âdi (the Om) of that Sâman.

5. What he is just at noon, that is the udgîtha. On it the Devas are dependent (because they are brilliant). Therefore they are the best of all the descendants of Pragâpati, for they share the udgîtha of that Sâman.

6. What he is after midday and before afternoon, that is the pratihâra. On it all germs are dependent. Therefore these, having been conceived (pratihrita), do not fall, for they share the pratihâra of that Sâman.

7. What he is after the afternoon and before sunset, that is the upadrava. On it the animals of the forest are dependent. Therefore, when they see a man, they run (upadravanti) to the forest as a safe hiding-place, for they share the upadrava of that Sâman.

8. What he is when he first sets, that is the nidhana. On it the fathers are dependent Therefore they put them down (nidadhati), for they share the nidhana of that Sâman. Thus a man meditates on the sevenfold Sâman as the sun.


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Knapp, Georg Friedrich

KNAPP, (1842—). A German economist and statistician, born at Giessen. He was educated at Munich, Berlin, and Göttingen. At the age of twenty-five he became head of the statistical bureau of Leipzig, and two years afterwards (1869) became professor of economics at the University of Leipzig. In 1874 he went to Strassburg as professor of political economy. His works are mostly on the question of population and the history of agriculture: Ueber die Ermittelung der Sterblichkeit (1860); Theorie des Bevölkerungswechsels (1874); Die Bauernbefreiung und der Ursprung der Landarbeiter in den ältern Teilen Preussens (1887); Die Landarbeiter in Knechtschaft und Freiheit (1891); and Grundherrschaft und Rittergut (1897).


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266 no use her going anywhere; the whole wide world was opened, but in it she had no destination, and there was no direction for her to take. As if marooned in the world, she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegmund over the fields and the hills. Siegmund was gone; why had he not taken her with him?

The evening was drawing on; it was nearly half-past seven when Helena looked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her to return to Cornwall.

“I must either go to her, or wire to her. She will be in a fever of suspense,” said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catch a tram-car to return to the station. She arrived there at a quarter to eight; there was no train down to Tintagel that night. Therefore she wired the news:

This done, she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength of her will everything she did was reasonable and accurate. But her mind was chaotic.

“It was like a brick,” she reiterated, and that brutal simile was the only one she could find, months afterwards, to describe her condition. She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning and maiming her.

As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her mother opened to her.

“What, are you alone?” cried Mrs. Verden.

“Yes. Louisa did not come up,” replied Helena,


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Rh passing into the dining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantel-piece to see if there was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward and took it. It was from one of the London papers.

“Inquest was held to-day upon the body of ——.”

Helena read it, read it again, folded it up and put it in her purse. Her mother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety.

“How did you get to know?” she asked.

“I went to Wimbledon and bought a paper,” replied the daughter, in her muted, toneless voice.

“Did you go to the house?” asked the mother sharply.

“No,” replied Helena.

“I was wondering whether to send you that paper,” said her mother hesitatingly.

Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to help her.

For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room staring before her. Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate her by watching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her look. They acknowledged themselves helpless; like children, they felt powerless and forlorn, and were very quiet.

“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” asked the father at last. He was an unobtrusive, obscure man, whose sympathy was very delicate, whose ordinary attitude was one of gentle irony.

“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” he repeated.


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268 Helena shivered slightly.

“Do, my dear,” her mother pleaded. “Let me take you to bed.”

Helena rose. She had a great horror of being fussed or petted, but this night she went dully upstairs, and let her mother help her to undress. When she was in bed the mother stood for some moments looking at her, yearning to beseech her daughter to pray to God; but she dared not. Helena moved with a wild impatience under her mother’s gaze.

“Shall I leave you the candle?” said Mrs. Verden.

“No, blow it out,” replied the daughter. The mother did so, and immediately left the room, going downstairs to her husband. As she entered the dining-room he glanced up timidly at her. She was a tall, erect woman. Her brown eyes, usually so swift and searching, were haggard with tears that did not fall. He bowed down, obliterating himself. His hands were tightly clasped.

“Will she be all right if you leave her?” he asked.

“We must listen,” replied the mother abruptly.

The parents sat silent in their customary places. Presently Mrs. Verden cleared the supper table, sweeping together a few crumbs from the floor in the place where Helena had sat, carefully putting her pieces of broken bread under the loaf to keep moist. Then she sat down again. One could see she was keenly alert to every sound. The father had his hand to his head; he was thinking and praying.

Mrs. Verden suddenly rose, took a box of matches from the mantel-piece, and hurrying her stately, heavy tread, went upstairs. Her husband followed in much


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Rh trepidation, hovering near the door of his daughter’s room. The mother tremblingly lit the candle. Helena’s aspect distressed and alarmed her. The girl’s face was masked as if in sleep, but occasionally it was crossed by a vivid expression of fear or horror. Her wide eyes showed the active insanity of her brain. From time to time she uttered strange, inarticulate sounds. Her mother held her hands and soothed her. Although she was hardly aware of the mother’s presence, Helena was more tranquil. The father went downstairs and turned out the light. He brought his wife a large shawl, which he put on the bedrail, and silently left the room. Then he went and kneeled down by his own bedside, and prayed.

Mrs. Verden watched her daughter’s delirium, and all the time, in a kind of mental chant, invoked the help of God. Once or twice the girl came to herself, drew away her hand on recognizing the situation, and turned from her mother, who patiently waited until, upon relapse, she could soothe her daughter again. Helena was glad of her mother’s presence, but she could not bear to be looked at.

Towards morning the girl fell naturally asleep. The mother regarded her closely, lightly touched her forehead with her lips, and went away, having blown out the candle. She found her husband kneeling in his nightshirt by the bed. He muttered a few swift syllables, and looked up as she entered.

“She is asleep,” whispered the wife hoarsely.

“Is it a—a natural sleep?” hesitated the husband.

“Yes. I think it is. I think she will be all right.”


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270 “Thank God!” whispered the father, almost inaudibly.

He held his wife’s hand as she lay by his side. He was the comforter. She felt as if now she might cry and take comfort and sleep. He, the quiet, obliterated man, held her hand, taking the responsibility upon himself.


text: The Trespasser/Chapter 29

title: The Trespasser/Chapter 29


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Knaus, Ludwig

KNAUS, knous, (1829-). A German genre painter of the younger Düsseldorf school, born at Wiesbaden. He was the pupil of Sohn and Schadow in Düsseldorf, and afterwards studied in Paris and traveled in Italy. From 1874 to 1884 he was professor at the Berlin Academy. He eventually became one of the most popular and widely known painters of humorous genre subjects, usually rustic scenes. These works are characterized by obvious feeling and sharp delineation of character. Technically he is a skillful artist and excellent colorist. His works include: “His Highness Upon His Travels,” “The Golden Wedding,” “The First Profit,” “I Can Wait,” “In Great Distress,” “Children's Festival,” National Gallery, Berlin; and “Holy Family,” and “None But the Cats,” in the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. Among his portraits are those of Helmholtz and Mommsen, in the Berlin Gallery.


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Knebel, Karl Ludwig von

KNEBEL, knā'bel, (1744-1834). A German poet and translator, born at the castle of Wallerstein, Bavaria. After studying law at the University of Halle, he served for ten years as an officer in the Prussian army, and in 1774 became tutor to Prince Konstantin at Weimar, and accompanied him and his brother on a journey to France. On this occasion he called upon Goethe at Frankfort, and thus first introduced him to the hereditary Prince Karl August. After the early death of his pupil, he retired in 1779 with the rank of major and a pension for life, and henceforth lived in intimate association with that famous literary circle of which Goethe, Schiller, Herder, and Wieland were the guiding stars. In 1708 he married Luise Rudorff, chamber singer to the Duchess Amalie, retired to Ilmenau, and in 1805 removed to Jena. Although his own poems — Hymnen, Elegien, Lebensblüten in Distichen, and others — are to be commended for their classical purity of form, he

is more especially remembered for his excellent translations of the Elegiæ of Propertius (1798), of the De Rerum Natura of Lucretius (1821), and of Alfieri's tragedy Saul (1829). His highly interesting correspondence with Goethe, Briefwechsel mit Goethe, was edited by Guhrauer (Leipzig, 1851).


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1. this, whatsoever moves on earth, is to be hidden in the Lord (the Self). When thou hast surrendered all this, then thou mayest enjoy. Do not covet the wealth of any man!

2. Though a man may wish to live a hundred years, performing works, it will be thus with him; but not in any other way: work will thus not cling to a man.

3. There are the worlds of the Asuras covered with blind darkness. Those who have destroyed their self (who perform works, without having arrived at a knowledge of the true Self), go after death to those worlds.

4. That one (the Self), though never stirring, is swifter than thought. The Devas (senses) never reached it, it walked before them. Though standing still, it overtakes the others who are running. Mâtarisvan (the wind, the moving spirit) bestows powers on it.


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312 5. It stirs and it stirs not; it is far, and likewise near. It is inside of all this, and it is outside of all this.

6. And he who beholds all beings in the Self, and the Self in all beings, he never turns away from it.

7. When to a man who understands, the Self has become all things, what sorrow, what trouble can there be to him who once beheld that unity?

8. He (the Self) encircled all, bright, incorporeal, scatheless, without muscles, pure, untouched by evil; a seer, wise, omnipresent, self-existent, he disposed all things rightly for eternal years.

9. All who worship what is not real knowledge (good works), enter into blind darkness: those who delight in real knowledge, enter, as it were, into greater darkness.

10. One thing, they say, is obtained from real knowledge; another, they say, from what is not knowledge. Thus we have heard from the wise who taught us this.

11. He who knows at the same time both knowledge and not-knowledge, overcomes death through not-knowledge, and obtains immortality through knowledge.

12. All who worship what is not the true cause,


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Rh enter into blind darkness: those who delight in the true cause, enter, as it were, into greater darkness.

13. One thing, they say, is obtained from (knowledge of) the cause; another, they say, from (knowledge of) what is not the cause. Thus we have heard from the wise who taught us this.

14. He who knows at the same time both the cause and the destruction (the perishable body), overcomes death by destruction (the perishable body), and obtains immortality through (knowledge of) the true cause.

15. The door of the True is covered with a golden disk. Open that, O Pûshan, that we may see the nature of the True.

16. O Pûshan, only seer, Yama (judge), Sûrya (sun), son of Pragâpati, spread thy rays and gather them! The light which is thy fairest form, I see it. I am what He is (viz. the person in the sun).

17. Breath to air, and to the immortal! Then this my body ends in ashes. Om! Mind, remember! Remember thy deeds! Mind, remember! Remember thy deeds

18. Agni, lead us on to wealth (beatitude) by a good path, thou, O God, who knowest all things!


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 22 Sunday service at sea, of the Episcopal Church, was read by Capt. Lapidge, the few cabin passengers all joining in the responses, and then we went out on deck to watch the changes in the dreary, barren shore. A single little sail came in sight, and passed near enough for us to see that the craft was a sloop, of perhaps, twenty tons burthen, flying no flag, and carrying some half dozen dark-hued men—Italians, or other southern Europeans—who made no signals, and evidently did not care to court attention to the business in which they were engaged, whatever that might be; there is a little smuggling carried on, even, upon this barren coast.

Monday morning found us plowing through a glassy sea, with no land, no sail, no bird in sight; only the great, glaring sun in the unclouded sky, and the deep, blue, glittering sea below. At 2 we were in sight of land once more—as desolate and uninhabited as the last. Had any one told us that day, that the noble steamer which was bearing us so safely and swiftly over the sea, would in less than six months more be lying an utter wreck on that terrible shore, with what increased interest would we have gazed on both! Passing Santa Margarita Island and Magdalena Bay, at sunset we were well toward Cape St. Lucas, or within one hundred miles thereof. At 5 we were a thousand miles from home.

At 8 a light was seen before us; then blue and red signal lights were sent up, and answered, and soon, out of the darkness emerged the great hull of the steamship Montana. Both steamers stopped, boats were sent off to exchange the latest papers from either side of the continent and carry letters and messages


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314 Keep far from us crooked evil, and we shall offer thee the fullest praise! (Rv. I, 189, 1.)

This Upanishad, though apparently simple and intelligible, is in reality one of the most difficult to understand properly. Coming at the end of the Vâgasaneyi-samhitâ, in which the sacrifices and the hymns to be used by the officiating priests have been described, it begins by declaring that all has to be surrendered to the Lord. The name îs, lord, is peculiar, as having a far more personal colouring than Âtman, Self, or Brahman, the usual names given by the Upanishads to what is the object of the highest knowledge.

Next follows a permission to continue the performance of sacrifices, provided that all desires have been surrendered. And here occurs our first difficulty, which has perplexed ancient as well as modern commentators.

I shall try, first of all, to justify my own translation. I hold that the Upanishad wishes to teach the uselessness by themselves of all good works, whether we call them sacrificial, legal, or moral, and yet, at the same time, to recognise, if not the necessity, at least the harmlessness of good works, provided they are performed without any selfish motives, without any desire of reward, but simply as a preparation for higher knowledge, as a means, in fact, of subduing all passions, and producing that serenity of mind without which man is incapable of receiving the highest knowledge. From that point of view the Upanishad may well say, Let a man wish to live here his appointed time, let him even perform all works. If only he knows that all must be surrendered to the Lord, then the work done by him will not cling to him. It will not work on and produce effect after effect, nor will it involve him in a succession of new births in which to enjoy the reward of his works, but it will leave him free to enjoy the blessings of the highest knowledge. It will have served as a preparation for that higher knowledge which the Upanishad imparts, and which secures freedom from further births.

The expression 'na karma lipyate nare' seems to me to admit of this one explanation only, viz. that work done does not cling to man, provided he has acquired the highest knowledge. Similar expressions occur again and again. Lip was, no doubt, used originally of evil deeds which became, as it were, engrained in man; but afterwards of all work, even of good work, if done with a desire of reward. The doctrine of the Upanishads is throughout that orthodoxy and sacrifice can procure a limited beatitude only,


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viii lands upon their banks, and an easy conveyance for the produce thus obtained. Nor should the Ganges and Burrampooter pass unnoticed, since these rivers, with many tributary streams, form a series of natural canals, which, with little aid from the art of man, add at once to the convenience and prosperity of the extensive district through which they flow; and which, we have substantial reasons for concluding, were a principal source of emolument to the people of India from a very early period.

In Egypt, the great canal, whereby a communication was made between the Nile and the Red Sea, was commenced so early as the reign of Necos, son of Psammetichus, and completed by the Second Ptolemy. Its breadth was such that two gallies abreast could easily be navigated thereon, and by it the riches and merchandize of the east were conveyed from the Red Sea to the Nile, from thence to the Mediterranean, and to all the commercial nations of that day. The Nile also with its numerous branches, and if we may here use the term, its collateral cuts, afforded ample means of water carriage to the people both of Upper and Lower Egypt; the result of which was an astonishing increase in the commerce, and consequently in the prosperity, of every part to which this mode of conveyance extended.

In China, particularly in the eastern provinces of that immense empire, multitudes of canals are every where met with; most of which furnish undeniable evidence of their antiquity and of the skill of their original constructors. The Royal Canal which was completed in the year 980 and occupied the labour of thirty thousand men for forty-three years, is a most stupendous monument of the enterprise, ingenuity and perseverance of the ancient Chinese. Its length of main line is upwards of eight hundred and twenty-five miles, and innumerable collateral branches are cut from it in every direction. Upon the surface of this canal and its subsidiaries many thousand families live in vessels, which form their travelling habitations, and which they seldom quit from their birth till their decease. And some idea may be formed of the traffic upon it, when it is stated that the Emperor alone has ten thousand vessels constantly employed upon the different parts of its line.

The utility of inland navigation was hardly likely to have escaped the notice of Greece, skilled as her ancient people were


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