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114 has some meaning and interest. Just here is where so much of the biometrical work which has been done has failed. Too often has there been an espousal of the forlorn hope that the application of biometric methods might inject biological interest and meaning into a «problem » previously quite destitute of these attributes.

Further it is of the highest importance for the correct application of biometric methods to understand thoroughly the biological implications of the particular method employed. Failur e to do this is bound to lead one into all sorts of pitfalls. It has been a very unfortunate boast of some biome- tricians that their methods involved no biological assumption or implication whatever. Such a statement is seen upon critical examination, to be a logical absurdity. Biometric methods, « considered solely as pure mathematical reasoning », certainly have no biological implications, but the moment they are « applied » to biological data for the solution of biological problems they do carry biological implications. Otherwise their application is altogether irrational and futile. If no biological meaning or implication attaches to the determination of the degree of correlation between parent and offspring, for example, it is evidently a waste of time to calculate such correlations. Further, if it cannot be clearly shown that the method of determining such correlations is such as to lead to a « biologically » valid result, the application of the method in biology is equally idle. As the point here under consideration is one of fundamental importance, it will be well to give it full discussion with a concrete illustration.

It has been frequently maintained by Pearson that the «law of ancestral inheritance », which states that the correlation between offspring and their ancestors decreases in a geometrical progression as the number of included ancestral generations increases, involves no biological implication whatever regarding inheritance. Further it has been stated on the same authority that the method by which this «law » is deduced (namely by determining the correlations which exist between offspring and their ancestors) is valid whatever may be the biological basis or mode of inheritance. Now, as a matter of fact, practically all of the work which has been

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Rh done upon inheritance by Pearson and his coworkers seems to the writer to involve from its very beginning- a fundamental biological assumption. This assumption is that a correct determination of the correlation in respect to  external, somatic characters between genetically related individuals, is an adequate measure of the intensity of inheritance between these individuals. But the validity of this assumption has never been demonstrated, and presumably never can be, because such an assumption is contrary to demonstrated biological facts, which can at any time be experimentally verified. The facts to which I allude are those upon which rest the demonstration of the existence of genotypes as opposed to phaenotypes in respect to the behavior of characters in inheritance. These facts in general show that the « somatic » and the « germinal » conditions or states with reference to a particular character may be quite different in the same individual. It results, then, that the « somatic » condition of such a character in the progeny has no direct or necessary relation to the « somatic » condition of the same character in the parent. Nothing is brought out more clearly by all recent experimental studies of inheritance than that the somatic condition of a character in a particular organism is a very unreliable criterion of the probable condition of that character in the progeny of that organism. Thus, to take some concrete instances by way of illustration, if one breeds a Cornish Game cock bird to a Barred Bock female the female offspring resulting will not be, in respect to plumage, colour and pattern, in the slightest degree like either parent. On the contrary they will be solid black in colour . A knowledge of the « somatic » condition of the parents, in such a case, no matter how detailed it might be, would, in advance of the actual breeding test, give no clue whatever as to the probable somatic condition of its offspring. Yet, in its procedure of correlating parent and offspring in respect to somatic characters, the « law of ancestral inheritance » definitely assumes that the somatic condition of the

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Rh If thy love were like mine, how wild

Thy longings, even to pain,

For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,

To bring that hour again!

But oft, when in thine arms I lay,

I've seen thy dark eyes shine,

And deeply felt, their changeful ray

Spoke other love than mine.

My love is almost anguish now,

It beats so strong and true;

'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou

Such anguish ever knew.

I have been but thy transient flower,

Thou wert my god divine;

Till, checked by death's congealing power,

This heart must throb for thine.

And well my dying hour were blest,

If life's expiring breath

Should pass, as thy lips gently prest

My forehead, cold in death;

And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,

Beneath the churchyard tree,

If sometimes in thy heart should beat

One pulse, still true to me.

.


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150 In vain—in vain! Thou canst not rise:

Thy prison roof confines thee there;

Its slender wires delude thine eyes,

And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free

In sunny mead and shady grove,

And, far beyond the rolling sea,

In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate

Thy little drooping heart to cheer,

And share with thee thy captive state,

Thou couldst be happy even there.

Yes, even there, if, listening by,

One faithful dear companion stood,

While gazing on her full bright eye,

Thou mightst forget thy native wood.

But thou, poor solitary dove,

Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;

The heart, that Nature formed to love,

Must pine, neglected, and alone.

.


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156 "And for these little simple airs—

I love to play them o'er

So much—I dare not promise, now,

To play them never more."

I answered—and it was enough;

They turned them to depart;

They could not read my secret thoughts,

Nor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful form,

Upon whose changeful face

The inmost workings of the soul

The gazer well might trace;

The speaking eye, the changing lip,

The ready blushing cheek,

The smiling, or beclouded brow,

Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine

For hours, and never know

The secret changes of my soul

From joy to keenest woe.

Last night, as we sat round the fire

Conversing merrily,

We heard, without, approaching steps

Of one well known to me!

There was no trembling in my voice,

No blush upon my cheek,

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,

Of hope, or joy, to speak;


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Rh But, oh! my spirit burned within,

My heart beat full and fast!

He came not nigh—he went away—

And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not:

My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o'er my face

No signs of sadness came.

They little knew my hidden thoughts;

And they will never know

The aching anguish of my heart,

The bitter burning woe!

.

THE MISSIONARY.

, vessel, plough the British main,

Seek the free ocean's wider plain;

Leave English scenes and English skies,

Unbind, dissever English ties;

Bear me to climes remote and strange,

Where altered life, fast-following change,

Hot action, never-ceasing toil,

Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil;


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Rh FLUCTUATIONS.

though the Sun had left my sky;

To save me from despair

The blessed Moon arose on high,

And shone serenely there.

I watched her, with a tearful gaze,

Rise slowly o'er the hill,

While through the dim horizon's haze

Her light gleamed faint and chill.

I thought such wan and lifeless beams

Could ne'er my heart repay,

For the bright sun's most transient gleams

That cheered me through the day:

But as above that mist's control

She rose, and brighter shone,

I felt her light upon my soul;

But now—that light is gone!

Thick vapours snatched her from my sight,

And I was darkling left,

All in the cold and gloomy night,

Of light and hope bereft:


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Rh Until, methought, a little star

Shone forth with trembling ray,

To cheer me with its light afar—

But that, too, passed away.

Anon, an earthly meteor blazed

The gloomy darkness through;

I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed—

But that soon vanished too!

And darker, drearier fell the night

Upon my spirit then;—

But what is that faint struggling light?

Is it the Moon again?

Kind Heaven! increase that silvery gleam,

And bid these clouds depart,

And let her soft celestial beam

Restore my fainting heart!

.

FINIS.


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116 one may be taken as a valid and reliable criterion of the other. Many cases like that just cited might be given from existing Mendelian literature. Indeed, it may be said that nearly all experiments in crossing plants or animals furnish illustrations of the general principle that the somatic condition of a character is a most unreliable criterion of its probable behavior in inheritance.

It may be objected that the type of cases cited in the preceding paragraph are hardly a fair basis for the criticism of the « law of ancestral inheritance » in regard to the logical foundation of the procedure by which it is deduced, since the illustrations mentioned concern themselves with qualitative variations, whereas it is with quantitative variations that the biometrical study of inheritance has had to do. As a matter of fact the case for the « law » is made no better if this contention be granted, though it is difficult to see what reason exists for supposing that so-called qualitative variations are not inherited in fundamentally the same way as are so-called quantitative variations. Every character and every variation has both a qualitative and a quantitative aspect. But if we consider only the quantitative aspect of the matter, as has been done in much of the biometric work on inheritance, the same principle of the unreliability of somatic conditions as a criterion of hereditary behavior comes clearly forth from the work of Johannsen on beans, that of Jennings on Paramecium and in unpublished data regarding the inheritance of fecundity in the domestic fowl. Thus, we may have the inbred descendants of one hen A with a high winter egg production record (say 62 eggs) all uniformly showing in succeeding generations a high degree of winter productiveness, approximately the same as that of the original bird (60-65 eggs). At the same time we may have another bird B with a winter record precisely like that of A (62 eggs again) whose inbred descendants, through three generations at least, all uniformly show a mediocre or low degree of winter productiveness (ave-

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Rh WINTER STORES.

take from life one little share,

And say that this shall be

A space, redeemed from toil and care,

From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow

And Sorrow stands apart,

And, for a little while, we know

The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,

Warm, soft, and full of peace;

Our free, unfettered feelings give

The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power,

To call up thoughts that throw

Around that charmed and hallowed hour,

This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,

And slowly, will not stay;

Alike, through clear and clouded skies,

It cleaves its silent way.


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152 Alike the bitter cup of grief,

Alike the draught of bliss,

Its progress leaves but moment brief

For baffled lips to kiss.

The sparkling draught is dried away,

The hour of rest is gone,

And urgent voices, round us, say,

"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"

And has the soul, then, only gained,

From this brief time of ease,

A moment's rest, when overstrained,

One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,

And flowers bloomed round our feet,—

While many a bud of joy before us

its petals sweet,—

An unseen work within was plying;

Like honey-seeking bee,

From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,

one faculty,—

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,

Its gloom and scarcity;

Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,

Toiled quiet Memory.


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 :: for his wife. Of this letter Walpole wrote: ‘It beats everything for madness, horrid indecency, and folly, and yet has some charming and striking passages.’ Eight lines by him ‘on a pencil sent to his wife,’ are printed in Nichols's ‘Collection of Poems,’ vi. 56.
 * 1)   ‘A Complaint on the part of the Hon. Thomas Hervey concerning an undue Proceeding at Court. Set forth in two Letters to the Princess of Brunswick,’ 1766; 3rd edit., much expanded, 1767. To this last edition was prefixed a ferocious declaration of enmity against his nephews, the then Earl of Bristol and Augustus Hervey, and to it were added two letters to Miss Anne Coghlan, apparently love-letters before marriage. The ‘Complaint’ was that some part of the pension payable to him by the government had been appropriated for the support of his wife and son. He had previously published in the daily papers the following advertisement: ‘Whereas Mrs. Hervey has been three times from home last year and at least as often the year before without either my leave or privity, and has encouraged her son to persist in the like rebellious practices, I hereby declare that I neither am nor will be accountable for any future debts of hers whatever. She is now keeping forcible possession of my house, to which I never did invite or thought of inviting her in all my life. Tho. Hervey.’ A letter from his wife to George Selwyn respecting one of these insults is in Jesse's ‘Selwyn,’ i. 220–3.
 * 2) ‘An Elegy upon the Death of the late Earl Granville’ [by Hon. T. H.], 1767.
 * 3) ‘Mr. Hervey's Answer to a Letter he received from Dr. Samuel Johnson to dissuade him from parting with his Supposed Wife,’ 1772, ‘but first printed and written in 1763,’ according to note on the copy of the work at the British Museum. In this he makes frequent references to his wife's violence of temper. Hervey had been attacked in a pamphlet, written, as it was thought, by Sir Charles Hanbury Williams. Johnson, who was introduced to Hervey by his brother, Henry Hervey, afterwards Aston, an officer in the army quartered at Lichfield, wrote a defence. This was not printed, as the assailant proved to be a garreteer, but in consideration of Johnson's services Hervey sent him 50l. in a letter, to which he added: ‘P.S. I am going to part with my wife.’ Johnson sent a reply of expostulation, and when Hervey died, gave as his epitaph, ‘Tom Hervey, though a vicious man, was one of the genteelest men that ever lived.’ A whimsical letter of remonstrance, dated 5 Dec. 1762, from Hervey to Pitt on the latter's political action is in the ‘Chatham Correspondence,’ ii. 197–9.

HERVEY, THOMAS KIBBLE (1799–1859), poet and editor, son of James Hervey, was born at Paisley on 4 Feb. 1799. He was brought to Manchester in 1803, where his father settled as a drysalter, and he was educated at the Manchester grammar school. After being articled to a solicitor at Manchester, he was transferred to a London office, and subsequently was set to qualify for the bar. He was entered about 1818 at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he remained two years. While there he published some poems which, unfortunately for his success as a barrister, brought him much into notice. He went to London, and never returned to take his degree, nor was he ever called to the bar. The poem which had so much success was entitled ‘Australia,’ of which a second edition, with some additional pieces, came out in 1824. He contributed novelettes and poems to several of the annuals. His popular poem, ‘The Convict Ship,’ first appeared in the ‘Literary Souvenir’ for 1825. He edited the ‘Friendship's Offering’ for 1826 and 1827, and the ‘Amaranth’ for 1839. In 1827 he migrated to Paris, but soon returned to London in straitened circumstances. He wrote in its early days for the ‘Dublin Review.’ After contributing for many years to the ‘Athenæum,’ he was appointed sole editor of that journal on 23 May 1846, which charge he relinquished at the end of 1853, in consequence of ill-health. He was a sound critic of art as well as of literature, and afterwards wrote frequently in the ‘Art Journal.’

On 17 Oct. 1843 he married Eleanor [sic] Louisa (b. 1811), daughter of George Conway Montagu of Lackham, Wiltshire. She was herself a poetess of merit, and by her Hervey left an only son. Hervey was a charmingly genial and witty companion, and, according to his brother, was as a young man extremely eloquent. He died on 27 Feb. 1859 at Kentish Town, London, and was buried at Highgate cemetery.

In addition to ‘Australia,’ he published the following separate works: In 1866 his
 * 1) ‘The Poetical Sketch-Book,’ 1829, 12mo; this contained the third edition of ‘Australia.’
 * 2) ‘Illustrations of Modern Sculpture, with descriptive Prose and illustrative Poetry,’ 1834, 4to.
 * 3) ‘The Book of Christmas, with Illustrations by R. Seymour,’ 1836, 8vo.
 * 4) ‘The English Helicon of the Nineteenth Century,’ 1841, 8vo.
 * 5) ‘A Selection of Essays from the Livre Cent et Un,’ 3 vols.


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Rh Obedient to the goad of grief,

Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,

In varying motion seek relief

From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals—

But long as mute as phantom dim—

She glides along the dusky walls,

Under the black oak rafters, grim.

The close air of the grated tower

Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,

And, though so late and lone the hour,

Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement, spread before

The long front of the mansion grey,

Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,

Which pale on grass and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon

And shimmering stars could on her look,

But through the garden arch-way, soon

Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower,

Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head,

Unseen, beneath this sable bower,

Rustled her dress and rapid tread.


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48 There was an alcove in that shade,

Screening a rustic-seat and stand;

Weary she sat her down and laid

Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night,

Some words she now, in murmurs, said;

And, trickling through her fingers white,

Some tears of misery she shed.

"God help me, in my grievous need,

God help me, in my inward pain;

Which cannot ask for pity's meed,

Which has no license to complain;

Which must be borne, yet who can bear,

Hours long, days long, a constant weight—

The yoke of absolute despair,

A suffering wholly desolate?

Who can for ever crush the heart,

Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?

Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,

With outward calm, mask inward strife?"

She waited—as for some reply;

The still and cloudy night gave none;

Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,

Her heavy plaint again begun.


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Rh "Unloved—I love; unwept—I weep;

Grief I restrain—hope I repress:

Vain is this anguish—fixed and deep;

Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

My love awakes no love again,

My tears collect, and fall unfelt;

My sorrow touches none with pain,

My humble hopes to nothing melt.

For me the universe is dumb,

Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;

Life I must bound, existence sum

In the strait limits of one mind;

That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell;

Dark—imageless—a living tomb!

There must I sleep, there wake and dwell

Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom."

Again she paused; a moan of pain,

A stifled sob, alone was heard;

Long silence followed—then again,

Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

"Must it be so? Is this my fate?

Can I nor struggle, nor contend?

And am I doomed for years to wait,

Watching death's lingering axe descend?


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 widow collected his poems and published them, with memoir and portrait, at Boston, United States of America.

 HERVEY, WILLIAM (d, 1567), Clarenceux king-at-arms. [See .]

HERVEY, WILLIAM, (d. 1642), was the only son of Henry Hervey, eldest son of Sir Nicholas Hervey, gentleman of the privy chamber to Henry VIII, and ambassador at Ghent, by his second wife, Bridget, daughter and heiress of Sir John Wiltshire, knt., of Stone Castle in Kent, and widow of Sir Richard Wingfield, K.G., of Kimbolton Castle in Huntingdonshire. His mother was Jane, daughter of James Thomas of Glamorganshire. He first signalised himself in 1588 against the Spanish Armada, when he is said to have boarded one of the Spanish ships and killed the captain, Hugh Monçada, with his own hands. On 27 June 1596 he was knighted for his services in the capture of Cadiz. In 1597 he was present at the taking of Fayal on Essex's ‘Islands' Voyage.’ The queen conferred on him the keepership of St. Andrew's Castle, Hampshire, on 8 Feb. 1598 (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1598–1601, p. 19). In 1600 he commanded one of the royal ships, and brought relief to his cousin, Sir George Carew [q. v.], president of Munster, who was engaged in reducing the rebels in Ireland. In June of that year he was appointed scout-master, and was wounded in a skirmish before Dundalk on the following 2 Oct. (ib. Carew MSS. 1589–1600, pp. 397, 465). Hervey stayed some time in Ireland, and was successful in several actions. He was also very serviceable at the siege of Kinsale, and on its surrender on 9 Jan. 1601–2 he was sent, in pursuance of the capitulation, to take possession of the castles of Dunboy, Castlehaven, and Flower. He was afterwards made governor of Carbery, from Ross to Bantry, took Cape Clear Castle, and successfully stood his ground until the final reduction of the rebels. For these services James I created him a baronet on 31 May 1619, and an Irish peer on 5 Aug. 1620, with the title of Baron Hervey of Ross, co. Wexford. On 7 Feb. 1627–8 he was raised to the English peerage as Baron Hervey of Kidbrooke, Kent. He died in June 1642, and was buried on the following 8 July in St. Edmund's Chapel in Westminster Abbey (Register, Harl. Soc., p. 136). He married (1) in May 1598 Mary (d. 1607), widow of Henry Wriothesley, earl of Southampton, and daughter of Anthony Browne, viscount Montacute, by whom he had no issue (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1598–1601, pp. 54, 157); and (2) on 5 Feb. 1607 Cordell, youngest daughter of Brian Ansley of Lee, Kent, and gentleman-pensioner to Queen Elizabeth, by whom he had three sons and three daughters; but all dying except Elizabeth, wife of John Hervey (1616–1679) [q. v.] of Ickworth, Suffolk, the titles became extinct at his death. His second wife was buried at St. Martin-in-the-Fields on 5 May 1636.

 HESELTINE, JAMES (1690–1763), organist and composer, a pupil of Dr. Blow, was in the early part of the century organist to St. Katharine's Hospital, near the Tower. In 1710 he was elected organist of Durham Cathedral. A misunderstanding between him and the dean and chapter led him to destroy his compositions, but he held the post of organist until his death on 20 June 1763, and was buried in the Galilee of the cathedral. Early in 1730 Heseltine married a daughter of Sir George Wheler, canon of Durham. His portrait is in the Music School, Oxford. He died a widower without family, and his property was claimed by a nephew and niece in America.

Heseltine's anthem, ‘Unto Thee will I cry,’ in his own handwriting, and dated ‘September ye 17th, 1707,’ is in the British Museum Library (Addit. MS. 30860). Other manuscript pieces by him are in the Lambeth Palace Library.

 HESILRIGE or HASELRIG, ARTHUR (d. 1661), statesman, was eldest son of Sir Thomas Hesilrige, bart., of Noseley, Leicestershire, and Frances, daughter of William Gorges of Alderton, Northamptonshire (, Leicestershire, ii. 743). His father died in 1629, and he was, according to Clarendon, ‘brought up by Mr. Pym’ (Rebellion, iii. 128). On the death in 1632 of his first wife, Frances, daughter of Thomas Elmes of Lilford, Northamptonshire, Hesilrige married Dorothy, sister of Robert Greville, lord Brooke [q. v.] (, p. 748). His early political conduct seems to have been largely guided by the influence of Pym and Brooke. Himself a staunch puritan, he was bitterly opposed to


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50 And when it falls, and when I die,

What follows? Vacant nothingness?

The blank of lost identity?

Erasure both of pain and bliss?

I've heard of heaven—I would believe;

For if this earth indeed be all,

Who longest lives may deepest grieve,

Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

Oh! leaving disappointment here,

Will man find hope on yonder coast?

Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,

And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

Will he hope's source of light behold,

Fruition's spring, where doubts expire,

And drink, in waves of living gold,

Contentment, full, for long desire?

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed?

Rest, which was weariness on earth?

Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed,

Served but to prove it void of worth?

Will he find love without lust's leaven,

Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,

To all with equal bounty given,

In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure?


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Rh rage 30 eggs, for example). If the somatic condition - in this case the actual production record - were a good cri- terion of the behavior of the character in inheritance it would be expected that on the average the descendants of A would not be essentially different in egg producing capacity from the descendants of B. Precisely the same point is brought out in the work of Johannsen and Jennings. The selection of variations «within» the pure line produces no result so far as the progeny are concerned.

All of the experimental investigations referred to agree in showing in a most definite and indubitablc manner that there exist two distinct categories of variation, and that this fact must never be lost sight of in any discussion of heredity which is to lead to valid conclusions. On the one hand are the Variations which are definitely inherited (i. e., reappear in the progeny), presumably because they are in some way represented in the gcrininal substance; on the other hand are the purely somatic variations which do not reappear in the offspring and are not inherited, presumably because they are not represented in the germinal substance. Now the << law of ancestral inheritance » entirely disregards the existence of these two sorts of variations. In its fundamental thesis that the correlation between parent and offspring in regard to somatic conditions is a valid measure of the intensity of in- heritance it definitely and implicitly assumes that all varia- tions are of equal significance in heredity. Upon this funda- mental biological error, which is taken as a basic assumption, the whole superstructure of the biometric treatment of inhe- ritance is reared. When the significance and consequences of this initial error are perceived it is seen at once that the whole reasoning, so far as it concerns heredity, falls to the ground. Thus it is assumed that the existence of a dednite degree of correlation (say r = 0.40 ± 0.02) between parent and offspring indicates inheritance, providing both generations have been reared under reasonably the same environmental conditions, and an absence of correlation (r = 0) under similar circumstances means that the character studied is not inhe- rited. But the work of Johannsen and Jennings indicates that in general there is « no » correlation (r = 0) between parent and offspring « within the genotype » (i. e., within the same pure line). A10 we to conclude then that there is no inheritance

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Rh Page


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Rh Will he, from penal sufferings free,

Released from shroud and wormy clod,

All calm and glorious, rise and see

Creation's Sire—Existence' God?

Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes,

Will he behold them, fading, fly;

Swept from Eternity's repose,

Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky?

If so—endure, my weary frame;

And when thy anguish strikes too deep,

And when all troubled burns life's flame,

Think of the quiet, final sleep;

Think of the glorious waking-hour,

Which will not dawn on grief and tears,

But on a ransomed spirit's power,

Certain, and free from mortal fears.

Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn,

Then from thy chamber, calm, descend,

With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn,

But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

And when thy opening eyes shall see

Mementos, on the chamber wall,

Of one who has forgotten thee,

Shed not the tear of acrid gall.


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 the ecclesiastical policy of Laud, with whom he seems also to have had a personal quarrel (Diary of Thomas Burton, iii. 89; Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1641–3, p. 547). In the two parliaments which met in 1640 Hesilrige was elected for Leicestershire. His opponent in the second election was sent to the Tower for breach of privilege in characterising Hesilrige as a man with ‘more will than wit’ (Commons' Journals, ii. 43). In like manner Clarendon terms him ‘an absurd, bold man,’ and adds that he was used by the leaders of his party, like the dove out of the ark, to try what footing there was when new propositions were to be brought forward (Rebellion, iii. 128, 156, 244). His name is associated with the introduction of the bill of attainder against Strafford. He was one of the promoters of the ‘Root-and-Branch Bill,’ and the proposer of the Militia Bill (7 Dec. 1641). To the last he probably owed his inclusion among the five members impeached by the king on 3 Jan. 1642, of which he gives some account in a later speech (, Diary, iii. 93).

In June 1642 Hesilrige was very active in executing the parliamentary commission of array in Leicestershire (Lords' Journals, v. 147). He raised a troop of horse in Essex's army, and fought under the command of Sir William Balfour at Edgehill (, Army Lists, p. 53;, Memoirs, § 11). A letter from Hesilrige to Essex is printed by Sanford (p. 559). Hesilrige then became second in command to Waller, and Vicars calls him Waller's ‘Fidus Achates.’ He took part in the captures of Chichester and Malmesbury, and did not hesitate to seize the communion plate of Chichester Cathedral, to devote it to the parliament's service (, Jehovah-jireh, pp. 235, 292; Mercurius Rusticus, ed. 1685, p. 243; Military Memoir of Col. Birch, p. 203). At the head of a regiment of cuirassiers, known to their opponents as ‘the Lobsters,’ he greatly distinguished himself in the victory of Lansdowne (5 July 1643). At Roundway Down his regiment bore the brunt of the battle, and some accounts attribute Waller's defeat to Hesilrige's mistaken tactics (, Rebellion, vii. 104, 118;, Memoirs, § 11; Bibliotheca Gloucestrensis, p. 193). At both these battles he was wounded, and it is said that after the latter he was publicly prayed for in the London churches (Mil. Mem. of Col. Birch, p. 51). Nevertheless, he at once set to work to recruit his cuirassiers, with whom he again did excellent service at the battle of Cheriton (29 March 1644). He undertook also to raise a regiment of foot, but ‘delighting all in horse,’ left the management of it entirely to Birch, his lieutenant-colonel (ib. pp. 3, 14;, Memoirs, ed. 1751, p. 43; , Rebellion, viii. 13). Holles, who always accuses his enemies of cowardice, relates a story of Hesilrige's misconduct at Cheriton, which has obtained more credit than it deserves (Memoirs, § 28). His fault throughout his life was overboldness rather than want of courage. Parliament showed appreciation of his services by stipulating in the Uxbridge treaty that he should be made a baron, and given lands worth 2,000l. a year (Commons' Journals, iv. 360). In the disputes which led to the passing of the self-denying ordinance Hesilrige was prominent among the opponents of Essex, and he was one of the witnesses for Cromwell in his quarrel with Manchester (, § § 25, 28; Manchester's Quarrel with Cromwell, Camden Soc., 1875, pp. lxvi, 85, 87, 97).

Hesilrige now laid down his commission, and taking his place in parliament became one of the recognised leaders of the independents there. In the summer of 1647 he took part boldly with the army against the presbyterians. He was suspected of complicity in Joyce's seizure of the king, and of arranging the flight of Lenthall to the army. On one occasion he told the House of Commons that he feared the parliament of England would not save the kingdom of England, and that they must look another way for safety (, § 96;, Hist. of Independency, ed. 1661, pt. i. pp. 47, 51, 57). On 30 Dec. 1647 the House of Commons approved Fairfax's appointment of Hesilrige as governor of Newcastle, a post which the danger of a war with Scotland made one of consequence and trust (Commons' Journals, v. 239). Hesilrige's letters announcing the rising of the cavaliers and their seizure of Berwick (28 April 1648) are printed in Cary's ‘Memorials of the Civil War’ (i. 397, 410, 413, 419). With the small force at his command he succeeded in maintaining Newcastle, defeating Colonel Grey and the Northumbrian royalists (1 July), and recapturing Tynemouth (11 Aug.,, viii. 1177, 1227). In October he accompanied Cromwell into Scotland, and was entertained with him at Edinburgh by Leven and Argyll (ib. p. 1295;, Memorials, ed. 1853, ii. 422). When Cromwell, in 1650, invaded Scotland a second time, Hesilrige was charged to raise a second army of new levies to second him (Mercurius Politicus, 3 Aug. 1650). To him Cromwell wrote the night before the battle of Dunbar, urging him to gather what forces he could, either to fall on the rear of the Scottish position, or to prevent their further progress into England


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118 within the genotype — within a group of individuals where the offspring breed absolutely true generation after generation? Merely to state the question shows the absurdity of the current biometrical treatment of inheritance which regards all variations in the same correlation table as of equal hereditary significance. What a correlation coefficient deduced from a parent-offspring correlation table which includes a random sample of parents in general, or offspring in general, really measures is what may be called the orderly heterogeneity of the material which goes into the table. One gets out of the table by way of the correlation coefficient merely a measure of what was put into the table as raw data. If the table includes individuals belonging to several distinct genotypes we may expect to get from it in many cases at any rate a sensible correlation coefficient between parent and offspring. But this coefficient does not measure the « intensity of inheritance » between parent and offspring with reference to the character considered. It simply measures the mutual interrelation (as to range and distribution of variation) of the several genotypes which went into the table. The coefficient indicates, in other words, that there are certain groups of individuals within the table which are differentiated, in respect to both parent and offspring, from certain other groups in the same table. It does not tell us what the basis of this differentiation is. It may be inheritance, as it is assumed to be in the illustration here under discussion; it may be local environmental differences or it may be anything whatever so far as the correlation method per se helps us. The only way to determine whether the « differences » indicated by the correlation method are really heritable is to apply the method of individual pedigree analysis, to the complex, heterogeneous material of the table. If it is possible to isolate and propogate distinct genotypes from the material then it may be concluded that the primary basis of the differentiation or heterogeneity detected by the correlation coefficient was inheritance.

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52 The tear which, welling from the heart,

Burns where its drop corrosive falls,

And makes each nerve, in torture, start,

At feelings it too well recalls:

When the sweet hope of being loved,

Threw Eden sunshine on life's way:

When every sense and feeling proved

Expectancy of brightest day.

When the hand trembled to receive

A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near,

And the heart ventured to believe,

Another heart esteemed it dear.

When words, half love, all tenderness,

Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken,

When the long, sunny days of bliss,

Only by moonlight nights were broken.

Till drop by drop, the cup of joy

Filled full, with purple light, was glowing,

And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high,

Still never dreamt the overflowing.

It fell not with a sudden crashing,

It poured not out like open sluice;

No, sparkling still, and redly flashing,

Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.


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Rh the correlation table. To determine definitely whether the basis of the heterogeneity is inheritance, recourse must be had to pedigree analysis in terms of individuals and of families. Of course it will be true in many cases in actual practise that general considerations make it a priori highly probable or even certain that the basis of an observed heterogeneity is inheritance. In such cases the coefficient of correlation, may be said to indicate the existence of inheritance, though not to measure its intensity. But the first and fundamental «demonstration» that a character is inherited in a given group of individuals must always rest upon some other basis than coefficients of correlation alone. The essential point here made regarding the inherent difficulty in the interpretation of correlation coefficients, has been very ably discussed recently by G. Udny Yule1. I am in entire agrementagreement [sic] with his position.

The general purpose of this digression regarding the study of inheritance has been to show by a concrete example how erroneous biological assumptions at the fundation may invalidate completely a whole line of biometrical reasoning, It is hoped that this discussion will emphasize the importance of the point made at the beginning, that it is necessary always to keep clearly in mind the limitations of the biometric method in general. Biometry furnishes a valuable and refined extension of the descriptive method. Its future usefulness to biology depends largely upon a clear recognition of two things. These are, on the one hand, that biometric methods are, in their essential nature, purely descriptive methods of investigation, and, on the other hand, that for the valid employment of these methods, it is necessary to use as much general «biological intelligence» in regard to the significance of the biological problem attacked, the biological validity of the assumptions made in applying mathematical methods to the problem, and the applicability of the particular methods used to the particular problem studied, as would be exercised in any investigation by any other method.

 * Orono, Maine, JJ. 8. A. Biological Laboratory. Maine Experiment Station.

Raymond Pearl

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Rh THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE.

room is quiet, thoughts alone

People its mute tranquillity;

The yoke put off, the long task done,—

I am, as it is bliss to be,

Still and untroubled. Now, I see,

For the first time, how soft the day

O'er waveless water, stirless tree,

Silent and sunny, wings its way.

Now, as I watch that distant hill,

So faint, so blue, so far removed,

Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,

That home where I am known and loved:

It lies beyond; yon azure brow

Parts me from all Earth holds for me;

And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow

Thitherward tending, changelessly.

My happiest hours, aye! all the time,

I love to keep in memory,

Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime

Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart

Makes me thus mourn those far away,

And keeps my love so far apart

From friends and friendships of to-day;


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108 Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream

I treasure up so jealously,

All the sweet thoughts I live on seem

To vanish into vacancy:

And then, this strange, coarse world around

Seems all that's palpable and true;

And every sight, and every sound,

Combines my spirit to subdue

To aching grief, so void and lone

Is Life and Earth—so worse than vain,

The hopes that, in my own heart sown,

And cherished by such sun and rain

As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,

Have ripened to a harvest there:

Alas! methinks I hear it said,

"Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

All fades away; my very home

I think will soon be desolate;

I hear, at times, a warning come

Of bitter partings at its gate;

And, if I should return and see

The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;

And hear it whispered mournfully,

That farewells have been spoken there,

What shall I do, and whither turn?

Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?


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Rh 'Tis not the air I wished to play,

The strain I wished to sing;

My wilful spirit slipped away

And struck another string.

I neither wanted smile nor tear,

Bright joy nor bitter woe,

But just a song that sweet and clear,

Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me

When sleep refused to come;

A strain to chase despondency,

When sorrowful for home.

In vain I try; I cannot sing;

All feels so cold and dead;

No wild distress, no gushing spring

Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one

Who waits a distant day,

When, some great task of suffering done,

Repose shall toil repay.

For youth departs, and pleasure flies,

And life consumes away,

And youth's rejoicing ardour dies

Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,

Is yielding to despair,

And Health's elastic spring is broke

Beneath the strain of care.


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 the free people of England’ (ib. iv. 79). He urged the release of Overton and other persons imprisoned by the late protector, and inveighed against his war with Spain. On one occasion he spoke for three hours, giving an exhaustive review of public affairs from the beginning of the Long parliament (ib. iii. 27, 117, 457, iv. 86, 152, 271). Even before Richard was forced to dissolve parliament, Hesilrige seems to have begun to intrigue with the officers of the army (, vii. 660, 666;, p. 242). Immediately afterwards a meeting took place between Hesilrige and three other republican leaders and some representative officers, in consequence of which the army declared for the restoration of the assembly expelled by them in 1653 (ib. p. 246).

Hesilrige now became one of the most powerful men in England. He was a member of the committee of safety (7 May), one of the council of state (17 May), one of the committee of seven for the appointment of officers, and the recognised leader of parliament (ib. pp. 257, 259; Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1658–9, pp. 341, 349). He was also given the command of the regiment lately Colonel Howard's. But, exaggerating the theoretical claims of the parliament, and forgetting that its power rested solely on the support of the army, he offended the officers by restricting their commissions and injudiciously limiting the Act of Indemnity (, pp. 252, 258). From the beginning he suspected Lambert's designs, and when his officers petitioned that he might be appointed major-general, Hesilrige openly accused them of intending to set up again the rule of ‘a single person.’ At his instigation, when the officers persisted in their demands, the parliament passed a stringent act against raising money without parliamentary sanction, and cashiered Lambert and seven other officers (, Chronicle, ed. 1670, pp. 676–682). Ludlow, while admitting the rectitude and sincerity of Hesilrige's intentions and his anxiety ‘to keep the sword subservient to the civil magistrate,’ nevertheless lays on him the blame of the breach, describing him as a man of disobliging carriage, sour and morose in temper, liable to be transported with passion, to whom liberality seemed to be a vice (Memoirs, p. 273). After Lambert had turned out the parliament, Hesilrige and others of the old council of state wrote a joint letter to Monck, promising to stand by him in the attempt to restore the parliament (, p. 695). Then, in company with Colonels Morley and Walton, he repaired to Portsmouth, gained over the governor (3 Dec. 1659), and proceeded to collect troops against Lambert (A Letter from Sir Arthur Haselrigge in Portsmouth to an Honourable Member of the late Parliament, 1659; Several Letters from Portsmouth by Sir Arthur Haslerig, &c., to the Lord Fleetwood, 1659;, pp. 284, 291, 297).

Monck's march into England and the restoration of the Rump were both facilitated by this demonstration. Hesilrige marched into London at the head of a body of cavalry, received the thanks of parliament, and was appointed one of the new council of state (2 Jan. 1660). On 11 Feb. 1659–60 he was named one of the five commissioners for the government of the army (Commons' Journals, vii. 841). Blind to the precariousness of his position, he was ‘so elevated that he could scarce discern friend from foe, and eager for the punishment of the officers who had acted against parliament’ (, pp. 284, 308). Monck's ambiguous conduct roused his suspicions for a moment, but they were stilled by the general's protestations of devotion to ‘the good old cause,’ which he swallowed with the greatest credulity (ib. pp. 311, 317, 320, 323). He not only consented to the removal of his own regiment from London, but agreed to a conference with the secluded members, and even to their readmission to parliament. Then, when it was too late to resist, he found himself accused of intriguing with Lambert and other officers against Monck, and sank into the deepest dejection (ib. pp. 325, 330;, p. 709). According to some accounts, he sought to prevent a restoration by urging Monck to assume the crown (ib. p. 715; Clarendon State Papers, iii. 706). Failing in that, he promised to stop all further opposition on receiving an engagement from Monck that his own life should be safe in the event of the return of the Stuarts (ib. iii. 740; Egerton MS. 2618, f. 71). Though his son took part in Lambert's rising, he remained passive himself (, Register, p. 120).

When the Restoration did take place, he presented a petition urging his innocence so far as the king's trial was concerned; but so bitter was the feeling of royalists and presbyterians against him, that Monck's intervention alone saved his life (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1660–1, p. 8; Old Parliamentary History, xxii. 348, 402, 434, 444, 451). By section 40 of the Act of Indemnity Hesilrige was excepted for pains and penalties not extending to life, to be imposed by a future act for that purpose. The rest of his life was passed in the Tower, where he died on 7 Jan. 1660–1 (, pp. 749, 753). His epitaph is given by Nichols, who mentions a portrait.


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130 I too have smiled, and thought like you,

But madly smiled, and falsely deemed:

Truth led me to the present view,

I'm waking now—'twas then I dreamed.

I lately saw a sunset sky,

And stood enraptured to behold

Its varied hues of glorious dye:

First, fleecy clouds of shining gold;

These blushing took a rosy hue;

Beneath them shone a flood of green;

Nor less divine, the glorious blue

That smiled above them and between.

I cannot name each lovely shade;

I cannot say how bright they shone;

But one by one, I saw them fade;

And what remained when they were gone?

Dull clouds remained, of sombre hue,

And when their borrowed charm was o'er,

The azure sky had faded too,

That smiled so softly bright before.

So, gilded by the glow of youth,

Our varied life looks fair and gay;

And so remains the naked truth,

When that false light is past away.


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Rh Why blame ye, then, my keener sight,

That clearly sees a world of woes,

Through all the haze of golden light,

That flattering Falsehood round it throws?

When the young mother smiles above

The first-born darling of her heart,

Her bosom glows with earnest love,

While tears of silent transport start.

Fond dreamer! little does she know

The anxious toil, the suffering,

The blasted hopes, the burning woe,

The object of her joy will bring.

Her blinded eyes behold not now

What, soon or late, must be his doom;

The anguish that will cloud his brow,

The bed of death, the dreary tomb.

As little know the youthful pair,

In mutual love supremely blest,

What weariness, and cold despair,

Ere long, will seize the aching breast.

And, even, should Love and Faith remain,

(The greatest blessings life can show,)

Amid adversity and pain,

To shine, throughout with cheering glow;


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 He was succeeded in the family estates by his son, Thomas Hesilrige. Sir Arthur Grey Hesilrige, the eleventh baronet, altered the spelling of his surname to Hazlerigg by license dated 8 July 1818 (, Baronetage, 1883).

 HESKETH, HARRIET, (1733–1807), friend of Cowper, baptised at Hertingfordbury, Hertfordshire, on 12 July 1733, was the daughter and coheiress of Ashley Cowper (1701–1788), clerk of the parliaments, third son of Spencer Cowper (1669–1727) [q. v.] the judge. Her mother was Dorothy, daughter of John Oakes (, Hertfordshire, ii. 195). She married Thomas Hesketh of Rufford, Lancashire, who was created a baronet on 5 May 1761, and died without issue on 4 March 1778, aged 51. Lady Hesketh was the friend and favourite correspondent of her cousin William Cowper (1731–1800) [q. v.] the poet. She supplied William Hayley [q. v.] with most of the materials for his life of Cowper. Hayley's correspondence with her is now in the British Museum, Addit. MS. 30803 A, B. Lady Hesketh died at Clifton, near Bristol, on 15 Jan. 1807 (Gent. Mag. 1807, pt. i. p. 94).

 HESKETH, HENRY (1637?–1710), divine, was born in Cheshire about 1637. In June 1653 he was admitted a commoner of Brasenose College, Oxford, and proceeded B.A. on 13 Oct. 1656 (, Fasti Oxon. ed. Bliss, ii. 192). He was rector of Charlwood, Surrey, and chaplain in ordinary to Charles II when on 11 Nov. 1678 he was chosen vicar of St. Helen, Bishopsgate. Manning and Bray wrongly give the date of his institution to Charlwood as 1685 (Surrey, ii. 193). He also became chaplain to William III. He was a popular preacher, and published numerous sermons. In 1689–90 he was nominated bishop of Killala, but was not consecrated, and in January 1694 he resigned the vicarage of St. Helen (, Annals of St. Helen's, p. 55). He appears to have died in December 1710. He married, first, in 1662, Sarah, daughter of Thomas Mulcaster, rector of Charlwood; and secondly, in 1687, Mary Pillet of St. Helen, Bishopsgate (, London Marriage Licenses, ed. Foster, col. 672).

He was author of: 1. ‘Piety the best Rule of Orthodoxy: or an Essay upon this proposition, that the conduciveness of doctrines to holiness, or vice, is the best rule for private Christians to judge the truth or falsehood of them by, in a letter to his honoured friend, H. M.,’ 8vo, London, 1680. 2. ‘The Charge of Scandal and giving offence by Conformity refelled and reflected back upon Separation,’ [anon.], 4to, London, 1683; also in vol. i. of ‘A Collection of Cases … written to recover Dissenters to the Communion of the Church of England,’ 4to, London, 1685. 3. ‘An Exhortation to frequent receiving the Holy Sacrament … being the substance of several sermons preached in St. Hellens Church, London,’ 12mo, London, 1684. The work cited by Wood (Athenæ Oxon. ed. Bliss, iv. 604–5) as ‘The Case of Eating and Drinking unworthily stated, and the Scruples of coming to the Holy Sacrament upon the danger of unworthiness satisfied,’ &c., 8vo, London, 1689, is apparently another edition.

 HESKETH, PETER (1801–1866), founder of the town of Fleetwood. [See .]

HESKETH, RICHARD (1562–1593), Roman catholic exile, third son of Sir Thomas Hesketh of Rufford and Martholme, by Alice, daughter of Sir John Holcroft of Holcroft, was baptised at Great Harwood, near Blackburn, Lancashire, on 28 July 1562, and brought up in the catholic religion. He joined the English refugees on the continent, and probably served in Sir William Stanley's regiment in Flanders. On the death of Henry Stanley, fourth earl of Derby [q. v.], in September 1592, Hesketh was commissioned by Sir William Stanley and the jesuit Father Holt to encourage the earl's son and successor, Ferdinando, lord Strange, to lay claim to the succession to the crown after the death of Elizabeth, on the ground that the Stanleys ‘were next in propinquity of blood’ to the queen. Hesketh was directed to promise Spanish aid. The new Earl of Derby refused to entertain Hesketh's proposals, and delivered him to justice. He was executed at St. Albans on 29 Nov. 1593, and when on the scaffold, ‘naming Sir William Stanley and others, cursed the time he had ever known anie of them’ (, State Papers, iii. 20, Appendix). Dodd denounces as a calumny Hesketh's assertion that the catholic exiles had set him upon the project (Church Hist. ii. 160). [See art. , fifth ; Strype's Annals, iv. 103, 148, fol.; Collier's Eccl. Hist. (Barham), vii. 253; Cardinal Allen's Defence of Sir W. Stanley, ed. Heywood


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132 They do not see how cruel Death

Comes on, their loving hearts to part:

One feels not now the gasping breath,

The rending of the earth-bound heart,—

The soul's and body's agony,

Ere she may sink to her repose.

The sad survivor cannot see

The grave above his darling close;

Nor how, despairing and alone,

He then must wear his life away;

And linger, feebly toiling on,

And fainting, sink into decay.

Oh, Youth may listen patiently,

While sad Experience tells her tale;

But Doubt sits smiling in his eye,

For ardent Hope will still prevail!

He hears how feeble Pleasure dies,

By guilt destroyed, and pain and woe;

He turns to Hope—and she replies,

"Believe it not—it is not so!"

"Oh, heed her not!" Experience says,

"For thus she whispered once to me;


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Rh She told me, in my youthful days,

How glorious manhood's prime would be.

When, in the time of early Spring,

Too chill the winds that o'er me pass'd,

She said, each coming day would bring

A fairer heaven, a gentler blast.

And when the sun too seldom beamed,

The sky, o'ercast, too darkly frowned,

The soaking rain too constant streamed,

And mists too dreary gathered round;

She told me, Summer's glorious ray

Would chase those vapours all away,

And scatter glories round;

With sweetest music fill the trees,

Load with rich scent the gentle breeze,

And strew with flowers the ground.

But when, beneath that scorching ray,

I languished, weary, through the day,

While birds refused to sing,

Verdure decayed from field and tree,

And panting Nature mourned with me

The freshness of the Spring.

'Wait but a little while,' she said,

'Till Summer's burning days are fled;

And Autumn shall restore,


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 (Chetham Soc.), Introd. p. xlii.; Letters and Memorials of Cardinal Allen; Gillow's Bibl. Dict.]

HESKETH, ROGER, D.D. (1643–1715), Roman catholic controversialist, born in 1643, was a younger son of Gabriel Hesketh, gentleman, of Whitehill, Goosnargh, Lancashire, by Ann, daughter of Robert Simpson of Barker in Goosnargh. He received his education in the English College at Lisbon, was ordained priest and made procurator of the college in 1667, and confessarius in 1672. He began to teach philosophy in January 1675–6, and divinity in September 1677. On 6 Dec. 1678 he was appointed vice-president, and he held that office till 1686, when he was recalled to England by Bishop Leyburne. He left Lisbon on 29 April in that year, being then a doctor of divinity. When Dr. Watkinson desired to resign the presidency of the college at Lisbon, Hesketh was nominated his successor; but Watkinson was induced to retain the presidency. In 1694 Hesketh was elected a capitular, and in 1710 he assisted at the general chapter. He served the mission in Lincolnshire, probably at Hainton, the seat of the Heneage family, and died in April 1715, aged 71.

He wrote a treatise on transubstantiation, one of the numerous anonymous tracts published in the reign of James II. Dodd says it was written in answer to John Patrick, M.A., preacher at the Charterhouse, and he adds that a reply to Hesketh's treatise was published by Edward Bernard, D.D. [q. v.]

HESKETH or HASKET, THOMAS (1561–1613), botanist, brother of Richard Hesketh [q. v.], was born at Martholme Hall, Blackburn, Lancashire, in 1561. He practised as a physician and surgeon at Clitheroe, where he died 7 Dec. 1613. He seems to have been a correspondent of Gerard, if not also of Johnson and Parkinson, the latter speaking of him as ‘a painefull chirurgion and simplist.’

HESKYNS or HESKIN, THOMAS, D.D. (fl. 1566), Roman catholic divine, was a native of Heskin, in the parish of Eccleston, Lancashire. After studying for twelve years at Oxford, he removed to Cambridge, where he commenced M.A. in 1540, being then a priest and a fellow of Clare Hall. He graduated B.D. at Cambridge in 1548. When it was proposed in 1549 to suppress Clare Hall in order to unite it to Trinity Hall, Heskyns signed a paper stating that as an obedient subject to the king he consented to the dissolution, though it was done contrary to his oath to the college. He was rector of Hildersham, Cambridgeshire, from 1551 to 1556, and was created D.D. in 1557. On 18 Oct. 1558 he was admitted to the chancellorship of the church of Sarum by the mandate of Cardinal Pole (Lansdowne MS. 980, f. 261), and on 16 Nov. the same year he became vicar of Brixworth, Northamptonshire, on his own petition, that benefice being in his gift as chancellor of Sarum. In August 1559 he was deprived of all his preferments for refusing to swear to the queen's supremacy. Thereupon he withdrew to Flanders, entered the Dominican order, and became confessor to some English Dominican nuns at Bergen-op-Zoom, whither they had been permitted to retire from England in the first year of Elizabeth's reign. Some years later Heskyns secretly returned to this country, for in 1565 Dr. Philip Baker [q. v.], provost of King's College, Cambridge, was charged with having entertained him. It was stated that Heskyns had been brought to Baker's table at Cambridge in the dark, and conveyed away again in the like manner (, Annals of Cambridge, ii. 225). He was much esteemed by the catholics on account of his zeal for their cause. A portrait of him on wood is prefixed to the Antwerp edition of his ‘Parliament of Chryste.’ It is not known when or where he died.

He wrote ‘The Parliament of Chryste, avouching and declaring the enacted and receaved Trueth of the Presence of his Bodie and Bloode in the Blessed Sacrament, and of other Articles concerning the same, impugned in a wicked Sermon by M. Juel,’ Brussels, 1565, fol., Antwerp, 1566, fol. Two replies to this work were published by William Fulke [q. v.] in 1579, one being entitled ‘Heskins' Parliament Repealed.’


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134 With golden riches of her own,

And Summer's glories mellowed down,

The freshness you deplore.'

And long I waited, but in vain:

That freshness never came again,

Though Summer passed away,

Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill,

And drooping nature languished still,

And sank into decay.

Till wintry blasts foreboding blew

Through leafless trees—and then I knew

That Hope was all a dream.

But thus, fond youth, she cheated me;

And she will prove as false to thee,

Though sweet her words may seem."

Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire—

Thou canst not quench the ardent fire

That warms the breast of youth.

Oh, let it cheer him while it may,

And gently, gently die away—

Chilled by the damps of truth!

Tell him, that earth is not our rest;

Its joys are empty—frail at best;

And point beyond the sky.


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70 up: French cannon were pointed against the fort; and part of the walls suddenly gave way. When it seemed that nothing could save Alexander, Charles relented and made terms with him. The reforming cardinals quitted Rome, indignant at the failure of their design. As the Pope instantly broke the treaty that had been forced upon him, Briçonnet himself thought that the king would proceed to extremities against him on his return from Naples. Alexander escaped by flight. He afterwards said that Charles had been restrained from acts of violence by the piety of his courtiers; but the language of Briçonnet and Comines proves that the opinion of the French camp was in favour of a bolder policy, and the king had not courage to attempt it. When he was gone and the danger was over Alexander excommunicated him. Shortly before he died the Sorbonne exhorted him to convoke a Council, and accomplish the reforms which the Pope persisted in refusing.

Under his successor, Lewis XII., the plan was revived. The Cardinal d'Amboise opened negotiations with Ferdinand and Maximilian with a view to a new election. In the summer of the year 1501, Piccolomini,


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Rh But gleams of light may reach us here;

And hope the roughest path can cheer:

Then do not bid it fly!

Though hope may promise joys, that still

Unkindly time will ne'er fulfil;

Or, if they come at all,

We never find them unalloyed,—

Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed,

They vanish or they pall;

Yet hope itself a brightness throws

O'er all our labours and our woes;

While dark foreboding Care

A thousand ills will oft portend,

That Providence may ne'er intend

The trembling heart to bear.

Or if they come, it oft appears,

Our woes are lighter than our fears,

And far more bravely borne.

Then let us not enhance our doom;

But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom

Expect the rising morn.

Because the road is rough and long,

Shall we despise the skylark's song,

That cheers the wanderer's way?


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The New International Encyclopædia/Gottfried von Strassburg

GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG, sträs'bōōrK (c.1200). The most brilliant of the German poets of the thirteenth century. Of his personality nothing is known save that he was of good family, and held some high public office in Strassburg. His greatest poem, “Tristan and Isolt” (about 1210), is a Celtic legend that reached Germany from France, and was given by Gottfried the form that has widely influenced later literature and furnished Wagner a subject for a great opera. This poem is in 19,552 very polished verses that give to the story of fateful passion a tragic force that is lacking in the French narrative. Gottfried left the poem at the moment when Tristan, parted from Isolt by the jealous uncle and husband, King Mark, has withdrawn to Normandy, and has vainly sought consolation from Isolt of the White Hands. The epic was twice concluded, by Ulrich von Türheim (1236), and by Heinrich von Freiberg (1270), both inferior poets. Gottfried wrote lyrics also, and has been one of the most widely imitated of the German mediæval poets. Gottfried's Works are edited by Bechstein (2 vols., Stuttgart, 1881) with an excellent critical introduction. There are translations of Tristan by Kurz (Stuttgart, 1844), and Simrock (Leipzig, 1855).


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136 Or trample down, with reckless feet,

The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet,

Because they soon decay?

Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by,

Because the next is bleak and drear;

Or not enjoy a smiling sky,

Because a tempest may be near?

No! while we journey on our way,

We'll smile on every lovely thing;

And ever, as they pass away,

To memory and hope we'll cling.

And though that awful river flows

Before us, when the journey's past,

Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes

Most dreadful—shrink not—'tis the last!

Though icy cold, and dark, and deep;

Beyond it smiles that blessed shore,

Where none shall suffer, none shall weep,

And bliss shall reign for evermore!

.


text: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell/Views of Life


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Rh Cardinal of Siena, who became Alexander's successor, proposed to him to call together a Council and undertake reforms himself, lest the thing should be done in spite of him, to the detriment of the papacy, by the cardinals who were living abroad. Alexander entertained the idea for a moment, and then gave it up when he was reminded that Piccolomini was a nephew of Pius II., "un concilionista," whose advice in these matters was open to suspicion. In the following year it was reported in Rome that the French were resolved to depose him. There is a celebrated medal bearing the effigy of Lewis XII., with the lilies, and the words "Perdam Babylonis nomen," which is ascribed to the time of the deadly quarrel between Lewis and Julius II. It belongs to the times of Alexander VI. Constabili speaks of it, and describes the sensation which it made at Rome, in a letter to the Duke of Ferrara, on the 11th of August 1502.

The aspiration of the Councils of Constance and Basel, the hope of honest reforms, had remained unsatisfied, and was kept up by the condition of the Roman Court during several pontificates. It was scarcely worse under Alexander than under his predecessors, and the zeal of the French Government was not attributable exclusively to disinterested motives of conscience. The flaw in his election was too tempting an instrument to be neglected. There was more to gain by practising on his fears than by deposing him. Neither Germany nor Spain was willing to accept a Pope created by the King of France.

King Ferdinand continually impressed on Alexander that he heartily despised him. Gonzalvo of Cordova came to Rome and spoke out the indignation and horror of Europe. A joint embassy was despatched by the Kings of Spain and Portugal to protest against


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Rh PARTING.

no use in weeping,

Though we are condemned to part:

There's such a thing as keeping

A remembrance in one's heart:

There's such a thing as dwelling

On the thought ourselves have nurs'd,

And with scorn and courage telling

The world to do its worst.

We'll not let its follies grieve us,

We'll just take them as they come;

And then every day will leave us

A merry laugh for home.

When we've left each friend and brother,

When we're parted wide and far,

We will think of one another,

As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,

Every pleasant sight beneath,

We'll connect with those that love us,

Whom we truly love till death!


text: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell/Parting


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 LONDON: JOHN HASLER, PRINTER, CRANE-COURT, FLEET-STREET.


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72 the scandals of the papacy. Alexander received the envoys in the presence of five cardinals. They represented the immediate necessity of a thorough reformation; they demanded that a Council should be assembled at the Lateran; they informed the Pope that all Italy could bear witness that his election was void. He replied that their king was excommunicated, and that it was well for them that Caesar Borgia did not hear them. Later on he made one concession. He promised that the Duchy of Benevento should not be alienated from the See of Rome. He had conferred it on his son, the Duke of Gandia, who was almost immediately murdered; and the Spanish Ambassador had resisted, and declared that it should not be done.

Grief for the loss of his son roused the conscience of the Pope, and he spoke of abdicating the throne and changing his life. He would send Caesar to reside in his diocese of Valencia. He would resign the Government into the hands of the cardinals. A commission of six was appointed on the 17th of June 1497, and drew up in the following month a scheme of reform which has not been noticed by Gregorovius. Their proposals were quickly forgotten; but two months later they were still acting as advisers of the Pope in the affair of Savonarola.

During the short interregnum over which the promise of improvement lasted, Cardinal Borgia was sent with the powers of a papal legate into Umbria. His letters to Alexander VI., written in the summer of 1497, are the most eloquent testimony we possess touching the state of


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The New International Encyclopædia/Gotthelf, Jeremias

GOTTHELF, gṓt'hĕlf,. The pseudonym of the Swiss author Albert Bitzius (q.v.).


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ventriloquism


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The Kit-Bag

When the words 'Not Guilty' sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal K.C., and leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

'It's what we expected, I think,' said the barrister, without emotion; 'and, personally, I am glad the case is over.' There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the face felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

'I'm glad too,' said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. 'Ah, I remember, yes,' he said with a kind smile, 'and you want to get away for Christmas. You're going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren't you? If I was your age I'd come with you.'

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of twenty-six, with a delicate face like a girl's. 'I can catch the morning boat now,' he said; 'but that's not the reason I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad it's over because I've seen the last of that man's dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that'

'Don't dwell on it, my dear fellow,' interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes, 'don't think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.' He paused a moment. 'Now go,' he added presently, 'and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don't break your neck skiing.'

Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.

'I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,' he said. 'Would you mind lending me one of your kit-bags? It's too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.'

'Of course; I'll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.'

'I promise to take great care of it,' said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within thirty hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in winter. The thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.

He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. The floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he looked forward heartily to a change. The night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were about. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.

In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the draughts with her thin hand. 'This come by a man from Mr Wilbr'im's, sir.'

She pointed to what was evidently the kit-bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. 'I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs Monks,' he said. 'I'll leave an address for letters.'

'And I hope you'll 'ave a merry Christmas, sir,' she said, in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, ‘and better weather than this.'

'I hope so too,' replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.

When he got upstairs he heard the sleet volleying against the window panes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee, and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence. 'And now I must pack—such as my packing is,' he laughed to himself, and set to work at once.

He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him, and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing—a stout canvas kit-bag, sack-shaped, with holes round the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow-boots, and ear-caps; and then on the top of these he piled his woollen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. The dress-suit came next, in case the hotel people dressed for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. 'That's the worst of these kit-bags,' he mused vaguely, standing in the centre of the sitting-room, where he had come to fetch some string.

It was after ten o'clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, whilst he was skimming over snowy slopes in bright sunshine, and dancing in the evening with rosy-cheeked girls Ah! that reminded him; he must put in his dancing-pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting-room to the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.

And as he did so he heard someone coming up the stairs. He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs Monks's step, he thought; she must be coming up with the last post. But then the steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down, and he came to the conclusion they were too heavy to be those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress-shirts as best he could.

The kit-bag by this time was two-thirds full, and stood upright on its own base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him—certainly not a new one, or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought, and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs Monks had not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was almost certain he heard a soft tread of someone padding about over the bare boards—cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible—and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly nearer.

For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom, having just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the kit-bag lopped over towards him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. The canvas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow—or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell exactly—looked like hair. It gave him rather a turn, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk, the murderer.

He laughed, and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.

'That horrid case has got on my mind,' he thought; 'I shall be glad of a change of scene and air.' In the sitting-room, however, he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs, and to realize that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping about on the upper staircase at so late an hour.

But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house, and was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep—everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.

'My absurd imagination, I suppose,' he thought. 'It must have been the wind after all, although—it seemed so very real and close, I thought.' He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on towards midnight. He drank his coffee up and lit another pipe—the last before turning in.

It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers upon the surface of still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognition from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he felt nervous—oddly nervous; also, that for some time past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in his mind, but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to acknowledge them.

It was a singular and curious malaise that had come over him, and he hardly knew what to make of it. He felt as though he were doing something that was strongly objected to by another person, another person, moreover, who had some right to object. It was a most disturbing and disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience: almost, in fact, as if he were doing something he knew to be wrong. Yet, though he searched vigorously and honestly in his mind, he could nowhere lay his finger upon the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it perplexed him. More, it distressed and frightened him.

'Pure nerves, I suppose,' he said aloud with a forced laugh. 'Mountain air will cure all that! Ah,' he added, still speaking to himself, 'and that reminds me—my snow-glasses.'

He was standing by the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy, and as he passed quickly towards the sitting-room to fetch them from the cupboard he saw out of the corner of his eye the indistinct outline of a figure standing on the stairs, a few feet from the top. It was someone in a stooping position, with one hand on the banisters, and the face peering up towards the landing. And at the same moment he heard a shuffling footstep. The person who had been creeping about below all this time had at last come up to his own floor. Who in the world could it be? And what in the name of Heaven did he want?

Johnson caught his breath sharply and stood stock still. Then, after a few seconds' hesitation, he found his courage, and turned to investigate. The stairs, he saw to his utter amazement, were empty; there was no one. He felt a series of cold shivers run over him, and something about the muscles of his legs gave a little and grew weak. For the space of several minutes he peered steadily into the shadows that congregated about the top of the staircase where he had seen the figure, and then he walked fast—almost ran, in fact—into the light of the front room; but hardly had he passed inside the doorway when he heard someone come up the stairs behind him with a quick bound and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was a heavy, but at the same time a stealthy footstep—the tread of somebody who did not wish to be seen. And it was at this precise moment that the nervousness he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line, and entered the state of fear, almost of acute unreasoning fear. Before it turned into terror there was a further boundary to cross, and beyond that again lay the region of pure horror. Johnson's position was an unenviable one.

‘By Jove! That was someone on the stairs, then,' he muttered, his flesh crawling all over; 'and whoever it was has now gone into my bedroom.' His delicate, pale face turned absolutely white, and for some minutes he hardly knew what to think or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay only set a premium upon fear; and he crossed the landing boldly and went straight into the other room, where, a few seconds before, the steps had disappeared.

'Who's there? Is that you, Mrs Monks?' he called aloud, as he went, and heard the first half of his words echo down the empty stairs, while the second half fell dead against the curtains in a room that apparently held no other human figure than his own.

'Who's there?' he called again, in a voice unnecessarily loud and that only just held firm. 'What do you want here?'

The curtains swayed very slightly, and, as he saw it, his heart felt as if it almost missed a beat; yet he dashed forward and drew them aside with a rush. A window, streaming with rain, was all that met his gaze. He continued his search, but in vain; the cupboards held nothing but rows of clothes, hanging motionless; and under the bed there was no sign of anyone hiding. He stepped backwards into the middle of the room, and, as he did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with a sudden spring of alarm he saw—the kit-bag.

'Odd!' he thought. 'That's not where I left it!' A few moments before it had surely been on his right, between the bed and the bath; he did not remember having moved it. It was very curious. What in the world was the matter with everything? Were all his senses gone queer? A terrific gust of wind tore at the windows, dashing the sleet against the glass with the force of small gunshot, and then fled away howling dismally over the waste of Bloomsbury roofs. A sudden vision of the Channel next day rose in his mind and recalled him sharply to realities.

‘There's no one here at any rate; that's quite clear!' he exclaimed aloud. Yet at the time he uttered them he knew perfectly well that his words were not true and that he did not believe them himself. He felt exactly as though someone was hiding close about him, watching all his movements, trying to hinder his packing in some way. 'And two of my senses,' he added, keeping up the pretence, 'have played me the most absurd tricks: the steps I heard and the figure I saw were both entirely imaginary.'

He went back to the front room, poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down before it to think. What impressed him more than anything else was the fact that the kit-bag was no longer where he had left it. It had been dragged nearer to the door.

What happened afterwards that night happened, of course, to a man already excited by fear, and was perceived by a mind that had not the full and proper control, therefore, of the senses. Outwardly, Johnson remained calm and master of himself to the end, pretending to the very last that everything he witnessed had a natural explanation, or was merely delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly, in his very heart, he knew all along that someone had been hiding downstairs in the empty suite when he came in, that this person had watched his opportunity and then stealthily made his way up to the bedroom, and that all he saw and heard afterwards, from the moving of the kit-bag to—well, to the other things this story has to tell—were caused directly by the presence of this invisible person.

And it was here, just when he most desired to keep his mind and thoughts controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day upon the mental plates exposed in the courtroom of the Old Bailey, came strongly to light and developed themselves in the dark room of his inner vision. Unpleasant, haunting memories have a way of coming to life again just when the mind least desires them—in the silent watches of the night, on sleepless pillows, during the lonely hours spent by sick and dying beds. And so now, in the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face of John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every corner of his mental field of vision; the white skin, the evil eyes, and the fringe of black hair low over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days in court crowded back into his mind unbidden, and very vivid.

'This is all rubbish and nerves,' he exclaimed at length, springing with sudden energy from his chair. 'I shall finish my packing and go to bed. I'm overwrought, overtired. No doubt, at this rate I shall hear steps and things all night!'

But his face was deadly white all the same. He snatched up his field-glasses and walked across to the bedroom, humming a music-hall song as he went—a trifle too loud to be natural; and the instant he crossed the threshold and stood within the room something turned cold about his heart, and he felt that every hair on his head stood up.

The kit-bag lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to the door than he had left it, and just over its crumpled top he saw a head and face slowly sinking down out of sight as though someone were crouching behind it to hide, and at the same moment a sound like a long-drawn sigh was distinctly audible in the still air about him between the gusts of the storm outside.

Johnson had more courage and will-power than the girlish indecision of his face indicated; but at first such a wave of terror came over him that for some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare. A violent trembling ran down his back and legs, and he was conscious of a foolish, almost a hysterical, impulse to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his very ear, and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably a human sigh.

'Who's there?' he said at length, finding his voice; but though he meant to speak with loud decision, the tones came out instead in a faint whisper, for he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.

He stepped forward, so that he could see all round and over the kit-bag. Of course there was nothing there, nothing but the faded carpet and the bulging canvas sides. He put out his hands and threw open the mouth of the sack where it had fallen over, being only three parts full, and then he saw for the first time that round the inside, some six inches from the top, there ran a broad smear of dull crimson. It was an old and faded blood stain. He uttered a scream, and drew back his hands as if they had been burnt. At the same moment the kit-bag gave a faint, but unmistakable, lurch forward towards the door.

Johnson collapsed backwards, searching with his hands for the support of something solid, and the door, being further behind him than he realized, received his weight just in time to prevent his falling, and shut to with a resounding bang. At the same moment the swinging of his left arm accidentally touched the electric switch, and the light in the room went out.

It was an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not been possessed of real pluck he might have done all manner of foolish things. As it was, however, he pulled himself together, and groped furiously for the little brass knob to turn the light on again. But the rapid closing of the door had set the coats hanging on it a-swinging, and his fingers became entangled in a confusion of sleeves and pockets, so that it was some moments before he found the switch. And in those few moments of bewilderment and terror two things happened that sent him beyond recall over the boundary into the region of genuine horror—he distinctly heard the kit-bag shuffling heavily across the floor in jerks, and close in front of his face sounded once again the sigh of a human being.

In his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall he nearly scraped the nails from his fingers, but even then, in those frenzied moments of alarm—so swift and alert are the impressions of a mind keyed-up by a vivid emotion—he had time to realize that he dreaded the return of the light, and that it might be better for him to stay hidden in the merciful screen of darkness. It was but the impulse of a moment, however, and before he had time to act upon it he had yielded automatically to the original desire, and the room was flooded again with light.

But the second instinct had been right. It would have been better for him to have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. For there, close before him, bending over the half-packed kit-bag, clear as life in the merciless glare of the electric light, stood the figure of John Turk, the murderer. Not three feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black hair marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the whole horrible presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he had seen him day after day in the Old Bailey, when he stood there in the dock, cynical and callous, under the very shadow of the gallows.

In a flash Johnson realized what it all meant: the dirty and much-used bag; the smear of crimson within the top; the dreadful stretched condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how the victim's body had been stuffed into a canvas bag for burial, the ghastly, dismembered fragments forced with lime into this very bag; and the bag itself produced as evidence It all came back to him as clear as day. . ..

Very softly and stealthily his hand groped behind him for the handle of the door, but before he could actually turn it the very thing that he most of all dreaded came about, and John Turk lifted his devil's face and looked at him. At the same moment that heavy sigh passed through the air of the room, formulated somehow into words: 'It's my bag. And I want it.'

Johnson just remembered clawing the door open, and then falling in a heap upon the floor of the landing, as he tried frantically to make his way into the front room.

He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was still dark when he opened his eyes and realized that he was lying, stiff and bruised, on the cold boards. Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back into his mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he woke the second time the wintry dawn was just beginning to peep in at the windows, painting the stairs a cheerless, dismal grey, and he managed to crawl into the front room, and cover himself with an overcoat in the armchair, where at length he fell asleep.

A great clamour woke him. He recognized Mrs Monks's voice, loud and voluble.

'What! You ain't been to bed, sir! Are you ill, or has anything 'appened? And there's an urgent gentleman to see you, though it ain't seven o'clock yet, and'

'Who is it?' he stammered. 'I'm all right, thanks. Fell asleep in my chair, I suppose.'

'Someone from Mr Wilb'rim's, and he says he ought to see you quick before you go abroad, and I told him'

'Show him up, please, at once,' said Johnson, whose head was whirling, and his mind was still full of dreadful visions.

Mr Wilbraham's man came in with many apologies, and explained briefly and quickly that an absurd mistake had been made, and that the wrong kit-bag had been sent over the night before.

'Henry somehow got hold of the one that came over from the courtroom, and Mr Wilbraham only discovered it when he saw his own lying in his room, and asked why it had not gone to you,' the man said.

'Oh!' said Johnson stupidly.

'And he must have brought you the one from the murder case instead, sir, I'm afraid,' the man continued, without the ghost of an expression on his face. 'The one John Turk packed the dead body in. Mr Wilbraham's awful upset about it, sir, and told me to come over first thing this morning with the right one, as you were leaving by the boat.'

He pointed to a clean-looking kit-bag on the floor, which he had just brought. 'And I was to bring the other one back, sir,' he added casually.

For some minutes Johnson could not find his voice. At last he pointed in the direction of his bedroom. 'Perhaps you would kindly unpack it for me. Just empty the things out on the floor.'

The man disappeared into the other room, and was gone for five minutes. Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag, and the rattle of the skates and boots being unpacked.

'Thank you, sir,' the man said, returning with the bag folded over his arm. 'And can I do anything more to help you, sir?'

'What is it?' asked Johnson, seeing that he still had something he wished to say.

The man shuffled and looked mysterious. 'Beg pardon, sir, but knowing your interest in the Turk case, I thought you'd maybe like to know what's happened'

'Yes.'

'John Turk killed hisself last night with poison immediately on getting his release, and he left a note for Mr Wilbraham saying as he'd be much obliged if they'd have him put away, same as the woman he murdered, in the old kit-bag.'

'What time—did he do it?' asked Johnson.

'Ten o'clock last night, sir, the warder says.'

title: The Kit-Bag