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48 4.

His religion to please neither party is made;

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;

Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said,

"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."

5.

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,

Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;

If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,

Of .—read the second and twentieth chapter.

6.

'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd,

With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;

"But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text)

"We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."

7.

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)

That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,

And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,

All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

8.

Distraction and Discord would follow in course,

Nor, nor , nor , can deny it,


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106 would be unfair to attribute to Hegel any scientific motive or foundation, but all the other evolutionists, including Hegel's modern disciples, have derived their impetus very largely from the history of biological development. To a philosophy which derives a law of universal progress from this history there are two objections. First, that this history itself is concerned with a very small selection of facts confined to an infinitesimal fragment of space and time, and even on scientific grounds probably not an average sample of events in the world at large. For we know that decay as well as growth is a normal occurrence in the world. An extra-terrestrial philosopher, who had watched a single youth up to the age of twenty-one and had never come across any other human being, might conclude that it is the nature of human beings to grow continually taller and wiser in an indefinite progress towards perfection; and this generalisation would be just as well founded as the generalisation which evolutionists base upon the previous history of this planet. Apart, however, from this scientific objection to evolutionism, there is another, derived from the undue admixture of ethical notions in the very idea of progress from which evolutionism derives its charm. Organic life, we are told, has developed gradually from the protozoon to the philosopher, and this development, we are assured, is indubitably an advance. Unfortunately it is the philosopher, not the protozoon, who gives us this assurance, and we can have no security that the impartial outsider would agree with the philosopher's self-complacent assumption. This point has been illustrated by the philosopher Chuang Tzŭ in the following instructive anecdote:

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I much fear that the evolutionists too often resemble the Grand Augur and the pigs.

The ethical element which has been prominent in many of the most famous systems of philosophy is, in my opinion, one of the most serious obstacles to the victory of scientific method in the investigation of philosophical questions. Human ethical notions, as Chuang Tzŭ perceived, are essentially anthropocentric, and involve, when used in metaphysics, an attempt, however veiled, to legislate for the universe on the basis of the present desires of men. In this way they interfere with that receptivity to fact which is the essence of the scientific attitude towards the world. To regard ethical notions as a key to the understanding of the world is essentially pre-Copernican. It is to make man, with the hopes and ideals which he happens to have at the present moment, the centre of the universe and the interpreter of its supposed aims and purposes. Ethical metaphysics is fundamentally an attempt, however disguised, to


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108 give legislative force to our own wishes. This may, of course, be questioned, but I think that it is confirmed by a consideration of the way in which ethical notions arise. Ethics is essentially a product of the gregarious instinct, that is to say, of the instinct to co-operate with those who are to form our own group against those who belong to other groups. Those who belong to our own group are good; those who belong to hostile groups are wicked. The ends which are pursued by our own group are desirable ends, the ends pursued by hostile groups are nefarious. The subjectivity of this situation is not apparent to the gregarious animal, which feels that the general principles of justice are on the side of its own herd. When the animal has arrived at the dignity of the metaphysician, it invents ethics as the embodiment of its belief in the justice of its own herd. So the Grand Augur invokes ethics as the justification of Augurs in their conflicts with pigs. But, it may be said, this view of ethics takes no account of such truly ethical notions as that of self-sacrifice. This, however, would be a mistake. The success of gregarious animals in the struggle for existence depends upon co-operation within the herd, and co-operation requires sacrifice, to some extent, of what would otherwise be the interest of the individual. Hence arises a conflict of desires and instincts, since both self-preservation and the preservation of the herd are biological ends to the individual. Ethics is in origin the art of recommending to others the sacrifices required for co-operation with oneself. Hence, by reflexion, it comes, through the operation of social justice, to recommend sacrifices by oneself, but all ethics, however refined, remains more or less subjective. Even vegetarians do not hesitate, for example, to save the life of a man in a fever, although in doing so they destroy the lives of many millions of


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Rh microbes. The view of the world taken by the philosophy derived from ethical notions is thus never impartial and therefore never fully scientific. As compared with science, it fails to achieve the imaginative liberation from self which is necessary to such understanding of the world as man can hope to achieve, and the philosophy which it inspires is always more or less parochial, more or less infected with the prejudices of a time and a place.

I do not deny the importance or value, within its own sphere, of the kind of philosophy which is inspired by ethical notions. The ethical work of Spinoza, for example, appears to me of the very highest significance, but what is valuable in such work is not any metaphysical theory as to the nature of the world to which it may give rise, nor indeed anything which can be proved or disproved by argument. What is valuable is the indication of some new way of feeling towards life and the world, some way of feeling by which our own existence can acquire more of the characteristics which we must deeply desire. The value of such work, however immeasurable it is, belongs with practice and not with theory. Such theoretic importance as it may possess is only in relation to human nature, not in relation to the world at large. The scientific philosophy, therefore, which aims only at understanding the world and not directly at any other improvement of human life, cannot take account of ethical notions without being turned aside from that submission to fact which is the essence of the scientific temper.


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110

If the notion of the universe and the notion of good and evil are extruded from scientific philosophy, it may be asked what specific problems remain for the philosopher as opposed to the man of science? It would be difficult to give a precise answer to this question, but certain characteristics may be noted as distinguishing the province of philosophy from that of the special sciences.

In the first place a philosophical proposition must be general. It must not deal specially with things on the surface of the earth, or with the solar system, or with any other portion of space and time. It is this need of generality which has led to the belief that philosophy deals with the universe as a whole. I do not believe that this belief is justified, but I do believe that a philosophical proposition must be applicable to everything that exists or may exist. It might be supposed that this admission would be scarcely distinguishable from the view which I wish to reject. This, however, would be an error, and an important one. The traditional view would make the universe itself the subject of various predicates which could not be applied to any particular thing in the universe, and the ascription of such peculiar predicates to the universe would be the special business of philosophy. I maintain, on the contrary, that there are no propositions of which the "universe" is the subject; in other words, that there is no such thing as the "universe." What I do maintain is that there are general propositions which may be asserted of each individual thing, such as the propositions of logic. This does not involve that all the things there are form a whole which could be regarded as another thing and be made


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Rh the subject of predicates. It involves only the assertion that there are properties which belong to each separate thing, not that there are properties belonging to the whole of things collectively. The philosophy which I wish to advocate may be called logical atomism or absolute pluralism, because, while maintaining that there are many things, it denies that there is a whole composed of those things. We shall see, therefore, that philosophical propositions, instead of being concerned with the whole of things collectively, are concerned with all things distributively; and not only must they be concerned with all things, but they must be concerned with such properties of all things as do not depend upon the accidental nature of the things that there happen to be, but are true of any possible world, independently of such facts as can only be discovered by our senses.

This brings us to a second charateristiccharacteristic [sic] of philosophical propositions, namely, that they must be a priori. A philosophical proposition must be such as can be neither proved nor disproved by empirical evidence. Too often we find in philosophical books arguments based upon the course of history, or the convolutions of the brain, or the eyes of shell-fish. Special and accidental facts of this kind are irrelevant to philosophy, which must make only such assertions as would be equally true however the actual world were constituted.

We may sum up these two characteristics of philosophical propositions by saying that philosophy is the science of the possible. But this statement unexplained is liable to be misleading, since it may be thought that the possible is something other than the general, whereas in fact the two are indistinguishable.

Philosophy, if what has been said is correct, becomes indistinguishable from logic as that word has now come


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112 to be used. The study of logic consists, broadly speaking, of two not very sharply distinguished portions. On the one hand it is concerned with those general state ments which can be made concerning everything without mentioning any one thing or predicate or relation, such for example as "if x is a member of the class α and every member of α is a member of β, then x is a member of the class β, whatever x, α, and β may be." On the other hand, it is concerned with the analysis and enumeration of logical forms, i.e. with the kinds of propositions that may occur, with the various types of facts, and with the classification of the constituents of facts. In this way logic provides an inventory of possibilities, a repertory of abstractly tenable hypotheses.

It might be thought that such a study would be too vague and too general to be of any very great importance, and that, if its problems became at any point sufficiently definite, they would be merged in the problems of some special science. It appears, however, that this is not the case. In some problems, for example, the analysis of space and time, the nature of perception, or the theory of judgment, the discovery of the logical form of the facts involved is the hardest part of the work and the part whose performance has been most lacking hitherto. It is chiefly for want of the right logical hypothesis that such problems have hitherto been treated in such an unsatisfactory manner, and have given rise to those contradictions or antinomies in which the enemies of reason among philosophers have at all times delighted.

By concentrating attention upon the investigation of logical forms, it becomes possible at last for philosophy to deal with its problems piecemeal, and to obtain, as the sciences do, such partial and probably not wholly correct results as subsequent investigation can utilise


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Rh even while it supplements and improves them. Most philosophies hitherto have been constructed all in one block, in such a way that, if they were not wholly correct, they were wholly incorrect, and could not be used as a basis for further investigations. It is chiefly owing to this fact that philosophy, unlike science, has hitherto been unprogressive, because each original philosopher has had to begin the work again from the beginning, without being able to accept anything definite from the work of his predecessors. A scientific philosophy such as I wish to recommend will be piecemeal and tentative like other sciences; above all, it will be able to invent hypotheses which, even if they are not wholly true, will yet remain fruitful after the necessary corrections have been made. This possibility of successive approximations to the truth is, more than anything else, the source of the triumphs of science, and to transfer this possibility to philosophy is to ensure a progress in method whose importance it would be almost impossible to exaggerate.

The essence of philosophy as thus conceived is analysis, not synthesis. To build up systems of the world, like Heine's German professor who knit together fragments of life and made an intelligible system out of them, is not, I believe, any more feasible than the discovery of the philosopher's stone. What is feasible is the understanding of general forms, and the division of traditional problems into a number of separate and less baffling questions. "Divide and conquer" is the maxim of success here as elsewhere.

Let us illustrate these somewhat general maxims by examining their application to the philosophy of space, for it is only in application that the meaning or importance of a method can be understood. Suppose we are confronted with the problem of space as presented in


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114 Kant's Transcendental Æsthetic, and suppose we wish to discover what are the elements of the problem and what hope there is of obtaining a solution of them. It will soon appear that three entirely distinct problems, belonging to different studies, and requiring different methods for their solution, have been confusedly combined in the supposed single problem with which Kant is concerned. There is a problem of logic, a problem of physics, and a problem of theory of knowledge. Of these three, the problem of logic can be solved exactly and perfectly; the problem of physics can probably be solved with as great a degree of certainty and as great an approach to exactness as can be hoped in an empirical region; the problem of theory of knowledge, however, remains very obscure and very difficult to deal with. Let us see how these three problems arise.

(1) The logical problem has arisen through the suggestions of non-Euclidean geometry. Given a body of geometrical propositions, it is not difficult to find a minimum statement of the axioms from which this body of propositions can be deduced. It is also not difficult, by dropping or altering some of these axioms, to obtain a more general or a different geometry, having, from the point of view of pure mathematics, the same logical coherence and the same title to respect as the more familiar Euclidean geometry. The Euclidean geometry itself is true perhaps of actual space (though this is doubtful), but certainly of an infinite number of purely arithmetical systems, each of which, from the point of view of abstract logic, has an equal and indefeasible right to be called a Euclidean space. Thus space as an object of logical or mathematical study loses its uniqueness; not only are there many kinds of spaces, but there are an infinity of examples of each kind,


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Rh though it is difficult to find any kind of which the space of physics may be an example, and it is impossible to find any kind of which the space of physics is certainly an example. As an illustration of one possible logical system of geometry we may consider all relations of three terms which are analogous in certain formal respects to the relation "between" as it appears to be in actual space. A space is then defined by means of one such three-term relation. The points of the space are all the terms which have this relation to something or other, and their order in the space in question is determined by this relation. The points of one space are necessarily also points of other spaces, since there are necessarily other three-term relations having those same points for their field. The space in fact is not determined by the class of its points, but by the ordering three-term relation. When enough abstract logical properties of such relations have been enumerated to determine the resulting kind of geometry, say, for example, Euclidean geometry, it becomes unnecessary for the pure geometer in his abstract capacity to distinguish between the various relations which have all these properties. He considers the whole class of such relations, not any single one among them. Thus in studying a given kind of geometry the pure mathematician is studying a certain class of relations defined by means of certain abstract logical properties which take the place of what used to be called axioms. The nature of geometrical reasoning therefore is purely deductive and purely logical; if any special epistemological peculiarities are to be found in geometry, it must not be in the reasoning, but in our knowledge concerning the axioms in some given space.

(2) The physical problem of space is both more interesting and more difficult than the logical problem.


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116 The physical problem may be stated as follows: to find in the physical world, or to construct from physical materials, a space of one of the kinds enumerated by the logical treatment of geometry. This problem derives its difficulty from the attempt to accommodate to the roughness and vagueness of the real world some system possessing the logical clearness and exactitude of pure mathematics. That this can be done with a certain degree of approximation is fairly evident.&nbsp [sic]If I see three people A, B, and C sitting in a row, I become aware of the fact which may be expressed by saying that B is between A and C rather than that A is between B and C, or C is between A and B. This relation of "between" which is thus perceived to hold has some of the abstract logical properties of those three-term relations which, we saw, give rise to a geometry, but its properties fail to be exact, and are not, as empirically given, amenable to the kind of treatment at which geometry aims. In abstract geometry we deal with points, straight lines, and planes; but the three people A, B, and C whom I see sitting in a row are not exactly points, nor is the row exactly a straight line. Nevertheless physics, which formally assumes a space containing points, straight lines, and planes, is found empirically to give results applicable to the sensible world. It must therefore be possible to find an interpretation of the points, straight lines, and planes of physics in terms of physical data, or at any rate in terms of data together with such hypothetical additions as seem least open to question. Since all data suffer from a lack of mathematical precision through being of a certain size and somewhat vague in outline, it is plain that if such a notion as that of a point is to find any application to empirical material, the point must be neither a datum nor a hypothetical addition to


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Rh data, but a construction by means of data with their hypothetical additions. It is obvious that any hypothetical filling out of data is less dubious and unsatisfactory when the additions are closely analogous to data than when they are of a radically different sort. To assume, for example, that objects which we see continue, after we have turned away our eyes, to be more or less analogous to what they were while we were looking, is a less violent assumption than to assume that such objects are composed of an infinite number of mathematical points. Hence in the physical study of the geometry of physical space, points must not be assumed ab initio as they are in the logical treatment of geometry, but must be constructed as systems composed of data and hypothetical analogues of data. We are thus led naturally to define a physical point as a certain class of those objects which are the ultimate constituents of the physical world. It will be the class of all those objects which, as one would naturally say, contain the point. To secure a definition giving this result, without previously assuming that physical objects are composed of points, is an agreeable problem in mathematical logic. The solution of this problem and the perception of its importance are due to my friend Dr. Whitehead. The oddity of regarding a point as a class of physical entities wears off with familiarity, and ought in any case not to be felt by those who maintain, as practically every one does, that points are mathematical fictions. The word "fiction" is used glibly in such connexions by many men who seem not to feel the necessity of explaining how it can come about that a fiction can be so useful in the study of the actual world as the points of mathematical physics have been found to be. By our definition, which regards a point as a class of physical objects, it is explained both how


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118 the use of points can lead to important physical results, and how we can nevertheless avoid the assumption that points are themselves entities in the physical world.

Many of the mathematically convenient properties of abstract logical spaces cannot be either known to belong or known not to belong to the space of physics. Such are all the properties connected with continuity. For to know that actual space has these properties would require an infinite exactness of sense-perception. If actual space is continuous, there are nevertheless many possible non-continuous spaces which will be empirically indistinguishable from it; and, conversely, actual space may be non-continuous and yet empirically indistinguishable from a possible continuous space. Continuity, therefore, though obtainable in the a priori region of arithmetic, is not with certainty obtainable in the space or time of the physical world: whether these are continuous or not would seem to be a question not only unanswered but for ever unanswerable. From the point of view of philosophy, however, the discovery that a question is unanswerable is as complete an answer as any that could possibly be obtained. And from the point of view of physics, where no empirical means of distinction can be found, there can be no empirical objection to the mathematically simplest assumption, which is that of continuity.

The subject of the physical theory of space is a very large one, hitherto little explored. It is associated with a similar theory of time, and both have been forced upon the attention of philosophically minded physicists by the discussions which have raged concerning the theory of relativity.

(3) The problem with which Kant is concerned in the Transcendental Æsthetic is primarily the epistemological


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Rh problem: "How do we come to have knowledge of geometry a priori?" By the distinction between the logical and physical problems of geometry, the bearing and scope of this question are greatly altered. Our knowledge of pure geometry is a priori but is wholly logical. Our knowledge of physical geometry is synthetic, but is not a priori. Our knowledge of pure geometry is hypothetical, and does not enable us to assert, for example, that the axiom of parallels is true in the physical world. Our knowledge of physical geometry, while it does enable us to assert that this axiom is approximately verified, does not, owing to the inevitable inexactitude of observation, enable us to assert that it is verified exactly. Thus, with the separation which we have made between pure geometry and the geometry of physics, the Kantian problem collapses. To the question, "How is synthetic a priori knowledge possible?" we can now reply, at any rate so far as geometry is concerned, "It is not possible," if "synthetic" means "not deducible from logic alone." Our knowledge of geometry, like the rest of our knowledge, is derived partly from logic, partly from sense, and the peculiar position which in Kant's day geometry appeared to occupy is seen now to be a delusion. There are still some philosophers, it is true, who maintain that our knowledge that the axiom of parallels, for example, is true of actual space, is not to be accounted for empirically, but is as Kant maintained derived from an a priori intuition. This position is not logically refutable, but I think it loses all plausibility as soon as we realise how complicated and derivative is the notion of physical space. As we have seen, the application of geometry to the physical world in no way demands that there should really be points and straight lines among physical entities. The principle of economy,


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120 therefore, demands that we should abstain from assuming the existence of points and straight lines. As soon, however, as we accept the view that points and straight lines are complicated constructions by means of classes of physical entities, the hypothesis that we have an a priori intuition enabling us to know what happens to straight lines when they are produced indefinitely becomes extremely strained and harsh; nor do I think that such an hypothesis would ever have arisen in the mind of a philosopher who had grasped the nature of physical space. Kant, under the influence of Newton, adopted, though with some vacillation, the hypothesis of absolute space, and this hypothesis, though logically unobjectionable, is removed by Occam's razor, since absolute space is an unnecessary entity in the explanation of the physical world. Although, therefore, we cannot refute the Kantian theory of an a priori intuition, we can remove its grounds one by one through an analysis of the problem. Thus, here as in many other philosophical questions, the analytic method, while not capable of arriving at a demonstrative result, is nevertheless capable of showing that all the positive grounds in favour of a certain theory are fallacious and that a less unnatural theory is capable of accounting for the facts.

Another question by which the capacity of the analytic method can be shown is the question of realism. Both those who advocate and those who combat realism seem to me to be far from clear as to the nature of the problem which they are discussing. If we ask: "Are our objects of perception real and are they independent of the percipient?" it must be supposed that we attach some meaning to the words "real" and "independent," and yet, if either side in the controversy of realism is asked to define these two words, their answer is pretty


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Rh sure to embody confusions such as logical analysis will reveal.

Let us begin with the word "real." There certainly are objects of perception, and therefore, if the question whether these objects are real is to be a substantial question, there must be in the world two sorts of objects, namely, the real and the unreal, and yet the unreal is supposed to be essentially what there is not. The question what properties must belong to an object in order to make it real is one to which an adequate answer is seldom if ever forthcoming. There is of course the Hegelian answer, that the real is the self-consistent and that nothing is self-consistent except the Whole; but this answer, true or false, is not relevant in our present discussion, which moves on a lower plane and is concerned with the status of objects of perception among other objects of equal fragmentariness. Objects of perception are contrasted, in the discussions concerning realism, rather with psychical states on the one hand and matter on the other hand than with the all-inclusive whole of things. The question we have therefore to consider is the question as to what can be meant by assigning "reality" to some but not all of the entities that make up the world. Two elements, I think, make up what is felt rather than thought when the word "reality" is used in this sense. A thing is real if it persists at times when it is not perceived; or again, a thing is real when it is correlated with other things in a way which experience has led us to expect. It will be seen that reality in either of these senses is by no means necessary to a thing, and that in fact there might be a whole world in which nothing was real in either of these senses. It might turn out that the objects of perception failed of reality in one or both of these respects, without its being in any way deducible that they are


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122 not parts of the external world with which physics deals Similar remarks will apply to the word "independent." Most of the associations of this word are bound up with ideas as to causation which it is not now possible to maintain. A is independent of B when B is not an indispensable part of the cause of A. But when it is recognised that causation is nothing more than correlation, and that there are correlations of simultaneity as well as of succession, it becomes evident that there is no uniqueness in a series of casual antecedents of a given event, but that, at any point where there is a correlation of simultaneity, we can pass from one line of antecedents to another in order to obtain a new series of causal antecedents. It will be necessary to specify the causal law according to which the antecedents are to be considered. I received a letter the other day from a correspondent who had been puzzled by various philosophical questions. After enumerating them he says: "These questions led me from Bonn to Strassburg, where I found Professor Simmel." Now, it would be absurd to deny that these questions caused his body to move from Bonn to Strassburg, and yet it must be supposed that a set of purely mechanical antecedents could also be found which would account for this transfer of matter from one place to another. Owing to this plurality of causal series antecedent to a given event, the notion of the cause becomes indefinite, and the question of independence becomes correspondingly ambiguous. Thus, instead of asking simply whether A is independent of B, we ought to ask whether there is a series determined by such and such causal laws leading from B to A. This point is important in connexion with the particular question of objects of perception. It may be that no objects quite like those which we perceive ever exist unperceived;


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Rh The only expedient is general divorce,

To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

9.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd,

Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever,

Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd,

We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever.

10.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,

Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,

Your nature so much of celestial partakes,

The Garden of Eden would wither without you. , October 9, 1806.

THE TEAR.

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. , Alcaic Fragment.

1.

Friendship or Love

Our sympathies move;

When Truth, in a glance, should appear,


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Rh in this case there will be a causal law according to which objects of perception are not independent of being perceived. But even if this be the case, it may nevertheless also happen that there are purely physical causal laws determining the occurrence of objects which are perceived by means of other objects which perhaps are not perceived. In that case, in regard to such causal laws objects of perception will be independent of being perceived. Thus the question whether objects of perception are independent of being perceived is, as it stands, indeterminate, and the answer will be yes or no according to the method adopted of making it determinate. I believe that this confusion has borne a very large part in prolonging the controversies on this subject, which might well have seemed capable of remaining for ever undecided. The view which I should wish to advocate is that objects of perception do not persist unchanged at times when they are not perceived, although probably objects more or less resembling them do exist at such times; that objects of perception are part, and the only empirically knowable part, of the actual subject-matter of physics, and are themselves properly to be called physical; that purely physical laws exist determining the character and duration of objects of perception without any reference to the fact that they are perceived; and that in the establishment of such laws the propositions of physics do not presuppose any propositions of psychology or even the existence of mind. I do not know whether realists would recognise such a view as realism. All that I should claim for it is, that it avoids difficulties which seem to me to beset both realism and idealism as hitherto advocated, and that it avoids the appeal which they have made to ideas which logical analysis shows to be ambiguous. A further defence and elaboration of


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124 the positions which I advocate, but for which time is lacking now, will be found indicated in my book on Our Knowledge of the External World.

The adoption of scientific method in philosophy, if I am not mistaken, compels us to abandon the hope of solving many of the more ambitious and humanly interesting problems of traditional philosophy. Some of these it relegates, though with little expectation of a successful solution, to special sciences, others it shows to be such as our capacities are essentially incapable of solving. But there remain a large number of the recognised problems of philosophy in regard to which the method advocated gives all those advantages of division into distinct questions, of tentative, partial, and progressive advance, and of appeal to principles with which, independently of temperament, all competent students must agree. The failure of philosophy hitherto has been due in the main to haste and ambition: patience and modesty, here as in other sciences, will open the road to solid and durable progress.


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 forming a star-like chitinous centre in section, each lateral eye of Scorpio has several rhabdoms of five or less rhabdomeres, indicating that the Limulus lateral eye-unit is more specialized than the detached lateral eyelet of Scorpio, so as to present a coincidence of one lens with one rhabdom. Numerous rhabdomeres (grouped as rhabdoms in Limulus) are found in the retinal layer of the central eyes also.

Whilst Limulus agrees thus closely with Scorpio in regard to the eyes, it is to be noted that no Crustacean has structures corresponding to the peculiar diplostichous central eyes, though these occur again (with differences in detail) in Hexapoda. Possibly, however, an investigation of the development of the median eyes of some Crustacea (Apus, Palaemon) may prove them to be diplostichous in origin.

3. The so-called “Coxal Glands.”—In 1882 (Proc. Roy. Soc. No. 221) Lankester described under the name “coxal glands” a pair of brilliantly white oviform bodies lying in the Scorpion’s prosoma immediately above the coxae of the fifth and sixth pairs of legs (fig. 27). These bodies had been erroneously supposed by Newport (12) and other observers to be glandular outgrowths of the alimentary canal. They are really excretory glands, and communicate with the exterior by a very minute aperture on the posterior face of the coxa of the fifth limb on each side. When examined with the microscope, by means of the usual section method, they are seen to consist of a labyrinthine tube lined with peculiar cells, each cell having a deep vertically striated border on the surface farthest from the lumen, as is seen in the cells of some renal organs. The coils and branches of the tube are packed by connective tissue and blood spaces. A similar pair of coxal glands, lobate instead of ovoid in shape, was described by Lankester in Mygale, and it was also shown by him that the structures in Limulus called “brick-red glands” by Packard have the same structure and position as the coxal glands of Scorpio and Mygale. In Limulus these organs consist each of four horizontal lobes lying on the coxal margin of the second, third, fourth, and fifth prosomatic limbs, the four lobes being connected to one another by a transverse piece or stem (fig. 28). Microscopically their structure is the same in essentials as that of the coxal glands of Scorpio (13). Coxal glands have since been recognized and described in other Arachnida. In 1900 it was shown that the coxal gland of Limulus is provided with a very delicate thin-walled coiled duct which opens, even in the adult condition, by a minute pore on the coxa of the fifth leg (Patten and Hazen, 13). Previously to this, Lankester’s pupil Gulland had shown (1885) that in the embryo the coxal gland is a comparatively simple tube, which opens to the exterior in this position and by its other extremity into a coelomic space. Similar observations were made by Laurie (17) in Lankester’s laboratory (1890) with regard to the early condition of the coxal gland of Scorpio, and by Bertkau (41) as to that of the spider Atypus. H. M. Bernard (13) showed that the opening remains in the adult scorpion. In all the embryonic or permanent opening is on the coxa of the fifth pair of prosomatic limbs. Thus an organ newly discovered in Scorpio was found to have its counterpart in Limulus.

The name “coxal gland” needs to be carefully distinguished from “crural gland,” with which it is apt to be confused. The crural glands, which occur in many terrestrial Arthropods, are epidermal in origin and totally distinct from the coxal glands. The coxal glands of the Arachnida are structures of the same nature as the green glands of the higher Crustacea and the so-called “shell glands” of the Entomostraca. The latter open at the base of the fifth pair of limbs of the Crustacean, just as the coxal glands open on the coxal joint of the fifth pair of limbs of the Arachnid. Both belong to the category of “coelomoducts,” namely, tubular or funnel-like portions of the coelom opening to the exterior in pairs in each somite (potentially,) and usually persisting in only a few somites as either “urocoels” (renal organs) or “gonocoels” (genital tubes). In Peripatus they occur in every somite of the body. They have till recently been very generally identified with the nephridia of Chaetopod worms, but there is good reason for considering the true nephridia (typified by the nephridia of the earthworm) as a distinct class of organs (see Lankester in vol. ii. chap. iii. of A Treatise on Zoology, 1900). The genital ducts of Arthropoda are, like the green glands, shell glands and coxal glands, to be regarded as coelomoducts (gonocoels). The coxal glands do not establish any special connexion between Limulus and Scorpio, since they also occur in the same somite in the lower Crustacea, but it is to be noted that the coxal glands of Limulus are in minute structure and probably in function more like those of Arachnids than those of Crustacea.

4. The Entosternites and their Minute Structure.—Strauss-Dürckheim (1) was the first to insist on the affinity between Limulus and the Arachnids, indicated by the presence of a free suspended entosternum or plastron or entosternite in both. We have figured here (figs. 1 to 6) the entosternites of Limulus, Scorpio and Mygale. Lankester some years ago made a special study of the histology (3) of these entosternites for the purpose of comparison, and also ascertained the relations of the very numerous muscles which are inserted into them (4). The entosternites are cartilaginous in texture, but they have neither the chemical character nor the microscopic structure of the hyaline cartilage of Vertebrates. They yield chitin in place of chondrin or gelatin—as does also the cartilage of the Cephalopod’s endoskeleton. In microscopic structure they all present the closest agreement with one another. We find a firm, homogeneous or sparsely fibrillated matrix in which are embedded nucleated cells (corpuscles of protoplasm) arranged in rows of three, six or eight, parallel with the adjacent lines of fibrillation.

A minute entosternite having the above-described structure is found in the Crustacean Apus between the bases of the mandibles, and also in the Decapoda in a similar position, but in no Crustacean does it attain to any size or importance. On the other hand, the entosternite of the Arachnida is a very large and important feature

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 02.djvu/307


text: Canada Civil Service Act, 1868

title: Canada Civil Service Act, 1868


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176 coloured figures on a golden ground, all in mosaic-work; some of them very good, others but poor, according to the masters who furnished the cartoons.

Circumstances here have strangely impressed on my mind how everything depends on the first invention, and that this constitutes the right standard, the true genius; since with little square pieces of glass (and here not in the soberest manner) it is possible to imitate the good as well as the bad. The art which furnished to the ancients their pavements, and to the Christians the vaulted veilings of their churches, fritters itself away in our days on snuff-box lids and bracelet-clasps. The present times are worse even than one thinks.

, Oct. 8, 1786.

In the Farsetti Palace, there is a valuable collection of casts from the best antiques. I pass over all such as I had seen before at Mannheim or elsewhere, and mention only new acquaintances,–a Cleopatra in intense repose, with the asp coiled round her arm, and sinking into the sleep of death; a Niobe shrouding with her robe her youngest daughter from the arrows of Apollo; some gladiators; a winged genius resting in his flight; some philosophers, both in sitting and standing postures.

They are works from which, for thousands of years to come, the world may receive delight and instruction, without ever being able to equal with their thanks the merits of the artists.

Many speaking busts transported me to the old, glorious times. Only I felt, alas! how backward I am in these studies. However, I will go on with them: at least, I know the way. Palladio has opened the road for me to this and every other art and life. That sounds, probably, somewhat strange, and yet not so paradoxical as when Jacob Böhme says, that, by seeing a pewter platter by a ray from Jupiter, he was


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Rh enlightened as to the whole universe. There is also in this collection a fragment of the entablature of the temple of Antonius and Faustina, in Rome.

The bold front of this noble piece of architecture reminded me of the capital of the Pantheon at Mannheim. It is, indeed, something very different from our queer saints, piled up one above the other on little consoles, after the Gothic style of decoration; something different from our tobacco-pipe-like shafts, our little steeple-crowned towers and foliated terminals. From all taste for these I am now, thank God, set free for ever!

I will further mention a few works of statuary, which, as I passed along these last few days, I have observed with astonishment and instruction. Before the gate of the Arsenal two huge hons of white marble: the one is half recumbent, raising himself up on his fore feet; the other is lying,—noble emblems of the variety of life. They are of such huge proportions, that all around appears little, and man himself would become as nought, did not sublime objects elevate him. They are of the best times of Greece, and were brought here from the Piræus, in the better days of the Republic.

From Athens, too, in all probability, came two basreliefs which have been introduced in the Church of St. Justina, the conqueress of the Turks. Unfortunately they are in some degree hidden by the church seats. The sacristan called my attention to them, on account of the tradition that Titian modelled from them the beautiful angel in his picture of the martyrdom of St. Peter. The relievos represent genii, who are decking themselves out with the attributes of the gods,—so beautiful in truth as to transcend all idea or conception.

Next I contemplated with quite peculiar feelings the naked colossal statue of Marcus Agrippa, in the


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178 court of a palace: a dolphin, which is twisting itself by his side, points out the naval hero. How does such an heroic representation make the mere man equal to the gods!

I took a close view of the horses of St. Mark's. When one looks up at them from below, it is easy to see that they are spotted: in places they exhibit a beautiful yellow-metallic lustre, in others a coppery green has run over them. Viewing them more closely, one sees distinctly that once they were gilt all over; and long streaks are still to be seen over them, as the barbarians did not attempt to file off the gold, but tried to cut it off. That, too, is well: thus the shape at least has been preserved.

A glorious team of horses: I should like to hear the opinion of a good judge of horse-flesh. What seemed strange to me was, that, closely viewed, they appear heavy, while from the piazza below they look as light as deer.

8, 1786.

Yesterday I set out early, with my tutelary genius, for the Lido,—the tongue of land which shuts in the lagunes, and divides them from the sea. We landed, and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud hollow murmur: it was the sea. I soon saw it: it crested high against the shore, as it retired. It was about noon, and time of ebb. I have then at last seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its beautiful bed, just as it quitted it. I wished the children had been there to gather the shells: childlike, I myself picked up plenty of them. However, I attempted to make them useful: I tried to dry in them some of the fluid of the cuttle-fish, which here dart away from you in shoals.

On the Lido, not far from the sea, is the burial-place of Englishmen, and, a little farther on, of the Jews.


text: Franklin D. Roosevelt draft to Winston Churchill (June 13, 1940)


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Rh Both alike are refused the privilege of resting in consecrated ground. I found here the tomb of Smith, the noble English consul, and of his first wife. It is to him that I owe my first copy of Palladio. I thanked him for it, here in his unconsecrated grave. And not only unconsecrated, but half buried, is the tomb. The Lido is at best but a sand-bank (daune). The sand is carried from it backward and forward by the wind, and, thrown up in heaps, is encroaching on every side. In a short time the monument, which is tolerably high, will no longer be visible.

But the sea—it is a grand sight! I will try and get a sail upon it some day in a fishing-boat. The gondolas never venture out so far.

8, 1786.

On the seacoast I found, also, several plants, whose characters, similar to others I already knew, enabled me to recognise pretty well their properties. They are all alike, fat and strong, full of sap, and clammy; and it is evident that the old salt of the sandy soil, but still more the saline atmosphere, gives them these properties. Like aquatic plants, they abound in sap, and are fleshy and tough, like mountainous ones. Those whose leaves show a tendency to put forth prickles, after the manner of thistles, have them extremely sharp and strong. I found a bush with leaves of this kind. It looked very much like our harmless colt's-foot, only here it is armed with sharp weapons,—the leaves like leather, as also are the seed-vessels, and the stalk very thick and succulent. I bring with me seeds and specimens of the leaves (Eryngium maritimum).

The fish-market, with its numberless marine productions, afforded me much amusement. I often go there to contemplate the poor captive inhabitants of the sea.


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180 Oct. 9, 1786.

A delicious day, from morning to night. I have been toward Chiozza, as far as Pelestrina, where are the great structures called "Murazzi," which the republic has caused to be raised against the sea. They are of hewn stone, and properly are intended to protect from the fury of the wild element the tongue of land, called the "Lido," which separates the lagunes from the sea.

The lagunes are the work of old nature. First of all, the land and tide, the ebb and flow, working against one another, and then the gradual sinking of the primal waters, were, together, the causes why, at the upper end of the Adriatic, we find a pretty extensive range of marshes, which, covered by the flood-tide, are partly left bare by the ebb. Art took possession of the highest spots; and thus arose Venice, formed out of a group of a hundred isles, and surrounded by hundreds more. Moreover, at an incredible expense of money and labour, deep canals have been dug through the marshes, in order, that, at the time of high water, ships-of-war might pass to the chief points. What human industry and wit contrived and executed of old, skill and industry must now keep up. The Lido, a long narrow strip of land, separates the lagunes from the sea, which can enter at only two points,—at the castle and at the opposite end, near Chiozza. The tide flows in usually twice a day, and with the ebb carries out the waters twice, and always by the same channel and in the same direction. The flood covers the lower parts of the morass, but leaves the higher, if not dry, yet visible.

The case would be quite altered, were the sea to make new ways for itself to attack the tongue of land, and flow in and out wherever it chose. Not to mention that the little villages on the Lido—viz., Pelestrina, St. Peter's, and others—would be


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Rh, the canals of communication would be choked up, and, while the water involved all in ruin, the Lido would be changed into an island, and the islands which now lie behind it be converted into necks and tongues of land. To guard against this, it was necessary to protect the Lido as far as possible, lest the furious element should capriciously attack and overthrow what man had already taken possession of, and, with a certain end and purpose, given shape and use to.

In extraordinary cases, when the sea rises above measure, it is especially necessary to prevent it entering at more than two points. Accordingly, the rest of the sluice-gates being shut, it is, with all its violence, unable to enter, and in a few hours submits to the law of the ebb, and its fury lessens.

But Venice has nothing to fear: the extreme slowness with which the sea-line retires assures to her thousands of years yet; and, by prudently deepening the canals from time to time, they will easily maintain their possessions against the inroads of the water.

I only wish they were keeping their streets a little cleaner,—a duty which is as necessary as it is easy of performance, and which, in fact, becomes of great consequence in the course of centuries. Even now, in the principal thoroughfares, it is forbidden to throw anything into the canals: the sweepings even of the streets may not be cast into them. No measures, however, are taken to prevent the rain, which here falls in sudden and violent torrents, from carrying off the dirt, which is collected in piles at the corner of every street, and washing it into the lagunes, nay, what is still worse, into the gutters for carrying off the water, which consequently are often so completely stopped up, that the principal squares are in danger of being under water. Even in the smaller piazza of St. Mark's I have seen the gullies, which are well laid


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182 down there, as well as in the greater square, choked up, and full of water.

When a rainy day comes, the filth is intolerable: every one is cursing and scolding. In ascending and descending the bridges, one soils one's mantle and greatcoat (Tabarro), which is here worn all the year round; and, as one goes along in shoes and silk stockings, he gets splashed, and then scolds; for it is not common mud, but such as adheres and stains, that one is here splashed with. The weather soon becomes fine again, and then no one thinks of cleaning the streets. How true is the saying, the public is ever complaining that it is ill served, and never knows how to set about getting better served. Here, if the sovereign people wished it, it might be done forthwith.

This evening I ascended the Tower of St. Mark's. As I had lately seen from its top the lagunes in their glory at flood-time, I wished also to see them at low water; for, in order to have a correct idea of the place, it is necessary to take in both views. It looks strange to see land all around where there had previously been a mirror of waters. The islands are no longer islands, merely higher and house-crowned spots in one large morass of a gray-greenish colour, and intersected by beautiful canals. The marshy parts are overgrown with aquatic plants,—a circumstance which must tend, in time, to raise their level, although the ebb and flow are continually shaking and tossing them, and leave no rest to the vegetation.

I now return with my narrative once more to the sea. I there saw yesterday the haunts of the sea-snails, the limpets, and the crab, and was highly delighted with the sight. What a precious glorious object is a living thing! how wonderfully adapted to its state of existence, how true, how real (seyend)! What great advantages I now derive from my former studies of


text:
Author:James Rolfe Murie

Works

 * The Hako: A Pawnee Ceremony. (1904)
 * Ceremonies of the Pawnee. (Originally written early 20th century, but unpublished.)
 * Ceremonies of the Pawnee: Part 1: The Skiri

title: Author:James Rolfe Murie


text: Author talk:James Rolfe Murie

title: Author talk:James Rolfe Murie


text: Canada Civil Service Act, 1868/Schedule A


text: Canada Civil Service Act, 1868/Schedule B


text:
Author:Logan the Orator

Works

 * Logan's Lament

title: Author:Logan the Orator


text: Lengths and Levels To Bradshaw's Maps/From Actual Survey (1832)


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Page:Cartoons by Bradley.djvu/32

 straightway banished as unworthy. He took an honest pride in the fact that he did not have to fall back on makeshift or second rate ideas when he squared his elbows above his drawing board for the day's work. At that particular moment he was far more likely to find himself suffering from an embarrassment of riches in the form of many inviting subjects for treatment than from a dearth of ideas.

HEN he joined the staff of The Daily News Bradley was already a cartoonist of experience, having won notable success in Melbourne and having worked on other Chicago newspapers for several years. After he became the head of the art department of The Daily News, with general supervision over a considerable staff of artists and photographers, he attended to the many details of executive management along with his daily task of conceiving and executing a cartoon. Up to 11 or 12 o'clock each day his mind was busy with ideas for possible cartoons in the midst of the distractions of other duties. These ideas he would sketch out in the crudest way with a soft pencil, each rudimentary cartoon on its own sheet of ordinary rough paper. With the penciled sheets, usually numbering from three to half a dozen, he would come to my room, usually a little before noon, and we would talk over these ideas and perhaps other ideas would be developed.

Questions of clearness, appropriateness, vigor, unity and timeliness would commonly arise and often there was a choice to be made among a number of acceptable subjects. Frequently several different methods of treating the same subject would be considered and each would be sketched out in pencil or rearranged on the sheet with a few swift strokes by Bradley in the course of the conversation. The fertility of Bradley's mind, enriched by much reading of history, biography and other substantial works, and broadened by travel and observation as well as by thought which had produced in him strong convictions, was continually in evidence at such times. I frequently said to him in our discussions that I conceived it to be

title: Page:Cartoons by Bradley.djvu/32


text: An Act to regulate and restrict the Contigent Charges of the Departments of the Public Service, and to establish a Stationery Office


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 LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.

, the son of the first Irish governor of Western Australia, was a man who rendered very efficient service to the young colony of Victoria as its first Surveyor-General and Chief Commissioner of Crown Lands. To him was delegated the herculean task of organising municipal government throughout the country amongst a promiscuous population drawn by the golden magnet from all points of the compass. How well he succeeded is shown by the host of cities, towns, boroughs and shires, that are spread over the face of the land, each locally self-governed, each raising its own revenue, and controlling the expenditure of its own funds. Science also owes him a debt of gratitude, for he was the founder of the Philosophical Society of Victoria—the earliest organisation for the collection of scientific data on all matters connected with the colonies. Under the title of the Royal Society of Victoria, the institution continues to flourish and to publish a yearly volume of its "Transactions." Sir Andrew's near relative, Marcus Clarke, is the only novelist of the first rank that Australia has yet produced, and it will be many years before the colonies

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 cease to mourn the early death of that gifted son of genius. Though born in a London suburb, Marcus Clarke was always proud of his Irish lineage, and, at the outset of his literary career, he had the good fortune to secure the friendship and patronage of Sir Redmond Barry and Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, who were instrumental in procuring for him a congenial appointment in the Melbourne Public Library.

It was to Sir Charles Gavan Duffy that he dedicated his most powerful and thrilling work of fiction—"His Natural Life"—a book familiar as a household word throughout Australia, and almost as widely known in America, where it was republished by the Harpers. Three editions were issued in London, and the story was also translated into several European languages. It is a tale told with a purpose, and that purpose was to unveil before the eyes of the world the horrors of the English transportation system. Seeing that Marcus Clarke had not been born into the world when these horrors were in full blast, and that he had to search through a multiplicity of old newspapers, prison records, and blue-books, for the facts that formed the groundwork of his story, the realism of the narrative and the enthralling interest it excites in the mind of every reader, are calculated to excite a feeling of wonder at such a brilliant performance on the part of a young man of five-and-twenty, coupled with a feeling of deep sorrow that a life so rich in promise and possibilities, should have been extinguished so soon after the threshold of fame was passed. But, if it was impossible for him to witness the fiendish cruelties, by which the hapless convicts were in bygone days systematically goaded to madness or murder by inhuman military tyrants, he could at least visit the scenes of those dismal tragedies of a terrible past, and this he did by

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 spending some time on the sites—physically beautiful but morally detestable—once occupied by two of the most infamous of the "convict hells" of Van Diemen's Land, viz., Port Arthur and Macquarie Harbour. He thus acquired valuable local knowledge, and assimilated all the local traditions, besides ensuring that topographical accuracy of description which characterises the premier novel of Australia. All who have read "His Natural Life" will have no difficulty in agreeing with the dictum of Lord Rosebery that: "There can indeed be no two opinions as to the horrible fascination of the book. The reader who takes it up and gets beyond the prologue, though he cannot but be harrowed by the long agony of the story and the human anguish of every page, is unable to lay it down: almost in spite of himself, he has to read and to suffer to the bitter end. To me, I confess, it is the most terrible of all novels, more terrible than 'Oliver Twist' or Victor Hugo's most startling effects, for the simple reason that it is more real. It has all the solemn ghastliness of truth." And Mrs. Cashel Hoey, than whom there is no more competent judge, published this high estimate of the deceased young author in her "Lady's Letter from London," which has for years formed one of the most attractive features of a leading weekly journal of Melbourne: "His tales of the early days of the colonies, and his very striking novel, 'His Natural Life,' made a deep impression here. We were always expecting another powerful fiction from his pen. I fear he has not left any finished work, and I regret the fact all the more deeply that I have been allowed the privilege of reading a few chapters of a novel begun by Mr. Marcus Clarke, under the title of

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 'Felix and Felicitas.' The promise of those chapters is quite exceptional; they equal in brilliancy and vivacity the best writing of Edward Whitty, and they surpass that vivid writer in construction. It is difficult to believe, while reading the opening chapters of this, I fear, unfinished work, that the author lived at the other side of the world from the scenes and the society which he depicts with such accuracy, lightness, grace and humour." Though it is on "His Natural Life" that the literary reputation of Marcus Clarke will permanently rest, he is perhaps seen at his best in those thirty shorter tales and sketches which he wrote during his brief but industrious lifetime. In these minor efforts, the versatility of his genius is strikingly displayed. Some of them are tenderly pathetic, whilst others are grotesquely humorous, and several may be described as wildly imaginative, but all are essentially Australian in their character, and each of them happily illustrates some particular type or phase of colonial life. They afford abundant evidence that if the life of their talented author had been prolonged, he would, with matured powers of study and observation, have diligently explored the virgin fields of fiction at the antipodes, and enriched Australian literature with more than one book racy of the soil.

Edward Whitty, the "vivid writer" with whom Mrs. Cashel Hoey compares Marcus Clarke in the foregoing extract, also lies in a Melbourne cemetery, where his last resting-place is pointed out by a column of white marble that was placed over his grave by the well-known, warm-hearted, sympathetic Irish actor, Barry Sullivan. Like Marcus Clarke, Edward Whitty was born of Irish parents in London, and, by a strange coincidence, both died in Melbourne at precisely the same premature age of thirty-four. Whitty's

title: Page:The Irish in Australia.djvu/345


text:
Author:Edward Michael Whitty

Works

 * Friends of Bohemia
 * a series of powerful and graphic sketches of adventurers in politics and literature
 * The Governing Classes of Great Britain : political portraits
 * The Derbyites and the coalition : parliamentary sketches (1854)
 * St. Stephen's in the fifties, the session 1852-3

title: Author:Edward Michael Whitty


text:
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 dated 17 May 1665, proved 5 June 1672, he left her sole executrix and legatee. The name Frescheville has been spelt in many different ways; the spelling here followed is that of Holles's own signature (Egerton MS. 928, f. 40).

HOLLES, GERVASE (1606–1675), antiquary, born at Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, on 9 March 1606, was the only surviving son of Frescheville Holles by Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of John Kingston of the same place (Addit. MS. 5531, ff. 56, 78). He was brought up by his kinsman, John Holles, earl of Clare, was admitted of the Middle Temple on 3 May 1628, succeeded in 1630 to the family estate, and on 17 June of that year married Dorothy, daughter of John Kirketon of Great Grimsby. For the next four years he resided quietly at Grimsby, where he busied himself in rebuilding his house and collecting materials for a history of Lincolnshire. He removed on 20 Sept. 1634 to Mansfield in Sherwood, Nottinghamshire, where, on 18 Jan. 1634–5, he lost his wife and infant daughter (tomb in, Nottinghamshire, ed. Throsby, ii. 316). His only son, George, died on 10 Aug. 1635. Holles returned in Michaelmas term to the Middle Temple, and at Christmas was chosen comptroller of that society. To the expenses of the Christmas festivities, which lasted until the end of February, he contributed about 250l. During the same year he was elected mayor of Grimsby, and endeavoured to enforce payment of ship-money (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1637–8, p. 2). On 26 March 1640 he was elected M.P. for Grimsby, and again on the ensuing 14 Oct. (Lists of Members of Parliament, Official Return, pt. i.). In parliament he strenuously asserted the royal prerogative. He denounced the Scots propositions in a vigorous speech (Lansdowne MS. 207 (f), f. 58), for which, on 26 April 1641, he was ordered to be suspended during the remainder of the session (Commons' Journals, ii. 128). Though the order was rescinded on 2 Dec. following (ib. ii. 329), Holles refused to return to the house, and disregarded a peremptory summons for his attendance, dated 18 April 1642 (ib. ii. 533). The house thereupon declared him disabled from sitting, and a new writ was issued for Grimsby on 22 Aug. (ib. ii. 730). In the meantime Holles had brought 117 men to Charles at Nottingham, and raised a foot regiment at his own cost (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1660–1, p. 112). After taking part in the battle of Edgehill, he attended the king to Oxford, and on 1 Nov. 1642 was created M.A., being then sergeant-major of the army. In the next year he took his place in the parliament which sat at Oxford (, Fasti Oxon. ed. Bliss, ii. 29). On 6 April 1644 he was appointed by the king governor of Lynn-Regis, Norfolk (Addit. Charter, 2015). As colonel of a foot regiment he fought at the battles of Banbury, Brentford, Newark, Atherton, Bradford, and Newbury. He was also present at the siege of Colchester, where he was taken prisoner, and his estate confiscated. After suffering a long imprisonment he was allowed to retire to France at the end of 1649, and in March 1650 was admitted of the king's council (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1650, p. 25). Charles II rewarded his services by giving him an additional grant of arms on 4 Dec. 1649, and would have made him a baronet had he cared for the honour (Cal. Clarendon State Papers, ii. 279). He settled in Holland, where he was active in promoting the king's return (Egerton MS. 2542, f. 26). In March 1657 he bought at Middleburg, as ‘commander of the English under Ormond and Lord Wilmot,’ a thousand muskets and other arms (Cal. Clarendon State Papers, iii. 256; Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1656–7, pp. 293, 340). In July 1659 he informed Sir Edward Nicholas that he had resided at Rotterdam for the past three years, wholly dependent on the hospitality of a ‘good woman who had kept him from starving,’ and that he could not quit the city for want of money (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1659–60, p. 22). After the Restoration he was made master of requests, with an annuity of 100l. (ib. 1660–1, p. 496). On 8 April 1661 he was returned M.P. for Great Grimsby, which he represented until his death on 10 Feb. 1674–5. He was buried at Mansfield. He married as his second wife, on 4 Oct. 1637, Elizabeth (1606–1661), daughter of Lieutenant-colonel William Molesworth of Great Grimsby, by whom he had a son, Sir Frescheville Holles [q. v.] (, Westminster Abbey Registers, p. 176). He died intestate (cf. Administration Act Book, P. C. C. 1675, f. 19 b).

When Holles's house was plundered by the parliamentarians, many volumes of his collections perished; the remainder he contrived to have sent over to Holland. Finding it impossible to compile his history of Lincolnshire from such imperfect materials, he drew up in 1658 an account of his own family, which Arthur Collins afterwards transcribed (, Noble Families, p. 50). Six volumes of his Lincolnshire collections, transcribed by himself and persons in his employ in 1638 and 1639, are in Lansdowne MS.


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 father was a journalist who did good service in the cause of Catholic emancipation, and Whitty the younger adopted the paternal profession at an early age. When he was nineteen, he joined the staff of the Times, "the youngest man that the Thunderer ever entrusted with literary functions of any kind." He was successively editor of that most outspoken of journals, the Leader, and the radical Irish organ known as the Northern Whig, A sad domestic calamity, the death of his wife and two children within a short period of each other, made the old scenes unbearable to his sight, and he wandered away to the antipodes, only to find an early grave awaiting him. The book by which Whitty is best known is his "Friends of Bohemia," a series of powerful and graphic sketches of adventurers in politics and literature. "The Governing Classes" is another work of his that attracted some notice. Montalembert speaks of it in the highest terms in his "Constitutional Government in England," and describes its author as "the most original and accomplished journalist of the day." Just as in the case of Marcus Clarke, poor Whitty's fruitful mind was full of ambitious literary undertakings in the new land of his adoption, when he was suddenly struck down in the flower of early manhood. A brilliant Irish-Australian friend and contemporary has placed on record this by no means exaggerated estimate of his abilities: "There is no story in the whole melancholy chronicle of misfortunes of men of genius so sad as this of Edward Whitty. That he was something more and something higher than a man of genius, that his nature was moulded of the profoundest sensibilities, and that he altogether lived upon deep and passionate affections, is evinced by the utter shattering and subversion of health, hopes, and interests in the world, which followed the loss of his dear

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Author:Charles Forbes René de Montalembert

Works

 * Constitutional Government in England
 * Les moines d'occident depuis Saint Benoît jusqu'á Saint Bernard


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Hodgkinson, Hon. William Oswald


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Hodgson, Sir Arthur


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Hogan, James Francis


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Holder, Hon. Frederick William


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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Holroyd, His Honour Arthur Todd


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Holroyd, Hon. Edward Dundas


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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Holt, Hon. Thomas


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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Hopetoun, His Excellency the Right Hon. John Adrian Louis (Hope), Earl of


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 ones. Others, and men of fine mind and fine fettling too, would perhaps have come out of the typhoon dismasted and with broken timbers, but eventually to regain and to ride quietly for years on the world's waters. So young, too—so gifted—so abounding and ebullient with the life-blood of intellectual power, not the mere faculty of writing graceful verses or beautiful trifles of any kind, but with that power, disciplined by learned experiences of the ways of life, to deal with men and things, hard and cold and clear, and bright, warm and joyous, just as they are. His creation of Nea in 'Friends of Bohemia'—the poor girl-wife that her father, a selfish peer, deeply in debt to an old commercial speculator, had given to the latter's Bohemian son—though but a sketch, is a creation of the very highest beauty and a positive contribution to imaginative English literature."

The hand that penned this fraternal criticism belonged to Daniel Henry Deniehy, and the mention of that honoured name, in conjunction with those of Marcus Clarke and Edward Whitty, completes an ill-fated trinity of Irish-Australian genius. Born in the capital of the parent Australian colony, he mastered several European languages at an early age, and, in his twenty-fifth year, gave his countrymen the first glimpse of his oratorical powers in a striking course of lectures on "Modern Literature." His fresh and vigorous eloquence made him, at the outset of his career, the idol of the people, and, unfortunately for himself, he was triumphantly elected to a seat in the first representative assembly of New South Wales. Mr. Frank Fowler, in his "Southern Lights and Shadows," passes in review the leading politicians of New South Wales, and describes Deniehy as the "most accomplished man in the popular chamber. " Brought up under the care of the best of guides,

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 and friends, his sweet home, overlooking the waters of Port Jackson, is the happy refuge of all poor workers in the field of art or letters. Mr. Deniehy has attained the subtle critical faculty of a De Quincey, with conversational powers as brilliant as they are profound. His grasp of subjects is wonderfully extensive, while his rare and highly cultured intellectual faculties dart into every nook and cranny of a topic, convexing its hidden recesses into sharp and vivid relief." His future would perhaps have been far brighter and happier, had he eschewed politics and devoted his splendid abilities to his practice at the bar. Retiring after a few years from public life, he took up his versatile pen, established the Southern Cross, and in its pages, and those of other Sydney journals, poured forth that graceful, scholarly series of critical, historical, descriptive, and satirical papers, the perusal of which induced an English author-statesman to exclaim: "Had Deniehy lived, he would have become the Macaulay of Australia, the first of critics and essayists." But fate had willed it otherwise; the once bright and powerful intellect went out in deepest gloom, and the once favourite pet of the populace was found one morning in the streets of an inland city, and carried, like another Edgar Allan Poe, to a public hospital to die, in his thirty-fifth year. Truly a sad ending to a career that opened with such exceptional sunshine and promise.

Deniehy, then a young man of twenty, spent the opening months of 1848 in the land of his forefathers, and became acquainted with the leaders of the Young Ireland party, with whose views he was in enthusiastic sympathy. In one of his most interesting sketches, he describes John Mitchel as le

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 beau sabreur—the Murat of the movement; Charles Gavan Duffy as showing a literary character, broad, abundant, luminous as a river, and yet chequered with soft, sad autumnal hues; and Thomas Davis as the archetype of Young Ireland culture, and of the masculine purity of genius hallowed to lofty purposes—the scholar and the poet of his party. He thus admirably hits off the leading characteristics of John Mitchel's energetic journalism in 1848: "Splendid sarcasm, vitriolic in its specific quality as a destructive; argument close and conclusive, couched in eloquent execration, taunt and curse and defiance, jest and jeer, as grim in their way as attainders or excommunications; but above all, history—Irish history—pointed out week after week in such a light as, from the flames of a burning church, one might see the inscriptions on mural tablets a minute ere the slabs crack, and drop into the blazing chaos. Compared to them, the thunderers of the Times were weak rum-and-water to Russian quass or the Tartar distillation from equine milk. The denunciations of Junius, whose flimsy pretensions to power as political literature De Quincey has, among a host of similar services, shown the world, were as lemonade, and inferior lemonade, too, beside the arrack of the Mitchellian diatribes."

And in his elaborate review of the journal kept by John Mitchel during his detention as a prisoner of state, he soliloquises:

"Even to me, an Australian, who spent but a swallow's season in Ireland, there are passages in Mitchel's 'Jail Journal' that set my memory retouching Irish landscapes. They conjure up the places I know best in Erin—the brimming Lee with a midnight flash of the mill-wheels at Dripsey; Gougane Barra, with its 'pomp of waters unwithstood,' sung by Callanan in strains where, as often in martial music,

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102 English blood, the Puritan strain as it was in Spenser. His instinctive seriousness, his scrupulosity of conscience, his inheritance of a certain sombreness from the stock that adorned the Etruscan funeral urns, his attachment to places and awe of some of them as sacred by the touch of a divine power, his sense of invisible enemies about his path, his rigorous self-discipline in preparation for certain hereditary sacred offices, a deadly earnestness at times,—as when he gazes so fixedly on the rigid corpse of his friend Flavian,—such are some of the traits that define his nature as essentially rather Northern than Southern, and provide a ground of special sympathy and understanding for us.

The second device by which Marius is modernized is by giving to him a power which, for one who runs as he reads, makes the character incredible. He is said to be affected sometimes in a way the opposite of the experience which many have who, on seeing a new place, seem to have been there before: Marius feels, in the most marked of his experiences, something that shall be,—he has always a prescience. Thus, in the cadence of Flavian's verses he hears the music of the Latin hymnology; in the sight


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Rh of his second friend, Cornelius, who displays and puts on his armor of a Roman knight in the dusty sunshine of the shuttered country-house, he foresees the Christian chivalry; in the faces and groups of the worshipers in Cecilia's house he discerns the serene light and streaming joy of Giotto's and of Dante's vision, and looks on the Madonna and the Child that Raphael first painted. In all this there seems an unreality; in the Puritan Roman, the Cyrenaic Christian, there is a sense almost of conscious artifice, as if one were being befooled. And yet, as for those Northern notes of landscape, custom, and character, scholarship can give chapter and verse for them; and as for the gift of prescience,—well, if it were impossible for Marius to have it, in a sufficient measure at least, then the theory of ideal living which he held to was at fault. And this Marius, so constituted, his creator places in an Italy over which the romantic desolation, which we know, was laying its charm of dreamful decay, and in a Rome which, then as now, was the huddled deposit of religions.

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104 theory capable of being made a principle of living. The world is what we think it, and our part in existence is the fleeting moment of present consciousness. What shall be done with this moment? Economize it, said Marius, in dissent from the Stoic who said, "Contemn it." Economize it; make the most of the phenomena that arise in it, and see, so far as it depends on you, that these phenomena, both of sensation and idea, as they arise, are the most valuable possible to the moment; and so your experience—in other words, your life—will be the fullest and most refined. Above all, do not forget the main thing in this doctrine of economy, which is that the worth of experience depends, not on what it is at the moment in its detached and transitory phase, but on what it will prove in memory when it takes its place permanently and in relation to the whole of life. In such a scheme, receptivity, the most alert and varied powers of taking in impressions, is the one aim of cultivation. Here, too, much depended on the nature of Marius, this time on the side of his Southern endowment. An impressibility through sensation was his gift, his talent; and especially he was susceptible to what the eye observes:


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Rh he was one of those who are "made perfect by the love of visible beauty." This is the point of union of his life with the æsthetic ideal, and makes the story of it a pathway through scenes of loveliness not unlike, in a certain mild beauty, the frescoes on ancient walls. The narrative is pictorial, almost to the point of decoration, and moves always with an outlook on some fair sight. From the landscape of the villa where Marius was born—among those delightful Etrurian hills whence one looks to the marbled rifts of Carrara gleaming above olive and chestnut slopes, and gazes off through the purple sea-valley of Venus's Port, the noblest gateway of the descending sun—to the last throttling earthquake morning, a beautiful visible world is about us, and exercises its attractiveness both in nature and in humanity. The one end of Marius was to appropriate all this, to choose the best of sensation and its most nearly connected emotions, and to live in that. To do this involves a secondary talent, a gift of insight, a power to perceive relative values, which in reality means a faculty of moral discrimination; and just here one may easily fail to see whence Marius derived this.


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106 Why was it, for example, that he, being so attached to sensation and the emotions that cling closest to it, rejected voluptuousness, with all its forms of beauty and joyfulness, as a thing essentially not beautiful nor joyful? What was it that kept him, the comrade of Flavian, who represents the pagan surrender to this life, pure,—so pure, indeed, that with his visionary sense he foresaw in chastity an ideal that was to be, and foreknew its coming beauty? A mere interpreter of character, an analyst, would say, that Marius obeyed in these choices his own nature,—that Puritan nature whose compulsion is always strong. He venerated his own soul and cherished its early instincts, and this was his salvation. But one might also give another explanation, which would seem more harmonious with the purpose of the author; one might say that what is moral is in its outward manifestation so clothed with beauty, visible beauty, that the man who looks for beauty only, the noblest, the ideal beauty, will find therewith the highest, the ideal good. It is essential to such a seeker that he shall look with his own eyes and be frank with himself; shall "look straight out" and acknowledge what he sees; and


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Rh this Marius does, thereby prefiguring in a way and practically making that "return to nature" which is the continually recurring necessity of all sincerity. If virtue does in fact wear this outward loveliness—and who would deny it?—why may not the lover of beauty have truly seen the new and springing forms of goodness, recognized them, and taken their promise into his life? In other words, was not that prescience of Marius merely a power of clear and honest seeing of the elements of beauty and ugliness there before him?

That this is Mr. Pater's view of the matter is indicated most definitely by the contrast which he continually insists on between Marcus Aurelius and Marius, and which he brings out clearly in the attitude of these two toward the gladiatorial shows. In the amphitheatre Marius is conscious of the Emperor, the strenuous Stoic, as "eternally his inferior on the question of righteousness." The young Epicurean has a "decisive conscience on sight" which is indubitable,—that conscience which, in its condemnation of the great sin of an age, is the touchstone of the select few in it, and makes them on the side of the future and aware of its excellence


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108 to be, when "not to have been, by instinctive election, on the right side was to have failed in life." Aurelius, we are told, made the great mistake: Vale, anima infelicissima! is the last word of our author to him on the eve of the persecutions. And the reason is, that the Stoic was truly blind; he had paltered with his senses until they lied to him, or spoke not at all. Marius saw the deformity of the evil, and, while rejecting it as something he might not see and live, chose the good by its beauty, and so selected in the midst of that Roman corruption the Christian elements in whose excellence the Church would triumph and be made fair.

There may be some surprise in perceiving in the evangel of æstheticism a morality of this height, a concentration of attention on the beauty of austerity, an exaltation of a noble Puritanism toward which the Cyrenaic ideal may lead. When this is understood, however, one finds it natural enough that the pervading tone of this history of an ideal life is really religious; idealism, when it is living, cannot be otherwise than essentially religious. Nevertheless, it is a bold thing to put the question, as Mr. Pater implicitly does, whether an attention to the beautiful,


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Rh to visible beauty, may not only be equivalent to moral discrimination and a safeguard of virtue, but also a mode of solving the ultimate religious questions of deity and man's relation to it. Marius does arrive at an intimation, perhaps a faith, that a protective divine companionship goes beside him, and at an emotion of gratitude to that unseen presence.

Two points only, in this wide branch of the speculation, can be dwelt on now. He says toward the end that he thinks he has failed in love; and here he touches on one weakness of his ideal, for it is only by love, as he perceives, that any reconciliation between the lover of beauty and the multitudinous pitiful pain which is so large a part of the objective universe can be obtained. The second weakness is perhaps greater. In his ideal there is both doubt and isolation; the subjective element in his knowledge, the exclusive reliance on his own impressions, the fact that in metaphysical belief the world is only his world, and in actual living the experience is individual,—all this holds in it a basis of ultimate incertitude. True and real for him it no doubt is, but is that, indeed, the necessary limit of knowledge and


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110 life? In effect, too, his creed is Protestant; independently of the necessary element of doubt in it, it has the isolating force inevitable to the believer who will accept only the results of his own examination by exercise of private judgment. This position is unsatisfactory; and it seems to allow the rationality of that principle of authority by which an individual life obtains correction for its idiosyncrasies, cancels the personal error, and at the same time lets in upon itself the flood of the total experience of humanity summed up and defined in the whole body of the elect. Though stated here in terms of the Stoical philosophy, this is the Catholic conclusion. Or, if Marius does not quite assent to this, he does accept it in a half-hearted way as an hypothesis which is worth making since it reunites him to mankind. There is, it may be observed, a tendency toward Catholicism throughout the religious speculation. Another note of it, for example, is the attraction felt by Marius in the ritual of worship, as the perfection of that ceremonialism to which, in his boyish worship of the old gods, he was devoutly trained.

After all, at the end one still states the


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Rh promises of this æsthetic ideal, even when working on so unusual a nature as Marius's, interrogatively. Marius's life does not set it forth with convincing power. For one thing, it is not a vital life, but a painted one; and there is an inconsequence in the series of pictures,—they do not seem to follow one another by any iron necessity. It would be foolish to complain that a life avowedly only receptive and contemplative of the beautiful is inactive. Marius does nothing except at the end. Yet, within such limits, one never sees how beauty affected Marius or developed his soul, and though he is said to have got much from companionship, one sees love operant in him very seldom, and then it is a very silent and unexpressed love. He repeats his own epitaph,—tristem neminem fecit,—and it was true; but all his life seems negative, and continually one asks, How did he really live? and gets no answer. His whole life was a meditatio mortis,—that is all that is told us.

A sense of failure, or rather of incompleteness, oppresses one at the end of the narrative. Even granting that the success Marius is said to have achieved—one is never quite sure that he did—by that exquisite


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Rh of Christian art and the Catholic Church, the land is supposed to be religious; as the long-enslaved and last-freed of the nations of Europe, the race is believed to be deficient in political sagacity. Yet it requires but little reflection, hardly more than a thought of the Reformation, to prevent surprise at the fact that the Italians were at heart the most irreligious of Christian peoples, and that the Church, viewed by them always as a secular institution, is a monument of their genius applied to practical affairs. Italian art, too, as an expression of national life, must be ascribed less to piety than to the native bent of mind, the inbred race disposition, which seeks to bring all spiritual things within the perception of the senses; indeed, the course of development in Italian art lies principally in the gradual substitution of an æsthetic aim for a devout motive as the source of inspiration. No people is less dreamy, in the Northern sense; the genius of the race is positive, definite, objective, practical, circumscribed in the tangible and visible facts of experience. Between Italian intellect and Italian feeling there seems to be no border-land. Ecstasy may fall from heaven and kindle masses of


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114 men into passion, as in the case of the Flagellanti, but it is a malady of emotion only; the madness passes, the mind remains untouched. In Dante's poem, as has been often pointed out, these race qualities are clearly apparent: the journey is mapped out as on a chart; the hours are duly reckoned; the world beyond is laid open to accurate observation; the dark places of his Comedy are not dark with the spirit's excess of light, but with mediæval metaphysics. In later authors, however different the subject, the temper of mind is the same. The grasp on reality is no less tenacious, the attention to detail no less careful; the incidents of the adventure, the look of the landscape, the physiognomy of the characters, no less plainly defined as phenomena ocularly seen.

In the poems of chivalry, whether romantic, heroic, or burlesque, which seem to possess the characteristics of later Italian literature in most variety, this realism is veiled by the apparent unreality of the fable. Arthur and Roland belong to the North; and to the Northern mind itself, although they have the substance of ideals, they are very remote. But the Arthur of Italian nobles, the Roland of the Italian people, are the


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Declassified per Executive Order 13526, Section 3.3 NND Project Number: NND 63316. By: NWD Date: 2011 Rh