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Historicizing the Knowledge Commons: Open Access, Technical Knowledge, and the Industrial Application of Science

Abstract
How does open access relate to scholarly communication? Though there are many modern definitions stressing the accessibility of knowledge to everyone, sharing scientific knowledge has a much longer history. What might the concept of ‘open access’ have meant to scientists and knowledge practitioners over the past several hundred years? This paper poses some relevant questions and calls for better historicization of the idea of the knowledge commons at different periods of time, particularly the era of the ‘Republic of Letters’ and the ‘Modern System of Science.’ The concept of open access as it relates to academic publishing has been very nuanced, and hopefully, understanding the history of ‘open access’ in relation to scholarly communication can help us to have more informed debates about where open access needs to go in the future.

Keywords: Open access; Scholarly communication; publishing; history

Introduction
Open access, or availability that is ‘digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions’ (Suber 2004) is seen as a means to publicly release all scientific and other knowledge to this world. Historically, though, this kind of knowledge commons has been quite contested. As we discuss modern ways of disclosing research results, perhaps it might be beneficial to look at the past and think about the ways both early modern alchemists and modern scientists chose to share their work. For hundreds of years, there has been a complex interplay between what we would now consider intellectual property, licensing, professional career objectives, and the question of what knowledge should be made widely available.

Open Access has become an extremely debated issue; recently, Aileen Fyfe and others (2017) have worked to provide some historical context for how open access has been discussed in more recent years and how these debates have been shaped by a long history of sharing scholarship, particularly in the context of the Royal Society of London. Fyfe’s report, however, falls within a fairly well established framework of investigation for scholarly communication. Christine Borgman (2000) defined scholarly communication as, ‘the study of how scholars in any field (e.g. physical, biological, social, and behavioural sciences, humanities, technology) use and disseminate information through formal and informal channels’ (413–14). Much of the scholarship utilizing Borgman’s definition has focused on the idea of prestige and utilizes the theories of Robert Merton (1968) as its framework. Merton concentrated on the values of the modern scientific system and the ways in which individual scientists achieved status within their profession, and Eugene Garfield (2004), founder of the Institute for Scientific Information citation index, is but one example of the many sociologically trained scientists who has investigated scholarly communication according to Merton’s methods: ‘Those of us who have worked in the field of scientometrics and its antecedent bibliometrics almost universally recognize the debt we owe to Robert K. Merton’ (54).

Other scholars, however, have questioned this framework of utilizing prestige as the most important factor in understanding scholarly communication and by extension open access. For example Scott Frickel and Neil Gross (2005), when discussing the approach of Merton and others to measurement of status, suggest that ‘we find it difficult to believe that the quest for prestige and status is the sole motive shaping intellectual innovation’ (211). Therefore, it is important to ask what might be another possible framework for investigating both scholarly communication and open access within this very large period of time covering roughly four hundred years.

Jurgen Osterhammel (2014) has theorized that there are two periods in the formation of the ‘modern knowledge society.’ The first he terms as the ‘Republic of Letters’ that ends around 1820. The second is the ‘Modern System of Science’ which ‘witnessed the constant enlargement, institutionalization, and routinization, and even the beginnings of its [knowledge’s] globalization’ (779). Utilizing Osterhammel’s framework, keeping in mind the thoughts of Frickel and Gross to look beyond just factors of prestige, and applying these concepts specifically to the dissemination of academic knowledge during the two periods identified by Osterhammel can perhaps help us think about what exactly the “commons” was during these two periods of history. Moreover, how did practitioners interact with that commons, and can these historical debates help us to understand and think about current discussions of open access?

Early Science and Public Knowledge
Historians of medieval and renaissance science have long discussed how practitioners thought about disclosing their results during the early period of science. William Eamon (1994), in Science and the Secrets of Nature, has also investigated the early history of science in Britain. In particular, Eamon discusses the foundational figure, Francis Bacon, who is often credited as the founder of modern science. On the surface, Bacon and his followers condemned the kind of closed system of esoteric knowledge that was utilized by alchemists because they thought that it inhibited the progress of science. On the other hand, one of the reasons that Bacon believed that the arcane wisdom of the alchemists should be avoided was because he believed that there was a natural division between different kinds of knowledge: ‘Whereas God forbade inquiry into the precepts of morality and religion which are to be accepted on faith, he argued, inquiry into natures secrets are not forbidden’ (Quoted in Eamon, 320). In other words theology, philosophy, and other types of theoretical learning were outside the bounds of what ‘science’ was. Bacon believed that science should utilize the mechanical arts, or technical knowledge, rather than philosophy because ‘philosophical systems flourish at the hands of the first author’ and ‘stand like statues worshipped and celebrated but not moved or advanced’ (Quoted in Eamon, 323). Bacon believed Mechanical arts, ‘as having in them some breath of life are continually growing and becoming more perfect’ (Quoted in Eamon, 323); therefore, according to Bacon, it was necessary to leave philosophical inquiry to others and, rather, scientists should devote their own work to discovery of the ‘facts’ of nature, a precept later institutionalized by the Royal Society of London.

Not all of the members of the Royal Society agreed with Bacon, however. Robert Boyle for instance feared that the Royal Society might give access to what was ‘privileged knowledge,’ and alchemical secrets, to people who would not be morally equipped to understand it. Additionally, John Evelyn, another of the Royal Society’s founders, was himself interested in alchemy. Though Evelyn largely supported Bacon’s ideas and also believed in the same division between mechanical and what he called ‘aristocratic,’ or esoteric arts, Evelyn suggested that there should be a hierarchical ranking of knowledge supported by the Royal Society starting at the bottom with the ‘Useful and purely Mechanic’ and ascending to ‘Exotick, and very rare Seacretts’ (like alchemy) at the top (Eamon, 331). Evelyn later opted against working with the Royal Society on such projects, however, because he believed that publishing his results would ‘debase much of their esteem by prostituting them to the vulgar’ and would be similar to ‘conversing with mechanical and capricious persons’ (Eamon, 331).

Therefore, elite institutions like the Royal Society focused their work of practical knowledge. In Philosophical Transactions (the Royal Society’s journal), the authors explicitly acknowledge their focus on mechanical arts on several occasions: ‘the largeness of our Commerce abroad, and the groth of Arts at home, and the Observations of judicious Antiquaries will be a threefold advantage for the reputation and benefit of England, and cast an acceptable and obliging aspect over all his Majesties Dominions’ (Oldenburg 1667). Additionally, a great deal of scientific publishing in the sixteenth and seventeenth century focused on technical books that could be understood by the general public. Just one example of such technical writing were the so-called “Books of Secrets,” which Elizabeth Tebeaux (1997) has discussed in The Emergence of a Tradition. Tebdeaux suggests that such books tended to be focused on practical medicine, navigation, gardening or other practical arts utilized by a large number of people. Furthermore, such books ‘were directed more toward making the natural world predictable and explicable than exposing it as vulnerable to human manipulation’ (157).

Most importantly, according to Tebdeaux, much of the technical publishing during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was dedicated to ‘making formerly private knowledge and behavior part of the public domain,’ and ‘making knowledge previously reserved for academics and aristocrats available to a broad audience’ (158). Thus, at the end of the seventeenth century there were several approaches in competition. There is a divide between practical and esoteric knowledge which had long existed, but practical knowledge seems to be more reliably disseminated by both the Royal Society and by technical publishers. This divide between practical and esoteric knowledge continued into the nineteenth century. Moreover, in the United States, the divide between scholarship that could be utilized for the benefit of industry versus more abstract philosophical concepts began to be institutionalized in the nascent American scientific organizations, particularly during the mid-nineteenth and late nineteenth century when American institutions of science first formed.

Modern Science and Commodification
During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, one of the primary changes in scientific knowledge construction was the creation of specialists who could become experts in particular fields. Since it is difficult for one person to become a specialist in increasingly broad fields, professional organizations rapidly divided scientific knowledge into a variety of sub-fields. Albrecht von Haller, a physician in the mid-eighteenth century saw this tendency toward creating specialties as a great advantage because it ‘divides the sciences into small parts and gives each man a small and limited responsibility’ (Quoted in Burke 2012, 160). There were, however, some scientists who objected to this trend. By the early nineteenth century, the same trends of sub-division were being called ‘superficial knowledge’ by Thomas DeQuincey, who deplored the ‘tendency in science … to extreme sub-division’ (Burke, 160–61). DeQuincey’s objections withstanding, science continued to sub-divide into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

In the United States, there is a similar trend toward the subdivision of science into smaller sub-units of knowledge but with an important additional characteristic. Janice Radway (2009) argues that during the late nineteenth century, sub-division of science acquired a more commercial aspect: ‘By disciplining their work and that of the graduate specialists they [professors] sought to train, they professionalized thought, transforming it slowly into a business – the business of knowledge production’ (202). Marcel LaFollette (2009) notices many of the same trends as Radway and focuses on the business side of knowledge production. He argues that scientific publishing had a bifurcated market within the United States. On the one hand, there was the market for professional academics in which ‘the intended consumers were the same group of people who produced and evaluated the work’ (243). This market created an insularity that ‘encouraged development of an attitude within the research communities whereby scientists claimed ownership of their publication outlets, perceiving the journals and monograph series as “theirs,” even though the intellectual property may have been produced, sold, and copyrighted by the publishers, who bore the financial risk of market failure and reaped much of the profit’ (243–44). There was, on the other hand, also a popular market for science, but this market was not as predictable. Therefore publishers, overall, used scientific publishing as an opportunity for growth and contributed to ‘the belief that open access to scientific and technical knowledge was an American birthright’ (259). Open access in this sense does not mean work available without subscription, but rather that scientific knowledge is widely available to professional scientists and that this knowledge will continue to grow at an exponential rate.

Technical Knowledge and Industrial Application
In the United States during the nineteenth-century, the commodification of knowledge went a step further as prominent scientists advocated for the industrial application of scholarship. J. Lawrence Smith (1873), president of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) in 1873 (the only scientific professional organization in the United States at that time), firmly described his views on how ‘science’ should be practiced. Smith gave a presidential address to the AAAS in which he favored technical knowledge: ‘It is a very common attempt nowadays for scientists to transcend the limits of their legitimate studies; and in doing this they run into speculations apparently the most unphilosophical … a perversion of Bacon’s philosophy’ (8). Furthermore, Smith states, ‘science is only an accurate record of the processes of nature; that its laws are only generalizations of its observations, and not a declaration of an inherent necessity; and that one of its observations is the uniformity of natural sequence’ (8). One year later, Smith (1874) made quite apparent his attachment to science serving industry in another article: ‘From these multiplied and diverse efforts — these incessant labors of an army of workers — arises an industry which has no sooner sprung into existence than it becomes important and prosperous’ (70). In the same article, Smith suggested that professional scientists are obligated to drive industry and suggests that ‘In our days a useful discovery is scarcely made, or a happy application of one found out, before it is published, described in the scientific journals, or other technical periodicals, and especially in the specifications of patents’ (70). Smith makes an interesting observation in this sentence. He focuses on two kinds of property that are essential to the scientist: ‘scientific journals, or other technical periodicals’ and, especially, ‘patents.’

Smith was in fact drawing on a long American scientific and philosophical tradition. The American Philosophical Society, perhaps in part because of the philosophies of its founder, Benjamin Franklin, suggested the Preface to the first issue of the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society published in 1769; it states that ‘Knowledge is of little use when confined to mere speculation: But when speculative truths are reduced to practice … are applied to the common purposes of life; and when by these agriculture is improved, trade enlarged, the arts of living made more easy and comfortable … knowledge then becomes really useful’ (i–ii). The Preface then goes on to say that the journal, and society generally, was dedicated to enacting these precepts. Therefore, unlike the Royal Society, which was of course also dedicated to practical knowledge, the American Philosophical Society focused much more explicitly on the need for knowledge that could apply directly to daily life, and ‘mere speculation’ was discouraged.

Other scientists within nineteenth-century America actually took some of these ideas about practical science a step further and explicitly stressed that science needed to be tied to industrial progress. Benjamin Silliman (1818), founder of the only scientific research journal with a national scope starting in 1818, the American Journal of Science, said in the introduction to his journal that there ‘will be a leading object to illustrate American Natural History, and especially our Mineralogy and Geology. The applications of these sciences are obviously as numerous as physical arts and physical wants; for not one of these arts or wants can be named which is not connected with them’ (v). Silliman’s words echo in many ways those of earlier American scientific journals such as the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, and perhaps even the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society.

Later scientists wrote much in the same vein. The vice president of the chemistry section for the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Harvey Wiley, wrote in its Proceedings (1886) that ‘Men of affairs often criticize science because it is not practical … I desire to say a few words respecting the economic aspects of Agricultural Chemistry’ (125). Wiley’s address then discussed the impact of chemistry on the farming industry. Wiley was addressing a small group of chemists who were attending the American Association for the Advancement of Science, yet the Proceedings were distributed broadly to all members of the association (or anyone else who subscribed). Chemistry is an interesting example of scientific organization both because it was one of the first specialized scientific organizations to form in the U.S., but also, chemistry as a scientific discipline was very friendly toward industrial concerns; two years later, the Journal of the American Chemical Society (1888) reported ‘the outcome of the visit of the Society of Chemical Industry to the works of the above-mentioned company [Noble’s Explosives Company]’ (116) and the Journal often included entire sections dedicated to industrial chemistry. Benjamin Silliman (1886) also praised J. Lawrence Smith, for his ties to industry where Smith ‘established a laboratory for the production of chemical reagents and of the rarer pharmaceutical preparations, in which enterprise he associated himself with Dr. E. R. Squibb, whose fame as a successful worker in pharmaceutical chemistry is well known’ (235).

Conclusions
Though science has developed greatly since Silliman wrote those words praising an important leader in early scientific organization, it seems that some of the same issues about commodification of science and its industrial application remain. In the twenty-first century, one wonders how many problems modern researchers are left that have their origins in debates that have been going on since at least the seventeenth century – and these scientists have more questions than answers. In the early period of science, technical publishers sought to make knowledge available to a wider readership. In the modern period, publishers utilized a strategy that sought to sell professionalized scientists’ work from within their own communities while at the same time giving those same scientists significant control over what was published. Scientists in both the early and modern periods shared their work primarily to advance the needs either of commerce (for the Royal Society) or those of industry (for the AAAS).

Thus it seems that modern scholars are left in a world where the illusion of ‘open access to scientific and technical knowledge’ that LaFollette articulates is in conflict with the practical realities of academic careers and a publishing system that arguably endeavors to commodify knowledge. Perhaps the modern scholarly communication system is at least partly the product of the economic realities of the nineteenth century. By understanding how the historical development of the social forces affecting knowledge production have shaped notions of open access, especially at a point when science first formed in the U.S., it may be possible to have better discussions about how to influence the future of scholarly communication. Scientific practice and publishing in the nineteenth century U.S. was seen by prominent scientists as a means to advance the needs of a rapidly industrializing American economy. Therefore, it is not surprising that modern scientific publishing which has its origins in the late-nineteenth century has similar characteristics.

What does all of this have to do with open access, especially for the sciences? If scholars want to make their knowledge more available and to embrace the importance of a more truly open knowledge commons, they must also recognize the origins of the publication system they now utilize – which had very different goals and a very different concept of how research should be shared and who should pay for it. For scholars in the humanities, the publishing system was different; it also developed, however, during the same time period. A similar historical investigation into the figures who shaped scholarly communication practices and their motivations might be helpful for other academic disciplines to determine similarities and differences between sciences, humanities, and other disciplines at the point when the scholarly communication system first originated in the U.S. What are the current barriers to creating an open system of scholarship? At least for the sciences, and possibly for the humanities, some of those barriers have their origins in a nineteenth-century, industry-oriented publishing system. Orienting scholarly communication toward a more truly open access system will require a more thorough understanding of its historical development and potential ways for overcoming one hundred years of previous practice.

Competing Interests
The author has no competing interests to declare.


text: Talk:Historicizing the Knowledge Commons: Open Access, Technical Knowledge, and the Industrial Application of Science

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Author:Shawn Martin

Works

 * Historicizing the Knowledge Commons: Open Access, Technical Knowledge, and the Industrial Application of Science (2019)

title: Author:Shawn Martin


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Page:Zora Neale Hurston - Meet the Mamma.pdf/39

 I just got back from the church house And heard what the preacher said. It seems that a dirty look from Peter Laid the poor old scout out dead. They say he was killed for lying -- I can't see why that should be That they should croak a good old scout like him And not do a thing to me.

Now this Pete was a busy body, Like a prohibition hound When regular guys are having fun He's sniffing and whiffing round. He ought to'e been brought to justice And given life in jail With only his wife for company And never a chance for bail.

Cause Ananias was a liar Much needed in every club To fix up things to tell your wife And alibi in any rub He could fix up a tale for the landlord

And explain to the wife about the sick friend And even explain your breath.


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I'm blue, I'm blue, so blue, I don't know what to Because my man don't stay home; Every night he has to roam Because I'm his, he thinks me slow But other men don't find me so.

Everybody's man is better to me than my own. Hear me cry, hear me sigh Oh listen to me moan He cheats me, he cheats me and stays out all night long. When he's out, they're hanging round All those long, tall teasing browns. Oh, I could get loving, if I'd take a chance They'll pay the fiddler, if I'll only dance, But my mean pappa wontwon't [sic] bring it home Oh - everybody's man is better to me than my own.


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 themselves as in a chemical process. The typical and unvarying Hodge ceases to exist. He has been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures—beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some stupid, others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially Cromwellian; into men who have private views of each other, as the observer has of his friends; who can applaud or condemn each other, amuse or sadden themselves by the contemplation of each other's foibles or vices; men everyone of whom walks in his own individual way the road to dusty death."

These people of Hardy's, one may be reasonably sure, composed the actual Wessex "backbone," at least until about 1860. Additional illumination of a brilliant quality is thrown over this picture by Hardy's remarks on the country clergy. The fact that he delivered them to a "quondam parson" may have colored them somewhat charitably, but still he sounded the note of sincerity when he said:

"Great credit is due to the parson, who, in my opinion, does much to keep up the interest in these quiet villages. It would be a thousand pities that such men, educated, sympathetic, original-minded as many of them are, should be banished by looming difficulties of dogma, and the villages given over to the narrow-mindedness and the lack of charity of some lower class of teacher."

"How, then," asked his interlocutor, "do you explain the great dislike that exists in the rural breast for the parson?" To which Hardy replied:


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 "I think he is so disliked, where he is disliked, more on account of his friendship with the squire and the powers that be; because he teaches a theology which they cannot square with the facts of life. The Liberationist Society are on the wrong tack; let them liberate the parson from his theology, not the parish from the parson."

Throughout his literary career, indeed, Hardy continually recognized the great power of the parson for both good and evil in the community. His first picture of the pastor, in Desperate Remedies, is a consistently sympathetic one. Contrasted with this presentation of the clergyman as a force which worked for good in the physical and spiritual life of the district is the portrait of Mr. Swancourt in A Pair of Blue Eyes, a petty dignitary whose social prejudices and altogether selfish propensities have much to do with the hastening on of the catastrophe of the story, and constitute proper vehicles for a cynical presentation of the futility and occasional malignity of the representatives of the Church. The more neutral characterizations of Angel Clare's father in Tess and of Parson Maybold in Under the Greenwood Tree are indicative of Hardy's more tolerant moods when reacting to the country clergy—although the picture is scarcely complete without the addition of that biting "satire of circumstance,” In Church, a truly diabolical, sardonic glimpse:


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And from first to last the poet exercised no patience with the theology taught by the wearers of holy orders. In his enthusiasm for the countryman Hardy has often been compared with Wordsworth, but that his understanding of the native heart and mind was infinitely superior to that of the great optimistic nature-poet has been shown rather conclusively by the great esteem and friendliness that the farm and working people of his own district have always felt for him. According to "John O'London," he "sees a peasant culture from his own art, and the Wessex villagers greet him as their Prospero, whose staff must one day be broken and buried, but whose book will never be drowned." It will be remembered that the country folk of the Lake district literally ran before the approach of Wordsworth (meditative, benevolent, wordy and moral sage that he was), who, for all his sympathy, seems to have lacked a real understanding of the man of the soil. His philosophy of the rustic heart was one drawn largely out of books and easy-chair meditation rather than from the actual experience with material contact with his clouted subjects. Hardy's sym-


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 pathy, on the other hand, was always that of the fellow-worker and fellow-sufferer, no matter how clear-sighted and aristocratic he remained within himself.

The Dorset language itself has been enshrined with both exactness and artistic feeling in the "dialect" verse written by the Rev. William Barnes of Winterbourne. Hardy's interests in the past and present of the country, of the people and of the speech of Wessex, as well as in the art of poetry in and for itself, were united in his enthusiasm for the figure and work of this remarkable poet. Born in 1800, Barnes had lived his whole life among the Wessex folk; like Hardy he had become enamored of the ancient dialect, had learnt to penetrate into the highways and byways of the rural heart, and, like Hardy again, had easily won the admiration of his country parishioners through his deep sympathy and keen insight into their ways, which he could at will adopt as his own, and make the feelings and expressions of the peasant a part of himself. It is said that his most appreciative audiences did not consist of cultivated readers, charmed with the "quaintness" and "naivete" of his dialect lyrics, but of the users of the dialect themselves, delighted with the truthfulness and naturalness of his poetry and of his manner of reading it.

Although well equipped to apply himself to the evolution, grammar and etymology of the Dorset language with all the scientific intensity of the professional philologer, he seems to have been able to retain the simple


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 boy-like, fairly ached for a chance to test his powers with the other children. He felt confident that with good pair of steel runners, he could readily distance most of the boys on the canal. Then, too, Gretel's argument was so plausible. On the other hand, he knew that she, with her strong but lithe little frame, needed but a week's practice on good runners, to make her a better skater than Rychie Korbes or even Katrinka Flack. As soon as this last thought flashed upon him his resolve was made. If Gretel would not have the jacket, she should have the skates.

"No, Gretel," he answered at last, "I can wait. Some day I may have money enough saved to buy a fine pair. You shall have these."

Gretel's eyes sparkled; but in another instant she insisted, rather faintly:

"The young lady gave the money to you, Hans. I'd be real bad to take it."

Hans shook his head, resolutely, as he trudged on, causing his sister to half skip and half walk in her effort to keep beside him; by this time they had taken off their wooden "rockers," and were hastening home to tell their mother the good news.

"Oh! I know!" cried Gretel, in a sprightly tone, "You can do this. You can get a pair a little too small for you, and too big for me, and we can take turns and use them. Wont that be fine?" and Gretel clapped her hands again.

Poor Hans! This was a strong temptation, but he pushed it away from him, brave-hearted fellow that he was.

"Nonsense, Gretel. You could never get on with a


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 big pair. You stumbled about with these, like a blind chicken, before I curved off the ends. No, you must have a pair to fit exactly, and you must practice every chance you can get, until the Twentieth comes. My little Gretel shall win the silver skates."

Gretel could not help laughing with delight at the very idea.

"Hans! Gretel!" called out a familiar voice.

"Coming, mother!" and they hastened toward the cottage, Hans still shaking the pieces of silver in his hand.

On the following day, there was not a prouder nor a happier boy in all Holland than Hans Brinker, as he watched his sister, with many a dexterous sweep, flying in and out among the skaters who at sundown thronged the canal. A warm jacket had been given her by the kind-hearted Hilda, and the burst-out shoes had been cobbled into decency by Dame Brinker. As the little creature darted backward and forward, flushed with enjoyment, and quite unconscious of the many wondering glances bent upon her, she felt that the shining runners beneath her feet had suddenly turned earth into Fairyland, while "Hans, dear, good Hans!" echoed itself over and over again in her grateful heart.

"By den donder!" exclaimed Peter van Holp to Carl Schummel, "but that little one in the red jacket and patched petticoat skates well. Gunst! she has toes on her heels, and eyes in the back of her head! See her! It will be a joke if she gets the race and beats Katrinka Flack, after all."

"Hush! not so loud!" returned Carl, rather sneering-


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 point of view of the uncultured Dorset rustic and to associate with him on terms of the greatest familiarity. In this respect he and Hardy were kindred spirits. His best creative work, the Poems of Rural Life, appeared in 1879, and drew forth an enthusiastic review from Hardy in the New Quarterly Magazine for October of that year—it was the only review that Hardy ever wrote. When Barnes died in 1886, Hardy wrote the eloquent obituary article in the Athenænum. The following poetic tribute can also be discovered in Hardy's Moments of Vision. It is called The Last Signal (Oct. 11, 1886)—A Memory of William Barnes:

 * Silently I footed by an uphill road
 * That led from my abode to a spot yew-boughed;

Yellowly the sun sloped down to westward,
 * And dark was the east with cloud.

 * Then, below the shadow of that livid sad east,
 * Where the light was least, and a gate stood wide,

Flashed back the fire of the sun that was facing it,
 * Like a brief blaze on that side.

 * Looking hard and harder I knew what it meant—
 * The sudden shine sent from the livid east scene;

It meant the west mirrored by the coffin of my friend there,
 * Turning to the road from his green,

 * To take his last journey forth—he who in his prime
 * Trudged so many attune from that gate athwart the land!

Thus a farewell to me he signalled on his grave-way,
 * As with a wave of his hand.

(Winterborne-Came Path)


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 ly. "That little lady in rags is the special pet of Hilda van Gleck. Those shining skates are her gift, if I make no mistake."

"So! so!" exclaimed Peter, with a radiant smile, for Hilda was his best friend. "She has been at her good work there, too!" And Mynheer van Holp, after cutting a double 8 on the ice, to say nothing of a huge P, then a jump, and an H, glided onward until he found himself beside Hilda.

Hand in hand, they skated together, laughingly at first, then staidly talking in a low tone.

Strange to say, Peter van Holp soon arrived at a sudden conviction that his little sister needed a wooden chain just like Hilda's.

Two days afterward, on St. Nicholas' Eve, Hans, having burned three candle-ends, and cut his thumb into the bargain, stood in the market place at Amsterdam, buying another pair of skates.


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 While it would be very difficult indeed to exaggerate the purely literary influence of Barnes, especially over Hardy's early activity as a lyric poet, it must be clearly understood at the outset that of intellectual influence there was practically none. Hardy's consistently revolutionary and irreconcilable attitude both towards the organized social world and towards the first principles manifesting themselves in the tragic features of life found no inspiration or nourishment in the devout and mellow mood of reverent acceptance running through all of the clergyman's work. He himself hinted at this fundamental distinction between the two general viewpoints in the obituary article:

Great as is the gulf between Barnes and Crabbe, it is far exceeded by that between Crabbe and Hardy. Even the country-folk among Hardy's characters often give expression to opinions which smack of the Satanic rather than the traditional view of the world and its Creator. Hardy gave generous praise to Barnes, however, for having contented himself with the presentation of the simple attitudes of the wielders of the hoe. A significant para-


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 graph in the preface which he wrote in 1908 for the Select Poems of Barnes reads:

There can certainly be no doubt about the harrowing fascination that the mystery of things has always possessed for Hardy, and none about the vigorous and outspoken way he sometimes chose to express his personal reaction to it.

Widely separated as the two poets were in the matter of faith and its expression in their literary works, they approached each other very closely when they turned the eye of sympathetic observation upon the simple people and the simple details of country life. Here we find the effect of the older man's kindly attitude to have been a mighty influence over the young iconoclast. Outside of his admiration for recognized masters, such as the Greek tragic dramatists, the Old Testament poets, Shakespeare, Shelley, Goethe and Schopenhauer, the only great literary enthusiasm displayed by Hardy was for the unassuming work of Barnes—and this despite the self-evident


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Dame Brinker! As soon as the scanty dinner had been cleared away that noon, she had arrayed her self in her holiday attire, in honor of Saint Nicholas. 'It will brighten the children,' she thought to herself, and she was not mistaken. This festival dress had been worn very seldom during the past ten years; before that time it had done good service, and had flourished at many a dance and Kermis, when she was known, far and wide, as the pretty Meitje Klenck. The children had sometimes been granted rare glimpses of it as it lay in state in the old oaken chest. Faded and threadbare as it was, it was gorgeous in their eyes, with its white linen tucker, now gathered to her plump throat, and vanishing beneath the trim bodice of blue homespun, and its reddish brown skirt bordered with black. The knitted woolen mitts, and the dainty cap showing her hair, which generally was hidden, made her seem almost like a princess to Gretel, while master Hans grew staid and well-behaved as he gazed.

Soon the little maid, while braiding her own golden tresses, fairly danced around her mother in an ecstacy of admiration.

"Oh, mother, mother, mother, how pretty you are! Look, Hans! isn't it just like a picture?"


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 Through the seventeenth and into the eighteenth century we behold a growing mass of fugitive legendry and balladry of darksome cast; still, however, held down beneath the surface of polite and accepted literature. Chapbooks of horror and weirdness multiplied, and we glimpse the eager interest of the people through fragments like Defoe’s Apparition Of Mrs. Veal, a homely tale of a dead woman’s spectral visit to a distant friend, written to advertise covertly a badly selling theological disquisition on death. The upper orders of society were now losing faith in the supernatural, and indulging in a period of classic rationalism. Then, beginning with the translations of Eastern tales in Queen Anne’s reign and taking definite form toward the middle of the century, comes the revival of romantic feeling—the era of new joy in Nature, and in the radiance of past times, strange scenes, bold deeds, and incredible marvels. We feel it first in the poets, whose utterances take on new qualities of wonder, strangeness, and shuddering. And finally, after the timid appearance of a few weird scenes in the novels of the day—such as Smollett’s Adventures Of Ferdinand, Count Fathom—the released instinct precipitates itself in the birth of a new school of writing; the “Gothic” school of horrible and fantastic prose fiction, long and short, whose literary posterity is destined to become so numerous, and in many cases so resplendent in artistic merit. It is, when one reflects upon it, genuinely remarkable that weird narration as a fixed and academically recognised literary form should have been so late of final birth. The impulse and atmosphere are as old as man, but the typical weird tale of standard literature is a child of the eighteenth century.

The shadow-haunted landscapes of Ossian, the chaotic visions of William Blake, the grotesque witch-dances in Burns’s Tam O’Shanter, the sinister dæmonism of Coleridge’s Christabel and Ancient Mariner, the ghostly charm of James Hogg’s Kilmeny, and the more restrained approaches to cosmic horror in Lamia and many of Keats’s other poems, are typical British illustrations of the advent of the weird to formal literature. Our Teutonic cousins of the Continent were equally receptive to the rising flood, and BurgerBürger [sic]’s Wild Huntsman and the even more famous dæmon-bridegroom ballad of Lenore—both imitated in English by Scott, whose respect for the supernatural was always great—are only a taste of the eerie wealth which German song had commenced to provide. Thomas Moore adapted from such sources the legend of the ghoulish statue-bride (later used by Prosper MerimeeMérimée [sic] in The Venus Of Ille, and traceable back to great antiquity) which echoes so shiveringly in his ballad of The Ring; whilst Goethe’s deathless masterpiece Faust, crossing from mere balladry into the classic, cosmic tragedy of the ages, may be held as the ultimate height to which this German poetic impulse arose.

But it remained for a very sprightly and worldly Englishman—none other than Horace Walpole himself—to give the growing impulse definite shape and become the actual founder of the literary horror-story as a permanent form. Fond of mediæval romance and mystery as a dilettante’s diversion, and with a quaintly imitated Gothic castle as his abode at Strawberry Hill, Walpole in 1764 published The Castle Of Otranto; a tale of the supernatural which, though thoroughly unconvincing and mediocre in itself, was destined to exert an almost unparallelled influence on the literature of the weird. First venturing it only as a “translation” by one “William Marshal, Gent.” from the Italian of a mythical “Onuphrio Muralto”, the author later acknowledged his connexion with the book and took pleasure in its wide and instantaneous popularity—a popularity which extended to many editions, early dramatisation, and wholesale imitation both in England and in Germany.

The story—tedious, artificial, and melodramatic—is further impaired by a brisk and prosaic style whose urbane sprightliness nowhere permits the creation of a truly weird atmosphere. It tells of Manfred, an unscrupulous and usurping prince determined to found a line, who after the mysterious sudden death of his only son Conrad on the latter’s bridal morn, attempts to put away his wife Hippolita and wed the lady

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 EDNA: (Eagerly) Why?

KING: (Song) "Over the Bridge"

(They do second chorus as a duet, standing up on the center of the bridge. At the end the others enter, all dressed as they came. King turns to them happily)

KING: Well, folks, Edna has consented to be the queen. Being now her boss, I command her to go and cover the royal shape. From now on, that diamond suit can be worn only before royal eyes. (They laugh. She exits quickly. He comes down from the bridge and joins the others center stage.) Say folks, who's gointer run my kingdom when I'm back in America?

BILL: So you're going?

KING: I aint gointer stay.

PETE: Say, turn it over to Walla Walla. He's a noble lion-tamer. But say, tell him to let up on the mother-in-laws. They aint so bad after all. I've got a peachy one since I know her better. (Re-enter Edna dressed for travel. She puts the King's pith-hat on his head and takes his arm)

KING: The bearers will take our baggage to the coast for us -- and Back to God's Country -- the U.S.A! (He takes Edna's hands and gazes lovingly at her) I know we wont be sorry, will we? (Hand in hand they start over the bridge slowly. They sing in duet the chorus of "Over the Bridge" and the others fall in line. First Pete and Carrie, then Bill and Zido. They sing to curtain. It goes up again for a minute and natives are dancing farewell to them boisterously.


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 differences between their fundamental ideas. The sympathy between the two, therefore, in those matters where sympathy really existed, must have been very strong indeed.

With regard to the most obvious bond that connected the two, namely, their attachment to and employment of the dialect, a cursory investigation reveals the fact that, superficially at least, their use of the native tongue differed. The Barnes poems require a glossary, such as that supplied by Hardy, for the reader unacquainted with the dialect, while the dialogue of Hardy's rustics can be readily followed by anyone who can read standard English. Barnes aimed at much closer and more exact reproduction, orthographically, of the pure dialect: he consistently printed "z" for the voiced "s"-sound (the effect of which was not intended to be humorous), and "v" for the voiced "f"; and he used many more words found only in Dorset and not in London English.

Except for the early Wessex ballad, The Bride-Night Fire, or, as it was first called, The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's, in which he came closest to a real reproduction of the Barnes matter and expression, Hardy used the dialect in far freer fashion. For this further corruption of what was considered by many only a corruption of the accepted language, he was severely criticised. He answered his critics in his letter to the Athenæum of November 30, 1878, in which he protested that his aim was primarily to depict men and women and their natures rather than their dialect forms, and that an accurate phonetic transcription of their actual speech would only emphasize a grotesqueness really nonexistent. Thus he


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 justified what may still seem a curious compromise between scientifically naturalistic speech-reproduction and unscientific cross-fertilization of two distinct languages.

This inexactness and license in the employment of what was so carefully, accurately and jealously recorded in the work of Barnes was amply atoned for by Hardy's greater richness in the use of rural idioms and by his very generous paraphrases of characteristic, revealing turns of speech. Barnes, on the other hand, frequently forsook the simplicity and the naive rustic euphuism so delightfully indulged in by Hardy's countrymen, and decked out their language with the cut and dried flowers of traditional book-rhetoric. The flowers in the speech of William Worm, Joseph Poorgrass, Grandfer Cantle and their associates are always fresh, spontaneous, and of the wild and uncultivated variety. But although Hardy never violated the peasant character himself, he thus defended Barnes's practice:

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 language and not a corruption; but it should be noted that, as Hardy pointed out in his preface, Barnes strained at times the capacity of dialect in his "aim at closeness of phrase to his vision, and went wilfully outside the dramatization of peasant talk." He went on to observe, "Whether or no, by a felicitous instinct, he does at times break into sudden irregularities in the midst of his subtle rhythms and measures, as if feeling rebelled against further drill. Then his self-consciousness ends, and his naturalness is saved."

The two principles of poetic diction mentioned above and admired by Hardy in Barnes were never forsaken by the younger poet. The aim at "closeness of phrase to vision" is a characteristic of Hardy's verse from the earliest of his Wessex Poems to the latest of his Late Lyrics. Likewise the poet's liberty to break into sudden irregularities of metre when feeling rebels against drill, although not frequently indulged in by Barnes, is a significant quality to find winning the admiration of Hardy. It seems to indicate a certain duality of personality in him as a writer: on the one hand, the tinge of austere reaction which made him an admirer of the smooth flow, the liquid verse and the common ideas of the Cavalier lyrists; on the other hand, the frequent contrasting display of metric irregularity and a deliberate sacrifice of melody to the pungency of the thought to be expressed.

The poems of Barnes are chiefly distinguished by their extreme regularity of metre, their great beauty of language, their smooth and skilful handling of words and by their fine idyllic quality, sometimes mingled with pathos, but hardly ever with the sting of real tragedy.


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 destined for the unforunate youth—the lad, by the way, having been crushed by the preternatural fall of a gigantic helmet in the castle courtyard. Isabella, the widowed bride, flees from this design; and encounters in subterranean crypts beneath the castle a noble young preserver, Theodore, who seems to be a peasant yet strangely resembles the old lord Alfonso who ruled the domain before Manfred’s time. Shortly thereafter supernatural phenomena assail the castle in diverse ways; fragments of gigantic armour being discovered here and there, a portrait walking out of its frame, a thunderclap destroying the edifice, and a colossal armoured spectre of Alfonso rising out of the ruins to ascend through parting clouds to the bosom of St. Nicholas. Theodore, having wooed Manfred’s daughter Matilda and lost her through death—for she is slain by her father by mistake—is discovered to be the son of Alfonso and rightful heir to the estate. He concludes the tale by wedding Isabella and preparing to live happily ever after, whilst Manfred—whose usurpation was the cause of his son’s supernatural death and his own supernatural harassings—retires to a monastery for penitence; his saddened wife seeking asylum in a neighbouring convent.

Such is the tale; flat, stilted, and altogether devoid of the true cosmic horror which makes weird literature. Yet such was the thirst of the age for those touches of strangeness and spectral antiquity which it reflects, that it was seriously received by the soundest readers and raised in spite of its intrinsic ineptness to a pedestal of lofty importance in literary history. What it did above all else was to create a novel type of scene, puppet-characters, and incidents; which, handled to better advantage by writers more naturally adapted to weird creation, stimulated the growth of an imitative Gothic school which in turn inspired the real weavers of cosmic terror—the line of actual artists beginning with Poe. This novel dramatic paraphernalia consisted first of all of the Gothic castle, with its awesome antiquity, vast distances and ramblings, deserted or ruined wings, damp corridors, unwholesome hidden catacombs, and galaxy of ghosts and appalling legends, as a nucleus of suspense and dæmoniac fright. In addition, it included the tyrannical and malevolent nobleman as villain; the saintly, long-persecuted, and generally insipid heroine who undergoes the major terrors and serves as a point of view and focus for the reader’s sympathies; the valorous and immaculate hero, always of high birth but often in humble disguise; the convention of high-sounding foreign names;, [sic] mostly Italian, for the characters; and the infinite array of stage properties which includes strange lights, damp trap-doors, extinguished lamps, mouldy hidden manuscripts, creaking hinges, shaking arras, and the like. All this paraphernalia reappears with amusing sameness, yet sometimes with tremendous effect, throughout the history of the Gothic novel; and is by no means extinct even today, though subtler technique now forces it to assume a less naive and obvious form. An harmonious milieu for a new school had been found, and the writing world was not slow to grasp the opportunity.

German romance at once responded to the Walpole influence, and soon became a byword for the weird and ghastly. In England one of the first imitators was the celebrated Mrs. Barbauld, then Miss Aikin, who in 1773 published an unfinished fragment called Sir Bertrand in which the strings of genuine terror were truly touched with no clumsy hand. A nobleman on a dark and lonely moor, attracted by a tolling bell and distant light, enters a strange and ancient turreted castle whose doors open and close and whose bluish will-o’-the-wisps lead up mysterious staircases toward dead hands and animated black statues. A coffin with a dead lady, whom Sir Bertrand kisses, is finally reached; and upon the kiss the scene dissolves to give place to a splendid apartment where the lady, restored to life, holds a banquet in honour of her rescuer. Walpole admired this tale, though he accorded less respect to an even more prominent offspring of his Otranto—The Old English Baron, by Clara Reeve, published in 1777. Truly enough, this tale lacks the real vibration to the note of outer darkness and mystery which distinguishes Mrs. Barbauld’s fragment; and though less crude than Walpole’s novel, and more artistically economical of horror in its possession of only one spectral figure, it is nevertheless too definitely insipid for greatness. Here again we have

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 The events portrayed are those most common in rural life: courtings, weddings and deaths; and in their portrayal dramatic fire and tension are nearly always absent. For their quaint and felicitous expression of a poet's real joy in the countryside, in the approach of spring, in familiar scenes and faces and in the cheerful winter's fireside, these poems really deserve to be widely known.

The broad dialect can be observed at its best in The Gre't Woah Tree That's in the Dell. Here the effect of beauty and pathos is admirably rendered by images at once simple and meaningful. A typical Hardy-motif is sounded in Minden House, which tells of a youth's falling in love with a farmer's daughter, and closes as follows:

Here personified time is represented as a benign influence, a dispenser of good fortune to the youth. In Hardy's early verse, time is also personified, and acts in collaboration with "Chance" in bestowing fortune upon the poet—but never good fortune, as here. Hardy sees Time wearing a malignant, or at best a neutral, countenance; never a propitious one.

It is interesting to compare Hardy's Ditty for E. L. G. (Emma Lavinia Gifford, his first wife), written in 1870 and included in Wessex Poems, with Barnes's Maid o' Newton, whom the poet meets "by happy chance, or doom." Further than this the theme of the vagaries of


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 chance, so often stressed by Hardy, was never developed by his forerunner.

Barnes's Wife A-Lost is a simple and touching lament, with an expression of the Christian's simple faith at the end. Angels by the Door has a slight touch of that fatalism which Hardy has always been ready to recognize as instinctive to the countryman's heart. Angels and days—Hardy's Chance and Time—bring good and evil in turn, says the poet, but there is no bitterness, but comfort rather, in the reflection:

The very tragic theme of the seduced and forsaken woman is handled in The Weepen Lady. Common enough in Hardy, this motif is unusual in Barnes, who presents the poor unfortunate as cast out by her father; but, ever faithful to her child, her spirit will not forsake her old home. The conclusion is not Hardyan:

Another interesting and unusual lyric is The Love-Child, an expression of commiseration with the sad lot of an illegitimate child—again a fairly frequent theme with Hardy, but a very rare outburst for Barnes. He has perhaps given it even a more outspokenly passionate treatment than it might have received at Hardy's hands, especially in the glowing apostrophes of the final stanza:


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 the virtuous heir to the castle disguised as a peasant and restored to his heritage through the ghost of his father; and here again we have a case of wide popularity leading to many editions, dramatisation, and ultimate translation into French. Miss Reeve wrote another weird novel, unfortunately unpublished and lost.

The Gothic novel was now settled as a literary form, and instances multiply bewilderingly as the eighteenth century draws toward its close. The Recess, written in 1785 by Mrs. Sophia Lee, has the historic element, revolving round the twin daughters of Mary, Queen of Scots; and though devoid of the supernatural, employs the Walpole scenery and mechanism with great dexterity. Five years later, and all existing lamps are paled by the rising of a fresh luminary of wholly superior order—Mrs. AnneAnn [sic] Radcliffe, (1764–1823) whose famous novels made terror and suspense a fashion, and who set new and higher standards in the domain of macabre and fear-inspiring atmosphere despite a provoking custom of destroying her own phantoms at the last through laboured mechanical explanations. To the familiar Gothic trappings of her predecessors Mrs. Radcliffe added a genuine sense of the unearthly in scene and incident which closely approached genius; every touch of setting and action contributing artistically to the impression of illimitable frightfulness which she wished to convey. A few sinister details like a track of blood on castle stairs, a groan from a distant vault, or a weird song in a nocturnal forest can with her conjure up the most powerful images of imminent horror; surpassing by far the extravagant and toilsome elaborations of others. Nor are these images in themselves any the less potent because they are explained away before the end of the novel. Mrs. Radcliffe’s visual imagination was very strong, and appears as much in her delightful landscape touches—always in broad, glamorously pictorial outline, and never in close detail—as in her weird phantasies. Her prime weaknesses, aside from the habit of prosaic disillusionment, are a tendency toward erroneous geography and history and a fatal predilection for bestrewing her novels with insipid little poems, attributed to one or another of the characters.

Mrs. Radcliffe wrote six novels; The Castles Of Athlin And Dunbayne, (1789) A Sicilian Romance, (1790) The Romance Of The Forest, (1792) The Mysteries Of Udolpho, (1794) The Italian, (1797) and Gaston de Blondeville, composed in 1802 but first published posthumously in 1826. Of these Udolpho is by far the most famous, and may be taken as a type of the early Gothic tale at its best. It is the chronicle of Emily, a young Frenchwoman transplanted to an ancient and portentous castle in the Apennines through the death of her parents and the marriage of her aunt to the lord of the castle—the scheming nobleman Montoni. Mysterious sounds, opened doors, frightful legends, and a nameless horror in a niche behind a black veil all operate in quick succession to unnerve the heroine and her faithful attendant Annette; but finally, after the death of her aunt, she escapes with the aid of a fellow-prisoner whom she has discovered. On the way home she stops at a chateau filled with fresh horrors—the abandoned wing where the departed chatelaine dwelt, and the bed of death with the black pall—but is finally restored to security and happiness with her lover Valancourt, after the clearing-up of a secret which seemed for a time to involve her birth in mystery. Clearly, this is only the familiar material re-worked; but it is so well re-worked that Udolpho will always be a classic. Mrs. Radcliffe’s characters are puppets, but they are less markedly so than those of her forerunners. And in atmospheric creation she stands preeminent among those of her time.

Of Mrs. Radcliffe’s countless imitators, the American novelist Charles Brockden Brown stands the closest in spirit and method. Like her, he injured his creations by natural explanations; but also like her, he had an uncanny atmospheric power which gives his horrors a frightful vitality as long as they remain unexplained. He differed from her in contemptuously discarding the external Gothic paraphernalia and properties and choosing modern American scenes for his mysteries; but this repudiation did not extend to the Gothic spirit and type of incident. Brown’s novels involve some

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The humorous poems of Barnes contain no exuberance of spirits, nor violent or riotous fun, but maintain merely a fair level of geniality, as in the pleasant eclogue, the Sly Bit o' Coorten of John and Fanny. Hardy's humor, as we find it in the more whimsical anecdotes in A Few Crusted Characters, calls forth the reader's smile much more readily; occasionally it is downright uproarious.

Popular beliefs and folklore such as Hardy delighted to weave into his stories can be found in A Witch and in the eclogue The Vearries.

Blaake's House in Blackmwore is a piece that must have excited the interest of Hardy, as it presents a very palpable poetic analogy to his own first published piece of prose, How I Built Myself a House. It tells the story of the building of a countryman's house and of his first housewarming, in very effective, high-spirited verse, decked out with many ingenious internal rhymes.

Human nature was pictured by Barnes as being essentially good—and usually as sturdy and unflinching under the buffetings of the external world. Even in False Friends-Like, wherein the rustic singer announces his possession of wisdom by experience, in his distrust of the


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 motives of over-friendly men (remembering a trick played upon him years ago by an older boy who invited him to ride in a barrow and then overturned him into a puddle), he retains his good humor throughout, only remarking cunningly, when offered unearned favors:

Even fundamentally unattractive characters like "Old Gruffmoody Grim" are regarded in a humorous and roughly tolerant manner.

These kindly Barnes-personages were not without their softening effect upon Hardy's work. William Dewy, in Under the Greenwood Tree, for instance, is a typical Barnes-peasant. "His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith." In his poetic treatment of such themes as the love-child, however, Hardy showed himself as colder and more dispassionate than Barnes, as more calculating and as less spontaneous, although he undoubtedly felt the tragedy of the situation far more deeply. This distinction between the two poets is clearly reflected in Hardy's verse-patterns, which, in comparison with the regularity of Barnes's, strike one at first as curiously ungainly and outlandish in their rhythmic flavor. What the older poet did teach was the employment of the greatest care and the exercise of the closest attention to detail in versification. So carefully was Hardy's earliest verse worked out and perfected that he selected much of it for inclusion in his Twentieth Century volumes. Above all, it was the attitude of both


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 men towards their common native district, as expressed in Barnes's very fine Praise o' Dorset, that formed the chief spiritual link between them.

Barnes and Barnes's people, the ancient country life with its folklore, superstitions and language, constituted the human surface of the Wessex into which Hardy was born, and in the midst of which he lived his most impressionable years. But this was the old Wessex; it did not survive the century unchanged. Bailway lines cut into the rural stretches, more devastating in their effects than the ancient Boman highways. Other impacts of latter-day scientific civilization followed in the form of machinery and factories and motor cars. And of recent years, the proud visage of Egdon Heath itself has been lacerated by the cruel manœuvres of army tanks.

Even more violent than this bitter physical etching of the landscape were the more subtle spiritual changes which have been working continuously and with increasing intensity and momentum throughout the last seventy-five years. "Enlightenment" and humanitarianism and popular education have been stamping out the antique beliefs and primitive customs of the people. Modern science and "art" have been remolding their conduct.

Formerly the church-music in the villages was discoursed by the rustic instrumental choirs, with their viols, hautboys and "serpents"—and the same choirs officiated at hilarious country dances. Now they have been supplanted—first by barrel-organs, later by wheezy reed-


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 memorably frightful scenes, and excel even Mrs. Radcliffe’s in describing the operations of the perturbed mind. Edgar Huntly starts with a sleep-walker digging a grave, but is later impaired by touches of Godwinian didacticism. Ormond involves a member of a sinister secret brotherhood. That and Arthur Mervyn both describe the plague of yellow fever, which the author had witnessed in Philadelphia and New York. But Brown’s most famous book is Wieland; Or, The Transformation, (1798) in which a Pennsylvania German, engulfed by a wave of religious fanaticism, hears “voices” and slays his wife and children as a sacrifice. His sister Clara, who tells the story, narrowly escapes. The scene, laid at the woodland estate of Mittingen on the Schuylkill’s remote reaches, is drawn with extreme vividness; and the terrors of Clara, beset by spectral tones, gathering fears, and the sound of strange footsteps in the lonely house, are all shaped with truly artistic force. In the end a lame ventriloquial explanation is offered, but the atmosphere is genuine while it lasts. Carwin, the malign ventriloquist, is a typical villain of the Manfred or Montoni type.

Horror in literature attains a new malignity in the work of Matthew Gregory Lewis, (1773–1818) whose novel The Monk (1795) achieved marvellous popularity and earned him the nickname of “Monk” Lewis. This young author, educated in Germany and saturated with a body of wild Teuton lore unknown to Mrs. Radcliffe, turned to terror in forms more violent than his gentle predecessor had ever dared to think of; and produced as a result a masterpiece of active nightmare whose general Gothic cast is spiced with added stores of ghoulishness. The story is one of a Spanish monk, Ambrosio, who from a state of over-proud virtue is tempted to the very nadir of evil by a fiend in the guise of the maiden Matilda; and who is finally, when awaiting death at the Inquisition’s hands, induced to purchase escape at the price of his soul from the Devil, because he deems both body and soul already lost. Forthwith the mocking Fiend snatches him to a lonely place, tells him he has sold his soul in vain since both pardon and a chance for salvation were approaching at the moment of his hideous bargain, and completes the sardonic betrayal by rebuking him for his unnatural crimes, and casting his body down a precipice whilst his soul is borne off for ever to perdition. The novel contains some appealing descriptions such as the incantation in the vaults beneath the convent cemetery, the burning of the convent, and the final end of the wretched abbot. In the sub-plot where the Marquis de las Cisternas meets the spectre of his erring ancestress, The Bleeding Nun, there are many enormously potent strokes; notably the visit of the animated corpse to the Marquis’s bedside, and the cabalistic ritual whereby the Wandering Jew helps him to fathom and banish his dead tormentor. Nevertheless The Monk drags sadly when read as a whole. It is too long and too diffuse, and much of its potency is marred by flippancy and by an awkwardly excessive reaction against those canons of decorum which Lewis at first despised as prudish. One great thing may be said of the author; that he never ruined his ghostly visions with a natural explanation. He succeeded in breaking up the Radcliffian tradition and expanding the field of the Gothic novel. Lewis wrote much more than The Monk. His drama, The Castle Spectre, was produced in 1798, and he later found time to pen other fictions—Tales Of Terror, (1799) Tales Of Wonder, (1801) and a succession of translations from the German—together with a volume of weird ballads.

Gothic romances, both English and German, now appeared in multitudinous and mediocre profusion. Most of them were merely ridiculous in the light of mature taste, and Miss Austen’s famous satire Northanger Abbey was by no means an unmerited rebuke to a school which had sunk far toward absurdity. This particular school was petering out, but before its final subordination there arose its last and greatest figure in the person of Charles Robert Maturin, (1782–1824) an obscure and eccentric Irish clergyman. Out of an ample body of miscellaneous writing which includes one confused Radcliffian imitation

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 harmoniums played by native girls who had gained their technique in the larger towns, finally by solemn pipe-instruments. To Hardy, this passing of the old and quaint spelled tragedy: Orpheus had been deposed by St. Cecilia.

The ancient weather-caster, working by divination, was supplanted by the official weather bureaux, working according to meteorological principles. An actual "skimmington" or "skimmity-ride" took place as late as 1884 in a Dorset village—but such things are now no more. Hardy himself has described to William Archer the unforgettable effect produced on him while still very young, by the sight of a man in the stocks, "sitting in the scorching sunshine, with the flies crawling over him." Today one looks in vain for a scene such as this—which may not really be a bad thing.

Varied emotions are aroused by the gradual decay of the Dorset speech, now but seldom heard. Hardy deplored it, saying:


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 The whole situation was summed up in Hardy's recognition of the gulf that he saw widening between his generation and that of his father; between the generation of Tess and that of her mother:

The Wessex of Hardy's spirit was the Elizabethan one, and it was firmly rooted through many even pre-Elizabethan strata. His Wessex was the Wessex of the past. His Nature, cruel and savage as She was, he preferred as She first appeared to him, largely unreconstructed by the grimy hand of man. One must attempt to penetrate the Hardy-soil something after the manner so sketchily outlined here, in order to appreciate the complication of forces which compelled the poet to indite passages like the following, from the seventh chapter of The Woodlanders:

They went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots, whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that overflowed on rainy days, and ran down their stems in green cascades. On older trees still than these, huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs. Here, as everywhere, the Unfulfilled Intention, which makes life what it is, was as


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 obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a city slum. The leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was interrupted; the lichen ate the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly strangled to death the promising sapling.

They dived amid beeches under which nothing grew, the younger boughs still retaining their hectic leaves, that rustled in the breeze with a sound almost metallic, like the sheet-iron foliage of the fabled Jarnvid wood. . ..


text: The Life of Thomas Hardy (Brennecke)/Chapter 3


text: The Life and Work of Friedrich Engels/Chapter 1


text:
Page:The Recluse by W Paul Cook.djvu/36

 called The Fatal Revenge; Or, The Family of Montorio, (1807) Maturin at length evolved the vivid horror-masterpiece of Melmoth, The Wanderer, (1820) in which the Gothic tale climbed to altitudes of sheer spiritual fright which it had never known before.

Melmoth is the tale of an Irish gentleman who, in the seventeenth century, obtained a preternaturally extended life from the Devil at the price of his soul. If he can persuade another to take the bargain off his hands, and assume his existing state, he can be saved; but this he can never manage to effect, no matter how assiduously he haunts those whom despair has made reckless and frantic. The framework of the story is very clumsy; involving tedious length, digressive episodes, narratives within narratives, and laboured dovetailing and coincidences; but throughout the endless rambling there is felt a pulse of power undiscoverable in any previous work of this kind—a kinship to the essential truth of human nature, an understanding of the profoundest sources of actual cosmic fear, and a white heat of sympathetic passion on the writer’s part which makes the book a true document of æsthetic self-expression rather than a mere clever compound of artifice. No unbiassed reader can doubt that with Melmoth an enormous stride in the evolution of the horror-tale is represented. Fear is taken out of the realm of the conventional and exalted into a hideous cloud over mankind’s very destiny. Maturin’s shudders, the work of one capable of shuddering himself, are of the sort that convince. Mrs. Radcliffe and Lewis are fair game for the parodist, but it would be difficult to find a false note in the feverishly intensified action and high atmospheric tension of the Irishman whose less sophisticated emotions and strain of Celtic mysticism gave him the finest possible natural equipment for his task. Without a doubt Maturin is a man of authentic genius, and he was so recognised by Balzac, who grouped Melmoth with MoliereMolière [sic]’s Don Juan, Goethe’s Faust, and Byron’s Manfred as the supreme allegorical figures of modern European literature, and wrote a whimsical piece called Melmoth Reconciled, in which the Wanderer succeeds in passing his infernal bargain on to a Parisian bank defaulter, who in turn hands it along a chain of victims until a revelling gambler dies with it in his possession, and by his damnation ends the curse. Scott, Rossetti, Thackeray and Baudelaire are other titans who gave Maturin their unqualified admiration, and there is much significance in the fact that Oscar Wilde, after his disgrace and exile, chose for his last days in Paris the assumed name of “Sebastian Melmoth.”

Melmoth contains scenes which even now have not lost their power to evoke dread. It begins with a deathbed—an old miser is dying of sheer fright because of something he has seen, coupled with a manuscript he has read and a family portrait which hangs in an obscure closet of his centuried home in County Wicklow. He sends to Trinity College, Dublin, for his nephew John; and the latter upon arriving notes many uncanny things. The eyes of the portrait in the closet glow horribly, and twice a figure strangely resembling the portrait appears momentarily at the door. Dread hangs over that house of the Melmoths, one of whose ancestors, “J. Melmoth, 1646,” the portrait The dying miser declares that this man—at a date slightly before 1800—is still alive. Finally the miser dies, and the nephew is told in the will to destroy both the portrait and a manuscript to be found in a certain drawer. Reading the manuscript, which was written late in the seventeenth century by an Englishman named Stanton, young John learns of a terrible incident in Spain in 1677, when the writer met a horrible fellow-countryman and was told of how he had stared to death a priest who tried to denounce him as one filled with fearsome evil. Later, after meeting the man again in London, Stanton is cast into a madhouse and visited by the stranger, whose approach is heralded by spectral music and whose eyes have a more than mortal glare. Melmoth the Wanderer—for such is the malign visitor—offers the captive freedom if he will take over his bargain with the Devil; but like all others whom Melmoth has approached, Stanton is proof against temptation. Melmoth’s description of the horrors of a life in a madhouse, used to tempt Stanton, is one of the most potent passages of the book. Stanton is at length liberated, and spends the rest of his life tracking down

title: Page:The Recluse by W Paul Cook.djvu/36


text:
Page:Proclamation 10195 - National Teacher Appreciation Day and National Teacher Appreciation Week, 2021.pdf/1

Rh

Proclamation 10195 of April 30, 2021

National Teacher Appreciation Day and National Teacher Appreciation Week, 2021

By the President of the United States of America

A Proclamation

As the proud husband of an educator who continues, as First Lady, to teach writing at a community college, I have seen firsthand the dedication, selflessness, and vision of our Nation’s educators. They play so many different roles: They are mentors who guide with creativity and care; advocates who fight for students’ needs; role models who help students dream and dare more boldly; and leaders who tirelessly support the families and communities that depend on them. Every day, with every student they reach, educators build the future of our country, and we are grateful for their commitment to our shared future. This National Teacher Appreciation Day and National Teacher Appreciation Week, we honor the service and passion and celebrate the immeasurable contributions of our Nation’s educators in schools from coast to coast.

Throughout history, America’s educators have risen to unprecedented challenges. Over the past year, with our country facing a cascade of crises, educators have risen to this challenge with care and creativity: overcoming disruptions in their own lives while offering unwavering support for their students’ wellbeing and academic progress.

Educators served both as facilitators of learning and as the technology support for their students, getting them up and running with access to fully remote learning. They often worked late into the day to support hard-to-reach children, and took the extracurriculars their students love and adapted them for remote and hybrid learning. Our teachers even found new ways to leverage technology platforms to coordinate with parents as partners in learning, keep a close eye on the development of their students, and build community by moving music rehearsals and sports practices online.

As this pandemic has shined a bright light on the inequities that persist in our schools, educators have also fought for the tools and resources their schools need to bridge gaps and ensure all children have what they need to succeed. Other school staff and administrators have also stepped up in our time of need, with bus drivers bringing hotspots to areas with no wireless internet, food service staff preparing meals for students who might otherwise go hungry, and counselors helping students and parents cope with trauma.

When I took office, I vowed to support our educators by giving them the pay and dignity they deserve. I made a promise that they would not only have a voice as we work to rebuild and reimagine our education system, they would help us lead this effort. That is why my Administration is partnering with State and local leaders, educators and their unions, and families to ensure high-quality instruction, overcome the challenges of the instructional time we lost in the pandemic, address educational inequities, and meet students’ physical, social, and emotional needs.

In early March, I prioritized early childhood through 12th grade educators and staff for vaccination, and I set a goal of getting all of these frontline essential workers at least one shot by the end of the month. On April


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Page:Proclamation 10195 - National Teacher Appreciation Day and National Teacher Appreciation Week, 2021.pdf/2

23856 2nd, I announced that 80 percent of all teachers, school staff, and childcare workers across the country had received at least one dose of the COVID–19 vaccine. Since then, we have made even more progress in protecting our educators.

The American Rescue Plan is providing critical relief, including $122 billion in relief for K–12 schools to get students back in the classroom quickly and safely and address the needs of students. In addition, the American Rescue Plan includes $7.6 billion for special education, children and youth experiencing homelessness, Tribal educational agencies, Native Hawaiians, and Alaska Natives, emergency assistance to non-public schools, and the outlying areas of American Samoa, the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands, Guam, and the U.S. Virgin Islands, as well as $40 billion for higher education.

Education is the one field that makes all others possible. Every one of us has been shaped by someone who inspired our curiosity and helped us find our confidence, who guided us to think more clearly and pushed us to strive for better. On National Teacher Appreciation Day and during National Teacher Appreciation Week, we remember the tremendous debt of gratitude owed to educators everywhere who helped define us as individuals and as a country, and to all that they are doing to light the way forward for our families and our communities.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, JOSEPH R. BIDEN JR., President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim May 4, 2021, as National Teacher Appreciation Day and May 2 through May 8, 2021, as National Teacher Appreciation Week. I call upon all Americans to recognize the hard work and dedication of our Nation’s teachers and to observe this day and this week by supporting teachers through appropriate activities, events, and programs.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this thirtieth day of April, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-one, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and forty-fifth.

[FR Doc. 2021–09592 Filed 5–4–21; 8:45 am] Billing code 3295–F1–P


text: A Proclamation on National Teacher Appreciation Day and National Teacher Appreciation Week, 2021


text:
Author:Edwin Charles Fairchild

Works

 * The Failure of Radicalism (1907)
 * The Economics of War (1917)
 * Socialism and the League of Nations (1919)
 * Labour and the Industrial Revolution (1923)

title: Author:Edwin Charles Fairchild


text: Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems/To a Pair of Egyptian Slippers


text: Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems/The Egyptian Princess


text:
Page:Protective Intelligence and Threat Assessment Investigations - A Guide for State and Local Law Enforcement Officials.pdf/46

 Corroborated information and evidence. A primary task of a protective intelligence investigator is to seek and collect information and evidence to corroborate the statements of the subject of the investigation. Corroborated information about the individual's thinking and behavior facilitates assessment of the subject's interests, motives, and capacity to attempt to attack a protected person.

Corroborated evidence is more useful to investigators than subjective information and opinions. For instance, in a more traditional investigation, a detective would not ask a subject's wife, "Do you think he would ever pass a bogus check?" Likewise, asking the relative of a subject or a mental health professional questions such as "Do you think he is the type of person who would try to attack the mayor?" are rarely useful.

Areas of inquiry. A protective intelligence investigation of a subject should seek information in five areas:

The facts of the situation that initially brought the subject to the attention of the authorities. The first area of inquiry concerns how the subject came to the attention of the protective intelligence unit. In cases where the subject went to the mayor's office with "special information only for the mayor that will keep the city safe," the answer is obvious. But other situations may be less clear. For example, a threatening letter from the county jail to a judge signed John Doe, Inmate 502, may have been written by inmate Jones to get Doe into trouble. An anonymous call to the local police by a "concerned citizen" about Mary Smith's disparaging comments about the mayor and her recent purchase of a gun may be from a disgruntled employee who hopes to embarrass her by a visit from law enforcement agents. Providers of information may have multiple motives, and eyewitness accounts of people's behavior are notoriously inaccurate. Protective intelligence investigators should carefully establish the facts of a case to determine if the subject being reported is a victim and if the "informant" is the true threat.

General information about the subject. Three kinds of general information about a subject are gathered in a protective intelligence 40


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immense, solitary, half-veiled autumn land is hissing with the kisses of rain in elms and hedgerows and grass, and underfoot the tunnelled soil gurgles and croaks. Secret and content, as if enjoying a blessed interval of life, are the small reedy pools where the moorhens hoot and nod in the grey water; beautiful the hundred pewits rising in ordered flight as they bereave the grey field and, wheeling over the leagues that seem all their own, presently make another field all a-flower by their alighting; almost happy once more is the tall, weedy mill by the broken water-gates, dying because no man inhabits it, its smooth wooden wheels and shoots and pillars fair and clean still under the red roof, though the wall is half fallen.

And in the heart of this, set in the dense rain, is a farm-house far from any road; and round it the fields meet with many angles, and the hedges wind to make way, here, for a pond, deep underneath alders; there, for some scattered parcels of hayrick, on a grassy plot, encircling a large walnut tree; and for another pond, beside an apple orchard, whose trunks are lean and old and bent like the ribs of a wreck. A quadrangle of stalls, red tiled, of grey timber—trampled straw in their midst—adjoins the house, which is a red-grey cube, white-windowed,

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/117


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 with tall, stout chimneys and steep, auburn roof, and green stonecrop frothing over its porch. In and out goes a rutted, grassy track, lined by decapitated and still-living remains of many ancient elms.

In the overhanging elm branches flicker the straws of the long-past harvest, and the spirits of summers and autumns long-past cling to grass and ponds and trees.

The walnut tree among the ricks is dead. Against its craggy bole rest the shafts of a noble, blue waggon that seems coeval with it; long ladders are thrust up among its branches; deep in the brittle herbage underneath it lean or lie broken wheels, a rude wooden roller, the lovely timber of an antique plough, a knotted and rusted chain harrow, and the vast wooden wedge of the snow-plough that cleared the roads when winters were still grim. In the soft, straight rain these things are a buried world, the skeletons of a fair-seeming old life mingled with a sort of pleasant tranquillity as on the calm dim floor of a perilous main.

Half of the fruit trees are dead, save for their lichen and moss and their nests in fork and niche and the robin musing in the branches.

The duck pond, deep below, is all in shadow. The alders lean over it. Some have fallen, and the moorhens have built on them, and the round vole sits there or drops off with the suddenness of fruit; but he cannot dive, for a million dead leaves are sunk or floating in the purple shallows.

Over all is the stillness of after harvest. Long ago the gleaners went home under the frosty moon, and the last wain left its memorial wisps in the elms. The rain

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/118


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 possesses all, and a strange, funereal evocation calls up the bronzed corn again, and the heavy waggon and the grim, knitted chests of the bowing horses as they reach the bright-fruited walnut tree. The children laugh and run—who remember it in the workhouse now—and in a corner of the field the reaper slashes hatefully at the last standing rows. The harvest-queen sits on the topmost sheaves. They dance in the barn. Their voices are blithe and sweet; for the rain has washed away their flesh and quieted them now and recalls only golden hours, which linger in this idle autumn place and do not die but only hide themselves as sunlight hides itself in yellow apples, in red roses, in crystal water, in a woman's eyes.

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/119


text: The Heart of England/Chapter 19

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 19


text:
Page:The Heart of England.djvu/120

at the end of a long walk, and as a small silver sun was leaving a pale and frosty sky, we began to ascend a broad, heaving meadow which was bordered on our right, on its eastern side, by a long, narrow copse of ash trees. At the top of the meadow, hardly a quarter of a mile away, was a little red farmhouse—yet not so little but that it rose with a maternal dignity among and above the sheds and stables, its children, and, like it, of antique red. The home and dependencies gave out a sense of solidity, independence and seclusion. Our hearts acknowledged at once that it was desirable, saluted it, and were calmly glad at the sight.

At that moment the tumult of a windy day was entirely gone. The north wind now lay dead upon the long white clouds in the east. The smoke from the farmhouse chimneys flowed southward along the top of the ash trees in a narrow, motionless rivulet in the calm air. Far off the hoofs of the returning hunt clattered decently, and combined with the dim memory of the wind in trees and sedge to give to the great meadow an emphasised tranquillity like that which fills an invalid's room when others

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/120


text:
Author:Henry Stephen

Works

 * Idealism and Self, The Calcutta Review, 3rd Series, Vol. 16.

title: Author:Henry Stephen


text:
Page:The Heart of England.djvu/121

 are just audibly busy about and below. We walked more and more slowly up the meadow. The red house was clear and hard in the grey air, yet with a richness and implicated shadow as of things submerged. Something which it gave out abundantly filled our minds that had for hours played with casual and untraceable thoughts and images—descended like an enthusiasm among criticisms. In a minute the house was beautiful; it seemed to flower with the happiness of men and women and little children living melodiously; there, we thought, must be minds and bodies which, without carelessness and without stupidity, found in life what some expect from the future and some feign to remember in the past; there was character and beauty and strength, which time flowed over in vain. Hither, it seemed, had drifted upon Lethe's stream all the hopes and wishes and recollections and unaccomplished dreams of unhappy men, and had formed at last a blossoming island in the waste.

And some were enjoying that island now. The very smoke from the chimneys had goodness in it. Even as we walked we turned the moment past into a Golden Age, except that, whenever we looked up towards the house, we knew that all was not yet lost, and that a golden age might still succeed the last. Overhead sailed some little rosy clouds that were part of the blossom of that house.

Then suddenly a fearless child ran into the garden and blew a horn and disappeared. Then we knew that the past moments had been as when, in the old tale, men saw an anchor let down out of the clouds and rooted in the ground, and, looking up saw a rope shaken as if to dislodge

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/121


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 the anchor, and heard the voices of sailors aloft in the sky, and then saw a man clambering down the rope and dying at last, as if he had been drowned in the air which they breathed easily, and the voices aloft were heard no more.

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/122


text: The Heart of England/Chapter 20

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 20


text:
Page:The Heart of England.djvu/158

, perpendicular, quiet rain came upon me when I was ten miles from last night's shelter and ten miles from my end. Shelter was not near, nor indeed to be thought of in an untrodden lane which had been, for some time, and seemed to go on for ever, winding through the delicious, vacant country of a late autumn Sunday, while it was yet early in the day and yet not so early but that the milking was over, and the milk carts gone, and the cattle satisfied and slow after their first questing in the fields. The rain was so dense, and the light so restrained, and the drops hung so about my eyes, and the sound and the sweetness of it made my brain so well contented with all that umber country asleep, that what I saw was little compared with what reached me by touch and by darker channels still. I rarely see much in the country—a few herbs underfoot, the next field, the horizon woods, some brief light that shows only its departing hem; for, like others, I always carry out into the fields a vast baggage of prejudices from books and strong characters whom I have met. My going forth, although simple enough to the eye, is truly as pompous as that of a rajah who goes through the jungle on a tall and richly encrusted elephant, with a great retinue, and much ceremony and noise. As

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/158


text:
Page:The Heart of England.djvu/159

 he frightens bird and beast, and tramples on herb and grass, so I scatter from my path many things which are lying in wait for a discoverer. There is no elephant more heavy-footed and no rifle more shattering than the egoism of an imitative brain. And thus the little thing I saw was an unusual discovery.

It was a triangular, six-acre wood below me, across a bare and soaking ploughland. The wood was mainly of ash and the myriad stems were a grey mist, only denser and a little clearer than the rain itself. Out of them rose half a hundred oaks which were exuberant in foliage of hues so vigorous and splendid in their purple that it was impossible to think of it as on the edge of death, but easy to think of it as in a deathless prime. One thrush sang heartily somewhere deep among the ash trees, and that was the only sound, for the sound of the rain was but a carpet on which that song walked forth, delicate footed, haughty and beautiful…

When I had walked another mile, the wood was out of sight, the thrush unheard. The wood is now purple immortally, for ever that song emerges from its heart, as free from change as one whom we remember vividly in the tip-toe of his exulting youth, and dying then has escaped huskiness, and a stoop, and foul breath, and a steady view of life.

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/159


text: The Heart of England/Chapter 26

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 26


text:
Page:Ante-Nicene Christian Library Vol 9.djvu/176

154 says, "the book of life was opened, and the dead were judged out of those things that were written in the books, according to their works; and death and hell were sent into the lake of fire, the second death." Now this is what is called Gehenna, which the Lord styled eternal fire. "And if any one," it is said, "was not found written in the book of life, he was sent into the lake of fire." And after this, he says, "I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and earth have passed away; also there was no more sea. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, as a bride adorned for her husband." "And I heard," it is said, "a great voice from the throne, saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them; and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be with them as their God. And He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, because the former things have passed away." Isaiah also declares the very same: "For there shall be a new heaven and a new earth; and there shall be no remembrance of the former, neither shall the heart think about them, but they shall find in it joy and exultation." Now this is what has been said by the apostle: "For the fashion of this world passeth away." To the same purpose did the Lord also declare, "Heaven and earth shall pass away." When these things, therefore, pass away above the earth, John, the Lord's disciple, says that the new Jerusalem above shall [then] descend, as a bride adorned for her husband; and that this is the tabernacle of God, in which God will dwell with men. Of this Jerusalem the former one is an image—that Jerusalem of the former earth in which the righteous are disciplined beforehand for incorruption and prepared for salvation. And of this tabernacle Moses received the pattern in the mount; and nothing is capable of being allegorized, but all things are stedfast, and true, and substantial, having


text: Ante-Nicene Christian Library/Against Heresies (Irenæus)/Book 5