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 Faithfully fulfilling international obligations and political commitments. China has ratified all international legal instruments in the field of nuclear safety. It has strictly implemented UN Security Council resolutions and supported and participated in international initiatives on nuclear safety. It faithfully fulfills its duties as a signatory of the Convention on Early Notification of a Nuclear Accident, the Convention on Assistance in the Case of a Nuclear Accident or Radiological Emergency, the Convention on the Physical Protection of Nuclear Material, the Convention on Nuclear Safety, the International Convention for the Suppression of Acts of Nuclear Terrorism, and the Joint Convention on the Safety of Spent Fuel Management and on the Safety of Radioactive Waste Management. China has actively participated in the formulation and implementation of the Vienna Declaration on Nuclear Safety, and Chinese representatives chaired the Fifth Review Meeting of the Contracting Parties (2011) and the Second Extraordinary Meeting of the Contracting Parties (2012) to the Convention on Nuclear Safety, contributing to global governance on nuclear safety.

Upholding multilateral efforts to strengthen nuclear safety. China upholds the central role of the International Atomic Energy Agency in international cooperation on nuclear safety, and has provided all-round support to the IAEA, including political, technical and financial support. China makes continuous contributions to the IAEA Nuclear Security Fund, with a view to enhancing the nuclear security capacity of countries in Asia. To strengthen international non-proliferation cooperation, China has joined the Zangger Committee, the Nuclear Suppliers Group, and other multilateral mechanisms and international organizations. It has enacted the Regulations on Nuclear Export Control and the Regulations on the Export Control of Dual-Use Nuclear Items and Technologies, and released the Nuclear Export Control List and the Export Control List of Dual-Use Nuclear Items and Technologies. China has expanded international cooperation in the fight against nuclear terrorism, and works closely with such international organizations and multilateral mechanisms as the International Criminal Police Organization, the Nuclear Security Contact Group, and the Global Initiative to Combat Nuclear Terrorism.

Strengthening international exchanges and cooperation on nuclear safety. China attaches great importance to nuclear safety policy exchanges and cooperation between countries. It maintains close contacts with France, the United States, Russia, Japan, the Republic of Korea and other countries, as well as emerging nuclear energy countries along the Belt and Road, and has signed more than 50 cooperation agreements on nuclear safety to facilitate all-round cooperation in exchange of high-level visits, communication between experts, review, consultation, and joint research. China and the United States have established an annual dialogue mechanism on nuclear safety, a Nuclear Security Center of Excellence, and the China Customs


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 Radiation Detection Training Center. Chinese and Russian customs have held joint exercises to prevent illicit trafficking of nuclear and other radioactive materials. China, Japan and the ROK arrange meetings between regulators to share their experiences in nuclear safety regulation. China has strengthened exchanges and cooperation with the Nuclear Energy Agency of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, the European Union, WANO, and other international organizations. It is an active participant in international peer reviews of nuclear safety directed to common progress against global standards. In order to expand participation in global cooperation platforms and enhance its nuclear safety capabilities, China continues to take part in activities under the frameworks of the Global Nuclear Safety and Security Network and the Asian Nuclear Safety Network.

China contributes its wisdom and strength to the world by promoting its nuclear safety regulatory system and sharing advanced technology, experience, resources, and platforms. It has taken part in the Multinational Design Evaluation Program for nuclear power plants, and a working group on the Hualong-1 has been established. Through its National Research and Development Center for Nuclear and Radiation Safety Regulation, China has continued to help developing countries to train nuclear safety personnel and carry out technical drills, lending support to their efforts to enhance their regulatory capacity and providing more public goods for improving global nuclear safety.

Conclusion

As Chinese socialism enters a new era, China's nuclear industry has reached a stage of safe and efficient development, ushering in a new phase of high-quality progress to ensure nuclear safety. Guided by Xi Jinping Thought on Socialism with Chinese Characteristics for a New Era, China will uphold a rational, coordinated and balanced nuclear safety strategy and fulfill its mission of maintaining and improving nuclear safety. It will reinforce its commitment to protecting public health and maintaining a safe environment, ensure the safe, sound and sustainable development of its nuclear industry with a people-centered approach, and promote economic prosperity to benefit the country and the people.

China will continue to enforce rigorous safety regulation over nuclear facilities, materials, and activities and radioactive substances. It will continue to modernize its nuclear safety regulatory system and capacity to effectively safeguard the country's

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


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 nuclear safety and provide a strong guarantee for building a modern socialist country in all respects and realizing national rejuvenation. China will continue to promote international cooperation in nuclear safety, assume the responsibility required of a major country, and fulfill its international obligations. It will strive for the establishment of an international nuclear safety system characterized by fairness, cooperation, and mutual benefit, raise global standards of nuclear safety, and promote the sharing of global achievements in the peaceful use of nuclear energy among the international community. It will safeguard regional and world peace and stability, and make positive contribution to building a community of shared future for humanity and a clean and beautiful world of lasting peace, universal security, common prosperity, openness, and inclusiveness.


text: Nuclear Safety in China

title: Nuclear Safety in China


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title: Page:กม ร ๕ - ๒๔๕๑.pdf/312


text:
Page:The Works of H G Wells Volume 9.pdf/267

 properly organised State, should, as a class, gravitate towards and below the minimum wage that qualifies for marriage. The laws of heredity are far too mysterious for such offspring as they do produce to be excluded from a fair chance in the world; but for themselves, they count neither for work nor direction in the State.

Finally, with a bold disregard of the logician's classificatory rules, these Utopian statesmen who devised the World State hewed out in theory a class of the Base. The Base may, indeed, be either poietic, kinetic, or dull, though most commonly they are the last, and their definition concerns not so much the quality of their imagination as a certain bias in it, that to a statesman makes it a matter for special attention. The Base have a narrower and more persistent egoistic reference than the common run of humanity; they may boast, but they have no frankness; they have relatively great powers of concealment, and they are capable of, and sometimes have an aptitude and inclination towards, cruelty. In the queer phrasing of earthly psychology with its clumsy avoidance of analysis, they have no "moral sense." They count as an antagonism to the State organisation.

Obviously this is the rudest of classifications, and no Utopian has ever supposed it to be a classification for individual application, a classification so precise that one can say, this man is "poietic," and that man is "base." In actual experience these qualities mingle and vary in every possible way. It is not a classification for Truth, but a classification to an end. Taking humanity as a multitude of unique individuals in


text: Page:The Harveian oration delivered at the Royal College of Physicians June 26, 1889 (IA b22361285).pdf/2


text:
Page:A voyage round the world, in His Britannic Majesty's sloop, Resolution, commanded by Capt. James Cook, during the years 1772, 3, 4, and 5 (IA b30413849 0001).pdf/211

Rh

been inhabited. During our stay here, we discovered several new birds and fish; and indeed caught some fish which are common to Europe, viz. the horse-mackarel, the greater dog-fish, and the smooth hound. The captain was taken ill of a fever and violent pain in the groin, which terminated in a rheumatic swelling of the right foot, contracted probably by wading too frequently in the water, and sitting too long in the boat after it, without changing his cloaths.

We were detained in this cove by calms, attended with continual rains, till the 4th in the afternoon, when, assisted by a light breeze at S.W. we entered the reach or passage leading out to sea. The breeze coming a-head just at that time obliged us to anchor again under the east point of the entrance, before a sandy beach. These little delays gave us opportunities of examining the shores, from whence we never sailed to bring on board new acquisitions to the vegetable and animal system. During night we had heavy squalls of wind, attended with rain, hail, and snow, and some loud thunder claps. Day-light exhibited to our view all the tops of the hills round us covered with snow. At two o'clock in the afternoon a light breeze sprung up at S.S.W. which carried us down the passage, though not without the help of our boats, to the last point near the opening into the sea, where we anchor-


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 mass, one may, for practical purposes, deal with it far more conveniently by disregarding its uniqueness and its mixed cases altogether and supposing it to be an assembly of poietic, kinetic, dull, and base people. In many respects it behaves as if it were that. The State, dealing as it does only with non-individualised affairs, is not only justified in disregarding, but is bound to disregard, a man's special distinction, and to provide for him on the strength of his prevalent aspect as being on the whole poietic, kinetic, or what not. In a world of hasty judgments and carping criticism, it cannot be repeated too often that the fundamental ideas of a modern Utopia imply, everywhere and in everything, margins and elasticities, a certain universal compensatory looseness of play.

Now these Utopian statesmen who founded the World State put the problem of social organisation in the following fashion: To contrive a revolutionary movement that shall absorb all existing governments and fuse them with itself, and that must be rapidly progressive and adaptable, and yet coherent, persistent, powerful, and efficient.

The problem of combining progress with political stability had never been accomplished in Utopia before that time, any more than it has been accomplished on earth. Just as on earth, Utopian history was a succession of powers rising and falling in an alternation of efficient conservative with unstable liberal States. Just as on earth, so in Utopia, the kinetic


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 "There is very little wind this morning," said Joe; "but perhaps it will increase," added he, seeing the scarcely-concealed anxiety of Ferguson.

Vain hope! The air was perfectly still—one of those calms which, in tropical climates, keep ships helpless for days. The heat became intolerable, and the thermometer marked 130° in the shade.

Joe and Kennedy lay side by side, and sought in sleep, or rather torpor, to forget the terrors of their position. This forced inactivity was most distressing. A man is to be pitied who is unable to divert his thoughts by work or occupation; but here there was nothing to watch over or to attempt to do any longer. They were obliged to submit to the situation, without any power to better it.

The sufferings arising from thirst now began to assert themselves cruelly. Brandy, far from allaying, rather increased them, and well does it merit the name of "tiger's milk," which has been bestowed upon it by the natives of Africa. About two pints of warm liquid was all that remained. Each one gloated over these precious drops, but no one dared to wet his lips. Two pints of water in the midst of the desert!

Then Doctor Ferguson began to reflect whether he had been wise in what he had done. Would it not have been better to have preserved the water he had decomposed to no purpose to maintain the balloon in the air? He had no doubt made a little progress, but were they any better for it? When he found he had gained sixty miles in this latitude, what did it matter, since they were in want of water at that place? The wind, if it did get up, would blow lower down as well as up there—even less strongly up there if it came from the east. But hope impelled Samuel forward. And yet those two gallons of water, expended in vain, would have sufficed for a nine-days' halt in the desert. And what changes might not nine days bring forth? Perhaps, however, while preserving this water, had he been able to ascend by throwing out ballast, he must have let the gas escape when he wished to descend. But the gas of the balloon was its very existence, its life-blood!

These thoughts, and a thousand others, passed through the doctor's brain. He sat for hours, his head clasped between his hands, and stirred not.


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 "We must make a final effort," he said to his companions, about six o'clock. "We must endeavor to find an atmospheric current which will carry us forward. We must risk everything."

And while his friends slept he brought the hydrogen in the balloon to a very high temperature. The balloon filled out as the gas expanded, and mounted perpendicularly upwards. The doctor sought vainly for a breath of wind from a hundred feet to nearly five miles up. His point of departure was exactly beneath. A dead calm appeared to reign even up to the last limit of the atmospheric air.

At length the water failed; the blow-pipe ceased for want of gas; the Buntzen-pile stopped working; and the "Victoria," collapsing, descended quietly upon the sand, where the car had already hollowed out its impression.

It was mid-day; the bearings were 19° 35' long., 6° 51' lat.—nearly 500 miles from Lake Tchad, more than 400 miles from the western coast of Africa.

As the balloon touched the ground, Dick and Joe aroused from their torpor.

"We are stopping," said the Scot.

"We have no choice," replied the doctor in a grave tone.

His companions understood him. The level of the ground was of the level of the sea, in consequence of its uniform flatness; so the balloon maintained itself in perfect equilibrium, and was absolutely motionless.

The weight of the travelers was replaced by an equivalent charge of sand, and they alighted. Each was absorbed in thought, and for many hours no one spoke. Joe prepared supper of biscuit and pemmican, of which they ate little; a sip of tepid water completed this melancholy repast. No one kept watch during the night, yet no one slept. The heat was suffocating. Next day there was only half a pint of water remaining—the doctor put it by, resolved that it should not be touched, except in the last extremity.

"I am suffocating," Joe soon cried; "the heat is greater than ever. But that does not astonish me," he added, after consulting the thermometer; "it is 140°!"

"The sand is baking you," said the Scot, "as if it were


text: Author:Edward Henry Thorne

title: Author:Edward Henry Thorne


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 an oven. And not a cloud to be seen in that fiery sky. It is maddening."

"We must not despair," said the doctor. "These great heats are invariably succeeded by storms in this latitude, and they arise with extreme rapidity. Notwithstanding the wonderful serenity of the sky, a great change may arise within an hour."

"But, after all, something must indicate it," said Kennedy.

"Well," replied the doctor, "it appears to me that the barometer is a trifle lower."

"Heaven grant it, Samuel, for we are now bound to earth like a bird with broken wings."

"With this difference, my dear Dick, that our wings are whole, and I have great hope they will serve us well yet."

Oh for a wind! for wind!" cried Joe, "to waft us to a stream, or a well, and we should want nothing more; our provisions are sufficient, and with water we could remain a month without any trouble. But thirst is an awful thing."

Not only thirst, but there was the incessant contemplation of the desert to fatigue the mind; there was no rising ground, no sand-heap, not even a stone, upon which to fix the eyes. This flatness was irritating, and gave rise to what is denominated "the desert sickness." The impassibility of the blue dryness of the sky and the yellow expanse of the sand was terrifying. In this burning atmosphere the heat seemed to quiver as over a furnace; the mind grew desperate in beholding the fearful calm, and could not get a glimpse of any reason why or when such a state of things would have an end. The immensity was a sort of eternity.

Thus these unfortunate people, deprived of water in this torrid heat, began to experience symptoms of hallucination; their eyes grew hollow, and their vision became troubled.

When night fell the doctor resolved to shake off this feeling by a rapid walk; he wished to explore the sandy plain for several hours—not for exploring, but for walking's sake.

"Come!" said he to his companions; "believe me, it will do you good."


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 "Impossible!" replied Kennedy, "I cannot stir a step."

"I would rather sleep," said Joe.

"But sleep or repose is deadly, my friends. Struggle against this languor. Come along!"

The doctor could prevail nothing, so he went away alone into the midst of the starry and transparent night. His first steps were made with difficulty—the steps of a man weakened and unaccustomed to walking—but he was well aware that the exercise would do him good. He advanced many miles towards the west, and his mind was already feeling more consoled, when suddenly he was seized with faintness; he fancied he was falling into a pit, he felt his knees give way beneath him—the vast solitude frightened him. He felt the central point of an infinite circumference, that is to say, nothing. The "Victoria" disappeared altogether in the darkness. The doctor was seized by a fearful foreboding—he, the cool, intrepid traveler. He wanted to return, but in vain. He called out; there was not even an echo to reply, and his voice fell into space like a stone cast into a bottomless abyss. He cast himself, almost swooning, upon the sand, alone amidst the terrible solitude of the desert.

At midnight he regained consciousness in the arms of his faithful Joe, who, anxious at his master's prolonged absence, had followed his tracks, firmly printed in the plain. He found him senseless.

"What has been the matter, sir?" inquired Joe.

"Nothing, my brave Joe; a momentary weakness, that's all."

"That will be nothing to hurt, sir; but get up and lean on me, and we will regain the 'Victoria.'" And the doctor, assisted by Joe, retraced his steps.

"It was imprudent of you sir; you should not have ventured alone. You might have been robbed," he added, laughing. "But seriously speaking, sir"

"Well, I am listening."

"We must really do something; we cannot go on thus for many days longer and if no wind gets up, we are lost."

The doctor did not reply.

"Well, someone must sacrifice himself for the good of the rest; and it is only natural that I should."


text:
Author:Reginald Francis Dale

Works

 * Twenty-Two Original Hymn Tunes, by Two Oxford Graduates, 1867 (co-editor with H. J. Poole)
 * A Music Primer for Schools (co-editor with John Troutbeck)

title: Author:Reginald Francis Dale


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 "What do you say? What is your plan?"

"A very simple plan, indeed. To take some food, and go straight ahead until I reach some place, which I cannot fail to do. Meantime, if Heaven send you a favorable wind, you need not wait for me—you can go. I, on my part, if I come to a village, will explain the circumstances with the words of Arabic you will write down for me, and I will bring you assistance if I lose my skin. What do you say to my plan?"

"It is madness, but worthy of your brave heart. It is out of the question that you can leave us."

"Well, we must try something, sir! it cannot hurt you, and, I repeat, you need not wait for me—perhaps I shall succeed."

"No, Joe, no; we must not separate—that would be an additional trouble to us. It was decreed that this should happen, and very likely it is decreed that something else shall happen later. So let us wait with resignation."

"So be it, sir; but I warn you of one thing. I will give you another day, I will not wait longer. This is Sunday, or rather Monday, as it is now one o'clock in the morning; if Tuesday does not see us off, I shall try my plan—that is decided."

The doctor made no reply, and they soon arrived at the balloon, where they sat down beside Kennedy. He was plunged in a silence so deep, that it could not have been sleep that bound him.

doctor's first care on the morrow was to consult the barometer. It did not appear that the mercury had fallen in any appreciable degree. "Nothing," he said, "nothing to hope for."

He came out of the car and looked at the sky; there was the same heat, the same clearness, the same stillness.

"Must we then really relinquish all hope?" he cried in vain.

Joe did not say a word—he was still pondering upon his project. Kennedy got up, but was very ill, and a prey


text: Adam's Reports on Vernacular Education in Bengal and Behar


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 to a restless excitement. He was suffering terribly from thirst. His tongue and lips were so swollen that he could scarcely utter a sound.

There were still a few drops of water remaining. Each man knew it, each thought of it, and felt attracted by it, but nobody dared to approach it.

These three companions and friends now looked at each other with haggard eyes, and with a feeling of horrible longing, which displayed itself in Kennedy chiefly. His powerful frame was less able to tolerate, these privations. During all that day he was a prey to delirium; he moved about, uttering hoarse cries, biting his fingers, and ready to open a vein to assuage his thirst.

"Ah!" he cried. "Country of thirst, you are well named the region of despair!" Then he fell into a profound lethargy, and nothing could be heard but the sound of his breathing between his swollen lips.

Towards evening Joe was seized with symptoms of madness. The vast stretch of sand appeared to him an immense pond filled with clear and sparkling water. More than once he cast himself upon the burning ground to drink, and raising his mouth, filled with sand, would exclaim with anger: "Curse it, it is salt water!"

Afterwards, while Kennedy and Ferguson lay motionless, he was seized with an invincible desire to drink the few remaining drops of water kept in reserve. The wish overpowered him. He crept towards the car on all-fours; he devoured the contents of the bottle with his eyes; he cast a cautious look around, and seizing it, put it to his lips.

At this moment the words "Give me some, give me a drink," were uttered in despairing accents.

It was Kennedy, who had dragged himself towards Joe. The unhappy man was to be pitied; he begged upon his knees, he even wept. Joe wept too, and handed him the bottle, which Kennedy finished to the last drop.

"Thank you," he said. But Joe did not hear him, he had fallen, like Kennedy, upon the sand.

We will pass over the horrors of that night. But on Tuesday morning, under the fiery rays of the sun that bathed their limbs, the unfortunate travelers felt them withering up by degrees. When Joe attempted to rise, he


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 found it was impossible to get up—he was unable to carry out his plan.

He looked around him. In the car the doctor, quite exhausted, his arms folded across his chest, was gazing into space, with a fixed and lack-luster look. Kennedy was really alarming, and kept shaking his head from side to side like a wild beast in a cage. Suddenly the Scot's glance fell upon his carbine, the stock of which protruded over the side of the car.

"Ha, ha!" he cried, raising himself by an almost superhuman effort. He made a dart to secure the gun; maddened and foolish, he directed the muzzle to his mouth.

"Sir, sir! "cried Joe, throwing himself upon Kennedy.

They struggled furiously together.

"Go away, or I will kill you!" cried Kennedy.

But Joe held him with all his force, and thus they contended, without the doctor appearing to observe them, for nearly a minute. In the struggle the carbine suddenly exploded. At the noise of the discharge the doctor rose like a specter and looked around him.

"Down there; look there!" he cried.

He pointed to a certain point so energetically that Joe and Kennedy separated by mutual consent, and looked at him and then in the direction indicated.

The plain was agitated like a tempestuous sea. Waves of sand were tossed one upon the other in the midst of a fearful dust-cloud. An immense pillar of sand came from the southeast, whirling and eddying with tremendous swiftness. The sun disappeared behind a thick cloud, whose shade extended even to the "Victoria." The grains of fine sand glistened like liquid beads, and this rising sea gained upon them by degrees.

A swift beam of hope leaped from Doctor Ferguson's eyes.

"The simoon!" he cried.

"The simoon!" repeated Joe without understanding him.

"So much the better!" exclaimed Kennedy, with the anger of despair, so much the better—we shall die!"

"So much the better," replied the doctor, "for, on the contrary, we shall live." And he began to cast out the sand which ballasted the car.


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 His companions, understanding him, at last came to his assistance, and soon took their places in the car.

"Now, Joe," said the doctor, "throw over about fifty pounds of your mineral treasures."

Joe did not hesitate, though a pang of regret shot through him. The balloon began to rise.

"Just in time," said the doctor.

In fact the simoon came upon them like a thunderbolt. A little later and the "Victoria" would have been smashed, torn to pieces, annihilated.

The terrible whirlwind struck them and the balloon was covered with a shower of sand.

"More of that ballast, Joe," cried the doctor.

"There it goes," said Joe, throwing over an immense piece of quartz.

The "Victoria" mounted rapidly above the whirlwind, but surrounded by an immense vacuum of air, it was hurried along by the current at a frightful pace above the foaming sea of sand.

Neither Samuel, Dick, nor Joe spoke a word. They looked on in hope, and were, moreover, refreshed by the wind of this tempest.

At three o'clock the storm abated; the sand in falling formed a quantity of little heaps, the sky reappeared in all its former tranquillity. The "Victoria," now motionless, was in full view of an oasis, a little isle covered with green trees and rising from the surface of this ocean.

"Water! water!" exclaimed the doctor, and immediately opening the valve he permitted the escape of the hydrogen and descended gently at about 200 paces from the oasis. During a period of four hours they had traveled 240 miles.

The car was duly balanced, and Kennedy, followed by Joe, got down on the ground.

"Take your rifles," said the doctor, "and be cautious."

Dick caught up his carbine, Joe took one of the rifles. They advanced quickly up to the trees and penetrated amid the fresh verdure which announced the abundance of water. They took no notice of some large footprints and of the fresh trail which was indicated upon the damp ground.

Suddenly a roar resounded within twenty paces.

"'Tis the roar of a lion!" cried Joe.


text: Author:Adam Drese

title: Author:Adam Drese


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 "All the better," replied the exasperated Scotchman; "one feels strong when there's fighting to be done."

"Do be prudent, Mr. Dick, pray be prudent—on the life of one depends the life of all now."

But Dick, who did not hear him, advanced with blazing eyes and loaded gun, terrible in his rashness. Beneath a palm tree an enormous lion with black mane was crouched. Scarcely did he perceive the hunter than he sprang at him; but he had not touched ground again when a bullet through the heart settled him. He fell dead.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Joe.

Kennedy hurried towards the wells, slipping upon the damp steps, and stretched himself down beside a spring, in which he eagerly laved his swollen lips. Joe followed his example, and they heard nothing save the cries of the animals which they had disturbed by their approach.

"Be cautious, Mr. Dick," said Joe, as he took breath, "do not drink too much at first."

But Dick, without replying, continued drinking. He plunged his head and hands into the grateful water—he was like a man intoxicated.

"And about Mr. Ferguson?" said Joe.

This recalled Kennedy to himself. He filled a bottle he had brought and hurried up the steps. But what was his surprise—an enormous body closed up the opening! Joe, who followed Dick, drew him back with him.

"We are shut in!"

"It is impossible—what do you say"

But Dick did not finish his sentence. A terrible roaring gave him to understand with what new enemy he had to do.

"Another lion!" cried Joe.

"No, a lioness—ah, wait a minute, you beast!" said Dick, quickly reloading his carbine.

He fired a moment after, but the animal had disappeared. "Come along," cried he.

"No, no, Mr. Dick, you have not killed her—she is crouching close here, and she will spring at the first who approaches, and he will be lost."

"But what can you do? We must get out. And Samuel is waiting for us."

"Let us 'draw' her. Take my gun and give me your carbine."


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 "What is your plan?"

"You shall see."

Joe took off his jacket, and placing it upon the end of his gun, held it as a bait above the opening. The furious beast sprang down. Kennedy waited her appearance and gave her a bullet in the shoulder. The lioness roared and rolled down the steps, upsetting Joe. He was already fancying the enormous claws of the animal upon him, when a second shot was heard, and Doctor Ferguson appeared at the entrance, his rifle, still smoking, in his hand. Joe quickly got upon his feet, jumped over the carcass, and handed his master the bottle of water. To carry it to his lips and half empty it was for Ferguson the work of an instant, and the three travelers thanked Heaven, from the bottom of their hearts, for having so miraculously preserved them from a terrible death.

evening was beautiful, and was passed by our travelers under the grateful shade of the mimosas, after an excellent repast, in which tea and grog were not spared.

Kennedy had searched the little island in every direction; he had scoured the bushes, and the travelers were the only occupants of this terrestial paradise. They stretched themselves on the ground beneath their rugs, and enjoyed a quiet night's rest, which brought them forgetfulness of all their troubles.

Next day, the 7th of May, the sun shone brilliantly, but his rays were unable to penetrate the thick curtains of shade. They had provisions in plenty, and the doctor determined to remain at that place until a favorable wind rose.

Joe had got out his portable kitchen, and devoted himself to a series of culinary combinations, while he made use of the water with careless prodigality.

"What a strange succession of disappointment and pleasure!" cried Kennedy. "All this abundance after the privations we endured; luxury succeeding to despair. Ah! I was very nearly going mad!"


text: Adam's Reports on Vernacular Education in Bengal and Behar/Introduction


text:
Page:The Harveian oration delivered at the Royal College of Physicians June 26, 1889 (IA b22361285).pdf/11

 ratory act than that which we now possess—for we speak very much more as Servetus did than could be desired in the nineteenth century. We deal with little else than fuliginous vapour, though our acquaintance with gaseous chemistry enables us to call it by another name.

There is scarcely anything more remarkable within the whole range of physiology than the great and rapid change effected by respiration. When we consider what are the contents of the right auricle of the heart—how it can scarcely be said to contain blood—it is indeed surprising that the wondrous fluid, the great builder of the organism, can be so rapidly formed from such materials.

Here we find chyle and lymph freshly mixed with venous blood poured into the cavity. These fluids have now to mix with blood from the hepatic veins, charged with a peculiar animal principle, and these materials are to be worked up into something fitted for circulation through the lungs, where, by contact with atmospheric air, a fluid is elaborated having a definite and fixed constitution; definite in the quality, and fixed in the proportion of its constituents.


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 quality which sees analogies or points of difference undistinguisliable by the vulgar.

It is vexatious to observe how frequently writers and talkers quote Bacon as the introducer of the inductive method of reasoning; the fact being, as Herschel states it, that ‘it is not the introduction of inductive reasoning as a new and hitherto untried process which characterises the Baconian philosophy, but his keen perception, and his broad and spirit-stirring, almost enthusiastic announcement of its paramount importance.’ It was Bacon who thus exposed the weakness of the Aristotelian philosophy, and substituted an extended scheme, glorious in its simplicity and startling in its perfection.

With all this it must be remembered, as Herschel has said, that ‘the inductive method had been practised in many instances, both ancient and modern, by the mere instinct of mankind.’ Hippocrates practised inductive reasoning, and we find Boerhaave, in his oration, ‘De Commendando Studio Hippocratico,’ written in 1701, insisting on this, and recommending the Hippocratic method of conducting medical inquiries.

Far removed from such perfection was the


text: Adam's Reports on Vernacular Education in Bengal and Behar/Letter to Lord Bentinck


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Page:Alexander Pope (Leslie).djvu/139

 falsehoods, that the dunces had not been the aggressors—in his own notes, without Savage's name. This labyrinth of unworthy devices was more or less visible to Pope's antagonists. It might in some degree be excusable as a huge practical joke, absurdly elaborate for the purpose, but it led Pope into some slippery ways, where no such excuse is available.

Pope, says Johnson, contemplated his victory over the dunces with great exultation. Through his mouthpiece, Savage, he described the scene on the day of publication; how a crowd of authors besieged the shop and threatened him with violence; how the booksellers and hawkers struggled with small success for copies; how the dunces formed clubs to devise measures of retaliation; how one wrote to ministers to denounce Pope as a traitor, and another brought an image in clay to execute him in effigy; and how sucessive editions, genuine and spurious, followed each other, distinguished by an owl or an ass on the frontispiece, and provoking infinite controversy amongst rival vendors. It is unpleasant to have ugly names hurled at one by the first writer of the day; but the abuse was for the most part too general to be libellous. Nor would there be any great interest now in exactly distributing the blame between Pope and his enemies. A word or two may be said of one of the most conspicuous quarrels.

Aaron Hill was a fussy and ambitious person, full of literary and other schemes; devising a plan for extracting oil from beech-nuts, and writing a Pindaric ode on the occasion; felling forests in the Highlands to provide timber for the navy; and, as might be inferred, spending instead of making a fortune. He was a stage-manager, translated Voltaire's Merope, wrote words for Handel's first composition in England, wrote unsuccessful plays, a quantity of

title: Page:Alexander Pope (Leslie).djvu/139


text:
Page:The Harveian oration delivered at the Royal College of Physicians June 26, 1889 (IA b22361285).pdf/13

 mixed with air in the lungs, and thus in some sort having acquired the nature of spirit, is carried by the arteria venosa or pulmonary vein into the left ventricle, from whence being received into the aorta, it is by the ramifications of this vessel transmitted to all parts of the body.’ The learned translator of Harvey’s works, to whom all Harveian orators must feel indebted, observes ‘This much looks very like an exposition of the circulation of the blood as understood at the present time.’ And so it does indeed, but then we find that Columbus could not have had a correct idea of the manner in which the external stream was continued in the veins, and the circle completed for we find him adopting the notion of the day, as to the origin of the veins from the liver, which is quite incompatible with a correct appreciation of the movement of the blood in a circle. And thus it was that the great truth became the prize of Harvey.

It may have been imperfectly conceived by others, suspicions of its true nature may have entered the minds of men, but Harvey made it stand forth, assume form, and show purpose. When


text: Author:William Kethe

title: Author:William Kethe


text:
Page:The Harveian oration delivered at the Royal College of Physicians June 26, 1889 (IA b22361285).pdf/6

 hands, and taken into the country to indulge in his favourite sport, but that even there he could not keep his mind from wandering back to those subjects which had now become torture.

It must be confessed, however, that we have to consider the other view of the case—the triumph of success. The man in whom genius is rendered fruitful by labour and by the corrective influence of the understanding, has most probably within him a source of happiness and contentment unknown to the common world. We can only guess at this, and gladly believe in its extreme value. We may perhaps, however, form some indistinct idea of the philosopher’s gratification when each devious path which in turn had led to error is recognised as a snare—when supposed facts have their true nature detected, and fresh observation has cast light on the true bearings of collected instances—when suddenly the whole truth is grasped, and all is clear.

When reflecting upon the history of discovery, we cannot fail to be impressed by the fact that in many cases discoverers have been greatly assisted by the labours of others—that the progress of science has brought about the discovery so nearly


text:
Author:George Alfred Grant-Schaefer

Works

 * O Canada (harmonization and orchestration)

title: Author:George Alfred Grant-Schaefer


text: The Terriford Mystery

title: The Terriford Mystery


text: Talk:The Terriford Mystery

title: Talk:The Terriford Mystery


text:
Page:The Harveian oration delivered at the Royal College of Physicians June 26, 1889 (IA b22361285).pdf/4

 Endowed with a powerful intellect, William Harvey approached the study of nature with all the fervour and curiosity of an ardent lover of truth. Self-reliant, and indulging a laudable scepticism, he fearlessly questioned where others dared not even doubt.

With the rare gift of discerning truth far below the horizon limiting the intellectual vision of the many, he combined the industry necessary to develope his views and enforce them upon the attention of the profession.

Notwithstanding these advantages, we find it was with him as with nearly all discoverers, for ridicule and persecution did much to embitter the existence of this benefactor to the human race.

Worthy of the high mission confided to him, his onward course was doubtless assisted by the mental exaltation ever attendant upon discovery, and, while we deplore the wounds inflicted by jealousy and malice, we may yet rejoice in the belief that many stirring sensations of delight must have acted as a healing balm upon his noble heart.

Harvey had, indeed, his full share of troublesome opposition; but we must not forget that other


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 trials, differing in kind, ever await the man of original thought whose innate love of truth carries him irresistibly forward in its pursuit. If, on the one hand, we are to believe in the great privileges enjoyed by the discoverer, we are on the other forced to acknowledge that the gifts of a vivid imagination and of great power of analysis are in themselves causes of trouble to the possessor. How frequently this self-inflicted pain must be undergone! The suggestive fact which cannot be made to take a place—the apparent antagonism of two equally well-ascertained truths—the sudden flight of thought towards generalisation meeting encouragement, and making the heart tremble with hope, and then the godlike power of analysis striking in, and casting down the cherished offspring of fancy as a mass of error and deceit! But the busy brain must still work on; the call will still be heard, and the reverie and the disappointment recur again and again.

So suffered Newton, and, in our own time, Davy. I heard one of the intimates of the last-named philosopher observe, that on certain occasions he felt sure Davy’s mind must have failed him, had he not been tom from his pursuits by friendly


text:
The Penance (Snaith)

HY, of course, she married him for his money."

George Lawrence, passing from the club smoking-room to get his hat and stick from the lobby, felt the words strike him at the back of the brain.

"Why, of course, she married him for his money."

He did not know the voice, he did not know in whose ear it was half whispered, he did not catch the words that went before or those which followed after. It was just one of those little scraps of talk, one of those conversational banalities a man is always overhearing and always forgetting, almost without realising that they have ever been heard at all.

As the evening was fine, George Lawrence walked down Piccadilly, the longest way home, for the good of his health. It was May, and spring was on the trees of the Green Park at the other side of the railings; it was in the voices of the birds; it was in the very air of London. Moreover, it was displayed conspicuously in the persons of his fellow-citizens, whom he did not see, upon whom he did not bestow a thought. The soul of George Lawrence had suffered an eclipse which ten minutes ago seemed very unlikely to overtake a man so sane, so secure as himself.

"Why, of course, she married him for his money."

At Hyde Park Corner, at all times a terrible trap for the unwary, and particularly at this season of the year, only a series of miracles saved George Lawrence from a death by violence.

"Well, and if she has" he muttered, as he emerged upon the threshold of St. George's Hospital, almost from under the wheels of a motor-bus.

George was fifty-three, and two years ago he had married a wife rather less than half his age. Of course, he had been guilty of a very rash act. It was a tempting of Providence, especially on the part of a crusted bachelor.

Some subtle instinct told him that the little world of his friends and hers had shaken its head a good deal over the affair. The knowing ones, no doubt, were watching with interest this union of the dull fogey, with more money to spend than was good for him, and the highly-strung creature, all fire and charm, who had never had a shilling to call her own.

They had a large and comfortable house in South Audley Street, and this evening the husband, with a sense of bitter disillusion, was going the longest way to it across the Park. It was an abode for the rich, very gay to the view, and wonderful just now, with its window-boxes of spring flowers. It was enough to bring a thrill of real pleasure to the heart of any man; but this evening George Lawrence was in no frame of mind to harbour any such emotion.

His latchkey was about to turn in the smartly-painted door, when lo! it opened from within, very gently, very quietly, at the instance of a servant who was bowing a visitor from its portals.

"Why, Jim!"

"My dear old boy!"

Jim Halkin, a queer fish if ever there was one in the sight of his present beholder, was stealing out of the house, if not exactly like a thief in the night, yet with a look of guilt upon a singularly handsome countenance.

"Why, it's years" "One at least."

They actually shook hands to prove they had not met for that period. "You must come back and explain yourself."

"No, I've hardly a minute to live, my dear old chap," said Jim Halkin breathlessly.

"You never had."

"I know. There's so much to do in the world and so little time in which to do it."

"Then why waste it by coming here at all?"

"Important business. Unfortunately, I can't stop now to explain it, but your wife has kindly asked me to dine here next week. You shall then hear all about it. Good-bye, old man! Haven't a moment now! See you next week!"

Jim Halkin was gone. There he was, running as if his life depended on it along the chaste length of South Audley Street, a most unseemly spectacle for gods and men—no gloves, no umbrella, frayed trouser ends, wretched hat, collar undoubtedly clean, but neck-tie hitched up to left ear, a not-a-minute-to-live sort of manner, and a pronounced Cockney accent. George Lawrence was just enough of a prig—it is very difficult for the George Lawrences of the world entirely to escape that malady—to be hurt by these things. Poor old Jim, a few degrees madder than ever! And this was the hero of his youth at school and at Oxford. In those far-off days he had been a wonderful natural phenomenon, an athlete of undoubted prowess, and a man of real originality and charm. The honour of Jim Halkin's friendship was in those days a passport to fame. That speech at the Union in his last term! That hit at Lord's, when he sent a ball from Giffen over the tavern! The man upon whom all the graces had been lavished, the man who might have done anything, to be running along South Audley Street with frayed ends to his trousers and his neck-tie hitched over his left ear, for all the world as if seven devils pursued him!

George entered his wife's drawing-room a sad and perplexed man. Somehow the sight of Jim Halkin had upset him. That a man so lavishly endowed, who had been given the key to all that the world had to offer, should account it so little! And, above all, the accent! A Halkin, second son of a peer, with an accent unmistakably Cockney! The soul of George Lawrence was sickened, as the souls of the George Lawrences of the earth are sickened by such things.

Hip wife was immersed, as she so often was, in some new volume from the circulating library, and, as usual, it had a rather portentous "high-brow" look. He kissed her dutifully—nay, more than dutifully. In his sight, for all that they had been married two years, she was the only woman possible for him. But at the moment his lips touched her cheek, that strange, that terrible phrase he had heard half an hour ago went like a sword through his brain.

"Jim Halkin's been here," he said abruptly.

"Yes." As she looked up, he saw there was sudden light in her eyes.

"He seems madder than ever."

She did not say anything, but returned quietly to her book. And then all at once her air of indifference wounded him. There had been a flicker of animation when he mentioned Jim Halkin, but it was gone as soon as he showed a disinclination to carry that topic further. He returned to it in order to watch her light up again.

"What brought him here?"

"He is full of a new scheme." There her eyes went again. "He wants money and support."

"Everybody wants that," he said sourly—her eyes were so bright. The next moment he would have liked to kick himself for his disloyality [sic] to one who, with all his foibles, was the finest chap in the world.

"He is coming to dinner next week, so that he can talk about it."

How her eyes shone! And, with the underside of his mind, George Lawrence remembered that Jim Halkin, in spite of his recent fall from grace, had always had more of the dynamic power that appeals irresistibly to women than any man he had ever known.

"He's really doing something, you know." George could not remember ever to have seen quite that look before in his wife's face. And a deadly poison was already at work in his veins. Suddenly he dismissed the subject of Jim Halkin.

"We are dining early, aren't we?"

"Yes." There was no mistaking the look and the tone of her indifference.

"Oh, well," he said resentfully, "don't come unless you like. I thought it might amuse you—that's all."

"There are only two plays in London at present that are in the least amusing, and we've seen those already."

"But they say this is not bad."

"I dare say."

And with a yawn, not very well concealed, she turned again to her book.

George suddenly flamed up.

"Oh, don't come!" he said. "By all means, don't come. I'll go alone."

"Very well."

It was not kind, but he had not been kind either. With a sudden irrational gust of anger, for which he was wholly at a loss to account, the jealous, disillusioned, tormented husband walked out of the room.

stall at the play gave him opportunity for further reflection. But before he could gain that rather undesirable bourn [sic] came the ordeal of entrance into the theatre itself. George Lawrence, the least self-conscious of men, seemed somehow to feel that the attention of the whole house was mysteriously concentrated upon him. "Why, of course, she married him for his money." He could hear the whisper upon a hundred lips as he sat down with rather less of elegance and deliberation than was his wont. He felt himself to be the cynosure of every eye.

Yes, the piece was undeniably stupid. And unless it was a play of the first class—and some subtle force was always at work in the "healthy" mind of George Lawrence to keep him clear of things so dangerous—a play had to be very stupid indeed not to give him pleasure. His wife had been wise not to come. Undoubtedly she would have been bored to tears.

But, after all, had she been wise not to come? At the end of the first act, that was a question George Lawrence was asking of Heaven. Was it playing quite fair to let him down in this way? Even if she had married him for his money, oughtn't she to—wasn't it her duty—to put the best sort of face on things she could? He was dull, of course, her inferior in mind, and all that, but he had honestly tried to keep his side of the contract. All that he had to give was hers. Had he not kept her supplied with every luxury? And he was quite willing, since she liked it so well, to buy the lease of that shooting-lodge in Scotland.

The poison in his heart began to work sad havoc in the course of the evening. Several times, as the chance phrase recurred to him, he could hardly sit still. Between the acts he paced the corridors like a maimed and angry lion. Finally an acquaintance said to him: "This is the best play I've seen for years. And splendidly acted, don't you think?"

That was too much for poor George. He left the theatre at once, vainly regretting that he could not throw a bomb upon th§ stage, and took to the pavement to ease the pressure of his thoughts.

The evening was wonderfully fine, and the walk home in the cool air was not at all unpleasant. He covered the ground at a great pace, but, do as he would, he was quite unable to check the tumult that was now raging in his mind. "Why, of course"—the phrase was ever recurring—"she married him for his money."

It was somewhere between Bond Street and Berkeley Square that he made his resolve. Whatever happened, he must set his doubts at rest. The very uncertainty seemed to add to their power. And then, almost in the moment that his resolution was finally taken, some perverse demon showed him how to put it into immediate execution.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, was the time and the place he chose. The plan was simple to the verge of the ingenuous. A night of aching doubt had wrought a new George Lawrence. The old one, the straightforward, easy-going man of the world, whose code of honour was rather above that affected by the average of his type, had, at the first assault of the passion that so easily undermines certain natures, suddenly given place to something else.

Yes, it was a new George Lawrence who sat at the table, toying with the morning's post, which he was merely pretending to read. He did not waste much time in preliminaries. He was well aware that, if the thing were not done quickly, it would not be done at all.

It was just after his wife had handed him coffee, with that bored and listless air which had troubled him for so many weeks, that he opened an imposing-looking document, which, however, was an appeal for a subscription to an orphanage, and then gave a loud exclamation. Indeed, it was so loud and so unexpected that she looked at him with a startled face.

"Why, what is the matter, George?"

He paused a moment for the sake of dramatic effect.

"It is simply that we are ruined—that's all."

His calmness sounded rather uncanny.

"Ruined!"

"Yes."

Narrowly, with eyes of discreetly veiled intensity, he watched her.

She rose at once and came to his side.

"You can't mean that?" she said.

She was very pale, her voice trembled, the pressure of her hand on his shoulder was almost more than he could bear. Somehow he felt like a man who has committed a mean and callous crime. But he was entirely desperate. He must go through with this thing now.

"Yes," he said, with his unnatural calmness, "it means practically the loss of all we have."

A deadly pause followed.

"All?" Her voice was strained, incredulous.

"Yes, practically all, I'm afraid. A hundred or so a year may be left for us, but it means the giving up of all the things we have been used to."

"Oh!"

That was her only comment; and then she asked, in a curiously matter-of-fact voice, if he would have some more coffee.

passed. In that time George did not venture again to refer to the subject. It was simply that he had not the courage. He was already despicable in his own sight—he was branded with infamy. But, as he was soon to learn, the matter could not be allowed to rest where it was.

On the morning of the seventh day following the announcement, his wife informed him that she had been house-hunting in the suburbs. There was a light in her eyes, an animation in her manner which her husband had not seen for many months. She had found three houses—one at Ealing, one at Tooting, one at Golders Green—any one of which might meet their straitened circumstances, and yet provide the little strip of garden for which her soul craved.

Her eagerness to be of use to him, to help in this financial crisis, was rather pathetic. But there was not the least need to pity her. She was a woman transformed. There was an air of quiet but inflexible determination about her that astonished George Lawrence considerably. During that week of silence she had done much. And no longer was she bored and listless. In her eyes was the old look of eager interest, in her manner was the old decision which once had charmed him. Yes, she was a woman transformed.

That evening Jim Halkin fulfilled his promise—he came to South Audley Street to dine. There was no one to meet him. He had stipulated for that, in his odd way, when the invitation was given. As he said, he had rather got out of the ways of civilisation; besides, he wanted to talk very seriously to George.

It was near the end of the meal, as he was paring an apple, that Jim Halkin began his serious talking.

"Look here, my boy," he said, with the abruptness that was so like him, "I've been thinking that you are one of the chaps who ought to be doing things."

"I dare say you're right," mused George. "But tell me—what is there for a one-horse sort of fellow like me to do in the world?"

"Well, you are rather a drone in the hive at present, aren't you?" said Jim Halkin persuasively.

"Agreed."

"Now, there's this Settlement we've started down in Kent." It was really wonderful how the light suddenly shone in the eyes of Jim Halkin. "It's going strong, my friend—it is going very strong indeed."

"Another of these missions for the thriftless and undeserving poor," said George Lawrence warily. He often boasted of being "a plain man," who never felt sentimental towards the poor.

"Well, if you put it like that," said Jim cheerfully, and then he bad a really shocking relapse into his Cockney accent. "You see, we take poor kids out of the slums—poor kids who, if they were left where they were, would not have a dog's chance of becoming decent citizens."

"Oh, I dare say it's good work," said George. "Don't misunderstand me. And I admire the people who can do it. But I never feel the slightest call towards it myself. And a man has got to feel a very decided call to take on a job of that kind."

"Yes, I quite think so," said Jim Halkin. The eyes of his hostess had grown strangely bright. "But even if personal service is beyond you—and I don't say for a moment that you have any obligation in the matter—somehow I do feel that a man who is as rich as you are, George, might help enormously if only he would."

The silence which followed was strangely awkward.

"George is no longer a rich man," said his wife softly.

"No?" Jim Halkin gave an incredulous glance round the room.

"We are giving up all this," said Mrs. George, in a low voice. "George, you know, has recently been ruined."

"Ruined!" Jim's face was a study as he looked from wife to husband, and back again from husband to wife. "Why—why, surely you can't ruin Crœsus!"

"Oh, yes," said George nervously. "The richest man alive can ruin himself if he plays about with the things he doesn't understand."

The miserable wretch ended with a noise in the throat that was meant for a laugh. He simply dare not look in the direction of his wife.

"Well, well!" said Jim Halkin. Again he glanced from one to the other. His vivid temperament had plunged him into acute misery. He despised money, and he pitied profoundly the people who made it their god; but these were his friends, and he knew—at least, he thought he knew—what the possession of money meant to them.

He watched George covertly. How pale and miserable he looked! Money undoubtedly meant very much to him, poor chap. And if it meant so much to George, who was a man, how much more—how very much more—must it mean to the weaker vessel who was George's wife! For a moment Jim Halkin had simply not the courage to look at his hostess.

"Why, how serious you are about it!" The clear tones of Mrs. George were a positive refreshment to the sensitive soul of Jim Halkin. "You don't mean to say that you can possibly feel about money in the way that George and I do." And her laugh rang as brave as truth.

"But, my dear woman," said Jim Halkin, "do you mean to say that you, who have possessed a great—at least, a considerable fortune, can laugh at the loss of it?"

"Why not?" The voice was steady and level, the honest eyes clear as truth. "I really think that this loss is the very best thing that could possibly have happened to George and me."

And, as she spoke, she rose, an impulsive child of Nature, from her end of the table, and came across and flung her arms round George's neck.

dinner, in the drawing-room, George was silent and embarrassed. He could not meet the eyes of his wife, he could not endure the note of triumph in the voice of his friend.

"Yes, it's a big thing," said Jim Halkin, recurring again and again to the subject which seemed to absorb his whole life. "A very big thing indeed. We provide a home, an education, a career for two thousand of the poorest kids in London, and I've only one regret."

"What is that, pray?" asked Mrs. George, with a little quiver in her voice.

"That the number isn't twenty thousand instead of two. But it will be, one of these days. Mark what I say." Jim Halkin was like a boastful boy.

"I am sure it will be," said Mrs. George softly. "But it's a great pity George has lost all his money. He might have done so much for you." She looked almost gaily at the husband who did not venture to look at her. "I would never have let him have a moment's peace, you know, until he had given you at least twenty thousand pounds."

"Yes, a great pity," Jim Halkin agreed. "But, as he can't give us his money, may I suggest that he gives us something more valuable?"

"Pray, what is that?"

"Himself."

"Himself?"

"You see," said Jim Halkin, "it so happens that we are advertising for a resident superintendent. Four hundred a year and a house. Must be married. Preference given to public school and university man. Now, what do you say to it? Of course, it isn't South Audley Street, but it's an uncommonly nice part of Kent. And it would be a rare stroke of luck for us if you and George really went into it. You both have such a grip on things that it is in your power to help us wonderfully."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Mrs. George. "I would undertake it myself without a moment's hesitation, but I daren't answer for George. He simply hates the lower orders."

"Yes, I know," said Jim Halkin, shaking his head sadly. "And so did I at one time. But I love 'em now, and the lower they are, the more I love 'em—that is, if they are young enough."

"Yes, yes," she said wistfully, "but poor old George is not like you."

"Well, I can remember the time," said Jim Halkin stoutly, "when I was remarkably like George. I used to sit in my club and hear the latest gossip, and my only concern in the world was the exact position of the thirteenth trump. And then the time came when the girl I wanted to marry wouldn't have me, simply because I wasn't good enough, and that was the best and kindest action ever done for me by anybody."

"But you are more than good enough for any woman now," said Mrs. George softly.

"Think so?" said Jim Halkin, with an air of genuine surprise. And then he added humbly: "Anyhow, she married a better chap than I shall ever be."

"I should like to meet him," said Mrs. George.

"You are beginning to make old George horribly jealous, aren't you?" said Jim cheerfully, as he turned to his friend.

"Jealousy is not one of George's weaknesses," said his wife.

"Well, now, this is a dead straight proposition," continued Jim. "Four hundred a year and a house. Of course, it's nothing at all for people like you, and it will mean real hard work and responsibility. But suppose you take it on for a year. Take it on for a year, my friends, and do penance for the arrogance of the idle rich."

"It's a splendid idea," said Mrs. George.

But George shook his head sourly. To him the idea was anything but splendid.

"It's a magnificent idea," affirmed his wife—"simply magnificent. It would make a new man of you, George—at least, I know it would make a new woman of me. Besides, four hundred a year and a house and a garden, I think you said, Jim"

"Did I say a garden? There is one, anyhow. Quite tip-top. Acres and acres. Peas and cabbages and potatoes, and so on. In fact, we depend upon it for the veg."

"For the what?" said George, with a frown.

"For the vegetables, you old fool," said Jim Halkin heartily. "There are two thousand mouths to feed." "Oh!" said George, like a man suffering acutely.

During the pause which followed, the ardent gaze of Jim Halkin transfixed man and wife.

"Well, now, what do you say to it?" Jim's eyes seemed to burn. "Four hundred a year and a garden. You'll be keeping the wolf from the door, and you'll be earning your corn."

George turned involuntarily to his wife, to the woman "who had married him for his money." For very shame he hardly knew how to meet that splendidly expectant face.

"And you really don't mind?" he said weakly enough. "Mind?"

"The great unwashed, and potato-growing, and so on?" "I'd love it—I'd simply love it! We should really be doing something—something to justify all the good things we've had, which we have not learned how to appreciate." To the mind of George Lawrence this, of course, was mere sentimentalism. But he was quite unequal now to the task of reproving it. He was dishonoured in his own sight. Moreover, was there not in his wife's face that which he had never hoped to see there?

Yes, after all, it was right that some penalty should be exacted. Let him make reparation for his miserable blindness. It was quite true that he had a deep-rooted dislike of "the lower orders"; also, the cultivation of potatoes and kidney beans and cabbages did not appeal to him at all. But something was due to this woman of whom he was totally unworthy. And although others need never learn his dismal secret, it surely behoved him to make payment in kind before he could even begin to think of reinstatement in his own sight.

"You really mean what you say?"

"I was never more in earnest in anything," said his wife. "I think this idea of Jim's is splendid. And I think it would save us both from drifting into—drifting into ennui and Heaven knows what besides."

"But I put it to you, suppose we are not exactly ruined, after all? Suppose I have exaggerated a bit?"

"It doesn't really alter the case in the least."

"Is that to say that if you were given the choice between carrying on here as we are, or going down into Kent and helping to run this Settlement, you would not hesitate?"

"Not for one moment—not for one single moment."

"Very well," said George. "But perhaps I ought to tell you that I may not be hit quite so hard as I thought. Besides, the wolf doesn't come very easily to the door of a man with as many rich relations as I have. It may not be a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, after all. In fact, I think we shall be able to go on just as we are."

"He's hedging shamefully," Jim Halkin broke in.

"Yes, shamefully." And Mrs. George was very near to tears.

"Oh, no, I'm not," proclaimed George, with a wry smile. "I've made a fool of myself, that's all. Jim, I've decided to accept this appointment of resident superintendent to your Settlement—if that's what it calls itself—that you've been kind enough to offer me, and I shall do my honest best to earn my corn." Jim Halkin jumped up from his chair and stretched out an impulsive hand. "Bravo!" he cried, with the shout of a boy. "It's a great thing for us—a very great thing for us!"

"You really think that?" said Mrs. George softly.

"I do, indeed. Old George is the clearest-headed man I know."

"It doesn't say much for the company you keep," said George sourly. "But I'm only going to do this for a year, mind—one calendar year, dating, shall we say, a month from to-morrow?—and pray don't think it is out of any sentimental regard for humanity."

"No?"

Jim Halkin and Mrs. George smiled at one another. Both were amused but completely baffled by the tone of angry vehemence.

"No, my friends, I don't care a row of little apples for 'humanity.' I hate the sound of the word, and always did. I'm simply going to do penance for having touched humanity's lowest level, that's all."

Suddenly Jim Halkin and Mrs. George began to peal with laughter.

George's face was as irresistibly comic as his manner. He was really rather delightful when he was "in one of his moods."

title: The Penance (Snaith)


text: Talk:The Penance (Snaith)

title: Talk:The Penance (Snaith)


text: Adam's Reports on Vernacular Education in Bengal and Behar/Report 1


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 unreadable poetry, and corresponded with most of the literary celebrities. Pope put his initials, A. H., under the head of "Flying Fishes," in the Bathos, as authors who now and then rise upon their fins and fly, but soon drop again to the profound. In the Dunciad, he reappeared amongst the divers.

A note applied the lines to Hill, with whom he had had a former misunderstanding. Hill replied to these assaults by a ponderous satire in verse upon "tuneful Alexis;" it had, however, some tolerable lines at the opening, imitated from Pope's own verses upon Addison, and attributing to him the same jealousy of merit in others. Hill soon afterwards wrote a civil note to Pope, complaining of the passage in the Dunciad. Pope might have relied upon the really satisfactory answer that the lines were, on the whole, complimentary; indeed, more complimentary than true. But with his natural propensity for lying, he resorted to his old devices. In answer to this and a subsequent letter, in which Hill retorted with unanswerable force, Pope went on to declare that he was not the author of the notes, that the extracts had been chosen at random, that he would "use his influence with the editors of the Dunciad to get the note altered"; and, finally, by an ingenious evasion, pointed out that the blank in the Dunciad required to be filled up by a dissyllable. This, in the form of the lines as quoted above, is quite true, but in the first edition of the Dunciad the first verse had been

title: Page:Alexander Pope (Leslie).djvu/140


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 than the ravages of the Goths and Vandals.’ And yet how powerful was the impress produced! The whole thinking world was fascinated, and it was not till the commencement of the seventeenth century that philosophers became freed from the thraldom of hypothetical propositions and syllogistic quibbles.

What an epoch was that seventeenth century Springing from darkness, the mind seems suddenly to have become animated with an intelligence new to the earth. We have but to look to the century preceding Harvey, to be both surprised and amused at the state of science. It is scarcely agreeable to hear from the chronicler how medicine stood in those days. When that century was near its end, in 1595, when we here in England were greater than we had ever been, when Shakspeare wrote, when great men flourished, and the noble Elizabeth had good reason to be proud of the vessel of the State—whose helm she had handled with so much dexterity and courage what was then the state of the mind medical?

We may judge of it from an instructive tale which we have on record. A golden tooth appeared in the jaw of a child in Silesia. This was


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 method which next attracted general attention, for we find that Plato and Aristotle were permitted to establish systems utterly opposed to the method of Hippocrates.

It is impossible to reflect on the general character of Aristotle’s works without feeling deep regret that a man, who evidently possessed much originality of thought, great industry, and who moreover had an extensive acquaintance with natural objects, should have done so much mischief by what has been well termed ‘ a daring spirit of contradiction and innovation.’

The superstitious reverence felt for the memory of those who have led mankind captive by the force of individual character bids me be careful in speaking of the career of this remarkable man; but it may be fairly doubted whether all we find in the wondrous mass of composition he has left us, treating as it does of almost every imaginable topic, had not better have been lost to us than that men should have been led astray by what is called the Aristotelian philosophy.

For my own part, I am content to believe with Bolingbroke, that Plato and Aristotle ‘ invented systems more baneful to truth and real learning


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 we consider how violently the views of Harvey were opposed, how he was persecuted and ridiculed, and that his practice left him owing to the mistrust of the profession and the public as to his sanity, we may indeed feel grateful that the circulation of the blood is even now an admitted truth, and that we are not deprived of the many and great advantages afforded us by a knowledge of the fact.

The admirably constructed mind of our great discoverer seems to have used in 1615 the method of inductive inquiry so completely systematised by Bacon in 1620. It can scarcely be too often repeated, that the publication of Bacon’s great work did nothing more than exercise a corrective influence over the minds of scientific men; beyond this it was powerless, and the rare qualities which distinguished Harvey were not rendered less essential to the solution of the great problems of nature. The Baconian system may be invaluable to the laborious collector of facts, but it can neither give powers of observation nor originality of conception, and certainly cannot assist us to that enviable


text: Page:กม ร ๕ - ๒๔๕๑.pdf/314

title: Page:กม ร ๕ - ๒๔๕๑.pdf/314


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 I have said that Servetus scarcely did more than offer a conjecture on the pulmonary columbus. In 1659, however, Realdus Columbus made so broad and comprehensive a statement regarding the circulation, that we must allow him to have been so near the truth that a little more independence of thought and experimental constructiveness must have given him the glory which brightens the memory of our illustrious countryman. Be it remembered, however, that it was precisely because he lacked these qualities that he could not be that which Harvey became—the discoverer of the circulation. How strongly to the point are the following words of Columbus: ‘The blood, when once it has entered the right ventricle from the vena cava, can in no way again get back for the tricuspid valves are so placed, that whilst they give a ready passage to the stream inwards, they effectually oppose its return. The blood continuing to advance from the right ventricle into the vena arteriosa or pulmonary artery, once there, cannot flow back upon the ventricle, for it is opposed by the sigmoid valves situate at the root of the vessel. The blood, therefore, agitated and


text: Adam's Reports on Vernacular Education in Bengal and Behar/Report 2


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Rh Octavia: That may not be. Long since, our ill-starred house Has groaned beneath the heavy wrath of heaven. That wrath at first my hapless mother felt, Whom Venus cursed with lust insatiate; For she, with heedless, impious passion fired, Unmindful of her absent lord, of us, Her guiltless children, and the law's restraints, In open day another husband wed. To that fell couch avenging Fury came With streaming locks and serpents intertwined, And quenched those stolen wedding fires in blood. For with destructive rage, on murder bent, She fired the prince's heart; and at his word, Ah, woe is me, my ill-starred mother fell, And, dying, doomed me to perpetual grief. For after her in quick succession came Her husband and her son; and this our house, Already falling, was to ruin plunged. Nurse: Forbear with pious tears to renew thy grief, And do not so disturb thy father's shade, Who for his rage has bitterly atoned.

Chorus [sympathetic with Octavia]: False prove the rumor that of late To our ears has come! May its vaunted threats Fall fruitless out and of no avail! May no new wife invade the bed Of our royal prince; may Octavia, born Of the Claudian race, maintain her right And bear us a son, the pledge of peace, In which the joyful world shall rest, And Rome preserve her glorious name. Most mighty Juno holds the lot By fate assigned—her brother's mate; But this our Juno, sister, wife Of our august prince, why is she driven From her father's court? Of what avail Her faith, her father deified, Her love and spotless chastity? We, too, of our former master's fame


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432 Have been unmindful, and his child At the hest of cringing fear betrayed. Not so of old: then Rome could boast Of manly virtue, martial blood. There lived a race of heroes then Who curbed the power of haughty kings And drove them forth from Rome; and thee, O maiden, slain by thy father's hand, Lest thou shouldst in slavery's bonds be held, And lest foul lust its victorious will Should work on thee, did well avenge. Thee, too, a bloody war avenged, O chaste Lucretia; for thou, By the lust of an impious tyrant stained, With wretched hand didst seek to cleanse Those stains by thy innocent blood. Then Tullia with her guilty lord, Base Tarquin, dared an impious deed, Whose penalty they paid; for she Over the limbs of her murdered sire, A heartless child, drove cruel wheels, And left his corpse unburied there. Such deeds of dire impiety Our age has known, our eyes have seen, When the prince on the mighty Tyrrhene deep In a fatal bark his mother sent, By guile ensnared. The sailors at his bidding haste To leave the peaceful harbor's arms; And soon the rougher waves resound Beneath their oars, and far away Upon the deep the vessel glides; When suddenly the reeling bark With loosened beams yawns open wide, And drinks the briny sea. A mighty shout to heaven goes, With women's lamentations filled, And death stalks dire before the eyes


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 pulsate together, and by successive strokes, because they all depend upon the heart.’ These words produced no impress on the physiology of the day, and we find authors wandering darkly around the great fact which it was Harvey’s mission to bring to light. For eighteen hundred years after Aristotle, no advance was made worthy of note; for Servetus, who wrote in 1553, and of whose labours too much has been made by commentators, did little more than offer a conjecture on the pulmonary circulation. It is worthy of notice, however, that at this date the necessity for contact of atmospheric air with the blood coming from the right ventricle was recognised.

It was by this contact, the Vital Spirit, as it was called, was produced or engendered: the colour of the blood changed to crimson, and, purified by the inspiratory act from fuliginous vapours, the vital fluid became fitted for the preservation of life and health. The blood of the right ventricle was known to require great purification, and it is to be hoped physiology will soon help us to a more complete knowledge of the changes effected by the respi-


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 world, though perhaps of much honour to the authors.’

These remarks clearly show that Harvey’s discovery was regarded with suspicion long after his death, and there can he no better proof than this affords of the great truth having been unsuspected by his predecessors, notwithstanding the remarkable passages which are to be found in the works of older writers. It is certainly most interesting to observe how nearly the circulation was described by some of these, and how centuries elapsed without a single mind awakening to a full perception of the subject.

It was not that the authors were neglected; on the contrary, their works were among the class books of the day, and their very words prized and commented upon. With the knowledge we now possess, it is difficult to understand how it happened that so little effect ensued from an acquaintance with the words of Aristotle, which were known to physicians two thousand years ago. He wrote as follows: ‘The blood of all animals palpitates in their veins (meaning arteries), and by the pulse is sent everywhere simultaneously;’ and, further, he adds: ‘Thus do all the veins


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 to the opinion about the circulation of the blood, which was expected to bring in great and general innovations into the whole practice of physic, but has had no such effect. Whether the opinion has not had the luck to be so well believed as proved sense and experience having not well agreed with reason and speculation—or whether the scheme has not been pursued so far as to draw it into practice, or whether it be too fine to be capable of it, like some propositions in the mathematics, how true and demonstrative soever, I will not pretend to determine.’ Again, Sir William goes on to say: ‘There is nothing new in astronomy to vie with the ancients, unless it be the Copernican System, nor in physic, unless Harvey’s circulation of the blood. But whether either of these be modern discoveries, or derived from old fountains, is disputed—nay, it is so too, whether they are true or no, for though reason may seem to favour them more than the contrary opinions, yet sense can very hardly allow them, and to satisfy mankind both these must concur. But if they are true, yet these two great discoveries have made no change in the conclusions of astronomy nor in the practice of physic, and so have been of little use to the


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 as a matter of necessity, that we need not regard the crowning effort with admiration and surprise. We who are in full possession of the great truth enunciated by Harvey, are totally incompetent to estimate the full amount of difficulty he had to encounter. It is true, when we read the works of his predecessors, we cannot but observe how nearly the circulation of the blood is therein described, and we might at first he inclined to believe that he deserved less credit than has been apportioned to him; but a moment’s reflection serves to show how impossible it would have been to set aside the vast mass of error which shut out the light from all ordinary capacities, save by the exercise of great originality and power. This is clearly brought before us in the difficulty which was experienced in gaining credence for the discovery of the circulation, even when backed by the most conclusive experiments.

Sir William Temple, writing many years after the discovery of Harvey had been given to the world, alludes to the doubt which still affected the minds of physiologists. This accomplished writer says: ‘Dr. Harvey gave the first credit, if not rise,


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Prologue

ERRIFORD village, a peaceful, exquisite corner of old England. Houses, cottages, and great raftered barns spread over a rising stretch of what was once primeval woodland. No dwelling place is less than fifty years old and many are of much older date.

At the apex of the broad, well-kept village street stands the pre-Reformation gray stone church. It rises from what appears to be a well-tended and fragrant garden, though here and there lichened stones and crosses show it to be what old-fashioned folk still call a graveyard.

But at the time my story opens sudden death, and all the evils the most normal death implies in our strange, transitory existence, seem very far from the inhabitants of Terriford. All the more remote because the group of people who are soon to be concerned with a mysterious and terrible drama of death are now one and all happy, cheerful, and full of life and excitement. For they are present as privileged spectators at the first appearance of the great Australian cricket team.

Why, it may well be asked, should quiet Terriford village be so honoured? It is because Harry Garlett, the man who stands to the hamlet in the relation of squire, is the most popular amateur cricketer in the county and the owner of the best private cricket ground in England. Not only money, but a wealth of loving care combined with great technical knowledge and experience, has brought it near to absolute perfection—this fine expanse of English turf, framed in a garland of noble English elms and spreading chestnut trees.

Months ago in the dreary winter, when the tour of the Australian test match team was being arranged, Garlett had invited the visitors to come to Terriford immediately on landing from the boat and “play themselves in” after the long voyage. He undertook to collect a strong team of amateurs, stiffened with two or three professionals, that the Australians might have something worth tackling, and he did not fail to point out that at Terriford the visitors would most quickly become accustomed to English pitches and the soft English light, so different from the hard dry sunshine and matting wickets of Australia.

Harry Garlett knew that the merits of his private ground were well known over there, on the other side of the world, but all the same he could not feel sure. And so it was one of the happiest moments of a life which had been singularly happy and fortunate when he received the cable informing him that the Australian team would accept with pleasure his kind invitation.

To-day, on this bright spring morning, the closing day of the great match, there could be no more characteristically English scene than this mixture of country-house party, garden party, and enthusiasts for the national game.

The cricket is serious, but not so serious as to risk interfering with good fellowship, the more so that this match does not count in the tour for records and averages. The spirit of the whole affair is one of pure good sportsmanship, and the small group of newspaper experts whom Garlett has invited are all eager to see how the visitors shape and how they compare with the great Australian teams of the past.

These connoisseurs are also full of admiration for the eleven which their host has collected. It is indeed a cleverly composed combination. Youth is represented by some brilliant young players from Oxford and Cambridge, cheerful fellows who are equally likely to hit up centuries or to make the two noughts familiarly known as “a pair of spectacles.” But these lads are as active as monkeys in the field and can save seemingly certain runs and bring off seemingly impossible “catches.”

Then there is a sprinkling of somewhat older, but still young men, who have proved their mettle in the great county teams. Last, but not least, there are three professionals—men whose names are known wherever cricket is played and who are past-masters in all the subtleties of the great game.

Decidedly the Cornstalks, though the odds are slightly in their favour, will have to play all out if they are to win.

Any one who envied Harry Garlett his manifold good fortune, his popularity, his good looks, his ideal life in “Easy Street,” for he is a prosperous manufacturer as well as a famous cricketer, might argue that were it not for the long voyage from Australia the Garlett eleven would be beaten to a frazzle. But the general feeling is that it is just that handicap on the visitors which equalizes the chances and makes the match one of real sporting interest.

The pavilion is situated at the top of the cricket field and commands a splendid view of the game. But the game is not the only thing. Indeed, there are people there to whom it is not only an excuse to meet, to gossip, and to enjoy a generous host's delightful hospitality. For, at the back of the great room where Harry Garlett's special guests are all gathered together, is a buffet loaded with every kind of delicious food, wine, and spirits. Garlett, though himself abstemious as every keen athlete has need to be, always offers the best of cheer to his friends, ay, and not only to his friends, for bounteous free refreshments are also provided for the village folk as well as for certain cricket enthusiasts from the county town of Grendon.

And now let us concentrate on a little group of people in the pavilion, all obviously quite at ease with one another, and all bent on making the most of a memorable occasion. Very ordinary folk they are, typical inhabitants of almost any English village.

First, in order of precedence—the rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Cole-Wright, he kindly and far from clever, facts which make him popular, his wife clever and not over kindly, and therefore far less popular.

Then come Dr. and Mrs. Maclean. The wise physician, whose fame goes far beyond the confines of his practice, has snatched a day off from his busy life in order to be present at the closing scenes of the great match. Both he and his wife are Scotch, but they have lived for fifteen years very happily in this typical English village. They are a closely united couple, and the one lack in their joint life has lately been satisfied by their adoption of Mrs. Maclean's niece, Jean Bower, an attractive, cheerful-looking, happy girl whose first introduction to the neighbourhood is taking place to-day in Harry Garlett's cricket pavilion. Jean is only twenty-one, but she is not an idle girl. It is known that she did good work during the last part of the war, and she has lately been made secretary to the Etna China Company of which Harry Garlett is managing director.

As to the other people there, they include Colonel Brackbury, the Governor of Grendon Prison, his sharp-featured wife and two pretty daughters; Mr. Toogood, chief lawyer in Grendon, with his wife and daughter; Dr. Tasker, one of the few bachelors in the neighbourhood; and, last but not least in that little group who are all on intimate terms with one another, and whose affairs are constantly discussed in secret by their humble neighbours, is Mary Prince, true type of that peculiarly English genus unkindly called “old maid.”

Miss Prince is at once narrow-minded and tolerant, mean and generous, wickedly malicious, while yet, in a sense, exceedingly kind-hearted. Perhaps because her father was Dr. Maclean's predecessor the village folk consult her concerning their ailments, grave and trifling, more often than they do the doctor himself.

There is one dark spot in the life of Harry Garlett. His devoted wife, to whom as an actual fact the whole of Terriford village belongs—or did belong till she made it over to him—is an invalid. Many months have gone by since she left the upper floor of the delightful Georgian manor house, which owes its unsuitable name of the Thatched House to the fact that it was built on the site of a medieval thatched building.

The Thatched House is a childless house, and Harry Garlett, though on the best of terms with his invalid wife, is constantly away, at any rate during the summer months, playing cricket here, there, and everywhere, all over England. So Agatha Cheale, Mrs. Garlett's housekeeper, who is known to be a kinswoman of her employer, plays the part of hostess in the cricket pavilion. Even so, as the day wears on Miss Cheale disappears unobtrusively two or three times in order to see if Mrs. Garlett is comfortable and also to give her news of the cricket match and especially news of how Mr. Garlett is acquitting himself. Everything that concerns her husband is of deep moment to Mrs. Garlett, and she is exceedingly proud of his fame as a cricketer.

On this, the second day of the great match, the Australians have been set to make 234 runs in their second innings for victory. When the teams go in for lunch there are few, even among those to whom the finer shades of the game are as a sealed book, who doubt that they will do it pretty easily.

The pitch has worn wonderfully well, and Garlett feels a thrill of delight when he sees it roll out as true and plumb as on the first day. He thinks with intense satisfaction of all the patient care that he has devoted to this ground, of all the cunning devices of drainage lying hid beneath the level turf, and of the scientific treatment with which he has nursed the turf up to this acme of condition. Ah, money can do much, but money alone couldn't have done that. He wants to win the match, but he emphatically does not want to owe victory to any defect of the pitch.

In such happy mood does Garlett lead his team out into the field after lunch, and the Australians start, full of confidence. But somehow, even from the beginning, they seem to find runs hard to get, harder than in their first knock.

The young undergraduates field like men inspired, covering an immense lot of ground and turning what seem certain fours into singles. Wickets fall, too. Some of the Australians open their Herculean shoulders too soon, and, beginning to hit before they are properly “set,” misjudge the ball and get caught from terrific “skiers.” But still the score creeps up. With careful generalship Garlett frequently changes his bowling, treating the batsmen to every variety of swerve and break that his bowlers can command.

The tension grows. One of Garlett's professionals, a chartered jester of the Surrey team, forgets to play off the antics with which he is wont to amuse the crowd at the famous Oval ground, and suddenly becomes quite serious. Still the score mounts up. On the great staging beside the scorer's box large tin numbers painted in white on a black ground show the progress of the game.

Now, the last Australian is going in. What is the score? Ah, see, the man is just changing the plates—yes, there it is! Nine wickets down for 230 runs. Only four more to make and the match is won—and lost!

What is the matter? Why is Mr. Garlett talking to the bowler? A little plan of campaign, no doubt. Every heart on the ground beats a little faster, even surely those well-schooled hearts concealed beneath the white flannels which stand out so brilliantly on the deep green of the pitch.

The newcomer takes his block. He is a huge creature with thick, jet-black beard, a good man at rounding up the most difficult steers on the far South Australian plains.

“Play!” Swift flies the ball from the height of the bowler's swing, and our cattle tamer, playing forward, drives it with a mighty swipe. “Oh, well hit, sir!” Is it a boundary? If so, the match is won. No, no, one of Garlett's agile undergraduates has arrived like a white flash at the right spot and at the right moment. Like lightning he gathers the ball and returns it to the wicket. Ah, a run out? No, yes, no—Black Beard has just got home. It was a narrow shave, but two precious runs have been added.

Only two more to make! Everyone is silent in the tense excitement. Again the ball flies from the bowler's hand, and this time the Australian giant decides to go all out for a winning hit. He opens his brawny chest, all rippling with knotted muscles, and, taking the ball fair in the middle of the bat, lifts it in a huge and lofty curve which seems certain to come to earth beyond the boundary of the pitch.

But wait! Garlett is there, at extra long-on. It is the catch he has planned with the bowler. It is all over in a moment, and yet what a long moment it seems to the entranced spectators!

That little round leather ball high up against the evening sky reaches the top of its flight. Ah, it is over the pavilion! No, it is impossible! But Garlett does it, all the same. With a mighty backward leap he gets the ball into his safe hands just as it was dropping on to the seats in front of the pavilion.

Out! Our cattle-tamer is out, the last Australian wicket, and the match is won—by one run!

Every one feels the curious tingling thrill that comes of having seen a feat that will become historic. Garlett's great catch that won the Australian match for his eleven will be talked about and written about for years to come, wherever cricket is had in honour.

Garlett has picked himself up from where he fell after his terrific leap—but still, you may be sure, holding the precious ball safely to his chest—and instantly he is the centre of a throng of cheering and congratulatory friends, among whom the Cornstalks themselves are foremost.

title: The Terriford Mystery/Prologue