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 Madeline sighed deeply at those words, the violence of offended pride was abated, and in this moment of decreased resentment, an emotion of softness again stole o'er her heart, and made her regret having exposed de Sevignie, by her own animadversions, to the still severer ones of the Countess. She regretted, because from this returning softness she was tempted to doubt his deserving them, and to impute the inconsistencies of his conduct, to difficulties too dreadful perhaps to relate; and she shuddered at the idea of having, in addition to his other misfortunes, drawn upon him the unmerited imputation of baseness; but from this idea, torturing in the extreme, reflection soon relieved her, for when she re-considered his conduct, she could not help thinking he deserved that imputation.

"Yet is it possible, (she cried to herself) that de Sevignie, he who appeared possessed of the nicest delicacy, the most exalted honour, the steadiest principles of rectitude;


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Aageson, Svend, 100.

Aarestrup, E., 271.

Aasen, Ivar, 302.

Auber Porestier, 67, 222.

Abrahamson, H. W. F., 209.

Absalon, Archbishop, 100.

Adam of Bremen, 100.

Adlerbeth, G. G., 358.

Adlersparre, G., 371.

Afzelius, A. A., 68, 320, 384.

Aelnoth, 98.

Agardh, K. A., 410.

Ahlstrand, J. A., 321.

Alarnus de Rupe, 130.

Alexander Magnus Saga, 69.

Allen, C. F., 291.

Almquist, L., 7, 391.

Althing, 17.

Alvismál, 23.

Andersen, G., 80.

Andersen, H. C, 7, 259.

Anderson, R. B., 25, 33, 61, 67, 112, 222, 304, 352.

Andreæ, L., 322, 323.

Ansgar, St., 18.

Arason, Jón, 68.

Arentzen, C., 241, 278.

Are Thorgilsson, 31, 46, 47, 49.

Arinbjörn, 41.

Arnemagnean Collection, 82.

Arnor Jarlaskald, 44.

Arrebo, A., 177.

Arvidi, A., 337.

Arwidsson, A. J., 320.

Asbjörnsen, P. C., 68, 300.

Asteropherus, M. O., 327.

Atterbom, D. A., 376.

Axel and Valborg, 120.

Barlaam and Josaphats Saga, 69.

Bagger, C., 272.

Baggesen, J., 224.

Bajer, Fr., 224.

Balle, N. E., 206.

Bång, 342.

Barfod, Fr. 182.

Bartholin, K., 166, 206.

Bartholin, Th., 166.

Bellman, K. M., 7, 359.

Beowulf, 30.

Bergman, O., 351.

Bergklint, O., 349.

Bergsoe W., 280.

Berzelius, J. J., 410.

Beskow, B., 389.

Biehl, C. D., 224.

Birgitta, St., 319.

Biskupa Sögur, 49.

Bjarkamál, 25.

Björck, E. D., 408.

Björn Hitdælakappi, 53.

Björnson, B., 7, 303.

Blanche, A., 396.

Blicher, S. S., 255.

Blyth, M. N., 308.

Bödtcher, L., 272.

Boëthius, D., 371.

Bögh, B., 277.

Borch, O., 166.

Bording, 182.

Borgarthings Law, 72

Börjessen, J., 379.

Börk, I., 338.

Borup, M. 133.

Boström, K. J., 410.

Botin, A., 352.

Böttiger, C. W., 400.

Boye, C. J., 273.

Bragarrædur, 33.

Brage The Old, 30.

Brahe, Tyge, 163.

Brandes, G., 282.

Brandt, C. J., 128.

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


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 is it possible that he can be unamiable? Alas, why cannot I doubt it still;—but no, let me rather rejoice than regret not being able to do so; rejoice, that passion no longer spreads a mist before my eyes: to endeavour to doubt his unworthiness now, would be to try and blind my reason, and weaken my resolves."

But notwithstanding what she said, she still fluctuated between resentment and tenderness, candour and distrust,—alternately acquitted, alternately condemned him.

With the utmost gentleness, the Countess tried to sooth and steal her from her sorrow; she did not, like a rigid censor, chide her for weakness in indulging it. She knew what it was to have the projects of youthful hope overthrown; the anguish which attends the shock of a first disappointment, and that time must be allowed to conquer it. That time, aided by reason, would heal the wound which had been given to the


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 gentle bosom of her Madeline, she trusted and believed.

On retiring to her chamber, Madeline could not suppress her tears at the contrast she drew between her present feelings and those of the preceding night; and again she began to fancy de Sevignie more unfortunate than unamiable; when suddenly recollecting her resolution of expeling this idea, she hastily tried to divert her thoughts from it.

"That we are separated, I am assured, (cried she) and to ascertain whether I have reason to esteem or condemn him, (though soothing perhaps to my feelings to think the former) can now be of little consequence to me."


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CHAP. IV.

night was restless and unhappy.

"Ah, (sighed she) how differently did I imagine it would have ended." Pale, trembling, dejected, the very reverse of what she had been the preceding morning, she descended to the breakfast parlour, where her melancholy was, if possible, increased by observing the Countess's, who either from sympathy for her, or from a return of her secret uneasiness, or perhaps from a mixture of both, appeared languid and dejected. She tried, however, to appear cheerful but the


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 efforts she made for that purpose were too faint to succeed, and unable either to beguile her own sadness, or that of her young companion, the day wore heavily away. As they sat, at its decline, by an open window in one of the parlours, and beheld the sun sinking behind the western hills, a deep and involuntary sigh heaved the bosom of Madeline, at reflecting, how very different her feelings were now, from what they had been on the same hour the preceding evening.

The Countess interpreted her sigh, and taking her hand, pressed it between her's. "My dear Madeline! (she exclaimed) my sweet girl, it grieves my heart to see you thus depressed. Your present disappointment, I allow, is great; but reflect, and let the reflection compose your mind: how much greater it would have been, how much more poignantly you must have felt it, had you married de Sevignie, and then, when too late, found him to be the worthless character you are now apprehensive he is.


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 "Few there are, my dear Madeline, whose situations, however bad, might not be rendered worse; we should therefore try not to deserve an augmentation of calamity, by bearing that inflicted with resignation.

"Why calamity is the prevalent lot of humanity—why our virtuous hopes are so often overthrown—why the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; both reason and religion teaches us will be explained hereafter; in the mean time, let no disappointment, no vicissitudes, however painful and unmerited we may consider them, ever tempt us to doubt, or to arraign the goodness and wisdom of that Being, from whose hand proceeds alike the cup of good and evil.

"Think not, (she continued) as too many perhaps might do, that I preach what I do not practise; or, that my lessons are those of a woman, who herself, untried by disappointment, can exhort others to that submission which she never knew the difficulty


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 of acquiring. This, believe me my dear Madeline, is not the case; I know what it is: when we extend our hand for the rose to gather the thorns—when we open our bosom to hope, to admit despair—when we bask in the sunshine, to be surprised by the storm, and have it burst with fury o'er our unsheltered heads."

"Oh, from every adverse storm may you be sheltered!" exclaimed Madeline, with uplifted eyes.

As she spoke, Father Bertrand, confessor to the Countess, and officiating priest to her household, stopped before the window: he belonged to the community which has been already mentioned, and frequently rambled at the close of day from his convent, to the wild solitudes of the wood surrounding the chateau. He was upwards of sixty, and one of those interesting figures which cannot be viewed by sensibility without pity and veneration; his noble height still gave an idea of what his form had been, when unbent by


text:
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 THE

CHEMISTRY

OF

PAINTS AND PAINTING

BY

SIR ARTHUR H. CHURCH, K.C.V.O., F.R.S.

M.A., D.Sc, F.S.A. Sometime Professor of Chemistry in the Royal Academy 0} Arts in London

FOURTH EDITION

REVISED AND ENLARGED

LONDON

SEELEY, SERVICE & CO. LIMITED

38 Great Russell Street

1915


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 infirmity; and that form, like a fine ruin, excited the involuntary sigh of regret for the devastations time had made upon it. His hairs were white, and thinly scattered over a forehead, more deeply indented by care than age; and the sad, the solemn expression of his countenance, denoted his being a son of sorrow, and proved his thoughts were continually bent upon another world, where alone he could receive consolation for the miseries of this.

"How fares the good ladies of the castle this evening," cried he, leaning upon his staff, as he stopped before the window.

"Why not so well, father, (replied the Countess) but that we might be better; here we are, like two philosophers descanting upon the vanities of life; and when women talk philosophy, the world says, they must either be indisposed or out of temper."


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 "Well, I shan't pretend to contradict what the world says, (cried the good man, smiling) nor since so well employed shall I longer interrupt you, ladies."

The Countess asked him to come in and take some refreshment, but he refused, and after chatting a little longer, rambled away to the wildest parts of the wood.

"The story of Father Bertrand, (said the Countess, as he retired) is a striking proof to all that know it, that we should never be too eager in the pursuit of our wishes. As it is short, and rather applicable to what we have been talking about, I will relate it.—

"He was son to a gentleman of good family, but still better fortune, who lived in the vicinity of this chateau: the large patrimony he was to inherit, made his parents anxious to give him such an education as should teach him to enjoy it with moderation and elegance.


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 "After learning every thing he could learn in his native country, he was sent abroad to improve himself by visiting various courts, and acquiring that knowledge of men and manners, which is so requisite for those destined to mix in the great world, and which in a fixed residence it is almost impossible to obtain. In the course of his travels he paid a visit to England; and here, in a small town in that kingdom, he became acquainted with a young lady, who at an early age was left an orphan and a dependant on an old capricious aunt, whose only motive for keeping her in the family, was, that on her she could vent that spleen and ill-nature which no one else would bear from her. The fair orphan and Bertrand frequently met each other at different houses; and the beauty of her person, the soft dejection of her manner, and the patient sweetness with which she bore her situation, soon gained a complete conquest over his heart; nor did hers retain its liberty.


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 "The declaration of his attachment Bertrand would have accompanied by an offer of his hand, had not duty and respect to his parents prevented his taking such a step without their knowledge and approbation: he wrote to them for their consent; but instead of receiving it, he received a pressing entreaty to return home immediately; and also an acknowledgment from them at the same time, that they could not bear the idea of his marrying a foreigner and a protestant, as was the lady he paid his addresses to. Bertrand did not attempt to write again, or disregard their entreaty; his duty to them, and his consideration for his own happiness, prompted him to return home without delay, for he knew their hearts, and was convinced, when he once pleaded his cause in person, he would not be refused: calming the disquietude of Caroline by this assurance, and pledging to her vows of unalterable love and fidelity, he embarked for his native country, and as he expected, succeeded in his suit. It was then


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 the depth of winter, and his parents dreading his undertaking a voyage in that inclement season, conjured him to defer, till the ensuing spring, going to England for Caroline, whose marriage they insisted on having celebrated in their own house, from an idea, that if their son was married according to the forms of her church, (which they knew would be the case if his nuptials took place in her country) some heavy calamity would befall him in consequence of that circumstance.

"But the wishes of Bertrand were too impetuous to comply with theirs; he rallied their fears, opposed their arguments, and returned, without delay, to England. The friends of Caroline; for her friends increased when fortune began to smile, now tried to detain her and her lover in England, as his parents had tried to detain him in France, till a more favourable season, but they tried in vain; the youthful pair dreaded no dangers, or rather overlooked the


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 idea of any, in their impatience to quit a place which retarded the wishes of one, and brought continually to the mind of the other, a thousand cruel slights and mortifications. They accordingly embarked, elated with hope and expectation; the ship was bound to Normandy, near whose coast Bertrand had some friends settled, who promised, on his landing there, to accompany him to his father's house, in order to be present at his wedding; the weather continued favourable till they had nearly reached their destined port, when it suddenly changed, as if to mock their hopes, and teach the heart of man no certain felicity can be expected in this life. The sailors endeavoured to make for the shore, but in vain, the storm raged with violence, and after tossing about a considerable time the ship at length bulged upon a rock; the long-boat was immediately thrown out, though from the fury of the waves it afforded but little chance of deliverance: this chance, however, was eagerly seized—Bertrand cal-


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 ling upon every Saint in heaven to preserve her, bore the fainting Caroline into it, the sailors crowded in numbers after them, and it almost directly upset. The shock of that moment separated Bertrand and Caroline for ever in this world,—the waves cast him upon a rock, from whence, almost lifeless, he was taken up by some fisherman and conveyed to a hut; here his friends, whom the expectation of his arrival had drawn to the coast, discovered him. Their care, their assiduity, soon restored his senses—but with what horrors was that restoration accompanied,—the deepest moans, the most piercing, the most frantic cries, were all, for a long time, he had the power of uttering: he then insisted on being taken to the waterside, and here attention alone prevented his committing an act of desperation, by plunging himself amidst the waves which had entombed his love! one day and one night, he sought her on the "sea beat shore;" the second morning her body was discovered on the strand; but how altered, by the


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 cloaths alone it was known to be that of the Caroline he had lost. Kneeling on the earth, Bertrand solemnly vowed, by the chaste spirit of her o'er whose remains he wept, never to know another earthly love, but to devote the remainder of his days to heaven. His friends conveyed him and the body to his parents, who endeavoured to prevail on him to cancel his vow, but in vain, and as soon as the necessary formalities could be gone through, he took the religious habit.

"His parents, disappointed in their hopes relative to him—their hopes of seeing a little smiling race of his prattling about them, pined away, and were soon laid beside the bones of her, who had been the innocent cause of their trouble.

"Bertrand then gave up the house of his forefathers, and the greatest part of the fortune appertaining to it, to a near and distant relation; by this time the turbulence of his grief had abated, and he soon after be-


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502 Braun, W., 401.

Bredahl, C. H., 254.

Bredal, N., 218.

Bremer, Fredrika, 394.

Brenner, S. E., 337.

Brenner, O., 49.

Breta Sögur, 69.

Brochmand, J., 161.

Bröchner, H., 289.

Brosböll, J. C. C., 278

Brorson, H. A., 198.

Bruun, J. N., 218.

Bruun, C., 151, 195.

Brynhild, 25, 64.

Bugenhagen, 157.

Bugge, S., 14, 25, 28, 67, 126, 302.

Bure, J., 329.

Carit Etlar, 279.

Carl Bernhard. See St. Aubain.

Carlén, J. G., 364.

Carlson, F. F., 409.

Caspari, C. P., 309.

Catonius, N. H., 327.

Cederborgh, P., 394.

Celsius, A., 343.

Celsius, O., 352.

Charles XV, 407.

Chiewitz, P., 274.

Choräus, M., 359.

Claëson, C. T., 410.

Clausen, H. N., 285.

Claussön, P., 172.

Colban, M., 307.

Collan, R., 403.

Collet, J. C, 306.

Columbus, S., 334.

Creutz, G. P., 349.

Crusenstolpe, M. J., 398.

Cygnäus, 406.

Dahlgren, K. P., 379.

Dahlstjerna, G. E., 335.

Dalin, O., 346.

Danish Rhyme Chronicle, 128.

Dass, Peder, 182.

Dietrich, P. C, 39.

Dippold, G. T., 67.

Drachmann, H., 282.

Drapa, 30.

Dybeck, 410.

Edda, Elder, 22-40.

Edda, Younger, 28-47.

Egil Skallagrimsson, 35-52.

Egils Saga, 52.

Egilsson, S., 84.

Ehrensvärd, K. A., 371.

Eichhorn, C., 364.

Eidsivathings Law, 72.

Eilschow, P. C., 199.

Einarsson, E., 90.

Einar Skulason, 45.

Eirikr Magnusson, 46.

Eiriksmál, 40.

Eirik Oddson, 59.

Eliesen, P., 149.

Engelbrechtsdatter, D., 180.

Enevallson, K., 366.

Euphemia Songs, 127.

Euphrosyne, 379.

Erasmus of Rotterdam, 139.

Ericksen, J., 84.

Erik The Red, 60.

Erik, Saint, 18.

Eskild, Archbishop, 108.

Espolin, J., 84.

Estridson, S., 100.

Ewald, H. F., 280.

Ewald, J., 213.

Eymunds Saga, 61.

Eyrbyggja Saga, 53.

Eystein, 45.

Eyvind Finnsson, 40.

Fafner, 25, 36.

Fagrskinna, 56.

Fahlkrantz, C. E., 391.

Falsen, E., 224.

Falster, C., 195.

Færeyinga Saga, 60.

Fasting, K., 222.

Fenger, J. P., 151, 180.

Fenja, 25, 37.

Finsen, V., 72.

Flateyarbók, 60.

Flores and Blankiflors Saga, 69.

Flygare-Carlén, E., 396.

Foerson, 278.

Forchhammer, J. G., 289.

Fostbrædra Saga, 53.

Frankenau, R., 223.

Franzén, F. M., 374.

Frese, J., 336.


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 came, by his benevolence and strict, but unostentatious piety, one of the most respected members of the community he had entered into: his story interested me, and on the death of the old monk, who had been my confessor and chaplain, I appointed him to those offices. But though time and reason have meliorated his sorrows, there are periods when all their violence is revived.

"When the rough winds of winter howl round his habitation, and bend the tall trees of the mountains by which it is surrounded, 'tis then the remembrance of past events swells his heart with agony; 'tis then he thinks he hears the plaintive voice of Caroline mingled in the blast, and fancies he beholds her shivering spirit stalking through the gloom, and beckoning him away.

"The wedding garments, which the pride and fondness of his mother prepared for his intended bride; the picture, which, on their parting in England, she gave him,


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 he still treasures, as the hermit would treasure the relics of a saint. I have beheld them—I have wept over them—I have exclaimed within myself, as I have gazed on these mementos of lost happiness—'Oh, children of the dust! what folly to place your hopes, your wishes, on a world whose changes are so sudden; whose happiness, even while it appears in our view, even while we stretch out our arms to enfold it, flies never to return.'

"Oh, Madeline! as Bertrand has shown me the ornaments designed for his Caroline, and told me their hapless tale, while the big tear of tender recollection and poignant regret has rolled down his cheek, I could only quiet the strong emotions of my heart, by saying, like the holy man himself:

'Father of heaven! thy decrees must surely be for the wisest purposes, else thou wouldst not thus afflict thy creatures; thy will, therefore, not our's, be done.' The sor-


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 rows of Bertrand (resumed the Countess, after pausing a minute) were heightened, by thinking himself accessary to them, in consequence of not regarding either the supplications of his parents or friends for postponing his voyage till a more settled season: so true is it, that those who yield to impetuous passions, will sooner or later have reason to repent doing so."

The mind of Madeline was insensibly calmed, and drawn from its own cares by the discourse of the Countess; for the precept of wisdom, the tale of instruction is ever pleasing to the children of virtue.

But with that quick transition of feeling, so peculiar to the youthful mind, she felt, with returning composure, a kind of distaste to a world, which daily experience convinced her teemed with calamity.

Soon after the Countess had concluded her little narrative, she requested Madeline


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 to take her lute—a request, which Madeline attempted not to refuse. In the present state of her mind sad or solemn strains were alone congenial to her feelings, and she selected a hymn to the Supreme Being, celebrating his goodness, and the happiness prepared for those hereafter, who patiently support the trials of this life. Just depressed by a conviction of its sufferings, Madeline derived a kind of divine consolation from words, which gave so consoling an assurance of their being rewarded. At first her voice was weak, and her touch faint and tremulous; but by degrees, as if animated by the subject, her voice regained its strength, and her hand its steadiness; and high on the swelling notes her soul seemed ascending to that heaven, whose glories appeared opening to her view, when a deep sigh, or rather sob, suddenly startled her. Her hand involuntarily rested on the strings, o'er which it was lightly sweeping, and she cast an eager glance towards the Countess. How great was her surprise—her consternation, to see


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 her fallen back, pale, and weeping in her chair. The lute instantly dropped from Madeline, and starting up, she instinctively flung her arms round her benefactress, exclaiming, "Good heavens! Madam, what is the matter." Then, without waiting for a reply, she was flying from the room for assistance, when the voice of the Countess made her stop.

"Return, my dear, (said she, raising herself on her chair) I am now better. It was only my spirits were overcome. Your solemn strains awoke in my mind recollections of the most painful nature; the hymn you were playing was a favourite of my lord's. The evening preceding the illness which terminated his life, as pale and languid he sat by me in this very room, he requested me to play it for him; his words, his looks, while he listened, as afterwards considered by me, have since convinced me that he knew his end was approaching, and that he fixed on this hymn as a kind of requiem for his de-


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 parting spirit. In that light I have ever since regarded it."

Madeline shuddered; she thought there was a ghastly paleness in the countenance of the Countess. "Oh, Madam! (said she), why did you not prevent my playing it?"

"Because, my love, (replied the Countess) though it pains, it also pleases me. I am now better (she continued), and will retire to the chapel for a little time."

"Ah! Madam, (said Madeline), permit me to accompany you tonight, for perhaps you may be again taken ill." "No, my love, (cried the Countess), there is no danger of my being so. I thank you for your kind solicitude about me, but I cannot let you come with me; my composure I know will be perfectly restored by visiting the chapel. Tell Floretta, therefore, to bring me my scarf."—Madeline obeyed, but with a repugnance she could not conquer,—and the Countess wrapping it about her, departed, assuring Madeline she would


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 hasten back to supper, and would then expect to find her cheerful.

Madeline, left to herself, strolled out upon the lawn. It was now the dusky hour of twilight, and solitude and silence reigned around. Her thoughts, no longer diverted by conversation, again reverted to past subjects, and deeply ruminating on them, she continued to walk till it grew quite dark: she then returned to the castle, and not finding the Countess in the room where they had parted, she rung for a servant, to enquire whether she was yet come back; the man replied she was not. Her long stay, after promising to return so soon, filled the mind of Madeline with terror, lest her delay should be occasioned by a return of her illness: and going directly to Agatha, she communicated her apprehensions to her, and entreated her to accompany her to the monastery—an entreaty the faithful creature readily complied with.


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CHAP. V.

they proceeded thither, Agatha expressed her regret at her lady's persevering in visiting the chapel. "She is there, (said she) encompassed by the dead, and remote from human aid, if such should be required; often and often have I shuddered at the idea of the dangers to which she exposed herself by going thither alone; and often have I taken the liberty of entreating her not to do so, but without effect: she has a particular pleasure in its solitude, and in praying where not only the bones of her an-


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 cestors, but those of her husband and children rest."

"I own (cried Madeline) I am surprised she can go, at the lonely hours she does, to so dreary a place, which appears to me surrounded by every thing that can appal the imagination."

"For my part (exclaimed Agatha) nothing in the world could tempt me to do so;—Lord! I should be scared out of my very senses by apprehension, if I stopped a few minutes in it after it was dark. Holy Virgin! (cried she suddenly, as they advanced down the valley) protect us;—nothing but love for my lady could tempt me to go on, this place is so frightful."

Madeline could not wonder at the terror she betrayed; the scene was calculated to inspire it, and she felt a degree of it herself:—on either side the mountains rose in black masses to the clouds, and the wind issued from their cavities with a hollow sound, that had something particularly awful in it, whilst the ravens screamed horribly from the trees


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 which waved about their feet. Madeline began to regret not having procured the protection of one of the men, but that regret, with the fears which excited it, she concealed from her companion; both, however, were too much disturbed to continue to converse; and in silence they reached the monastery, and were just turning into it, when the figure of a man, standing beneath a broken arch, near the entrance, caught their eyes; both started, and Agatha, who, from being foremost, had a better view of him than Madeline, instantly exclaimed, but without withdrawing her eyes from him, "The Lord defend my soul! what brings you hither?" She received no reply however—the man who had neither noticed her nor her companion till she spoke, started at the first sound of her voice, and, after surveying them for a moment with a look of affright, precipitately fled down the valley.

"Oh, my lady! my dearest lady! (exclaimed Agatha) some evil, I fear, has befallen her."


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 [Dedication of the First and Second Editions.]

TO

SIR FREDERIC LEIGHTON, BART., P.R.A,,

WHO HAS ALWAYS SHOWN A DEEP INTEREST

IN ITS SUBJECT, AND HAS GREATLY

ENCOURAGED ITS AUTHOR,

THIS BOOK

IS, BY PERMISSION, DEDICATED.


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CLERMONT.

CHAP. I.

perusing her letter, Madame D'Alembert leaned her head upon her hand and continued silent many minutes as if absorbed in profound meditation; then raising it, "my love (she cried to Madeline, whose eyes, though she had retired to a window were fastened on her), my love, (motioning for her to take a seat by her), I am now going to put your friendship to the test."


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 "I trust, Madame, (said Madeline as she seated herself), you do not doubt its being able to bear any trial you can put it to."

"I have no reason indeed, (replied Madame, taking her hand) to doubt your affection or sincerity; but the request I am about making appears to me unreasonable, consequently I fear its appearing much more so to you." She paused a minute, and then, tho' with rather a hesitating voice, proceeded.

"Monsieur D'Alembert is coming to the chateau; the letter I have just received came by an express to announce his approach,—in the course of this day I expect him. Reasons of the most powerful nature, but reasons which I cannot, must not, dare not declare, make me wish to prevent his seeing you, at least while you are under my protection."

"Dearest Madam (then said Madeline with quickness), let me return immediately to my father; how could you imagine I should think your requesting me to do so unreasonable; I have long wished to see him, and my regret at quitting you will now be lessened by


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 knowing Monsieur D'Alembert will be your companion."

"My dear girl (cried Madame) you totally mistake me; though I do not wish you to see Monsieur D'Alembert, I by no means wish you to return to your father; on the contrary, should you insist on doing so, you will pain me beyond expression."

"But how, Madame, (asked Madeline with much surprise) how will it be possible to avoid being seen by Monsieur if I do not quit the chateau."

"By consenting to seclude yourself from society (answered Madame) while he is in it; his stay he informs me will be but short—was it a long one I could not be so selfish as to attempt to keep you; tell me then, my Madeline—terminate my suspense—will you gratify, will you comply with my wishes?" She paused and looked earnestly at Madeline for a reply, but it was many minutes ere Madeline could give one.

Amazed by what she had heard, and learning that Madame D'Alembert had pow-


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lived in the country a serf, Ivan Shcherbakov, and it was well with him. He himself was in the fulness of his strength, the first workman in the village, and he had three sons on their legs, one married, one engaged to be married, and the third who had begun to go out with the horses and plough. Ivan's old woman was wise, and a good manager, and her daughter-in-law turned out to be meek and a hard worker. There were no idle mouths about the house save a sick old father, who had lain on the stove for seven years from asthma. There was lots and to spare at Ivan's place—three horses with their foals, a cow with her one-year-old calf, and fifteen sheep. The women made shoes and clothes for the men, and wrought women's work at home; the muzhiks did peasants' work. There was bread in abundance.

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 erful reasons for concealing her from her husband, her whole soul was engrossed in trying to develop those reasons; but like the other mysteries which had tortured it, she vainly tried to do so.

"Ah! Madeline (said Madame D'Alembert, in a melancholy voice) I fear this silence bodes me no good."

"My dearest Madam, (cried Madeline) I would at once have answered you, could I at once have determined how to act; but I will acknowledge though my affection for you prompts me to comply with your request, my pride makes me revolt from the idea of becoming the unknown guest of any person; besides—besides (with some little hesitation) there is a kind of apprehension mingled with that pride. I recollect the particular, the impressive manner, in which my beloved benefactress bade me remember, that whenever Monsieur D'Alembert came to the chateau, she did not desire me to continue in it; and her words, together with those you have uttered, make me fear that Monsieur has some secret enmity against me, though for


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 what cause I cannot possibly conceive, unacquainted as I am with him."

"What a wild idea, (exclaimed Madame), to suppose a person who is really ignorant of your existence, can have any enmity to you?"

"Good heaven! Madam, (cried Madeline) how you astonish me!"

"I repeat, (said her friend) that Monsieur D'Alembert, at this moment, knows not that such a being as Madeline Clermont exists: when he comes to the chateau he certainly must hear about you, but your real residence I shall take care to have concealed from him: Come, tell me, do you longer hesitate how to act?"

Madeline sighed deeply; she was unwilling to stay, and yet unwilling to go: unwilling from motives of affection, and a fear that if she did she should be deemed ungrateful; rightly considering that those who will not sometimes tax their feelings for a friend, are


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 themselves unworthy of the appellation of one.

"No, Madam, (said she, after the silence of a few minutes) I no longer hesitate,—do with me as you please; I should ill requite your favors if I disobeyed your wishes."

"A thousand thanks, my Madeline, for your compliance; (cried her friend, tenderly embracing her) it has removed a heavy burden of uneasiness from me: and now, my dear girl, to inform you of the plan which I have concerted for your concealment; a plan which only to those immediately concerned in carrying it into execution I shall impart, in order to avoid any danger of a discovery, and to prevent idle curiosity: I shall immediately have it circulated through the family that you are going to pay a visit to a relation some leagues off, and order Lubin, (in whom, his old godmother, Agatha, and Floretta, I alone mean to confide) to prepare horses for the journey; as soon as you are out of sight of the chateau,


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 he shall conduct you to the grotto by the lake, where as soon as it is dark, Floretta shall be sent to re-conduct you home, and by a private door bring you to the chamber of my mother, which I think better adapted than your own for concealing you, as her death is too recent to permit the servants to wish to enter it.

"I hope my love (seeing Madeline turn pale) you have no objection to it?"

Madeline was ashamed to acknowledge she had.—

"No, Madam, (answered she falteringly) I have not."

"Consider, my dear, (said her friend, who was not perfectly satisfied by this assurance) your seclusion in it will be but short; and while you continue in it, Agatha and Floretta shall pass as much time as possible with you; every opportunity too which occurs for visiting you, without danger of detection, I shall seize: retire now, my love to your chamber, and in order to give the appea-


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handbook first appeared in the spring of 1890; two years afterwards a second and revised edition was published. In 1901, when the work had been for some time out of print, a thorough revision of its contents was carried out, a good deal of new matter being introduced, while a few pages, which had been occupied by a digest of an important newspaper discussion on the effect of light upon water-colour drawings, were not reprinted. This account was omitted because it could no longer be contended that many English water-colour drawings, ex- posed to strong light for a considerable length of time, had suffered no change in hue and depth.

Various additions and corrections have been made in this, the fourth edition. A few of the paragraphs relating to rather recondite subjects have been abridged or even omitted. Indeed, an attempt has been made, in carrying out the present revision, to simplify, so far as possible, the way in which the results, obtained by chemists in the study of painters' materials, are presented to the artist and the student of art.

In the year 1908 a German translation of the third edition of this book was published in Munich. It was


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 ance we wish to my plan, put on a riding habit."

Madeline withdrew, but instead of changing her dress, she sat down to reconsider all that had passed, and the more she reflected on it, the more her heart recoiled from the idea of continuing in the chateau.

"If discovered (said she) I may be insulted as an intruder, and degraded not only in my own eyes, but those of the family; but can I retract the promise I have given to Madame D'Alembert? No, it is impossible to do so—I cannot appear fickle, I cannot disappoint her; sooner than do so I will run the risk even of indignity."

While thus engrossed in thought, Madame D'Alembert, followed by Agatha and Floretta, entered: Madeline started and attempted to apologize for not having put on the habit.


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 "You are an idle girl, (cried her friend) the horses are waiting, and no time is to be lost."

In a few minutes she was ready, and with Madame D'Alembert descended to the hall, where she found many of the old servants, (who loved her for the sake of their dear departed lady as well as for her own) assembled to bid her farewell; having received and returned that farewell, and also a parting embrace from her friend, she mounted her horse and set off at a smart pace with Lubin: they soon penetrated into the thickest of the wood, and after proceeding about a mile through it, they turned into a winding path leading to the lake; here they both alighted, and Madeline, being acquainted with the way, walked on, while Lubin slowly led the horses after her. This was the very path which de Sevignie had taken the last evening she beheld him, and the moment she entered it, the remembrance of that evening rushed upon her mind; she sighed heavily: "Ah! how dif-


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 ferent (she cried to herself) were my feelings then to what they are now!—then I imagined myself the beloved of de Sevignie's heart, then believed him entitled, not only from affection but worth, to the possession of mine; but now no idea of that kind remains, and to that which I once entertained I look back as to a delightful dream, from which I have only been awakened to misery and horror.

"Yet can de Sevignie (she continued, as she pursued her way), can de Sevignie, (as if only now she had conceived the doubt) be perfidious, be unworthy? Oh! impossible! (cried she, yielding to the suggestions of a tenderness, which, though opposed, had never been in the least degree conquered), Oh! impossible! Vice could never wear such a semblance of virtue as he wore; the alteration in his manner must have been owing to some circumstances which pride prevented his revealing, and I should, I ought at once to have believed so: surely I had done so,


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 had I not obeyed, (let me whisper it to myself) the dictates of disappointed tenderness and offended pride."

On reaching the grotto she seated herself on the moss-covered stone before it; the very seat on which she had once been alarmed by de Sevignie; the very seat on which she had once, while the pale stars glimmered o'er her head, so impatiently waited his approach.

"Oh! what minutes were those, (she exclaimed) Oh! what the palpitation of that moment which brought him to my feet!—" Again she beheld him in idea, again saw his fine eyes beaming on her with mingled love, hope and sorrow; again felt the soft pressure of his cold trembling hand; again heard the sighs, with which he declared there was an unconquerable necessity for their separation.

"Oh! de Sevignie (she cried) to know you happier now than when that declaration was made, would relieve my heart of an al-


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 most intolerable weight of anguish: she wished she could learn whether he had yet left V; but to enquire without betraying her motives for doing so was impossible, and from the idea of discovering them she shrunk with affright.

"What satisfaction (she asked herself) could I derive by knowing he was still there? No hope of seeing him could be derived by such a knowledge."

She continued engrossed by this idea till she felt the tears dropping upon her cheeks; these brought her to a sense of her weakness. "Is it by indulging such feelings as my present ones,—is it by dwelling on the remembrance of Sevignie, (said she) that I adhere to the resolution I formed not to think about him, that I obey the injunctions of my lamented benefactress, or what I know must be the wishes of my father: what folly! instead of trying to drive him from my heart, to try and establish him more firmly than


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 prepared and edited by the distinguished scientist Dr. Wilhelm Ostwald. I have incorporated with the present issue the substance of the paragraphs which he introduced into my original text; these are indicated by the sign ¶

In preparing the following pages for the press, I have to acknowledge, as on previous occasions, the help of several friends and correspondents. Amongst these I specially name Mr. J. Scott Taylor, many of whose suggestions have been incorporated in the text, and also Dr. A. P. Laurie, my successor in the chair of Chemistry in the Royal Academy of Arts.

Of recent years the literature dealing with the subjects to which the present handbook is devoted has greatly increased. Several of the volumes named in my 'Bibliographical Notes' are of sterling merit and contain original material of no little importance. But I am bound to confess that I have met with several disappointments when searching for records of new facts in recent dictionary articles, reports of lectures, and treatises. On perusal a familiar note seemed sometimes to be struck; and I ultimately identified not a little of the material as my own. I will not dwell on this matter; it is indeed some consolation to feel that such transferences from my pages would not have taken place had not the paragraphs and tables and comments been deemed of some value. But I trust that I myself shall not be thought guilty of plagiarism because in 1914 I reprint something, say a table or a classification, which I published in 1890, but which appeared ten years or more later as having been


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 ever within it, by still believing him amiable! Ah, had he been really so, never would he have formed plans which he did not mean to realize; never would he have condemned my opening my heart to such a friend as I was blessed with; and 'tis only a sudden impulse of weak and culpable tenderness which could make me again consider him in the light I once did, an impulse which I will endeavour never more to yield to: Yes, de Sevignie, more resolutely than ever I will try to expel you from my heart." She wiped away her tears, but felt at the moment how arduous was the task which she had imposed upon herself.—

How difficult it would be, in moments of security and quiet, to banish de Sevignie from her thoughts, when scenes of grief and terror, such as she had lately experienced, had not had power to do so.

"Heaven, however, (cried she) strengthens those who wish to do right; I wish to do


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 so, and to do so I think I must forget de Sevignie."

Lubin, who had hitherto been engaged in securing the horses within a cavity of the mountain, now approached, and opening a small basket of nice provisions, which Agatha had given him, he spread a napkin on the grass before Madeline, and laid the contents of the basket on it.

Tis time for you to take something Mademoiselle (said he) I dare say 'tis now far beyond your usual dinner hour; do pray, Mademoiselle, do take something, you look faint indeed."

Madeline felt weak and tired, and did not resist his entreaty: after her little repast was over, he removed the things to a respectful distance, and sat down to refresh himself. The parents of Lubin had passed the principal part of their lives in the service of the Countess and her family, and at their death,


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 devised by another chemist. Another reason for limiting the number of books included in my list of titles is to be found in the extensive Bibliography appended to Professor Laurie's 'The Materials of the Painter's Craft.'

No very great differences will be found between the present and the preceding edition, but I have endeavoured, not only to introduce new matter which I think of importance, but to simplify and make more exact the treatment of the various subjects discussed ; and, in fine, to carry out more fully the plan set forth in the Preface (here reprinted) to the First Edition.

2em


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 which happened when he was very young, she had taken him entirely under her protection; his gratitude and fidelity amply repaid her kindness, and she had considered him as she did Agatha, infinitely above the rest of the servants.

With true French gaiety after he had finished his repast, he amused himself with singing the following


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 Guys and Lanlers, etc., who played flutes in Charles the First's band, we know practically nothing. Burney mentions one "Jack" (his real name was Michael Christian John) Festing in 1731 as "good on the German flute"; and Joseph Tacet, who is credited with the invention of certain keys and who wrote some flute music, is mentioned in Miss Burney's Diary (May 5th, 1772) as a player, but little is known about him. Our earliest native player of note concerning whom any details are preserved would appear to have been Andrew Ashe (c. 1758-1841), a native of Lisburn in the County Antrim, Ireland. Ashe travelled much in early life along with Count Bentinck, and became proficient on several instruments, studying the flute from Mozart's friend Wendling (see p. 135, ante). He subsequently became first flute in the Brussels Opera House, having defeated Vanhall, the holder of that position, in a public trial of skill. Returning to Ireland in 1782, Ashe played at concerts in the Dublin Rotunda and at the Exchange Rooms in Belfast, where on November 29th, 1789, he performed a concerto of his own composition, introducing Robin Gray, and also took part in a duet for flute and clarinet, on Arne's Sweet Echo. Salomon in 1791 came over to Dublin specially to hear him, and immediately engaged him as first flute for his famous London Concerts (where some of Haydn's symphonies were produced). On Monzani's retirement, Ashe filled his place at the first flute desk in the Italian Opera. He


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 Rh stage may, perhaps, take less time to work itself out than the first; but it must, nevertheless, require a period measured in generations. Thus, when we consider that a century (according to the usual computation) embraces only about three generations, it must be regarded as improbable that the tribes which were pure Mongols at the end of the thirteenth century should have become the pure Turks they are sometimes represented, at the period dealt with by our author. The Russian savant Gmelin, who travelled in Central Asia in the last century, is emphatic in stating his belief in the permanency of the Mongol race in general, as far as physical attributes are concerned. He affirms that, in spite of all mixtures of blood by their wars in distant countries, the Mongol tribes have not only preserved their characteristic type of features, but have even impressed it on other races with whom they have come in contact—such as the Kirghiz and others. This statement perhaps hardly affords a proof on the subject in question, but it goes towards showing that the eradication of the Mongol type is not a simple matter, or one that is likely to have been accomplished in a space of barely two hundred years.

Amir Khusru, the poet of medieval India, draws—or perhaps overdraws—a picture of the Moghuls who invaded Northern India towards the end of the thirteenth century, in a manner which leaves no doubt that he is attempting to describe a Mongoloid race. He had previously fallen into their hands as a prisoner, and, according to his own account, had been badly treated by them; as he was no doubt burning with dread and resentment, his description must be taken to be somewhat tinged by his feelings. However, omitting some offensive details, he writes thus: "There were more than a thousand Tatar infidels and warriors of other tribes, riding on camels, great commanders in battle, all with steel-like bodies clothed in cotton; with faces like fire, with caps of sheepskin, with heads shorn. Their eyes were so narrow and piercing that they might have bored a hole in a brazen vessel. … Their faces were set on their bodies as if they had no neck. Their cheeks resembled soft leathern bottles, full of wrinkles and knots. Their noses extended from cheek to cheek, and their mouths from cheek bone to cheek bone. … Their moustaches were of extravagant length. They had but scanty beards about their chins. … They looked like so many white demons, and the people fled from


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 82 them everywhere in affright." Is it possible that a race which would call forth such a description as this, from even a terrified poet, could have become, in the mass, men like Yunus or Baber between the end of the thirteenth century and the latter half of the fifteenth?

Thus, although it might appear at first sight that, with the change taking place in the families of the Khans, with the advance of the Musulman religion and the growing use of the Turki language, it would be impossible to distinguish a true Moghul people, still evidence is not wanting to show that even up to the first half of the sixteenth century, the Moghuls of Moghulistan—the Moghul Ulus of Mirza Haidar—were in fact a separate people from the Turks. During the period 1514 to 1533, the Mirza constantly alludes to a distinct tribe or community of Moghuls—however reduced in numbers—in exactly the same terms as he refers to them at a period dating two hundred years before. They were neither Kirghiz, nor Uzbegs, nor Kalmáks, but were the natural enemies of all three; they were of the Ulus (or clan) of the Khans descended from Chaghatai; they preserved Mongol customs and, from occasional incidental references which he makes to Mongol terms and phrases, must have retained something, at least, of the original language of their nation, though they had no literature in which it could become fixed. This being the case, the bulk of them must have preserved their Mongol type to the last, and it may perhaps be fairly conjectured that whatever change they had undergone, was due less to the fusion of blood than to the conversion of the people to Islam. The spread of the Musulman religion tends always to the modification of manners and customs, and to the use of the Arabic, Turki or Persian language; but in spite of all, racial characteristics remain, until very gradually expunged by a course of inter-breeding, that must extend over many centuries. Several parallel cases (besides that of the Hazáras) might be cited among Asiatic nations; but one, having no relation to the Mongol tribes, will suffice. The Baltis of Baltistan, or Little Tibet, formed originally a section of the ordinary population of Tibet, were of the same religion, and used the same language. Some three centuries or more ago, they were converted to the Musulman faith, and began gradually to change their manners. At present the written language of Tibet is unknown among them, Persian having


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 Rh replaced it; their chiefs, through intermarriage with neighbouring Musulman peoples, have changed so greatly, even in type, that usually no trace of the Tibetan is left; but the mass of the nation, though practising Musulman social customs and wearing a Musulman costume, have not lost the Tibetan spoken language, and are, in feature and other personal attributes, as thoroughly Tibetan as ever they were. Had the Baltis occupied an open country, and been constantly engaged in wars and invasions, there might have been a greater and more rapid change. Their secluded mountainous home (like that of the Hazáras) has mitigated this, and has helped to preserve them as a race: but the principle is the same as with the Moghuls.

With regard to the misleading employment of the word Turk, alluded to above, it must be explained that, among Asiatic authors, it is constantly met with as the definition of a race or people distinguished from the Tartars and the Moghuls, on the one hand, and from Tájiks, or Táziks, on the other. But in the same writings, and often on the same page, it is used to denote all nomads and inhabitants of the steppes, irrespective of race or origin, and merely to distinguish such people from those who dwelt in towns, and who cultivated the settled districts—or from the Tájiks generally. The first may be regarded as its ethnological sense: the second as sociological only, and as about synonymous with the adopted English word nomad. In this second sense it included, as we shall see, all Mongoloid and Tartar races. In dictionaries we find among its many meanings those of barbarian, robber, vagabond, wanderer, etc. It is also, in poetry, applied to the planet Mars as "a Wanderer of the sky," and to the sun as "the Turk of China," that is of the East; or “"the Turk of midday"—viz., the South; or "the Turk of the Spheres." All who lived in the steppes and ranges, outside the pale of what was regarded as civilisation, and led a pastoral or unsettled life, but who were not distinctively mountaineers, were deemed a separate class (irrespective of race) and required a separate name to denote them. To this class the name of Turk attached itself throughout Central Asia. In Europe and in India the word Turk was not used in this sense. By Europeans, and perhaps Western Asiatics also, the word Tatar, or Tartar, was usually in vogue, down to quite modern times, to indicate the nomadic nations of the interior of Asia, without reference to any racial con-


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the present volume the materials and methods of the painter of pictures are viewed mainly from the chemical standpoint. An attempt has been made to treat in orderly sequence the various kinds of painting-grounds, the constituents of vehicles and varnishes, the pigments themselves, and the chief processes of painting. Although the artistic side of the numerous problems discussed has not been neglected, the book is in no way intended to teach manipulation to art students. It has been written with the view of explaining to artists, whether they be accomplished masters or commencing students, the chief chemical and physical characters of the materials with which they deal and of the operations they practise. In many instances a sketch of the processes for preparing certain pigments and varnishes is given, not in order to turn the painter into a colour-maker or a varnish-manufacturer, but rather that he may acquire a clearer insight into the nature and properties of the most important constituents entering into the composition of his pictures. With regard, however, to the tests for purity and genuineness which I have described in the following pages,


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 my object in introducing them has been different, for I trust that (in some cases, at least) the easy experiments I have recorded will be tried, especially with suspicious pigments. The operations require but little time; the pieces of apparatus needed, like the chemicals, are few and inexpensive. And when the ease with which these testings can be made has been proved by practice, the experimenter may perhaps be induced to proceed a little farther, preparing his own siccative oil, selecting and purifying his spirit of turpentine, and so forth. That the painter should test the varnishes he buys for hardness and toughness, and the pigments for durability, may, I hope, be taken for granted.

'Titian managed pretty well without chemistry, did he not?' A distinguished artist asked me this question the other day. But not only were the conditions under which the painters of Titian's time worked simpler than those of the nineteenth century, but grounds, paints, oils, and varnishes were generally prepared in the studios of the artists, and under their own superintendence, so that the chances of going wrong were comparatively limited. Audit is not to be denied that a better acquaintance with the nature of the materials which many of the old masters employed would have caused their works to be handed down in sounder preservation to future generations.

It is possible—I hope, indeed, it is probable—that this book may be found of service to students who are purposing to devote themselves to certain manufacturing and technical pursuits. I am aware that to those who refer to


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 its pages for the revelation of all the secrets of colour-manufacturers it may prove in some measure disappointing; yet I trust that, in the way of information and suggestion, the study of this volume will not be unattended with advantage. It must be remembered that it is confessedly an elementary manual only, written with a definite aim, but covering a very wide area of inquiry. And if chemists should conclude that it contains too little chemistry, artists may perhaps think that it contains too much.

There are repetitions in the following pages, for the topics discussed in some of the chapters overlap one another. I am perfectly aware of having made the same statement, given the same figure, and expressed the same opinion in more than one place. The scheme of the work required such repetitions. I felt sure that many an artist or student would turn to one section or other of the book without caring to read the whole. One inquirer would like to ascertain at once what pigments were safe, what dubious, what fugitive, by a reference to the tables in Chapters XXI. and XXII.; while another, anxious to learn something of the evidence on which the several verdicts of approval or condemnation were based, would expect to find his requirements met in the pages devoted to trials of pigments. Again, under the names of the individual pigments, discussed in Chapters XIII. to XIX., some of the changes described in the last part of the work are quoted. Thus it happens that there are some materials common to all of those sections of the book just named.


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 Sidney, Sir Philip, 19, n. 4; 93, n. I.

Sidrophel, his character, 218; mistakes a paper-kite for a star, 229; is visited by Hudibras, 231; discovers the object of his visit, 233, 234: defends the science of astrology, 238, 240, 245; his altercation with Hudibras, 254; attacks the Knight, 254; is defeated and plundered, 256; counterfeits death. 259; Hudibras's epistle to, 262; 421, n. 3.

Sieve and Sheers, the oracle of, 234 and n. 2.

Silk-worms, belief respecting, 295, n. 2.

Simeon to Levi, 127 and n. 4.

Sisters, the fatal, 16.

Skimmington, some account of the, 196 and n. 3; 316, n. 1.

Skipper, 318; the master of a sloop, 318, n. 3.

Skull, trepanning of the, 262 and n. 2.

Sleeves and hose, slashed. 8, n. 1; 313 and n. 1.

Slubberdegullion, 114; a drivelling fool, 114, n. 4.

Smeck, canonical cravat of, 124 and n. 5.

Smectymnus, 194 and n. 1.

Snippets, 246 and n. 2.

Snuff, enlightened, 23 and n. 5.

Snuff-mundungus, 367 and n. 3.

Socrates, 129 and n. 5; 224, n. 5.

Soldier, paid 6d. per day, 154 and n. 5; curious privilege of the, 197, n. 1; carried off by the devil, 217 and n. 5.

Solemn League and Covenant, 33, n. 1; 62, 67. n. 2, 4; 68, n. 2; 178, n. 4; 318 and n. 4; 348 and n. 1.

Somerset, Protector, 42, n. 4.

Sooterkin, 332, and n. 2.

Soothsayers, mistakes of, 250 and n. 5.

Sophy, 318 and n. 1.

Sorbonist. 10, n. 5.

Souse and Chitterlings, 46 and n. 7.

South, Dr, sermon of, 124, n. 1.

Sow, wrong, by the ear, 235 and n. 2; suckled by a bitch, 264 and n. 2.

Sow-geldering, 162, 352.

Sowning, 153 and n. 3.

Spaniard, whipped, 21 and n. 1.

Spanish dignity, 21, n. 1.

Specieses, 225.

Speed and Stowe, 199 and n. 4.

Spenser, his "Fairy Queen," 2, n. 1; 86, n. 1; 231, n. 1; 248, n. 1; example of, 85, n. 1.

Spick and span, derivation of the words, 100, n. 3.

Spinning-wheels, 201 and n. 3.

Spirit Po, 316 and n. 4.

Sports, on Sundays, 32, n. 1.

Sprat's history of the Royal Society, 245, n. 3.

Spurs, badges of Knighthood, 165, n. 2.

Squirt-fire, 374 and n. 4.

Staffiers, 198 and n. 3.

Stars, new, appearance of, 229 and n. 2; falling, notion respecting, 231 and n. 2; office of the, 246 and n. 1.

State-camelion, 343 and n. 1.

Statute, 439 and n. 1.

Staving and tailing, 90 and n. 1.

Steal me from myself, 316 and n. 2.

Stennet, the wife of a broom-man, 149 and n. 6.

Stentrophonic voice, 277 and n. 5.

Stercorary chair, 128, n. 2.

Stery, one of Cromwell's chaplains, 335 and n. 2; his dream, 335, n. 3.

Stiller, pun upon the word, 316 and n. 2.

Stiles and Nokes, 120 and n. 1.

Stirrups, not in use in Cæsar's time, 21, n. 3.

Stocks, humorously described, 83 and n. 1; a wooden jail, 139 and n. 4.

Stoics, doctrines of the, 173, n. 1 2; 298, n. 2.

Stone, angelical, 237, n. 4.

Stools of repentance, 320.


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322 Marquess of Exeter. The best, known as the King Oak, is 100 feet high by 16 feet 6 inches in girth. At Ashridge the oaks are not so fine as the beeches, but the King Oak in that park is a splendid tree, measuring 98 feet by 21 feet 8 inches.

Sherwood Forest, in Nottinghamshire, contains an immense number of very ancient, picturesque, and curious oaks, many of them now mere wrecks, but preserved with care by Earl Manvers, who is the owner of a large area of the unenclosed part of what was formerly a royal forest. I have seen no other place where so many of the trees are covered with immense burrs, and where they assume such extraordinary shapes, as in that part of Sherwood Forest between Edwinstowe and the Buck gate entrance to Thoresby Park. The soil in this district is mostly a poorlooking sand on which the birch thrives remarkably. About seventy years ago the open forest which up to that time had been grazed by sheep, came into the possession of Lord Manvers. An immense quantity of seedling birch then sprang up, and large quantities of acorns were sown to fill up the vacant spaces caused by the decay of the old oaks, most of which are now stag-headed, and dead at the top.

The finest oak now standing in Sherwood Forest is the Queen or Major Oak (Plate 95). This tree, though hollow, and having its branches partly supported by iron stays, is still healthy and vigorous. It measures about 60 feet in height by 30 feet 5 inches in girth, and the spreading roots are about 18 paces round at the ground. The spread of the branches is 30 yards in diameter. It is about three-quarters of a mile from Edwinstowe, and is not far from another tree known as Simon Foster's Oak, which is about 44 feet high and 25 feet in girth.

At Welbeck, the seat of the Duke of Portland, in the same beautiful and wellwooded district, known as the Dukeries, on heavier soil than that at Thoresby, are a number of magnificent oaks which were described and figured in 1790 in a scarce pamphlet by Major Rooke. Of these I saw the Porter Oaks, so called because they stand opposite each other on each side of a gate in the park. When measured by Rooke about 1779 they were as follows:—No. 1. 98 feet high, 23 feet girth at 6 feet; contents, 840 feet. In October 1903, 254 feet; the top having been dead for many years it is now much less in height. No. 2. 88 feet high, 20 feet girth at 6 feet; contents, 744 feet. Now it is 23 feet and rapidly decaying.

Another tree, called by Rooke the "Duke's Walking Stick," of which there is a small figure in Loudon, p. 1766, was in 17709, 111 feet 6 inches high, and 70 feet 6 inches to the first branches; at 6 feet it measured 12 feet in girth, and was estimated to contain 440 cubic feet. A very celebrated oak at Welbeck is the Greendale Oak, which has often been figured and described. In my copy of Strutt there is a good plate of this tree, without number or description, bound at the end of the volume. Tradition says that a bet was made by a former Duke of Portland, that he had an oak so large, that a coach and four could be driven through its trunk, and the hole having been cut, he won his bet. When measured by Rooke it was, above the arch of the hole, 35 feet 3 inches in girth, the hole being 10 feet 3 inches high and 6 feet wide. Even at that time Rooke's figure shows it to have been a mutilated wreck, but the tree is still alive.

Near the Greendale Oak there is a magnificent though dead specimen of burr


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324 The sandy and gravelly tracts in Essex have extensive woodlands, in which the oak is the principal timber tree. Sound oak trees with boles measuring from 16 to 20 feet in girth are scattered through the county. Oak trees of larger dimensions, many in a more or less decayed condition, have been measured and described by Mr. J.C. Shenstone. Some of these I visited under his guidance in March 1907, and I think the following are worthy of notice:—At Thorrington are four trees from 27 to 31 feet in girth, decayed; at Danbury Park two trees of 31 feet in girth, decayed; at Hatfield Broad Oak the Doodle Oak, 42 feet in girth, decayed; at Havering-atte-Bower Bedford's Oak, 27 feet in girth, decayed; in Easton Park the finest tree is 80 feet by 23 feet, sound and vigorous, and there are many old pollards of great size. One of these, covered with burry growths, is 29 feet in girth; and another, on which the burr is very peculiar from its kidney-shaped lobes, is 334 feet, of which the burr takes up 14 feet. At Marks Hall, near Coggleshall, the property of T.P. Price, Esq., there are very large sound oaks, as well as some relics of the ancient forest; the largest, which is perhaps the finest tree of its kind now standing in the county, is 90 feet by 24 feet 3 inches, and though some large branches are gone on one side it seems sound and vigorous. The only very large oak now left in Epping Forest is the Fairmead Oak, 30 feet in girth, and much decayed. At Thorndon Park, the ancient seat of Lord Petre, are many picturesque relics of the ancient forest; and at Wealside House, Brentwood, is an oak 27 feet in circumference of bole.

Mr. E.R. Pratt of Ryston Hall kindly sends me the following account of—

Kett's Oak at Ryston, Norfolk.—In the year 1547 this tree was the trystingplace of the West Norfolk rebels under the brothers Robert and William Kett. The former and the other " Governors" selected large oak trees under which their Courts sat to administer justice and regulate disorders. The Court in this case did not seem to look upon sheep-stealing as other than a necessary evil, since they left on the tree the following inscription:—

From the photograph which accompanied this account it seems that the old tree is still fairly sound and vigorous. In an old map of the seventeenth century Kett's Oak is marked, showing that it was then known as a landmark.

Other remarkable oaks in Norfolk which I have seen are at Merton Hall, the


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326 Another freak of nature is the Marriage Oak in Eridge Park, Kent, which Lord H. Nevill was good enough to show me. Here a yew and an oak have grown up together, though the two trunks, which measure 16 feet 3 inches in girth, have not combined, the yew having spread its branches widely over the top of the bole of the oak. A similar case is recorded by Mr. A.D. Webster in the South Park at Holwood, Kent. Here the two trees have combined their stems into a normally shaped trunk, which girths 7 feet 10 inches at 5 feet, the yew being only 15 feet high, and spreading 36 feet, while the oak is 35 feet high with a spread of 54 feet.

Pollard oaks, when they are hollow at the top, sometimes support other trees of considerable size, which originate from seeds dropped by birds or brought by the wind. The best living instance of this that I know, is on an oak of no great size at Orwell Park, the seat of E.G. Pretyman, Esq., in Suffolk. This grows in a wood near the Decoy Pond, which is full of large self-sown hollies mixed with oaks, and looks as if it might be part of an original forest. Here a birch about 30 feet high, 20 inches in girth, is growing on the top of the oak, and has formed inside its hollow trunk what on one side seems to be a woody stem, whilst on the other side the roots are still in process of formation within the bole of the oak, which on that side is dead, but on the other has living branches. Henry has seen a similar example on the road between Byfleet and Cobham, on Lady Buxton's property, where the birch, growing out of a stout oak bole, is 49 feet high and 8 inches in diameter.

Wistman's Wood.—After having said so much of big oaks, I must now mention one of the most remarkable oak woods in Britain, called Wistman's or Welshman's Wood, which is on Crockern Tor, Dartmoor, at an elevation of about 1400 feet. It contains a number, perhaps a thousand, of the most stunted and dwarf oaks in existence, growing among granite boulders in a very exposed and windy situation.

Wistman's Wood was described by Burt in his Notes to the second edition of Carrington's Dartmoor, p. 56, and also by Mr. W. Borrer. I am indebted to Mr. E. Squarey of Downton, Wilts, for information in a letter to him by Mr. P.F.S. Amory of Druid, Ashburton, which brings our knowledge up to date, with photographs showing the curious appearance of these trees. The Journal of Forestry, v. 421, in a description of them, says that no acorns are produced; but Mr. J.B. Rowe, editor of the Perambulations of Dartmoor (ed. 1896), in 1895 found two acorns after a long search, one of which, planted at Druid on gth November 1902, is over 4 feet high.

In September 1868 Mr. Wentworth Buller obtained leave from the Prince of Wales to cut down one of these trees in order to find out its age. One section was sent to Kew; and another now in Mr. Amory's possession is 9 inches by 7 in diameter, and shows 163 years' growth, with distinctly marked medullary rays and several deep shakes. The bark is extremely thin, probably owing to the thick coat of moss and lichen which covered it. The slowness of growth in this tree is remarkable, no less than forty years to the inch.


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328 Plate 26. Queen Elizabeth's Oak at Huntingfield in Suffolk is, I believe, the same tree which I saw on Lord Huntingfield's property, near the Hill Farm, Strutt quotes from Davy's letters but gives no measurement. It was quite hollow in 1773, and is now divided into three great sections which lean outwards and measure in all 39 feet 8 inches in girth. It has a few green and healthy branches, and the sound parts of the shell are about a foot thick.

Plate 27. Sir Philip Sidney's Oak at Penshurst, Kent, was, in 1822, a very old tree measuring 22 feet in girth.

Plate 28. The King Oak in Savernake Forest was quite hollow when figured by Strutt, and measured 24 feet in girth.

Plate 33. The Twelve Apostles at Burley Lodge, New Forest.

Plate 34. The Squitch Bank Oak in Bagot's Park was in 1822, and still is, one of the finest in England, and is now considered by Lord Bagot the best oak in his park.

Plate 35. Two trees called Gog and Magog near Castle Ashby still survive, and, judging from photographs of them sent me by Mr. Scriven, have not changed much in appearance, though Gog has apparently lost its bark on one side. Though very picturesque, they are not well-shaped trees. The former is now 58 feet by 28 feet, at 3 feet, with contents 1668 feet; the latter is 49 feet by 28½ feet.

Plate 36. The Tall Oak at Fredville is to my eye the best shaped of Strutt's oaks, though not of extraordinary size. He says the stem went up straight and clean to about 78 feet, and the girth at 4 feet was 18 feet.

Among the trees figured in Sylva Scotica, a continuation of the work just cited, there is only one oak, namely, Wallace's Oak at Elderslee or Ellerslie, near Paisley. Many larger and finer oaks than this occur in Scotland. Judging from the figure it is not remarkable except from its historic interest, which seems rather mythical.

The oak rarely attains in Scotland the size and vigour so commonly met with in England. Mr. Hutchinson has catalogued 151 Scottish oaks, remarkable for size; and of these only six exceeded 20 feet in girth at 5 feet above the ground; the largest recorded by him, at Lee, Lanarkshire, was 22 feet girth at 3 feet up, the total height being 68 feet. The tallest oak recorded by Hutchinson was one at Hopetoun, Linlithgowshire, 110 feet high, with a bole of 93 feet, girthing 8 feet 8 inches, but I saw no tree approaching this height at Hopetoun in 1904. In Dr. Christison's paper on the "Rate of Girth Increase in Trees," the average rate of increase is given for trees at the Edinburgh Botanic Garden; Craigiehall, Linlithgowshire; Pollok, Renfrewshire; and Methven Castle, Perthshire. The rate of course depends on the age of the trees, and is very variable even in the same locality. At


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430

spersed with historical relations and political inquiries. 3 v. 8° Dublin, printed for S. Price, [etc.], 1784.

——— The same: 3d ed. 4 v. 8° London, printed for T. Cadell, 1787.

——— The same: Illustrated with charts and engravings. 5th ed. 5 v. 8° London, printed for T. Cadell, jun. & W. Davies, 1802.

Contains: Travels in Sweden, v. 4, pp. 1-326, 3 maps, 2 tab. 4 pl.: Articles of the new form of government established in Sweden 1772, pp. 327-350: Swedish commerce, pp. 351-357: Travels in Norway, v. 5, pp. 1-49, 1 map: Travels in Sweden, pp. 50-83, 1 map: Travels in Denmark, pp. 84-254, 3 maps.

——— The same: Travels in Denmark and Norway. In (J:) A general collection of the best and most interesting voyages and travels, v. 6. 4° {{London, for Longman [etc.], 1809, pp. 293-372. {{float right|(113c)}}

{{sc|Crichton}} (Rev. Andrew) and {{sc|Wheaton}} (H:) Scandinavia, ancient and modern; being a history of Denmark, Sweden, and Norway; comprehending a description of these countries; an account of the mythology, government, laws, manners, and institutions of the early inhabitants, and of the present state of society, religion, literature, arts; and commerce; with illustrations of their natural history. 2 v. Map. 12° Edinburgh, Oliver & Boyd, 1838. [Edinburgh cabinet library, v. 23-24.] {{float right|(114)}}

——— ——— The same. 2 v. 5 pl. 1 map. 16° New York, Harper & brothers, 1842. [Harper's family library, v. 136-137.] {{float right|(114a)}}

{{sc|Crosby}} (Dr. Alpheus Benning). See {{sc|Bull}} (Mrs. Sara C.) Ole Bull. A memoir. [1882.]

{{sc|Crosse}} (Mrs. Andrew). See {{sc|Hodder}} (Edwin, editor). All the world over. 1877.

{{sc|Crull}} (Jodocus, M.D.) Denmark vindicated; being an answer to a late treatise, called An account of Denmark, as it was in the year 1692. [By Robert Molesworth. Anon.] 8° London, 1694. {{float right|(115)}}

{{sc|Cursory}} remarks on the meditated attack on Norway; comprising strictures on madame de Staël Holstein's "Appeal to the nations of Europe;" with some historical and statistical fragments relating to Norway. [Anon.] 8° London, for J. Blacklock [1813]. {{float right|(116)}}

{{sc|Cuyler}} (Theodore Ledyard). From the Nile to Norway and homeward. 9 pl. 12° New York, R. Carter & brothers, 1882. {{float right|(117)}}

{{sc|Danish}} and Norwegian literature. [Anon.] In "The Foreign quarterly review." v. 6. 8° London, no. 11, June 1830, pp. 48-87. {{float right|(118)}}

{{sc|Danish}} (The) laws: or, the code of Christian the fifth. Faithfully translated for the use of the English inhabitants of the Danish {{dent/e}}


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330 speedily followed. Great trees, however, still remained till near the end of the eighteenth century. At that time Mr. Sisson, who had purchased large quantities of timber, was given an oak tree of his own choice as a present, and this tree was so large that though forked at the base, each stem was big enough for a mill shaft at more than 50 feet from the butt. Two pieces being appropriated to this use, he sawed the remainder into panels for coach-building, which were sold for £250. In the MSS. of Thomas, Marquess of Rockingham, it is recorded that in 1731 there were standing in the deer park of Shillelagh 2150 oak trees, then valued at £8317, the timber being rated at 1s. 6d. a foot, and the bark at 7s. a barrel. In 1780 there remained of the old reserves 38 trees, which contained 2588 feet of timber. In the adjoining woods of Coolattin, in Hayes' time, there was a considerable number of young healthy oaks, several being 74 feet in girth,

I visited Coolattin in 1906 and was shown many fine trees, though none were of great thickness, the best tree seen being 118 feet high with a clean bole to 4o feet and a girth of 13 feet. All the trees were Quercus sessiliflora.

The largest oak wood in Ireland is in Viscount de Vesci's park at Abbeyleix, Queen's County, where there are several hundred acres of trees of the pedunculate species, growing very close together, especially on the alluvial flats along the river Nore. The trees are of no great height, and have usually short boles with widespreading, stout branches, the largest tree measured being 21 feet in girth.

Hayes gives several instances of the remarkable growth of oak in Ireland. At Ballybeg in Wicklow, a tree growing in alluvial soil, eighty years old, was 12 feet in girth at 8 feet from the ground. At Muckross, Killarney, six trees sown in 1760 measured in 1794, from 3 feet to 4 feet 11 inches in girth at 5 feet from the ground. Ireland, renowned in ancient days for its oak timber, which was valued abroad, is now singularly wanting in even good specimens of solitary oak trees; and Loudon gave in 1838 no examples of fine oak trees growing in Ireland. The finest which have been seen by me are:—At Dartrey, Cootehill, the seat of the Earl of Dartrey, a beautiful symmetrical pedunculate oak, 100 feet high with a girth of 14 feet 4 inches; at Kilmacurragh, Wicklow, a sessile oak 14½ feet in girth; at Glenstal, Limerick, a tree of the same species 164 feet in girth; and at Shane's Castle, Antrim, a pedunculate oak 19 feet in girth. There are also many fine trees with good boles at Doneraile Court, Co. Cork, the largest about 13 feet in girth.

As the oak is one of the most characteristic British trees we give only a few details of the remarkable oaks which we have seen on the Continent. A good account of the trees in the forests of Retz, Compiegne, and St. Amand was written by Prof. Fisher in the ''Trans. Eng. Arb. Soc.'' v. 205.I took part in the excursion which this paper records, and saw the splendid sessile oaks at Compiegne, of which the one called the Czarina's Oak is the finest. This is as wellgrown, but not a finer tree than some of those which I have described and figured in England, though in cubic contents inferior to several of them. The French measure-


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Page:Kelley v. Chicago Park District.pdf/16

 to satisfy the primary purpose of fixation; its appearance is too inherently variable to supply a baseline for determining questions of copyright creation and infringement. If a garden can qualify as a “work of authorship” sufficiently “embodied in a copy,” at what point has fixation occurred? When the garden is newly planted? When its first blossoms appear? When it is in full bloom? How—and at what point in time—is a court to determine whether infringing copying has occurred?

In contrast, when a landscape designer conceives of a plan for a garden and puts it in writing—records it in text, diagrams, or drawings on paper or on a digital-storage device—we can say that his intangible intellectual property has been embodied in a fixed and tangible “copy.” This writing is a sufficiently permanent and stable copy of the designer’s intellectual expression and is vulnerable to infringing copying, giving rise to the designer’s right to claim copyright. The same cannot be said of a garden, which is not a fixed copy of the gardener’s intellectual property. Although the planting material is tangible and can be perceived for more than a transitory duration, it is not stable or permanent enough to be called “fixed.” Seeds and plants in a garden are naturally in a state of perpetual change; they germinate, grow, bloom, become dormant, and eventually die. This life cycle moves gradually, over days, weeks, and season to season, but the real barrier to copyright here is not temporal but essential. The essence of a garden is its vitality, not its fixedness. It may endure from season to season, but its nature is one of dynamic change.

We are not suggesting that copyright attaches only to works that are static or fully permanent (no medium of expression lasts forever), or that artists who incorporate natural or living elements in their work can never claim copyright. Kelley compares Wildflower Works to the Crown Fountain, a sculpture by Spanish artist Jaume Plensa that sits nearby in Chicago’s Millennium Park. The surfaces of Plensa’s fountain are embedded with LED screens that replay recorded video images of the faces of 1,000 Chicagoans. See http://www.explorechicago.org/city/en/things_see_do/attractions/dca_tourism/Crown_Fountain.html (last visited Feb. 10, 2011). But the Copyright Act specifically contemplates works that incorporate or consist of sounds or images that are broadcast or transmitted electronically, such as telecasts of sporting events or other live performances, video games, and the like. See 17 U.S.C. § 101 (defining “fixed” as including a “work consisting of sounds, images, or both, that are being transmitted … if a fixation of the work is being made simultaneously with its transmission”); see also ''Balt. Orioles, Inc. v. Major League Baseball Players Ass’n, 805 F.2d 663, 675 (7th Cir.1986); Midway Mfg. Co. v. Artic Int’l, Inc.'', 704 F.2d 1008, 1013–14 (7th Cir.1983). Wildflower Works does not fit in this category; the Crown Fountain is not analogous.

Though not addressing the requirement of fixation directly, the district court compared Wildflower Works to “[t]he mobiles of Alexander Calder” and “Jeff Koons’ ‘Puppy,’ a 43-foot flowering topiary.” Kelley, 2008 WL 4449886, at *4. These analogies are also inapt. Although the aesthetic effect of a Calder mobile is attributable in part to its subtle movement in response to air currents, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Calder (last visited Feb. 10, 2011), the mobile itself is obviously fixed and stable. In “Puppy” the artist assembled a huge metal frame in the shape of a puppy and covered it with thousands of blooming flowers sustained by an irrigation system within the frame. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeff_Koons (last visited Feb. 10, 2011). This may be


text: The Commonweal/Volume 1/Number 1/The Commonweal


text: The Commonweal/Volume 1/Number 1/The Socialist League


text: The Commonweal/Volume 1/Number 1/Answers to Correspondents


text: The Commonweal/Volume 1/Number 1/The March of the Workers


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Rh

settlements in America. [Anon.] 8° London, for N. Gibson, 1756.

literature—Ludvig Holberg. [Anon.] In "The North British review." v. 50 (n. s. v. 11.) 8° Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, no. 100, July 1869, pp. 440-474.

literature, past and present. [Anon.] In "The North British review." v. 38. 8° Edinburgh, T. & T. Clark, no. 76, May 1863, pp. 303-324.

(The) national theatre. 1874. See (Edmund W:)

(Sir G: Webbe). England and Norway in the eleventh century. [Anon.] In "The North British review." v. 42, n. s. v. 3. 8° Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, no. 84, June 1865, pp. 357-412.

——— The same. In his Jest and earnest. 12°. London, Chapman & Hall, 1873, v. 1, pp. 198-309.

——— Harold Hardrada and Magnus the good. [Anon.] In "The North British review." v. 39. 8° Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, no. 78, Nov. 1863, pp. 493-537.

——— The same. In his Jest and earnest. 12°. London, Chapman & Hall, 1873. v. 2, pp. 154-247.

——— Harold Hardrada, king of Norway. [Anon.] In "The North British review." v. 40, n. s. v. 1. 8° Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, no. 79, Feb. 1864, pp. 93-143.

——— The same. In his Jest and earnest. 12°., 1873. v. 2, pp. 248-353.

——— The Norsemen in Iceland. In " essays. Contributed by members of the university." 1858. 8° London, J. W. Parker & son, pp. 165-214.

——— Popular tales from the Norse. 1859. See (Peter Christian).

——— The story of Burnt Njal or life in Iceland at the end of the tenth century. From the Icelandic of the Njals saga. 2 v. 6 pl. 3 maps. 8° Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, 1861.

——— The story of Gisli the outlaw. From the Icelandic. 7 pl. 2 maps. Sm. 4°. Edinburgh, Edmonston & Douglas, 1866.

——— Tales from the fjeld. 1874. See (Peter Christian).

——— See also (R:) and  (Gudbrand). An Icelandic-English dictionary. 1874.—. The prose or younger Edda. 1842.— (Rasmus Kristian). A grammar of the Icelandic or old Norse tongue. 1843.

(Dr. G: E:, translator). See (Robert Wilhelm Eberhard). On the intimate connection existing between the pseudo-volcanic phenomena of Iceland. 1848.


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 sufficient fixation for copyright (we venture no opinion on the question), but Wildflower Works is quite different. It is quintessentially a garden; “Puppy” is not.

In short, Wildflower Works presents serious problems of authorship and fixation that these and other examples of conceptual or kinetic art do not. Because Kelley’s garden is neither “authored” nor “fixed” in the senses required for basic copyright, it cannot qualify for moral-rights protection under VARA.

 * 5. Site-specific art, and the public-presentation and building exceptions

This case also raises some important questions about the application of VARA to site-specific art, as well as the statute’s public-presentation and building exceptions. Though we need not decide these questions, we do have a few words of caution about the district court’s treatment of the issue of VARA and site-specific art. The court classified Wildflower Works as a form of site-specific art; we see no reason to upset this factual finding. The court then adopted the First Circuit’s holding in Phillips that site-specific art is categorically excluded from VARA. This legal conclusion is open to question.

Phillips involved a VARA claim brought by artist David Phillips in a dispute over a display of 27 of his sculptures in Boston’s Eastport Park across from Boston Harbor. Phillips v. Pembroke Real Estate, Inc., 459 F.3d 128, 130 (1st Cir.2006). A planned redesign of the park called for the removal and relocation of Phillips’s sculptures; he sought an injunction under VARA, claiming the removal of his sculptures would violate his right of integrity. Id. at 131. The district court held that although the sculptures qualified as a single integrated work of visual art, park administrators were entitled to remove them under VARA’s public-presentation exception. Id. at 138–39. The First Circuit affirmed on alternative grounds, holding that VARA does not apply to any site-specific art.

The court based this holding on a perceived irreconcilable tension between the public-presentation exception and the purpose of site-specific art: “By definition, site-specific art integrates its location as one of its elements. Therefore, the removal of a site-specific work from its location necessarily destroys that work of art.” Id. at 140. Under the public-presentation exception, a modification of a work of visual art stemming from a change in its “public presentation, including lighting or placement,” is not actionable unless it is caused by gross negligence. If VARA applied to site-specific art, the First Circuit reasoned, then the statute would “purport[ ] to protect site-specific art” but also “permit its destruction by the application” of the public-presentation exception. Id. The court held that “VARA does not protect site-specific art and then permit its destruction by removal from its site pursuant to the statute’s public presentation exception. VARA does not apply to site-specific art at all.” Id. at 143.

There are a couple of reasons to question this interpretation of VARA. First, the term “site-specific art” appears nowhere in the statute. Nothing in the definition of a “work of visual art” either explicitly or by implication excludes this form of art from moral-rights protection. Nor does application of the public-presentation exception operate to eliminate every type of protection VARA grants to creators of site-specific art; the exception simply narrows the scope of the statute’s protection for all qualifying works of visual art. The exception basically provides a safe harbor for ordinary changes in the public presentation of VARA-qualifying artworks; the artist has no cause of action


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Talk:Sushruta Samhita, Volume 1/Chapter 1

This is a translation, not the original Sanskrit text.
Could the main contributor to mounting this text at Wikisource provide a couple of important bits of metadata? 1. The headings should indicate that this is an English translation (and not the original Sanskrit) 2. Provide the bibliographical information of the book from which this was transcribed. I'm guessing it's Bhishagratna, but this should be confirmed and made clear in the Wikisource metadata.

Thanks! Wujastyk (talk) 15:50, 1 March 2024 (UTC)


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432

(Miss C. A.) Five weeks in Iceland. 12°. London, R: Bentley & son, 1880.

vindicated. 1694. See (Jodocus).

(J: Watts). The battle of the Sound or Baltic; fought Oct. 30th (o. s.) [Nov. 9th n. s.] 1658, between the victorious Hollanders, under Jakob baron Wassenaer, lord of Opdam, and the Swedes, commanded by Charles Gustavus Wrangel. 8° Poughkeepsie, Platt & Schram, 1858.

——— The history of the life of Leonard Torstenson (Lennart Torstenson) "the argus-eyed, briarear-armed," senator of Sweden, count of Ortala. 8° Poughkeepsie, Platt & Schram, 1855.

(Alfred). Physical and geological observations on the principal geysirs of Iceland. In "The London, Edinburgh, and Dublin philosophical magazine and journal of science." [3d series] v. 30. 8° London, J. & J. E. Taylor, no. 203, June 1847, pp. 391-409.

(E:) The Schleswig-Holstein war. 2 v. 12° London, Tinsley brothers, 1864.

(Arthur Edmund Denis, 16th viscount Dillon). A winter in Iceland and Lapland. 2 v. 2 pl. 12°. London, H: Colburn, 1840.

sketches. By "An outsider." II. General von Bülow and the Danish question. [Anon.] 8° London, R: Bentley & son, 1878.

scenes in Greenland and Iceland. 2d ed. [Anon.] 1 pl. 8 woodcuts. 16°. London, J: Van Voorst, 1850.

(M. A.) Denmark and its people. Published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education, appointed by the Society for promoting christian knowledge, 1 map. 16° ''London, Soc. for prom, christ. knowl.'', [1863?]

(Nathan). Literary hours: or sketches, critical, narrative, and poetical. 4th ed. 3 v. 12° London, Longmans, 1820.

Contains: On the Scandinavian mythology, v. 3, pp. 146-173: On the Scandinavians, v. 3, pp. 174-311.

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 unless through gross negligence the work is modified, distorted, or destroyed in the process of changing its public presentation.

Second, Phillips’s all-or-nothing approach to site-specific art may be unwarranted. Site-specific art is not necessarily destroyed if moved; modified, yes, but not always utterly destroyed. Moreover, some of VARA’s protections are unaffected by the public-presentation exception. An artist’s right of integrity can be violated in ways that do not implicate the work’s location or manner of public presentation; site-specific art—like any other type of art—can be defaced and damaged in ways that do not relate to its public display. And the public-presentation exception does nothing to limit the right of attribution, which prevents an artist’s name from being misappropriated.

Then there is the matter of the building exception, which applies to works “incorporated in or made part of a building in such a way that removing the work from the building will cause the destruction, distortion, mutilation, or other modification of the work.” 17 U.S.C. § 113(d)(1)(A). These works do not get moral-rights protection if the artist: (1) consented to the installation of his work in the building (if pre-VARA); or (2) executed a written acknowledgment that removal of the work may subject it to destruction, distortion, mutilation, or modification (if post-VARA). Id. § 113(d)(1)(B). On its face this exception covers a particular kind of site-specific art. Its presence in the statute suggests that site-specific art is not categorically excluded from VARA.

These observations are of course general and not dispositive. Because we are resolving the VARA claim on other grounds, we need not decide whether VARA is inapplicable to site-specific art.

B. The Park District’s Cross-Appeal on the Contract Claim

The Park District challenges the judgment against it for breach of contract even though damages were assessed at a nominal $1. The district court held that Commissioner Burroughs’s causal remark—“You’re still there, aren’t you? That’s all you need to do.”—created an implied-in-fact contract requiring the Park District to give Kelley reasonable notice before reconfiguring Wildflower Works. Although factual findings about the existence of a contract are reviewed for clear error, ReMapp Int’l Corp. v. Comfort Keyboard Co., 560 F.3d 628, 633 (7th Cit.2009), there is a threshold legal question here about the commissioner’s unilateral authority to bind the Park District to a contract. Our review is de novo. See Manning v. United States, 546 F.3d 430, 432 (7th Cir.2008).

Two statutes guide our analysis. The first is the Chicago Park District Act, which provides in relevant part that “[t]he commissioners of [the Park District] constitute the corporate authorities thereof, and have full power to manage and control all the officers and property of the district, and all parks, driveways, boulevards and parkways maintained by such district or committed to its care and custody.” 70 1505/7.01. The district court noted the statute’s use of the plural “commissioners” and “authorities” and concluded from this that each individual commissioner was a separate corporate


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 “authority” with the power to unilaterally bind the Park District.

This conclusion strains the statutory language and ignores how public bodies customarily operate. It also contradicts another provision in the Illinois Park District Code, which applies to all Illinois park districts and must be read in conjunction with the Chicago Park District Act. The Illinois Park District Code states: "No member of the board of any park district … shall have power to create any debt, obligation, claim or liability, for or on account of said park district … except with the express authority of said board conferred at a meeting thereof and duly recorded in a record of its proceedings."

70 1205/4-6 (emphasis added). When read together, these statutes confirm that there is only one corporate authority of the Chicago Park District—its Board of Commissioners—and that individual commissioners cannot unilaterally bind the Park District’s Board to a contract without express Board approval.

There is no evidence that the Park District’s Board of Commissioners authorized Commissioner Burroughs to enter into a contract with Kelley. Moreover, Illinois law provides that ultra vires contracts entered into by municipal corporations are invalid, see, e.g., McMahon v. City of Chicago, 339 Ill.Appl.3d 41, 273 Ill.Dec. 447, 789 N.E.2d 347, 350 (2003), so Commissioner Burroughs’s offhand remark cannot have created a valid implied-in-fact contract. The judgment for Kelley on the contract claim was premised on legal error; the Park District was entitled to judgment on this claim.

For the foregoing reasons, we the judgment in favor of the Park District on the VARA claim; we  the judgment in favor of Kelley on the contract claim and  with instructions to enter judgment for the Park District.